#did you know that flight aired seven years ago on friday?

[airplanecrushed-arch]

                                   independent, private, selective, & canon divergent                                          alexandra grey from abc’s grey’s anatomy                                                           as adored by alex !!

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: III

“You can have me tonight or never

I thought you understood

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

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

—Wrong, Zayn and Kehlani

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

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

word count: 24.2k

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

///

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

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

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

Harry still hates clubs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very satisfied, yeah. Your help was greatly appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that so?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The name’s Styles. Harry Styles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not going.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lock the door on your way out!” 

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is, until she met Harry seven days ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing he notices is the dress. 

Fuck, the dress. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nice to see you again, Disco Ball.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far from it, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like your dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been thinking about you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It felt really nice.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t mind it, either.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N nods with fervor, running her touch up his pectorals and over his strong shoulders, diving under his coat and fisting at the mesh that strains across his muscular back. Her eyes roll closed, her next confession coming out in the form of a feathery sigh, legs parting wider for him to comfortably fit in between. “I just...I just need you.”

Harry eagerly accepts the invitation, sifting between her thighs and hiking them up onto his hips. The fact that he can suspend her so effortlessly, almost as if she weighs nothing, makes the pit of her tummy boil. “You need me now, d’you? How much, doll? Want you to tell me how much you missed my cock.” 

The young woman winces ever so slightly at the crude word and it amuses him to no end. “So fucking much, Harry.” 

He can confidently say his name has never sounded sweeter than when it trickles from Y/N’s tongue. 

When he speaks, it’s packed with all the pent up turmoil radiating deep in his abdomen. “Did you think about me the way I thought about you?”

Y/N’s reply falls breathily from her mouth without any hesitation. “Y-Yeah. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

A cocky hum tinges the air on his behalf. “And why’s that?”

“Because…” The girl struggles to swallow, finding it difficult to match how easily brazen he can be. She pushes through. “Because you fucked me better than anyone else ever has.” 

The compliment is one Harry gets often, but for some inexplicable reason, it hits so much deeper coming from Y/N. “Mm. Poor baby just needed to get properly rawed, didn’t you?”

“Had no idea how badly I wanted it until you came along.” 

A dark chuckle rolls from the creature’s lips at her bluntness. He repeatedly passes his textured tongue over the pressure point on her throat, flames igniting in his chest when she releases another watery, desperate mewl. “God, look at you. Practically already dripping. Like it when I play with you like that?”

“Fuck, y-yes.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

And so Harry keeps going, and he doesn’t stop. Not at her neck, and not anywhere else. Not until she begs him to hours later, when he’s whittled three orgasms out of her trembling body, each one more intense than the last. 

The first one takes place right there on top of the kitchen counter. He boosts her up onto the table, bunching her pretty sundress around her quivering thighs— as he’d fantasized prior— while she fumbles with his trousers. He tends to her every breathy whimper as she eases him out of his briefs, marking his teeth all over her throat with the assurance that his blood will fade the bruises by morning. He tears his jacket down his broad shoulders, panting into her mouth as she undoes all the buttons that line his elegant iridescent shirt, moaning softly when she breaks their kiss to paint her hot lips down the expanse of his heaving chest and tight stomach. Y/N ducks down as far as her angle will allow, wanting to taste as much of his skin as she can. She wants to memorize its salty smoothness for as long as she lives. 

Harry watches her with bliss-drunken fondness twitching his mouth, head falling back to hang between his shoulders as a low, “Such a good girl.” rumbles from his throat. His ring-clad fingers tangle into her locks and scratch at her scalp lightly, strained exhales encouraging her to keep going as she delights herself with tainting love bites all over him. He yanks the girl back up by her roots, grabbing her hips and roughly scooting her forward towards him, clammy foreheads pressing together as he fixes to fill her up for the first time in what feels like eternity. 

The monster’s voice is as dominant and thick as she likes it. “Eyes up here. Want to see you come undone while I fuck you.” 

The way he spreads Y/N open makes her choke out a scream like nothing else she’s ever heard. Harry simply clamps one of his palms over her mouth, continuing to ram into her at a harsh stride, gasping against her ear with every thrust as she rakes her nails across his back. “Gotta keep that pretty mouth quiet. Thin walls.” 

The human feels like her heart is going to break through her ribs and what she doesn’t know is that with every passing beat, Harry feels it tenfold. And it’s driving him fucking insane— she drives him fucking insane. Especially when she looks at him with that glossy, begging gaze, biting into the mound of his hand as he slams his hips inside her so hard, the glasses in her cupboard shake. “Like it when I give it to you rough? Yeah, I thought so. Just like that? Harder? Say please…Christ, you’re a fucking angel.”

Y/N is dirty. So fucking filthy, and Harry loves every second of it. Loves that anything he throws out, she returns with as much enthusiasm, if not more. Loves that she can take his cock as hard as he’s willing to give it, which says a lot, considering his stamina and strength usually surpasses most humans. He’d met very few mortals who can match his sexual prowess and she happens to be one of them. She not only takes it, but pleads for more. She doesn’t just seek her own pleasure, but insists on delivering his own. And though they’re polars opposites at their core— she’s timid, physically standard, and boringly normal, whereas he’s confident, attractive, and unusually superior in every sense of the phrase— they fit together better than he’d ever care to admit. They’re perfectly compatible, down to their personalities and their intimate needs. 

As Harry stands there— fingertips leaving welts across her waist as he grunts brokenly against her throat, stretching her out like she was meant to take him this deep, her moans sounding like classical melodies to his ears— he thinks that maybe...maybe he’ll keep her around. A friends with benefits situation would be the most ideal. And to quote his own clever motto from before, it would be mutualism at its finest. 

The alliance would be nothing emotional; simply for the sake of providing each other with requited relief, as well as providing Harry with a convenient feeding arrangement. Neither of them would have to submit themselves to going to those terrible clubs, they both already know what the other enjoys, and the banter they share is pretty fulfilling. Plus, her blood is one of the sweetest he’s ever had. Whatever magic lies in her veins tides over his cravings in a fashion he’s never quite experienced. They both get what they want and don’t have to deal with the disasters of real commitment; neither are in a place in their lives where they can shoulder such a big responsibility. Harry is emotionally unavailable, as he has been for the past two centuries and as he intends to be for the next dozen. Y/N has just started anew in a place where she has so little to give and so much to lose, dating is the last thing on her mind. A casual no-strings-attached arrangement would be a perfect gift, bow and all.

And with the way they make each other cum multiple times that night— once on the counter, and twice on that trusty old couch— there’s not a single doubt in Harry’s mind that this is most definitely mutualism at its peak. 

///

During the span of the next few weeks, Harry learns a lot about Y/N. It’s surprising how informational someone’s sex habits can be. 

The second week after they had met— and the first since their second very heated, very satisfying encounter— she shoots him a text on Wednesday, of all days. 

Harry isn’t doing anything particularly interesting when he receives her message. He had gone to see Mitch play at the bar that had recently booked him as a semi-permanent gig, sitting in the booth furthest in the back from all of the ruckus, fingers tapping along the waxed table to his best friend’s skilled jazzy guitar chords. Mitch always teases Harry about how he doesn’t have a job, which the vampire always waves off. Working for money is stupid and unnecessary; any materialistic wants and needs that plague him, he can get with the help of compulsion. Therefore, what’s the use in condemning himself the horrors of customer service or a constricting office cubicle? 

His best friend is halfway through his set when Harry’s device vibrates against the sticky surface before him, tittering fingers coming to an abrupt stop. He flips over his iPhone, eyes flickering over the screen, a coy grin spreading its way across his blushed lips. Y/N’s contact beams up at him in return. He’d set her profile as just her name alongside three disco ball emojis, for the sake of their little inside joke. 

I’m getting off work a bit earlier than I thought today and was wondering if you wanted to help me with my ceiling fan.

Harry bites into his bottom lip to muffle a chuckle, shaking his head lightly as he stares down at the comical request. 

That’s odd. Last time I was there, you didn’t HAVE a ceiling fan.

Y/N sits on her lunch break in the backroom of the cafe where she’s employed, a veggie wrap halfway suspended towards her mouth when Harry’s text bloops in, pointing out her embarrassing mistake. She blinks at his correction blankly, eyes closing in faint humiliation as her true intentions are now painfully clear. 

After a second of recollection, she types back some damage control, though it hardly has an impact. Harry’s already chortling to himself just thinking about how contorted her face must look at the moment.

I’m aware, thank you. I meant I wanted help picking one out. I’ve got a few tabs saved as potentials. 

He decides to be a little shit about this whole thing, continuing to mock her.

You could just send me the links right now and I can tell you which one I like. You know that, right?

Y/N knows that. She also knows, by the tone and texture of his response, he’d only mentioned that alternative to be annoying. He knows she’s not talking about ceiling fans, and he just wants her to chase after him. Unfortunately enough for Y/N’s pride, she’s more than willing to.  

I just think your opinion would be much more valuable and effective in person, since you’d be able to help me search for other ones at the same time. We’d cover more ground. Two heads are better than one!

We do make quite the team, don’t we?

I personally think so. A dynamic duo for the books, honestly.

A soft round of applause cuts through the air around the vampire, signaling the end of Mitch’s performance. Harry glances up to see his best friend mounting his guitar back into its case, smiling bashfully at the crowd and nodding his head in thanks to all their praise. Harry coins his luck; things couldn’t have wrapped up at a better time. 

Alright, Watson. What time will you be home?

Y/N stops mid-chew through a bite of her meal, cheeks puffed as the corners of her mouth twitch at his nerdy reference.

I’m off at 6:45. Should be home by 7. 

I’ll see you there, then. 

See you there. Also, why do YOU get to be Sherlock? Seems a bit sexist. 

Harry rolls his eyes at her quip, smirking to himself as he types out his final response.

Well, first and foremost, I’m literally English. Secondly, last time I checked, I’m always the one in control. And frankly, you seem to like it that way. See you at seven, darling.

And at seven on the dot, Harry’s outside her apartment. His friends would be amazed at his punctuality. He only shows it when it’s worth the trouble.

The creature walks up the steps to the mortal’s complex with his Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, keychain tucked into the back pocket of his black skinny jeans, and his tan Chelsea boots clicking against the cement ground. A light wind whips his Keith Harrington Safe Sex t-shirt against the broad muscles of his back, drawing a soothed sigh from his lungs. He loves the California weather. 

He gives her door three swift knocks with his ring-clad knuckles, stepping back from the entrance and clasping his large hands behind his back as he waits. 

When Y/N answers, Harry tilts his chin down a smidge, looking at her over the brim of his chic black glasses with his signature dazzling smile dimpling his cheeks. He lists his head slightly in a formal greeting. “Detective.” 

The girl’s irises flit up to the ceiling as amusement twitches her lips. She plays along. “Nice to see you again. Detective.”

She moves off to the side, beckoning him to come in and he gladly takes the offer, striding into the flat and down the narrow corridor he’s grown quite familiar with. Y/N follows him back into her living room, gaze quickly drinking up his appearance. He’s casual today— less jewelry, more comfortable clothes— and he works the normal fit as effortlessly as he works his fancy brands. Especially with those tight dark jeans. They hug his thighs in a fashion that should be illegal. 

Harry twists around on his heel to face her, reaching up to remove his sunglasses and tucking them along the collar of his tee. A handful of curls fall across his forehead, framing his face and sculpting his jaw, as usual. A sweep across Y/N’s physique tells him everything he needs to know. 

She’s still in her work clothes, clad in a navy blue polo shirt and a pair of dark skinnies similar to his. Her hair is down, though the strands have a dent that suggests she’d been wearing a ponytail. Her mascara is smudged a tad under her seemingly tired eyes, but her attitude is as bright and lively as always. She appears messy, but he likes it. It’s a type of unconventional beauty that’s natural and genuine, which he can appreciate.

He contemplates her with a certain slyness that makes her shift in her socked feet. 

“I got a message earlier. Sounded kinda frantic.” He drifts closer to the human, a sultry tension growing taut between them. He glances upward for an instant, as if recalling a thought. “Something about ceiling fans…?”  

Y/N chews into her cheek to keep from giggling, allowing him to press his chest to hers. He slowly begins to back her up towards the shabby couch, which has seen this interaction happen one too many times. “Yeah, I’m thinking of getting one. Figured it’d help. It just gets really hot in here sometimes, y’know?”

“Mmm…” Harry thrums in agreement, deep in the back of his throat. His hands crawl onto her hips and grasps them somewhat roughly, index fingers hooking into the belt loops of her jeans as he leans down to brush his soft lips over her own. She’ll never grow tired of the electricity that passes through them every time their mouths touch. It kindles her needs unlike anything else. “It does get pretty hot in here sometimes. Especially if you’re working up a sweat.” 

He pushes her further towards the sofa, movements gradual as she drifts backwards, careful not to trip her. She glimpses down at where their lips are flirting, breath hiccuping when he licks his lightly in anticipation, his tongue just barely grazing her Cupid’s bow. “Absolutely. A fan would definitely help relieve some of that stress.” 

“Yeah.” Harry nudges the tip of her nose with his own, feeling her grab at his biceps for security as he continues inching her backwards blindly. “It can work wonders for when you’re all pent up, too. Especially when you’re really tight, which I know for a fact you are.”

The backs of the girl’s knees hit the edge of the couch and she topples into its cushions. She sits up onto her elbows, sheer need inking into her irises as he patiently begins to undo his belt. His long, nimble fingers work with ease and he seems to be in no particular rush, which pricks at her nerves because she feels completely the opposite. She’d been thinking about him since Friday night— or rather, Saturday morning, when he had actually stayed for breakfast that time around. 

Y/N had sat on top of her small dining table while he took the seat before her shirtless, leaning forward with his arms crossed nonchalantly over her lap as she fed him bites of lemon blueberry pancakes. The pads of his calloused fingers had drawn random shapes across the warm skin of her thighs, attempting to cheekily slip beneath her pajamas shorts and he’d giggle boyishly around mouthfuls of food every time she would swat his hand away. He looked so fucking pretty that morning, with his curls tangled in tuffs and the vague imprint of her teeth scattered across his grinning mouth, angry red scratches decorating his bare shoulders. That wholesome yet dirty image had left her head spinning for days. 

The sound of Harry’s zipper ripping open blinks Y/N back into the present and she nearly gawks as he grabs onto the hem of his graphic t-shirt and yanks it over his head, arms crossing as he does so. He tosses it onto her playfully, laughing as she smacks it away from her face and gives him a deadpan look. Harry leans forward, propping his palms on either sides of her head and bracketing her in, the unmissable scent of his delicious cologne invading her senses as his dark tattoos ripple over the lean tendons of his stomach and arms. His strangely cold forehead flushes against hers and he nips at her top lip, tugging it between his teeth and releasing. His voice comes out as deep and hypnotizing as ever. 

“Get undressed for me. Want your thighs wrapped around my head.” 

Harry comes to find that for such a reserved girl, Y/N has a pretty intriguing sexual mindset. She’s open to a lot of stuff he’d never expect from a rural-town escapee. Her kinks surprise him, but pleasantly so, considering they cross over with a lot of his own. She’s into choking, which he adores. There’s nothing hotter than feeling her pulse slam against the palm of his hand as his array of rings mark into the delicate skin of her throat. She likes being restrained, which translates into Harry pinning her wrists above her head while he slams between her drenched thighs. It’s difficult to achieve that on the sofa, so they end up rolling across the rug on the floor, her legs tangled around his hips like a vine as he pants into her mouth, damp hair flopping over his forehead and tickling her eyelashes. Ideally, he would have used his belt to tie her hands to a headboard. If they were at his place, he would’ve just reached for the metal cuffs he has hanging casually off the railing of his bed, which he keeps there for easy access. But they’re in her living room, so he makes do with what he can. 

The vampire doesn’t stay over that night, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he promised Niall he’d help him out with a car issue. Apparently the motor is making a weird noise and Harry isn’t shocked one bit. Niall barely has the brain cells to be alive, much less to handle the upkeep that comes with owning a vintage vehicle. He thanks Y/N for a good time as he slips into his tight jeans and recovers his sunglasses from the floor, pulling his tee over the already fading hickies littering his collarbones, fitting his accessory into his sweaty curls. 

Harry leans down to where she lays limply, splayed over the couch where he had placed her after picking her up off the ground (only after he’d made her cum twice). He plants a nonchalant farewell kiss to her parted lips, thumbing over her bruised nipples jestingly and grinning into her mouth when she whimpers. “I’ll see you later, Watson. Let me know which fan you decide to buy.” 

Two days later, Harry’s phone chimes again, this time with the unique ringtone he’d assigned just for her. 

He’s relaxing in his bathtub, submerged up to his chest in hot water mixed with Epsom salts and jasmine bubble bath, his locks sudsy with shampoo. He’s in the middle of shaving his face, dragging the straight razor (his time in the nineteen thirties made him picky towards any other tool, especially those simpleton plastic ones) down his jaw carefully, making sure not to nick the little moles under the corner of his mouth. When his device goes off, he halts all his motions, glancing over from the hand mirror he’s holding before his face. He’d changed her contact name to Watson as homage to their funny little dynamic, but he’d kept the disco balls in their place. He respects the roots of their acquaintanceship.

Fan came in. Wanna come check it out?

He had a nagging suspicion he’d hear from her today. It’s another Friday night, after all. He’s just happy she’d texted earlier than last time so he can flake on his friends without forcing them to wait for an hour. 

Wow, you chose two day shipping? You must be itching to see me.

Don’t let it go to your head. The only thing I’m itching for is your professional opinion. 

Right. Well, me and my professional opinion are washing up at the moment so give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there, yeah?

Sounds good to me, Sherlock. 

Harry decides on an outfit that falls at the center of his dressing spectrum— something comfortable but not lazy. Something semi-formal. He doesn’t really have to impress her anymore (not that he had to try that hard in the first place) but he wants to look good, either way. There’s nothing wrong with showing off what he has, both physically and wardrobe-wise. He chooses a horizontal-striped fitted tee made of thick cotton, the lines alternating between brown, beige, and a light caramel. He tucks the shirt into a pair of mid-rise corduroy flared pants that are a dark mustard shade, shrugging on an olive green jacket with red and white stitch detailing along the edges, large images of cacti embroidered along its expanse. His pearls, cross necklace, and he opts out of his earring this time. Rings, vanilla chapstick, mint gum. Keys, wallet, starch white Vans. 

Before he knows it, he’s being roughly pulled into her home from his spot just outside her threshold, his cherry-lacquer nails carding into the silky hair along the nape of Y/N’s neck as his teeth skim over the hollow of her throat. The human grapples to push his coat off his wide shoulders, backing further down the small hallway of her flat and kicking the door shut. She holds his head firmly to the sensitive spot in her neck that he’d toyed with a week prior, and he can’t resist the way his eyes blink crimson— a hunting impulse, stemming from the sound of her blood rushing through her carotid artery. He hadn’t fed last time— vampires only need to feed once a week to avoid desiccation— so he surely intends to tonight. 

Harry’s hands fit perfectly around the dip of her spine, pulling her body tight to his as he paints sloppy kisses over her jugular. He gets his teasing words out in between desperate gasps and breathy chuckles. “And here I thought this was genuinely going to be about the fan.”

“Shut up.” 

Y/N makes a sharp turn, tugging him into her room instead of the living room and it dawns on him that this is the first time they’re going to fuck in her actual bed. All those instances of sleeping together and not once had they done anything on the piece of furniture that was intended for that sole purpose. It’s ironically hilarious and he voices that opinion as they stumble onto her mattress. 

“You know,” Harry murmurs into her mouth as she shoves him flat onto the rumpled sheets (she hadn’t made her bed this morning and that’s endearing, for some reason), straddling his lap as she hurriedly pulls his t-shirt out from along the waistband of his trousers. “Out of all the times we’ve done this— which is quite a few— we’ve never done anything on your bed other than sleep.” 

That’s a lie. He’s never actually slept in her bed. After staring at the ceiling blankly two weeks ago for about eight hours, he had been smart enough to grab his phone from his pants the second time around. He spent that stretch of time playing Mario Kart and watching Unsolved Mysteries on Netflix with the volume down just out of human earshot, so as to not disturb her slumber. 

Y/N ducks in order to drag her wet, pillowy lips down the butterfly inking on his tummy and over the spines of the two ferns on his pelvis, licking across his happy trail. He jerks in response, a soft grunt gurgling in his lungs as she uses her index finger to trace the outline of his hardening cock through the velvet fabric of his slacks. Her voice is distant, giggle breathless. “Yeah, you’re right. How counterintuitive.”

Harry swiftly pops the button of his trousers, helping her coax them down his legs, releasing a stuttery moan when she immediately bends down and mouths at his prick over his briefs. The soiled stain forming around the tip of his cock would be embarrassing if he didn’t know she found it hot. 

His tone is tight but humorous as she continues licking at him eagerly through his underwear, nails digging into his inner thighs. “Am I your first?”

Confusion flickers in her eyes for a moment before she realizes the joke. He’s referring to if he’s the first person she’s slept with on her new bed in her new home. “Yes, you are, actually.” 

Harry’s juts his bottom lip out into an overly-sweet exaggerated pout, talking in a honeyed drawl. “Aw, I get to christen your bed with you? We’re practically married now. When’s the baby due?” 

“God, you’re a moron.” Y/N bursts into a fit of laughter as she mounts back onto his lap, pinching at his torso in fake spite and feeling her insides flutter at the airy giggles that escape him. She gnaws on her bottom lip thoughtfully for a second, watching with hunger as he finishes removing his shirt and momentarily sits up to chuck it onto the ground over her shoulder. 

Harry falls back onto the mattress, folding his taut arms behind his neck, biceps flexing with the movements as his strong chest and toned stomach look as appealing as ever. She runs her palms over his tanned skin, feeling the sturdy muscle shift beneath her touch. Shit.

The immortal slinks his head to the side, eyes going half-lidded in suggestive mischief as he sees the way she’s objectifying him. He doesn’t mind; he actually lives for it. “Are you just gonna keep staring or are you gonna fuck me?”

His lewd comment washes warmth across Y/N’s ears and spurs her into action. In less than a minute, she’s fully unclothed, bouncing on his cock with a type of need that boils the pit of Harry’s belly. His fingers are digging bruises into her waist, slamming her down onto his prick with enough force to make the old bed creak wildly. She may be on top, but he’s still the one pulling the strings. 

Y/N collapses forward, anchoring herself onto her forearms on either sides of his head, burying her face in his auburn ringlets. She bites onto her tongue, trying to keep a tab on the atrociously loud sounds threatening to spill from her mouth. They come out as broken whines instead, which Harry drinks up like a glass of aged bourbon. She fists at his roots, jolting with every thrust he gives upwards, her knees digging into his love handles to keep balanced. At this point, she’s barely riding him at all. He’s just ramming himself into her from below as he guides her hips and she doesn’t have an issue with that at all. She likes when he leads.  

His growl comes out low and raspy, riding on a moan, his warm, choppy exhales pebbling her bare nipples. “How’s that, darling? How’s that cock feel?”

Y/N nods her head frantically, not trusting her tongue to form an appropriate response. 

“Tell me.” He grits out through bared teeth, back arching a bit as he feels the knot of white hot pleasure in his stomach twist and turn. 

“I— I can’t. I’m—”

One of Harry’s hands coasts down the small of her back and onto her ass, giving it a harsh squeeze. She yelps at the new sensation, pain and bliss intermingling. “Yeah, you fucking can. You will. Use your words. Tell me how much you like it.”

A violent shutter runs through Y/N’s limbs and she instinctively pushes back against his palm. Harry’s eyebrows kink in question as he feels her draw her face back from his hair. One look at her eyes tells the entire narrative: She wants him to spank her. 

Harry slowly lifts his hand from her skin, brows raising a bit higher for confirmation. Y/N smears his lips against his forehead and left cheekbone, bobbing her head desperately, whispering a tiny, “Yes, please.” that sends smoky tendrils of hot air cascading down his straining neck. 

When the vampire’s hand comes down, it’s fast and hard, his cold rings biting into her flesh and leaving welts, the sound echoing off the glossy walls and tall bookshelf in her room. The cry that betrays her could probably be heard down on the main floor of her complex. 

The shattered noise makes Harry sanity slip and he’s lucky she’s too lost in her own bliss to see the way his eyes glow dangerously red. “Fuck, you’re such a slut for it.” 

Harry suddenly boosts himself forward, toppling Y/N backwards until she’s the one wedged against the bed. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, nestling her face into the crook of his sweaty collarbones, cracked cries pooling into the junction of his clavicle as he hikes her roughly up his thighs. He sinks further between her legs until he bottoms out with a loud garbled groan, pushing so deep she can feel him in the trench of her belly. 

“Oh my God, Harry— I— fuck, just—just— oh!”

His pace rises in intensity, strokes messy and unforgivable as he fucks her into the bed, the cracking of the frame warning him that it might give away. “Oh, so you liked that, did you? Like it when I call you a slut and stretch you out like one?”

Harry feels Y/N’s teeth rip into his shoulder in order to evade a scream; a strong shiver pin-balls down his spine as a result. Her voice is absolutely wrecked as she talks over her muffled mouth. “Loved it. Loved it so much. Want—Want more. Please, please, please.”

Harry holds her down firmly to the sheets, pounding into her with a form of unrestrained force he’s never exhibited. She just drives him to the brink like no one else has in nearly twenty decades. “Can you feel me in your tummy, pet? Can you feel how I fill you up?” 

“Yes, yes— it’s so good, Harry. You’re incredible.”

“Such a proper little whore.” He has to actively hold back from digging into her throat with his fangs, his eyes screwing shut in concentration as his orgasm begins to burn through his veins. “Begging me to fuck you like one, over and over. You’ve never had it this good, have you?” 

“N-No. You’re the only one who makes me feel like this.”  

“Hands off.” 

“W-What?”

“Hands off.”

Y/N obeys, throwing her arms above her head and letting them hang off the edge of the bed as he’d instructed. It’s not like he wants her to stop scratching down his back, but he knows that if she continues, he’s going to black out. He’s already teetering, obvious in the black webs he can feel materializing over the whites of his eyes.

“Ask for permission.” 

The mortal unclamps her teeth from his bruised shoulder and swallows heavily, her words sputtering out from how hard she’s jerking against the bed. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please—can I—can I cum?”

“‘May I cum.’” The boy corrects, half because he wants to be a cocky ass, and half because it’s automatic. He was raised during an era where intellectual accuracy was of utmost value in society. It’s hard to leave those lessons behind. 

Y/N hiccups another mewl, hands curling into loose fists above her head as he continues to fuck her deliberately into the duvet. She repeats his phrase shakily. “May I cum? Please?”

Harry’s lashes flutter open and as soon as he sees her, all doe-eyed, covered in his love marks, with her bottom lip trembling...It’s like a switch flips. When he speaks, it’s soft and encouraging; a drastic contrast from his mood a few seconds ago. “Yeah...Yeah, baby, go ahead. Cum for me.” 

That night, as Harry lays there awake staring at that awful popcorn roof with the taste of her blood fresh on his tongue and her steady heartbeat throbbing in his heightened ears, he catches himself smiling in the dark. It doesn't have to do with emotions or feelings or any of that complicated bullshit. It just has to do with the fact that he found some consistency in his life, as unattached and materialistic as it may be. They don’t have a complex bond or a deeper meaning. They simply just coexist. They provide some common stability to each others’ lives and it helps keep an important balance. Stability is so rare to find, especially for an immortal who is condemned to witness the world constantly evolve around them while they remain frozen in time. Society will change, people change, appearances change, alliances change, and though it can be exhilarating, at times, Harry never truly has a say in it. He’s always just strung along for the ride.

This is different. It’s static, and that’s all he really needs it to be. Sex can be so emotionally messy if lines aren’t drawn and boundaries aren’t set. But with Y/N, it’s like they have a silent understanding— an unspoken agreement signed by both parties. It’s a notion that could have spared Harry his life in the past, and it’s an ideal that— even in death— took him centuries to learn:

Some people are meant to be loved, while others are just meant to be naked. 

///

The third week is when things escalate for the better. 

Specifically, Tuesday night. That’s when the sexting starts. 

It’s a pretty calm evening and Harry finds himself with nothing to do. Mitch is out with Sarah, who had come into town two days ago due to the band she’s touring with being on a three week break. She’d said she wasn’t staying for long— maybe a week, because she has plans to visit some other bloodsucker friends in Canada. Even though Mitch tries to hide it, Harry can tell he’s bummed about Sarah’s short visit. The older vampire is good at hiding his emotions, but Harry’s known him for so long that he could read Mitch’s mood even if he was blindfolded and gagged. 

The jade-eyed boy had been honest with his best friend, asking him what the point was in continuing to see someone whose depth of interest in the relationship wasn’t as developed as his own. Mitch had simply shrugged one shoulder and told Harry that he wouldn’t understand. He mentioned something about how eventually, the freshblood high would wear off and Sarah would find herself wanting to settle down somewhere with someone she could trust for the rest of eternity. Mitch explained that he cared for her enough to wait until then. 

His best mate had been wrong. Harry does understand. He understands the concept of chasing after someone who, in the end, didn’t want anything to do with him. He understands it a little too well, sadly. He figures that’s the same fate Mitch is bound to suffer, just on a less extreme level. 

But then again, Harry’s perception of love is majorly skewed, so who is he to judge?

With Mitch tied up with Sarah (probably literally, though Harry doesn’t dwell on that; it’s none of his business), his options dwindle to the rest of the crew. Niall and Xander had invited him to a concert they were attending, but Harry politely declined the offer. The musicians were some wannabe indie band and Harry would rather swallow a nicotine addict’s blood than listen to a couple of morons sing in cursive. Adam had suggested he tag along with him, Ny-Oh, and Charlotte to a new art exhibit that had opened up in the next town over. It was a thirty minute drive, so it wasn’t that bad, but Harry declined that invitation, as well. He loves art, if the giant collection on his wall has anything to say about it, but he doesn’t get on well with Ny or Charlotte. They say he’s “too much of an arrogant dickhead” to be around for an extended period of time. They’re right, of course, but it still hurts. Plus, Ny has a mullet and Harry knows he wouldn’t be able to withhold from making a Billy Ray joke. It’s best he stay away, lest she end up with an achy-breaky heart.

So that leaves him here, all alone at eight P.M. on a Tuesday, plopped on his couch in nothing but a pair of maroon plaid boxers as Hamilton plays on the ninety inch flatscreen mounted on his glass wall. He had left the curtains open, not really caring that he’s practically naked. The sun’s already set and it’s almost pitch black outside; plus, he lives on the twenty-fourth floor of the condominium complex. The only living being risking an eyeful is a peepy pigeon. Even then, Harry’s more than happy to put on a show. He’s confident enough in himself that nudity is practically second nature. His friends can attest to that. 

Harry lays across his leather sofa with a large checkered throw cushion snuggled into his side, one of his hands slung across the backrest of the couch as the other remains submerged wrist-deep in a bag of Veggie Straws. His socked feet are propped up on his round marble coffee table, ankles crossed and posture anything but eloquent. The apartment is silent, except for the musical streaming through the speakers of his television set and the gentle pattering of rain just outside his glorified window pane, accompanied by the faint flickering of the city lights below. The atmosphere of the room is relaxed and cozy and it lulls his soul in a manner he can’t put into words.

Harry has always liked the rain. Ever since he was a child, he would sit by the small round window of the attic room he shared with his older sister, watching it fall from the sky in sheets of glittering sapphires, soaking into the dry ground and turning it into a slush of dirt he would later sneak out to play in. When he got older, he would prop his shoulder against the doorframe at the back of his father’s blacksmith shop and gaze at it, mesmerized by how it would trickle down the streets of the public market, washing away all the grime that came with a bustling city’s reputation. Sometimes he would stand in it, feeling its cool touch run down his arms and soak into the back of his sot-covered work shirt. He enjoyed how it would cleanse the sticky sweat from his face and neck, its gentle nature leaving him feeling like he could float through air. Then his father would call him back into the store and playfully scold him for allowing himself to get drenched, warning that his mother would kill him if he caught a cold. 

Harry’s changed a lot since then, he knows that, but it comforts him that his love for rain is the one aspect of his personality that two hundred years of Hell had failed to take from him. 

The melodies swimming out of his TV reign him back in from memory lane. 

Harry’s not really one to enjoy musicals, but back when Hamilton had first hit Broadway, he’d used his persuasive supernatural abilities to sneak into one of the first showings. He’d been curious as to what all the hype was about, and the play did not disappoint. The songs were catchy, the acting was good, and the characters were brought to life through raw emotion and comedy. He respected that. And the plot of the story itself resonated with him deeply, as well. A protagonist that rose from nothing, fell in love with the wrong woman, and made terrible life choices that seemed correct at the time, which would all eventually lead to his death. It hit a bit too close to home. 

If he had a dollar for every time he’s seen it since it had come out on Disney+, he could probably pay rent himself instead of compelling others to do it for him. 

The play is halfway through one of its most famous ballads when the monster’s phone dings with a familiar tune. A smirk is already etching itself across his face before he even unlocks his device. 

I need interior design advice. 

I’m still a little sore from our last help session. How’d you bounce back so quick?

Funny, but I need ACTUAL interior design advice this time. 

Harry’s brows furrow in mild confusion and slight disappointment. He draws his hand from the junk food container, dusting off the crumbs. Oh. 

Genuinely? 

Yup!

He guesses he’ll give it a go. He does have pretty exquisite taste; the modern gothic aesthetic of his condo proves that. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

Alright, shoot. 

Y/N releases the breath she’d been holding in. Thank God he’s agreed to help. As much as she’s ashamed to admit it, Harry’s really the only person in LA that she deems relatively close to a friend. She hasn’t managed to mesh well with her coworkers much, despite the fact that she’s been trying extremely hard. She just doesn’t wanna force herself into unfulfilling fake friendships for the sake of having people to flaunt. It’s not right and she knows she’d grow to resent it. 

So instead, she’d reached out to the one California resident who doesn’t make her skin crawl. 

Whew, okay, thanks in advance! So I went out yesterday and got a new bedspread and I wanted some help choosing a new accessory to go with it, which is going on my wall. 

Harry’s ears perk up and his back straightens at her statement. Could she finally, by the grace of fucking God, be getting rid of that shitty tapestry? 

Well, let me see it, then. Don’t keep a man waiting, I’m dying to play Property Brothers over here.

A picture comes through of the two new accessories Y/N is referring to and the way Harry’s face drops instantly is almost comical.

Which tapestry fits better? I’m thinking the Van Gogh style painting of a lighthouse. The blue goes well with the dark turquoise of the comforter. But then again, the forest canopy has those pretty exotic flowers that compliment the coral stitching. I can’t decide. 

The vampire’s face pinches in disgusted horror as he blinks down numbly at the image on his screen. He’s going to be sick. Those Veggie Straws are about to make a hideous comeback. 

…two new tapestries? Did the other one rip or…?

What? No!! I just saw these down at the thrift store and thought they were cute. Why? Are they really that bad??

They’re not just bad, they’re worse. He’s going to ask her to blindfold him next time he visits. 

They’re…kinda immature, dove. I just thought you’d go for something cooler this time, like a vintage painting or a couple vinyls to mount on the wall. 

Immature? 

Oops. He should have picked his words more carefully. Now he’s gone and offended her and she’ll probably bite down the next time he puts his—

Another message interrupts his spiraling negative conclusions.

I know you didn’t just call ME immature when you compared me to a cream-filled donut, Harry. 

The playful tone in the text delivers a wave of relief that is almost as pleasurable as what lies between Y/N’s legs. 

Can I speak freely for a second? Full disclosure, no consequences?

That preface makes me think you’re about to chew me out.

I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know it’s not our usual dynamic, but I’ll give it a go.

Y/N ignores the bristling across her cheeks. 

Alright, go head.

I just think tapestries are kinda stupid. They scream “confused teenager trying to find myself.” But that’s just my opinion. I’m only telling you so you know that I’m probably not the best bloke to go to with tapestry inquiries. 

Harry watches as a read receipt stares up at him for a few seconds. Just when he thinks he might have truly upset her this time, her message bubble pops up. 

So...the one I’ve had hanging in my room the last three times you’ve been over…

I had to actively restrain the urge to strangle myself with it.

Y/N breaks out into laughter. The image of waking up to Harry laying facedown on her bedroom floor, balls naked and mummified within a sunrise tapestry...It’s sending her. 

Well, you know what? That’s not fair! You can’t judge my house when I haven’t even had the chance to judge yours. 

Harry nods once to himself in surrender, reaching up to finger-comb a few rebellious curls out of his eyes. She makes a valid play. 

Fair enough. You’ll have to come over and give me your opinion sometime.

I’d be honored to. Now, would you be so kind as to put your own personal bias aside this once and help me choose which one to put up. I promise I’ll spare you any more tapestry-related problems in the future. I’ll remove it from my customer contract.

Harry sighs defeatedly. He can’t believe he’s giving up his integrity for sex. 

Fine. Send me a picture of both of them up on the wall. It’ll give some perspective. 

Y/N giddily obliges, deciding to send a video instead. That way, she can get all of the angles in one go rather than having to send multiple pictures. 

Harry waits patiently, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth as he taps his foot against the coffee table to the tune of Wait for It, which is playing in the film that has now become the backdrop of his night. When Y/N’s next message comes through, he’s mildly surprised to find it’s a video. He clicks play, watching intently as she circles the two pinned tapestries slowly, making sure to get a proper view from all sides. By the time the thirty second clip is coming to an end, Harry’s leaning more towards the tropical canopy painting. It’s not as loud and she was right about the flowers matching the stitching on the duvet. 

He’s about to tap back “the forest one” when something flashes across the screen that makes him choke on his snack, launching him into a coughing fit.  

It’s within the last three seconds of the video and if he had cut it off in order to text back, he would have missed it. But he hadn’t, and now it’s burned into the back of his eyelids, causing a buzzing sensation to string right to the area between his thighs.  

The last few frames of the video, Y/N had lowered her phone from the position she’d been suspending it, probably thinking she had already stopped filming. She hadn’t. And because of that, Harry gets a full frontal view of her body, covered in nothing except a pair of lace panties and a mid-thigh oversized Avengers t-shirt. The entire screen fills with bare, silky skin and raunchy lace and he can feel his fangs poke into his tongue. 

Harry’s not a pre-teen; he’s not going to drool over seeing a pair of legs. What really gets to him is the fact that it appears Y/N still has a few hickies across the inner area of her thighs, which have failed to fade as quickly as the others. They should be gone, given that anytime Harry feeds (like he had the last time they’d slept together), he always gives her a bit of his blood to heal. Meaning, normal bruises like that should be gone. Maybe he just hadn’t given her a high enough dosage, or maybe he’d marked her more than he remembers, but either way, the stains are there.

The vampire ogles at the paused image with a dry throat and wide eyes. Just seeing her like that, dressed in comfy yet effortlessly sensual attire with no bottoms on whatsoever, freely flaunting his love bites around her apartment, probably looking at them in her mirror, thinking about how his teeth had felt grazing her skin…

It’s enough to pop a stiffy into his briefs. 

Harry glimpses over the top of his phone, swallowing thickly at the large bulge beginning to tent his boxers. His socked toes curl as he feels a longing throb begin to swell at the pit of his clenching stomach. Great. This is just fucking perfect. 

He attempts to tap back a reply, but his hands have started quivering slightly, clumsy thumbs ruining his message to the point where he has to retype it three times.

The forest one. I agree with what you said about the stitching. 

Okay, thank you so much! Your input is highly appreciated, as always.

The immortal finds himself gnawing at the inside of his cheek, weighing on whether he should mention the little softcore porn moment she’d unknowingly shot, or if he should just let it slide and go take care of the issue that is literally weighing on him— he can feel it getting heavy against his thigh. 

His fingers seem to take on a mind of their own, printing out a quick sentence and hitting the send button before he can rethink his motives. 

Did you watch your video before you sent it?

Uh no...It looked pretty okay to me while I took it. Why, do you need a different one? Was the lighting too dark? 

The fact that she sent it by accident only adds to the appeal. She’s such a good girl. So fucking innocent and sweet, she could practically give him a toothache. 

Do me a quick favor and rewatch it all the way to the end. I think you’ll be surprised with what you find.

Y/N leans back against her bookshelf wall, chewing on her bottom lip as a sly grin ticks the corners. She doesn’t have to rewatch the video. She’s fully aware of what she had done, which had been completely on purpose. She’s only playing dumb to see his reaction, getting off on how flustered he seems to have become. Yes, her intentions for contacting him had originally been purely for his opinion on decor. But when she saw the chance, she decided to jump headfirst and take it. What are friends with benefits for if not for times like these, when you’re too lazy to come over but need a bit of relief? 

The human allows a full thirty seconds to pass, simulating that she’s watching the video, and then thoughtfully taps out her response.

Oh, whoops. Sorry for the indecent exposure.

Harry shifts in exasperation against his sofa, the radiating in his abdomen crawling up to his chest and down to his knees. He needs to take care of himself now.

It’s fine, babe. You just might wanna be more careful, cause this time around you got lucky that it was me and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Could go south if it were someone else. 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly at his scolding, but continues to play the clueless act, curious to see where it’ll take her. 

You’re absolutely right, I’m so sorry. 

Harry clears his throat, flinching as he feels a soft twitch run up the length of his cock. He exhales tightly, trying to steer the conversation into a lighter mood. He doesn’t want her to feel bad; it’s not like he’s angry about this. He’s hot and bothered and needy, but not mad.

I just think it’s funny you exposed the fact that you go around your house without pants. 

Oh, fuck off! No one ever wears pants around their own house, especially if they’re alone. It’s one of the laws of physics. No human resistance, no pants. 

Harry glances down at his body symbolically, where he’s clad in only his underwear, as well.

Touché.

Exactly. 

A pause befalls the conversation as both parties fish for something new to say. The situation’s become less lively and more intense now and neither are sure how to navigate without crossing a line. In a surge of courage, Y/N decides to just directly communicate her intentions, praying that he doesn’t take it the wrong way. 

I have an idea, just hear me out. For the sake of evening the playing field, I think that since you saw me pantsless, it’s only fair that I see you the same way. It balances out, right?

Harry’s jaw drops in an open-mouthed simper, impressed by her blatant suggestion, but also by how smoothly she had delivered it. He mumbles his next words to himself, voice amused and somewhat awed at how she had managed to spin this to her benefit. “You clever little minx. Bet it wasn’t even an accident.”

You did it on purpose, didn’t you?

Y/N purses her lips, shrugging her brows cheekily.

Maybe.

The vampire scoffs, taken aback not only at the ploy she’d pulled off, but at how unapologetic she is about the whole thing. It’s hot. 

Alright, l’ll bite. Tick for tack. 

The photo that comes through makes Y/N choke on her spit. It’s not anything too revealing, but it packs a lot. Literally. 

It’s a pretty casual picture, and she gets the feeling he took it as so just to be a tease. In the frame, all she sees is a snapshot of Harry’s lap, thighs straining against the flimsy material of a pair of crimson tartan boxers, the large tigerhead tattoo he totes somehow prominent in the low lightning. Of course it stands out, though. That’s to be expected; his thighs are thick in the most satisfying fashion and they’re one of his most defining features. She can also see the bottom half of his lean tummy, the cutoff being the crest of his belly button. His fern inkings are peeking out of from below the waistband of the Calvin Kleins, dark and matte on his lightly bronzed skin, and she spots the nonchalant position of his crossed ankles in the background. 

As appetizing as every little detail is, the centerpiece of the portrait is the obvious bulge pressing into the fabric of his briefs. The outline is so prominent, the picture borderlines on graphic. His cock looks pretty as ever, even when it’s covered; the thin underwear leaves very little to the imagination. 

Y/N has to bite down on her tongue to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

Wow, okay, well...Your picture was much more explicit than my video. That’s not fair at all. Throws off the equilibrium we were trying to establish. 

Harry chuckles aloud, shaking his head in amazement at how well she can bend the game to her will. Three weeks ago, when he’d first laid eyes on that shy girl at the club, he would have never expected her to be so bold. Now, she has him wrapped around her pinky like a string.

You’re absolutely right. My apologies. Maybe you should send one similar so we can even out the stakes. 

You read my mind.

Y/N’s next picture causes a hiss to stream through the cracks of Harry’s teeth, eyes glinting red.

It’s a picture taken on top of her bed, the angle set from above. She’s laying on her side, her torso twisted so that her backside is in the shot, her huge tee pulled tight against her waist so it creates an enticing cinching effect. Her thighs are clasped together, the collar of her shirt pulled away just enough that he can see where the valley of her chest begins to curve, and the cheeky lace panties are working utter wonders for her ass. He can’t stop staring. He physically can’t pull himself away, his eyes bouncing across every pixel, attempting to commit the picture to memory to keep it locked in the back of his brain forever. 

Y/N awaits anxiously for his reaction, biting into the pad of her thumb as the seconds list by, wondering if he had enjoyed the nude or if he was just sitting there judging all her flaws. It’s been so long since she’s sent a risky photo like that, she can’t help but stress. Sharing your body with someone digitally is almost as intimate as real sex and it comes with similar worries and insecurities. Was the angle good? Are her stretch marks unattractive? Are the dimples along her backside gross? Is he second-guessing their arrangement? Is he wishing they hadn’t met?

She practically drops her phone when it vibrates.

God, you look stunning. Like a proper fucking dream.

All of her concerns immediately disintegrate, replaced by an odd sense of pride. She’s happy that he enjoyed it, and she’s thankful for the caliber of his response. Most men don’t care to comment that nicely, if they comment at all, and Harry’s enthusiasm only excites her further. She wants to keep going. 

You look pretty fucking good yourself. Wish I could just kneel between your thighs, take you into my mouth, and make you feel good for hours. 

Harry struggles to get saliva down his parched throat, her words bouncing around the inside of his skull, sending a current of bliss directly to where he needs it. 

Hours? You want me down your throat for hours?

For hours, Harry. I’d literally just sit between your legs and let you fuck my face again. Let you use me to make yourself cum.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry’s broken whine echoes off the tall walls of his home, one of his big hands finding a path to his curls and tugging in desperation. He needs to keep composure. 

Harry’s next snapshot comes through and Y/N has to screw her eyes shut for a second to brace the bolt of electricity that zips down to her core. 

The boy’s thighs have parted wider, his feet now down from the table, knees hanging off the edge of the sofa. His free hand has delved below his briefs, pulling them up just enough to show a tad of the neatly trimmed area beneath. His fingers are cupped over his cock, hiding it from plain view, but the imprint of his knuckles on the fabric suggest he’s gripping it tightly. The longer she looks, the more she notices— specifically, a dark damp patch spreading at the middle of his boxers and she knows damn well what it is. The fact that she’d got him riled up enough that he’s leaking through like that...She can hardly breathe right. 

Shit, you look so good. How do you always look that fucking good? I just want to feel you stretch me out while you moan into my mouth. 

Harry slowly starts pumping his palm up and down his cock as he rereads her words, catching his lower lip between his teeth, his naked and flushed chest stuttering. He doesn’t want to be the douche that tells her to send another picture, but he really needs her to. He wants to see what she’s doing, how she’s fairing. Wants to know if he has her as fucked as she has him right now. 

It’s almost like they share a telepathic link because not even five seconds later, another beautifully filthy photo is decorating his screen. 

This time around, Y/N has decided to fully lay on her back, spreading her legs open and drawing her knees up slightly so that her thighs are not only flexing, but displaying all the love bites he’d left only a few days prior. They’re all different shades of purple and brown, scattered over the satin suppleness of her skin, painting a canvas of the heated night they’d shared. It’s art at its most prestigious, if he’s ever seen it. And she has her hand ducked below her panties, the outline of her fingers situated right over her clit. 

Harry’s own hand instinctively tightens around his length, pulling a weak groan from his parted lips. He throws his head back against the backrest of the couch, bucking into his palm and teasing his forefinger over his bubbling tip. He spreads the precum all over the sensitive head, whimpering when the draft from the air conditioning caresses it and sends a quiver toppling over his shoulders. 

Fuck, she’s driving him mental. There’s only one way to take care of this effectively, despite their distance. 

I’m going to call you.

Y/N gulps heavily, licking over her chapped lips and feeling her pulse jump at the realization that she’ll be getting to hear his throaty voice coax her through an orgasm. Not only that, but she’ll get to hear him cum, too. She’ll get to hear every shattered gasp and needy mewl, almost as if he were pouring all those sounds of pleasure right into her ears in person. 

The mortal’s heart hiccups when his contact pops up on the Caller ID, phone vibrating insistently. After a deep breath taken to ground herself, she slides her shaky thumb over the glass, slowly bringing the device up to her ear. Her voice is soft and timid as ever, a tremble running through its undertone. “H-Hello?”

Harry’s words come through the crackling speaker as dark and smoky as whiskey, pouring into her mind and intoxicating her as easily as the real liquor would.

“Flip onto your stomach and take off the lace. Now.”

[crackheadgeminibby]

trust pt. 1

pairing: chris evans x black!reader

warnings: language, age gap, angst

word count: 1.3k

part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

i do not consent to my work being copied in any way, shape or form or reposted on any other platform

not my picture

You’d met Chris over a year ago while you were at the Public Defender’s office. You’d already been having an atrocious morning when you were leaving the building while trying to balance your phone, documents, and coffee when you’d quite literally ran into him and thus spilled your coffee all over yourself and your documents, that were now spread out on the floor, were soaked.

Chris had apologized and offered to buy you a new coffee as well as a new silk shirt. You were already late and didn’t want to make your boss madder, so you’d simply given him your phone number and told him to text you for that coffee. You hadn’t even realized you’d bumped into Chris Evans until you’d stopped rushing around and had time to sit for a second at your desk. This reinforced your thought that you’d never hear from him again and therefore have to find and buy yourself a new silk shirt as this gift from your parents was now as useless as that 5$ you’d spent on coffee that morning. It made you almost choke on your toast when, two days later, you’d received a text message from an unknown number:

So, how about that shirt and coffee? 😉

Since then, Chris and you had instantly clicked and became good friends. You texted and talked on the phone often but very rarely saw each other since you were both extremely busy, him with his budding career as a director and continuing career as an actor, and you as a lawyer in one of the biggest firms of the city.

This made you enjoy every single moment you could have with him but every time he left your apartment, you’d tell yourself you should have told him how you felt.

Three months after that first meeting and shortly after the holidays, Chris had invited you to a fancy restaurant, which was a big change from your usual, casual lunch and dinner hangouts at your apartment. You’d started the night anxious that he’d tell you he didn’t want to see you anymore, that it was weird that you guys were friends, but you ended the night content and Chris Evans’ new girlfriend.

It had now been a little over ten months since that night. You hadn’t seen Chris for the last three months because he had gone back and forth between New York and LA to finish the movie he was working on. After finishing the movie, he had spent a week at his mom’s house and was now coming back to LA to spend the week before Thanksgiving with you before going back to his mom’s house. This meant you had Chris for a whole seven days to you, and you only. You’d already planned the whole weekend almost to the minute so you could make the most out of the short time you had together.

It’s Friday morning and your alarm rings, as usual, at 5:45am. You turn it off and immediately take your phone in the search for Chris’ text.

chris❤️, 5:38am:

Ready when you are

You press the phone icon next to his contact and stretch your back under the blanket while you wait for the phone to ring.

“Good morning, princess.”

“Hi”, you answer back while yawning.

You hear him chuckle a little then, “Slept well?”

His laughter makes you smile, and you hum in agreement.

“Your flight gets here at 4:45pm, right?”, you ask while getting up and setting your clothes for the day on the bed.

“Uh, yeah… Or 5pm, maybe”, you hear a bit of rustling in the background, and then “I’ll text you the exact time later.”

You head to the kitchen and take your overnight oatmeal out of the fridge.

“Okay. Did Scott say he can go get you or do you still need me to come?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. He said he can pick me up and drop me off at my house on his way back from Arizona so it’s all good.”

“Okay, so do you want to meet directly at the restaurant?”

You start the coffee machine and head to the bathroom to brush your teeth and shower.

“Isn’t your car still at the garage?”

“No, I was supposed to get it back Monday morning, but they were done yesterday so I got it back already.”

“Okay, then we can meet at the restaurant. 7pm right?”

“Yep.”

“Perfect.” He pauses for a bit then sighs. “I can’t wait to see you. I miss you so much.”

You turn on the shower and take off the old shirt Chris had left at your place that you often slept in when he wasn’t there. You put it on the counter and smile softly at it.

“I know, baby. Me too. I have to start getting ready soon though.”

“Okay. I’ll see you for dinner tonight then.”

“Yeah. Fly safe and don’t forget to text me when you board and land.”

“Yes, princess. Have a good day.”

“Thank you, baby. Bye.”

“Bye.”

You hang up the phone and put it on the bathroom counter.

“Siri. Shuffle music.”

You hop in the shower while singing along to the music coming from your phone.

After getting out of the shower, drying off and putting on lotion, you put toothpaste on your toothbrush and are about to start brushing your teeth when your phone rings. Thinking it’s Chris calling you back, you put your toothbrush down and head over to your dresser to pick up. However, when you get there, you see an unknown number. Shrugging, you go back to the bathroom to brush your teeth as you hear the voicemail come in.

You finish brushing your teeth and head to your bedroom to get dressed. You do your makeup, pack your work bag and your purse and head to the kitchen for breakfast. You sit at your counter, eat your oatmeal and drink your coffee while watching the news.

20 minutes later, you’re out the door and on your way to work.

Your morning at work was relatively normal and uneventful except for the unending stories told by Chloe, your good friend and co-worker. She sees you being zoned out and asks what’s wrong with you.

“Nothing. My boyfriend comes back today and we’re having dinner tonight so I’m excited.”

“Oh my God (Y/N), I have no idea how you manage to never see him. I mean, I don’t understand why you would even get in a relationship with a lawyer that works halfway across the country, but you know, you do you. And when am I gonna freaking meet him, seriously? It’s been like a year.”

“I already told you: he worked here when we got together but his firm made him move. And, I don’t know, he’s… busy. I barely see him myself so when am I supposed to find time for him to meet you?”

You cringe internally at what you just said. Yeah, I lied to her. Sue me. What am I supposed to say? “Yeah, my boyfriend’s a worldwide known actor or whatever, you know haha.” Nope. Not happening.

Chloe starts telling another story about that time she dated some engineer that lived in Russia or something, you’re not really listening at this point. Your phone vibrates and rings in your jacket pocket. You look over at the clock thinking it’s Chris telling you he’s landed. 2:23pm. That can’t be right.

While Chloe continues to ramble on, you take your phone out and it lights up.

Unknown Number, 2:22pm:

You should really go look at that email.

Right now.

You frown and open your email app.

From: silage3192@winemails.com, 6:15am

Subject: Well, this is awkward

You immediately click on the email and almost choke on air when you see what’s inside.

[writingbakery]

“tapewebs”; a series 🕸

hanta sero is just your regular everyday japanese-american immigrant college student, living in the heart of brooklyn. when miles morales collapses on the windowsill of his shitty one bedroom apartment, life gets.... a hell of a lot more interesting 🕷

[a spiderman! sero au one shot series, featuring class 1-A, hanta sero, miles morales, an assortment of marvel villains, & you, dear reader - the object of one tapespider’s affections ✨]

[pairing; sero x gender neutral reader 🕸]

[warnings; fluff, violence, action, angst, romance, & a lot of tape/spider puns 🕸]

“Sticky Note Origins”

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

the city is prettier up high, sero realizes. granted, he wishes he’d come to that conclusion on solid ground, without his feet nervously planted on a skyscraper ledge, but still.

every whip of wind threatens to topple him over, send him careening down into a frenzied spiral of buildings and colors until he meets concrete at the bottom - and he’s supposed to willingly jump.

he wonders if he’ll pass out before his bones meet solid mass, cracking in so many different ways the coroner’ll have to play connect the fragments until he’s a person again.

behind him, an impatient cough sounds, bringing him back to the task at hand. fuck.

you’re probably wondering how he got here. let’s rewind a week.

one week earlier

at ten pm on a friday, the city is in its prime, bustling crowds of people laughing and stumbling through the brightly colorful streets. hanta’s just trying to protect his pad thai & dumplings, hugging the greasy paper bag to his chest as he weaves in and out of the chaos.

a day full of long classes & a quiet shift at the cafe-slash-bookstore halfway between campus and his crap one bedroom apartment leaves him exhausted, shoulders hunched as he makes his way home. nobody ever sees him regardless - the city’s too big for one lanky, always tired beanpole to be much notice.

despite living in brooklyn since he was four, he’s never felt a hundred percent comfortable here - he had an accent right up until he was thirteen, still trips over certain words and customs that don’t exist back home in japan. he’s awkwardly tall, not enough to be a phenomenon but towering over all his family. he just doesn’t quite fit anywhere - too smart and plain to be popular, too boring to be with the jokesters, too awkward for the nerds. he’s been a loner all his life, and while he doesn’t mind too much, he just wishes it was a little easier to belong.

a text rolls across his phone screen as he’s shuffling songs, skipping some j-pop rock song to settle on kendrick lamar as he smiles. you. he couldn’t lie and say he was completely alone, not when he had you in his life.

you were a year younger than him but twice as smart, skipping a year ahead and landing yourself in hanta’s high school freshman english class. the pair of you had just... clicked, from the very first moment he pointed to shakespeare’s likeness on the cover and mocked “what, you egg?!”

your laughter had left him on cloud nine the entire day, and he made it his personal mission to hear that beautiful little giggle at least once a day for the rest of his life.

a lovely friendship had bloomed from there, the two of you joined at the hip - if you were somewhere, hanta was bound to follow & vice versa.

you’d even gotten into the same college, albeit for drastically different majors - he was a biochem/engineering double major, while you were an english/history double major. you were opposite but similar in so many ways, and the way you both completed each other didnt go unnoticed by sero.

you were his puzzle piece, the bits of him he’d never been able to fill easily made whole by your presence.

he could never tell you, however; your friendship was too precious to risk, especially over his dumb, emotional heart.

sending a string of laughing emojis towards the meme you sent, he jogs up the seven flights of dimly lit stairs to his tiny, one bedroom apartment - living in the city wasn’t cheap, & while the elevator was always busted at least he had a doorman, and heat that worked on occasion.

stepping into his apartment, however, he can immediately sense something is wrong; the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a heavy silence coating the darkness. the air feels wrong, tipsy turvy like the whole place is holding its breath - like something’s on the verge of exploding, catapulting him into chaos and danger.

quietly stepping through the living room, he peeks into the kitchen and bathroom, holding his backpack out like a makeshift weapon - his $200 biology textbook finally going to good use. finding nothing in either dark room, he slowly advances towards his bedroom, carefully measuring every step. at first, the room seems perfectly normal - nothing’s been moved, and it’s just as empty as the rest of his apartment.

and then he sees the blood.

dotting his windowsill in bright, red streaks, the window itself pushed halfway open - but that’s not what stops him in his tracks, eyes so wide it hurts.

spiderman is leaning against his windowsill, covered in blood and panting heavily, one hand held up in an effort to stop hanta in his tracks.

“i need...... help,” he whispers, voice rough and low; hanta’s amazed he can still speak.

he opens his mouth to react, somehow, even steps forward to catch him before screaming like a ten year old girl at a morgue, panic setting in like cold water.

never a dull night in brooklyn.

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

once he’s made sure that spiderman - miles, as the young man bleeding all over his $12 walmart carpet supplies - isn’t going to die anytime soon, hanta’s quick to recover from his shock. bustling around his tiny kitchen to make cheap ramen and digging around in his closet to find his mini first aid kit, he’s in full fanboy mode - he’s got posters plastered wall to wall of miles morales on his bedroom walls, for gods sakes. not that he knew it was miles morales, but still.

miles morales is curled up in the fleece blanket hanta’s mom had sent him his second week at college, and he’s totally not freaking out.

he’d had to cancel his nightly facetime call with you, lying about a stomach bug - he hates keeping things from you, but this is just too big and messy and dangerous. he’ll tell you in due time, he promises himself, trying to ease the coil of guilt in his stomach.

“how did you end up on my windowsill, again?” hanta asks, gently pushing the bowl of noodles towards the injured man. he’s got his own pad thai long forgotten in the microwave, more focused on the superhero who’d gotten his ass whooped on his doorstep, so to speak.

“i told you. i’d been watching you for a while - you’re the most promising candidate i have.” miles’ voice is slick with humor, a sort of teasing confidence that’s clear even through the pain.

“which i’m still not understanding - candidate for what? blood services? biology questions? how to make $20 last two weeks??” he knows he’s being childish, too joking for the severity of the situation, but he can’t help it. the neighborhood’s - and his own - hero is sitting in front of him, eating shitty 33¢ ramen from the bodega around the corner, telling him he’s a prime candidate.

“to take the mantle.” all traces of laughter are gone now, miles leaning forward on the table to emphasize his words. “i’ve been doing this long enough to know when to quit. my body’s giving out on me - i got slammed into a wall last week and couldn’t shake the pain till yesterday. before, i’d be fine within an hour. the city needs someone new, young, willing to take the risks.”

hanta’s ears stopped listening the moment he heard quit. “me? are you fuckin’ joking?” he wheezes, coughing his way past the shock. “i get winded walking up to my apartment! an old lady beat me to the c train yesterday! a strong wind could kick my ass!”

miles is either willfully ignoring him or just can’t hear, plowing ahead with his explanation. “you’ve got the perfect build for webswinging, and you’ve got a good heart - you know when to do the right thing and when to step away. leave the rest up to me, and trust me - i know what i’m doing.”

hanta can’t believe his ears, pushing away from the table to pace around his kitchen in panic. “i don’t till you understand, you’ve got the wrong guy - there’s no way i could be spiderman!” his words are falling on deaf ears - miles is standing too, and he doesn’t seem to care about hanta’s impending panic.

“you’ve got to trust me on this, alright? meet me tomorrow, at this address - 12 pm sharp. the city needs you, hanta - hell, i need you. just have a little faith.”

hanta scoffs at that, throwing his hands in the air. “faith?! i met you an hour ago, bleeding all over my windowsill! that’s not exactly the most- hey! where the hell...” there’s nothing but a blanket, a hastily scrawled address, and an empty bowl where miles had sat, leaving hanta alone with his thoughts.

damnit.

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

hanta pushes through the crowds of people at eleven am the next morning, half asleep but wired enough to power the whole city - hell, the whole goddamned country. he’s running on no sleep, adrenaline, two redbulls & the guilt of lying to you again, his “stomach bug” keeping him from class. he’d told you he was going to visit his parents for the weekend to recover; your sweet messages in response only made him feel worse.

he’s tossed and turned over this decision a million times & yet, he’s still not sure where he stands - it’s so little information, so much responsibility in so little time. he’s still half convinced he’s being punked, if he’s honest.

and yet, somethings drawing him to the address miles had left him, something deep in his gut that tells him he needs to be there. clearly, miles had seen something he himself is woefully oblivious to, and it couldn’t hurt to find out more.

apple maps leads him to a tiny shed somewhere behind a deli & a nail salon, not too far from his apartment, and he’s completely confused. “stupid gps, probably got me lost,” he whines, leaning against the door of the shed to zoom in on his location.

the pigeons in the alley are the only ones to hear his panicked yelling as he phases right through it, tumbling all the way down a metal chute into the dark unknown.

at least, for ten seconds. he lands on a remarkably soft pad of foam, a glass panel separating him from a brightly lit, fancy looking room lined wall to wall with computers, parts and half made suits, spiderman suits. he doesn’t know where to look first.

a robotic, feminine voice brings him out of his shock, the glass panel lighting up with code and writing.

“please enter your name.” hanta is floored.

“uh.. hanta sero?” the voice trills lightly, before a red grid-like laser scans him head to toe. he’s proud to admit he only squealed in terror once.

“identity confirmed. welcome, hanta.” the panel slides away to allow him access, his careful steps alerting the rest of the room’s computers to light up at his arrival.

“you came. i knew i chose wisely.” miles comes into view slowly, limping heavily as he smiles. it’s almost familiar, like he & hanta have been friends for years; he finds it comforting.

“well, not everyday you get to be spiderman,” hanta jokes, fidgeting a little where he stands. “you gonna fit me for a suit or something?” miles just laughs, shaking his head.

“that comes later. first, we’ve got to get you bitten.”

bitten?

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

for the third time in 24 hours, hanta’s screaming like a man who’s just been told he has two days to live.

“you want me to let that thing bite me?! have you lost your mind?!”

miles sighs patiently, holding up the little glass vial to the light; inside, the spider races up and down the glass, an odd orange color to its patterning.

“it’s the only way. no offense, but i saw that lady beat you to the c train. she was like, 85.” hanta’s pouting now, crossing his arms.

“she had a cane and she was agile- hey hey! you keep that thing away from me, so help me god-“

“you’re being dramatic, it’s the size of a pea-“

“that’s a fat ass fuckin’ pea-“

“stay still-“

“i will not- ow! jesus fuck, that thing has tarantula jaws!”

miles carefully shepherds the spider back into the glass, chuckling a little. “it’ll take a moment to cause effect. the original spider was cross-bred with a more agile, lanky species - perfect for your body type. i’m hoping it’ll be most effective in your transition.”

“hoping?” hanta squeaks, staring at the red welt forming on his hand - his visions already starting to blur out, a throbbing pain traveling up his arm.

“well, it’s the first time i’m experimenting with this-“

“you used me as a guinea pig?!”

“it’s perfectly safe! my mentor-“ but hanta’s not listening anymore, the world swimming in front of his eyes before the ground rushes up rapidly to kiss his face.

god. damnit.

when he comes to, he’s wrapped in about half the blankets in brooklyn, a cold compress against his sweaty forehead. he’s burning up, and his elbows hurt for some reason - his skins gone all itchy, and he’d probably kick a pigeon for a glass of water.

sitting up alerts miles to his newly conscious state, the man quickly scanning his vitals with a smaller version of the glass panel hanta’d been fascinated with earlier. “thought you were gonna croak on me. how do you feel?”

“itchy. and my arms hurt.” hanta’s pushing off the blankets as he speaks, attempting to get comfortable - his body feels weird, like he’ll burst out of his skin at any second.

“alright, don’t panic. i need to see how it’s mutated your body. stay still.” miles’ fingers delicately press against his neck, shoulders, before jabbing at his ribs without warning. hanta’s arms shoot up on impulse, a trail of sticky, precise webbing escaping him from his...... elbows?!

“what the fuck, dude what the fuck look at my elbows, they’re all puffy and red i’m gonna die, and the coroner is gonna leak my story to the press and my moms gonna see me in the paper with fucked up elbows-“ hanta may or may not be panicking, poking at the tender, slightly swollen skin around the bends of his arms. miles just rolls his eyes, clearly amused by his antics.

“you’re not going to die. japanese tape spiders shoot webbing from the bends of their eight arms; its a thicker & stronger strain of web. clearly, your elbows are how your body has adjusted.”

“that doesn’t make it better.” hanta’s too busy staring at himself to notice the other changes at first, but slowly, they’re trickling in. heightened eyesight and hearing, an odd balance to his feet he hadn’t had a day ago, even itchier fingertips - making it easier for him to grip flat surfaces, or at least as miles says.

“come on. let’s get you a suit.”

───── ⋆🕸⋆ ─────

a week’s worth of planning & adjusting has led him right here to this rooftop, suited feet firmly balanced on the ledge. he likes his suit, thinks it’s unique - he’d modeled it after the spider who’d blessed him with these powers, orange and black and white [miles sort of thinks it’s ugly, but who cares.] he’d been in & out of the fondly nicknamed “spider-lounge”, getting fitted for his suit & honing his new abilities; he’d also been avoiding you whenever possible.

he couldn’t suck you into this world, not when he was barely comfortable in it himself; he kept promising himself he’d come clean, but the guilt’s eating him alive with every sad look & evening alone you spend.

another impatient cough brings him back to the present, miles sitting in the middle of the roof & watching hanta’s nervous stalling. “you’re going to have to jump eventually, you know,” he calls, and it takes everything in him not to turn tail and run.

he has a duty, a responsibility now, and he doesn’t take that lightly. he thinks of you, sitting in your ratty little apartment off campus and remembers that your safety is all but in his hands now; he’s got to protect the city, for your sake at least.

“i absolutely will not hesitate to kick you off this rooftop,” miles threatens, but its empty - they both know hanta needs to do this himself.

one step back, then two, the nerves racing up his spine as he prepares himself to meet cold concrete [a dramatic thought, miles would catch him far before he reaches ground. a bad knee wouldn’t stop him from that.] he says a silent prayer to every god he’s ever heard of and closes his eyes, taking a step forward into the air-

and trips over the ledge, falling ass over heels into the air. nice.

the rushing wind only heightens his panic for a moment, before one arm snaps up to blindly shoot into the air; his spider sense kicks in from there, aiming without even realizing and latching onto a nearby ledge. he swings aimlessly for a moment before finding a new ledge, then a railing; slowly, he finds a rhythm.

he’s soaring through the city before he realizes, laughing at the sharp roar of the wind in his ears - he feels like he’s flying, weightless as a bird. the only thing he can think of is you, how much you’d love this.

one day, he’ll take you webswinging. one day.

for now, he relishes in the fact that he’s one step closer to being brooklyn’s - & new york’s - new spiderman, fresh faced & determined to bring peace to the city.

he’s going to do it for you, even if it kills him.

[jamielea81]

Conversations

Chapter 7

Description: You accompany your friends on a day trip to Animal Kingdom Theme Park where you meet Scott Evans by chance. This one afternoon leads to a year long friendship with both Chris and Scott over text messages and phone calls.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warning: Cursing, drinking, fluff!

Word Count: 8,000

A/N: I know nothing about the lives of the Evans family and mean no harm. This is purely fiction and for fun. Reblogs and comments are much appreciated! The tag list is now closed. Each chapter tends to get reblogged from me a few times, so if you’re following me, you can’t miss it.

*Italics are internal thoughts

Catch up with chapter 6

“I swear I’ve never seen it,” you said.

“How can that possibly be true? That makes zero sense. You did go to elementary school, right? I’m pretty sure I watched that a few times when we had a substitute in fifth and sixth grade,” Chris exclaimed.

“Har-har. Yes, I went to elementary school, but you are a few years older than me Mr. Evans. Must not have been as popular by the time I was in fifth or sixth grade.”

“Whatever,” he scoffed. “M’not that much older than you. You were born in the eighties and the Princess Bride is an essential piece of classic cinema.”

“The numbers still count,” you chided.

“We’re watching it. And you’re going to like it,” Chris sternly said.

“Well you better visit. Otherwise you won’t be able to enforce that...what are we calling this? A punishment?” you offered.

The two of you had been back on your daily phone calls for the last few weeks. It felt as though you had never stopped. A part of you did worry that he would revert back to the acquaintance like relationship the two of you had the last four months if he started dating someone again. The two of you really need to have that conversation to completely clear the air. You and Chris talked about everything, just not about Courtney and Ethan. It was as though the last four months didn’t exist. You hated the idea of bringing in any negative energy to your friendship, but avoiding it felt worse.

“Punishment? Sweetheart, you’re hurting my heart,” he sighed. “And I’m working on that. Almost done filming.”

You perked up instantly. Chris visiting sounded like a dream. In a friendship way, of course. Maybe both Evans brothers liked dance parties. You’d just have to wait and see.

“Ahuh. I’ll believe it when I see it,” you replied.

“I don’t see you coming to Boston,” he retorted.

“It’s not Fall, babe. I have specific instructions on when to visit this national treasure.”

“We’ll see.”

 Screaming. That’s all you could hear and make yourself do. Sea World Orlando was hosting a media day to preview their new coaster Barracuda. This was not a fun family coaster like the Disney parks had, minus Everest of course. But this coaster was on a completely different playing field than Everest. It had a chest harness for goodness sake. A chest harness!

This is how I die.

You rarely covered actual ride openings, with the exception of Rise of the Resistance back in December. Okay, really you covered all ride openings at Disney. But in general, when it came to all other theme parks it was new lands, restaurants, hotels, that kind of thing. You especially didn’t cover coasters. This sort of thing was often saved for the local morning news channels. Sea World invited you out personally, and since you didn’t want to stop getting invites to their various food and music festivals, you accepted.

The ride started by being catapulted forward, then into a barrel roll, a loop, and to make master worse, the coaster rotated and it ended in a drop going backward.

You were given a card that allowed you two purchase five food and beverage offerings, but after riding Barracuda, you were feeling a bit green. Using one of your punches for a bottle of water, you quickly found some shade and sat down. You may have dry heaved. Thank goodness the spot you found was a little secluded.

Grabbing another chair, you put your feet up and tried to relax as best you could in a theme park nearing the end of May. Many schools were already on summer break, so the parks were definitely picking up on visitors. Fishing your phone out of your crossbody, you saw that you had a text from Brooks. He had officially left the Sentinel three months ago, but made it a game to text you random work-related questions almost daily.

Brooks: Can you run down to the first floor and grab that package their holding for me? I’m swamped.

Y/N: I’m on assignment smartass. How’s working from home?

Brooks: Glorious. I showered this morning and put my sweats back on.

Y/N: I’m sure that gets Jana’s engine roaring.

Brooks: I don’t believe you’ve seen me in sweats. I look damn fine.

Y/N: Gross

Brooks: 😈

Brooks: Lunch on Wednesday?

Y/N: Yes, but wear actual pants

Brooks: Maybe

 During your lunch date with Brooks, which you somehow got suckered into buying, Brooks told you that he and Scott were kind of friends and had been texting since he left Orlando almost a month ago. The two of them had exchanged numbers when you and Jana were in the bathroom. Per Brooks, one of their favorite things to talk about was you. Of course. You’d have to think of some way to get them back.

 It was suddenly Monday again, funny how that happens, and you were busy editing your latest article when your phone buzzed with a call on your desk. Seeing Chris’ name, you swiped to answer it.

“Hey babe.”

“Hi sweetheart. How was your weekend? Sorry I didn’t call,” he replied.

“I’m good. And no biggie. I had other boys to entertain me,” you said.

There were no boys. But he didn’t have to know that. You had to give it to him when you could.

“Boys, huh? Well, it’s a good thing you got a man right here.”

I walked right into that one.

If you could audibly swoon, you would have done it.

You let out a nervous chuckle. “Hmm. Okay.”

“Listen, last minute trip this weekend. My mom is taking my niece and nephews to Disney World. Could you meet up with me?”

“Um…”

“I wasn’t even going to go, but I figured my ma could use the help and thought maybe we could hangout. If you wanted to, I mean,” he quickly added.

Of course, you wanted to see Chris. You’d be crazy not to. All this time talking on the phone, even when you weren’t talking, all you thought about was seeing him face to face. But goodness, do you feel queasy all of a sudden.

“Like, Friday or Saturday?” you asked.

“We get in Friday morning and leave Monday morning,” he said.

“Wouldn’t I just get in the way of your family time? I don’t want to intrude.”

“No way. I want to see you. Besides, I need a ride buddy. We have an uneven number,” Chris said.

You could just see him beaming, perfect grin and all.

“I could meet you Saturday, I need to be in the office on Friday for a meeting.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment and you worried he had a change of heart.

“Ye-yeah, that works. I was hoping to see you sooner, but I’ll take what I can get,” he said.

“Geez, Evans. Really turning up the flirting, huh?”

Oh, shit. Did I really just say that?

Chris was flirty. Even Scott said he was. The two of you were nothing more than friends. Sometimes even great friends.              

It was his turn to let out a nervous chuckle. “Maybe,” he replied simply enough.

“Where am I meeting you?” you asked.

“Let me check with my ma, and I’ll text you the details when it gets closer to Saturday.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you replied.

“Now, tell me about these boys that were entertaining you,” he teased.

“You wouldn’t know them,” you teased right back.

 As the days inched closer to Saturday, you became more and more nervous. Like, palms sweating nervous. To your dismay, Scott was not joining his family on this trip, so you wouldn’t have him as your go to in case you spazzed out or said something stupid. Was this just friends meeting up or was this possibly something more? That’s what you couldn’t reason through. You didn’t dare ask Scott. That family shared way too much with each other for you to say anything about Chris. It would no doubt get back to him making Saturday more awkward than it was already was. Your logical side said this was just you hanging out with your buddy Chris. That’s all this was. Chris split his time between L.A. and Boston. You were all the way in Orlando. While you had vacation funds, you didn’t have funds to fly out once or twice a month to meet up with someone. This couldn’t possibly be anything more. But the romantic side of you fantasized about this being something more. Even for just a day.

 Chris sent you a text Friday morning when you were still in bed. It was seven in the morning and he apparently was wide awake.  

Chris: It's Friday, Friday Gotta get down on Friday Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend, weekend

Holy geez.

You should have silenced your phone before going to bed. That wasn’t worth waking up to, even if it was from Chris.

Y/N: How do you even know that song?

Chris: Everyone knows that song.

Chris: I’m at the airport getting ready to board.

Y/N: Have a safe flight. I’m going back to bed.

Chris: Sassy…be more excited!

Y/N: Goodnight. Love you.

“What the fuck did I just type?!” you shouted, sitting straight up in your bed.

Even though you were tired, you never imagined being stupid enough to type that. Sure, you said that Jana, Brooks, even Scott, but that felt different. This was completely different. It came out so easily and you and Chris just never said that to each other. You couldn’t think of a way to back track that sentence. Seconds ticked by and you still had no clue.

The phone dinging with a new message catching your attention.

Chris: LOL love you too

LOL? How do I take that? At least he didn’t freak out about your response.

Well, now you couldn’t fall back to sleep. Instead you laid in bed contemplating the simple text you received. It was going to be a long day.

 Chris had sent you a few texts throughout the day. He and his family were at Magic Kingdom and were apparently hitting every ride. It sounded both fun and exhausting. He sent you a reminder text just as you were getting out of work to meet at Epcot at ten tomorrow. Epcot was your favorite park, but mainly for the drinking in various “countries” aspect. You imagined it would be quite a different day with kids in tow. Besides, you weren’t planning on drinking a drop of alcohol while out with the Evans clan. You didn’t want his mom to think you were a partier because you totally weren’t. Having a glass of wine after a tough day or out with friends once a month didn’t mean you drank a lot by any means.

You gave Scott a call when you got home. It was much earlier than your normal call time, but your nerves were shot and he was usually pretty good about grounding you.

“What’s wrong? he asked.

“What makes you think anything’s wrong?” you replied, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Being that you’re calling me five hours earlier than you usually do, I’m pretty sure something’s up.”

You let out a breath. Damn him being so preceptive.

“I’m meeting up with your brother tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ve already talked about that.” Scott said.

“It’s just…I’m just so nervous about it. I really wish you were going to be here,” you whined.

“It’s Chris! You guys are friends. What are you even nervous about Sassy? You and I hung out all weekend alone. I didn’t pick up on any nervous energy from you then,” he said.

“You’re right. It’s dumb. Never mind.”

“The two of you are dumb. Now, tell me what’s really going on,” he demanded.

“Ugh, you’re so annoying,” you groaned.

“You’re so annoying,” he mimicked.

“Chris and I were barely friends for what, like almost four months? Yeah, we texted, but weren’t close, barely spoke on the phone. And now we’re close again and it’s great, because if I’m being honest, I really missed him. But I’m just worried that seeing him will change things. I know that sounds stupid, but what if he meets me and decides I’m boring. Or I’m nothing special and he’s wasted all this time getting to know me. You and I never had a break, so it didn’t feel awkward to spend time with you. Plus, your mom, niece and nephews will be there. It’s just added pressure,” you spit out all at once.

“You done now?” Scott asked.

“Jerk,” you replied.

“Finally,” he said, choosing to ignore you. “First off, you are not boring. If he isn’t bored already, he’s not going to be. I didn’t tell you this because your head is big enough, but you are pretty terrific. I promise I’m not coming on to you, but you need to know I had a such a great time with you. I was there to cheer you up, instead, you gave me a fabulous weekend. We were already close, but that weekend brought us closer. And don’t even worry about my family, my mom is going to love you. This weekend is only going to cement you and Chris’ friendship. Trust me.”

Scott is amazing and you are damn lucky to have him. Not only were you feeling better, you were kind of bummed you didn’t try to hang out with Chris tonight. It was fine though. Work was a little stressful and your hair was doing that weird thing it sometimes does. That’s not a first, no, second impression you wanted to make.

 After parking your car in the parking lot at Epcot, you took a few moments to calm your breathing. Fixing a couple smudges from your mascara in the rearview mirror, you took one final deep breath before getting out of the car.

It was nine forty five in the morning and it was already eighty degrees out. Temps were set to rise to close to ninety. Why the Evans clan didn’t take trips in the winter was beyond you. The crowds were generally lighter in early January and the weather was a lot more comfortable, but who were you to judge? You lived here year-round. Jana suggested wearing a cute sundress, but knowing it was going to be hot and you’d be running around with a few kids, dressing up didn’t seem sensible. You opted for jean shorts, a light gray tee with Mickey on the front, and a pair of slip on sneakers. The outfit was cute, but it didn’t make it seem like you were trying too hard.

Y/N: I’m here!

You made your way through bag check, skipping the line by stuffing your keys, license, and credit card in your front pockets.

Making your way to Spaceship Earth, you stopped in your tracks when your phone buzzed in your hand.

Chris: Just grabbing a couple of those spray mister fans for the kids. They’re already hot.

Chris: Where are you?

Y/N: In front of Spaceship Earth.

Minutes ticked by without a response from Chris. With one hand holding your phone, the other anxiously kept touching your hair. The humidity was already in high gear so you kept touching it, making sure it wasn’t being temperamental.

Clicking on the camera app, you switched the camera to selfie mode and used it like a mirror to check your hair and overall appearance. And then you saw him. He was attempting to sneak up behind you but failing as you could see him just slightly in frame of your camera. You didn’t mean to, but you had memorized that smile. You snapped a quick picture before turning around and startling him.

“Boo!” you shouted.

“Jesus! How’d you know I was here?”

You turned your phone to face him, showing him the selfie you captured with him in the background.

“Our first picture together,” you teased.

He grabs your phone out of your hand, throwing an arm around your shoulder. He snaps a picture, his megawatt smile on full display. In the one you captured, he was unprepared, and this one was no different, you were unprepared. So now you have two selfies on your phone with neither turning out just right.

You pull away slightly, grabbing your phone back.

“Can you warn a girl? I’d like to be prepared to take a picture. You know, maybe slap a smile on my face,” you scolded, smile peeking out even though you were trying to come across as serious.

He shakes his head at you.

“It’s nice to see you too, Sassy.”

You offer him a smile and take a step forward to hug him. The two of you don’t quite have the coordination down. Arms and shoulders bumping each other while you switch the position of your hands and finally get it right. He pulls you in tight, the brim of his ballcap hitting your forehead. The two of you chuckle at the exchange before pulling away.

He’s dressed casual in black basketball shorts, navy blue tee, sneakers, black ballcap low on his face. Even dressed so casually, he’s very easy on the eyes. Your tummy does a summersault as he takes you in.

Chris almost reaches for your hand, but then remembers that your surrounded by hundreds of onlookers who may have not noticed who he is yet, but could at any moment.

“Shall we?” he asks.

You nod your head and follow beside him, the two of you weaving in and out of the morning crowd. He stops next to a cart selling bottle water and misting fans. A woman you assume is his mother is next to three kids, all playing with their own misting fans.

“Ma,” he said, causing the woman to look up. “This is my friend Y/N. Y/N, this is my mother Lisa.”

You extend your hand for her to shake. She reaches out and does the same, offering you a smile, but it seems hesitant.

“Nice to meet you,” you offered.

“You as well,” Lisa replied.

“And these munchkins are Stella, Ethan, and Miles.” Chris said, pointing to each as he said their names. “This is my friend Y/N.”

“Hi guys!” you greet, waving at them with your hand.

The three of them all offer you a wave back.

“Should we go finding something fun to do?” Chris asked, mainly to the kids but he does glance at you and his mother.

A chorus of yeahs are said along with a fist bump or two. Chris grabs Stella and Miles’ hands and starts to walk, Ethan and Lisa walk along side of them while you trail a couple of steps behind.

The six of you make your way to Test Track where a cast member is waiting for your party. He introduces himself as Michael before leading your party through a side door you had never paid attention to before. There’s a whole design your own virtual car experience that you end up skipping since you are skipping the ride queue. Michael leads you to the side of the platform that the ride exits from. You wait one cycle before you’re allowed to load into the car. There are three seats in the front and three in the back. Chris gets into the front sliding all the way over, Stella gets into the middle seat and you next to Stella. Lisa, Miles, and Ethan slide into the backseat. Once everyone’s seatbelt is in place, the car advances forward.

As the car goes through twists, turns, and sudden stops, Stella giggles next to you while you hear Lisa say “oh no!” a few times from the back. You look at Chris who is grinning like a fool. He throws his hands in the air when the car flies through doors that open last second, leading you to a track that runs the outside perimeter of the building. The car reaches a peak speed of sixty-five miles per hour which isn’t necessarily fast on the open road, but in a convertible without a wheel or brakes, it’s pretty intense and fun. Your hair of course is shot. The wind having taken it in all sorts of directions.

The next attraction you hit is Mission: Space. Lisa opts to sit this one out with Stella, leaving you, Chris, Miles, and Ethan to ride the orange side. The orange side spins an extraordinary amount as it makes its way to Mars, while the green side is a lot tamer. The boys all wanted the orange side, so who are you to complain.

As the four of you file out the exit with Michael leading you, Miles complains that his tummy hurts. Chris picks him up and carries him the rest of the way to meet Lisa and Stella.

“I think we need to take a break. Miles isn’t feeling too well,” Chris said.

Lisa places, her hand on Miles’ head. “Are you not feeling well, sweetheart?” she asked.

He shakes his head no.

“There’s a shady spot with some tables over there,” you said, pointing to your left.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Chris said.

“I’ll grab some waters and meet you all over there,” Michael said before dashing off.

Chris pushes a couple of the small tables together while you grab an extra chair. Michael is back before you know it, carrying a bag filled with water bottles. He takes them out of the bag one by one setting them between the two tables.

“Chris, why don’t you and your friend go on without us,” Lisa offers.

“No, Ma. I’m sure it was just the spinning. He’ll be fine in a few. Besides, I don’t think he’s letting me go anytime soon.”

Miles clings to Chris as he sits on his lap. It’s the sweetest scene, seeing Chris hold onto Miles, while gently touching his forehead, brushing his har to the side. But you can’t help feeling like you’re intruding. While Lisa has been nice, she hasn’t given you the most welcoming vibes and you can’t miss the way her body is angled, essentially leaving you out of the conversation.

Only a few minutes have passed when you start to notice that a woman at a table a few away from your group is taking pictures with her phone. She isn’t being sneaky by any means. You’re really wishing you would have worn a ballcap today to hide your face. You don’t particularly care if your face ends up in a photo with Chris, but you don’t want to have him deal with that. October wasn’t that long ago, so you in another picture with Chris at Disney will only lead to more rumors. You turn slightly in your seat so that you’re facing away from him.

“Something wrong, Y/N?” he asked.

“Someone’s taking pictures.”

“Of course. Fuck,” he mutters before quickly closing his mouth, forgetting that Miles is right there.

He stands up, still carrying Miles.

“Michael, can we find another spot?” Chris asked.

Lisa gets the other two kids to grab their bottles of water and out of their seats.

“Yes, Mr. Evans. Follow me please,” Michael answered.

He leads your group through a maze of turns, eventually entering into a door labeled “Cast Members Only”.

“Well just hang out here for a few minutes. I’m sure Miles needs the air conditioning,” Chris said.

The six of you plus Michael stand in a wide hallway just past the door. There’s a row of lockers on the wall with various open doors you can see in the distance. It’s a bit uncomfortable standing there and with no one speaking it’s downright awkward for you.

After a few minutes, Miles starts to perk up. Chris sets him down on his feet and Lisa asks if anyone is hungry.

The kids all agree that they are suddenly starving.

“Michael, is there any reservations available at Coral Reef or Garden Grill?” Lisa asked.

“I’m sure I can find something,” Michael said, pulling out his phone. “For six?”

“Just five,” she replied.

“Ma! Y/N is joining us.” Chris said.

“Oh, I didn’t know if she was spending all day with us or just the morning,” Lisa replied.

Well, now you know that uncomfortableness was with reason.

“It’s okay. I’m actually going to take off,” you said, patting your pocket to make sure you had your keys.

“Sweetheart, no. Stay with us.” He takes your arm and pulls you down the hallway a bit. “Have lunch with us. You’re welcome to. I want you to.”

You look back to his mom who quickly looks away. It’s a family trip so while she’s been a bit cold, you understand that she doesn’t know you and is probably protective of her family.

“That’s alright. This is your family trip and I’m a bit tired. I didn’t sleep so well last night,” you lied. “You guys go have a nice lunch. Call me before going to bed tonight.”

You pull Chris into a hug before he can protest. He places a kiss on your forehead before you pull away. He has a sad smile on his face that you try your best not to match.

As you walk past the group, heading to the door, you stop in front of Lisa.

“It was nice to meet you.”

“You too dear,” she replied.

“Have fun guys!” you said to three kids before pushing open the door, the sun slightly blinding you for a moment.

 Sitting at home and sulking was doing nothing to brighten your mood. Frankly, you felt like shit. You felt bad for leaving the park without spending nearly enough time with Chris. And you felt bad for not just pushing through the uncomfortable vibes Lisa was putting out. What if you would have stayed and she had gotten to know you? You were friends with both Scott and Chris, there may come a time where you would see her again and now it’s going to be just as weird.

Scott texted you around dinner time.

Scott: How’d today go? Did you and Chris get matching ears?

Y/N: It went fine.

There. That was a reasonable answer. It was fine. Sure, you only saw Chris for like two or so hours, and they were mostly fine.

Your phone buzzed in your hand. Of course, it was Scott.

“Look at you calling me so early,” you answered.

“What do you mean fine? That’s it? All this build up to fine.”

“It was just weird and I made it weirder by leaving early,” you sighed out.

“Why’d you leave early?” Scott asked.

“It just seemed like your mom didn’t want me there. And I don’t blame her. It’s a family trip and who the hell am I really?” you quickly spit out.

“Hey! I’m sure that’s not how she felt. You’re one of my best friends, she knows that. I’m sure somehow this is Chris’ fault. I’ll call you back.”

“No, Scott. You don’t have to do that,” you said.

But he didn’t reply back. The little shit hung up on you.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Scott hit the contact button for Chris, the ring sounding too many times for Scott’s patience.

“Hey, Scott,” Chris answered.

“Hey, jerk,” Scott replied.

“Why am I a jerk? Jerk!”

“I just talked to Sassy. Doesn’t sound like it went well. What happened?”

Chris sighed. “Yeah, it could have been better. Miles didn’t feel well and it kind of just went downhill from there.”

Scott groaned. “That’s too bad. She mentioned something about Ma not wanting her there.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I mean, she wasn’t acting like they were best friends. They just didn’t get a lot of time to get to know each other. Sassy’s just overthinking it,” Chris said.

“Yeah…You’re probably right. It’s just too bad you didn’t get a lot of time together.”

“Me too,” Chris said softly.

“Have a good day tomorrow.”

“Thanks, bud. Bye,” Chris said.

“Bye,” Scott said, ending the call.

“What’s going on with Sassy?” Lisa asked, startling Chris.

“Geez Ma! Ya scared me,” Chris hissed.

Lisa chuckled at her son’s response, putting her hands up. “Sorry.”

“She’s just disappointed with how today went,” Chris replied, running a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t even know you knew Sassy,” Lisa said.

“What are you talking about?” Chris asked, suddenly really confused.

“Well, Scott talks about Sassy all the time. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention her.”

“Ma, you’re giving me a headache. I introduced you to Sassy today. What are you going on about?” Chris asked.

“Christopher, are you telling me that Y/N is Sassy?”

“Yes!” Chris half chuckled, half groaned out.

“Oh no.” she mumbled. “I didn’t know they were one in the same! Christopher, I thought she was just some girl you met. I didn’t know she was Scott’s good friend Sassy!” Lisa exclaimed.

“Well, geez Ma. Thinkin’ so highly of me that I’d bring around just some girl on a family trip.” Chris said, running his hand through his hair once again.

“You boys don’t tell me these things. Now I feel so bad. Please apologize to her for me. Actually, you should apologize as well,” Lisa said.

“Me? What did I do?” Chris shouted.

“You didn’t make her stay,” she said matter-of-factly. “Take her out tomorrow. Go spend time with your friend. I can handle the kids just fine.”

Lisa left the room, calling out to the kids who were suddenly too quiet in one of the bedrooms.

Chris hung his head low. His mother was right. This was his first time he’s seen you since your quick meeting last fall. He didn’t want to go home leaving today as your only impression.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Scott had sent you a simple text that made you smile a short while later.

Scott: My brother’s a bone head

Y/N: Not disagreeing

 The last Hallmark Christmas movie you saved to your DVR was playing on the TV. Something about a singer who was trying to catch his big break and ends up skipping Christmas. By now they storylines were all starting to blur together. Your phone buzzed with a message, dragging your eyes away from the TV.

Chris: You float like a feather In a beautiful world I wish I was special You're so fuckin' special

But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here

What’s he going on about?

Y/N: Radiohead?

Your phone rang about a half a second later.

“So, you’re a creep huh?” you answered.

“Feeling like one,” Chris sighed out. “I’m sorry sweetheart. I wanted our day to be better.”

“Babe, it’s fine. It wasn’t bad. I’m sure you’ll be in town again,” you replied.

“My mother says sorry by the way. She didn’t realize you were THE Sassy. Apparently, Scott goes on and on about you.”

You chuckled at that. “That’s not embarrassing at all.”

“My mother doesn’t think to highly of me as she thought you were just someone I met and asked to hangout with us,” he groaned.

“I didn’t think my Mickey tee gave off that vibe,” you chuckled out. “Tell her it’s fine and it was still nice to meet her.”

“You are such a sweetheart,” Chris said.

There goes your stomach again. You really wished that hug earlier wasn’t so short and sloppy.

“I was wonderin’ if I could see you again, tomorrow?”

“Oh, I don’t know Chris,” you said hesitantly.

“Please? Just the two of us. Just me and you. I want to see you again before I had back to Mass.”

“But it’s your family time and I don’t want to take away from that,” you reasoned.

“Sweetheart, my ma told me she can handle tomorrow by herself. Not that I don’t want to see you.” He lets out a breath. “I really want to see you.”

There’s so much conviction in his voice. It’s so gravely that your finding yourself gripping the side of the couch cushion to stay grounded.

“Okay,” you sputter out. Clearing your throat, you try that again. “Okay.” It’s firmer and much better than screaming “yes, please!”

“Great!” You can hear the smile in his voice which instantly puts one on your face. “Can you, ah, could you pick me up? We did a car service and I figure it’s probably easier if you just come and grab me?” he said.

“That’s not a problem. Dork.”

“Oh, are we back at that again? I’m pretty sure you were the one in a Mickey Mouse t-shirt today.”

You scoff. “Mickey is your idol. Don’t even!”

He chuckles low and deep. “You got me.”

 Since it’s just you and Chris and you aren’t running around a theme park, you chose a white t-shirt dress with navy blue stripes. You added a thin brown leather belt to give the dress some form and pair it with brown strappy flat sandals. You’re picking Chris up at the villa they rented at one and then off to lunch. He’s letting you pick since you live in the area. Adding a touch of gloss to your lips, you grab your bag and walk out to your car.

 After putting your car in park in the driveway, you fire off a text letting him know you’re there. Even though you received a sorry via Chris from Lisa, you didn’t want to chance another odd meeting. They probably were at the parks anyway, but you didn’t want to take that chance.

A minute later her comes jogging to your car. The goof. He’s dressed casually but put together in navy colored shorts and crisp white V-neck t-shirt. The fact that your coordinated doesn’t slip past you.

He gets in, immediately pulling you into a hug. Chris kisses your forehead for the briefest of moments before letting go. You manage a dopey smile because damn if you aren’t smitten. Generally, you are pretty quick on your feet and would have already had something witty to say, but that kiss, even though it was innocent, really threw you off.

“Hi,” you manage to squeak out.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You stare a little too long at his lips before shaking yourself out of it and slapping a smile on your face.

“So, lunch?” you asked.

 The two of you dine at Four Rivers Smokehouse which is one of your favorite spots for a quick bite. The food is always great with a good mix of people stopping by on their lunch break and families enjoying a meal out.

He chooses the ribs and you the brisket before grabbing a table in the corner, offering him the seat facing the wall, hoping it brings a little anonymity. The idea of being recognized in public didn’t even cross your mind as it’s not something you ever have to worry about. You regret your decision of choosing a restaurant with so many windows and frequent turn over. Despite your worries, Chris has not alluded to any discomfort as he happily eats his food. He’s added extra barbecue sauce to his ribs. Squeezing a bit from each of the six bottles at your table, sampling each one before choosing the one labeled ‘smoky’.

“This is really good. I mean, really good,” he said, sauce smeared around his lips.

He’s adorable and it takes everything in you not to reach forward to wipe the sauce from his face. You lick your own, it’s an involuntary action that his eyes get drawn too. At least you’re not the only one finding yourself distracted.

“I come here like once a week. But we keep that between me and you,” you said with a smirk. He chuckles before grabbing a napkin to wipe his face.

 Lunch has long been finished but the two of you stay seated at your table, enjoying just being together face to face. Your conversation is much like it is via phone call, but now you get to study each other’s facial expressions. Loving how his eyes crinkle when he really smiles. How his eyebrows raise when he gets serious. He’s a work of art and doesn’t even realize it.

It’s already four in the afternoon and the restaurant is in that between time after the lunch crowds and before the dinner rush. You somehow manage to remove your eyes from his and see that there are only two other tables occupied.

“I didn’t realize we’ve been here for so long,” you said, stretching your arms. “I’m also impressed you didn’t get any of that sauce on your white shirt.”

Chris chuckles and shakes his head. He reaches his hand across the table, taking yours in his.

“I don’t want to say goodbye yet.”

“We can go back to my place,” you offer, your face instantly heating up at the implication. “I mean, because I live nearby. Not that you need to come back with me. I-I just want to hangout longer,” you stutter out.

Chris smiles wide, squeezing your hand a few times. “Let’s go hangout.”

 “Cheers!” Chris said, clinking his bottle of beer against yours.

It’s the second bottle for both of you, but probably the last for you as you still need to drive him back and the whole “not drinking for a long time” promise you made yourself.

“Cheers,” you echo before taking a long pull from the bottle.

“Didn’t picture you the beer drinker, Y/N.”

“Oh, yeah? Why’s that Mr. Evans?”

“Mr. Evans? Someone’s mighty formal,” he said. You shrug your shoulders in response before taking another sip. “You just seem like wine is more your speed. Perhaps raspberry vodka,” he chuckles out.

“I could just kill your brother,” you groan out. “Pretty sure I have at least a third of the bottle left in my fridge if you want any.”

Chris shakes his head, taking a drink of beer. “I’ll leave that for you.”

“So, kind. So, kind,” you snicker.

He’s reclined on your couch while you sit in your comfy blue armchair, feet folded up under you. Chris is skimming through the music on your phone, picking a new song after the last is done rather than letting it play through.

“You wanna sync your phone to my speakers? We can play something from your phone,” you offered.

“Nah, I like a lot of your stuff.”

You hold your hand in front of your face and pretend to blow on your nails while winking at him, in that “I’m too cool” kind of way.

 The sun is starting to set and you have a good view of the painted sky from your backyard. It’s still plenty warm, but with the sun down and your ceiling fan on, the two of you are comfortable sitting on your loveseat on the lanai snacking on pizza rolls because that’s all that you had that didn’t require defrosting.

“It’s beautiful out here,” Chris said.

“Yeah, it’s not a bad view to have. Should’ve had you bring your suit. It was hard to drag Scott out of the pool,” you replied.

“How’d you put up with him the whole weekend?” Chris asked. He said it so seriously, but you can see a hint of a smile.

“Well, I’ve managed so far with you, so I can pretty much handle anything.”

He bumps you with his shoulder and shakes his head. “So, sassy.”

“That’s what they call me.”

“Who’s they?” Chris smirks.

“Just you and Scott.”

You let out a little chuckle and you notice those eye crinkles reappear.

“Good,” he agrees.

 It’s late, nearing eleven. Chris stopped drinking after three beers, the two of you switching over to water.

“You want to watch a movie?” Chris asked.

You had gone back to your living room an hour prior. Sitting in opposite corners of the couch, but facing each other, your foot bumps his leg once in awhile causing you both to blush.

“Don’t you have to get back? You have an early flight, right?”

“Not until eleven thirty. We can go if you want me to or if you’re getting tired, but I rather stay here with you,” he replied, sincerity in his voice.

Fuck. He’s going to be the death of me.

Honestly, you’d stay up for the next two days if it meant spending time together. And the fact that he wants to stay makes you want to weep tears of joy. But that’s just a little too dramatic.

“I want you to stay.”

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you agree, lightly slapping his bent leg resting on the couch cushion.

He grabs your hand before you can pull it away, holding it there, just resting on his leg. You shyly look up and see him looking at you. The only words that matches the two of you is heart eyes and you pray that you aren’t imaging it.

After what feels like several minutes but more like mere seconds, your mouth opens up and you break the spell.

“What do you want to watch?”

Chris lets go of your hand and your heart instantly crashes at the loss of contact.

“I think you know,” he replied. Your mouth quirks to the side while you try to figure him out. “Come on! You know.”

You put on a fake annoyed look and shake your head. “Really? Do we have to?”

“I’m pretty sure you said if I visited, we’d watch it,” Chris said.

“Fine. I’m a woman of my word,” you said.

Grabbing the Roku remote, you clicked on your Amazon app, finding The Princess Bride, and renting before Chris could offer you five dollars to pay for it.

“I’m the host! I don’t need your money babe,” you reasoned.  

The movie played on and you slowly found yourself leaning on Chris more and more. Not that he minded. The closer you got, the more hands on he became. Half way through, you were completely laying on his chest, both your legs out stretched on the couch while his rest on the floor. His left arm is stationary on the arm of the couch while the other was wrapped around you. Your right hand laid on his chest as your fingers lightly rub it without even realizing you were doing so. Chris would quietly hum now and then, bringing a smile to your face.

Friends cuddle. They totally do.

Before you even reach the end of the movie, you’ve fallen asleep. So much for seeing it all the way through. Chris readjusted so that the two of you are laying comfortably.

You awake sometime later to Chris brushing his hand through your hair. The TV is still on but nothing is playing.

“M’sorry,” you mumble. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

You sit up slightly, taking in his tired eyes. He looks back at you adoringly.

“It’s okay. I’ll make you watch it again next time,” he said softly.

The words next time make you beam inside. You sit up, setting your feet on the floor.

“Want me to bring you home?”

“Nah, we’re both too tired. Take me in the morning?” he asked.

“Of course. Do you want to go to bed? What time is it anyway?”

“I think about three.” Chris sits up on the couch, running a hand down his face. “I’m actually a little more awake after our nap,” he quietly chuckled.

“You want to pull an all-nighter?” Well, kind of all-nighter since we did sleep for a little bit.”

“Yeah, if you’re not too tired,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

“Oh, shit! Did you tell your mom you weren’t coming back?”

Chris throws his head back laughing. “It’s my ma. Of course, I sent her a text. Once we started the movie, I figured I’d be staying over.”

“Good. I don’t need her thinking I’m a bad person. Taking advantage of her baby boy.”

You get up, walking to the kitchen to grab a couple of more water bottles. Chris swats your ass just as you pass him.

 The two of you have the music back on, sitting close to one another, choosing to talk through the early hours of morning. It’s nice and you can’t help but feel closer to him. Part of you is worried that this is a one-time thing. Chris comes to Orlando once or twice a year, but probably can’t get away to spend time with you each trip. You start to do the math on your own vacation time, trying to think if there are events out of state that a publication will pay you to write about. But it’s way too early to be thinking this much, you just need to be here in the now.

You shift your focus back to Chris who’s looking at you with a dopey grin.

“So, will you?” he asked.

Huh?

“Will I what?” you asked.

“Did I lose you for a minute?” he chuckles out.

“I’m sorry. Lack of sleep. I’m with you now. What’d you ask?”

“I said.” Chris stands up. “Do you want to go for a walk?” He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet, not letting you answer. “Sun’s almost up.”

You nod your head, walking to the door to slip on a pair of sneakers. They don’t quite go with your dress, but you’ve essential been up for almost a full day.

Grabbing your keys from the table near the door, you lock up and pass your keys to Chris since you don’t have any pockets. You live on a residential street that’s a mix of vacation rentals and long-term residents like yourself. There are a few joggers out, but besides them, it’s just you two.

Chris takes your hand in his as the two of you stroll slowly around your block.

“I’m really glad you were able to hangout today,” he said.

“Me too. I actually wish you were staying longer.”

“Me too sweetheart. I don’t want to wait another seven months to see you,” he confessed.

You stop in your tracks. Keeping a hold of his hand, you turn to face him.

“You don’t?” you asked.

Where this doubt is coming from, you’re not so sure. The two of you are friends, so of course you’ll see each other again. It’s just this in between flirting and touching that has you all mixed up.

Chris gently rests his other hand on your face and leans in, slowly bringing his lips to yours. They’re soft and smooth, just like you’ve imagined. You eagerly kiss him back but don’t want to push it, so you remain solid where you stand, letting him do the work. He slowly pulls away, but not far because you can feel his warm breath on your face. His eyes are intense, asking for permission. You slightly nod your head and before you know it, his lips hit yours. It’s so quick you’ve barely shut your eyes before his other hand takes a hold of your face and he kisses you more intensely. You’re not complaining, but you are thankful it’s so early, the neighborhood is barely awake. You wrap your arms around his back and hold him tight as he kisses you senseless. He pulls back again, still holding your face gently before planting a chaste kiss on your lips.

You flutter your eyes open to see a soft smiling Chris. He’s still lightly holding your face and you hope he doesn’t stop.

“Was that okay?” he asked softly.

He knows it was. He’s just being a little shit per the usual.

You give him a small frown and quickly see a tiny bit of doubt in his eyes.

“I think I need to try that again,” you said, grabbing his face and bringing him to you. You kiss him softly on the lips. Once. Twice. Three times before you feel him smile against you. He leans his forehead against yours as you both stand there like two smiling fools.

“Of course, I don’t want to wait this long to see you again,” he breathes out.

“Me neither,” you agree.

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[monstersandmaw]

Embers - male dragon shifter x reader, Part Thirteen (sfw)

Hey folks - sorry I didn’t post it yesterday. Here it is, at 6.30am on a Saturday for you instead! And we finally get a glimpse of Mikaeïl in his... bigger form too...

Next week is our final chapter! I can’t believe it! Thank you so much to those of you who’ve let me know you’re enjoying it, and to those of you who have reminded me (on more than one occasion!!) that Friday means Embers day, and where the hell is the story, Ghosti!! haha.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve

Mikaeïl’s request that you ‘bring something warm to wear’ for your weekend with him confused and mystified the hell out of you. Added to that, he absolutely refused to give you any more information about it, so you found yourself driving over to his house with a number of different jumpers and coats packed, and a knot of anxious tension in your stomach.

It didn’t help that he’d texted you before you’d set off to say, ‘When you get here, come round the side of the house to the back terrace.’ And that had been it.

So, dutifully, you followed the gravel path around the side of his huge, sandstone, ancestral mansion, and emerged onto the upper lawns.

At the sight that greeted you, your fingers lost their strength and you dropped your weekend-bag to the ground.

Standing on the lawn, resting his huge, coppery wing on the thumb joint like a bat, was a gleaming wyvern. Large, perhaps thirty foot tall when he drew his head up to its full height, with metallic scales the same colour as those you’d seen on his human body, ranging from bright copper to tarnished bronze and even gold along the crest of his back, Mikaeïl was stunning.

Drawn by the movement of your arrival, he watched you fall still and stare openly at him, though a soft, familiar, low-frequency rumbling pervaded the whole garden, and the sound of it stirred you back to life.

Leaving your bag where it lay abandoned on the sunny gravel path, you walked over to him with awe etched onto your face, and breathed, “Mikaeïl?”

The wyvern nodded once, slowly, golden eyes glinting.

“Can you talk when you’re like this?” you asked as you continued to approach him.

“I can talk,” he said, though his voice was different. It still had all the delicate enunciation of the Mikaeïl you knew, but it was richer, far more sonorous, and much deeper.

When you were standing beside him, you raised your palm, barely noticing the trembling excitement in your fingers, and pressed it gently against his cool scales.

He lowered his head and sank his body to the ground, lying down for you like a colossal dog while you just explored the miraculous strangeness of his incredible body. “You’re so beautiful…” you whispered. Two horns curved back over his head, the same ruby-red, flecked with gold, that you knew from his other form, only they were so much larger like this.

“God, Mikaeïl,” you chuckled in wonderment. “You are just so beautiful…” He was; fabergé looked like they could have taken inspiration from him for one of their unbelievable creations.

If wyverns could blush, you suspected Mikaeïl might well have done. As it was, his nostrils flared, and his head shied away slightly, showing off the beautiful array of spikes at the edges of his jaw and head, and he rumbled something again more deeply. In response, you put your palm on his deep chest and felt the vibrations of it shiver through you.

Suddenly, the penny dropped about the clothing, and your eyes went wide. “Mikaeïl… when you said to bring warm stuff to wear… You’re not… We’re… We’re not going to…”

A slow, deep laugh rolled out of him and he shifted his weight slightly, drawing your eye from his glimmering scales - each one like hand-hammered bronze - down to his clawed hind feet and the tip of his wing which rested on a single, massive, taloned thumb. While you waited for his reply, your fingers wandered to the leathery, sunset-yellow membrane of his wing, right near the knuckle which propped him up, and a shudder ran through him, all the way to his barbed tail.

“Sensitive?” you murmured with a wry smile.

“Mmm,” he rumbled, lowering his head and slowly, luxuriantly, inhaling the scent of your skin right by your neck. “How do you feel about going for a short flight?” he asked softly.

“Honestly…?” you said breathlessly, “I have no idea. I’ve never, uh… flown before. I mean, not like that…”

“Test flight?” he asked.

“Please tell me that you don’t have spines on your back because I’m not sitting on that and trying to cling on…”

Mikaeïl laughed his rich, deep laugh and said, “Take a closer look at the junction of my neck and shoulders…”

He rolled slightly towards you but still you couldn’t see the top of his back properly, so in the end he had to help you up with his wing like a leg-up onto a horse. His back was smooth for perhaps a foot and a half between the end of his sinuous neck and the start of his back - the perfect space for someone to sit. You ran your hand over the space and he shivered again.  

“It’s like it was made for someone to sit here,” you commented.

“Not quite,” he said dryly, “But my family were royal guards, a thousand years ago - which is why we have three forms: human, half human, and this. We have been known to carry royalty into battle or over long distances…”

“Royalty,” you cooed as he lowered you back to the ground. “Nice… You sure I’m worthy? I’ve never even sat on a motorbike, let alone a wyvern…”

Again, Mikaeïl laughed at your sense of humour, and nuzzled his nose affectionately against your stomach while you rubbed his forehead. His head was as big as a small couch and it was going to take some getting used to, but he was so damned gorgeous that you could hardly process the fact that this magnificent creature was the Mikaeïl you’d come to know.

“Put on a coat to keep warm while we fly, and I’ll take you for a little trial run… if you like. You don’t have to though…”

“You’ve got something else planned though, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But it’s alright if you don’t want to fly there.”

“No, let’s try it,” you said, as you scuttled back to your bag and dug out the warmest coat you had. You imagined that with the wind rushing past you, even on such a sunny day, it would be cold.

And you were right.

You clambered warily onto his back, settling yourself in the smooth crook of his shoulders, nestled at the base of his neck and the start of his hugely muscular wings. Conveniently, he had two large horn-like spikes at the base of his neck, to which you clung for dear life as he began to flap his wings, trying to get some lift. You clamped your thighs around him as tightly as you could and leaned forward, honestly terrified.

“I won’t let you hurt yourself,” he promised and then you lurched upwards into the sky.

The ground rushed away beneath you and he continued to rise in jerky movements that made your stomach churn and drop each time. Eventually he had climbed as high as the roof of the mansion, and began to glide, the canvas of his great wings spread to catch the air, and you tried hard not to lose your breakfast all over his beautiful scales.

Mikaeïl did one lap of the parkland of his property and then began to descend gradually, spiralling down until the ground rushed up to meet you and he landed with a jolt that his body absorbed before it could throw you from your tenuous position atop his back.

“Alright?” he asked nervously, tilting his head to one side to see you out of the corner of his golden eye.

Taking a moment to catch your breath, with your heart still pounding in your ears, you nodded and swallowed. “Yeah,” you croaked. It had felt like a rollercoaster ride, only much, much wilder. “That was… amazing…!”

His laugh rippled through you and he said, “Why don’t you stow your bag in the conservatory, and if you could lock up, that would be amazing. Then if you’re alright with it, I want to take you somewhere a little further away.”

You nodded, slithering and landing weak-kneed on the grass beside him.  “Come here first,” you said, crooking your finger and beckoning his head closer.

He obliged, curious and amusedly wary, and when his muzzle was level with your face, you took his smooth, leathery head in your hands and kissed him squarely on the tip of his nose. His laugh came out as a warm blast of air through his nostrils, ruffling your hair, and you laughed too as he closed his eyes for a moment, clearly enjoying the closeness and the contact.

Nudging you playfully away after a minute or so, he rumbled happily, the sound halfway between an alligator and an elephant, only much deeper and louder, and you trotted off to do as he requested.

Once back, you ran your hands over his shoulder and chest again, letting the deep, appreciative sounds thrum through you, and watching as he closed his eyes again in pleasure. “You’re going to cause trouble if you keep touching me like that,” he said eventually. “And then I won’t be able to fly.”

“Not decently, anyway,” you grinned and he shook his head, laughter dancing in his yellow eyes.

“Get back on board and we’ll go before you render me incapable of flight altogether.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” you asked coyly and were met with a snarl that held no danger.

“Get. On.” he said but the fierceness of his tone was ruined by the laugh that bubbled out of him immediately afterwards.

“Fine,” you pouted, and clambered back on his back the same way you’d done before.  

With a final glance up at you, those eyes turned serious and he said, “Are you ready? Comfortable?”

“Yeah. How long will we be in the air?”

“About twenty minutes,” he said. “You let me know if you need me to land though, alright?”

You nodded, and he turned his attention away from you, hind claws gripping the earth as his great leathery wings, the colour of saffron, began to beat again, and he lifted skywards once again.

To be concluded next week...

—

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[hedwigstalons]

High Expectations - Ch16

Gordon gets a little bit more fun in his life because I couldn’t crush the precious squid forever.

@willow-salix had been forever patient and has been wonderful putting up with me over this.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen

AO3 chapter link

Chapter Sixteen

Gordon and Alan returned to the apartment, not to the usual sound of silence, but instead to music and the smell of fresh brewed coffee.  Alan was plenty old enough to walk home from school by himself but more often than not Gordon found himself outside the gates in the afternoons and Alan seemed to appreciate the company, especially on Fridays where, without the pressure of homework Gordon would sometimes take the long route back and go via the arcades.

Today, however, Alan had been keen to head straight home although Gordon hadn’t known why until they reached the apartment.  He should have guessed something was up, normally his younger brother was racing ahead to maximise his time on the games machines but tonight Alan had been itching to get back.

“Virgil?  I didn’t know you were coming home.”

Virgil just gave a knowing grin and made sure his mug was out of harms way before Alan could send it flying with his exuberant greeting.

“I take it you knew about this?”  Gordon received a matching grin in return from his youngest sibling who had finally released the family teddy bear.

“Yup.  It’s been killing me not to let on.”

The older two couldn’t help but notice Alan’s eyes tracking round the apartment and attempting to peer into the kitchen.

“Sorry Al” Virgil said apologetically, “John’s flight from Boston got delayed so he won’t be here for a few more hours.  Actually, it’s a toss up who will be next out of him and Scott now.”

“John’s coming?  And Scott?”  Gordon couldn’t help but look astounded at the revelations.  It took a minor miracle to drag John away from his studies and a major one to get all five brothers in the same place at the same time.  They hadn’t even managed it at Christmas after Scott got posted abroad, their eldest brother had only finished his overseas tour a few weeks ago.  Thinking about it the last time all his brothers had been in one place had been just after his Olympic win and the day of celebration that had felt far too short.  “What’s the special occasion?”

Virgil looked at him with an expression of soft affection.

Alan looked at him like he was an idiot.

“Erm...your birthday?”  Okay, now he knew Alan thought he was an idiot.

His birthday.  On Monday he would be turning eighteen.  It was an important milestone but not usually majorly significant, not like turning 21 which had been the big celebration year for Scott and Virgil.  Eighteen wouldn’t normally warrant the family converging together from their far flung parts of the country.  The confusion must have showed on his face.

“We just thought, what with your WASP plans, we didn’t know when we would next get the chance to celebrate all together.  Scott can get sent pretty much anywhere at a moments notice and you’ll be the same one you’ve enlisted.”  Gordon noticed that Virgil never defined the ‘we’ who came up with the plan to get everyone together for his birthday but he had a suspicious feeling that the man in front of him was probably the key player in it all.  He was also aware that his place at WASP wasn’t yet confirmed but Virgil was treating it as a certainty; he appreciated his brother’s confidence in him.  “John and Scott are both due in at about 7 tonight.”

As it happened John made it to the apartment next but only because Scott stopped to get take out on his way from the airfield.  The eldest brother arrived laden with cartons and accompanied by tempting smells that had his brothers launching themselves on the unfortunate pilot in their haste to reach the food.  When Jeff finally arrived a short while later it was to find all five of his sons sprawled on the lounge floor, chopsticks in hand as they shovelled noodles into hungry mouths.  

Five heads whipped round guiltily as he walked into the room.

“Sorry Dad, we should have waited for you.”  Scott scrambled to get up off the floor but Jeff waved him back to his meal.

“No, no, you carry on.  You must be hungry after your flights.  There any left for me?”

Scott nodded and pointed through to the kitchen, his mouth already full again.  Jeff went to investigate and soon returned with his own carton, retrieved from the warming unit.  He settled into his arm chair rather than joining the huddle on the floor.

“So boys, everyone have a safe journey?”

There were mumbled answers to the affirmative and various nods and thumbs up signs given when mouths were too full to answer politely.  The gathering was more subdued with Jeff in attendance, the random outbursts of laughter he had heard as he first unlocked the door fizzling away as topics of conversation stayed in the territory of the neutral and mundane.  

“So what’s the plan for this weekend then?” asked Gordon once the topics of school, work and training had been fully exhausted.  “Or aren’t I allowed to know?”

“We thought we would keep it just family” said Virgil.  “I don’t think much is planned really, except maybe a meal out tomorrow night.”  He looked over towards their father for confirmation.

“That’s right,” Jeff confirmed, “I’ve booked a table for us tomorrow but the rest of the weekend is your own.  You still need to fit in your school work” he looked pointedly at Alan who groaned in response “but there’s no big party I’m afraid.”

Gordon was secretly quite relieved to hear this.  Unlike Scott and Virgil who’d had hoards of school and university friends to celebrate their 21sts with he was acutely aware that his own social circle was practically non-existent.  His classmates had been more acquaintances than friends as all his energies had gone in to swimming or looking after Alan, and anyway, most of them were off at university now.  And although he was swimming again as part of his fitness regime he had been keeping his distance from the swim squad he had been so cruelly ripped away from, the memories there were still too fresh and raw. 

“Suits me fine, I wasn’t expecting anything so it’s just nice to have everyone back.”

A badly stifled yawn from Alan put an end to the evening, giving the sudden reminder that it was late.  Bodies began to protest at the foolishness of having a floor picnic after various amounts of air travel and the brothers hauled themselves up with varying degrees of dignity.  The following night had the potential to be a late one and so, one by one, after clearing up the detritus of the meal, the family retreated to their private spaces to rest.

xoxoxox

Saturday evening found a flurry of activity in the apartment as six individuals all tried to get ready around each other.  Bathrooms that were normally unused suddenly found themselves shared by far too many individuals all clamouring to use showers and mirrors at the same time.  Bottles of shower gel were traded for tubs of hair gel as brothers found they had left various items behind.

“John, go and find out what is taking so long ”  Jeff instructed when all but Scott and Virgil were gathered in the lounge.  There was still plenty of time before their reservation but he abhorred lateness.

John rolled his eyes at being sent to play sheepdog but was careful to ensure he did it after he left the lounge, no need to direct unwanted attention to himself if their father was starting to get irritated.  The voices issuing from Virgil’s room suggested both the missing brothers had ended up there; he stopped outside, rapped on the door, then strode in before waiting for an answer.  He gave a little snort of laughter at the sight that greeted him.

Virgil’s room was strewn with clothes while the man himself was stood there half naked.  A pile of discarded shirts was draped over a chair and John counted at least four pairs of pants strewn on the bed.  Scott emerged from the closet brandishing two more sets.

“These are the last pairs” he waved the pants in Virgil’s direction, “but I think they are smaller than the last ones.  Have you updated your wardrobe at all since high school?”

“Course I have.  I’ve got smart pants, I just didn’t bring them because I knew I had stuff here.”  

“Problems?”  John smirked from his place in the doorway.

“Yeah, idiot boy over there kinda forgot he’s bulked up a bit.  Honestly, some of the stuff here looks like it would barely fit Alan.”  The last two pairs of pants joined the others on the bed after it became clear they would struggle to go past Virgil’s knees, let alone do up and be comfortable for a meal out.  “None of my stuff fits him either.”

“Well you’d better come up with something soon, Dad’s starting to get impatient.”

“It’s no use I’ll just have to go in my jeans, it’s either that or no pants at all”  Virgil sighed.  He dug through the holdall he had brought from Denver, pulled out the most acceptable pair of jeans he could find and yanked them on.  A pair of shoes swiftly followed and moments later he was as ready as he could be. 

Trailing a few steps behind Scott and John as the trio made their way into the lounge he soon found himself subject to his father’s glare.

“Virgil, tuck that shirt in.”  The order was barked out and he had no option but to comply.  Unfortunately, stuffing the hem of his shirt into the waistband of the jeans only served to reveal the paint stain that marred the material.  “On second thoughts…”  Jeff glared at offending garment and Virgil sheepishly pulled his shirt back out to hide the stain.

“If Virgil can wear jeans, why can’t I?” whined Alan.  Jeff didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“I presume you have a good reason for your...unorthodox outfit.”

“Dress pants don’t fit any more.”  Virgil mumbled.

Jeff sighed.  If that was the reason then it was far too late to go shopping to remedy the situation.  While Scott and John could perhaps get away with swapping clothes Virgil was built on different lines to the rest of the family.  He might have plenty of money at his disposal but what they lacked now was time, the jeans would have to do.  At least he hadn’t chosen a venue that insisted on full evening dress in deference to the sons’ preferences; he knew they hated being overly formal.

xoxoxox

The Tracy name was well known throughout the city and securing the patronage of one of the wealthiest men in the country, if not the world, was not easy.  Securing a repeat booking was known to be even harder and so if the restaurant itself had any issues with Virgil’s outfit then the management used their discretion and refrained from passing comment.

The top floor restaurant gave sweeping views over the cityscape from its panoramic windows but the family cared little for the view.  Nor it seemed did most of the other patrons and the family felt uncomfortably under the spotlight as they were led through to a table near the back.  A group of six was always going to draw attention on a night where every other table was a couple, it was one of the hazards of having a Valentine’s day birthday.  A group of six comprised of the full complement of Tracy masculinity drew stares that bordered on rude and more than one man found himself being compared unfavourably to these most eligible of bachelors by his date.  The family were used to attracting attention though, particularly when appearing as a unit, and the group successfully navigated the room seemingly unfazed by the other clientele.  Appearances can be deceptive though and the family was grateful to be seated in a private alcove where they could relax out of the public eye.

The meal passed without incident but it wasn’t the most comfortable of experiences.  For a start the food wasn’t really to any of their tastes.  Gordon’s diet tended to lean towards carefully counted micronutrients with the occasional junk food binge and while this had eased now he no longer had a swimming coach analysing the composition of his plate he still wasn’t used to the offerings presented on lavish menu.  In fact, despite the size of the family fortune only Jeff was really familiar with high end dining and that was mostly due to there being an expected standard at the business lunches or charity galas he attended.  For the brothers all were in agreement that the Chinese take out of the night before had been the better meal.

As dessert drew to a close Jeff cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the rest of the table, although Alan still needed a swift kick under the table from Virgil to get him to sit up and focus properly.

“This has been a year of changes and I know there are many more changes yet to come.  With Gordon turning eighteen I’ve been given the stark reminder of just how much he, and the rest of you, have grown up.  I have every faith that Gordon will get into WASP and earn his place as one of the youngest officers in the history of the submarine service”  he settled his gaze on his fourth son before continuing  “You’ve shown me time and time again that you shouldn’t be underestimated but it’s a lesson that has taken me a long time to learn.”  Gordon shifted uncomfortably at the attention and praise that was still so rare in his life.

 “In just a few months time John and Virgil will both complete their postgrads and go on to Tracy College to further specialise in astronautics and aeronautics while Scott and Gordon could be posted to anywhere in the world to help protect our planet.”  This earned John and Virgil a jealous look from Alan, there was no denying that the youngest of the family was following in the footsteps of his next but one older brother in terms of a passion for space. 

“I want you to know that I’m proud of you.  All of you.”  Each brother felt the force of their father’s attention in turn as Jeff looked at the assembled company, pausing to make eye contact with each one.  Jeff, seeing his sons all gathered side by side, found himself struck by just how blessed he was to have such an impressive family.  Somehow his children had turned into talented young men, often without him realising it, and he reflected that the skillset around the table was truly exceptional.  Scott’s leadership abilities, Virgil’s creativity, John’s intelligence, Gordon’s determination, even Alan was showing an unnatural talent in the air; his sons were a force to be reckoned with as individuals and potentially unstoppable if they pooled their collective resources.  “But tonight is meant to be about celebrating Gordon’s birthday which I’m sure you will find much easier to do without me around so this is the point where Alan and I will say goodnight and leave you four to your evening.”  

The four oldest brothers looked stunned as Jeff ushered an indignant looking Alan away from the table, the youngster clearly not happy about being excluded from the after party.  As he passed Scott’s chair Jeff paused and handed something across to his eldest son.  

“Now Scott I’m trusting you to take charge but just remember that Gordon doesn’t officially turn 18 for two more days and as far as the state is concerned John is also still under age.  Don’t make me regret this.”  The instruction was quiet but serious.

Scott looked at the small rectangle of black plastic in his hands and swallowed.  “No sir.”

And then the youngest and oldest of the family were gone.

“What was all that about?” asked John.

“I think Dad just gave us permission to hit the town”  he carefully placed the card on the table where all four could see it “and he gave me his credit card.”

The seemingly innocuous piece of plastic was viewed with wide eyed amazement by Virgil and John while Gordon just stared after the retreating backs of the two departing Tracys in astonishment, the words of his father’s little speech still replaying in his mind; for once he was being acknowledged as an adult and treated as an equal to his older brothers.  

Scott settled the bill and the four brothers exited the restaurant into the chill February night, a city of possibilities open before them.

“So where now?” asked Scott as they walked along the sidewalk, skirting around the lines of people queuing to get into the various clubs and bars that dominated the district.  “Where do the kids of LA go when they want a night out?”  

Three sets of eyes swivelled towards Gordon.

“How should I know?”

“C’mon Gordo, you must know somewhere that’s lax on the IDs?  Cos even if you can blag it Johnny boy there still looks every inch the freshman” Scott looked accusingly at John who was sporting a particularly preppy shirt and sweater combination.  

“I’m only six months off 21,”  there was defensive indignation in John’s voice, “what makes you think I couldn’t get in?”

“Six months? May as well be six years.   Have you ever tried to get served?”  

John wilted under Scott's gaze knowing his brother’s words were true, he was both baby faced and lacking in interest in the messier side of the social scene at university which meant he was more likely to be found propping up the library stacks than a bar. 

“So,”  Scott turned his attention back to Gordon, “where do you go on the weekends to get a drink?”

“Hmm...Croatia?” the sarcasm dripped off Gordon.  “Yeah, Croatia was good; think you can fly us out there?  The after party for the ‘59 World Championships was pretty sweet.  Seriously guys, I’ve spent most of the last 5 years in training or away at competitions, the club scene wasn’t really on my radar.”  After Scott’s derision towards John’s drinking habits, or rather the lack of them, he was feeling a little defensive.

“You weren’t away all the time though, there must be somewhere you go for fun.”

“Hmm...fun.”  Gordon gazed up towards the sky, finger to his lips as though giving the matter serious contemplation.  “Nope, not a lot of that round here.  You and Virg might have been able to tag team and hit the bars back in Kansas but in case you’d forgotten there’s noone else here for Alan and he spends enough time on his own as it is without me sneaking out for the sake of a few drinks.  And even if Dad didn’t notice my coach would have and I’d have been off the squad faster than you can scramble that jet of yours.  Hitting the town the night after a competition is one thing but here in LA the best I got is taking Alan to the arcades.”

“Arcades you say?” asked John with a glint in his eye.  “I’ve not been to one of those in a while and Virgil here owes me a round of air hockey.”

“What, you fancy losing again?”  Virgil snorted at the idea of John being any sort of match for him at sports, even of the table variety.

“I did not lose, I was set to win ‘til Frankie barfed on the table.”

“When the hell was this?”  Gordon asked, sensing the start of a heated debate between his next two eldest brothers.

“Seventh, maybe eighth grade.  Me and Johnny both got an invite to the same party seeing as whizz kid here shared half my classes in middle school.  The battle of the air hockey got cut short cos someone dared Frankie to try every colour of slushie except instead of mixing them he tried to force down a full cup of each one.  Lucky escape for you, eh Johnny?”

“We’ll see at the rematch.  And it’s John, thank you very much.”  There was an arrogant confidence in John’s voice, coupled with mild annoyance over the repeated use of the nickname; Scott might have got away with it but he wasn’t going to put up with it from Virgil too.

“Seriously, you guys want to go to the arcades?”

“Sure,” Virgil shrugged “it could be fun.  What do you say, Scott?”

The group looked to their de facto leader who shivered in the cold night air.

“Why not, if it’s still open.  It’s either that or head home so lead the way.”

xoxoxox

A quick taxi ride later and the four found themselves outside a 24-hour gaming centre, the lights and sounds of the various machines spilling out into the night.  John grinned at the sight of all the games on offer and even Virgil, the brother least likely to pick up a console, looked eager to get stuck in.

Scott led the group in, bought a load of credits for each of them, and disappeared with a quick promise that he would be back soon once he had located some drinks for them.  A few short minutes later and he was back with an armful of bottles; he distributed two to each brother.

“Mountain Dew?”  Gordon looked at the lurid coloured drinks with incredulous surprise; it wasn’t exactly what he had been expecting.

“Look, the liquor store over the road didn’t have a lot of choice and this place has a strict no alcohol policy.  That being said,” he continued with a glint in his eye “go easy on the blue one and if you need a top up just ask.”  He patted a slight bulge in his jacket that hadn’t been there previously.

Gordon cracked the lid on the blue bottle, noticing it was already unsealed, took a swig and instantly felt the tang of spirits hit the back of his throat with a kick that left him wondering how much of the bottle was actually still Mountain Dew.  Whatever Scott had added to the mix was strong but then so was some of the stuff he had sampled after competitions, he held his brother’s gaze and swallowed without reacting, earning himself an approving nod from Scott and leaving himself with the suspicious feeling that he’d just passed some sort of test.

He’d always been a stage removed from his elder brothers.  John might not be that much older than him but being bumped up two grades, or occasionally three for some subjects if it was true he had been taught alongside Virgil, had left a chasm between them even without taking their differing interests into account.  Scott and Virgil had always been the cohesive unit, John had existed alongside them if the middle brother had been forced to join the crowds and he and Alan had always been the kids left behind.  To cross the social divide was a new experience for Gordon but one he was enjoying.

The group worked their way through the banks of machines, settling old scores and generally slipping back to a more carefree stage of life.  Battles were won and lost and the undisputed master of air hockey was unanimously declared to be Virgil, a decision that was greeted with a decided pout from the middle brother who’d had his eye on the title.  It certainly wasn’t how Gordon had expected to celebrate his birthday but then he hadn’t really expected to celebrate it at all.  

Thanks to Scott’s illicit supplies it was a slightly stumbling group that finally made it back to the apartment in the small hours of the morning, taking the exaggerated care of the drunk not to bump into things and risk waking the other occupants.  After some hurriedly whispered goodnights Gordon headed off to his room, stopping only to grab some water to soothe the inevitable headache he would have in the morning.  He was feeling happier than he had done in years and he was sure that wasn’t just down to the drinks; he hadn’t realised quite how much he enjoyed his brothers’ company or how much he missed them when they were away.  He went to crawl in under the covers but couldn’t help giving a little smile when he realised he would not be sleeping alone as a significant heap of plushies now adorned the foot of his bed.  John might not have been master of air hockey but even after so much to drink he’d practically needed to be carried home, he was definitely king of the claw machines.

[sodalitefully]

Cliches, Part 3

As promised, Steven’s annual holiday party!  More of the reptile store/bakery AU, Sluff with just a hint of Izzal, lots of fluff and drunken shenanigans.  

(Cliches part one, two, check out my masterlist for more!)

🎄🌟🎄🌟🎄🌟🎄

11:30AM, The Friday Before Christmas:

There was always a lull in customers between the breakfast and lunch rushes, but instead of taking a well-deserved break, Duff was used to finding ways to keep himself busy, starting by wiping down the few tables he managed to fit inside his tiny store. Damp rag in hand, he paused at one of the tables to check on the napkin dispenser and of course it was that moment, bent over to reach the dispenser by the wall, his ass in the air and his back to the door, when the bell over the entrance jingled. He spun around at the sound, whacking a table leg with his shin, and instinctively braced himself against the chair behind him when he saw Slash standing in the doorway.

Slash had… a presence, you could say, an aura about him that always seemed to hit Duff like a freight train. It must be the hair and the bulky black leathers, Duff decided, making Slash seem bigger than he really is and absorbing all the light in a room so that Duff’s eyes were always drawn straight to him. Sunglasses hid his eyes (did he really need them just to cross the street to Duff’s bakery?) and his lips were pressed together, but they softened into a tiny smile when he looked at Duff.

“Slash! Hi!” Duff squeaked, then cleared his throat and hoped he wasn't visibly blushing as he scrambled back to safety behind the cash register. Slash followed right behind him, stopping in front of the register with his fingers resting on the edge of the counter. Duff couldn’t stand watching his own reflection in Slash’s glasses, so his eyes wandered as he continued.

“Uh, what can I do for you?” he stammered, staring down at Slash’s silver rings.

“Mm, I just thought I’d drop by and check that you're still planning to come to Steven's Christmas party tonight."

“Oh! Yeah, of course. I am. Uh, I’m looking forward to it."

“Good.” Slash shuffled his feet, a gesture that would have seemed more nervous if not for the pleased little smirk on his lips. “I’ll see you there, then.” Slash took a step back as if to leave, then paused and leaned back in.

“Duff?” The baker froze in mortification when Slash pointed a finger up at the red and green elf hat that Duff completely forgot he was wearing. “Bring that."

*****

6:00PM, Steven Should Really Be Decorating The Bar Right Now:

“Nah, I’m not going to go as hard this year."

Steven snorted in disbelief.

“Yeah right, Slash. Like how last year you said you were gonna take it easy but you ended up jumping off the roof? Or the year before, when you had a flight to catch the next morning but you still challenged Axl to a drinking contest, and then as soon as you beat him you turned around and challenged Izzy?"

Slash grimaced. Steven always tended bar for the first couple hours of the party and was therefore the last one to get drunk, which meant that he had dirt on everybody. Slash resisted the urge to argue that the roof was only seven feet high, and he’d landed on his feet without even spraining anything – it was nothing Steven hadn’t heard before.

“No, seriously…” Slash lowered his voice a little and leaned across the bar, even though absolutely nobody was listening in on their conversation. “…I really don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Duff. It’s his first party with us, you know? He hasn’t seen me drunk off my ass yet and I don’t want to, well, scare him off."

Steven nodded sympathetically, but mentally he was weighing the odds. It was true that Duff was a timid sort, and Steven knew all about Slash’s massive crush on his neighbor. But he also knew that Slash had been going steady with Jack Daniels for way longer than he’s been hung up on Duff. Could Slash make it through a holiday party without getting wasted? Not a fuckin’ chance.

*****

9:30PM, Time (And Liquor) Makes Fools Of Us All:

Duff stepped foot in the building all of two seconds ago and already Slash was latched onto his arm and dragging him to the bar.

“Stevie, Duff’s here!” The party officially started at nine, but Duff suspected that Slash may have gotten a head start on the bottle of whiskey clenched in his fist, if his uncharacteristically cheery demeanor was anything to go by.

“Pick your poison, buddy,” Steven invited with a knowing smirk.

“Uh, I don’t know, something with vodka…?” Duff was very preoccupied by the warm leather of Slash’s sleeve pressing against his side and the barest brush of his frizzy hair against Duff’s neck, but Steven sure got his attention when he slid an unopened bottle of Smirnoff across the bar.

*****

10:30PM, Santa’s Helpers Are Bringing Down The Neighborhood’s Property Value:

Every year, Axl and Izzy responded to their invitation with humming and hawing, as if they just might not be able to make it to the party this time, and every year (fashionably late, of course), Axl strutted into the bar like he owned it and Izzy slunk in behind him like a party crasher trying not to get caught.

Axl was more than ready to get his hands on a stiff drink, but the scene in front of him stopped him in his tracks: Slash and Duff, wearing an antler headband and an elf hat (respectively), equipped with window markers that Axl could only assume Steven had provided, were well on their way to turning the front window into a mural of lewd and filthy and sometimes festive doodles. When they finished, it would surely be a masterpiece to rival the Sistine Chapel, or maybe an issue of Hustler.

“Jesus Christ.”

It was only 10:30, did they really have to get such an early start on the shenanigans? Duff blushed red at Axl’s resigned exasperation, but it didn’t stop him from completing a crude drawing of a dick. The tiny bells on Slash’s headband jingled as he just laughed and added nipples to an (actually quite impressive) portrait of a shirtless woman. Fucking hell. At least they weren’t breaking anything… Yet.

*****

12:00PM, Good Fucking Luck Getting A Turn At The Karaoke Machine:

"Oh, Nikita, you will never know, never know anything about my home. I'll never know how good it feels to hold you... Nikita, I need you so."

As he sang the last words of the song, Axl spotted Izzy slipping away from the karaoke stage, ducking his head to hide the pink flush on his cheeks as he hurried back to the bar. Axl just smirked; Izzy always got embarrassed when Axl serenaded him in public, but he’d be back for more soon enough. Axl thought about following him, thought about getting Izzy even more flustered then dragging him to the restroom for a little fun like they did last year… But there’d be time for that later. For now, Axl wasn’t about to give up his reign as the undisputed Karaoke King.

Duff was sitting at the edge of a booth next to the karaoke machine, absentmindedly sucking on a cigarette and watching Axl pace the tiny stage like a caged animal ready to snap at anyone who tries to stick their hand through the bars, when Slash snuck up behind him with three beers balanced precariously in his hands.

“Watch this,” Slash stage whispered conspiringly as he handed one beer to Duff and then slid the second over to Axl. “Taking requests tonight, Ax?"

Axl sipped his drink and quirked his eyebrow at Slash. “Maybe."

“Well, Duff says he wants to hear some Nazareth."

“I said what?” Duff spluttered, narrowly avoiding choking on his beer, but Slash just elbowed him in the ribs.

“Shut up dude, it’s about to get good!"

Axl rolled his eyes at Slash’s bullshit but he jabbed a song into the karaoke machine and twisted the dial on the speaker.

“Gonna need some volume on this one…"

As the intro to a familiar song started to play, Slash wrapped an arm around Duff’s shoulders in apology. Duff leaned into the touch, and any remaining indignation he might have felt vanished as soon as Axl opened his mouth and started to scream.

“You’re a heart-breaking soul shaker, I’ve been told about you…"

“Shit, Axl can fuckin’ sing!” Duff whisper-shouted into Slash’s hair. Slash laughed, a sound that Duff had been graced with more times in this one night than all the rest of their acquaintance. He leaned up to put his lips by Duff’s ear.

“I dare you to request All I Want For Christmas Is You next!"

*****

1:00PM, O Tannenbaum:

“Hey, what are you guys doing to my – OH. Oh my god!”

A patch of branches on Steven’s Christmas tree was stripped bare of it’s dressings, but Steven couldn’t bring himself to stay angry about the vandalism when he saw how the decorations had been repurposed.

Slash sat cross-legged in front of the tree, very patiently doing his best to keep any drunken swaying to a minimum as Duff carefully wound a popcorn garland around his shoulders like a feather boa. Slash’s hair was sprinkled in gold tinsel, a pair of glass baubles dangled from his hoop earrings, and at least a half dozen more glass and paper ornaments were lovingly nestled in his voluminous curls.

Steven sprinted for the camera.

*****

3:00AM, Come Here Often?:

Slash couldn’t actually remember where he and Duff were trying to get, but it was clear that Duff was having a hard time getting there without swaying and stumbling. Duff was leaning heavily on Slash’s shoulder to stay upright – even though Slash wasn’t doing much better himself.

“Oof!” Duff tripped on something (likely as not his own feet) and tumbled to the side, where he was fortunate enough to land on a sticky leather couch instead of falling all the way to the floor. His arm was still wrapped around Slash’s shoulders, which meant that Slash was also yanked off his feet and dragged by the neck onto the couch where he landed gracelessly on top of Duff.

“Shit, sorry –“ Duff wheezed, sounding like he might have had the breath knocked out of him.

“S’fine, fine… You ok sweetheart?” Slash’s pet-name filter had disengaged completely a couple hours ago.

“Yeah, lemme just… hold on…”

Getting up from the couch seemed like too tall an order, but after some squirming and fumbling they managed a more comfortable position: Duff lay on his back with his knees hooked over the armrest and his hair splayed around his head like a wreath on the cracked seat cushion. Slash was draped on top of him, his forearms on either side of Duff’s head and his thigh conspicuously dipping between Duff’s legs.

Duff suddenly felt a lot more sober as he stared straight up at Slash’s dark eyes. Slash’s hair fell like a curtain around their faces, and the slivers of light that pierced the veil left a gleam in Slash’s eyes that Duff couldn’t quite read. He was nervous as hell, but for once he relished the feeling, that intoxicating cocktail of terror, anticipation, and arousal.

“Duff?” Slash’s fingertips wove into Duff’s hair, the gentlest touch but still enough to hold Duff’s head in place, not that he ever wanted to move.

“Yeah?” Duff was surprised by the thickness of the want in his voice, a low, heavy tone that resonated in the small space between them.

One moment Duff could feel Slash’s warm breath on his cheeks, the next he could feel his hot lips, then his tongue when Duff’s mouth fell open, in surprise or invitation he didn’t know or care.

Duff couldn’t say how long they lay tangled together, Slash’s body pinning him down, his hands buried in Slash’s curls, gasping for air when Slash finally broke their heated first kiss. They each caught their breath and stared at each other’s wet lips, neither sure what to say except:

“Again."

❄️❄️❄️

Steven has a secret box with a secret compartment full of embarrassing pictures of his friends at the Christmas party!

Axl’s karaoke songs are Nikita by Elton John, Hair Of The Dog by Nazareth (also on The Spaghetti Incident) and All I Want For Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey.

Also, I’d like to formally request a drawing of Slash with ornaments in his hair. (Edit: here!!)

[loquaciousquark]

Hey, all, I’m probably not going to be around much for a few months aside from queues & TM posts.

Work stress has taken over my life in a way it never has before. A very long story short, my closest coworker (both friend-wise and workload-wise) took another job that began at the end of April. While she knew from November she was going to take this job, she did not inform administration until the very final contractual required moment of 30 days out. This means there has been no chance for admin to be looking for long-term qualified candidates to replace her position, since to get hired on at the school even on a temporary faculty basis takes about six-eight weeks.

(She told me about this job in November, but made me promise at the time not to tell anyone because she was going to tell them soon. Then, as schedules were being planned out for this summer and her time was being allotted under the assumption she would be there, she deliberately said nothing and made me answer the emails so she wouldn’t be “lying.” I have known this hell has been coming for me for five months and haven’t been able to do anything about it because I gave her my word.)

In addition, while not her fault, three other administrative support employees and two other faculty members have left/will be leaving in less than a month as well. One employee’s family member died unexpectedly, one employee was grossly incompetent (although I can’t remember the last time we actually fired someone for that), and the other faculty members are leaving for really good jobs elsewhere. Just very unfortunate timing that means we are all spread excruciatingly thin for now.

This all comes at a time where I am actively beginning that Service Director position for the primary care clinic on top of everything else. This position, while I think a great fit for me, what else I teach in the school, and how I plan/organize/relate to the students, has come at a terrible time because it in and of itself is a massive amount of work, especially getting it off the ground. If I’m going to implement all these new policies and changes I’ve been dreaming of for years, I need to do it at the beginning of my tenure--to try and keep everything going the way it has been and change later once everything calms down would be infinitely more work at that time & have a bunch more pushback from both the students and the faculty I now lead as part of this clinic, many of which have decades of seniority on me.

I’m doing the work of two-and-a-half full-time faculty right now. I do still really love this job, but right now I can’t handle it.

I’m grinding my teeth at night and clenching my jaw during the day. My dentist suddenly wants me to get a bite plate when before a few months ago, I’d never ground my teeth in my life. I’m getting excruciating stress/tension headaches almost every other day from how tight every muscle of my face and neck is. I’ve gained over ten pounds in the last two months from eating like crap because anything that requires more than two steps of prep is mentally, physically, and emotionally impossible, which has the added effect of making me want to cry every time I look in a mirror and see my stomach so far away from my mental “normal,” because I was already seven pounds or so more than I wanted to be. I’m only getting three or four hours of sleep a night despite melatonin because my mind is just reciting checklist after checklist of things I need to do to keep all my sudden responsibilities on track.

I saw my psychiatrist today (which in and of itself was overwhelming--I thought until I was leaving for the appointment that today was my annual physical, and it wasn’t until I was checking the auto-filled address that I realized it was in the wrong building for that. Turns out I’d independently scheduled both the psych follow-up & the physical within a few days of each other, and I’d missed the text appointment reminders for the physical because the psych ones were more recent. I have never straight up no-showed an appointment in my life before this.)

I only had about thirty minutes with her, but part of the problem is that I haven’t taken my meds regularly in over a month because even such a little thing was too difficult. I’m going to try to start back on that, but...

I told her it doesn’t feel like I’m trying to keep plates spinning in the air. It feels like I have them all under control at the moment, they’re just excruciatingly heavy. The only way I’ve been handling this sudden pressure of doing basically two and a half jobs with no margin for error in any of them is being ruthlessly, relentlessly organized. Which is fine, except that I can feel how that changes my personality when I have to go so hard and regimented, and I hate how it feels to have both no margin and no grace.

I had a student the other day email me about a flight she booked for a Memorial Day vacation at 6pm on a Friday, not thinking about how clinic does not always end on the dot at 5pm. We (both students and faculty) are required to stay until the patient’s exam is complete. Sometimes that’s at five. Sometimes that’s at 6:30. On rare occasions I’ve stayed until 9pm in clinical care because that’s what was needed at the time for that patient.

She wanted to get out of clinic with an excused absence. We require three weeks’ minimum notice because when a student leaves without coverage, we have to reschedule all the patients they were meant to see. Her schedule was fully booked, and I had to say no, because right now I have nothing left to try to find an alternative for her. I hate saying no to students, especially when it’s something I truly could help them solve with some investment on my part, but right now--I’m sorry, but I can’t. Why on earth did you schedule a flight for 6pm on a day you have clinic until 5, especially when the airport is a 20-minute drive from the school even without traffic? I can’t fix this for you, not right now. You have to show up to clinic or find your own coverage. I don’t care how you do it, but someone has to be there, and I don’t have anything left in me to help you figure out how to do it.

My mom listens to a guy who sometimes talks about how you have to have a margin in your life to manage your stress. A margin in your work helps you enjoy your leisure time; if you don’t have that margin, even scheduled play feels stressful because you have work playing through your head the whole time.

I’m out of margin. I’m ten feet over the line in every direction I’m so out of margin, and I am constantly being asked by students and other faculty, “How are you doing now that the person who you shared 90% of your work life with is gone? Who’s going to help take over [year-long highly-intensive Methods course] now that Dr. So-and-So is gone? Who’s going to help you teach it since we all know what a gigantic course it is and how it’s always required two people to run full-time, and now you’re down to one who’s also taken on a bunch of other responsibilities at the exact same time?”

and they’re laughing when they say it. and i’m laughing when i tell them the truth, which is “no one.” and we all laugh together and inside my head i am ripping apart under the pressure.

Even if they hire someone by August, it’s not going to mean any relief until September due to onboarding, and even then it won’t be what I really need. This woman I worked with and I had both taught this course together for years, and before that we’d both taken it as students. We knew how it ran inside and out. We knew what the responsibilities were. We had the workload divided evenly and didn’t have to consult over every decision that was made--it just got done. Even if they do hire someone at lightning speed, I still have to train them. I have to show them where the group drive is on the faculty intranet. I have to teach them how it’s organized. I have to show them how to upload quizzes and how to grade them and how to edit the Excel practical documents and the timeframe we expect the grades back and why our grading standards are the way they are and what to say to guest graders and guest lab instructors and show them where the file folders are kept and where the .docx’s are kept and the way things are sorted and how the tests are written and how to extensively edit a PDF file and give them the contact information for faculty IT support (which still ends up being me half the time) and the manual printer and the woman who orders office supplies and the woman who orders clinical equipment and the man who orders building maintenance supplies and when you go to one and not the other and how electronic testing works and how to grade it and how to upload a document with all the specific little requirements the program wants to make sure it imports correctly and how to deal with the errors this program will inevitably throw back because it’s niche software for a niche school and that means it’ll never be user friendly.

It took me almost two years to really feel comfortable being co-coursemaster for this course because it is so unbelievably massive. Even if they hire someone by August, I still won’t have a full-time coursemaster pulling their weight until 2021.

The other metaphor I used with my psychiatrist is that I’m holding on to a cliff’s edge with my fingertips. Right now, I’ve got a pretty decent grip, but that doesn’t change the fact that if you put another pound on my back it might pull me right off the rock.

I don’t see practical relief coming any time soon. “What can we do to help? We want you to know you are very supported right now. You let us know what you need.” What can you do? Hire someone tomorrow who already knows how our computer system works, who can troubleshoot their own IT, who can look at a list of tasks that need to happen to get this Methods course fully ready every single semester of every single year and do them without any handholding from me. Hire someone with as much attention to detail as I’ve had to have because it’s the right way to do the damn job. Hire someone I won’t have to clean up after because to them “the cart in the closet” is the same thing as “the specific place on the labeled closet shelf where the equipment belongs.”

I’m clenching my teeth so hard they’re hurting, so I guess I have to stop. If you see me in-game somewhere, believe me, it’s not because I’ve caught up. It’s because I haven’t and I can’t bear thinking about how much I still have to do.

[onhirel]

Flight Class

Part of the Decades Drabbles, set two years after the Battle of Arcturus Forest. Amanda has to deal with an impertinent student... 

Archive of Our Own here

It was a beautiful day at Luna Nova Magical Academy, with only a few clouds dotting the bright blue skies, the sun bringing some welcomed warmth, and a refreshing breeze blew from the northwest. All in all, a perfect day for flying, which wasn’t always a guarantee in Western England, and Professor O’Neill was a stickler for flying through any sort of weather, save for weather that could seriously injure a student, such as a thunderstorm or very thick fog. “Out there in the world, y’all might be flying in all sorts’ve conditions,” the fiery-haired professor had said in that Texas drawl on the first day of classes. “Better to learn how to fly safely now than to be grounded later, or even worse, fly in weather y’all aren’t ready for.”

That seemed to be the American professor’s style…despite her wild appearance with undercut, two-toned red hair and tattoos on her arms that she shamelessly bared to the annoyance of some of the more conservative teachers, she took the safety of her students incredibly seriously, and she watched her flying students like a hawk, her bright green and electric blue eyes missing very little, much to the consternation of-

“Miss Laveau, slow down!” Professor O’Neill’s voice cracked through the air, and Keyatta Laveau, witch descendent from a proud lineage of Cajun witches from Delacroix, Louisiana, immediately slowed down her broom before turning an annoyed grimace back up towards the walkway extending off of the Observatory Tower to see Professor O’Neill scowling down at her.

“What?!” she gave a complaining shout back up to the teacher and the other students. “Come on, I wasn’t even going that fast!”

“I know you know the rules, Laveau, keep it at the proper speed or I’ll ground you!”

Keyatta rolled her eyes before going so much slower than she was capable of going, and just to be a brat, she started doing exaggerated loop-de-loops. To her surprise, Professor O’Neill didn’t yell at her, instead sparing her one last annoyed glare before she returned her attention to the next student to fly off the end of the walkway. Later, during lunch, the African-American student and the Irish-American professor would both gripe to their peers about one another, much to the amusement of those around them. After all, anyone could see that the two of them were very similar in temperament…no wonder they didn’t get along…

For Amanda, it was Professor Finnelan to whom she complained while they ate their lunches in the staff cafeteria. “Like, I just don’t get it, she’s one of the smartest girls in her year and is a model student with the other professors, why can’t she just follow the rules in my class?”

Finnelan literally snorted into her tea at that, turning astounded blue eyes on the younger professor. “Really? You, of all people, are asking that?” she asked, voice incredulous. “As I recall, Katelyn…er, Nelson, that is, she used to say very much the same thing about a hotheaded student from Texas twelve years ago,” she said, her expression only saddening a little at the mention of her friend. But then she gave a slight, teasing grin. “Well, perhaps not the smartest girl in her year, mind…” she said leadingly, and Amanda rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said with a flippant wave of her hand before she sighed, crossing her arms and staring at the egg salad and olive sandwich on her plate. “I dunno, Finnelan, like…I’m tempted to let her do her thing, but what if she gets hurt? Then it’d be my fault, and after…after Arcturus Forest, I can’t stand the thought of losing anyone else I’m responsible for.”

The look Finnelan gave her was sympathetic. “Well, the Headmistress has given you some pretty decent leeway in your curriculum, O’Neill. Give it some thought, I’m sure you’ll think of something…”

Meanwhile, in the student cafeteria, Keyatta was having a much more spirited discussion about the matter, a scowl on her pretty face as she stabbed her spoon repeatedly into her mashed potatoes as the other two in the lavender team, Astrid Ingridsdottir from Iceland and Lihua Chang from China looked on with amusement. “I just don’t get what her damn problem is!” she snapped, the harsh tone at odds with her usually relaxed Louisianan drawl. “Like, I ain’t a damn kid, I know how to ride a broom!”

“Yes, but if a student is hurt during her class, it will be the professor’s fault,” Lihua reminded her primly before she took a drink from her water glass, and Keyatta fairly glared at her.

“I know that, but…it’s like she wants me to keep training wheels on when I don’t need them, and it’s so annoying. It’s like she doesn’t care what I’m capable of, and I just don’t know why!”

Lihua and Astrid glanced at one another. “You have heard the rumors about Professor O’Neill, right?” Astrid asked, and Keyatta huffed.

“Which ones? To date, there’s the one where when Atsuko Kagari was a professor here before she went into showbiz, O’Neill would frequently show up and have a tryst with Kagari in her office. Then there’s the one saying that O’Neill has a whole harem of witches out in Wedinburgh that she’s banging on the weekends. Or how about-”

“Not her love life, Key, but her history as a broom rider,” Lihuang said with a roll of her eyes.

“You mean like the Battle of Arcturus Forest? Lih, we learn about that in History of Magic. That’s not a rumor, that’s documented history. She was in command of the air group.”

“And how many riders did she lose?” Astrid asked. “They suffered really badly against the Silent Spring cult, surely that would make her want to be cautious…”

“Plus there’s the whole matter of her winning a bunch of broom races and she was a professional daredevil for a while…”

“Wait, what?” Keyatta asked, frowning. “She was a daredevil?”

“Yeah, it was probably like, six or seven years ago that she retired from all that, she was pretty popular on Witchtube for a long time.”

Keyatta blinked at that. Her family had been pretty traditional, and so frowned on things like Witchtube and other fancy modern spells…by the Nine, she shuddered to think about what Grand-maman would say about the magitronics courses being taught now. “I didn’t know,” she murmured to herself thoughtfully. That night, she would stay up until the wee hours of the morning, watching old footage of a woman she could scarcely believe was the stuffy flight instructor of Luna Nova. And through all of that, the resentment grew. Professor O’Neill used to fly like that and she was complaining about Keyatta going a little too fast? Merde, but that was so annoying! Her next flight class was on Friday, and she’d show Professor O’Neill then, by God! Decision made and tentative plan forming in her mind, she fell into an uneasy sleep.

xxxXXXxxx

Hannah quirked an eyebrow as Amanda came storming into the house on Friday evening, her expression thunderous. “Rough day at class?” she asked as Barbara came into the living room, drying her hands, the two of them watching as Amanda angrily toed her shoes off and making a beeline to the kitchen where they heard the fridge open and then close, followed by the sound of a beer bottle opening. Then Amanda reappeared, still scowling as she threw herself onto the couch, dropping her feet on top of the coffee table before taking a deep drink from the bottle, and Hannah and Barbara glanced at one another, slightly concerned. This was the worst mood Amanda had been in coming home from school in a long while.

Finally Amanda pulled the bottle away from her lips with a gasp for air. “I’m gonna kill her,” she muttered darkly.

Hannah rolled her eyes. “If it’s a student you’re talking about, it’s probably not allowed, love.”

“She deserves it!”

“Who was it, that Laveau girl from the US?” Barbara asked, and Amanda huffed out a wordless acknowledgment. “What’d she do this time?”

“Damn near gave me a heart attack today!” Amanda snapped before taking another drink. “For a moment, I thought she had lost control of her broom, and I went after her like a shot, but she gained control just before she hit the trees and then just smirked up at me. Little brat!”

Hannah and Barbara just looked at one another before turning almost sappily sympathetic faces on their lover. “Oh, no, Amanda, whatever will you do?” Hannah started, and Amanda shot her a sharp glance.

“Oi,” she started warningly, but Barbara was already talking.

“How awful, you’d think these kids would know to behave themselves doing something so dangerous. Honestly, the lack of self-preservation in some people. It doesn’t remind you of anyone that we know, does it, Han?”

Hannah tapped her chin thoughtfully. “It does sound familiar, Babs, but I just can’t put my finger on it…”

By now Amanda was pouting at them. “Alright, alright, I get it, no need to be so mean about it.”

“Awww, poor Amanda thinks that we’re being mean,” Hannah grinned, some heat creeping into her tone, and Barbara caught on immediately, wrapping loose arms around her, resting her cheek on Hannah’s shoulder as she fixed glittering eyes on Amanda, who was now watching them very intently.

“However shall we make it up to her?” Barbara asked, and Hannah almost laughed at the way Amanda swallowed thickly at that.

“I think I might have an idea,” she murmured as she turned her head and captured Barbara’s lips in a slow, heated kiss. The rest of the evening was spent rather successfully distracting Amanda from the issues that plagued her mind. Unfortunately it would be only a short reprieve…

xxxXXXxxx

“Miss Laveau,” came the stern voice, and Keyatta froze, wind whistling around the crowd gathered on the walkway of the Observatory, her broom propped on her shoulder.

She sighed heavily before turning slowly, facing the irate face of the other American. “Yes, Professor?” she asked, voice kept carefully free of derision.

“Look, I know you’re a skilled rider, but you have to follow the rules, alright?” Professor O’Neill asked, voice almost weary, and for a brief moment, Keyatta almost felt sorry for her teacher. Then steel crept into Professor O’Neill’s expression. “That said, you ever pull a stunt like Friday again, I’m taking your broom and giving you a D- for the semester, am I understood?”

“Yes, Professor,” Keyatta muttered, and as Professor O’Neill nodded and began to turn away, the resentment of all the scolding she had received caused the words to spill from her lips. “Pfft, like you could do any better.”

Everyone froze at that, Keyatta included. She hadn’t meant to say it, she really hadn’t! Respect for elders and those in authority had been drilled into her from a very young age, and if Papa had been there, he’d probably already be switching her backside for daring to sass her teacher. She glanced, wide-eyed and fearful, at Lihuang and Astrid who were both looking at her with horrified expressions. Then again, so were all of the other students immediately surrounding her, and she licked her lips nervously as she looked at the frozen back of Professor O’Neill. Nine preserve me, she’s going to be so furious!

But when the professor turned around, it wasn’t with an angry scowl, it was with a look of almost incredulous delight, and she gave a short, astonished laugh the molded into words. “I-I’m sorry, but what did you just say?”

“I…I…I didn’t mean…I’m so sor-!” Keyatta stammered, but Professor O’Neill cut her off.

“No, seriously. I want you to say that again, right now.”

Keyatta winced, her heart sinking into her stomach. Well, Professor O’Neill was telling her to say the words again, and she was already in enough trouble. Might as well. “I said, ‘like you could do any better,’ ma’am,” she answered meekly, head bowed.

“Okay, okay, that’s what I thought. Stay right where you are, nobody else start flying.” The rustle of clothes, and Keyatta looked up to see the red-headed flight instructor pull out her wand, all while grinning at Keyatta with an expression that would have been home on a shark’s face. “Vera Gurasare,” Professor O’Neill chanted, and she disappeared with a pop.

For a moment silence reigned, but then Astrid turned to Lihuang. “Dibs! I call dibs on her crystal ball!”

Lihuang scowled. “Damn, I wanted that, it’s got better reception than mine does. Fine, I get her potions set.”

“That’s fair. Do you want her antique shrunken head?”

“Ugh, no, that thing creeps me out. It always feels like it’s watching me…”

Keyatta frowned. “What are you doing?” she snapped, and her two teammates turned exasperated looks on her.

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re divvying up your belongings now, so we don’t fight after Professor O’Neill kills you.”

Keyatta scoffed. “She’s not gonna kill me!” she protested, but she couldn’t help some of the doubt that crept into her words. Given some of the rumors about Professor O’Neill’s kill count during the fight against Silent Spring, could she be blamed for doubting, though?

And so her two so-called friends continued to lay claim to her belongings, other students occasionally throwing in a request, and an almost festive mood seemed to grip everyone except for Keyatta. After all, no one had ever seen Professor O’Neill really angry before, and there was a lot of curiosity about how exactly the punishment would be meted out.

Then, finally, one of the girls keeping lookout cried out. “Hey! There she is!” And then, softer, with frank admiration in her voice: “Oh, damn.”

There was almost a stampede as the students crowded at the railing, getting a look at the professor now walking towards the Observatory, and Keyatta couldn’t help but silently repeat that sentiment in her head. Oh, damn.

Professor O’Neill had changed out of her teacher’s robes and into something much more informal…dark green khaki cargo pants with knee pads built into them and a tight, black sleeveless shirt that showed off her trim torso, leanly muscled and tattooed arms, and broad shoulders. A beat up pair of combat boots and flight goggles strapped across her forehead completed the ensemble. She also had one of the biggest and monstrous looking brooms resting across her shoulders, and for the first time, Keyatta realized that she may have made a mistake. She gulped nervously as Professor O’Neill jabbed a finger up at the tower and then pointed at the ground in front of her.

“Oh my God, she’s going to kill me,” she whimpered, but there was nothing else she could do. A feeling of dread sitting like concrete in her stomach, she mounted her broom and flew down to the waiting professor, feeling very much like she was going to her executioner.

When she landed, she stood meekly in front of Professor O’Neill who stared at her with unreadable eyes. Then the older witch huffed, and brought her broom around with a flourish, the broom whistling through the air before it came to a rest. “Alright, so, you’re gonna back up your words, kid, we’re going to race. And this? This…is Silver,” Professor O’Neill said as she gestured to the massive broom, and Keyatta couldn’t help the small frown that took to her face, one that the professor noticed. “What?” she asked, tone short.

“Sorry, it’s just…Silver? That’s an odd name for a broom.”

Professor O’Neill frowned. “Silver…as in the Lone Ranger’s horse. It’s a classic name!”

By some small mercy, Keyatta kept her face composed, even as that little bit of knowledge made Professor O’Neill just that little bit more relatable. Her teacher liked old-timey cowboy shows. Huh. “Of course,” she said, tone neutral, and Professor O’Neill stared at her with narrowed eyes before she continued.

“Anyway, Silver here was made by Caplett and Prague, and probably cost more than your family’s property.”

Her first reaction was to scoff. Her family was one of the more prominent families of Louisiana, but then she really processed what Professor O’Neill had said. Caplett and Prague was the Bugatti of the broom world, and she gave the monstrous broom a once over, noting the sleek design and the unique knee and foot pegs, and she remembered some of the footage she had seen where Professor O’Neill had been able to keep full control over the broom without her hands. There were also gouges cut into the wood of the broom handle, as well as scorch marks. This was the broom the older witch had taken to battle against Silent Spring. And Keyatta was so totally dead. A school broom couldn’t compare to that broom.

Thus, it came as a complete surprise when Professor O’Neill tilted the broom handle towards her. “You will be the one riding it.”

Keyatta’s eyes flared open in shock. “What?”

“If I rode this, it wouldn’t be fair. So, you get Silver, I’ll ride your broom.”

“But Professor…I-I don’t want to damage it!”

Professor O’Neill threw her head back and laughed out loud at that. “Ha! Trust me kid, you should be way more worried about this broom hurting you than you hurting it. Now come on, put your hand on the broomstick, I have to tell it that you’re allowed to fly it.” Kenyatta hesitantly put her hand on the well-worn handle, and her breath was instantly taken away. It was like grabbing onto a live wire! And Professor O’Neill was going to let her ride this thing? “Silver, this is Keyatta Laveau, she’s going to be riding you. Don’t hold anything back, do exactly what she tells you to.”

The broom seemed to pulse in her hand, and some of that intensity to it seemed to reduce, and Keyatta let out a slow breath, suddenly very nervous. She was really going to ride this monster? Yes, apparently. Professor O’Neill was already mounting Keyatta’s broom, lifting off and hovering about ten feet off the ground, looking down at her. “We’ll do one lap, and I’ll mark the course with a trail, then we can race, and whoever wins gets bragging rights. Now come on, we don’t have all day.”

Numbly, Keyatta cast Tia Freyre, and Silver hovered obediently three feet off the ground, and she mounted it, rear resting on the well-worn saddle, wrapping her legs around the pegs so that they rested behind her knees and on top of her feet, like she had seen Professor O’Neill do in the videos on Witchtube. Heart hammering nervously, she gently brought the broom up to where her professor was waiting, and it was so strange…she could almost feel the broom’s impatient potential, it was like she was driving a formula one race car at the speed limit. The broom did it, but it seriously felt like it wanted to open up and just go.

Professor O’Neill gave her a smirk before turning forward and heading off, a sparkling golden trail emitting from Keyatta’s broom’s bristles, and the course that they were to run started with a long straightaway before banking sharply to the right before it meandered all over the school, at times mere feet from the ground, other times soaring up into the sky. It circled tightly up and around the New Moon Tower before diving sharply towards the ground. It did two laps around the perimeter of the athletic field. It weaved through the spires on the roof of the main school building, and it ran a few feet over the ground, heading towards the Observatory before it shot straight up, and Professor O’Neill marked a horizontal circle just in front of the end of the walkway that would be the finish.

They stopped there for a moment, and Keyatta glanced at all of her classmates who were looking at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, and she licked her lips as she wiped sweaty hands off on her robes, and Professor O’Neill was still smirking at her. “You can back out now if you want,” she said, amusement clear in her voice, and the competitive fire in Keyatta’s heart was lit.

“No, I want to do this!” she protested, and Professor O’Neill nodded before going into a slow dive back towards the base of the tower and the start point, and Keyatta took a deep, steeling breath. Okay, she had the better broom, and she was also smaller and lighter than the older witch. She should be more able to maneuver through tight areas…right? Professor O’Neill had well over a decade of riding experience, including some very high stakes races, but she was on Keyatta’s broom, and while it was a nice enough broom, it wasn’t built for a race more intense than the Luna Nova Cup. Surely she had a chance!

With that little bit of self-reassurance, she gave one last glance at her classmates before she, too, dived down to where Professor O’Neill was now waiting, and seeing the red-headed teacher roll her multi-colored eyes, she looked behind her to see most of her class taking off on their own brooms as they headed for the best vantage points to see the race. They were going to have an audience.

Then she reached the start point, and Professor O’Neill fished a pair of goggles out of one of her pants cargo pockets and handed them to her. “Here, you’re going to want these,” she said, dropping the goggles that had been resting across her forehead down over her mismatched eyes as Keyatta put on the offered goggles, making sure that the strap was tight. Once her hands returned to the broomstick, Professor O’Neill shot her a look. “Alright, y’all ready?” she drawled, and Keyatta nodded, nerves skyrocketing, and she wouldn’t trust herself to speak. “Alright, on your mark…get set…go!”

They were both off like a shot, the air instantly roaring against Keyatta’s ears as Silver rocketed forward, easily outstripping Professor O’Neill, and Keyatta couldn’t help the exhilarated whoop that erupted from her as she tore down the golden trail…only for that excitement to disappear as she shot past the turn, and she grunted, straining with all her strength to try and turn the broom to return to the race course, lifting her head to see Professor O’Neill effortlessly make the sharp turn, legs crossed at the ankles over the broomstick as she yanked up on the broom, taking the lead. Snarling every last Cajun curse she knew under her breath, Keyatta wrestled with Silver, finally getting it to turn, and she shot after Professor O’Neill as she cursed herself for her stupidity. All the speed in the world wouldn’t help if she lost fine control of the broom. She only had to go just a little faster than she knew her broom was capable of, and she’d win!

The next leg of the race didn’t have much in the way of sharp turns, and she was able to close the large gap that had developed between her and Professor O’Neill, but she couldn’t quite take the lead before they reached the New Moon Tower, and she grit her teeth as she followed Professor O’Neill in the spiraling path up and up, and she started to get a feel of just how badly she was actually outclassed. She was able to keep the path, but her movements were slightly jerky, and she kept well away from the tower…Professor O’Neill was as smooth as silk in her flight, and had she reached a hand up, she’d be able to touch the tower whose windows flashed by in rapid blurs. By the Nine, she’s good, she breathed to herself…and then they were clear of the tower and heading into the dive, the negative G’s pulling at Keyatta’s robes, and her stomach seemed to rise up into her throat as she was able to use gravity to take the lead again…only to lose it as she slowed down well in advance of the ground so that she could make the sharp turn. Overshooting a hard bank wasn’t a problem when you had nothing but air in front of you, but not pulling out of a dive heading right for the ground…

So it was a surprise when Professor O’Neill shot past her at the same break neck speed, and she couldn’t help the cry of alarm as the Texan rocketed towards the hard and unforgiving ground, only to stare in shock as Professor O’Neill managed to pull out of the dive, the bristles of Keyatta’s broom slapping the grass before O’Neill was pulling further ahead, and Keyatta grit her teeth as she followed after, once again closing the distance as they closed in on the athletic field, but even here she was outmatched, Professor O’Neill heading into the turns perilously close to the ground, close enough that when she turned, her knees brushed against the ground, the pads built into the pants protecting them as well as providing that much more friction to have the turns be that much sharper, and frustration bit at Keyatta as the gap between her and the Professor grew that much wider. She didn’t even know that her broom was capable of flying like that, how the hell did Professor O’Neill make it look that effortless?!

Then they were on the straightaway heading towards the main building, and Keyatta tried, she really did, but the lead between her and the Professor was just too big for her to clear in the short distance they had, and all she could manage was to get within ten feet of Professor O’Neill when they entered the spires, and honestly, it was at that point that Keyatta gave up all hope of actually winning this thing. She had to slow down to a manageable speed as she wove between the towering spires, but through it all, she couldn’t help but gape at Professor O’Neill. Keyatta was confident enough in her flying ability to keep the distance between her and the spires to within a few feet as she passed them…Professor O’Neill? She kept the distance down to mere inches, and how she did it blew Keyatta’s mind.

Professor O’Neill moved her body, not the broom, and it boggled the mind to think of how much strength and coordination it must have taken, but for each spire that she passed, Professor O’Neill would literally throw her body in the opposite direction, keeping contact with the broom with only a hooked ankle and gripping hand, and the amount of control she must have had over the broom to keep from spinning out of control as she did the crazy maneuver…Keyatta wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t powerful enough to exert that much control over a broom, and probably wouldn’t for years!

Then they were clear of the main building, and Keyatta ground her teeth together as she leaned low over the broom, urging it to go faster, to close that unbridgeable gap between her and the professor, and Silver complied, leaping forward eagerly. This time, she drew even with Professor O’Neill as they shot toward the near right angle turn that lead straight up the side of the Observatory, and she glanced over to see the former daredevil flier smirk at her before Keyatta had to slow down so she could make the turn safely, and she watched as Professor O’Neill leapt up away from the broom, planting a foot on top of where the bristles met the broomstick, pulling up with all her strength, the muscles of her back flexing and swelling with the strain of it as the bristles rasped against the grass before she was shooting straight up, body perfectly in line with the broom, and her sleek form cut through the air with very little drag, giving her just enough of an edge that Keyatta, despite trying her hardest, still finished the race just behind Professor O’Neill, much to the delight of her classmates who cheered and clapped at Professor O’Neill’s victory, and as the redhead slowed down and sat properly on the broom and Keyatta caught up to her, she shot a smug look at her. “So, you still think I can’t do any better?” she laughed.

Keyatta didn’t reply as she turned and headed back to the walkway, depositing the broom silently against the railing after she landed. She wasn’t even mad, she was actually terribly impressed with how well Professor O’Neill had flown, but the knowledge that she hadn’t had a chance even while on Silver was a bitter pill to swallow. She wouldn’t participate in the rest of the lesson after Professor O’Neill corralled all the other students back and continued her teaching. Instead, Keyatta merely sat on the walkway in the bright sun and brisk wind, arms wrapped around the legs drawn up to her chest as she went through the race moment by moment, analyzing every last move that Professor O’Neill had made. The older witch was so skilled, so it still begged the question:

Why would someone who could fly like that be so opposed to any of the students really pushing their skills and abilities to the max? Was she truly so afraid of losing someone that she would continue to keep them well below what they were all capable of?

These thoughts continued to ear at her as Professor O’Neill wrapped up the lesson and the rest of the students left, Lihuang and Astrid hesitating slightly over her as she continued to sit, but with a pair of sighs, they, too, mounted their brooms and left, leaving only her and Professor O’Neill on the walkway.

“Hey, kiddo, are you alright?” Professor O’Neill asked after a long pause, and normally the nickname would have annoyed Keyatta, but Professor O’Neill never called anyone by a nickname. “I, uh, I’d like to apologize for what I said…at the end of the race. It wasn’t very mature of me, but I was so pumped up after the race…it’s not very often than I get the chance to really fly like that…”

“Professor…” Keyatta started, voice hesitant. “Why…why won’t you let use really fly?” She turned confused, sad eyes on Professor O’Neill, who shifted uneasily, a look of discomfort on her face. “I’d get so mad because you treated me like a little kid when all the other professors would treat me my age, but…”

“Little kid?” Professor O’Neill scoffed as she dropped down to sit beside Keyatta. “I wouldn’t let a little kid ride that course, and I sure as shit wouldn’t let a little kid ride Silver!” Then she paused, fingers tapping absently on the floor of the walkway. “I just…I lost a lot of close friends and a cherished mentor during the Battle of Arcturus Forest, and the thought of losing anyone else, especially for something stupid like an accident while broom riding…I wouldn’t be able to live with myself,” she said, voice almost broken, and Keyatta shot a startled glance at her teacher, who had a completely open look on her face, a deep vulnerability to her as she opened up to her student, and Keyatta wasn’t sure how to handle being the one that Professor O’Neill was so open towards.

Then she glanced at Silver and blinked as the idea struck her. “Hey, Professor, can I ask a favor?” she asked, and at the redhead’s questioning glance, she continued. “Can I…can I see you run that course, on Silver, not holding anything back?”

Professor O’Neill stared at her for a long moment before a mischievous grin split her face. “You know what, kid, I’ll do you one better. You want to ride with me while I run the course?”

Keyatta’s eyes flared open at the, and she was so very glad that her dark skin helped hide blushes as the thought of riding on Silver with Professor O’Neill struck her full force. “I-I don’t know if that would b-be a good idea, Professor,” she protested, and Professor O’Neill just grinned wider.

“Nah, it’ll be fine. I’ve had to ride double with other students before, generally witches who are really uncertain of their ability and need someone to show them the ropes.” She stood up, dusted off her pants, and offered a hand to Keyatta. “Come on, I insist.”

Keyatta hesitated for a moment before she placed her hand in the warm, well-calloused hand of her professor, and she was pulled effortlessly to her feet as her blush deepened, though thankfully it seemed as though Professor O’Neill didn’t noticed as she prepared for the flight, first telling Silver that it would bear two riders, and it flashed briefly as the saddle elongated and the pegs moved so that both riders could rest their feet on them. Then Professor O’Neill changed Keyatta’s robes that they had a harness that she would connect to her belt, for safety, she explained cheerily as she motioned to the leather strap that Keyatta had noticed wrapped around the broomstick and that was attached to the saddle. Professor O’Neill would be attached to the broom, and Keyatta would be attached to her professor, so there was no chance of falling.

They mounted, and Keyatta wrapped arms around Professor O’Neill’s waist after she attached the clip of her harness to Professor O’Neill’s belt, feeling the firm, toned muscles dancing under the black fabric of her teacher’s shirt as Professor O’Neill buckled herself onto the broom. “Alright, just remember, keep with my body as we fly. We won’t be going as fast as I can get Silver to go, but it’ll be fast. And if you do well, then maybe we can talk about starting an advanced flyer’s course. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds good, Professor,” Keyatta managed to say with a level voice, despite the heavy blush on her face.

Professor O’Neill laughed as the broom lifted off the walkway. “Of course it does, it’s my idea! Now, hold on, here we go!” They shot off into the welcoming spring sky like an arrow fired from a bow, and Keyatta couldn’t help the laugh of delight that sprang from her lips as they dove towards the ground and the waiting starting point. After the flight, which would be the fastest Keyatta had ever been on, she would resolve to become the president of the sizable Professor O’Neill Fan Club as well as to put together the framework for an Advanced Flyer’s Club to be presented to the Headmistress, but right here and now, she resolved to truly enjoy the feeling of the wind in her hair, the warm sun against her skin, and the strength of the professor she held onto and moved with as they streaked through the course.

One thing was for damn certain, though…she was never going to be a problem student for Professor O’Neill ever again!

[anyberry]

In Between Wires (Cyberpunk AU - Sterek) Part 1

The city looked particularly bleak that day as Derek made his way through the crowded streets. Derek chose to retreat from the city to the woods over five years ago. No matter how many times he did his best to never return, he found himself back. Regular semi-monthly trips for special supplies were never as taxing. This was different. Derek returned with a mission and a purpose. Scott, an old friend who has been visiting frequently since he left, had finally called to talk, saying that he found his uncle.

Derek agreed to meet with Scott near the police bureau. It seems as though every month, the police department would be expanded and receive even more funding. Yet no matter how things changed, crime was on the rise. Derek did his best to avoid looking at anyone. He did not fear anyone on the streets, but more of what he would have to do in case any of them were as stupid enough to attack him. Everyone would just push around each other, people trying to sell what was in their stalls and in their pockets.

All buildings were built to the sky. While the bottom levels were shops and cafes, higher up, people lived. Looking up, you could see electric neon signs, trying to sell something. If you look even higher up, you can see people’s laundry hanging across ropes. Even though it has not been a whole day, he already misses looking up to see trees. Long beautiful pine trees. After a night full of rain. There is nothing beautiful in the city for Derek.

Derek finally reached the main police branch building where Scott has been waiting for him, looking down at his phone in hand. As Derek approached, Scott did not look up but the two started to walk side by side as if they have always walked near each other. “So what is the news on Peter?”

Scott continued to look down like he was not even talking to him. “My best friend has gathered security footage of him from one of the Southern districts. He was seen selling some information but we don’t know much else. For now, that is. We at least have a lead for the first time.”

“So what now?”

“Now we have to go to meet that friend.”

“Is there a particular reason he could not come out to a better place to talk?” Derek asked and Scott nodded uncomfortably, finally looking up as they enter the building. “Stiles is in a sort of delicate situation.” He did not explain what he possibly meant with such cryptic language.

They made their way to the 38th floor of the building, no one asking them who they are as seemingly everyone got used to seeing Scott around here often. They headed to an isolated office, far away from all others around it. “Does your friend know about everything?” Derek asked as they were further away from everyone else.

“Oh yeah. He was one of the first few people who knew when I was changed.”

Derek did not like a lot of normal people knowing, but as with everyone, no matter the risk, they always trust their best friends. They made their way to end to a room that had caution tape on its door and a fingerprint scanner to enter the door. “Excessive much?”

“More like Stiles is really extra these days. Don’t mind it.”

Scott scanned his thumb and lead Derek inside. The whole room initially looked as if it was made of wires. Wires and screens covered the room like they were the materials used to build this room. That is when Derek first laid eyes on Stiles.

On very first glance, it looked as if Stiles was connected to the wires as he was surrounded by them. But on further inspection, he really was connected to them. There was an IV in his arm and a nasal cannula connected to a tank right next to him. Derek felt stunned into place for a moment. He looked both frail and unbreakable at the same time. On one hand, he had very pale skin with a blue undertone and veins that were seen very clearly. On the other hand, he was not weak in how he carried himself. Stiles sat with one leg bent and the other thrown over the arm of his chair. He had a tv going on with the current news going on, several screens with unknown data and statistics. He had a laptop in front of his balanced on top of his air tank, a tablet with some unknown article, and a phone in his hand that had a game of chess.

Stiles began to talk without any introduction or anything. “I looked into the men to whom he was selling information to and they are an independent gang. I am currently trying to figure out what the exact information itself is but all that I can really say is that I don’t actually believe he is actively involved with them.”

Derek scowled at the news. “So does that mean we don’t actually have anything on him?” he asked Stiles.

Stiles finally smiled and his teeth look blue in the light of his screens. There was something a little wicked in that smile. It was clear to Derek that even though this guy had no magic in him, he was still dangerous. “Now, now wolf boy. Don’t be impatient.” Derek was in no mood for jokes, a little growl escaped his mouth. Stiles actually retreated back a little in his chair, actually looking a little nervous.

“Alright, alright. Jeez. Don’t get your cords in a knot.” He said, adjusting himself in his seat. “Here is the deal. I looked for all possible ties Peter Hale could have had with this particular group of gentlemen and I found a single girl’s name, Eliza Downtey. She worked with Peter before and each time her name would appear in his bank history, it was often enough that the next purchase that Peter would make was for some sort of plane ticket. Now, he was paid only several hours ago by Miss Downtey and he bought a ticket that I was able to track down...” He let his own voice go down into a whisper before stopping.

“And?” Derek demanded as this could be the exact information that he needed. Stiles shook his head a little and turned to Scott. “Scott. Buddy. My man. My main man.”

Scott looked uncomfortable and uneasy. “Stiles, come on. We talked about this,” he protested.

“You talked, Scott. I heard you. I understand. You can even say that I agree with your point but,” Stiles finally got up from his seat, putting his tablet and phone aside. For some reason, Derek felt as though Stiles should have been some how too weak to stand up properly but he was fine. Almost looking normal with his back turned from the screens. “I just don’t care, Scott. I am going to die anyway. If I get an extra week, it won’t help. Hand it over.”

Scott stared at his best friend, not breaking eye contact before finally giving up. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a bottle of rum, a pack of cigarettes, and vape juice. Stiles took everything and smiled again in the same cold matter as before, it was like his eyes were saying that he did not actually mean it. “Thanks, man.”

“Stiles, you really need to stop doing this. Your doctors said you do have a chance of recovering if you just go into treatment and then...” Scott tried to reason with him but Stiles just kept the smile on his face. Stiles walked over to the window in the corner of the room and put a pillow on the window sill before opening the window. The city noise poured in from far below in a faint echo. Stiles finished Scott’s sentence. “And then I will die in seven months instead of six. Scott. Please. I would rather sit here instead of going to the doctors. I will die. Let’s not play around with that anymore. If I go, I would rather go high, drunk, and with a cigarette butt in hand than with a nutritious cocktail and a medical debt for my father.”

Stiles took out his nasal cannula and lit a cigarette, taking a drag and then coughing a little. “Anyway... The ticket.”

Derek felt very strange having actually forgotten the ticket for a moment. Everything about this situation tasted like bitter medicine that he had to swallow.

Stiles unscrewed the rum and poured it in a semi-dirty glass with some coke. “Peter took a plane to the Northern Pacific islands. I have some theories why, the best one I have is that he has his hiding spot somewhere in that area. And that would make sense. It is a nice little place with sun shine, blue oceans, and high rates of human trafficking for sex trade.”

Derek had some rage return to him with the mention of Peter’s name. “When is he leaving?” he demanded, to which Stiles snorted a little bit. “Here is the fun part.” He finished up his cigarette even though it was visible that it was not that easy for him to inhale the smoke, he did it long but fast drags.

“Peter was actually supposed to have already gone. He even registered for the flight. But then he never actually boarded. I have a few theories there as well. Initially, I thought that he got into some kind of trouble. But then he made a few more simple purchases in a convenience store so he didn’t seem to be scared out there. I think he was given an offer that he could not refuse. I think he was given an opportunity to do something quickly. His ticket will be valid for the exact same flight at the exact same time this Friday. He did not refund his ticket so I believe that he will be there for that.” Stiles smiles and kicks back on the window sill with his drink and lights another cigarette.

Derek thought about what Stiles just said. This is his opportunity to actually catch him. He had some close allies still in the city who would be able to find Peter. He could not go himself as he would immediately trace him in a crowd. But he would need to be here when Peter would finally be caught. But a little question dawned on him. “So what now?” he asked.

Scott was the one who answered him. “Waiting. Just waiting really. That is all we can do. It is still just Wednesday. We don’t have any other lead on him until then.”

Derek looked down. It would be a pain to go back home now. But also, staying in the city, he would need a place to stay for two nights. Any hotel was out of the question as they cost insane amounts of money in the very center of such a packed metropolitan city. “Alright. Thanks. I guess I will go. I will need to find somewhere to sleep.”

Scott frowned. “I am really sorry that I can’t let you stay at my place. My mom is currently...”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Don’t worry about it. Just because I choose not to live here, doesn’t mean I am hopeless in the streets.” Derek said.

Stiles threw the second cigarette butt from the window before returning the tubes were they belong. “Oh please. So dramatic.” He made his way back to his seat and got back to his screens. “I have a lot to do tonight. And you know me, I never actually sleep at nights. I usually start considering the possibility when the second sunrise decides to creep up. I have had way too many energy drinks to be doing any sleep tonight. My bed is in the back room. You can crash here for the night and run along in the morning. I don’t care.”

Derek took up Stiles on his offered and headed to the back room. It was a dark little space that was surprisingly clean compared to the other room. But it looked just unlived in more than anything. Derek took off his shift and jeans, lying down in the dark. He could not smell any of the cigarettes, alcohol or medicine that was the distinct smell for Stiles.

Scott stayed with Stiles for a few hours and Derek could not help but choose to listen in on their conversation. Scott made another attempt to negociate his friend’s lifestyle decisions, all in vain. He could tell that Stiles was probably right as it was clear that something was killing him. It was not Derek’s business although it would be a real shame if his help was needed again and he was either too weak or dead. He wanted to rationalize how he felt then and there. He could not. He could not help thinking that he wanted to look at Stiles longer.

Something about him made it difficult to breathe. He was far from being in a glorious state but he was also far from being broken. He was sharp and with a sense of wit about him. But also, almost more than that, there was something magnetic in the way he looks. He has no idea why some guy with pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, and who was actively ordering flowers for his funeral was so attractive to him.

Derek eventually started to get drowsy despite some of the city noise still coming in from the open window. He adjusted himself in bed to face the wall, the blanket pulled over his head.

Derek listened to Stiles shuffling around somewhere in the bathroom, washing up. He must have started to fall asleep to not have noticed Stiles walk over to him. “Hey, there.” Stiles gently poked him, checking to see if he was awake. Derek grunted in response, “What do you want?”

“You.”

Derek felt wide awake after the utterance of the single-syllable word. Stiles spoke to him in a quiet whisper. “I could feel you checking me out earlier.”

Derek thought for a second and decided to sit up to face him. Stiles could not help but let his eye briefly wander over Derek’s shirtless chest. “I am not gay,” Derek told him.

Stiles smiles, but this time it was different. A quieter smiles somehow. “I didn’t say you were. I just think you were checking me out. I think I check you out. Just a little bit.” He bit lower lip just for a moment and it was hard not to stare at how he licked it afterward. “I don’t have the time in my life to careful poke at you over time and see if you decide to respond to my advances. Actually having an idea of how your life clock looks can make you a little more... brave.”

“You don’t seem bothered.”

“I have had enough drinks to get the balls to ask and enough self-hate to understand you telling me to fuck off. Having said that, here is my offer, for lack of a better word. You fuck me into the bed, you can leave without saying anything about it, I won’t ever mention it, and then pretty soon, I will take it with me when I go.” Stiles leaned back, brushing his hair back for it to only bounce back immediately. “I want you right now. Do you want me?”

Derek decided not to really think about it because if he did, he would naturally tell himself to do the right thing. So he just acted. He grabbed Stiles by the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss.

Stiles tasted like alcohol, tobacco, and bad decisions. Derek moved to his neck and bit down, not too hard as he was testing limits. Stiles moaned loudly and it felt wonderful against Derek’s lips. Stiles was feeling impatient enough to move to sit across Derek’s lap and grinding his hips. After letting Derek leave so bruises on him, he moved down.

Stiles did not have experience in sucking dick but he did have more than enough enthusiasm. He pulled down his boxers and got to work. Derek could not help but pull on his hair and push him down a few times when he’d slack. Stiles was all for it. He did not struggle to take him all in nor did he even flinch when he finally came into his mouth.

Last time Derek received head, the idea of kissing the person afterward seemed unthinkable but here he is. Pulling Stiles in for a kiss right after. He did not care. He finally pulled off Stile’s shirt and yanked a little on his hair to get good access to the crook of his neck. He bit him harder this time, a proper bite. Stiles screamed out but he absolutely loved it. “Fuck yes.” He gasped.

That out cry was what pushed away any last bit of hesitation. Derek ran his hand down his back and into his jeans to squeeze his ass. “Are you going to get on with it or do you want me to beg?” Stiles teased. Derek replied to that by slapping his ass with his other hand. Stiles gasped and decided to bite down on Derek himself.

After another kiss, Derek pulled Stiles on all fours. There was lube on the night stand and Derek found it effortless to slip two fingers inside of him. He clearly prepared for this with intensions to get fucked. Everything felt more urgent and heated. Derek had no idea why this guy of all people could cause such a fire to burn inside of him when no one could get close to that in a really long time.

Stiles looked up at him with hungry eyes, panting a little. “Please.” That was enough to drive him off the edge there. Derek pulled Stile’s jeans all the way off and got him to spread his legs more.

Once Derek thrust in, Stiles moaned loudly but that is not what he wanted. He wanted to hear him scream. Scream he did when he started to fuck him nice and hard. Stiles could not think of anything at the moment as his senses became overwhelmed. He just moaned, gasped and screamed.

After seemingly hours of fucking and a lot more, the two of them finally hit the bed, gasping for air. “I am guessing you are not going to stay up,” Derek said.

Stiles laughed in response. “I don’t think I have any energy to move. Ugh. But have to.” Stiles found it in him to get up and get his tank hauled over to the bed. In the mean time, Derek went to the bathroom and cleaned himself off. He could not help but feel awkward when he finally got into bed, pulling his boxers back on. He had to face the fact that he has repressed sexuality that he needs to reflect on later. But after Stiles finished cleaning himself off, put on sweat pants and made his way into bed, things nothing felt that important.

There was still a world of issues. He had to worry about Peter. He had to get out of the city again. But all that he could really think about what that he could wrap an arm around Stiles and keep him close. Derek could feel Stile’s low heart rate against his chest and it just made him more tired than ever as his own heart rate dropped to meet his halfway.

[psychic-timetraveler]

Time Traveler’s Oliver and Company AU

About the AU (x) Other Drabbles (x) ___________

Part 4: Streets of Gold

The sunrise over the city was quiet lovely, despite it already being rush hour. People were eagerly on their ways to get to their jobs throughout the city. The traffic on the streets were just as bad as the traffic on the sidewalks. Rose made sure she was always within an arms reach of Quincy, especially having no idea where they were headed.

Eventually, Rose finally asked a question that had been bugging her since she woke up that morning. “Okay. What did you find out?”

“What?” He asked looking down at her quickly.

“You know what I mean. You were there all night. Like you didn’t do some digging on the internet. What did you find?”

He shrugged. “Nothing much. Social media accounts, foster system file, your paypal. No wonder you’re not worried about running from the system.”

“If you saw my social media, then you saw my YouTube account. Thus, the paypal. Stay in a place for so long, make a few videos, post them sporadically, rake in a few pretty pennies.”

“I didn’t watch any videos, just saw that you had one. Honestly, I was too focused on the foster system file. You have some track record there. Coast to coast and everywhere in between.”

“What can I say? I hated the system.”

“Obviously.”

He quickly grabbed her backpack strap and pulled her into an apartment building. She made a tiny noise at the sudden change of direction. The stairwell to this building seemed a bit run down but not to the point of being a shit hole. Hell, she’s lived in houses worse than this. He lead her up three flights of stairs and down a hallway. Always the last door on the left. Always!

He stopped at the last door on the left, so cliche, and opened it. He ushered her in first and shut the door behind them. “So my roommate should still be out. Bathroom is down the hall, you’re free to use it. Was not expecting to spend the night at the warehouse so, I gotta shower and grab some shit for the day.”

She nodded and headed back where he had pointed. Before she could even shut the door, she heard another door close. Assuming it was his door, she went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Though a shower sounded nice, dry shampoo would be her friend for a day or two still.

Instead she brushed her teeth first before spraying her hair down with dry shampoo. She dug into her backpack and changed clothes for the day. Those travel sized vacuum seal bags were lovely, the kind where you just rolled out the air. Layers were also a friend. She changed everything but her hoodie and jacket. Deodorant went next after feeling not disgusting anymore followed by some body mist.

She debated for a minute if she even wanted to bother with makeup, which she decided yes. Just some eyeliner and a nice lipgloss mostly. Soon she deemed herself presentable enough and cleaned up the bathroom like she had found it.

By the time she opened up the door, the apartment was still empty and Quincy’s door was still shut. Already hearing his voice in her head about not touching anything, she went over to the couch and sat down. This was going to be an ideal time to plug her phone in for a bit and charge it, alongside her backup battery. Despite it charging, she poked at it a bit and checked on her social media accounts to keep occupied.

A door opening caused her to look. What she thought was going to be Quincy was not, it was another man instead coming through the front door. He gave her a look and an equally confused courtesy wave.

“Q?” The man asked.

Rose pointed to his bedroom. Jesus how many nicknames did this dude have?

The man, instead of knocking, burst right into Quincy’s room. Rose turned her attention back to her phone, best to just stay out of it.

The man didn’t care by this point and just walked into Quincy’s bathroom in his room. Thankfully he was still in the shower.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Quincy yelled.

“I should be asking you the same thing!” The other man shouted back.

“Fucking knock next time, asshole!”

“Why the hell is there a teenager sitting in our living room?”

“Uh, my living room. You’re the one who’s moving out.” Quincy was terrible at answering questions.

“Not the point, there’s still a teenager in the living room!”

“I know that!” He shut off the water and grabbed the towel he had draped over the shower curtain rod. “It’s a long story, okay? When are you officially moving out?”

“I came to grab a few more things and I’m out today. I’m leaving you a check for the rest of the month’s rent and whatever else I owe you and I’m gone.”

“The rest of the shit in your room?”

“Leaving it here.”

Quincy groaned and stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist. “God you suck.”

He shrugged. “Well at least I don’t bring teenagers to the apartment.”

“George, it’s a long story okay? I should still be pissed at you for leaving all of your fucking furniture for me to deal with.”

“Well the next poor sap you live with won’t have to worry about it.”

Quincy gave his ex-roommate a look. “You done roasting me now? Leaving?”

George groaned. “Yes, I’m leaving. Jesus. Just going to leave everything on the kitchen table and I’m gone.”

“Still see you at the gym next Thursday?”

“Obviously.”

With that, George left Quincy’s room. He dried off and go ready, or at least as best to his ability. That mostly consisted of picking things throughout the room that he assumed were still good to wear. Whatever, it was good enough. Hell, he even threw on a dodgers baseball hat to seal the deal.

By this point he did not care, he just wanted to get the job started. He grabbed his own backpack of goodies from beside his bed and double checked he had everything in there. Everything seemed to be there, what really mattered was his flash drive. That had everything in it for the job.

He grabbed his jacket and slung his backpack over his shoulder. When he walked out into the living room, he wasn’t surprised to see Rose sitting there on her phone.

“Is George still here?”

“Nope. He left a few minutes ago.” She responded, not looking up from her phone. “You two argue like an old married couple.”

Quincy rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You ready?”

“Waiting on you.” She had already begun to gather her chargers and plugs. “What’s the game plan, chief?”

“Use public wifi to get into a big name business computer for starters. The key is getting in, everything else can then be done remotely at the warehouse.” He explained, opening the front door again. “And don’t call me ‘chief’ again.”

Rose shoved the charger plugs into her bag and zipped it up. She flung it over her shoulder and headed out the door. “Fine.”

He shut the door behind her and they walked down side by side. “You’re the first one of the gang to see where I actually live, let alone half meet my roommate.”

“Ex roommate.” She corrected. “For real though, argue like a married couple.”

“Thus why he’s moving out.”

“Is it really though?” She arched an eyebrow at him.

“Nah, he started seeing someone and decided to move in with her.” He rolled her eyes. “Spare me.”

“That means you have an opening for a new roommate. Melissa perhaps?” She smiled to him. If anything it was a shit eating grin.

He gave her a tired look. “I swear to the gods above, you are worse than the rest of them and I’ve known you the shortest.”

“Oh, I heard a lot yesterday while you and Charlie were out. A lot.”

He let out a defeated sigh. “I bet.” With that he opened the door and ushered her back onto the busy sidewalks. “In this lighting, you can see the new patches of grey I obtained just from that conversation. Thank you for that.”

“Glad I can be of assistance with that.” She smiled proudly.

He let out another sigh. “God, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Yet, you still haven’t told me to fuck off yet.” She reminded.

“That’s correct.” He began to nudge her down the street again.

She decided to leave it at that. Not knowing what the day ahead was going to bring, it was probably for the best that she kept her mouth shut. Besides, she was too focused on how lovely the city looked this morning.

The rising sun cast an orange glow onto the buildings and streets to give everything a pleasant glow. Actually, it looks as if the streets were paved with gold. This had to be one of the prettiest cities she had lived in since she’s been in the foster care system. It took seven years to finally feel at home and at peace but it came.

That was quickly taken away from her as Quincy was pulling her backpack to the right as they took a corner. This street wasn’t as pretty as the last one they just walked down but something about this city was really starting to feel peaceful, despite it being loud and dirty as hell. It was a city of wonder and mystery that she loved.

Now it was time to get to business. Quincy and Rose went in and out of coffee shops all morning and well into the afternoon. Various points of the city, trying to get into their client’s target’s computer. Though their client didn’t give them much to go off of, it was something and Quincy at least knew what he was doing. Despite getting frustrated and wanting to jump into oncoming traffic every hour and a half or so, it was sort of productive.

All that mattered to Rose was the coffee she was drinking and the homework she was finishing. Though she completely missed that day of school, it was for the best not to mention it. Quincy seemed like the sort of guy who would’ve flipped and said she should’ve been in school that day. It was best to just leave it at that. The only downfall to not being in school that day was she would be without her laptop all weekend.

Fridays were her day to get out a bit earlier too so she could do just this, use coffee shops free wifi to upload her youtube videos. Now she spent her day drinking lots of coffee and doing her homework with social media breaks every so often.

It was around four or four thirty in the afternoon. Somehow they had managed to get uptown into the nicer district, close to where the upper crust people lived. It was a small coffee shop that happened to be below a paper shop. There was a dude with an acoustic guitar playing in the back of the shop that made Rose cringe externally and internally.

Either way, Quincy was getting a lot of work done and this seemed like it was going to be the ideal spot and hopefully the last. They had been at this all day and she could tell Quincy was getting annoyed. Though they had not said much, it was the amount of caffeine that man had been drinking all day and his frustrated habits were easy to pick up on. Especially the one where he put his head down on the table and groaned into his jacket sleeve. That was her favorite. Well that and when he’d lean all the way back in his chair and put his hat over his face for a minute or so. That was also comical.

Rose had looked up from her phone and saw a familiar face walk into the coffee shop. He didn’t see her right away, he was too fixated on the menu towards the side of the shop. When he walked passed her, she could see headphones in his ears. A teen with priorities.

The other young man ordered his coffee and waited for it to the side, now rocking one headphone. In one hand he held a guitar case, or in his case a bass from what she remembered about her friend. In the other he had his phone as he searched for a song. Once he settled on one, he pocketed it again and waited for his drink.

The barista called out for a orange hot cocoa and he grabbed the beverage and thanked the woman. He took a sip and that’s when Rose decided to offer a small wave to him. He smiled to her and stopped next to the table with her and Quincy.

All that mattered was that Quincy was oblivious to everything happening currently around him. Though it didn’t matter. He would try to roast her for her male friend but she’d shoot back about Melissa again.

“Hey.” The taller teen smiled down to Rose. “Didn’t see you in class today, everything okay?”

“Hey.” She returned the smile, though it was forced. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just a bit hectic right now. Trying to get my shit in order.”

“Well, if you ever need a quiet place to do some studying or to run away for a bit, my place is always open to ya. My parents are usually away on business most long weekends so it’s always quiet and it gets a bit lonely sometimes. Wouldn’t mind to have a friend come over once in a while.”

“Thanks, really. I’ll have to keep that in mind at some point.”

“I’m actually late for band practice.” He laughed a bit and held up his bass case. “I’ll catch ya later, Ro.”

“See ya, Brad.” She waved to him as he walked out of the coffee shop.

She went back to her phone, completely oblivious that Quincy was staring at her. It took her a few seconds of him staring to finally look up. To be honest, she didn’t realize he knew that her friend had talked to her for a moment either.

“What?” She asked.

“You know that kid?” He asked.

“Yes? I go to school with him. He’s a bit upper crust but super down to earth.”

“Brad? Right? That’s his name?” Quincy asked.

Rose put her phone down to give him her undivided attention. “Yes. Okay, what is with these questions? Yes, his name is Brad. Yes, I know him from school. Yes, we are friends. No, I do not plan on dating him. What else do you want to know?”

He rolled his eyes. “Listen. That’s the son to our client’s target.”

“Daniel Slater?” She asked, remembering the name.

“Yes.” He shut his laptop and leaned back in the chair. “Wow, this is going to be a helluva lot easier than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

He dug into his backpack for the flash drive. “This. If you can get what’s on this flash drive onto one of Daniel Slater’s computers, we’re golden. Mr. Sykes is going to be one happy man and he’s not the type of man you want to piss off.”

“Okay. So what are you then getting at?”

The flash drive made a small plastic clink when it hit the table. Quincy slid the device over to her. “You’re going to be the one who plants it.”

She plucked it off the table. “Me?”

“You know his son, and who literally just offered you to go over at any time. Who better? Charlie said you were apart of the gang anyway. Think you can manage it?”

She turned the flash drive over in her hand a few times before pocketing it in her hoodie. “I think I can manage it.”

“Attagirl.” Quincy smiled at her.

Something about hearing a form of validation from an adult made her smile a bit on the inside. She was apart of something. Okay, something a bit sketchy but it was something! Half of the other foster homes she’d been in were garbage and yet these hackers were willing to take her in with open arms. This was something she did not want to lose. They were all good people who just chose to do questionable things in their free time.

Quincy gathered his laptop and charger and shoved them back into his bag. “Let’s get outta here.”

She pocketed her phone next and stood up after him. “Fucking finally. I think I had enough caffeine to last me a week.”

“Or a day?” He laughed a bit.

“That too.” She smiled.

He nudged her. “Come on, there’s a pretty good pizza place up the block a bit.”

[vbtsjimin-blog]

Chapter 3: February 28.

If was finally the day you had been anticipating... Friday. You took a deep sigh as you tried to decide between the two shirts you were holding out in front of you, finally deciding on the black floral print. You threw the other shirt on your bed, and tugged the chosen one over your head as you made your way to your mirror. You leaned forward, your nose almost touching the cold glass, as you examined the dark circles under your eyes. They were a darker shade of purple every morning you had woken up that week, and you cursed yourself for not forcing more sleep.

As you took a step back, your heart skipped a beat, and you had no idea why you were so nervous. You were just going over to the boys’ house - a place you had been countless of times. Shit, sometimes you think you were over there more than you were at your own apartment, but fear that something had shifted in your friendship began outweighing the comfort of the known. It was the same feeling you get when you step outside in the late October air and can instantly feel the ominous ambiance of winter on the horizon. 

You quickly tried to shake the feeling out of you, returning your attention on your untamed hair. For the first time in a long time, you actually gave a shit about your appearance around the boys. It was just something about Lucy that drove you mad, and you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. You weren’t jealous. There had been many other girls that have came and gone, but there was just a feeling to her that you couldn’t place and you started hating yourself for how possessive you had began feeling over the boys. Your boys.

Twenty more minutes of you brushing, curling and applying make-up had passed before you were finally pleased with what was staring back at you in the mirror. You paired the black floral shirt you paired earlier with your favorite pair of skinny jeans that were ripping at the knees. You decided to finish the outfit off with your trusted converse - almost as a comfort to you. One last look in the mirror, and for a split second you saw the normal you. The you that didn’t have to exist during this part of the year. The you who still had their mother.

“I can’t wait to see youuuu :)” your phone dinged with a text message from Hoseok. You held your breath as you skimmed the words over and over, the nervous sinking feeling back in the pit of your stomach.

None of the boys had mentioned the fifth anniversary of your mother’s death this year, which stung as much as you tried to tell yourself that it wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t their mother who abruptly passed away. When the accident happened, your relationship with the seven bos had just started blossoming. They had no loyalty to you back then, yet they stayed up with you rubbing your back while you cried yourself to sleep, helped plan the ceremony because you could barely talk let alone think, and sat there in the graveyard with you hours after she had been laid into her plot. All so you wouldn’t feel alone, even though technically, you were more alone now than ever. Ever since you were a little girl it had always just been you and your mom - no relatives or close friends to share your lives with. And even though the boys barely knew you, they had stuck around that day and every other day since then.

Up until now, you thought to yourself.

After a ten minute walk and a few flight of stairs, you finally approached the front door, your hand shaking slightly as it knocked against the oak wood. You heard laughter inside, but no movements that signified that someone was on their way to let you in. You took a deep breath and knocked harder, a call finally escaping the cracks to let you know someone was on their way.

“YN!” Jin yelled, scooping you into a giant bear hug and bringing you up so just the tip of your toes were all that was left touching the floor. You breathed in his clean scent and your shoulders finally relaxed, wrapping your arms around his waist, trying to match the strength of his hug.

You felt your feet touch the ground and his hands made their way to your shoulders. Jin held you back at arms length and took the sight of you in, a small smile reaching the corners of his lips.

“I’m fine” you rolled your eyes. Maybe they did remember after all. “It’s just been a long week, y’know?”

“Tell me about it” he shook his head slightly, his hand running through his hair. “You know how we get before a comeback... all the pressure. So let me be the first to formally apologize for everybody being an ass lately.”

“Oh, uh yeah, of course” you stammered, completely puzzled. The truth was you did know how they got around a comeback, but the stupid fight you all had about Lucy had been the last thing on your mind for the past few days.

“But don’t worry!” he clapped his hands together once, joy spreading across his face. “Taehyungie had a great idea last night to make it all better. We figured, why not give you and Lucy an opportunity to get to know each other so you both can see why we think you each are so great!”

Jin looked at you expectantly, like he had just told you that you could choose one vacation, anywhere in the world, all expenses paid by them. 

“You know,” he continued, “that way we can all hang out together and everything will go back to normal!”

You looked at him, forcing a smile through clenched teeth. You didn’t have the heart to crush him - he honestly thought this was the answer to everything. Everything that didn’t even matter to you right now. You were scared your voice would betray you if you spoke, so you gave him a nod, telling him that their plan was a go. The next thing you knew Jin had grabbed your hand and began dragging you into the common area where everybody was already seated.

A chorus of male voices called out your name, one by one, as you made your way around the room and silently hugged the seven boys. The tension that had just left your shoulders moments ago was now back, gaining strength with every hug. Finally, it was the last person in the room’s turn. Lucy stood up like each boy had done and you stopped in your tracks, just staring at her. You waited for her to make the first move like she was a poisonous snake that could strike at even a blink of an eye.

“Hi” she finally chirped. You knew she was checking you out as well. “I’ve heard so much about you!” She held out her arms like she was going to go in for a hug, but she caught the slight motion of you leaning away from her, and her arms fell back to her side.

“That’s nice” you finally mustered. You were proud that you could say that much, and although the anger was trying hungrily to escape you, you had kept it at bay... for now.

“Uh, YN?” Taehyung cleared his throat, your eyes snapping out of your trance and onto his glare. You couldn’t read his expression, but you knew he wasn’t as proud of you as you were. “So how about a movie night?” he finally said out loud, looking back to the others in the room.

“Whose turn is it to pick a movie?” Jimin chimed in quickly. You looked back at Lucy and she had already started making her way back to her spot on the couch in between Tae and Jungkook.

“Isn’t it Yoongi’s?” You asked, scanning the room for an empty spot. Namjoon made room in between him and Hoseok and you have him a grateful smile as you plopped down in the middle.

“I picked last Friday when you bailed on us.” His lips curved up on one side, and you knew he was trying to play around with you, but the comment still hurt a little.

“What about Lucy since this is her first movie night ever?” Jimin piped up again, and you could barely make out Jin giving him an elbow to the ribs. A quiet grunt escaped Jimin’s mouth as he shot his hyung a dirty look.

“Uh, I mean,” Jimin tried to recuperate, “only if you want to.”

“I think it’s only fair” Taehyung added, trying to save whatever was left of this already awkward evening.

“Oh you guys, no! What if the movie I pick out is horrible?” she gushed and you literally had to close your eyes so the others wouldn’t see them roll to the back of your head.

“I’m sure we’ll like anything you pick” Namjoon replied sweetly. You snapped your head his way, just to double check that voice actually came from his mouth. It had.

“You don’t know that!” Lucy giggled. “I could pick the most boring movie ever and you all will be miserable and never invite me back!”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing” you mumbled to yourself, and you felt Hoseok and Namjoon’s elbows bump against your arms.

Are they freaking kidding me? You thought to yourself, and before you could control it, the anger slowly started to seep out of you.

“They like two things... comedy and action movies. It’s not like it’s fucking brain surgery” you deadpanned. 

You immediately felt the glares silently attack you. You knew it came out more harsh than you had wanted, but at that point you didn’t care. Why did you all of a sudden have to watch what you said just because she was here? Tonight was supposed to be your night with the boys - not hers. Movie nights was the eight of your’s tradition. Never once, with all the people that were in and out of your lives, did it ever become a nine person event. And not to mention it wasn’t just any movie night. It was the night of your mother’s death.

As the events of the past week kept replaying in your mind, you felt less and less control over your anger toward everybody in the room - reality slapping you hard in the face. The reality is that you're now just the toy they put on the shelf to collect dust for the rest of it’s pathetic, sad life. You’re important enough to keep around because of all the memories you hold, but you’re also insignificant enough to not play with anymore. The new, shiny toy of the year, with better gadgets and cooler accessories is here to replace you.

“Oh” Lucy smiled at you, “duh! You’re so right. We went to go see that new Jumanji movie the other day and I thought it was absolutely horrible but they kept talking about it like it deserved an Oscar!”

“What?” you seethed. Your eyes were blaring with rage at this point as each set of almond shaped eyes turned hesitantly to look at you.

“Shit” you heard Hoseok whisper beside you.

“We’ve been talking about seeing that movie together for weeks now!” you stood up, your arms flailing in the air.

“We went really early before because we had some dead time before rehearsals one day and we knew you were still at work!” Jungkook tried to reason.

“It still would have been nice if any of you could have fucking remembered me for once!” You started to pace, your arms defensively folded against your chest.

“It’s just a goddamn movie, YN” Yoongi said. “I’m sorry we forgot to go with you, but that’s no excuse to get this upset over it.”

“I’m sorry” Lucy whispered. She brought her knees to her chest and she wrapped her arms around herself, shifting closer to hide behind Taehyung’s wide frame.

“Oh just shut the fuck up” you laughed. You turned away from her, knowing the backlash from your comment was coming, and headed towards the door. You didn’t know where you were going, you just knew you had to get out of there.

“What the hell?” Namjoon said, standing up. His voice didn’t sound angry, just confused like he was trying to understand. You stopped walking and turned to look over your shoulder at him. His palms were out, facing you, like he was asking to hold your hands. You appreciated his calm demeanor and slowly turned to face him.

“YN what the hell is going on?” he asked again. All you could do was shake your head from left to right, mentally telling yourself to not let the first tear drop.

“Nothing” you whispered.

“Bullshit!” Jin cried. You jumped at the level of his voice, not expecting this outburst from him. “What is your problem with Lucy?”

Of all the people to question your motifs in this room, Jin was the last person you thought would do so. “I said nothing!” Your voice was higher than you wanted, making how upset you were known to the boys. “She’s perfect! She’s great! I’m so glad she’s here and spending time with us all. This was such a great idea, Tae.”

“Don’t blame me for this” Taehyung responded. “We’re making an effort here unlike you.”

“I need to get out of here” a frustrated laugh escaped your lips. You turned towards the front door, your hand already reaching out to grab it when you heard Namjoon’s soft tone again.

“YN please just calm down and explain to us what is going on.”

You don’t know why you stopped at the sound of your voice, but it was like your legs had a mind of their own.

“See,” Namjoon continued, “I know you want to work this out just as much as us.”

“What I really want” you finally said, your hand still on the door knob, “is for you to all get your head out of your asses.”

“YN” Namjoon repeated your name. You felt his hands touch the back of your shoulders and you jerked quickly away from him.

“Get the fuck off me.” Your voice came out low, and you were shocked at just how dangerous you sounded. You felt his hands try again, and this time you turned to smack his arms away from you.

Yoongi stood up and quickly made his way to Namjoon. “Just let her fucking go, man” he said, trying to lure him back into the common area. “I don’t know what is going on with you YN” his eyes were now locked on yours, “but you need to fix your shit and fast.”

“Or what” you laughed. You took a few steps back and you were now pressed against the door frame. Your hand was frantically searching for the door knob. “You’ll stop being my best friend? I think you’ve already done that.”

The silence in the room would make anybody crazy. It was so silent, you were sure nobody was breathing.

“I think I should leave” Lucy whispered. She began to get up, but Taehyung had gently grabbed her arm to sit her back down.

“No” he said, his voice with more authority in it than you were accustomed to, “if anybody needs to leave it’s her.” Taehyung nodded his head towards you and you finally felt the first drop of liquid leave your eye. “YN you know we love you, but you’re making it impossible for us right now to even want to be around you. Go calm down and call us when you’re ready to explain what is going on with you.”

“Hey Jungkook...” you blinked at him through tear stained eyes. “I haven’t heard much from you tonight.”

“YN, don’t. Not to him” Jin said.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do right now” you snapped. You turned to look at Jungkook again. “I just have a simple question, that’s all.”

“Okay,” Jungkook said, unsure what was about to come.

“What’s today’s date?”

“February 28th I think” he paused. When I didn’t respond he cleared his throat, “Why?”

“Huh” you chuckled angrily, “that’s what I thought. You know guys, I actually really should be thanking you.” Your hand finally twisted open the nob and you stepped halfway out of their apartment.

“Thanking us?” Hoseok asked.

“Yeah... I mean all this time I thought I had finally found with you guys but it turns out I was wrong. It turns out you all are just a bunch of seven guys that I thought I knew.”

And with that you slammed the door and took off down the stairs before anybody could chase after you. You busted through the entrance of their building and out into the rain and you didn’t stop there. Your feet kept pounding into the asphalt beneath you until you ended up at the one place you had been avoiding for the past five years. You ran to the place that your mind didn’t know you needed, but your heart did. You ran to your mother.

***

in the dark (revised).

chapter 3: february 28.

<-- previous, next -->

[welllpthisishappening]

Caught in Your Light (1/4)

Forever. It's been forever. Or, possibly, longer.

It might honestly be longer.

Killian can't remember a moment when he wasn't hopelessly, head over heels in love with Emma. And it's kind of becoming a problem. Because it's been forever and they've always been friends, but now things are changing and traditions are ending and there's just one more weekend.

This is it. So it's time to do something about it. In Boston. With all their friends watching. It'll be fine.

Rating: Mature. Swearing. Kissing. Rinse and repeat. Word Count: Way too many, but just under 9K this chapter. AN: Hi, hello, hey there! It’s me again with more words. This is my @csficformal​ story for @idristardis​. It has been an absolute delight getting to know you over the last few weeks and I hope you enjoy all the words and the pining an (eventual) bed sharing. A major thank you to @distant-rose​ & @awkwardnessandbaseball​ for organizing this event and just being generally fabulous. And I’m not saying that my friends and I also called the last weekend of spring semester Final Jam, but I’m not, not saying that, y’know?  Also on Ao3 if that’s your jam (of the final variety or otherwise) with future updates on Tuesday and Friday. 

He can’t stop moving.

If he stops moving, he’ll probably start thinking and the last thing Killian wants to be doing in the middle of Logan Airport is think. So he keeps bobbing on his feet instead, bouncing up and down like an over-excited kid and it’s a pretty apt description because, much like the kid standing next to him, he too is also holding a hand-made sign.

And waiting.

Her flight is late.

He refuses to believe that is a sign. He’s got already one, anyway, and it’s, technically, a sheet of computer paper with a drawing that one of the art teachers promised looked great the day before, but it’s still a sign and Killian will not think about how the FAA is, apparently trying to ruin his weekend.

The kid next to him keeps sending Killian furtive glances, confusion obvious in the pinch between his eyebrows and that’s fair – Killian probably looks like a crazy person, but he can’t stop moving and it’s getting increasingly more difficult to breathe and Emma’s flight is late.

“Are you ok?” the kid asks and Killian freezes in his tracks, the forty-second time he’s traced out that particular semicircle on the floor of the JetBlue arrivals gate. His eyes widen slightly, brows jumping up his forehead and he bites back the immediate retort of you shouldn’t be talking to strangers sitting on his tongue.

He nods instead, slow and a little awkward and his arm is starting to ache from holding this sign up for so long.

The kid does not look convinced.

That’s fair too. The entire Boston area probably knows that Killian is not fine. He’s nervous and anxious and excited and nervous – an adjective that deserves mentioning twice because it’s the weekend in some kind of bolded and underlined and supremely italicized way.

Only that’s not what they’re calling it.

They’re calling The FINAL Final Jam and it’s not a very creative title, but they’re not a very creative group and this would have been easier if Emma’s flight was on goddamn time.

He’s started thinking.

Damnit.

“Ok,” the kid mutters, averting his eyes because Killian might actually be glaring at him, but he’s kind of lost control of his face and, like, his entire life.

He takes a deep breath, or, at least, tries, pulling in oxygen through his nose and it’s all repurposed air anyway because he’s been standing in the airport for the last forty-five minutes and he’s going to have to pay so much money to get out of that parking garage.

“I’m really fine,” Killian promises and it doesn’t even sound like his own voice.

It is, he reasons, because of Final Jam.

He hates that name.

That’s a lie too.

It’s a vaguely hysterical name that they all came up with, exactly, a decade ago – slightly overworked and vaguely exhausted freshman with finals ahead of them and a first year of college, almost, behind them and Mary Margaret had been going through some strange Disney Channel Original Movie phase at the time.

“It’s a perfect name,” she’d promised and she sounded so sincere and so enthusiastic that none of them objected. Ever again.

And Final Jam was born – the last weekend of the year before finals or, as they got older, the first weekend in May and they all made a list and came up with one incredibly tourist-type activity they each wanted to do and there was always a considerable amount of alcohol and far too much laughing and Jonas Brothers references and it might have been Killian’s favorite weekend of the year.

It was definitely Killian’s favorite weekend of the year.

Only now, it’s ten years later and it’s the final Final Jam because they’re all adults and Mary Margaret and David are going to have a kid and things have to end some time.

This is exactly what he didn’t want to be thinking about.

The kid is still staring apprehensively at him, mouth twisted and Killian wonders where his parent or guardian is, but that only lasts as long as the relative silence and then there’s a PA announcement and a flash on one of the boards and--

“Killian!” His head snaps around at the sound and the voice, any worry about the end of everything forgotten, and he nearly drops the goddamn sign.

She’s smiling as soon as he moves, a bag slung over her shoulder and it hits him in the thigh when she all but leaps towards him, arms flung around his neck and laughter ringing in his ears and he doesn’t exactly breathe her in because that would weird, but he doesn’t not do it either and his arms fit around Emma Swan’s waist perfectly.

“Am I not on the ground anymore?” she asks, but the words get jumbled a bit where she’s pressed into his shoulder and the sign is a lost cause at this point.

Emma leans back slightly, feet absolutely not on the ground and that’s not doing Killian’s forearms any favors, but he can’t consider a possibility where he moves, which is only slightly ironic considering everything else that’s happened in the last hour or so.

“Are you not impressed with my feats of strength, Swan?” he asks and he’s smiling too, but that might be because he’s fairly convinced he can feel every single inch of her.

“Oh no, no, totally impressed. But what are you doing here? Don’t you have to impart wisdom to several dozen teenagers?” “I get days off.” “You work at the same school as Mary Margaret and I know for a fact that you did not have today off.” “Well I get to request days off.” He’s momentarily concerned about the state of her back when she arches away even more, but he’s also a bit preoccupied by whatever her fingers are doing to the hair at the nape of his neck and the way her shoulders kind of sag when she exhales.

Like it’s the single most surprising thing in the world.

“You took today off?” Emma asks softly.

“How else were you going to get into the city?” “On public transportation like everyone else.” “Ah, but you’re not everyone else, are you, Swan?”

The words are out of his mouth before he’s had half a second to consider them and Killian’s vaguely certain even the kid behind him gasps, but it might be the most honest thing he’s said...ever.

That’s only kind of alarming.

He really does try to impart historical knowledge to severals dozen teenagers regularly and it feels like breaking some kind of teaching code to suggest that he’s lying to them.

Even so.

It is the truest truth Killian Jones has ever said and that sentence structure would make Mary Margaret groan.

He met Mary Margaret first. Well, technically he met David first – forced together on a group project in a freshman science class that neither one of them were particularly good at – but it only takes a few days to meet Mary Margaret after that. They’re a picture-perfect couple that is only kind of nauseating, but also kind of adorable if you’re into that whole true love is great thing and Killian is sitting in David’s dorm when Mary Margaret shows up with a slightly disgruntled human being trailing along behind her that she introduces as her roommate.

Emma Swan does not appear to be particularly impressed by much of anything at the time, but Killian notices the way she smiles when she glances at David and Mary Margaret and something in the back corner of his brain seems to short-circuit as soon as she meets his gaze.

They’re not really friends, at least not at first, more like Mary Margaret and David’s orphans that they adopt, but Killian keeps noticing things about Emma.

She mixes hot chocolate in her coffee, but only in the afternoon, like she’s afraid she’ll dilute the caffeine if she does it in the morning. She keeps her student ID in her phone when she flips it closed. She hates the top bunk she sleeps on, but agreed to let Mary Margaret take the bottom because Mary Margaret has some kind of deep and lingering fear of heights.

They spend time together. They make vaguely snarky comments around each other. They actually acknowledge that they might be friends.

And the group keeps growing.

Mary Margaret meets Ruby at the gym – a sentence that makes Emma laugh uproariously, falling into Killian’s side and he probably doesn’t think about that for several weeks – and Killian meets Mulan while they’re both working a shift at the Student Union together, swiping ID cards that at least half of the students forget.

Mulan brings in Merida in the spring semester of freshman year, both of them running on the same student government ballot and while they don’t win that year, they do win eventually, and Emma is actually pretty good at making signs for their campaign.

That might be why Killian brought a sign to Logan several years later.

They become some kind of seven-headed monster of friendship and feeling and generic support and Killian resolutely ignores whatever his brain does whenever Emma moves into his line of vision for the first three years, nine months and six days of his undergraduate career.

But then Final Jam happens.

And things happen.

And they both, resolutely, ignore them.

Completely and totally and, maybe, a little immaturely, but he absolutely refuses to risk anything more than what he already has and Emma’s smile is far too close to tremulous when they flip their tassels at graduation.

“You really took today off?” Emma asks, jerking Killian out of memories and a string of thoughts that don’t belong in some kind of epic, slightly touristy weekend. She’s still moving her fingers, feet dangling above the floor and he’s not sure he’s ever seen that look on her face.

It’s something that feels a bit like hope and looks a bit like want and he’s smiling before he realizes his brain has decided that’s something he wants to do.

That’s mostly his default setting whenever he’s around Emma, though, so it doesn’t really matter.  

“Swan, we just went over this,” Killian grins. “It would have taken forever to get to my apartment anyway. I’m just streamlining the schedule.”

“That would impress Mary Margaret a lot.” “Well if you want to brag to Mary Margaret about my schedule-making abilities later, then feel free to. Make sure you use lots of adjectives and remind David that I’m better at driving than he is.” “It’s weird that you guys are still so questionably competitive about that.” He can’t really shrug when he’s still supporting most of her body weight, but he makes a valiant effort – and an even more valiant effort not to groan loudly when Emma’s hips cant into his. Killian is, apparently, very fond of torturing himself.

“And,” she adds, scrunching her nose when his breath catches as soon as her fingers card through his hair. “I really don’t have to stay with you. That was...it’s nice of you to offer, I mean.”

Killian resists the urge to tell her she can stay forever if she wants, fairly certain that would just send Emma running towards the next departing flight out of Logan to anywhere, but that’s another truth and he has to lick his lips before he responds.

He doesn’t notice the way Emma’s eyes widen slightly at that.

“Cheaper than a hotel,” Killian says. “And you can’t back out of accepting the offer now. You’re already here.” “Ok, that’s just fundamentally untrue. I know how to book a hotel.” “And I am telling you that you don’t have to. Or didn’t have to. Both tenses.”

“There are more than two tenses in the English language, how do you not know that? You’re molding the minds of the youth.” “Swan, you can’t keep using my job as an insult.”

She rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out and that is step three in the Emma Swan and Killian Jones banter schedule. It’s not as intense as the schedule for Final Jam, which Killian is almost certain Mary Margaret laminated during her free period earlier this week, but that’s a point he wants to bring up in front of the entire group for maximum joke-landing potential.

“But it’s so easy,” she whines, twisting and turning and none of this is going according to plan. He should have come up with a better plan.

They really should have talked about that Final Jam from senior year.

“Who are you going to ask about major moments in American history?” Killian asks. “Because you keep making jokes and throwing insults and I’m going to refuse to answer anymore of your questions about the accuracy of Hamilton.” “The internet exists. Also they literally wrote a book about that. David got it for me for Christmas two years ago. Also also--” “--How do you have more points to this?” “I would if you let me finish,” Emma hisses, but it lacks any real sense of frustration or animosity and maybe step four of the schedule is just thinly veiled flirting. Killian widens his eyes, an unspoken go on that earns him a quiet growl and the smirk is, like, step four and a half and only started working recently.

“Also also,” Emma repeats. “Hamilton is a dated reference now. You need to keep up with the times. Don’t the kids know better things you can reference?” “Strangely enough, Swan, the students I’m teaching aren’t spending a lot of time keeping me up to date on the memes.”

It’s difficult to hold onto her when her laugh drifts closer to a cackle, hair, somehow, hitting him in the face when she shakes her head in disbelief of what he’s just said. And, well, that’s understandable – but he was mostly doing it to get her to laugh and that’s, like, at least ninety-two percent of the reason he does anything when it comes to Emma. That might be the most sentimental thing he’s ever thought.

It’s probably from hanging out with Mary Margaret so much.

“I can’t believe you just used the word meme in normal conversation,” Emma says, laughter still clinging to her voice and Killian wonders if she realizes her fingers are still moving.

He hopes not.

He’s a disaster.

“If you mention that I said that in front of Lucas, I’m going to kick you out of my apartment,” Killian warns. Emma laughs even more. “I’m almost entirely serious, Swan.”

“I know you are, but that was honestly the funniest thing that has happened to me in the last few months. And Ruby would never let you live that down.”

“This is exactly why I’m making pointed threats upon your person.” “You’d actually kick me out? Like physically?” “Not physically,” he says and he can’t shake his head either. Emma’s fingers are still in his hair. “I’d probably show off my incredible upper-body strength again and lift you out of the apartment. You’d be very impressed.” “You’re awfully confident,” she points out.

“Cautiously optimistic.” “Ah, well, that’s more acceptable.”

Emma takes a deep breath, like she’s trying to preserve the moment, but that may just be more slightly cautious optimism on Killian’s part. She hisses when he tries to reposition her weight, thighs bumping together and he knew she caught that skip a few days before, but she’d failed to mention anything about a bruise that would cause an audible outcry of pain in the middle of a very crowded airport.

“Swan,” he says sharply and suddenly she’s very interested in the ceiling. “What was that?”

She doesn’t respond, just keeps staring several feet above them and maybe step whatever of the schedule is them absolutely refusing to admit to things that mean several different worlds to them. Or, at least, Killian.

He hopes it’s not just hm.

He’s cautiously optimistic it’s not just him.

He needs to stop hanging out with Mary Margaret.

“How did you even know what time my flight was?” Emma asks instead, redirecting the conversation and Killian arches an eyebrow. “I really did think we agreed that I was going to take a cab and then meet you at Mary Margaret and David’s for opening ceremonies and then I’d go back with you when everyone was incredibly drunk.” “Except Mary Margaret.” “Yes, except Mary Margaret,” Emma agrees, but it sounds a little patronizing and this is the single best arm workout he’s ever had. “That’s also not an answer to the question.” “Ah, well, you know how much I enjoy bantering with you, Swan.” She narrows her eyes, huffing slightly and trying to work her way back onto the floor, but Killian’s got a pretty good grip on the back of her jacket and he’s fairly positive his arms have frozen anyway. “The question, Jones,” Emma mutters, tugging on the front of his shirt like that’ll get him to answer and not just add fuel to several different day-dream fires.

“You told me nearly two weeks ago. It pains me that you don’t remember that.” “Well that’s probably because you won’t let me stand up on my own.” “Hysterical.” “That was funny,” Emma argues, voice rising slightly. They’re starting to draw a crowd. The kid with the other, presumably less-ruined sign, is gone.

“My aforementioned promise of hysterical was only slightly sarcastic.” She rolls her eyes, letting her bag fall to the floor and it only just barely misses his right foot. “You really remembered me mentioning a flight time two weeks ago?”

The question is barely that, a mumbled string of letters and words and hope that seems to ricochet in between the minimal amount of space between them and Killian’s nodding before Emma even closes her mouth.

“Of course I do,” Killian says, another truth that’s a bit more important than anything else.

It had been late – it always seemed to be late when his phone rang and Emma called him an overprotective weirdo, but he liked to know when she got home and there wasn’t really anyone else in Chicago to make sure that she did. Neither one of them ever mentioned that.

She’d gotten the skip and a few days off and he could practically see her trudging through her apartment, toeing out of her boots and the mattress creaked when she landed on top of it.

“Don’t say anything about the mattress,” Emma had mumbled, words slurred and she cursed him to several different hells when he chuckled into the phone. “I’m going to sleep for days.” “I think you can do that, love.” It was another ancient nickname – even before Swan – and it had started as a slightly sarcastic jab before evolving into something potentially life-altering and neither one of them ever talked about that either. They were perpetually and incredibly bad at that.

They talked about everything else instead and he kept asking if she had any bruises or lacerations, because she always had bruises or lacerations after she caught another criminal, and Emma mumbled several increasingly creative insults about his blood pressure under her breath.

She mentioned Final Jam at some indeterminate point in the conversation, muttering about tickets and prices and it would be easier if I could just teleport there. It was enough to wake him up, blinking quickly and nearly falling off his couch and he invited her as soon as the thought landed in the front lobe of his brain.

Or wherever thoughts originated from.

“Yeah, ok,” Emma muttered and they’d both fallen asleep before they hung up the phone.

“Swan, did you honestly think I forgot that I told you to come stay with me?” Killian asks, wincing when he hears the sheet of paper in between them rip. “Ah, damnit. This whole thing is less impressive now.”

She’s biting her lip – teeth digging down like she does when she gets nervous and that’s ridiculous because they’re them and it’s Final Jam, but it’s been six years since that Final Jam and they need to come up with another word for final because it’s really just starting to sound fake and slightly abrasive.

Emma blinks, opening her mouth only to close it again and surprise isn’t an emotion that usually makes his stomach twist, but she looks genuinely stunned and that’s not really what Killian was going for.

“What was that?” she asks. “Did I just rip your coat because, agreed, that makes all of this less impressive and kind of depressing.”

“I’m incredibly confused by this line of questioning, love,” Killian admits, meeting Emma’s wide-eyed gaze with one of his own. “You’ve got answer one of mine before I answer one of yours. Those are the rules.” “Whose rules?” “Swan!” She flashes him a smile, some of the nerves forgotten in the name of, possibly, witty banter and Killian’s eyes threaten to fall out of his own goddamn face when Emma works her way back onto the ground. “I can’t believe you showed up here,” she mumbles, but there’s a note of absolute belief in it. “That’s nice. You know that’s stupid nice?” “Stupid nice is absolutely what was I was going for.” “Yeah, well, mission accomplished. I really didn’t rip your jacket?”

“You really didn’t rip my jacket,” Killian promises, bending down to grab the slightly worse-for-wear sign off the ground. “This, however, is a totally different story.”

Emma doesn’t gasp, but it sounds awfully close and her hand moves impossibly slow when she reaches out, fingers brushing over the side of the paper like it’s made of gold.

“You brought a sign too?” she whispers. “That is… God, that’s stupid.” “Stupid?” “Yes, stupid. And nice. Incredibly nice and I can’t believe you took the day off because you remembered when my flight was going to be.”

“I really only did it so you can brag about how great my driving skills are to David.”

She laughs – loud and easy and it does something absurd to Killian’s ability to keep breathing and not thinking about very specific things. “Yeah, I figured,” Emma smiles and, just like that, it’s normal and simple and them in the kind of way that it’s always been. “Does it count when your driving skills are only better because you’re breaking, like, seventy-two different laws?”

“It is nowhere near seventy-two.” “It’s way too close to seventy-two for comfort. And David drives like he’s eighty-six because he feels like he has to set an example for the city.”

“And because Mary Margaret’s pregnant and he drives even slower now.” “How is that possible?”

“Trust me, Swan,” Killian says, grabbing her bag and he didn’t notice she tugged her sign out of his hand. “It’s definitely possible. Even Mary Margaret was getting frustrated the other day.”

“You are lying straight to my face right now!” “Ask her later.” “She’ll lie in front of David.” “Ah, but you’ll be able to tell won’t you?” Emma blinks, tongue darting in between her lips and that’s only slightly distracting. They need to get away from the JetBlue arrivals gate. It’s clearly messing with Killian’s head. “Yeah, probably,” she admits. “Why were you in David and Mary Margaret’s car?” “If I say the words Final Jam prep out loud are you going to laugh uproariously?” “Yes.” “Then think of other words that also mean those words and that’s why.” Emma’s laugh seems to shake through her, smile wide and eyes bright and maybe it’s just everything about that weekend, but Killian should really stop lying to himself. He stumbles slightly when he feels arms around his middle, Emma’s head back on his shoulder – more like crashing into his collarbone, but he’s not going to be specific about the details.

She’s folded up the sign, he can see the bit of paper sticking out of the back pocket of her jeans and the whole thing does something absurd to his entire state of being and several different plans for his future and maybe this Final Jam will be the perfect Final Jam.

Or something that doesn’t sound nearly as absurd as that.

“I’m really glad I’m here,” Emma mutters and it sounds a bit like an admission of guilt or several different misdemeanors.

“That makes two of us, Swan.”

“And it really will be easier to stay at your apartment. Cheaper than a hotel.” “You can’t throw my own reasoning back at me. That’s cheating.” “Ah, I wasn’t aware of the rules of the conversation.” She rolls her eyes again, but there’s a hint of a smile on her face and people are starting to glance questioningly at them because they’ve been standing there for far too long.

He’s going to have to offer tutoring services to pay for parking.

“Plus,” Emma continues. “You’ve got super fancy coffee in your apartment. Way better than anything I could get a hotel. Because you’re a snob.” “Just because I refuse to dump half a packet of hot chocolate mix into my coffee every other hour does not make a snob.” “There are several things wrong with that sentence, but I am starving and this airport air is starting to give me a headache, so I will wait to explain all the reasons you are wrong until we get home.”

They both freeze as soon as that word sinks into their bloodstream – which is not the right way to phrase it, but Killian’s trying not to pass out or kiss Emma again, so, really, he’s not all that worried about the appropriate syntax.

He blinks instead, swallowing back the not-so-small sea of emotional and slightly romantic thoughts he’s been trying to avoid, smiling when he brushes his thumb over the curve of her cheek. “There’s plenty of coffee at home, love,” he says, hitching her bag up his shoulder and wrapping his free arm around her until he can practically feel the tension melt off her.

“Coffee snob,” she mumbles and it’s another truth and another thing and Final Jam has never felt more important.

Mary Margaret and David’s apartment is confusing. And not just because they’re definitely breaking some kind of fire code with all seven of them packed in the living room.

It’s like some kind of time capsule in there – for the past and the future. There are frames dotting every wall and a few shelves because Mary Margaret and David are the kind of people who decorate their bookcase shelves, moments captured in time and imitation wood.

Killian remembers most of them – and those he doesn’t entirely remember might be the most fun of all of them, but they’re adults now – and every single Final Jam memory is in one extra-large frame on the far wall.

He tries not to stare at it, but that works as well as ignoring Emma’s weight against his side, a head on his shoulder and she can’t complain about jet lag when she was only one time zone behind, but she’s done it six times already and they might have fallen asleep for twenty minutes on his couch that afternoon.

He’s like ninety-six percent positive David wants to ask about that. And only, like, forty-seven percent positive that he won’t.

There’s more than just frames, though – Mary Margaret’s got a Boston College blanket wrapped around her shoulders, announcing pregnancy does weird things to your body temperature when Ruby asked about it and there’s a sign touting a baseball game that Merida definitely stole when they were sophomores hanging on the wall. It’s a strange counterbalance to the, frankly, ridiculous amount of baby stuff everywhere, packages of diapers and containers full of bottles and whatever the proper name for the top of a bottle is and Emma sounded like she nearly choked when she walked into the kitchen to find a sonogram hanging on the refrigerator door.

“We were going to tell you,” Mary Margaret says, not for the first time and her voice is starting to shake a little bit.

She’s having a difficult time holding onto her blanket.

Emma nods  – or tries, at least, – but it just serves to brush her cheek over Killian’s shoulder and he’s not sure he entirely appreciates whatever look Ruby and David share.

Mulan keeps tapping on her knee, like she’s getting more restless by the moment and, possibly, looking for escape options.

Killian understands the feeling.

He wasn’t entirely prepared for the sonogram and all that that entails either. And he’s not entirely pleased to realize that his dominant reaction is one very specific and less-than-supportive emotion – jealousy.

It sits in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach, making every inch of him ache, but, again, that may just be most of Emma’s weight leaning against his right side and his arm is kind of twisted awkwardly underneath her.

Killian shifts, both of them moving in the process, and Ruby’s attempt to control whatever noise she makes as soon as his lips brush over Emma’s hair fails woefully short. He glares at her.

“Do not look at me like that, Jones,” Ruby seethes, sitting up a bit straighter and they’ve always been very good at vaguely antagonistic banter.

Mulan sighs.

“I literally glanced your direction because you were making a questionable amount of noise, Lucas,” Killian argues. “Your throat doing alright after whatever it was that just happened?”

Her eyes, somehow, get more narrow, lips pursed and one very particular finger rising quickly – she hides her hand behind her back when Mary Margaret gasps. Killian grins.

“I think you’re about to get grounded,” he says, drawing a quiet laugh out of Emma and he doesn’t object when she swings her legs over his.

As if he’d ever.  

“That was actually kind of funny,” Merida mutters. She glances up from the phone that hasn’t stopped making noise since she knocked on the front door a few hours before and they’re incredibly behind schedule.

That may be half the reason for the look on Mary Margaret’s face.

“It happens occasionally,” Killian reasons. “You know, sometimes.”

Ruby doesn’t try to mask her laughter that time. “Yeah, you’re really selling it there. So, uh, what time did you land, Em? You look a little exhausted.” “Rude,” Emma mumbles at the same time Mary Margaret clicks her tongue in reproach and maybe the grounded joke wasn’t really a joke at all. “And I have this thing called a job--” “--I have a job!” “Eh.”

“Oh my God, look who’s being rude now. Mary Margaret, tell Emma I have a job.” “Do not call Mary Margaret to your defense,” Emma says, but her words still sound a little exhausted and Killian is still only slightly concerned about the bruise on her thigh. “And you have a job with vaguely normal hours that does not require manual labor.” “You don’t have to punch every skip you catch, Em,” Ruby grins.

Emma sighs, but Ruby’s got a point and the entire apartment knows it. The baby in that sonogram picture probably knows it. “Yeah, that’s fair, I guess,” Emma grumbles. “But I am only agreeing with you because I know we’re behind schedule and Mary Margaret looks like she’s close to tears because I freaked out about the baby.”

“I am not close to tears,” Mary Margaret argues, which is an oxymoron because Mary Margaret is incapable of arguing, particularly when her hands are resting on the slight swell of her stomach and Killian can’t think of a moment in the last five months when she hasn’t been absolutely beaming.

He’s so jealous he’s positive he reeks with it.

“Eh,” Emma repeats, Ruby snickering slightly and Merida takes a picture on her phone.

“It’s for Mac,” she explains. “Because you guys are weird about the Magnificent Seven rules.” “We’ve never once called ourselves that.” “Really? Why not? We definitely should be.”

“It’s not even clever,” Killian says, groaning when Emma uses her left elbow to push herself back up. Ruby glances at David again. “And the Magnificent Seven is historically inaccurate.”

The whole room groans collectively, Emma’s eyes bright when she turns to roll them at him and he has to blink to remind himself of all the reasons making out on Mary Margaret and David’s couch is fundamentally and completely wrong.

There’s like...two reasons.

“You are the most annoying person in all of history,” Emma says, like she’s reciting it from a script and the familiarity of it all is as easy and comfortable as it was to fall asleep on his couch.

They need to find somewhere else to sit than couches, apparently.

“Nailed it,” Mulan and Ruby call in tandem, Emma’s smile widening when she flicks her finger against Killian’s shoulder. He catches her around the wrist before she can do it fifty-four more times and Merida’s phone camera clicks again.

“What?” she challenges. “I’m going to call us the Magnificent Seven from now on. I don’t care about the history of it.” “Oh now you’ve done it,” Merida warns, but the phone makes another noise before Killian can even begin to describe all the reasons she is absolutely wrong.

“And,” Ruby adds pointedly. “It’s not like you aren’t going to see a shit ton of Mac from now on. That’s how living together works.” Killian blinks. “Wait, what?”

Merida blanches, mouth twisting into something that looks like a grimace and they’re never going to get to the location and event reveal portion of the night. “Oh, shit,” Ruby mumbles. “Did we not...I thought that was just general knowledge!”

“Not until this very moment,” Merida says and she is, thankfully, laughing, shaking her head in disbelief as Mulan mutters quiet apologies on behalf of Ruby. “And why exactly do you know? I’m fairly certain I only told Mulan about it because I was asking for suggestions about up and coming neighborhoods in the city.” Mulan clicks her tongue, another apology and Merida’s whole body shifts when she laughs again. “Well, whatever, we signed a lease on Monday,” she says. “It’s not big so none of you are ever invited over, but there are plenty of Airbnb options in New York anyway. This is my official announcement and reason number one through thirty-seven why Mac should have been allowed to come to Final Jam.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you were looking for a place together?” Mary Margaret asks.

“Not that we would have let Mac come because we’re super cliquey,” Ruby mutters, a flash of a smile that boasts an almost wolf-like quality and Killian’s going to do something drastic if she doesn’t stop staring at David.

“Secret-keeping is apparently catching this Final Jam,” Emma says. She’s twisted so she’s, presumably, a bit more comfortable, but it’s also ended with her arm somehow around Killian’s shoulders and her fingers moving absently in his hair and if he dies right there on Mary Margaret and David’s couch he won’t be able to find a single thing to complain about.

Except maybe the lack of making out.

But that seems kind of selfish.

“We just wanted to do it all in person,” David continues and he sounds like a dad, a fact Killian mumbles under his breath in some misplaced effort to get Emma to laugh again.

She does.

It feels like a victory.

“More official that way,” Mary Margaret says softly. There are tears in her eyes. Emma looks slightly scandalized. “Because, uh…” Emma sits up straighter. “You’ve got to finish the sentence, M’s. And if you guys give us bad news during the opening ceremonies of the last Final Jam ever, I’m never going to forgive you or your inevitably adorable kid.” “Got your priorities straight, for sure,” Ruby mutters. Emma flips her off. They’re all a picture of mature and complete adulthood.

“Oh my God,” David sighs, but he stands up and it really does feel a little bit more official. Emma’s fingers might have a mind of their own. Or their own power source. They don’t stop moving, tracing over patterns that don’t really exist, but then they’re brushing over Killian’s actually neck and the collar of his shirt and he’s having trouble breathing.

David is still talking.

“It’s a girl,” he says, loudly and proudly and several other adverbs that Mary Margaret could probably recite in her sleep.

She’s clearly too busy trying not to cry though and, well, Killian understands. He exhales loudly, a burst of oxygen he’s sure his lungs would have appreciated holding onto a little while longer and Emma’s fingers still, everything about her going tense as soon as the words process.

Ruby gasps and Mulan mutters a genuine-sounding congratulations under her breath. Merida keeps taking pictures.

And David’s eyes haven’t left his couch – or away from Emma and Killian.

Emma moves first – of course she does, she’s a far better person than Killian and that’s only a slightly melodramatic thought, but it seems like that kind of day and he hopes it’s not a sign for the entire weekend. She stands slowly, like her muscles are having a difficult time obeying what her brain wants them to do, and he’s slightly surprised when her hand reaches back behind her.

She’s waiting for him.

Or, more to the point, she wants him to move with her.

And they’ve all been friends forever – even without the classic Hollywood nickname – but Emma’s the only one he has scheduled FaceTimes with and he’s seriously worried about her leg and she reads his lesson plans while she’s on stakeouts to make sure they’re not as boring as he’s constantly worried they are.

Playing Hamilton in his classroom two years ago had totally been Emma’s idea.

It’s different with them, always has been, because Mary Margaret and David were picture perfect before there were photos to put in picture frames and that one corner of Killian’s brain that seems to be reserved solely for thoughts about Emma Swan is working overdrive in the few seconds he spends staring at her outstretched hand.

He squeezes her fingers as soon he moves, thumb tapping lightly on the back of her wrist and Mary Margaret is practically sobbing.

“These are hormones,” she mumbles, dragging the back her hand on her cheeks.

Emma hums in understanding. “Of course they are. You keep using that excuse all weekend though and we’re going to make fun of you mercilessly for it. Just, you know, FYI.” “Shut up.”

“Of course, M’s, of course.”

There are more tears – Ruby and Merida both sniffling and resolutely denying it as soon as Killian’s eyebrows shift slightly – and Emma spends a few moments longer in David’s embrace, her forehead buried in his chest with his hand cupping the back of her head. And they all stare at the sonogram for nearly twenty minutes, passing around the piece of photo paper with careful hands and fingers that try not to leave smudges, coming up with name suggestions that grow increasingly more and more ridiculous the more alcohol they all consume.

Mary Margaret keeps refilling everyone’s glasses.

“Ok we are not naming her Eowyn,” she says, putting the now-empty Sangria bottle down on the coffee table next to the other three. That particular tradition started senior year – and might have been at least an eighth of the reason the rest of those moments during that Final Jam happened – all of them far too poor to buy anything except jugs of off-brand wine from the liquor store up the block from Emma and Mary Margaret’s apartment.

“That’s unreasonable, M’s,” Ruby says. “It’s pretty kick ass, not totally normal and everyone would fear your kid. Especially if there were any Witchkings of Angmar wandering around.”

“Oh my God.” “It’s better than Galadriel,” Merida laughs. “Or....what was the other one you were talking about, Jones?”

“Luthien,” he answers. “Of the epic poem Beren and Luthien.” “Yeah, no one knows who that is.” “She’s mentioned in the histories,” Emma mumbles and his widen enough that Killian hopes he hasn’t done permanent damage to his retinas. David chokes on his Sangria. “What?” she asks pointedly, but there’s a smile on her face and, possibly, a glint in her eye and Killian’s not sure if he’s drunk or just having some kind of life-changing moment.

It might be both.

“I listen,” Emma shouts and she’s moved at some point, half sitting on his thigh and half on the couch, fingers no longer in his hair. They’re tugging on the front of his BC alumni shirt instead.

“They don’t go into much detail on the histories in the movies, love,” Killian says. He ignores whatever his pulse his doing. And Ruby’s expression, like she’s taking inventory of every little hitch in his body whenever Emma moves. That’s not helping his pulse.

“That’s not true at all! Aragorn sings about them.” “What?”

“In the extended edition of the Fellowship,” David says, something that might be actual wonder his voice. “She’s right. On the way to Rivendell. Aragorn tells Frodo.” “I’m sitting right here,” Emma hisses. “Also I read. Sometimes.”

Killian’s having some kind of medical episode. He's certain. And, in the grand scheme of things, Emma knowing about a scene in the extended edition of Fellowship of the Ring should not be this surprising – but she’s also admitted to, maybe, reading the Silmarillion and maybe he isn't upset about the lack of making out if he just dies right now.

This is such a strange night.

“We’re not naming her Luthien either,” Mary Margaret says, seemingly picking up on whatever mental breakdown Killian is staging a few feet away from her. Ruby actually writes something down. “But! This is almost a good segue.”

“Into?” Ruby asks.

“Is this not the opening ceremonies?” “I honestly have no idea what’s happening right now if we’re being perfectly honest.”

“So this is me changing that,” Mary Margaret announces, swatting at David’s hand when he tries to help her out of her chair. She pulls a binder off the top of one of the questionable number of bookcases in the living room – papers perfectly piled and Killian’s not surprised to see there are dividers sticking out of the edge. Emma’s laughing against him. “Happy Final Final Jam,” Mary Margaret says, brandishing the binder like anyone has any idea what the hell she’s talking about.

“Are we supposed to know what’s in there?” Mulan asks.

“Oh my God, isn’t it obvious?” Five of them shake their head. David looks amused. That’s probably because he had to buy the dividers. “This is our official binder of plans and ideas and, aw c’mon, you guys all answered the e-mail!” “I thought that was just a joke,” Emma mutters and Killian doesn’t understand why she sounds slightly terrified. “You sent that to all of us?” “Of course I did. We decided this was probably going to be the Final Final Jam for, you know..” “The rest of our waking days?” “Don’t be dramatic,” Mary Margaret sighs, Ruby mumbling yes mom and Emma’s smile doesn’t quite shake, but it doesn’t look quite confident either. “For at least a little while. We’re pausing it and because of that, plus the ten-year anniversary of the original Final Jam, we are going to do as many fun things as we possibly can.” “Within reason,” David adds.

“At least I wasn’t that overprotective,” Killian mutters in Emma’s ear and he sees her smile widen out of the corner of his eye. It isn’t until about five minutes later that he realizes what he’s said or implied and he wonders if it’s possible for a heart to explode.

“Killian are you listening?” Mulan asks, Mary Margaret not able to reprimand him properly while she’s still monologuing.

“No,” he answers honestly. “Is there more Sangria?” David pushes another bottle towards him. “Don’t insult my ability to follow my wife’s schedule like that. And don’t drive to Fenway tomorrow. You’re never going to find anywhere park.” “You’re the one who doesn’t know how to parallel park.” “I do, too!” “Please, David, rehash for the class who got the ticket and caused the accident that one winter when we were juniors and you wanted to go to the North End for cannoli.”

“That was your fault! You said I had plenty of room.” “You were the one driving though.” “And listening to you. Plus there was a shit ton of snow everywhere. That shouldn’t count.” “Ok, ok,” Killian says, waving the one arm that isn’t wrapped around Emma through the air. “What about two years ago when we were trying to get to Beacon Hill because you wanted to go to that fancy restaurant with a Michelin star?” “Oh yeah, that’s true,” Mary Margaret agrees. “That was totally your fault, babe.” Killian laughs loudly, appreciating the slightly stunned look on David’s face. “Game, set, match.” “You do not get to shout antiquated clichés at me, Jones,” David yells, grabbing the Sangria back and taking a particularly long swig. “That is rude. And that guy way overreacted. I barely even nicked his car.” “God, remind me never to get in a vehicle with you, Detective,” Ruby says. “Do they know about your record at the precinct?”

“They’re required by law to know,” Emma laughs. “I do have a follow-up though. Why are all these incidents revolving around food?”

They spend a little more time walking down several different memory lanes, reading through Mary Margaret’s rather impressive and incredibly laminated schedule before her eyelids start to flutter and Merida’s curled up in the corner of the couch with a pillow under her head, Ruby taking photos of it on her own phone to send to Mac.

Emma’s eyes are looking a little heavy by the time Killian tugs her up, keeping an arm around her waist and muttering c’mon, love, let’s go home. He refuses to look at David before closing the door behind him.

And it’s not really that far back to his own apartment, but he didn’t drive and Killian is acutely aware of how close Emma is the entire time they’re on the T, head back on his shoulder and shoulders moving with the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

It’s easy. It’s comfortable. It is so goddamn normal it feels like he’s going to snap in half with the way his whole being wants it to be like this forever.

Or longer.

He’s not going to be picky.

It’s several different kinds of miracles that he’s able to get his key in the door while he’s supporting most of Emma’s weight at the same time, both of them stumbling into the apartment and nearly tripping over the bag she never actually moved into his room.

“You don’t have nearly as much stuff,” Emma mutters, catching him by surprise. He was half convinced she’d fallen asleep standing up.

“Were those the words you were looking for in that order, Swan?”

She levels him with a very particular type of stare – usually the final step in the Emma Swan and Killian Jones banter schedule and it’s taken them some time to get to that point, but it’s nice to finally reach some kind of destination – resting her hands on his shoulders and shaking her hair onto her back and maybe her eyes are getting greener.

He clearly should have taught biology. He’d probably know if that was possible then.

“Don’t try and tease me because you know I'm tired, it’s not nearly as cute as you think it is,” she says. Killian blinks. “I meant M’s and David. Your apartment’s looking a little sparse by comparison.” “Well I’m not preparing for the arrival of my first child, so…” “Why not?” “Excuse me?” Emma shrugs, like it’s not an impossibly large question or one they’ve ever actually had. There have been boyfriends and girlfriends on both sides, people they’d both complained about and talked about and some who they were certain were it in some kind of everything type of way, only to be wrong.

His ended with Emma flying to Boston and sleeping on his couch while he watched all three extended editions of Lord of the Rings in succession. She ordered him food from the Chinese place that had known their order by heart during undergrad.

And then they went to the swan boats and stared at the water and she promised it’d be alright.

Hers ended with Killian buying her a ticket and telling her to get to O’Hare and he picked her up at Logan then too, letting her fall asleep with her head on his thigh and several horrible 80s movies in the background. They ordered from a different Chinese place. It was better. They lamented all the time wasted.

And then they went to the swan boats and stared at the water and he promised it’d be alright.

They’ve never once talked about the hazy thing that is the future and Killian’s mind is quick to point out it’s because he’s been waiting, maybe a little desperately, for her to bring it up.

“I mean it’s a fair question, right?” Emma asks, but that feels like an even bigger question and Killian can’t remember any word in the entire English language. “I mean...you’re you and Mary Margaret’s probably tried to be Mary Margaret at some point, right?” He nods dumbly, only vaguely aware of what she’s suggesting. And he’s certainly tired of the set-up attempts because Mary Margaret’s intentions are good, but they’re also a little heavy-handed and Killian is definitely the third wheel on a cart that will soon also house a baby.

Or however that sentence goes.

“It’s not exactly something you rush into, Swan,” he says, another miracle that might be more impressive than unlocking the door was.

“No, no, I know that. I’m not saying go out and start having twenty-seven kids.” “Twenty-seven?” “Oh my God.”

Killian grins, some of the oxygen returning to his lungs and his brain and Emma rolls her eyes. He taps his thumb on the side of her jaw. “They’re going to get stuck that way, love,” he mutters, the endearment falling out of him without his explicit permission.

“You’re making that up,” Emma challenges, but she doesn’t question anything else in the sentence and Killian feels himself hoping against his will.

Cautiously optimistic.

“That is pure and complete scientific fact,” Killian says, pressing another kiss to her forehead and maybe that’s what Ruby was keeping track of. It’s definitely what he’s keeping track of. “And I’m perfectly fine as is, Swan. All that clutter would drive me nuts anyway.” “Can I please tell Mary Margaret that you called all her stuff clutter tomorrow?” “Why are you trying to antagonize me?” “I’m not, honestly,” she promises, moving to rest her palms flat on his chest. This is like some great, big giant test, he’s positive. With a Scantron. And he’s only got a mechanical pencil. It’s a very complicated metaphor.

“Please do not tell Mary Margaret that I called her stuff clutter while we’re trying to watch a Red Sox game tomorrow.” “I can’t believe David picked that.” “Can you not?”

Emma sags, a disgruntled sigh that might actually be the single most endearing noise he’s ever heard falling out of her. “Well, yeah, I can,” she says. “But he’s going to yell ridiculous things and everyone around us is going to hate him.” “Ah, but it’ll be a common bond between all of us. That’s fandom unity. And I bet we can come up with some pretty scathing insults about the Sox in the next few hours. As long as you promise not to fall asleep on me.”

“You don’t have to worry about my sleeping habits, you know.”

“If I don’t, who will?” At some point, it would be great if his brain would stop providing his mouth with sentiment and words he doesn’t want to give voice to yet – or, maybe, ever, he hasn’t entirely decided – but that does not appear possible and Emma’s eyes widen before she can school her features entirely. She licks her lips, a muscle in her jaw jumping when she clenches it and Killian tries not to scream apologies in her face, barely hearing her when she starts talking again.

“Probably anyone in that apartment before,” she whispers. “But you’re kind of at the top of the list. Leader of the pack or whatever.” “Are you quoting pop songs from the 50s to me?” “You’re the history genius, you tell me. You’ve got the leather jacket thing down. It felt like an appropriate reference.”

Killian hums, something that feels like warmth seeping down his spine, but that same, slightly problematic corner of his brain knows it’s something entirely different and, at some point, his hand has landed on Emma’s hips.

They’re far closer than he remembers being a few minutes before.

And it would be easy – that word losing some of its meaning because things weren’t always always easy with them, but they’ve grown up and evolved and he wants, so much he practically shakes with it. He could duck his head and kiss her or she could press up on her toes and kiss him and they could just keep doing that on some kind indefinite basis forever and ever for the rest of eternity.

So naturally both of them take a step back, shaky smiles and slightly obvious nerves and Emma’s shoulders shift when she takes a deep breath.

“I’d really like to come up with some scathing insults about the entire game of baseball,” she says, moving back towards his couch and Killian nods despite the voice in the back of his brain demanding he do the opposite.

“Sure, love.”

They fall asleep on the couch together, a notebook tossed on the table with two dozen increasingly absurd insults and the cast commentary of the Two Towers playing in the background.

[eaurthly]

Miles Away Pt. ii

Miles Away.

Pt. ii

The flight was just as you envisioned it, long and a bit rocky – very tiring. You had plans to reevaluate your life, but your tiredness got the best of you. Next thing you know, your mother was waiting for you at the airport.

"y/n! My baby!" She embarrassingly screamed out and ran towards you for a hug.

"oh hi mumma." You muffled into her shoulder because you were smothered by her hug.

"Mumma? What are you, turning into one of those brits now?" She laughed.

"Oh please, you wish. As if I didn't hear from you that you loved their accents enough."

"Speaking of British accents," she tried to slyly transition the topic and you knew exactly what was coming next, "your little friend, Harry? Why couldn't he come with you?"

"He literally lives in Manchester, in what world do you expect him to just drop that and come to the states." You hissed back a little.

"Oh no need to be so pissy," she said and swatted at you as a way to gesture calm down," I was just saying, he seems to have taken a liking to you. For someone who doesn't have many guy friends, it's just new! Let me pretend to have dreams for you, besides he's very cute."

She tells you as if you didn't know. Truth be told, you never though Harry was a bad looking guy. He was very handsome – his skin was so smooth it almost seemed unreal, it had a golden glow to it. He was built perfectly, his shoulders were wide but when he sat down he had the ability to look so small. It was insane how he could go from extremely intimidating to incredibly soft in a matter of seconds. You knew he was attractive but, you never found yourself attracted to him. At first. Ever since you faced the reality of leaving him, your mind began to change its perspective in a lot of ways. You weren't quite sure of it, but you found yourself smiling at the cute little things he had done more and more as the date of your departure approached. Your head started paying attention to things you didn't pay attention to before, like it was a way to hold onto him, as if it would make leaving easier.  

It made it worse. And confused you a lot more.  

         ------------------------------------------------------------------------

Being home for the remainder of summer was very dull, you began looking for jobs, internships, or anything that could get you out of the house until university started back up at the end of August. As boring as the time was, it somehow went by very quick. Maybe it was because Harry called you at least once a day, and almost every night the two of you would video chat, lying in bed, updating each other on important highlights of your days. The clock times changed a bit since he was six hours ahead of you, but you worked with what you could. You would lay in bed around seven pm to talk to him and it would usually be one am where he was. It was what you looked forward to most, especially because seeing this Harry was your favorite. He always had sweatshirts on – and if he didn't then he had no shirt on at all, and his hair was messy, his voice was usually raspy because it was early in the morning for him and he looked extremely soft.  

You began to find yourself thinking about him a lot more, more than you did when the two of you were in Manchester together, and though you didn't want to admit it, some sort of a crush seemed to be developing. Whenever you wrote in the brown leatherback notebook Harry got you for Christmas, your words were subconsciously always about him.  

You were the one I compared everyone else to,  

Your hair wrapped around my heart and your fingers begged me to stay.

But not in the same way I secretly begged you.

Yep. About him.

You'd think after the reality of things, I'd stop being hopelessly a fool for you – but the farther I get from you loving me, the more I wish you were here to. 

Still about him.

He became your muse, which was insane to you. And it was also why you hesitated to admit your crush was actually a crush. What if you were only using his absence as a muse? A way to write and fill your void with words? Were you just romanticizing your distance apart or did it actually mean more to you than you knew? You continued to write about him, whether you knew it or not, and by early November you finally convinced yourself that your crush was indeed a crush.  

Your birthday was that month and you got an unsuspecting call from Harry to check your mail, rather eagerly. When you opened your front door there was a package sitting by your welcome mat and once you opened it, it was filled with; a bottle of Tom Ford's Tobacco Vanille, a matching leather bracelet with him, and a folded-up note on what looked like papyrus paper. The whole time you were on the phone with him, he insisted you read that letter. So you did,

y/n,

How are you ma cherie? I say that as if we don't talk every single day. Still, hearing it in person always makes it seem much more personable. Anyways, Happy Birthday, my dear best friend! I love you so much. I hope this year treats you with less misfortune, better grades, and a little bit more me. I miss picking out your outfits for you over here! My mother says hello, and said she'd send you your favorite cake if she was able to – and also that you're welcome over here anytime. I hope you liked the gifts, I know you said not to send anything but it's your birthday how could I not? At this point, we have to have matching friendships bracelets, or our friendship just isn't real. I picked these up when I went on holiday in Paris. I know you really want to go, so I figured this was the next best thing. And it's about time I sent you this cologne, I can't risk you forgetting what I smell like. Spray it on that sweatshirt of mine, then it'll be like I'm still there with you. There is one last thing I'd like to say. Another part of your gift, if you choose to look at it that way. It's buried under the wrapping in the bottom of the box. If I've timed everything correctly, I'll be on the phone with you as you're reading this and will be able to see your reaction. So, I'll just quiet down and let you see for yourself.

Happy Birthday.

I love you!

H .xx

A bit worried over what stunt he was trying to pull you sat the letter down and dug to the bottom of the box. You found a standard sized envelope addressed to a Mr. Harry Styles and it was from your university. When you opened the letter, you read the words:

We would like to congratulate you, Mr. Harry Styles, on your acceptance to the semester-long exchange program at Boston University effective this Spring.  

Your face immediately froze from excitement. Your heart definitely began to beat out of your chest and your face started to get red, but not from embarrassment. It was just from being happy.  

"Are you kidding me!" You screamed at him over the phone. "You're coming here!" You couldn't contain your excitement.

"D' ya know how hard this was keepin a surprise?!" He sighed with relief.

"I can't believe you, sneaky." You scolded.

"I'll see ya a bit after Christmas, I figured I'd get there early to settle in n all." You glared at him when he said that, as if he was missing the most important part. "An ta see you of course!" He knew you were waiting to hear that.

"That’s what I thought. Oh! I can't wait. Thank you so much for everything. I love you!"

"I love you too y/n." He said before the two of you hung up.

It was then that you knew you truly did love him. In more ways than one. The pieces started to fit together again, and you couldn't stop smiling all day. Every other gift or "happy birthday" didn't phase you at all because you couldn't get the thought of your best friend being in your home town for six months out of your mind. You knew you loved him. And you loved him so much, but this just created another obstacle. You were never one to assume, so assuming he felt the same about you was out of the question. What would happen if you would just assume and you were wrong? It would entail a world of hurt and destroy the friendship you valued so much. You would rather love in silence than not have him at all, and if it was the most painful thing you'd do, then so be it. And until Harry arrived on December 30th, you couldn't help but ignore all of that because you were wearing rose colored glasses and were too ready for him to be in your arms again. You weren't really worried about your friendship changing now that you've admitted your crush – because you weren't going to tell him. It was going to be the same as it always was, or so you had thought.  

              -------------------------------------------------------------------

December 30th came, rather quickly now that you had it to look forward too, and you woke up the same as you did every day, except this day was different. You finally got to pick up Harry from the airport. His flight got in rather early for your liking, it was nine AM EST, which was earlier than you woke up most days, but for Harry you made an exception. You threw on your Manchester sweatshirt underneath your insulated winter coat and headed out the door. Harry must really be something special if he's having you brace the cold at nine AM during your winter break for him. He was something special though. And you were too happy about it to feel the cold air whistle past your ear when you walked to your car.

The car ride there was filled with silent air, even though there was the faint sound of your winter playlist playing on volume seven through your radio. You passed scenery that you hadn't seen since the day you came home around six months ago. The trees alongside the highway haven't changed much, they were just bare from the cold weather. A strong smell of warm bread seeped through your air vent as you passed the local bakery which didn't exactly have a name for itself except for "Bakery Café" which was plastered across the front of it. It was more of a family owned business, being ran from the comfort of your home but you hadn't been there in years. When you were younger, your father would pick you up a baguette, every Friday on his way home from work as a celebration for the week being over. The book store on Upton Road only had a few people in it, but to be fair, it was quite early. Your mind was blank yet, remembering so many things, all at once. The airport was only a 45-minute drive away, but between being at Uni and not leaving your house that often when you were at home, meant you hadn't seen some of these places in a while.

When you arrived at the airport, you pulled up to the pick-up entrance in hopes of being able to park and stand out of your car as an homage to every overly similar and cheesy romance movie that you and Harry watched together when you were bored, on rainy nights back in Manchester. Somehow, he saw you before you saw him because before you could even put your old 2007 Jeep Liberty in park, he was jogging to your car, standing in front of it tempting you to run him over as a joke. You got so close to him that he had to jump away with a shocked expression on his face.

" 'ey! Sheesh you aven't seen meh in six months en ya tryin ta kill me before I say hi!" His scream rose in volume, as you rolled your window down smiling like child on Christmas.  

You couldn't stop laughing, "Well don't tempt me there!"  

Your put your car in park and eagerly got out as you ran around the front to hug him. It was like nothing changed, but in some sense, everything did. He still smelled the same, he had a bit of airplane mixed in with his cologne but nonetheless, he was still your favorite scent in the world. His hair had grown out a bit more, not too much, but the little curl on the side of his forehead almost took the shape of an "O" now. His eyes were bloodshot and piercing green, they only looked a bit tired. It always amazed you how his skin and hands were softer than yours, and even after a nine-hour flight he was still glistening.  

"Oi, how'ya been love?" He said, with his cheeks pinched together from hugging you so hard.

"Terrible, so terrible. Thank god you have to go through it now too." You jokingly said in a pathetic tone. Harry was used to your dark humor or remarks which were always very sarcastic but even though you had a joking tone you were serious, things did feel terrible up until this point.  

"Alrighty we've hugged, the fake movie scene is ova' can we please get in the car, I'm bout one toe away from losin ma whole foot."

The two of you packed up your car with his tiny bags and headed back to your house. You passed everything you saw on your way there, but this time it was with Harry. It was so surreal, he was in your hometown, you were driving him to your house, and soon he was going to see the way you lived your life at home. The drive to him took a lifetime, but on the way back, you were home before you knew it. You pulled up to your family's apartment complex, it was the first building out of seven. Your apartment was the one right next to the leasing office. It was on a quaint backroad and was rundown a bit - you and your family weren't ones to live in luxury. You, your parents, and younger brothers always found yourselves moving from place to place every few years because you struggled with finances. It wasn't something you liked to talk about much, in fear that people would feel bad, or guilty, or sorry. It was just that your family had first moved from your childhood townhouse into an actual home, and when that didn't work out you moved again, and then again, and once more before you landed in the apartment you had now – each "home" seemingly got smaller in size.  

But, you were home, and you managed to drag Harry there this time. He was staying the night in your room, as you sleep on the couch, before he could move into his dorm tomorrow. You had some time to yourself before your family came home, and god you know that your mother would have a ball day as soon as she saw Harry's face in person. You had to brace yourself... and him.  

"So, this is where ya grew up, huh?" He said with his eyes wandering outside of the car in front of your building.  

"Only for the past four years. We moved a lot."  

"Really," he said with a puzzled look on his face, as if he was hurt you hadn't given him this detail on your life before, "I never knew that."

"It never really came up, and it wasn't that important anyways. It was just how I lived." Those words sounded so casual coming from your mouth. You didn't really know why he cared that he hadn't known such a small detail about your life.  

"Yea, you're right, just an intrestin' lil fact."  

You parked right in front of the door and helped him carry his bags in, even though he didn't have much to carry. Harry wasn't a man who carried a lot with him. He was very good at living minimally, or travelling minimally, at least. To be fair, most of his "presentable" attire consisted of skinny jeans, plain or graphic t-shirts and head scarves. Your favorite shirt of his was a white tee that had outlines of skinny feminine hands holding cigarettes, on it.  

When you walked through your front door you were greeted by a very excited Finny, your six-year old terrier-mixed pup. Harry fell to his knees to give her the attention she begged for and repeatedly called her babydoll. It was quite precious. You led him to your room and places his bags at your door.  

"So, you'll be sleeping in my bed, I cleaned the sheets and everything so, don't worry." You informed him.

"Oh sweet, a sleepover with a girl? Your mom is so cool!" He said, impersonating a young child in grade school, as a way to be funny. You just scoffed.  

"Oh, stop it."

"So... you won't be in here." He said with a sly smile coming across his face.  

You knew he was joking, there was no way that he wasn't, but the thought of him being serious about that made your bones shiver. You wouldn't know what to do if he genuinely was serious - you hadn't prepared yourself for that case because you knew the chances of it were so slim. But you imagined it in your head, always. Both of you sat down on your bed, which was quite large for just you. The bed was a gift your grandmother gave you a few years ago. You decorated it with a large, white duvet, and fitted sheets that were a silky shade of light blue. It was covered in pillows and your favorite throw blanket, a little fuzzy one with coffee cups all over it. Harry was in your bed. Not romantically. But, he was in your bed. And the two of you got to lay there, and catch up, even though that's exactly what you did every time he called you. He was there in person this time, and it gave your heart a sigh of relief just to know he would be there to comfort you this upcoming semester.  

That night it almost pained you that Harry was laying in your bed and you were not there lying next to him. But while you lay restless, your mind went over every word you talked about tonight before the two of you decided you were tired and went to bed. Harry couldn't believe that you lost your virginity while the two of you were away, and even though you called him hungover the next morning, somehow this topic came up in the handful of things you discussed.  

"I still can't believe it. I mean... I believe it, but like tha shock of it, is what I mean."

"I just wanted to get it over with! You knew that! It wasn’t that great... but it happened. I'm not that mad about it." You said back.

"Well, yeah. It was about time for yeh! Maybe it's why yer less of a bitch, no more sexual tension in ya." He laughed, waiting to get a rise out of you, "All I'm saying is i can't believe it took you 19 years!"

"I just didn't feel like it before!" You had told him this a thousand times.

"I know that! I just can't believe no one else 'ad made it known they wan-ed ta shag ya before then. I mean, you aren't ugly. All us at Manchester knew that. Ya didn't follow the pretty girl story though, ya were a bit of a werido, as were we, but you were pretty. You could've easily gotten any lad on campus."

Any one [lad] except for the one you wanted most.

"You just didn't" He had continued, after your thoughts interrupted you listening.

"Yeah, I suppose." You had said back, staring at your hands playing with your bed sheets because you were at a loss for words since you couldn’t tell him that he was the one you wanted to get, knowing he would retract his previous statements and probably book the next flight out if you told him.  

It was conversations like that which made your stomach fill with butterflies and your heart begin to beat fast. It wasn't confusing because your head knew he was saying these things as a friend, but your heart made it confusing because you wished he meant it in another way. It was only controversial because you imagined what it would be like if he secretly had a crush on you too. You hated that word crush (unless it was Little Big Town's "Girl Crush"), especially describing a best friend. It wasn't a crush, it was love, but he didn't love you the same way you loved him. So, by definition, it was in fact a crush. He was so close to your heart that it didn’t feel that way. These were the conversations you fell asleep to at night, dreaming about. Dreaming about what they meant, what they could mean, and what would happen if they did mean something. It was hopeless in every meaning of the word.

It was funny, the entirety of what you talked about was regarding you having sex with someone, but him saying you could get any guy in Manchester you wanted was a big compliment from him. He wasn't very direct with compliments, at least to you. It wasn't in a rude way, but you knew him well enough to know those words were a compliment from him, to you. It was like him asking you to proofread his papers because he'd tell you that you were the best writer he knows, even though he was an English major and could re-write anything you wrote, ten times better.

Tomorrow was move-in day for the two of you. It wasn't together considering since he was an exchange student, and he had to live on campus. The university was about an hour from your house, at most, and you were moving into a new apartment by the school. It was in the same area as Harry's room but not directly on top of him. In your mind, you were hoping it was going to be like a little glimpse of Manchester, over here in the states. But there wasn't much telling with what was going to happen between the two of you. What were you going to do now that your best friend, who felt like the love of your life, was with you again... now that you know you love him?  

[stone-man-warrior]

February 7, 2021: 12:25 pm:

====================================================

I have a prediction to make based on aggregate Twitter news stories presented over the past two weeks of so, the tweets are very subtle, small indicators buried within other terror command stories.

The Prediction:

Joe Biden will be killed off, Kamala Harris will become US President. That will happen before 2022, is looking like a airplane crash, so, could be any kind of thing where wings, or air, or jet, or some other connecting dot to an airplane or a part of one, or characteristics of flight, Bernoulli, Vector, Doppler or French Curve, the latter being of most concern.

The thing that puts this prediction into a place that I felt I want to say so, is two Tweets featuring Second Husband Doug Emhoff standing at the Washington Monument Reflecting Pool where there is a Art Installation called “Shattered Glass” and is a portrait of Ms. Harris on the left side of a two-piece glass framed structure there at the Reflection Pool. Had I not seen those two Tweets, I would not be making this prediction where it appears to me as the SAG/Britain/Vatican plan includes that Kamala Harris will become President by virtue of a Two-Piece Biden.

I cannot possibly piece this one together to spell it out more clearly, it’s too complex, too sophisticated terror comm, is presented on Twitter from major news media Verified Accounts.

Maybe something more revealing will show up, if so, I’ll say so when I see it.

So, far, this same path of observation has revealed that Kamala Harris and her Husband are in league with the Donald Trump “Afterswords” variety of terror cell members called “Greek Alphabet”,  and might be also called “Grecian Formula 16″.

(There may be clues to the “Grecian Formula 16″ nomenclature contained in the video work that was done at the Indianapolis 500 when Alpha & Beta went there to Start the Engines that day. That video of what was said to be “Air Force One” flying over the race track is clearly a Twitter Time Warp Terror piece, and that airplane shown is more likely to have been one of the ones that the Vatican supplied Donald Trump with long ago, the ones that are all adorned with so much Gold Trim on the Inside)

Once again, the updated Greek Alphabet member list:

Greek alphabet update 2-4-2021:

Alpha = Donald Trump

Beta = Melania Trump

Gamma = Mike Pence

Delta = Karen Pence

Epsilon = Mike Pompeo

Zeta = Susan Pompeo

Eta = Kamila Harris-Emhof

Theta = Doug Emhof-Harris

(I suspect Doug Emhof-Harris is associated to Asante Health Three Rivers Medical Center Emergency Room Dr. Janet Eoff and address at 598 Jackpine Dr. Grants Pass OR 97526, and all of SAGClubMed terror cells)

================================================

1:02 pm:

In the event that someday these reports are looked at, and work begins to stop the terror take over of USA, the people who do that work might try to use audio surveillance of the Southern Oregon Area Residents, if so, be advised and consider these details as you do that:

The terror in Oregon is powered by Britain, Screen Actor Guild, and the Music Industry on two continents, they have the very best audio and broadcast equipment and software there is, and they have technologies that are ten years ahead of what is available outside of terror control, not available in stores, technology that has not been publicly spoken of, and that was developed especially for fooling those who listen with surveillance.

The other thing to consider, is the inhabitants of Southern Oregon are illiterate, most don‘t read English, or any written language, they speak and read a customized “British Still Language”, some of which I have learned to read, and have shared much about how to read the “Word Magic” as SAG calls it, I say it’s “Alternate Intuitive English”. The language has no real rules, it sort of has a way of spelling it’s self out within Dictionary English as needed. My understanding is the the English Language was crafted as a secret language used for the purpose of taking the Ottoman Empire long ago, and has mainstreamed since that time, along with the Crusades that bring it, like a plague is brought on Twitter, is fake, everyone accepts that it’s real, special rules are provided, everyone follows the special rules created from the imaginary plague. For English Language, non-terror pirates, are confined to the English Dictionary, and scolded when they spell something incorrectly, while the terror pirates use the English Language in ways that are far outside the lines drawn in the dictionary.

So, when doing surveillance, and hearing what sounds like people speaking English, when done in Oregon, is not going to be face value Dictionary English, what is heard is the British Still variety of Word Magic Alternative Intuitive English, so, surveillance is only as good as the interpreter who hears what is spoken.

English speaking scholars who read books from around the world and need to choose a book that was translated from another language to English, are as concerned about who did the translation, as they are about the author of the book. When the same book is available, re-written by more than one translator, that presents a problem to the person who wants to learn by reading the translated book, that person needs each version of the translation to make comparison, in order to learn.

======================

1:40 pm:

Some memory of events that took place at Pain Specialists of Southern Oregon on February 3, 2021:

In addition to what I already wrote down, this:

The “nurse” who handed me the container for the Urine Sample was a  woman with dark shoulder length wavy hair, white, about 45 years old, about 5′ 5″, about 190 - 200 lbs. She lunged at me from the other side of the back office nurse station after I commented about why she had signed my name on some documents, and she explained that she thought my hand had been cut when I grabbed the sword that had come through the wall in Exam Room #2, from Exam Room #3, and that was the reason she signed my name on the documents there. That gal was stuck in the throat with a fingernail clipper in defense when she began to climb over the counter top towards me, as she thought I had been injured with Paul Leppert’s sword.

Then, as I closed the door to the rest room, an arrow/bolt shot from a cross-bow grazed past me and lodged into the wall above the sink near the hand towel dispenser in the foremost of the two restrooms there. I returned the arrow/bolt to the nurse counter, rather than keep it as evidence because the arrows are fitted with listening devices inside of the shaft, so, keeping one of those only causes more problems later on. You have to leave the arrow/bolts where you find them, I already learned that the hard way.

The Urine Sample nurse is suspected to have been a woman who lives at the corner of Russell Road and Three Pines Road, on the north side of Three Pines, at a place that is known as a AARP terror cell, and where Mike, of “Mike’s Plumbing Service” lives, a big man, about 350 lbs or more, who is known to frequent at the Myers 560 Jackpine terror cell from time to time. I saw the surfboard they stole from me there in a tree, was broken in half, at that residence in the front yard on Friday when I went to Walmart. That means they have some of the other personal items that were also stolen from me that day when the surfboard was stolen. If I say what more was stolen, some other asshole will read this, and claim that the items belong to them, so, I can only say that the surfboard and some personal items, including some gold and silver was stolen that day. It’s too dangerous for me to do a complete assessment of what was stolen from the storage building, as the Monroe terror cell has cameras pointed at my yard all over the place, so, when I go outside to do anything, a whole bunch of terror soldiers begin to show up when Monroe tells the others that I am outside and in range of a cross-bow.

At the terror doctor, when I went to leave the building, and the door was locked such that no one could leave, I was allowed to leave only when they determined that I did not have that arrow/bolt that was shot into the restroom at me. Had I kept the arrow/bolt and tried to leave with it, there would have been another attack in the front lobby, where about seven fake patients had gathered, and at least two special assassin soldiers had just arrived in a black pick-up truck, I passed by them very close as I walked to my car once I was allowed to leave the building. By the time I left, I defended in hand to hand combat against two terror soldiers, Paul Leppert, and that woman who I believe lives at Three Pines Road north side, corner of Russell Road where a weird looking dead tree was carved to look as a yard art of some kind.

The AARP terror cells are many, and they are scattered around in small groups of houses. American Association of Retired Persons ... that AARP. They are the same as Democrat national Convention terror cells are, you could say either thing, and be talking about the same conglomerate terror cell, is very large, many millions of members. AARP is famous for a lot of things, they target elderly and disabled people for “Kill & Replace”. They use “The Hartford” insurance, and “Consumer Cellular” and many other AARP Family of Brands for targeting elderly and disabled people for murder.

There are other AARP terror cell residences at the corner of Three Pines and Monument drive, at the group of houses that are mustard color houses there where the Centurylink main fiber optic cable access terminal box is at on Monument Drive, and the fiber optic cable is routed in packets of copper buried cable from there, to all of the neighborhoods around this area. There is another such main terminal access box at the corner of Russell Road and Pleasant Valley Road. All of the wires in the access boxes are connected to the wrong terminals inside the access boxes intentionally, to advance the terrorism by luring federal officers to the wrong addresses when they do surveillance work around here. Centurylink ISP knows all about that, they participate in the terror lure of federal officers to the wrong addresses. The federal officers keep going to the local courts to obtain the proper warrants for the listening, but the judges are all actors from Screen Actor Guild, are fake, the whole courthouse is under control of a giant size terror cell, it’s an extermination center, and is specifically controlled by Britain terror operatives. Same is true for all of the Oregon courthouses.

That system of Centurylink “Spaghetti Phone Lines”, where no one knows exactly where the ends of the wires really are at, is used as a model system in other cities around USA and the world.

Please study this account for more about the “Spaghetti Phone Lines”. Search for “Two-Pair”. “Four-Pair”, “Eight-Pair” “Buried Cable” “Copper Tape Wrap Ground” and don‘t forget about “Medusa”, the PBX switchboards they also use to further phuck the phone system in addition to the Stingray and VOIP re-routing and the local terror “Call Centers” where calls are routed to, and operators there have duplicate systems of all of the major banks, insurance companies, and other “customer support” systems, all duplicated, and under terror control. There is such a call center at Siskiyou Communications (US Cellular Phone Provider) on 6th Street across from Kelly’s Tool Box Auto Repair. Also, if surveillance is done at either of my addresses, then, special circumstance is that one of the phone lines that serves one of my addresses was stolen from me, and is attached to the wrong terminal in the access boxes on Jackpine Dr., was stolen in around 2007.

Also, as of this month, ALL of the Centurylink customers were provided a new and different account number, and, my account number change also included a Centurylink Billing Department address change. Since the communication problems have not been repaired, are still Spaghetti Phone Lines, and have been for as long as I can remember, I can only assume that the account number change that ALL of the Centurylink customers were subject to is all about some kind of extra special foolery that Centurylink is doing for the purpose of faking out investigative people, and to continue the advance of Global Domination Under the Cross to which end Centurylink is a major part of, nearly equal to Pacific Power Corporation in size and scope of the offensive usefulness they serve on the US Population.

Account number changed from a format that was that of a local telephone number, even for those who do not have land line telephone’s, to a nine digit number that does not seem to be associated to any other kind of format, like the account/phone number format was.

The address I am supposed to send payments to also changed this month, from a Washington State address, to an Arizona Centurylink billing office location.

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3:14 pm:

This guy here is ordering a custom tailored Kyle.

He has some luggage, his pants are flood pants around his ankles, his jacket does not fit, is way too small.

nothing says “send me a custom tailor” quite like a professional Football Player on Game Day at the Big Show with luggage and a suit that does not fit.

These assholes all know what is really going on at the stadium, where a walk up to the concessions stand is a one way trip for the fans at the game, and that is if the fan makes it into the stadium alive.

There is a “Grey Area” built into most of the sports stadiums. The fans come in a little early, they have to show their ticket, but not give it to anyone, then the fans come in to to the stadium after showing that they have a ticket. Then, after a few dozen fans are inside, there is another place within the stadium, is like a bottleneck, could be a number of doors that there are there between the entrance, and the seating area, a place where you give your seating ticket to an usher. That place, will suddenly close, all the doors shut, at the same time, the people at the entrance where you show your ticket, they stop letting people into the stadium for about ten minutes. So, there comes a time when some fans are inside, and no other fans are coming in, the doors at the usher close, and in that “Grey Area”, there are people with trash cans, with motorized “John Deer Mule” style carts, there are people with other kind of “Laundry Carts” made with a fabric bag, are big. Those people with the carts are there, and the fans are told to line up at the correct Usher door for their seating ticket, then, “Last in Line” happens.

There are “Handlers” and there are terror soldiers w/swords.

The handlers remind the swordsmen: “Just hold your sword horizontally, and move forward, that’s all you have to do, just hold your sword horizontally and move forward, no one will bother you, we have you protected, so just hold your sword horizontally and move forward.”

They are “The Last In Line” at the Usher door in the Grey Area between the entrance to the stadium, and the seating area, where there is a bottleneck built in to the attack zone.

So, on command, the swordsmen simply hold the sword horizontally, and move forward toward the Usher door, right through about twenty to thirty fans at each door, typically there are about six doors wide in each Usher Area. So, within about ten to fifteen minutes, the heads of about 100 fans come off, as the swordsmen simply walk forward. The others with all of those different carts begin to do clean up immediately, the bodies go into one kind of cart and are hauled away to get wallets, keys, and valuables off of them, the heads go into another kind of cart, and are taken to a different place, to await arrival of all of the wallets and purses. Once the heads, keys, driver licenses are all gathered, that is when the SAG operatives begin to make arrangements for Nancy Sinatra to “Cast” the appropriate Look-a-Like replacements that are available from Canada, where a cross reference to US DMV records is kept, matched, and the look-a-like deployed back to the victims home, in the victims car, with the correct amount of passengers in the car. There may be a temporary team that goes back to the victims home after the game, so that Nancy Sinatra can have time to cast the right people into the long term role of the US Citizen Football Fan who went to the SuperBowl.

Those people with the carts who do the immediate clean up, all take everything away, and another crew has water hoses, to spray the concrete to clean away any spilled blood.

All of that at the Usher Door Bottleneck takes only ten minutes or less. The kill happens as there is a person at the Usher Door announcing some rules, saying some things that require the victims to look closely at their tickets, and that is when the “Last In Line” hold their swords horizontally, and move forward.

The place is fogged with nitrous oxide to prime the victims, and with Medazolam to prevent any witnesses from remembering what they saw at the game.

Happens at music shows, sports, theaters, anywhere that has a built in “Grey Area” between the entrance and the seating area.

They take Three Percent of the population at the event, then process what they took, and find the replacements who take the place of the victims, and Vote for the Shills that are put on the ballots by the people who arrange the Three Percent Taking, Screen Actor Guild members.

https://twitter.com/Chiefs/status/1358530948170715138

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The Last in Line

Dio

We're a ship without a storm The cold without the warm Light inside the darkness that it needs, yeah We're a laugh without a tear The hope without the fear We are coming home

We're off to the witch We may never, never, never come home But the magic that we'll feel is worth a lifetime We're all born upon the cross We're the throw before the toss You can release yourself but the only way is down We don't come alone We are fire we are stone We're the hand that writes and quickly moves away

We'll know for the first time If we're evil or divine We're the last in line We're the last in line

Two eyes from the east It's the angel or the beast And the answer lies between the good and bad We search for the truth We could die upon the tooth But the thrill of just the chase is worth the pain

We'll know for the first time If we're evil or divine We're the last in line We're the last in line

We're off to the witch We may never, never, never come home But the magic that we'll feel is worth a lifetime We're all born upon the cross You know we're the throw before the toss You can release yourself but the only way you go is down

We'll know for the first time If we're evil or divine We're the last in line We're the last in line See how we shine

We're the last in We're the last in We're the last in We're the last in We're the last in We're the last in line

We're a ship without a storm We're the cold inside the warm We're a laugh without a tear We're the far without the near

We're the last in line We're the last in line We're the last in line See how we shine We're the last in line

Songwriters: Ronnie James Dio, Jimmy Bain, Vivian Patrick Campbell

For non-commercial use only.

Data from: Musixmatch

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=360xvnsduDg

======================

5:52 pm:

I am going to explain a terror attack scenario here that is exemplary of how mass murder is done in the day time, at a shopping center, with many people all around, during regular business hours, inside the store, or outside, or anywhere:

This one is called: “Devour”.

The scenario requires a fairly large group of fake shoppers, who are terror soldiers working together to kill a single marked person at a store, that group of 5 to 8 soldiers also require that there is backup and support from other terror operatives at the store, typically some inventory carts loaded with merchandise is all that is required for the backup and there is also a “Clean up on Isle 5″ someone with a mop & bucket of water there ready to clean up a mess.

All it is, is to make sure the mark is occupied with reading a label, or is interested in something that is right in front of them. Then, that group of 5 to 8 terror soldiers moves in and surrounds the victim, while inventory carts are rolled into place to block any one from seeing what is about to happen.

That group uses a sword to kill the victim, they all have a backpack, typically one of them will have a big blanket of a pancho sort of clothing. They cut the victim up, four limbs, head, torso. Each one of the group quickly and smoothly puts the body parts into the backpacks, and that pancho is used to wrap the victims torso, and they all walk away together in a huddled group, same as they were before the attack happened. It takes about 90 seconds to do once the victim is surrounded by the group.

I have seen that happen at the Walmart self checkout and in the school supplies aisles at times when the store was crowded with people.

One thing that happens, is the victim is alone, but when that attack group swarms around the victim, the group plays as though the victim is part of their group, so, anything that the victim says, is considered to have been directed at the group that is devouring them.

I think they also call that one: “no you see it, now you don‘t” because it’s as if the victim vanished into thin air if you happen to see that, and were paying attention to details.

In the day time, during regular business hours at crowded store, Used to happen often, now, there are no more victims to devour like that.

Please send help to Oregon. US Military is required, bring your own hospital.

===========================

8:28 pm:

Local conditions are cold, no wind, clear sky,

There have been terror soldiers hovering around my house all day. One was on the front porch early at about noon, others have been in the back part of 520 Jackpine at intervals. The one on the porch knocked over small statue I have near the door. They have been blowing the gas that makes my leg swell up, and makes the rash worse today.

There are yet more different terror soldiers at the Offensive Monroe Trailer, and those are part of a new different group who are at Chartrand 376 Jackpine.

I think one of the terror soldiers who was killed last night was one named Gene, or Genie.

The Chapman county courts terror cell is still dark, no lights on at all.

Freeberg terror air force “Air Support” terror cell is showing signs of a new occupant there, I suspect there are people from In-n-Out Burger terror cell there judging by activity I witnessed at the In-n-Out Burger on Wednesday afternoon.

Strong terror cell is always active, no one really lives there any more, it’s like the 520 Jackpine address, and the “Donkey George” terror cell next to Chapman‘s, they have all been converted to attack houses, previous terror cell occupants all are dead, been dead, so, other terror cells come, stay at those residences, and make arrangements to do an attack at my house, Chartrand is also the same way. I suspect nearly all of the Jackpine residences have all been converted to what is called a “SAG House”, is a house that is used mostly for SAGClubMed Junket activities, a hide-a-way sort of place where SAG members can stay while on Heroin Mass Murder Fest, mostly in the spring and summer months. These people at the local Jackpine and Russell Road properties are all Canadian terror soldiers though, I don‘t see any evidence of any SAG there the past week or two, maybe longer. There is one exception, where I did notice some SAG Musician style activity this week, it’s difficult to know who is who when they all where disguises and electronic camouflage suits.

no one cares enough to send any help, so it does not matter. If there were dark skinned people with beards and back packs, all of the worlds militaries would be here to kill them, but that is not the brand of terror that is here. These terrorists are white people from Hollywood and from Canada, no one is interested in that brand of murderous treasonous bastards.