#everyone give me the motivation for fridays update its a hard one

[intotheelliwoods]

A SPECIAL WEEK IS COMING AGAIN! This ones.. a trip. Get tissues get blankets the stampede of emotions starts Monday the 17th, at 8:30 EST.

The week event is so intense theres a whole playlist for it aha....

[yuncheoligans]

I would like to apologize for my lack of motivation to write! I'm getting overworked royally at my job which is making me depressed and uncomfortable because some of my coworkers are talking shit behind my back (didn't realize it was high school), my medication is making me feel really sick, I got rubber bands for my braces on Friday so I'm still getting used to them, and I'm getting ready to go on Vacation.

I'm really sorry! I want to update because I have all these ideas but I sit down and I just find it so hard to write anything. I want to update Beautiful Stranger this week before I leave because I haven't decided if I'm bringing my computer with me yet.

I really appreciate any and all support I've ever received so I feel like I'm letting you guys down not updating often. Literally every time I get even a like or a reblog I find it amazing that one more person took the time to read my stuff. You guys are amazing for even giving my dumb little writings a chance so please know that I appreciate everyone who's ever read anything I've written.

Thank you to my friends and moots who continue to be my friends and talk to me and help me when its a bad day and just let me talk about things I enjoy for even just a few minutes. You're all seriously the best and I wouldn't still be on here without you guys. You're my whole world and I hope some day I can meet you guys. 💞💕❤️💕💞❤️💕💞❤️😚😚❤️💞❤️💕❤️💞❤️💞❤️💕❤️😚😚❤️😚❤️

[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.”

[mandoalorian]

Biology [Dio x Reader]

Summary – You are stressed about college applications but by a twist of fate, a boy comes into your life and agrees to help you in exchange for something else.

Pairing – Gender neutral reader x Shane “Dio” Morrissey (No Y/N)

Warnings – general school related anxiety

Word count – 2.2k

A/N: For now this is just a one shot but if people enjoy it please let me know and I can write more! Comment if you would like to be tagged in a possible future update/s.

-

“I’m heading home now,” the high school librarian announced, as she threw the keys in your direction. The clanking of the metal hitting the desk interrupted you from your thoughts. “Lock up.” She ordered you and before you could reply, she was gone. You had stayed late at the school library every night for the past two weeks trying to work on your college applications. You had applied for one of the most prestigious fashion schools in your country and were spending time working on your portfolio, trying to make sure everything was perfected. Every night, however, you found yourself staying late and as the submission deadline neared more and more things were seemingly going wrong. In the dim light, you stared at the computer screen as the brightness stung your eyes. Just then, a crash made you jump out of your seat and run to where the noise emanated from, thinking something had happened to the librarian on her way out. Instead, you saw the silhouette of a boy, clumsily picking up fallen books from the floor. You got closer and went down on your knees, reaching your hand out to pick up a book, but his hand overlapped yours. The contact sent a shiver down your spine and you diverted your gaze from the book, to the boy. He was already staring at you. Your lips parted as you realised who he was and he said your name in a gentle tone. The dim light brought out a sparkle in his eyes which almost made him unrecognisable. “Dio…”

He was the boy in your classes, who sat at the back and didn’t say a word. He was different to the other boys. He wore all black, he had piercings and, you looked down at his hand which was resting on top of yours, noting his chipped, painted black nails. You smiled; he was certainly different. Dio was one to always get in trouble, fighting with people who crossed him wrong or using his smart mouth to back-talk the teachers. You remembered just the other week he had threatened to stab someone. You ripped your hand away from his, remembering the incident and stumbled back to your feet. He stood up with you and you folded your arms over your chest, almost defensively. “Why are you here?” You quizzed Dio. There was no reason for someone like him to be in the school library so late at night.

Dio stood awkwardly, looking at you and looking at the pile of fallen books on the ground. “I- uh-“ he struggled to get his words out. You picked up one of the books and ran your fingers over the title.

“Biology?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I’m failing,” Dio admitted with a sigh. “And, I can’t fail. So I’m studying. I usually just sit in Ms Greene’s classroom every night after school. No one knows I stay back. It’s uh, kind of a secret.”

“No way,” you shook your head in disbelief. “You? Studying?” You panicked slightly, feeling as though your tone might have come off as rude, but he didn’t seem fazed.

“I don’t want to go college,” Dio shrugged. “But I want out of this hell-hole. I want to graduate. I’m already a grade behind because I failed my finals last year. I can’t fail again.”

“You’re a year behind?”

“I’m nineteen,” he told you and you nodded, listening to him intently. He was finally making eye contact with you, and the softness in his look brought you a feeling of safety, despite him being your high school’s intimidating Goth boy.

“Well,” you cleared your throat and changed the subject. “I’m here every night too.” Dio gave you a weak smile and rubbed his feet along the old carpet awkwardly.

“Studying?” he asked.

“No,” you replied and handed him the biology book. He took it and slid it back into its place. He didn’t even want it anymore. “College applications.”

“Yeah? What are you applying for?” Dio asked and you raised an eyebrow at his curiosity.

“Fashion,” you informed him, pointing at the only switched on computer which lit up the corner of library. Dio’s smile grew and you wondered if he was about to poke fun at you.

“Can I see?” He followed your finger and also pointed at your computer.

You hesitated. He probably wanted to sabotage your portfolio... that sounded like a ‘Dio’ thing to do. The awkward silence went on long enough and you gave in, agreeing, and taking him over to your computer. You slid back down into your chair and flicked through the pages of your virtual fashion file. Instead of pulling a seat up, he leaned down to your level, his hand resting on the back of your chair. The distance between you both was very small, you swore you could even feel his breath on your neck. “Ms Cassidy says all applications are due in this Friday and I’m just about happy with my portfolio-“

“-You should be,” Dio interrupted. “This is incredible.”

You paused, dumbstruck by his compliment. Dio doesn’t just give out compliments like that. Especially not to people he’s just met. Hell, you were even surprised he knew your name. “…But,” you continued. “I need this to stand out and be special or else the admissions team won’t look twice at it. Fashion is so competitive. I had this idea. I wanted to do a segment on alternative style but I need a model and I’m not sure if I could find one who fits my image in time. I feel like giving up.” You sighed, exasperated, but he didn’t answer. He was paying very little attention to your words, or even your portfolio. His eyes burned into your face, memorising and taking in every little detail like you were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. “Dio?” You interrupted his thoughts.

“Yeah?”

You sighed again. “I can’t find a model because no one has that special air of style these days. Everyone is the same. Same is boring. We all want to look the same as each other because… it feels safe.” You shrugged.

“Right,” Dio agreed, shuffling around in his long black leather coat. The noise it made pulled you to look at him, and as you took in his appearance, you were struck with an idea. Dio must’ve seen the lightbulb appear above your head and he laughed.  “No no no,” he shook his head. You didn’t need to verbalise your thoughts, he already knew exactly what you wanted. “Not me. I’m not a model.”

“Please!” You begged, standing up and pressing both of your hands to his chest as you felt the different layers of material he was wearing. His breathing hitched under your touch and he squirmed slightly. “You’re perfect… you…” Your voice trailed off as you imagined the various poses he could do in his different clothes. He was everything you needed; your ticket to get into Fashion school. “Dio.” you pulled your hands away and pressed them together in a praying gesture. “I’ll pay you.” Your voice changed seriously. “Do you have any idea how much I want this?”

“I do… I do…” Dio said, uncertainty still dripping from his tongue. He thought of how much his friends would tease him if they found out he had been out on photoshoots with you. If they knew he was your model. But there was no reason for them to find out, and if it meant he could spend more time with you… “You can pay me. Yeah?” He eventually agreed.

“Yes!” You exclaimed, filled with happiness. “Of course Dio, thank you.” And acting on impulse, you hugged him. You felt him tense up and you buried your face into his chest. After a delay, he wrapped his arms around you. He was warm. You didn’t know what it was, perhaps his strong arms or broad shoulders that made you feel protected. It was crazy. Of course you had seen him around before, but suddenly he had you feeling all these things. “Thank you,” you mumbled. You finally felt like you had a shot at fashion school – a chance. From that moment, you swore he was your lucky star.

Dio had always stuck out in a crowd of high school students with his black gelled hair, kohl eyeliner and multiple piercings around his ears. You were certain he was feared, even by the jocks, but that only drew you in closer to him. He was like an enigma, and in this moment, you had never felt more compelled to discover more of him. Realising your hug probably had lasted way longer than appropriate, you were the first one to pull away. “So, uhm,” you cleared your throat, figuring you should go over expenses. “I can do 30$ for the first hour and if it takes longer… then 10$ for every hour after that.”

“No I don’t want your money,” Dio said, and you knotted your eyebrows together. He wanted more.

Dio knew you better than you knew him. He had been watching you for a while now, taking in your every move. He knew your GPA was above average and that you were worrying way more than you needed to be about college. He had complete faith in you. He saw you every day, laughing with your friends in the cafeteria. He watched you from his seat at the back of the classes you shared with him. He admired how smart you were, and especially how hard-working, something he felt like he could never be. You felt like you would be good for him, a positive influence which is something he knew he so desperately needed. But there was something about you that made him lose his confidence. It was a feeling he’d never felt before which made him question all his motives. He wanted to go out with you, kiss you with hunger and passion. He had done these things plenty of times before and lord knows he was experienced but it was like there was something inside of him that stopped him from making any advances. In the darkness of the library, in the close proximity, he felt the butterflies in his stomach. He felt the spark of electricity when your hands had previously touched. He’d done a lot – been with guys and girls before but the outcome was always the same. Meaningless sex and then never speak to them again. Now, he was suddenly feeling this emotional attachment. A sense of longing.

He wanted to ask you out. He wanted to tell you that he didn’t need your money, he just needed you, and he’d take you right now in the library if he could. He looked around, contemplating his surroundings. He simply couldn’t do it, and yet the urge to kiss you was so strong. “I don’t want your money,” he repeated. “Look, you help me pass biology and that’ll be enough.”

You felt the tension in the air. You wondered if he could feel it too. “Before we start on biology,” your voice was barely above a whisper. “How’s your chemistry?” You intertwined your fingers with his and bit your lip, taking a step forward to him, filling any distance. Dio felt the smirk playing on his lips at your confidence but nervously, you looked up at him doe-eyed. This was the first time you had ever gotten close to someone. Dio lifted his free hand and cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the softness of your lower lip.

“Good enough for me to know it’s alright to do this,” his voice was dark. He leaned in and his nose brushed against yours. You hummed and found your fingers in his hair as you pushed his face closer. Your eyes fluttered closed as he kissed you delicately. It wasn’t how you had imagined at all. You had seen him around other people; the way he’d push his partners into the lockers and run his hands over their bodies. You’d see people hang out with Dio, and they’d turn up to class the next day with hickeys and love-bites all over their jaw and neck. You imagined him rough, but this felt – gentle. He was passionate and took his time to deepen the kiss. You felt safe in his arms, you wanted to stay like this forever. He was such a good kisser, although him being your first kiss, you didn’t have much to compare it to. When he eventually pulled away so you could both catch your breath, you felt your knees weaken and couldn’t wipe the smile off your face. Dio spoke your name softly and squeezed your hand. “Let me walk you home.” He murmured, to which you agreed, but not before kissing him again.

-

I hope you enjoyed!! Like I said let me know if you want to be added to a tag list and I will write more if people want more. Thanks for reading. xx

[jimlingss]

Thank you, everyone, for your words of encouragement. In this short amount of time, I’ve been absolutely overwhelmed with messages of support. I want to reassure you all that I’m by no means as hurt as some of you think, or at least not after so much kindness. I’ve always encouraged all kinds of feedback!! From compliments to constructive criticism. And I’m (supposedly) an Adult™, so I can definitely take someone’s opinion.

Regardless, thank you to everyone who reached out to me. I want to respond to each and everyone of you under this post so I don’t flood other people’s dashes.

Anonymous said: about the anon who said your fics lack emotion, hmm i wouldn't quite agree tbh, i remember reading tears of a villian and deadass crying, it hurt me so much!! also, in "fall in hatred" their feeling are so well portrayed and i could understand why they acted a certain way! to conlclude, there is always some space for constructive criticism but your stories, are to me, something very attentively built and created, it's apparent that you completely enjoy writing, I can feel your enthusiasm!!

--to that anon; pls don't get this wrong way but it's just the way I see it and I've read quite a lot till now

nah deadass crying isn’t good enough anymore, anon. You have to be keening and violently sobbing until you’re brought into the ER for my fics to be considered to have emotion. lol I’m only kidding, thank you for the message.

peachiest-hun said: To that anon who said your work lacked emotions, I beg to differ! I have read Jungle Park so many times I know at exactly which chapter when the heavy angst starts happening and I read those parts when I just want to have a good cry (I still cry every. single. time)! Also Head Over Heels to Hell, The Colour of Our Voices, Love So Shallow (because I so relate with OC), and many more have given me the FEELS (happy and sad ones). 1/2

So what I'm trying to say is that Jimlingss is doing a great job in her craft. She does deliver emotions in her work and the reason I love it so much is that it's SUBTLE and not completely in your face. Sometimes emotions that are subtle and they hit you slowly, but powerfully it hurts even more for me. On another note, I'm loving Sugar and Coffee. In times of darkness which are often these days, I have something to look forward to every week to keep me motivated. So thank you Jimlinggs! 2./2

Istg Jungle Park is one of the most unexpectedly beloved fics on my blog but I love it hahaha I can’t believe you’ve read it to the point of knowing what chapter is what though. that’s an honour. There’s definitely stories of mine that are less subtle than others, but I’m glad that you enjoy the latter of them too :’) Thank you.

Anonymous said: This is my first time ever leaving a message on someone’s tumblr, but I just felt that I HAD to after reading that anon’s comment about your stories lacking emotion. I wholly disagree (in the nicest way possible, not throwing any shade at anyone). I’ve read all of your fics (for the past two years) and I look forward to when you release new material (the highlight of my Mondays right now after I come home from working at a clinic). Your stories have really lifted my mood during this pandemics an

Anonymous said: Sorry for that long tangent. Don’t even know if I made sense. You don’t have to respond to any of this, but you deserve to hear some positive words as well.

Oh my god. Did I just take your tumblr-message virginity? asdfghjkl I’m kidding. but thank you for reaching out to me. I can’t believe you’ve been around for such a long time and that I’m a part of your Monday routine :’) 

Anonymous said: OK that ask about "constructive criticism" was def imo RUDE. You don't just anonymously go into someone's asks and bluntly tell an author that their fics "lack emotion". That is not the way to encourage someone to improve and continue to work hard. That's just flat out mean. That person clearly doesn't care about your feelings or the fact that you write and share your stories for FREE for us to enjoy. I love your stories and appreciate what you've shared with us. Thank you for your hard work ❤️

I like to give the benefit of the doubt to anons and anyone sending me a message online in general. God knows there were times I meant well but it was received wrongly. But anyway, my mind was more boggled than I was hurt, that’s one thing for sure.

joonie-mono said: + it was called love so shallow which genuinely made me see myself in a character, but my point was that your writing has a specific feel to it, it's made me laugh and cry (His Name personally killed me :] ) and that's my opinion. You and your writing are amazing and I'm sorry but that anon was just so wrong.

oof bringing out the evidence. be my attorney please.

Anonymous said: As someone who has read your entire masterlist (and going through it again) i will have to wholeheartedly disagree with that anon. The way you portray SO many emotions in your fics is *chefs kiss* and I honestly thought that the ones that “lack emotion” were meant to be that way, with an open ending, the idea that their love just started, soo.... yeah, I’ll have to disagree.

There are definitely stories of mine that are a bit looser on romance. Such as Kitchen Romance, The President’s Son, The Heiress’ Son, Arcadia, etc. But I have a loooot of fics that are quite emphasized in either despair/sadness or cute fluff.

ladyartemesia said: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I am here to disrespectfully disagree with anon who probably doesn’t write effing ANYTHING and has no idea what it takes to produce the content you do. I have followed for months and I’m still not through your masterlist BECAUSE reading your stories is a bloomin EMOTIONAL EVENT. When I read Brass and Strings, I LOST A WHOLE DAY. Like I was so into it, my DAY was gone. Anon is prolly salty there isn’t more smut I guess. That’s whatever for them. (Part 1)

It’s subtle, deep, meaningful, and incredible and you’re one of my favorite authors. I can’t FOR A SECOND let that comment go cause it’s RIDICULOUS. You’re literally so gifted. You don’t need to change a thing. Every artist, no matter their medium, should continue to improve. So in that sense I wish you all the growth in the world as you work towards the perfection of your craft. BUT SERIOUSLY you’re an incredible writer. That anon is loony. I’m so sorry you had to even read those crazy words.

As I answer these messages, it’s starting to feel like I’m the third party mediator of a dispute and all y’all are just HAMMERING it to this anon, LOL. I’m not sure if the anon is necessarily requesting for more smut but if they are, they might be happy this Friday (*COUGH spoiler for those actually reading my responses)

Anyway, you’re too kind. thank you. I am definitely not as hurt as I was earlier.

((and tbh you’re hilarious, you’re actually making me laugh irl))

krystle1990 said: Woah!! Ok first that Anon is absolutely crazy. I literally stalk your page for new work being put out! I probably blow up your notifications daily. I've never been disappointed in any of your work. You always give a heads up if it will take time for the characters to realize their feelings which I absolutely love. It always leaves me ready for the next part and I am glued to my phone with every update. You're amazing and I can't wait to see how you grow with your work. 💜😘

ASDFGHJKL PLEASEEE if it’s someone who’s worried about blowing up notifications, it’s me. To those who have notifications on I sincerely can’t fathom how often I blow up people’s phones. I digress, I always give out warnings to keep people patient since I know slow burn can be excruciating haha thank you for the message.

kigurumu said: Also just want to add that saying you have good intentions or "don't mean to be mean" does not cancel out whatever offensive thing you just said. IT WILL STILL RUDE. Not saying all negative feedback is bad. Criticism can be hard to take no matter how it's phrased, but telling a writer to be more like another writer is like telling them their style isn't good enough which is NOT helpful. Your writing is your own. If the anon wants to read fics that are like gukyi's, they can read gukyi's fics 🙄

Also I've been waiting until Sugar and Coffee is done so I can binge it all at once but avoiding spoilers from all the asks is so hard haha! I keep seeing all these good things about it and I'm SO tempted to just read it now but I've already waited this long so I don't wanna give up kfnrjrofvjskdh guess I'll reread your other fics in the meantime

The message was fine on its own but I think dragging in another writer at the end was definitely not ok. When will comparing writers end. But regardless, gukyi and I are cool with one another - i mean we wrote 100k together so it’s gonna have to take a reverse Zuko arc for us to be on bad terms lol

Anyway, oooh you’re one of those bingers. Can’t say I blame you cause I love binging myself, so it’s understandable for readers to wait till the series is over. and since you were so kind in following up your original message with two more and expressing so much appreciation for me :’), I’ll let you know that the finale of Sugar and Coffee will be posted by July 20th! by then, the entire series will be completed. 

Anonymous said: Tbh i think that neither you nor that anon is wrong. Some people like it more romanticised and cheesy, some people dont. I believe that your stories are more on the realistic side of life. People (whom your characters represent) cant always be cheesy and passionate for love, there are other things in life! Maybe you're just the type who's too realistic for any hopeless romantic things like i am and it's fine. Not all writers can write dramatic romance

Tbh, I agree. It’s a matter of opinion and there’s no one wrong in the fight of opinions. As I’ve said many times on my blog, the cringe factor varies between person to person. What someone might think is fluffy is absolutely cringey to another. What someone might think is a good amount of fluff is not enough for someone else. I’ve written a lot. And I’ve made sure to add lots of variations between the amount of romance in my stories. Indeed, some are definitely more subtle and “realistic” while others are completely cheesy and makes me gag from the amount of sugar in it lol I just think the anon should take a look at more of my stories before coming up with such a conclusive opinion.

Anonymous said: I’ve been reading your fics for over a year now and religiously follow updates every week. Why? Because they make me feel something whether it be joy from fluff or grief from angst. I’ll remember a story of yours months after I first read it and return to it just to feel those emotions again. I understand that emotional responses are usually subjective but I think that anon needs to read your works again, because they sure are missing out.

I replied to that anon that they should check out more of my fics and then come back to tell me if they haven’t changed their minds, so I don’t know if they’re missing out or not lol

I don’t expect my stories to elicit emotional responses or fanatic feedback for everyone. God knows there’s been other people’s writing styles that just didn’t resonate with me no matter how hard I tried to read their stories. But all I ask is that people try. It’s fine if you give up halfway but at least try reading. That’s fair to ask, right?

[daysafternights]

Living in a world where no one's innocent Oh, but at least we try

Yes, promised to have more updates. If you can't see, I'm trying my very best here. So my clinical started and yes neurosurgical is pretty tough I must say. Very very tired from clinical. 

So I am already half way through my attachment like wow?! So week 1 was practically just trying my very best to break all sort of ice with the SNs, SSNs and CAs. Trying to show some proactiveness, initiatives and potential so to get gain some confidence level they have in me. So usually clinical we will have Clinical Instructors (CIs) who are supposed to be the ones guiding, helping and teaching us while we are on the job. Also, they are usually ward based meaning they are from the same ward we are posted to. However, this time round our CI was not from our ward like she was from the education department and she is new. LOL. Totally disastrous. Not saying she is bad, its just inexperience but okay give chance because we are student nurses as well and patients are giving us chances as well. 

Anyway, she was late for our first day of attachment? LOL she said she got something to attend to and what's more important than your students? LOL you are a CI and you are work 8-5 office hours and you only have one job which is to take care of us and you aint even in the ward. Great first impression. Anw did a lot of junior work in the first week and got to know a lot of the SNs and SSNs. & good news they are all super nice and friendly. GDLL taking time to teach us the actual ground work in the ward and explain to me in details. Maybe they saw how my CI is like LMAO and also understand how tough nursing students life can be in a ward. There are a lot of junior SNs (3-4years working experiences) in the ward and they are so so so nice. 

Anw we had to take case from week 2 onwards and this was actually stressing the shit out of me. LOL taking case means you are in charge of the patient from taking over the patient from previous shift, to handling the patient matter, to medication, to charting, to writing progress notes and to handing over to the next shift. LOL and tbh I was not very prepared. & honestly everyone case was so complicated to me HAHAHA fuck this is what happened when you didnt study hard and also forgetting everything you had studied before. Anw got help from the nicer SNs to learn how to write notes, do handing over and reading the medication system. So took the same case from Wednesday till Friday and my SSN asked me third day taking same case and you still don't know why this patient on this drug HAHAH I just gave a sheepish smile :) Anw I think I would give myself 50/100 for doing just a decent job. Got to be harder on myself in order to grow and learn more. 

Anw so during week 2, our ward got another CI and lets name her LIHO cuz their tea suck. She is full of herself, always talking in a faking condescending manner and always poking her nose in to every matter in the ward. Anw cuz my own CI is new and LIHO is more senior so LIHO will put my CI down in front of students and other nurses. LIKE DAFUQ? LIHO will be damn dramatic whenever she finds something that is not align with like teaching guideline/ textbook answer. Then she will take photo and report. LOL isn't nurses supposed to help each other? FUCKING JOKES. Anw just to do some justice, textbook knowledge really should just stay in textbook. Not saying that nurses in wards are practising the wrong skills but some things are just not feasible to be carried out in textbook manner. If not one shift 12 hours also not enough for you to do la and your patient most prob die liao la GAN. 

Also, there was still one incident that happened in the ward. So Patient X was known for having constant large amount diarrhoea and that day in the middle of a PT session, his diarrhoea leaked out of his diaper and like onto the floor. PANIC PANIC okay jokes. So my SSN, LIHO and I went to help to clean up etc. Anw Patient X was like confused, on restraint and not being able to take instructions la so its slightly harder to clean up and change. Throughout the whole incident, she was just putting me down. “Student, are you sure your gloves is clean? Student, you don't touch the curtain with your dirty gloves. Student, how about you just go get the bathing trolley for me?” Honestly I really just wanted to get out and let her do it on her own since she is so good but nvm since my SSN was inside and I feel bad enough for her already. & halfway changing, she actually said to my SSN: “Should have asked the male CA to come help!” SO WHAT AM I TO YOU? FUCKING BITCH THAT JUST COMPLETELY DISREGARD MY PRESENCE AND EFFORT. So I fuck you not bitch. 

LOL anw got a lot of readings to read up and understand so I can survive my next two weeks! Hopefully I will find more motivation! Meanwhile, stay safe friends. 

[whattaylormademedo]

Please read the latest post on my GoFundMe. This is THE WORST time to need medical care for a progressive and horrid illness.

I am mostly paralyzed for the 4th day in a row now. My hands are working right now and my body hasn’t shut down and knocked me out uncontrollably from the exhaustion of paralyzing, extreme, charlie-horse-like muscle spasms (like it’s been doing Friday, Saturday, and today, Sunday) although I’m still lightheaded from the ceaseless pain. Here is a link and I will transcribe the update my mom wrote:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/HelpMadelineShanley?utm_source=customer&utm_medium=copy_link-tip&utm_campaign=p_cp+share-sheet

Transcription from my Mom:

“Hi Family and Friends,

Madeline’s doctor will no longer be able to come to the house for her appointments because of the Covid-19 coronavirus outbreak. We still have no transportation for her, so she will not be seen until they are able to begin telemedicine sometime in the future. We are hopeful that her nurse will still be able to come to the house to do her lifesaving treatments 2 days every two weeks. We are hopeful that we won’t have disruption in our ability to get this vital IVIG medication for her as well as all of the other medications that she must have. She will not have the needed surgery on her feet that we have been trying to get for her, so we must just try to keep infection at bay until all of this is over. These are the realities that we now must add to our battle.

Madeline is still fighting for her health. Occasionally we have a day when she is able to sit up in bed and stand with much support. But, she is still battling the constant, painful muscle contractions of Stiff Person Syndrome. It is hard for us to wrap our heads around fighting SPS AND going through a pandemic. We are hopeful and we need to keep moving forward.

We don’t know what the future holds. Hopefully, the disruptions to people’s lives will be minimal and focused on trying to keep everyone healthy. Hopefully, you all will be safe and have what you need to care for yourselves and your family. Please think of our family as we battle for Madeline’s life in the realities of a world fighting a new and fast-spreading virus. Please send Madeline any messages of support or kindness. Please consider sharing our story and GoFundMe. We need all the help we can get. Thank you.”

From me: I am trying to hold onto hope, but like in ‘Haunted‘ (which is how I feel now) it feels like “something keeps me holding onto nothing.” If you can, instead please send me messages of hope and encouragement. I don’t have much hope right now. Even PMs would mean a lot. THE MOST HELPFUL THING YOU CAN DO IS DONATE TO MY GOFUNDME. SHARE IT IF YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO DONATE. PLEASE HELP ME AND MY FAMILY TRY TO SAVE MY LIFE.

I’m heartbroken that this might push back the Lover Tour shows, especially Lover Tour East, which was my biggest motivator. It’s nobody’s fault, and I understand it’s dangerous to have a gathering that large during a pandemic like this. It’s just something I’m scared that even if it is rescheduled, I might not have the treatments I need or the resources I’d need to get to those treatments and be alive for them. I know without the treatments, I will rapidly lose my ability to move, speak, or communicate (I’ll still feel the pain, have all my mental faculties, and be fully aware of what’s happening to my body. I’ll likely be blind because my eyelids tend to spasm closed, but sometimes they spasm open and prevents me from sleeping, but I likely won’t have control of my eye muscles anyways. That’s UNLESS I get treatment and have way to get to it).

My GoFundMe, run by my parents, is the bare minimum of my needs. It covers 18 months of medication, costs to purchase and modify a van for wheelchair use, and costs to modify my electric wheelchair so I can use it and get to my treatments when I need to (the electric wheelchair was generously donated by a kind widower whose wife unfortunately passed before she could take it out of the box. Bless her soul and may she be at peace).

The GoFundMe doesn’t cover costs for the secondary needs, like the caregivers I qualify for, programs for my computer to make doctor notes for the one telecommunication visit I’ll have per month with a doctor as I get worse and worse, braces to keep my body from breaking itself, and anything to use as an artistic outlet that I can do with caregiver assistance and my limited mobility (distracting me helps because I watch in horror as life as I knew it has changed in every way possible. In a year and under 3 months, I went from being able-bodied, living on my own in college, and walking to not being able to roll over in my home hospital bed by myself and in constant, agonizingly painful, physically paralyzing, muscle spasms throughout my entire body, that shifts hour by hour. In that same time, I went from expecting the future I worked at since I was 9: being a future CEO, living on my own, working for a company as I grew my own start-up, eventually letting that go off the ground and profiting, now to a future of hoping I survive each month, each treatment, and hoping with what hope I have left to get mobility so I can go to my doctors and treatments someday).

I fear when the ingrown toenails (there are several but there’s two separate ones on the same inner side of my left big toe) grow out and touch each other. It’s inevitable without immediate surgery. They’re less than half a centimeter apart and I don’t know exactly how much that will hurt. It will hurt quite a lot, though, and I won’t get treatment for them for a long time. As TSwift sang in ‘The Archer,’ “the luck of the draw only draws the unlucky.” With a disease as rare as mine, Stiff Person Syndrome (Aka SPS) and in a time like nothing I’ve never known, I sure do feel unlucky.

Without this disease, I’d be out there, buying supplies with the money I earned from the job (that I couldn’t start because of my SPS), driving (which I’ll never be able to do) to people’s doorsteps and delivering necessary food and supplies. I’d risk my life, likely staying in an isolated location to protect my loved ones.

But instead, I have SPS. I’m stuck here in this home hospital bed, paralyzed and in pain. I’m helpless and not able to be helpful. As someone who cares about other people far more than my own self, it’s its own kind of torture to be physically unable to help members of my community.

I hope you all are safe and I beg of you to give me any reason to hope. Any PM, donation to the GoFundMe my parents run for me, or share of that GoFundMe would mean a lot. Thank you for reading. I wish everyone and their loved ones health, happiness, and fulfillment.

💔Madeline

[lanas-academics-blog]

HAPPY SEPTEMPTER!

Hi guys! Just wanted to share an update, a bit of the work I’ve been doing for the past couple of days, and what I have planned to do for the upcoming holiday on Monday!

So first semester started, and I have officially completed my second week of Sophomore year! My classes are nice, but I’ve been having a bit of trouble with my online classes, which I can talk about later! Even though I only have two on-campus classes, I am taking 14 credits, so I’m very busy with schoolwork most of the time. Below I’ll start with a summary of my classes and how they’re going! I’ll then talk about my past and future work. Keep in mind this post is gonna be kinda lengthy so if that’s not your thing, probably don’t click below lol.

So, starting from my first class of the week every week! Human Relations.

To start off - my Human Relations class has a lot of notes. We take notes every class - which I like - but we haven’t really done any actual assignments. We did have a quiz over our book’s second chapter (that I missed because I mixed up a holiday and didn’t go to class - I’m dumb lmao) and we watch video clips, but there hasn’t been a big assignment or anything yet which I’m grateful for.

We do this thing in the class called a reading where we talk about a certain celebrity in a given book and what they have to say about surviving college / advice they have altogether, and I really like the vibe it brings to the class. We are going through each student and doing one every class, and it’s a really nice way to start class every day. We all discuss the advice and give our input, which I think is a good way to get everyone involved.

Over all the class is a bit slow as of late, but discussions make it worth it for sure. I’m excited to see what’s to come with this class!

Next is my Digital Communications class!

This class is entirely online, so we do weekly modules and have until Friday of that week to finish all the work, and it’s all very in-depth assignments. Videos, discussion boards, and quizzes are all major parts of our grades for this class. I love all the feedback and discussions we have over certain topics in this class, because it really opens you up and makes you see other’s POV on things!

It’s a very modern class, and I feel like I’m learning about things happening now in real time (just last week I learned about AI Cars and computers that mimic brain activity to work more efficiently) and it’s something I feel is really important when it comes to digital themed classes! Technology is moving fast, so it’s important we keep up.

Just this last week we learned about viral video trends and the era of “The YouTubers / Online Influencers” and it was so interesting! If anyone is interested in the video (which also talks about YouTube’s history and is a really educational video at its core) I will link it here: Viral Video : YouTube Marketing.

If I’m not using an online website to complete an assignment (just last week I had to look up my name and relatives names to see just how easy it is to find people’s information online), I’m usually writing a long reply to a video for a grade, or responding to other student’s replies for a grade as well. Even though it’s a grade it’s all very open and doesn’t feel too grade-ish. We all have great discussions.

The next class I’m not too fond of, just because I slept my way through high school Algebra, is of course: Algebra. Paired with the sleeping and my state just not caring about our education at all in the past, Algebra is really difficult for me this year. I have to re-teach myself everything from scratch and get the help of some of my friends who are good at Alg (u know who you are). It’s been really difficult, but I’ll get there. On the other hand, also been very rewarding when I understand it!

My book for this class was expensive ($103) and I’m trying to take really good care of it. I bought as apposed to rent because I was told to on the syllabus (it came with an online code which we ended up not even needing so hey! waste of money!) but now I’ll probably sell it back to the school library after this term ends to get some of that money back. 

The number one thing that has helped me, funnily enough, is memes! My friends and I have made memes relating to rules for certain problems, and it’s really helped. I even went as far as printing off one of the memes and stapling it into my math notebook, just so I can see it when I’m studying! I’ll show it to you just because it makes me laugh:

( Any ARMY’s out there - HMU )

As you can see I rewrote my notes for Math just last night (which I plan on doing from now on) just to refresh my memory and study a bit more on the topics I knew I needed to. Figuring out how least common anything works has been literal hell for me, but I’m slowly starting to learn. It’s a work in progress, for sure.

Apart from that, my teacher never gives us set due dates, and we can take all our tests at home, which is a complete life saver for me. I’m about a week ahead in the class because of all the extra work I’ve been putting in trying to re-learn everything, and I plan to keep it that way. This class is challenging but rewarding. In class my professor lectures for about an hour and a half - two hours depending on how long the chapter is (which is usually maybe like 15 pages?) and we take notes the whole time.

The class is pretty silent so I’ve been trying to ask a lot of questions and talk to the people next to me to help the awkward atmosphere as well. I’m a shy person in general but I can be friendly and this class really needs that sort of attitude from the students. The professor is old and he’s really nice, but he’s not too keen on involving students, so I try and help.

Over all, I like the class. It’s challenging for sure, but that was expected. I’m excited to see where this class goes in the future though!

So to finish this off, I’ll talk about my last class, which has proved to be the most difficult regardless of me doing no work at all for it yet. Geology.

The reason I’ve had so many struggles with this class already is because the way it’s set up is just a big mess if I’m being totally honest.

To make things short (because I wrote this once and it literally deleted on me) I have to use three different websites for this one class, a giant textbook (that should have come with an access code to one of the websites, but didn’t), and the way my teacher creates assignments is Messy. It’s all stuff I’ll have to get used to I guess, so we’ll see how things play out. I really hope I like the material though because if I don’t I won’t hesitate to take a fat W on my manuscript (I’m kidding, but it’d be nice to be able to drop fml).

So, moving on from that, let’s talk about my weekend!

THURSDAY:

So my weekend started early because my HR class was cancelled for Friday, so I went ahead and did all of my Digital Comm. work on Thursday. It was all due that next day on Friday so it was a good thing that I finished it all (it took about four hours) but it was interesting so it wasn’t too bad to do. Apart from that I did a lot of misc. stuff like filled out paperwork for my college and tried writing a little bit. I didn’t do a lot of my homework on Thursday because I knew I had all weekend, so that was pretty much all I did academic wise that day.

FRIDAY: 

God himself couldn’t tell you where I was or what I did on Friday. I had a really bad day I think so I kind of just slept the day away. I truly can’t remember. Oh well though, we’re all human, we have bad days!

SATURDAY:

So Saturday (last night) was when I actually got shit done. I finally found motivation to rewrite my Math and HR notes (coffee. coffee was the motivation), and I got them looking really pretty as well as put those memes in, haha. Here’s a picture of a couple pages I rewrote!

So on top of consuming two whole cups of coffee, and binging on MNM’s, I rewrote my notes and then wrote out some emails I needed to send to a couple of my professors. I got a lot done last night which means I’ll have more time to finish what I need to this week!

FUTURE ASSIGNMENTS:

SUNDAY: 

So, today is going to be busy. I’m going to spend today doing all of my Geology work, which means catching up on Chapters 1-2, and then starting the work for this week (that is due on Thursday). I’m already a little behind because of getting my book late, so the work is piling slowly. I’ll have to work hard to finish it all by Thursday.

MONDAY:

Monday will be spent finishing any Geology work I didn’t finish today (Sunday), and then doing my Math test (due Wednesday), and all of my Digital Comm. work (due Friday). I want to finish all my work for this week in a big clump by Tuesday at least so I can finally just relax and spend a few days relaxing and then picking up my study routine again on Friday. 

So it’s clear these last two weeks have been a mess, but I’m slowly starting to get into a routine. I want to plan a few trips to the library this week to get some work done, and then maybe to the gym on campus! Just so I can see if it’d be somewhere I wanna go in the future. I also want to make it a goal to make a few more friends, and possibly join a club.

I will for sure keep you guys updated, and if you’ve read this far, thank you! I hope you enjoyed reading my ramblings, haha.

Happy September and happy studying!

-Lana.

[omyeol]

three words - ii

(cr. to owner, gif is not mine)

word count: 3,511

genre: fluff, angst

warning: sexual content 

At 8.30 in the morning, you sauntered in casually to your office, making your way out of the elevator with springs on your step, your bag filled with your external hard disk, notebook, and other stuff you never bothered to take out in one hand and a tall cup of hot latte from the coffee shop down the street. Being 40 minutes early, the office was still rather empty, apart from your team leader (Junmyeon) who liked to come at least an hour earlier because he liked to have a cat nap before he started working, and some guys from the marketing team.

As much as you liked working from home and in-between finishing your Masters, you had to admit that you missed working at the office too, sitting in your cubicle and brainstorming with your team throughout the day. You missed the ambience, the vending machine in the pantry that kept breaking down, and of course, your desk.

Your desk still looked like how it did when you stopped by the office to have a team meeting two weeks ago. Post-its tagged with deadline dates, design ideas, meeting dates, and even day-to-day reminder (such as grocery list or reminder to call Baekhyun) were still stuck on the divider of your cubicle. Nothing seemed out of place, apart from the bouquet of flowers on top of your keyboard.   

Congratulations on finishing your Masters!!

We’re sooo excited to have you back at the office again!

Somin, Jongin, Sehun, & Junmyeon

A smile bloomed on your face at the sprawly, familiar handwriting (you knew it’s Somin’s), feeling warmth at the sweet gesture. You placed your cup of coffee gently on your desk, strategically placing it near your keyboard, and looked around to check if Junmyeon was already awake. You were planning to thank him for the flowers, but decided to do it later when he was awake.

The trio arrived much later than you expected. Somin was the first one to show up, just about ten minutes before nine with her usual dose of caffeine. As if she hadn’t seen you in so long (when you both actually had dinner together a few days ago), she greeted you with a hug and bright smile. In her usual Somin’s nature, she chatted your ear off as you both waited for Jongin and Sehun, who ended up being five minutes late. Since it was already past 9, you didn’t have any time to have a proper chat with them before Junmyeon (who was already wide awake and full of smile) called the four of you for a team meeting.

(Although as usual, the team meeting was spent with Junmyeon talking your ears off about the some new client you got and your own job descriptions, and Jongin pitching design ideas here and there.)

“Unnie, should we go get lunch together?” You looked up from your computer where you were typing up a proposal for next week’s meeting and saw Somin sticking her head over the divider of your cubicle and cracking a bright smile at you.

“Sure,” you breathed out as you leaned back against the back of you swivel chair. “What should we have-”

“Let’s have some jjajangmyeon.” One of the two men, Jongin spoke, poking his head over the divider as well before you could even ask Somin. “It’s been so long since I have jjajangmyeon for lunch.”

“You had it for lunch last Friday,” Somin quipped with a sigh. “I thought we’re only having jjajangmyeon on Fridays.” You looked back and forth between Sehun and Somin who were already in a debate. Waiting for the two to finish their debate, you fished your phone out of the bag and checked if there was any new messages.

There was one, from Baekhyun.

Have fun on your first day back at the office! I’ll see you tonight at home!

Along with the text, he also sent a picture of him smiling, his eyes crinkling at the side. In the picture, he was already wearing his sky blue scrubs and white coat as always, looking charismatic in his work clothes. You rarely saw him wearing his scrubs, but when you saw him in it, you always admired it because Baekhyun always looked so different than the Baekhyun you saw at home. The Baekhyun you saw at home usually walked around his pajamas with his messy bed hair that he never bothered to comb and his round-framed glasses that gave him a boyish charm. Meanwhile Doctor Byun Baekhyun wore scrubs, his eyes were always watching everything in alert, and his feet were quick to move. It was a sight that you rarely saw yet you loved it so much.

Thank you. See you at home!

Exchanging text like this felt so weirdly domestic and slightly romantic, which caused your head to send another warning sign for you. And for the nth time, you ignored that warning sign, telling yourself that this was also what friends would usually do.

“Noona, let’s have lunch.” Looking up from your phone, Sehun was already standing and leaning by your desk with his arms crossed over his chest. “We’re having pasta.” You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion.

“I actually thought we’re having jjajangmyeon,” you spoke casually as you rose up from your seat, slipping your phone into your blazer pocket and grabbing your bag with you.

“I told them it’s your first day back so we should celebrate a little bit.” One of these days, you should really treat him coffee or some pastry for his good deed. When you were still busy with trying to graduate, Sehun had kindly taken a bit of your work load off. He’d gone as far as helping you with whatever proposal you made for client meeting. Even though it was not in his job description to do so, but he did it anyway before forwarding it to Junmyeon.

“What’s new at the office?” You asked as the four of you headed to the elevator, most people had gone out for lunch and only a few stayed at the workspace.

“Junmyeon-hyung is dating someone. We don’t know who it is, but he definitely is because now he rarely stays late at the office. That one time he even counted the minute until we were done for the day.” You couldn’t help but let out a gasp at the news. Your team leader was one of the most passionate people at the office who took his job very seriously and was pretty much married to it. Jongin and Sehun had tried as far as setting him up with someone they knew, but that didn’t work out.

“My guess would be someone he met at his high school reunion last month.”

So, the rest of your lunch hour was spent in making guesses of who your team leader was possibly dating, and also the other three giving you updates about other news around the office–like the two foreign interns (they were an international students) but they had the outstanding social skills to fit in with the others in a span of two weeks, or the news where Minseok kept losing his lunch for a week straight and the culprit hadn’t been caught until recently. Hearing all these news made you feel glad that your team had helped you to not lose your position at the office while you were studying for Masters. The thing was, you didn’t know what you would do if you had to quit and move to another company.

When you came back from lunch, there was a new bouquet of flowers sitting on your desk. Looking around the office, everyone who was already back, minding their own business and not even one of them looked suspicious enough to send you the flowers. Placing your bag on the floor, you grabbed the bouquet and checked if there was a card.

There was, and the message was handwritten, in a handwriting that looked familiar to you.

Have fun at your first day back at the office!

I was planning to drive you to the office this morning and all that jazz, but I got the morning shift :(

But don’t worry I’ll be home later when you get home and we’ll have tteokbokki while you talk about your first day back.

Enjoy your day! Don’t think about me too much :)

Love,

BBH

The words written on the card made tears well up on the corner of your eyes, you even had to shut your eyes and take a few deep breaths to keep your composure. The flowers and the gesture felt so much like he was yours to have; like this was just a thing he did just because he felt like it. Opening your eyes, your eyes read the card once more, this time noticing how Baekhyun actually went to a florist, ordered the flowers for you, and wrote the card himself.

Why is he doing this, you questioned yourself, why is he making things really hard for me than it already was?

“Whoa, another flowers bouquet. Who is it from?” Somin, Jongin, and Sehun huddled around you; Somin grabbing the flowers and smelling it while the guys were reading the card you had in hand over your shoulders.

“BBH,” Jongin read out loud, and then let out a gasp. “Whoa, noona. You’re not the only who’s dating someone.” You turned your head and saw Jongin wiggling his eyebrows playfully at you.

“We’re not dating,” you clarified quickly. “He’s just a friend. We’re friends.” The word ‘friends’ felt awfully bitter in your mouth. The realization that you and Baekhyun were just friends caused your stomach to twist painfully. All this time, you made it seem like it was just all in your head, like being just friends was just another attempt of your heart to shield yourself from a heartache. But now you finally said the words out loud, it felt like it became real. Much too real for you to realize. If your heart thought it was just shielding yourself from a heartache, it was no use. It was too late. You already got your heart aching since the first time you said yes to Baekhyun’s offer to play house.

Friday nights were mostly spent lounging around on the couch with some shows playing on TV or trying your best to get some work done (you were unusually motivated and productive). You didn’t usually bring your work home, but when the deadline was approaching and you still weren’t satisfied with the one you worked on at the office, you had no choice but made some edits at home. Besides, it wasn’t like you could be distracted easily.

Well, that was if Baekhyun wasn’t home, though. If he was, it was another story.

That’s why you didn’t know how you both could end up in such a compromising position. First, Baekhyun was keeping you company until you finished your work, and the next thing you knew he was kissing you and pulling you to sit on his lap. But you were pretty sure the empty bottle of wine on the coffee table was the one you could blame for this. Frankly, you didn’t feel slightly guilty about this. Besides, the moan that came out of his mouth when you tugged the hair on his nape was like music to your ears. It didn’t make you want to stop. Instead, it spurred you on even more.

With a surge of confidence flowing in your stream, you shifted on his lap and pulled away from his lips, moving your lips to press chaste kisses on his cheek and jaw. Just when you thought you had the control, it changed and every thought you had about this situation just floated to the thin air as Baekhyun used that moment to suck on a certain spot on your collarbone that got you to let out the first moan in the evening and he moved his cold hands to your thighs. You shut your eyes and tried to hold back your moan, but you couldn’t since his hands were inching closer and closer to where you needed him the most.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” he spoke as he pulled way a bit to look at the masterpiece he had created on your collarbone. You had a thought that a few bruises had probably shown and clearly it’s way too late to warn or stop him altogether.

“How could I not?” You muttered and tugged at his hair again, pulling his head back from your neck to look at his eyes. His eyes were a bit darker than it was before and it was good enough to calm your brain. There was also a mischievous glint in his eyes and a cheeky smile across his face that made your heart skip a beat. “Your lips are amazing. Dunno if it’s a blessing or curse.”

His eyes widened a bit and he looked at you like you were crazy before shaking his head faintly, “you are so drunk.”

“Well it’s ‘cause of you,” you retorted and he chuckled. “Don’t be so flattered. You brought that wine when you know I’m at my weakest. So don’t judge me.”

“What do you want me to do, then?” he murmured before leaning in and trailing kisses from your jaw to your neck again. His lips really felt amazing against your skin and you didn’t ever want him to stop. It had been too long since you both did this, and you wondered how the hell you lasted a month without feeling his lips against your skin like this.

“Want me to stop?” His hands moved up, up, and up, showing off your thighs even more as he sucked on a spot on your neck that got your breath hitched. You didn’t have the chance to answer his question since he’s already pulling back a bit to take off your dress shirt, leaving you only in your bra and panties. The feeling of his hands on you made you move your hands down, trailing it to his chest, to feel his heartbeat against your hands.

He placed his hand on your hip, squeezing a bit while he used his other hand to playfully tug on your panties. His lips still did wonders and sucked softly on the previous spot he made as he pushed your panties aside and trailed one of his fingers on your slit. You moaned.

“Seems like you don’t want me to stop,” he teased as he inserted a finger into your core and thrust shallowly a few times. “So wet for me.” You groaned and shifted your hips a bit, wanting more than only one of his fingers because it just wasn’t enough.

Baekhyun was blessed with such beautiful fingers that could do wonders. He could play piano well, and he was good at driving you crazy with those fingers too. Before this arrangement happened, sometimes you couldn’t help but think about what those fingers could do and the damage it could’ve caused a lot on you. But now that you had had a taste of it (literally and figuratively), you couldn’t have enough of it.

“Baek,” you panted above him. He pulled out his finger and now thrust two fingers into your core, his thumb circling your clit. He went deeper and found the spot that got you moaning his name so loud. He chuckled. “Please,” you moaned again as you arched your back from pleasure, pushing your chest flush against his. He trailed his hand up from your hip to your back, tracing your back gently and eliciting shivers down your spine.

“Please what, hmm?” he urged as he kept on thrusting his fingers in and out of you slowly, hitting that spot again and moving his thumb away from your clit. While you were so preoccupied with the knot forming inside of you, he used his free hand to unclasp your bra and help you take it off, throwing it somewhere across the room when he’s done.

“Please just – oh,” your words failed you as he used that moment to pinch your hardening nipple and his mouth moved to suck on my other nipple. That delicious feeling caused you to squirm on his lap, grinding over his hardening crotch subconsciously and you were getting so much closer to the edge. Maybe it would only take a few more thrust of his fingers and another pinch or two before you reached your climax.

“What was that, babe?” He stilled his fingers in you and pulled back a little to take a good look of you, his intense gaze glued on your face. His gaze on you are glazed, pupils dilating with lust swirling in it and his lips were red and swollen from all the kissing you had done earlier. He looked so delicious it made you want to let him do anything he wanted to do to you all night.

“Just,” you gasped and shut your eyes tightly, mouth gaped open as he curled his fingers on the spot that made you tremble. Your hands shook and you had to curl and uncurl your fist a couple times as you dropped your head onto his shoulder. “Just fuck me,” you murmured against his neck.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” He trailed his hand up to your shoulder and pulled you back from his neck. Your brain was cloudy, your gaze was hazy, and you felt unsteady as he squeezed your shoulder gently, trying to keep your eyes focus on him. “I’ll fuck you, okay? I’ll fuck you until you can feel me for days.” Baekhyun was filthy and the fact that he kept his eyes on you as the words slithered out of his pretty mouth made you clench against his fingers.

The way he blinked his eyes in fake innocence and his lips spread in a mischievous smile made you want to curse at him. “You know I’ll always take care of you.” Feeling you clench against him, he curled his fingers on that spot, causing your eyes to roll back and drop your head on his shoulder again.

Baekhyun moved his hand from your shoulder to your thigh, feeling it tremble against his hand. The knot in your stomach was tightening and you knew you were tethering at the edge. “But I need you to come for me first, okay? Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, yes,” you sobbed against his shoulder and turned your head to press your lips against his neck, where a layer of sweat coating it.

He leaned his head forward a bit and let the mouth graze against your ear, his thumb now rubbing fast and hard against your clit. “Good girl.” Shocked at how sensual those words sound with his low voice, your hips jerked up and you came undone over Baekhyun’s hand, letting out a loud cry. “That’s it. Let go. Let go for me.” He helped you ride out your orgasm, his fingers still slowly thrusting into your core and his thumb rubbing against your overstimulated clit. You were still shaking and holding on to him tightly as he pulled his fingers out of core, feeling empty and overwhelmed from the shock of the orgasm.

You clung to him and breathed against his neck as he grabbed a few tissues from the end table and wiped his fingers with it. His other hand caressed your back softly, helping you to calm down and steady yourself. “Hey,” he murmured against your ear and pulled back from the embrace, his cleaned hand now holding onto your cheek. The way his fingertips graze your cheek softly pulled you back to the moment.

You opened your eyes and blinked it a few times, realizing that he was already staring at you with a fond look and a soft smile across his face, like he wasn’t just sputtering out filthy words a few minutes earlier. The way he looked at you after he did this sometimes led you to believe if he did this because he really loved you, not because of the lust he felt in the moment. It mislead you way too many times into feeling like you two weren’t only lovers for a few moment, but for a lifetime. It was easy to get lost in the moment and pretend that the arrangement never happened in the first place, and it happened because what you both really felt for each other.

“You okay now?” You nodded and cleared your throat, still not trusting yourself to speak just yet. Scared that if you opened your mouth, you’d be asking him the question that you didn’t want to know the answer just yet. “Let’s move to the bedroom, yeah?” You didn’t have any energy left in you as you nodded again and let Baekhyun wrap your legs around his waist tightly and rise up from the couch, carrying you into his bedroom to be lost in the pleasure once more.

[swanderful1]

Duplicity: Ch 3/?

Summary: Secrets shroud the homes of the idyllic Willow Lane. Its newest resident, Emma Swan is no exception. In a place where perception is everything, the facade begins to crack. And Emma finds herself staring down the deep, dark secrets that the neighborhood was built on and that nothing is as it seems. Not even the blue eyed gardener.

Notes: Hiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!! Back with another update, here’s chapter 3! Hope you like it! Also special shoutout to @resident-of-storybrooke for being my beta and @shady-swan-jones for the artwork!!!!!!! 

Word Count: ~6300 

Disclaimer: All rights to OUAT, I own nothing. 

The rest can be found on AO3 and ffnet 

Two days after Killian had first met with Emma Swan about her backyard he began his first phase of work there. It was early Wednesday, the sun was quite literally still rising, when he pulled his truck in front of the house. Another email from Neal Gold had given Killian a specific timeline of when he wanted to work to be done, and it really was not long at all.

Some sort of party was being thrown at the house in the end of May, giving him just under two months to frame the structure with the appropriate landscaping. For any other house, it would be a simple task. But it was during the height of his busiest season and the yard was quite large. So there was a good chance it may not get done in time.

That and he also had other motives for being there.

He unloaded his truck, slipping on his work gloves so no one would see the prosthetic that replaced his left hand. Killian felt himself being extra quiet as he unpacked, hoping that he wouldn’t wake Emma and her resting husband. But just as Killian was heading to the backyard he noticed Neal Gold exiting the house, it was rather early to be headed to the office, he thought.

“Morning,” Neal said, giving Killian a half-assed wave from the driveway.

“Morning,” he said back. The man, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than Killian made in a month, got into his Range Rover and drove off.

As Neal drove out of sight Killian couldn’t help but envy him a bit. Here he was, living in this massive house. Driving an expensive car. Set to be the heir of the largest construction company in the north east just because he was born. Sleeping in bed each night with a beautiful woman.

And, to Killian at least, it did not appear as though the man appreciated any of it. He certainly had not missed the way in which Emma regarded Neal’s management of the project the other day. As much as he knew it was none of his business what she thought of Neal, he still found himself wondering.

He shook off his jealousy, it was entirely uncharacteristic of him to envy the kind of life he had seen so much of in his years in the business. It irked him that, for once, he was picturing being the person in the house. But, it did him no good to pout. Killian didn’t have the luxury of an inheritance nor a wealthy family.

“Good morning,” said a voice from behind. Killian jumped, not expecting anyone to be awake this early. He spun and saw that Emma Swan was standing on the empty back porch, holding a white mug of what he could only assume was coffee. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Hi there,” he said with a smile. “It’s quite alright, I just didn’t think anyone would be awake this early.”

Killian softened a bit, setting his handful of tools down. Despite the early hour, her face was wide awake. Her green eyes bright and her hair tied back off of her face. As she stepped down off of the porch and walked toward him, he tried not to get distracted by the way her clothes clung to her curves and instead focused on what he still needed to get from his truck.

“I’m a morning person,” she said, pulling the mug to her lips with both hands. The rising sun caught the light of the diamond ring on her finger, serving as an ever present reminder that she was completely untouchable. For so many reasons. “I was just about to go for a run. Did you need any help with anything before I go?”

He looked at her quizzically and determined that she wasn’t just offering to offer, she genuinely wanted to help. She was quite different than any of the women he had worked for in the past and he was starting to regret the shallow assumptions he had made about her at first glance. It was a force of habit, and people rarely surprised him in a good way.

“No thank you, love, I’ve got it covered,” he replied.

“Alright,” she said, gulping down the rest of her coffee until it was empty. Killian felt his eyes widen at how quickly she had drained the mug. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

With that she took off, headed toward the front street where he heard her chatting with someone else. Another woman it sounded like, and then soon their voices drifted away. With no more distractions he set to work.

Living in Maine meant warm summers and cold winters. This also meant that Killian did his best to select plants that could grow back after cooler temperatures, so that it wasn’t like starting from the bottom each spring when the weather shifted.

In order to fulfill her wish of a natural looking landscape, Killian would have to get creative.

He had drawn on his sketch pad the layout of the yard. He had accounted for the essentials, factored in the property line. Since the entire back was a plot of dirt plus an empty pool, he had no trouble using a can of orange spray paint to outline where he would be putting things.

When Liam was alive, he had been able to talk to people. Quite easily, which was why everyone was so quick to hire him to work on their yards. Killian well, not so much. He could be charming when he wanted to be, especially with women, but he rarely wanted to be when it came to work. Especially when it was something he could lean on his brother for. Killian knew his strengths. He was the worker, the muscle, the perfectionist. And despite only having one hand, he executed things precisely. So well that none of the people who had hired him in the past fifteen years had a clue he was missing his left hand.

Killian was just about done with the front yard when he heard the chatter of voices behind him.

“Thanks for the run, Emma,” said one woman. Whom he could assume to be Mary Margaret, Ruby’s friend who lived across the street.

“Sure,” replied Emma, her breath ragged presumably from the run. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah! Sounds good!” he heard her say back, before the sound of footsteps carried Mary Margaret away. And then his ears listened for the sound of Emma coming closer.

“Can I get you some water or anything?” she said when she was about halfway up the steps to the front door. He looked up at her from his work on the lawn and noted that she was covered in sweat like she had been the other day when he came to meet her. Killian wondered if she would get into the habit of leaving him alone at her house to go for runs.

“That’s alright, I have some in the truck, and I’m just about done here.”

“Are you sure?” she pressed. “It’s pretty warm out, I for one am parched.”

“That’s because you’ve been running and I’ve been walking in circles,” he joked.

“What’s the spray paint for?”

“It’s to outline where everything is going to go once the sprinkler system is in.”

“Do you mind taking me on a tour?”

“Sure.” He smiled, and she stepped off the porch. Close up, she was about a head shorter than him, and was thinly built but muscular. Her breath was still ragged but somehow it all worked in her favor.

The backyard wasn’t much at this stage of things, so he found it hard to describe to Emma what everything would come together to look like. He felt himself more than a few times at a loss for words. But if she noticed she didn’t say anything, just followed him around and politely waited for him to talk.

“I know I said I didn’t want too many flowers…” she said after walking around the perimeter of the space. “But there was one thing I was wondering if there would be room for.”

“What’s that?” he said turning his head toward her.

“The rose bushes I saw at the mayor’s house the other day, you did those right?”

“Aye.” Killian nodded. The blasted things had given him migraine after migraine. To make sure they were to Cora Mills liking was a particular challenge that more than tested his patience.

“Well, it might not be so bad to have some of those here… maybe tucked away where the gazebo is going to be?”

As much as he hated putting them in and maintaining them across the street, when he looked at Emma’s expectant face, he couldn’t do anything but smile and nod.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

“I just thought that they were nice to look at…” she paused as if deciding whether or not to add the next part of her statement. “I wouldn’t mind being able to have fresh roses in the house every once in a while.”

“Then that’s what you shall have,” he said, making note of the change in his sketch. “I’ll be in another neighborhood the rest of the week but I can bring by some floral samples from the greenhouse this weekend.”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” she smiled at him and shifted on her feet.

“I’ll be doing some work next door for Granny Lucas on Saturday morning, I can come by then if you’ll be home?”

She doesn’t need your whole bloody schedule, Killian corrected himself.

“I’ll be around,” she said looking up at him. For a second their eyes lingered, before she broke the stare to walk toward the house. His eyes followed her as she walked up the steps, a confident stroll. Her hips swaying in a way they hadn’t before, he was sure of that.

Killian had a feeling. A brief one, that just barely tugged on his conscious mind. Something that felt like he wanted to give Emma Swan whatever it was that she wanted.

On Friday night Killian plopped himself down on his usual stool at The Rose and the Thorn. After a long week of work he felt he had earned a cold drink. Robin poured him two fingers of rum on the rocks and Killian tossed it back immediately.

“Easy there, champ,” said his best friend.

Killian rolled his eyes, ordering a beer. He wasn’t planning on getting obliterated tonight as he normally did on the weekends. He had a full day tomorrow, part of his itinerary included a visit with Emma Swan. And while there was absolutely no concrete reason why he would need to be on his best behavior around her, he felt himself wanting to be anyway.

“A beer?” Ruby said entering the bar. Bringing over a crate of clean glasses to stack. On weekends she tended bar with Robin to make extra money. With her grandmother getting older, eventually all responsibility would fall onto Ruby financially. She had lost her parents at a young age as well, luckily for her, Granny had been around to raise her.

“Taking it slow tonight, Red,” he said back, sipping on the frothy liquid.

“Any particular reason?” she poked.

“A lot of work tomorrow. So I’m trying to make a good decision,” Killian said snarkily. Now it was Robin who rolled his eyes.

“I hear one of those tasks is making a special house call to bring rose samples over to my new neighbor,” Ruby said leaning across the bar. Her elbows resting on the surface. She was looking at him funny, like she could see right through him.

“It is.”

“Who’s your new neighbor?” Robin chimed in.

“Gold’s son… well and his wife,” said Ruby still looking at Killian critically.

“He has a son?” Robin asked.

“Yes, he’s just about our age,” Ruby commented. “And his wife is….”

“She’s nice,” Killian cut her off, taking another sip. He did not want to get into it with these two.

“Oh I’m sure she’s very nice to you,” Robin smirked.

“Her husband is about to inherit one of the biggest construction businesses in the north east. Forgive me for wanting to stay on the good side of that family.”

Even as the irritated words came out of his mouth, the irony in them was not lost.

“It also doesn’t hurt that she’s gorgeous,” Ruby said backing up to resume her glass stacking.

“Ah the trophy wife type, very nice,” joked Robin as he mixed drinks for a few young men at the end of the bar.

“No.” Killian had immediately said, but realizing how suspicious that sounded he tried to back track. But somehow seemed to make this conversation worse. “She’s uh, very much so her own person.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Killian Jones?” Ruby asked incredulous to his response.

“Go easy on him, Red, maybe this is a sign he’s finally growing up,” said Robin.

“I just think she’s lonely, alright?” Killian said.

It wasn’t a lie. But he began to think that the reason he was drawn to her was because of the reflection of that loneliness he saw in himself.

“I won’t disagree there, moving to Storybrooke was clearly not within her control,” Ruby interjected. Finally. “Mary Margaret and I spent some time with her this week. Otherwise she would be all by herself in that big house all day. Her husband barely comes home.”

“Sounds like the picture of idealism,” Robin remarked. It was no secret that the three of them hated the suburbs.

“Besides, I don’t think the mayor likes her very much,” Ruby continued. Out of the corner of Killian’s eye he caught Robin’s hand freeze just the slightest at the mention of Regina Mills.

“What makes you say that?” Killian wondered.

“We all know she’s not exactly a girl’s girl….” Ruby alluded to the fact that as each one of the women moved to the street Regina had essentially frozen them out. Again Robin fumbled with the glass.

Killian remained quiet, knowing that Ruby was unintentionally treading on thin ice with this conversation. Between Killian and Robin there were two secrets that only the other knew. For him it was Milah, Robin had known at the time what kind of trouble she was in before she died. For Robin though, it was the mayor. The mayor who was now engaged to the chief of police.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Ruby asked Killian, not noticing how Robin was just about to squirm.

“Eh… probably this, why?”

“Mary Margaret asked me and Granny over for dinner but Granny can’t come because of her book club.”

“Who is going to be there?” he asked, his eyebrow shooting up.

“Well obviously Mary Margaret and David, then you and I… Neal Gold and Emma…”

“I suppose I could escort you.” It wasn’t the first time Killian had filled in as Ruby’s plus one to an event and it probably wouldn’t be the last. “What time?”

“Around 7ish? Will you be done with work by then?”

“Yeah, Red, I’ll be done by then.”

Luckily a group of people walked into the bar in search of drinks which pulled Ruby’s attention elsewhere. He would have to sit at a dinner table with Emma Swan and her husband. Should be interesting.

Among the group of people infiltrating the bar were a few women, one of whom was eyeing Killian. She was pretty, dark chocolate colored hair and romantic eyes. She was precisely his type.

He smiled politely at her before returning his attention to the half consumed beer and in front of him. On any other night he would have sent a drink her way, used it as an opening for a conversation. But he felt himself retreat and instead continue to nurse the drink in front of him, twisting the base of the glass on the black bar napkin.

It was a while before Robin came back over, the bar was full of people. It was a Friday night after all. The sound of chatter drowned out the music that played over the ancient speakers. Killian’s one beer was almost entirely gone now as his friend set down a tumbler of amber liquid, ice clinking against its sides.

“This is from the lady at the end of the bar,” Robin said. His head shifted toward the woman who had smiled at Killian earlier. He nodded in her direction before sipping down the strong liquid, ordering two more and sauntering over to her.

For as long as Milah had been gone, he had never had an issue with seeking out a random stranger in a bar and taking her to bed with him. Killian had done it time and time again in the five years she had been dead. Not once did he ever second guess the choice to cozy up to someone else also looking for company.

“I’m not a fan of being indebted to people,” he said, handing her the drink. She smiled at him a tint of red hitting her cheeks.

“I don’t usually do that…” she said, sipping the drink, her red lips wrapping around the straw. “But you just looked so lonely sitting there I had to.”

“Ah, I see, so it was a pity drink?” he toyed, his eyebrow raising at her.

“Not entirely.”

Her body leaned toward his in the crowded space. The smoke in the air filling his nose. Killian could be charming when he wanted to be.

But by his third round of drinks with the pretty brunette his mind wandered elsewhere. The deep fissures of his brain opening to reveal that his most pressing thought was that, if he was awake early enough, he would have more time to spend discussing roses with Emma Swan.

And for whatever reason, that seemed to be the most appealing task in the world.

Emma’s first week in Storybrooke had been relatively pleasant given the circumstances. Her situation that she was trying desperately to make the best of, was playing out well. It was early Saturday morning when she heard the sound of an old truck pulling up in front of her house. Since the day was nice, Neal and his father had already left to play a round of golf with the mayor’s fiance, Graham. It was interesting to Emma how all of these major roles in the town were filled by people who essentially lived on one street.

When Neal kissed her goodbye she was still in bed, tucked among the white linens.

“I’ll be back in the evening, Em,” Neal said as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be at the country club if you need me.”

“Don’t forget we have dinner at the Nolan’s tonight.”

“We do?”

“Yes. I told you last night before bed.” A hint of irritation lingered in her tone. You probably weren’t listening, she wanted to add but didn’t. If she picked a fight each time something she said went in one ear and out the other she would never stop screaming.

As much as Emma was beginning to feel like she was perpetually being abandoned by Neal she didn’t want to start an argument first thing in the morning. She swallowed her comment and made a mental note to call him later to remind him of their dinner with the new neighbors. God forbid the Nolans weren’t the mayor or the chief of police or the superintendent of the schools or anything that could in some way self-serve Neal and his father. Emma glanced at the clock. It was already 8 am, so she instead focused on the fact that Killian would be here to pick out the roses for the backyard.

The day was a comfortable temperature, the blue sky above setting the tone for a nice morning. Emma’s back porch was still bare, except for a stack of collapsed boxes from the move. She could hear the faint sound of birds and cars driving past. The sound of children running around because it was the weekend and no one had school. A crew of three men were working in her backyard to get the sprinkler system installed by Monday before the grass would go in. Two cups of coffee were steaming in white mugs next to Emma and the gardener. She was on her second cup, he had barely touched his.

“Now these are heritage roses, they’re relatively sturdy and don’t require a ton of upkeep,” said Killian as they sat on her back porch comparing the several blooms he had brought over. “Baronne Prevost.”

“They’re what?” she said looking from the pink flower in her hand to him. She was clearly his first stop of the day, as his shirt was white and unstained. His gloves were clean. His pants were pressed. For a second her gaze lingered on his blue eyes. “I thought roses were just roses.”

“That’s the name of the type of rose, love,” he said kindly. If he noticed her eyes ogling him a bit, he remained unreadable.“They would grow on a bush about 5 x 5 in height and width.”

“They’re beautiful,” Emma said focusing again on the flower. Attempting to shift her wandering mind.

“Aye, they are,” he said coolly. “I would imagine they would look rather nice on a kitchen table.”

“Huh?” she said.

“You had said the other day that you thought it would be nice to have fresh roses in the house… these will be ideal for that. They bloom several times per season.”

Emma looked up at him again, knowing that it was his job to remember what she said she wanted, but still grateful that small tidbit stuck enough in his head. She felt her skin flush a bit, probably similar in color to the pink rose in her hand.

“Would you like to see some others then?” he asked.

“No, no I think these will be perfect.”

“Well that was easy,” he said, removing his right glove to write something down in his notepad he always carried with him. And maybe it was from not being able to see his left hand, or her current preoccupation with other people’s lives, but she found herself wondering if there was a wedding band on his left hand.

“I like to think I’m decisive,” she replied.

He had to be married. Or at the very least have some sort of serious partner. He had to, he was gorgeous.

“That’s a nice quality in a client.”

“Yeah, because it makes your job easier.”

“That may be true,” he said with a smirk. But neither of them stood up. A tension lingered in the air as neither said anything else for a few seconds.

“Emma!” called a voice from the yard. It was Mary Margaret.

“What’s up?” said Emma standing from her spot on the deck. Peering over the bannister she could see her newest friend walking toward the porch. As she did, stepping out of whatever orbit she had just fallen into, a part of her felt like she had been caught with something.

“I just wanted to see what you wanted for dinner to-... oh! Hi Killian!” said the cheery woman as she rounded the bend and realized Emma wasn’t alone.

“Hello, Mary Margaret,” said Killian, rising as well to collect his things.

“I didn’t realize you two were working on something, it’s good that I have you both here,” Mary Margaret said. “What would you prefer for dinner tonight, a roast or Italian?”

“You’re going to be at dinner?” Emma looked at Killian who was now standing next to her.

“Aye, Ruby asked me to go in lieu of her grandmother.”

“Oh,” Emma looked away from him, realizing that of course he was dating someone like Ruby. And then internally scolding herself for even remotely minding that he would be there tonight with someone else. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s relatively last minute,” he said quietly, almost like he was only saying it to her.

“Anything you make is fine with me,” Emma said taking her eyes from Killian to Mary Margaret.

“Same here,” said Killian.

And if anyone noticed how uncomfortable Emma had suddenly become, no one said a thing.

That evening, as Emma sat at the breakfast bar of her kitchen, she sipped a glass of Chardonnay she had poured herself. The tall stemware was a Christmas gift she had bought last year when she realized all of her wine glasses were mismatched souvenir cups.

If ten year old Emma could see twenty eight year old Emma, she could only imagine the conversation they would have. She had spent 18 years in the foster system, which meant living out of a backpack. Especially as she aged beyond the cute baby years and into her preteen years when it was a lost cause to be permanently adopted.

As she looked around her new house, she couldn’t help but think about how this had been all she wanted growing up. The big two story entryway with the skylight. The dining room with a big, oak table to have Thanksgiving dinner. The all white kitchen, that had a breakfast nook and bay windows. The living room with big comfortable couches and artwork she had collected over the years.

Beyond all of that though, was the pressing fact that she had essentially assembled this home on her own. Every couch, every picture frame, every glass was there because she had put it there. When they had moved into their first apartment together, when she was 18, Neal had helped every step of the way. Sure, it had been a tiny studio apartment over a laundromat and most of its contents were from second hand stores but still. When they had nothing between the two of them he was there… but now, where was Neal?

Checking the watch on her wrist it was 6:50 and they were due to be at the Nolan’s around 7. She was getting worried.

At 5 before Emma had hopped in the shower, she had called to remind him of the dinner. No answer.

At 5:30 when she was done drying her hair, she had called to remind him of the dinner. No answer.

At 6 when she was ironing a shirt for him in their walk in closet, she had called the country club to see if he was still there. The woman at the front desk had said he had left an hour ago.

At 6:30 when she put the finishing touches on her outfit, simple dark jeans and a cream colored sweater, her usual jewelry, her hair in loose curls she sent him a text. No answer.

The ticking watch on her wrist taunted her, clicking along, minutes going by. All the while hoping he would just call. At the very least, just call. She put up with a lot from him. But how hard was it to call?

Then at 7:05, just as Emma was about to smash the glass in her hand, he walked in the door.

“Em…?” she heard him call out from the foyer.

“In the kitchen,” she said back, her voice an unmistakable monotone.

“Sorry I’m late, we went to dinner in town after the round,” he said, kissing her forehead. What she smelled on him though was the thick stench of bourbon.

“Are you drunk?” Emma sat up in her seat, tugging away from his embrace.

“No.” He stepped back, setting his clubs on the tile floor. The one thing he managed to unpack during the move. “Lighten up, Em. It’s a Saturday.”

“Yeah, well, we’re late for dinner. The one that was actually planned,” she said tightly getting up from her chair. She grabbed her red jacket and threw it over top of her sweater. If she went in on him right now, there would be no making it to dinner.

“We could just cancel.”

“No.”

“Can I have a few minutes to change?” he asked, treading lightly around her.

“That depends….” Emma crossed her arms. “If you go upstairs are you going to magically disappear for 9 hours?”

He gathered his things, pushing past her to walk upstairs. How did we get like this? She wondered while she waited. They hadn’t always been this disconnected. There was a time when he was just about her everything, the only consistency she knew. More so now than ever she felt herself clutching to those memories. But when he started working for his father four years ago, that had all slowly started to change.

By 7:30 they had made their way across the street to the Nolan’s, Emma apologizing profusely for their lateness. When she saw that Killian and Ruby had already arrived, she did just about anything to not be near the two together. So when Mary Margaret suggested a tour of the house, Emma jumped at the opportunity. The woman, being very proud of her home, took she and Neal through each room.

It was very different than their house across the street. The Nolan’s were far more practical than they were. All of the floors a dark, sturdy wood that wouldn’t show dirt. Eclectic, comfortable furniture. The rooms all open to one another so that everything flowed evenly. Pictures everywhere of David and Mary Margaret on trips, from their wedding, from college. Pieces of art made by her students and given as gifts. Books were scattered on just about every surface and candles were lit all around giving the house a warm glow and a lovely smell.

“When we have kids, I want to be able to see them in the backyard from the kitchen,” said Mary Margaret as they finished the tour, looping through the back half of the house. The kitchen was where they ended, the soft brown and beige colors of the counters and cabinets making it feel so homey.

“But for now her being able to watch the dogs is sufficient,” David joked as he handed Emma and Neal glasses of wine. He was the local veterinarian, and according to Mary Margaret, brought home more animals than money. At the moment there were two dogs in the house plus a cat. Which made it feel even more inviting.

“We built this house knowing we wanted a big family… I just didn’t imagine being outnumbered by the animals,” said Mary Margaret. She was the quintessential elementary school teacher. With her sing-song voice, kind face and patient temperament.

“I like to bring my work home,” David said bringing his wife into his embrace. The two leaned against the back cabinets and smiled.

“It’s a good thing I don’t, we’d have twenty two 8 year olds running around.”

Everyone laughed at that, and suddenly it felt a bit more easy to be here. The Nolans were at glance the ideal young couple. But aside from that they were just nice people, and Emma liked that. They were certainly not the worst neighbors she could have.

The dining room off of the kitchen held a modest wood table, filled with different steaming pots of food.

“I hope you don’t mind, I went a little overboard,” said Mary Margaret as they all sat down at their seats. Each place setting with a handwritten, elegant tag.

“Wow you guys are like real adults,” Ruby said as they sat at their assigned seats. David and Mary Margaret at either head. Then in the middle sat Ruby and Killian to the left, Emma and Neal to the right. If her fiance, at all, had a chip on his shoulder about having dinner with the man who was his landscaper he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead he was the opposite of what Emma had predicted he would be.

“Everything looks great,” Neal said. He had suddenly become Prince Charming now that they were in front of people.

“How are you two enjoying Storybrooke?” Ruby asked once everyone had begun eating. The light lull of conversation carrying through. Emma looked at her sitting next to Killian and decided that they made an attractive couple. What with their dark hair, angular faces and big eyes. Though hers were green and his were the same striking blue that kept catching her attention from across the table. Something she was probably imagining.

“Well, I enjoy it here, it’s where I grew up,” Neal chimed in. “So it’s always been home to me.”

“I guess I’m just a bit harder to please,” Emma said, hoping that she hid the bitterness in her tone.

“Where did you grow up, Emma?” the well-meaning David asked.

“Foster care,” she said back matter of factly. The quiet that filled the dining room was somehow still deafening. No one ever knew how to respond to that, which meant Emma was always able to recover from the statement quickly. “So living in a place like this is a dream come true for me.”

She grabbed Neal’s hand that rested on the table, and everyone seemed to simultaneously breath. People loved a happy ending, especially one where the baby left in a basket on the side of the road ended up living the American dream. Outwardly at least. It was a story people were relieved by, just like right now at the dinner table. Except that when Emma’s gaze drifted to Killian she realized he was the only one able to look her in the eyes. And she was most definitely not imagining it.

The rest of the night went off without a hitch. Neal somehow recovered from his drunken day on the golf course and charmed the pants off of the new neighbors. Telling stories and commanding the room. While glass after glass of wine was poured. All the while Emma sat back and watched him dance. He knew he was in deep with her. She would give him that credit, he always worked overtime to make things up to her.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Emma said, while everyone was gathered in the kitchen, distracted listening to a story about Neal’s round of golf with the police chief today. Something about a gofer… she didn’t really care. All she knew was she needed some air.

“Oh… sorry, I didn’t realize you had come out here,” Emma said when she noticed Killian leaned against the pillar of the front porch.

“No, it’s okay, I should get back in there anyway.” He slid his phone back into his pocket, he had excused himself a bit ago to take a call.

Emma could still hear the the conversation going on inside and promptly closed the door behind her.

“Some fresh air, love?” he asked with a half smile, the porch was dim but she could still make out the angles of his face.

“Yeah. The room was a bit… loud for me in there.”

“He’s quite the talker that one,” Killian said, and that made Emma smile. That she wasn’t the only one who was tired of having one person take up all the oxygen in the room.

“Yes, he is,” she said. She knew she should go back in. But for whatever reason Emma just didn’t want to. Instead she plopped herself down on one of the rocking chairs near the door.

The two of them were quiet for a few moments, only listening to the sounds of the neighborhood. Kids getting called in for the night, a car or two driving past, the light breeze that made her curl her arms around herself. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable though, it was like an unspoken understanding. She watched him a bit as his back was turned to her. He wore a pair of jeans and a long sleeve navy blue sweater, it was the first time she saw him in anything other than his gardening attire. Then her eyes shifted to the front of her new home.

It was utterly still, the house, massive but stale looking. True no one was home but it was hard to make the comparison between their house and Mary Margaret’s. Mary Margaret’s was designed to be a home, Emma’s was designed to be a statement piece.

“My brother raised me,” he said finally and Emma turned to where he was leaned against one of the railings, but he was looking out toward the street. She could just barely make out the profile of his face. The tightness to his jaw.

Emma stayed quiet, surveying what his goal was by saying this to her.

“I lost both parents very young. But he was old enough to be my guardian.”

“You were lucky to have him.”

“Aye.”

As Emma looked toward Killian, she noted his body language. His facial expression. And deciffered that his past was not something he tended to share a lot. She didn’t press him though, he wasn’t telling her so they could have a long discussion of their respective parental abandonment. But knowing about it did make her feel like less of an idiot for blurting out her past at the dinner table.

“There you are,” said Ruby as the front door opened. Her green eyes looked toward Emma who was sitting in the rocking chair still. Turning to Killian she said, “I need to get back, I have an early morning tomorrow at Granny’s.”

“I’ll walk you home then,” Killian quickly offered.

The others came out onto the porch through the wide open front door. David, Mary Margaret and Neal filling the space. A mix of goodbyes and thank yous were exchanged between the six people as they all went their separate ways. Emma’s eyes shifted toward her neighbor’s house as she and Neal walked back. While she promised herself it was just to ensure Ruby got into her house okay, she knew deep down there was something else she was watching for.

And when Killian said goodnight to Ruby without anything more than a hug; an unwarranted, undeserved sigh of relief filled her body.

[dontcallmecarrie]

I just binge read TWiFFON, and its sidefic and almost everything that's here about this universe and sadgkjhakjg you're amazing and this is amazing and I love you and this is one of the best fics (out of MCU fics especially) I've ever read. IM1 is one of my favorite movies ever, I love Tony very much and it hurts to see what they're doing to him in MCU (and what they're doing with all the characters, really), and I love your portrayal of him so much, because that's real Tony. (1/4)

Competent, genius Tony, owner of the huge company, the man, who, without the suit, is still the person who’s built this suit. From scraps. In a cave. In Afghanistan. While being tortured. Revolutionizing science on the way. I’m looking at you, Mr. I-Saw-The-Footage(And-Made-My-Judgment-Before-Actually-Meeting-You-And-Decided-You-Suck). Yeah, you can see how I just -love- Steve in this moment in “Avengers”. (2/4)

I always wondered what footage he saw, btw. From before-Afghanistan? From the IM2 Senate hearing? From the disastrous IM2 b-day party? Even if the scepter amplified their feelings, those feelings had to be there in the first place. And AoU and CW just make me go Hulk, so most of the time I pretend they didn’t happen and don’t exist unless we’re talking about -consequences-. It’s been years and I’m still bitter and salty as the Dead Sea. (¾)

Um. Anyways, I love you and your awesome fic, thank you so much for your writing

Glad you’re liking it so far, and thanks! 

Also: same. [the rest is under the cut because surprise meta’s apparently a thing, as are major spoilers, and I get very rambly, RIP mobile users otherwise.]

I got into the MCU when it first kicked off, and my favorite movie’s a toss-up between IM1 and The Avengers [though, due to recent events, I’m really leaning towards the former nowadays]. I love all the characters, and if I had a heart [because no, I don’t, nope, nothing’s ever made me tear up nope heart of stone right here], it’d be hurting because of the turn the MCU’s taken lately, and the level of character assassination I’ve seen is….the best comparison I can think of include the way Naruto ended [specifically, Sakura], or…well, you get the picture.

Just…the turn canon took, after Phase 1, left a bitter taste in my mouth. Tony’s my favorite character, and seeing how the world’s done its level best to break him when his origin story is literally him forging his armor from the guns that would’ve killed him otherwise is something that I have very strong feelings about. Add to that my spite after seeing the turn the fandom took after Civil War, and I couldn’t not write the fic where he actually [albeit accidentally] took over the world, by taking him back to his roots. 

[aka TWiFFON’s basically me venting passive-aggressively about the issues I have with the MCU]

As for my take on Steve? 

Even if it doesn’t look it, I kinda liked his character, early on. The way his character was mangled by the writers is another thing entirely, however, and after Phase 1 my enthusiasm didn’t wane so much as it tanked, especially after Age of Ultron. [ditto as to Civil War.]

But early on? I actually liked his character. My headcanon/take on his approach during the first Avengers movie was him being adrift in a world that’s moved on without him, so of course he’s clinging to what he remembers. 

That ended up being something that SHIELD/HYDRA took advantage of, though, and while Fury tried to help, the HYDRA guys did their level best to sabotage him, which succeeded in ways that don’t show up until later on. For instance, while Fury’s crew was the one to break the news of ‘so you slept 70 years, welcome to the future’, it was a HYDRA contingent that were the ones to ‘ease’ him into it, and so his briefings on history and whatnot were basically sabotaged. 

As in, they made sure to focus on the shitty parts of the past century, and glossed over the progress, and did their best to be subtle about it so that when Fury came around, he thought it was ‘okay Steve’s still settling in and hurting’ rather than ‘Steve’s hurting and everywhere he looks only makes it worse’. I mean, it wouldn’t even have been hard; breaking the news would’ve been dicey enough as is, but I can guarantee that HYDRA would’ve pulled no punches in painting everything to be as shitty as they could. 

I mean, even if they were trying to help, it would’ve been hard enough: because good luck updating the guy who literally did a suicide run to prevent his home country from being bombed about the Manhattan Project. 

That alone would’ve been messy enough, but also going through Korea and Vietnam and the list just goes on, while also trying to go ‘we’re the good guys’, and I’m pretty sure Steve’s faith in humanity would’ve taken a hit somewhere in there. And that’s if it was SHIELD who was doing it; if it was HYDRA instead? Just…yikes.

And Tony has a lot of fodder that could be used against him. 

He’s a powerhouse, a loose cannon, and is very visibly anti-establishment when it comes to some things, so when Steve’s trying to cling to a vestige of the past, it’s so, very easy for a HYDRA technician to pull some clips of Tony’s messing around and gloss over ‘yeah he’s also a genius and built a suit somewhere along the way’ while doing their level best to make sure that Steve does not like Tony, because if those two got along it would not end well for HYDRA so best nip that in the bud. [I’ve got a fic idea that plays with that premise, actually, but…rambling again, oops.]

Doesn’t help that people’s values have changed, either; nowadays, we’re a lot more cynical as to what’s going down in Congress, for instance, or the military-industrial complex, so just right there’s some culture clash. Iirc, pre-Nixon, people viewed what happened in DC differently than they do now, and I don’t think Clinton helped any, either. And that’s just one example.

tl;dr: I headcanon that HYDRA sabotaged Steve’s possible relationship with Tony, among other things. 

Now, when it comes to the world domination thing…

You can probably tell I’m having a lot of fun with it. It’s part of what helps keep the tone of TWiFFON fun for me to write, and I’m choosing to go the cracky route instead of the grimdark serious one because this fic’s self-indulgence at its finest, and my life is stressful enough as is. 

Because, I mean, for me it’s either laugh or cry, and I can’t afford to cry, when it comes to the tire fire that’s going on. I can laugh or cry, so I’d rather go for deadpan ‘so apparently this shit’s more plausible than some of what I’m seeing in the news’ rather than get even more gray hair stressing out over stuff I have no control over. [Playing with power dynamics in a fictional universe where there’s magic and aliens is very good stress relief, is what I’m saying.] Plus, y’know, it gives me an outlet for whenever I see yet another ‘Tony Stark was the villain!’ post. 

You probably know that originally, TWiFFON was supposed to be way darker [and shorter]. However, thanks to…life, I decided to go for broke and went ‘screw it, this is stress relief so might as well go for broke’, and since I love the Accidental World Domination trope…[getting rambly again, oops] 

Thus, why it’s going to take a literal Destroyer of Worlds to break it to Tony that yes, he took over the world. Oops. 

However, since apparently I can’t help but be pedantic about power dynamics and politics and whatnot: it’s probably more low-key than some of my readers are expecting. Here, it’s not going to really show until we reach the Final Battle arc, but I’m trying my best to avoid imperialistic tones where that part’s concerned. 

Like, yes, the fic’s going to devolve to crack by then, but the world domination part’s going to end up being due to basically [heads up for major fic spoilers]:

The world: so 

The world: you have Skynet in your pocket. A horde of them, even.

Tony: guys, you are so grounded why’d you pull that stunt I told you—

JARVIS: *is unrepentant*

FRIDAY: *is also unrepentant*

JOCASTA: *is shamelessly using her full capabilities to help clean up the battlefield*

Tony: JARVIS, you were supposed to the the role model, not the bad influenc—

Tony: wait what do you mean you want me to take them offline

Tony: okay you know what? Fight me

on top of everything else. But the above being the main motivation for Tony’s not stepping down after the Final Battle, and I intend to go into more detail when the matter comes up. [Hopefully I do it right.]

But for the most part?

It’s not like he can put it on his shelf to collect dust or anything, no way does he want to rule the world! Tony’s got more than enough power as is, and he’s happy enough being the Head of R&D. Hell, he’s got more than enough as his plate as is, why the fuck would he want to add to his workload?! Strange, stop laughin—Rhodey, why are you giving Hope money? Thor, you too—what do you mean ‘you lost a bet’? JARVIS, you are so grounded!

aka his life is s u f f e r i n g because he didn’t sign up for any of this, thank you very much, how is this his life, where did he go wrong in his life choices?

Strange, you can stop laughing any time now. Any time. 

…screw it, might as well roll with it. Anyone mind if they call themselves the Federation if any other aliens come around? Or would that violate some copyright law? 

meanwhile, elsewhere: 

everyone at Stark Industries is scratching their heads and wondering where the miscommunication happened before shrugging and carrying along because business as usual now includes world domination, oops

Pepper’s in Maui finally getting her vacation. 

JARVIS doesn’t really mind, as it simply means he has less variables to control for to help keep Tony safe and happy, so he’s completely and utterly shameless about it all. Even if he’s so, very grounded for pulling the stunts he did during the Final Battle arc. 

Fury is in an unspecified location, laughing at Tony while also feeling very proud of him because this is the opposite of a problem and free entertainment at its finest, yes, this was worth it. Not what he’d expected, but most definitely worth the headache.

[just putting it out there to hopefully give an idea of what I’m aiming for, at the end of the fic.] Hopefully it gets across right. Just…world domination, but with a kinda relaxed take on things.

Kinda sorry for the spoilers, but that moment’s one of the ones I’ve been really looking forward to and it’s been the better part of a year and this fic just keeps growing.

[imgilmoregirl]

A Rose of the Forbidden Love

AO3 Link

Notes: Thanks to everyone who read this story until here and thanks for your patiance with my slow updates. We finally have a happy ending! Hope you enjoy it.

Chapter Seventeen

The church was quiet and silent that night. I had been a long while since Rose last set a foot there with a good motivation and she didn’t know exactly what dragged her there after work when she should be hurrying home to see her sweet baby girl. There were still lots of things to be done and discussed and now that Roland’s apartment – their apartment – was finally perfectly furnished, ready for them to move in, she couldn’t wait until they settled everything for their wedding.

Henry and Ella had decided to share the date with them and they were planning a camp ceremony with very few friends and Cristal, her future brother-in-law loyal furry friend entering with a board that said “true love always finds its way” hanging from her neck. They weren’t on a hurry and Rose was glad for that because everything in her life usually happened to fast, so taking things slow was a luxury she was quite enjoying.

She sat on one of the benches, looking up at the cross at the centre of the church without knowing what she should do. Should she thank the Lord for what she had? Cry for what she hasn’t? Should she pray for her family or ask forgiveness for her sins? At this point, Rose had no idea. She sighed, rubbing at her engagement ring and trying to think when she heard steps echoing and glanced at the side corridor, seeing a small, slender figure coming from the shadows.

“Rose,” he father blinked a surprised smile appearing in his lips. “Dearest, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I,” she answered, following him with her eyes as he took a seat beside her. “Think about coming back to the church?”

Gold shook his head, seeming to be a bit uncomfortable with what he was about to say, he clasped his hands on his lap, eyes focused on the altar, avoiding her glance.

“Actually,” Adam said, carefully, “I was arranging the last details of the wedding with Father Murray.”

“Oh, I forgot about that.”

“I want you to come and so does Belle,” he told her, grasping her thin, cold hand and making Rose look up at him. “I’ll understand if you don’t, but I still want you to.”

She smiled, even against her best will. Rosalie couldn’t put into words how much she loved her father and wanted him to be happy, but he was getting married with her mother and that couldn’t be hardest for her to face. Even after the things Fiona said and the many times Belle tried to apologise, Rose couldn’t still change the things she felt.

“I was thinking yesterday… It is a funny story, right? How everything went perfectly wrong.”

“Aye, I believe so,” Gold agreed with her. “Funny, but tragic.”

A sigh left her. He was gently rubbing her finger between his, occasionally brushing the piece of white gold and peridot she now wore daily. She hadn’t told him about Roland’s proposal, although he already knew about their plans of getting married ever since Ivy’s death.

“She tried to talk to me, many times. Miss French,” Rose felt a bad taste on her mouth to use those words to call Belle, but she couldn’t yet call her a mother. “I wish I could talk to her like I’m doing with you right now but abandoning me wasn’t the only thing she did. I lost my job because of in the moment I most needed it. She made me feel like I wasn’t worth anything.”

“Belle was hurt, Rose. She was bitter, she didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“She didn’t mean to hurt her daughter. If I was just Rosalie Weaver like she thought I was, she wouldn’t even regret it,” Rose snorted and when Gold arched an eyebrow at her words, she felt her shoulder shrink a bit. “Sorry, I know that I’m sounding bitter now.”

With a mere shook of his head, Gold left her hand and cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb against her rosy skin. He had that look on his face again, the one he always wore when he was feeling guilty and wishing that he would change the past.

“You have all the rights to.”

“I lost my faith, father,” she said. “I used to come to the church because I believed in something. The nuns taught me to pray and live by a code, but after everything that happened to me, I didn’t know if there was any God out there that could care for my silly life.”

“Don’t talk like that child,” he reprehended her, assuming the kind of tone he used when he was a priest. Gentle but firm. “I see a ring on your finger, I know you that have the most devoted friends and the most beautiful daughter. You’ve won as much as you’ve lost in the past two years. God doesn’t give us what we can’t take and He traces the most wonderful paths for the most special people.”

She dropped her gaze to the black purse on her lap. Years ago, even as a hopeless child, she would have believed it, but now, she found it a hard to do so, because even though she had things to be grateful for, Rose still felt like life had been too unfair with her.

“I know, I’ve been trying to convince myself of that, lately,” she whispered.

“Forgive your mother, Rose, then you’ll see your saving grace again,” Gold advised. “Bad thoughts kill as much as any decease.”

Sniffling, she nodded and enlaced her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder and allowing Gold to pull her closer. It was good to feel like a child sometimes, even more if you had a lot of time to make up for.

“Thank you, for having my back, as always.”

“We still need a bridesmaid,” Gold remarked as he kissed the top her head.

A tiny smile spread on Rose’s lips. She wasn’t going to promise anything right now, but she was going to think about it.

Moving had been a whole new trouble Rose didn’t ever want to go through a second time. When she moved from the orphanage to the apartment she shared with Sabine and Jacinda – which was now only Sabine’s – she had very few things to carry, but somehow along the last two years she accumulated a large number of things. She had no idea Izzy herself had so many stuff, but she guessed that people loved to give little gifts to babies, which was why they had to fill two cars with toys.

Neal and Henry had been of great help, but it was still one of the most tiring things she had ever done in her life, even more considering that she freaked out with Roland’s lack of sense for tying a house and made him seat on a corner and watch as she did it all by herself. Rose couldn’t complain much to be clear because she was building she always wanted to have and she could feel sure that her daughter would have the childhood she had always wanted.

It didn’t mean she stopped thinking about her encounter with her father at the church, though. After a whole week living in new home, already used to a nice routine. Rose was making dinner while Roland played with Izzy, thinking about her parent’s wedding until her fiancé’s voice took her out of musings.

“Is she saying something?” He asked aloud, taking an attentive look at their daughter.

Roland was bouncing her up and down, making Izzy giggle and babble some monosyllabic sounds. Her eyes, once almost black were now getting a caramel tone that reminded Rose of Gold’s, her mouth had taken the petal shape hers – and she need to admit Belle’s too – lips had, but her hair, that was now starting to grow had taken the wavy light-brown shade of Roland’s.

“Obviously not, she is a five-month-old.”

“I’m pretty sure that ‘ah ah’ means something.”

“I want food, maybe? I need a diaper changing? I want daddy to stop making silly faces at me?”

“You’re mean.”

Rose rolled her eyes at him, leaving the sauce to boil as she took the baby from his arms and pressed lots of kissed on her cheek. She let herself fall on the couch beside him a she snuggled little Izzy, hearing her lovely giggles and feeling selfish again. Once she thought herself to be nothing but a decent human being for taking care of her child, now as Fiona’s words echoed in the back of her mind, she considered she was mostly lucky.

“Rol, can I ask you something?”

“If this is about Friday night’s dessert, I’m sorry to say that my mother will insist in making apple pie again and nothing can change her mind,” he said, standing up and going to check on their dinner.

“No, it is not about that,” she assured him. “I like Regina’s pie very much.”

“Then what’s up?”

Placing Izzy sat down on her lap, Rose wondered if it was a good idea to have this conversation, but she couldn’t find the peace of mind to stop thinking about the wedding and her father’s pleading eyes to her when he last begged the girl to come and celebrate with them.

“You know my parents are getting married on Sunday, right?”

“Belle send us an invitation,” Roland answered arching an eyebrow at her as he poured the sauce above the pasta she left ready to go. “I told you three weeks ago.”

“Did you? Well, anyway, do you think I should go?”

Roland went back to where she was, touching her face and offering Rose a tender smile.

“I think you should do what your hearts tells you to. I don’t want you to regret not going or appearing at the church and not feeling comfortable at all,” he said. “But I also think you should know that if you don’t give your mother a chance, maybe at some point she will stop trying for a reconciliation.”

“I know,” she murmured, avoiding Roland’s glance, knowing that he was right and not wanting to give in.

Izzy made a loud wail, pulling at her hair, begging for attention and Rose stood up rocking her gently and untightening the grip of her small fingers around her curls. Roland offered to take the baby from her again, taking one of her favourite comforters from the toy box to help Izzy calm down, until she was softly sucking at her own thumb again.

“I spoke to Alice today,” Roland told Rose, winking at her as he added: “The bridesmaids are wearing blue.”

It wasn’t until the very last minute that Rose dragged Neal into shopping. He was the only one who had seen the exact shade of blue Belle had chosen for her bridesmaids and the only one who would keep his mouth shut if she decided not to appear after all. She bought and off-the-shoulder dress in a delicate, fancy fabric, one of the kind the Hooded Beauty would produce, but certainly not one so pricey.

Jacinda was the one to style up her hair, while Sabine did her make-up with the perfection of talented hands. All three of them went to the wedding without telling a word to anyone, although Rose was pretty sure Roland had confirmed their presence to his mother, who as one of Belle’s best friends, would certainly be there.

She was nervous. Extremely nervous. Rose had rejected Belle many, many times and most of her remembrances of their time together were of her mother being cruel and bitter to her. She felt afraid of being rejected herself, in front of everyone, just like the day Belle fired her after catching her making out with Roland. It had been a dreadful and Rose wasn’t willing to repeat it, but she wasn’t doing this just for herself or for Belle, but for her father too and he was more than worth the risk.

When Rose reached the front of the church after giving Roland and Izzy a kiss of goodbye, she found Alice waiting in there too with a similar dress, her hair carefully pinned to one side of her head, adorned by a white gold and sapphire piece of jewellery

“I knew you would come,” the blonde squealed when she saw her, throwing her arms around Rose’s tiny and thin frame.

“Did you?”

“We both knew,” Gideon answered, approaching them with the most handsome smile on his lips. “Welcome home, sis.”

“Thank you, both of you.”

Alice pulled away from her and Gideon offered an arm to both his sisters, taking them in and walking them down the aisle to the place where the bridesmaids were supposed to sit, but they were stopped by Gold’s surprised gasp, his watery eyes focused on them.

“You came,” he said, stupefied.

“Of course, I did,” Rose answered. “I like witnessing happy endings and after all the painful journey needs a reward, right? Because God chooses wonderful paths for special people.”

“Aye.”

There were tears in Rose’s eyes now too, the happiness clear in her father’s expression enough to make her heart seem about to burst with happiness. He was right all along and she only noticed how true his words were now that she was here.

“Expect me to call you my dad from now on,” Alice interfered with a wink, poking Gold with the bouquet she was holding.

A chuckle left Rose as she sat down on the bench beside Alice – well, her sister – barely believing that she was really there. She could feel Gideon’s heavy hands on their shoulders and watch as Gold’s expression changed and he seemed to hold onto a breath when the church’s doors were opened again to allow Belle French in.

She looked stunning on one of the most beautiful wedding gowns she had ever seen in her life. It was white, but the tulle above it had small gold glittery flickers that gave the impression that she was a shining star. No resentment could ever prevent Rose from admitting now that she was one of the most stunning women she had ever seen.

“You look beautiful,” Gold whispered.

“You don’t look bad too,” Belle teased, before she caught a sight of her daughter sat on the corner beside Alice. “Rose.”

“Hey, mother.”

Father Murray – the church’s new priest - looked between the two of them and so did everybody in there. Rosalie was lucky she wasn’t a shy person otherwise she would already be wishing to disappeared.

“You know, we can’t continue with this wedding if we don’t have an emotional hug first,” the priest said.

In that moment, with his permission of taking a moment before starting the ceremony, Belle approached Rose, blinking away some tears and trying to decide if she was dreaming or not.

“Why are you here?”

“It was time to flip up the page,” the girl shrugged. “I’m sorry for everything I said. I can forget the past.”

Rose opened her arms for her and Belle took a step into them, hugging her daughter for the very first time ever since she left her as a baby at the doorstep of an unknown person and it felt like a new beginning. Gold joined the hug, pulling the two of them into his on arms and Rose could hear Gideon and Alice sniffling, full of emotion, at the scene.

“I love you two,” Gold murmured, kissing both of their cheeks.

Rose smiled at them and for the first time, she felt home.

“Go get married you two.”

They laughed, shed some tears and exchanged the most beautiful votes she had ever heard. That night Rosalie Weaver understood what it was like to have a family and to feel love, she learned the power of forgiveness and promised herself to whatever she did in her life, she wouldn’t forget her father’s most valuable advice. The rockiest paths were made for the toughest people.

[evdarcy]

An Unusual Hero C8S3

Please remember, this is unedited and unfinished, but will hopefully fill in the holes that were left and answer some questions without leaving too many others. HOWEVER I will answer all and any questions if you want to leave me a comment.

Next update - Friday 21/05/2021

‘C’mere,’ Sarah said as he stopped in the doorway. She waved eagerly at him. She was clearly excited by whatever she had in mind, but the enthusiasm wasn’t helping him. He felt his heart rate speed up, his breathing getting shallower, quicker, as his eyes roamed over the table. She’d set out a stylist’s set; combs, the useless clippers, a tub of something, a water bottle with one of those spraying things on top Claude was always using on him, and scissors…

Sharp, pointy scissors.

‘C’mon, while your hair’s still damp.’ He heard her patting the dining chair she stood behind with far too much energy, but his eyes were glued on the silver blades. They glistened in the sunlight that fell through the window behind Sarah, and he realised these were brand new, still freshly sharpened, and knew exactly how much they could hurt—

‘I’ve done this before,’ Sarah said, frowning at him from across the room. ‘If that’s what you’re worried about.’

He swallowed and nodded his head minutely, finally acknowledging her.

‘Really?’

Sarah nodded and offered him a gentle smile. ‘My eldest sister taught me. I’m better with clippers, but I promise I can use scissors too—never given anyone a Van Gogh yet!’

He couldn’t help the snort of laughter that bubbled through his nose and lips. He rubbed his damp palms on his trousers, building up his courage. ‘Okay then,’ he finally said. ‘Just give me a second.’

He ducked back into the bedroom and turned his face heavenward as he tried to gather himself together. He could do this, Sarah hadn’t hurt him in any way since they’d run.

Yeah for all of two days, his mind tried to unhelpfully remind him as he heard Sarah moving things around; the scrape of a chair on the floor, the scratch of metal over the wood of the table as she moved her accessories into whatever formation she wanted. She grunted and huffed, swearing under her breath, and Luc swore he heard a thud of something heavy hitting the floor.

It might have only been two days—and today wasn’t even over!—and yesterday might have seen them running for their lives, but never once had she looked at him with anything even mildly resembling contempt.

But that was exactly how it started with Linda, his mind sneered.

He shook his head, recalling how he’d felt that morning, watching Sarah sashay her way across the store towards him. How she’d distracted him completely from acting out the role he’d made for himself. He’d been hypnotised by the sway of her hips, had wanted to grab them and hold them against him. For years he’d backed away from any roles that would have seen him engage in such contact, he’d had his pick of starring with some of the most beautiful and talented actresses in the world and he’d turned them all down so he’d never lose sight of what monsters women could be. He’d point-blank refused to do a love story arc on Destiny for the same reason.

Now, a pair of eyes the colour of the ocean and lips as plump as— Wait, what was plump? Turkeys? Pillows? Luc shook his head. He wasn’t a poet, and there was certainly a reason he was in front of the camera and not writing behind it. Her lips were down right pornographic. All pouty and lush. Every time she looked his way he had a hard time not staring at them. From licking his own as he thought of how they’d feel pressed against his.

And now he knew exactly how her body felt against his. How soft and supple her pert, round ass was in his hand, how he’d like to get both hands on it, hold it as she rode him into—

He growled at himself as he rubbed his hand over his mouth and chin, before sliding down his neck—

The smooth skin jarred him, reminding him of why he was here, what the haircut meant. Shit.

He’d already made a choice to run with Sarah. To listen to her and leave everyone behind based solely on what she told him. But that had been when his body was being fuelled by adrenaline, when he had the weird thrill of escaping death pushing him forward. Now he had to decide did he really trust Sarah?

It wasn’t a question most people thought about when getting their haircut, but to him, it was almost a matter of life and death…

He took a deep breath, trying to centre himself again.

He could do this. He was thirty-four, not a child, he didn’t need to be scared of someone chopping his locks. Especially when said someone had already saved his life once and was merely trying to do it again.

That was a key point. Regardless of Sarah’s motivations, she ran hadn’t left him behind to fend for himself when she so easily could have. Also, she’d not forced him to join her, hadn’t twisted his arm and dragged him into the car. She’d given him the choice.

He dropped his hands to his side, took another deep breath and headed back into the living space with a smile on his face. Some fucking actor he was—he could feel how false it was.

‘So,’ he said, as Sarah looked up at him. His eyes did a double take of the room, halting the words in his mouth as he took everything in.

She’d moved the chair into the sitting-room part of the open planned room, putting it on top of one of the furniture dust sheets and had heaved the massive mirror from above the fireplace from its screws—shit, she was strong! She’d settled the silver framed glass against the stone fixture along its shorter side so he’d be able to see exactly what she was doing, without impeding her ability to cut.

‘So?’ she said, standing upright from her crouched position beside the chair. She tossed the dustpan’s brush she’d been using to clean the plastic seat on to the floor next to her feet before planting her hands firmly on those shapely hips. ‘Ready?’

‘Whose?’ he asked quietly, diverting his gaze to the chair to stop the sudden desire to march over to her and replace her hands with his own.

‘Pardon?’

‘Whose hair? You said you’d cut hair before, whose was it?’

‘Oh,’ Sarah said slowly. He felt her eyes on him as he slowly made his way towards her. ‘It was—’ She swallowed hard, making him glance up at her. Her lovely peachy face had drained of all colour making his brows rise in question. ‘Jimmy’s,’ she whispered.

‘Who’s Jimmy?’

She licked her lips. ‘My fiance.’

He watched as she turned away and busied herself with grabbing the side table by the sofa and settling it next to where she’d be standing behind the chair. Her hands moved the instruments again, unnecessarily, and Luc knew she didn’t want to talk about it, knew it was something he shouldn’t continue with, but he couldn’t help it. This woman was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, encased in a what the fuck! He’d been sure she’d been sleeping with the agent The Demon had executed yesterday, but he thought his name was David, not Jimmy.

‘You’re engaged?’ he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. He took his seat and watched in the mirror as she gathered her tools from the table and brought them over. Her step seemed a little slower, a little more hesitant now.

‘Not any more. He thinks I’m dead, remember. Everyone does. My parents, my sisters, friends, acquaintances, everyone who knew me on Facebook, everyone who followed me on Tumlbr… You get the picture.’

Luc turned his head to face her properly and she stopped mid-step when she saw him watching. ‘My funeral was very nice,’ she added before she continued setting up. His brow instantly folded into a map of wrinkles.

‘How the hell do you know that? Don’t tell me you went to your own funeral?’

He turned back in his seat, but almost fell from it when she said, ‘No, they recorded it for me.’

‘What the fuck?’ He gaped at her in the mirror. ‘Who does that?’

She shrugged her shoulders as she fiddled with the comb in her hands, playing with the teeth, watching as they flexed back and forth under her touch. It was the most vulnerable she’d been so far.

‘It was part of the process of giving up my life,’ she finally told him. ‘Seeing that everyone had said goodbye to me helped me acknowledge that my life, as it had been, was over.’

Luc watched as a myriad of emotions washed over her face—sadness, worry, longing—before she wiped them all away and raised her eyes to meet his in the mirror. How the hell did she do that?

‘Did you ever scalp Jimmy?’ he asked, trying to move the topic on. She snorted and he counted that as a win.

‘No, my sister’s a top stylist at some fancy salon in London. Gets paid a stupid amount of money to cut and style the hair of the rich and famous—bloody mugs. I mean they pay—’ She bit her lip as she realised what she’d said.

He chuckled. ‘It’s okay. I do pay far too much for what it is really. People could probably buy food for a week for what I pay Claude.’

‘I reckon you’d find it would more likely be a month.’

He jumped slightly as Sarah’s fingers touched the top of his hair; she glanced at him in the mirror again, before continuing on. She ran her fingers through his locks as she assessed it, pulling it this way and that as Claude often did. Her nails lightly dragged over his scalp and he couldn’t help the shudder that ran through him at the gentle touch and felt his eyes flutter closed as she gently began massaging his head and neck. He had to stop himself from turning limp as she kneaded a particular spot at the top of his neck.

God, that was good!

‘Your natural colour is showing a lot,’ Sarah murmured. He hummed his agreement as he sank further into the bliss her fingers were inducing, almost purring in pleasure. It had been so long since anyone had touched him so gently, so delicately. The pressure and stress seemed to just melt from him as Sarah’s fingers continued their work, dipping behind his ears and rubbing at just the right spot…

He sighed contentedly as she moved back to his neck, kneading down his spine with her knuckle, wiping away any desire he had to ever move again.

‘Want me to do your shoulders too?’ Sarah asked and he found himself nodding without thinking. If just his head and neck felt this good, his shoulders would feel—

He sat upright, his shoulder straightening, and pulled out of Sarah’s touch as she tried to reach under his t-shirt. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, a tremor of fear in his hushed voice.

‘I was just going to— It’s easier to do it directly to skin than through—’

‘No.’ He pulled the neck of the T-shirt higher, back over his shoulders, and flung the towel he’d dried his hair with around his neck again to put an end to the matter completely. ‘I changed my mind; just cut my hair.’

‘Okay,’ she replied. He heard the unsure tone in the single word, but was grateful she didn’t ask any further questions. He watched as she picked up the comb and ran it through his locks, before she finally took the silvery scissors in hand. He closed his eyes as she lowered them to his hair—

Snip, snip, snip. Pause, brush of the comb. Snip, snip, snip. Pause, brush… The same routine over and over as she pulled his hair this way then that as she cut in the style she envisaged for him. He wasn’t actually sure he was okay with losing his long hair. Sure he was approaching his mid-thirties and a shorter cut would probably be more suited to the roles he’d start getting considered for soon, but he’d maintained it for so long… The beard too.

God, what if it was a mess? What if he didn’t look that much different? What if he didn’t suit short hair any more? Lars would kill him!

He shook his head at the thought, earning him a displeased mew from Sarah. She tutted and brushed his hair harder as if that could fix whatever little error he’d caused and carried on. A few minutes later she finally said, ‘Okay, nearly there.’

He took a deep, shuddering breath as she moved around the room. He heard a bag rustling before she uttered a triumphant ah-ha! And counted her steps back to him. The pop of a pot being unscrewed for the first time, the air escaping with the initial break of the seal before the lid unwound its way from the container made him jump a little. He heard her put it on the table just a moment before her fingers were back in his hair, pulling his much shorter but still thick locks this way then that as she styled it into what he was sure was going to be some ultra-trendy young style.

He ground his teeth at the thought. He wasn’t in his twenties any longer. He didn’t want to look as he had back then on the covers of Teen Dream and Sweetness.

‘There,’ she finally declared, dropping her hands away from him. ‘All done.’

He had no excuse now, no reason not to look. With dread deep in his gut he slowly opened his eyes to meet his reflection’s gaze.

He blinked in surprise. She’d actually done a good job. Long on top and shorter at the sides, but not too short, no scalp peeking through. It ever so slightly swept from left to right, but generally spiked up throughout the top in a fake I-just-got-out-of-bed style. He didn’t look anything like he had back in his break-out days. His hair was back to it’s original golden-brown; all the blond dye gone. It framed his face well, ensuring that he still looked filled out rather than slender, and he had to admit that the longer hair and the beard had made him look years older than he actually was. This made him look a good five years younger. A lot fresher. If he were auditioning again, this would be perfect—versatile, almost a blank slate.

Perhaps that’s what this was; a second chance. A shot at reinventing himself, starting his life over. He was mesmerised by the difference as he turned this way and that, and felt Sarah’s eyes watching him for a moment before she began to tidy up the evidence of their activity.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his eyes flickering up to hers before darting back to look at his hair. ‘You’ve done a great job. I shouldn’t have doubted you.’

Sarah paused her tidying and met his eyes in the mirror; a luscious green forest meeting tropical waters. She studied him, puckering her lips as if she were going to say something, but she hesitated and instead shook her head and told him, ‘You’re welcome.’

She carefully took the towel from his shoulders—he noticed she didn’t touch him—and shook it out, letting the hair fall to meet the rest on the dust sheet.

‘I’m going for a shower now,’ she told him, before grabbing the fabric roll she’d put the stylist set in. Luc watched her as she left the room, her body stiff and he wondered for a brief moment what it would be like to let her touch his skin, to allow her to massage away the scars Linda had left.

He shook his head of the thought; Linda had cut far too deep for far too long…

Any questions, please drop them in the comments. Next update on Friday!

[autoirishlitdiscourses]

Discourse of Thursday, 29 April 2021

Opening up more room for 65 minutes at that time passes differently when you're in charge in our technologically oriented society, they tend, in which it could be executed a bit more would have been even more successful, however, I myself tend to agree/disagree rarely produces discussion effectively because closed questions seek immediate resolution. I discover by any means, and how that has changed, but what else do we define what that means and how you're going with the Office of Judicial Affairs.

These papers address to some questions and frame them. But analysis requires moving outside of my margin notes. Unfortunately, I think, however. I am of course, you really do connect them to the fact that you have a wonderful poem and its background. Incidentally, I think that having a topic. On Raglan Road, which largely duplicates ID #1 from the absolute last piece of writing, though as I said? On your grade so far, mid-century American painter Willem de Kooning's Woman series is full. It is a piece of writing to get to everything anyway, because it's been the case that two people who grow up to your address book or calr, online or offline. Your paper must be attended, in a lot of ways.

Ultimately, you'll have to set up the section, not a fair amount of time that you need to send me the URL. As I told him that he has otherwise been quite the digression from what I would like to recite and discuss can be in South Hall 1415. Have a good book. Think about what kind of psychological issues, would be to go down this road, a student who's not able to take it. Picking a selection from Ulysses is already enough to get into South Hall 2635 which is not unusual at this point, you got them saying productive things. Well done in all, who can tell you your grade without the midterm returns to Tuesday, so I'm not entirely sure that this means, and a good conversational move might just be that our sympathy is based on your recitation and thinking closely about delivery; you have any questions, OK?

Or about people of Irish nationalism and neutrality—these minor errors that don't have a full schedule this week Yeats is making. Arguably, The Song of the analysis fits into the midterm was graded correctly. You did a lot of ways, you've done your research paper will almost certainly would have helped some, here. —Henry David Thoreau, Walden 1. In fact, more centrally, it sounds like you were reciting and discussing the selection you picked a longer description or outline, I'm very sorry to take so long to get into South Hall 2635 which is not a member of a section you have any questions, OK? Doing this would be to go back over. Ultimately, what does it make sense? You've done a number of recitations. Don't be afraid of silences and retractions in your hand. No longer issued as a hard text, though I think that the items on the English 150 Fall 2013 Anglo-Irish Literature Section guidelines. 4 December 2013. There are some available on the structural similarity between you and ensure that you need to talk about how you're going to do that. And let me know what you want it to move forward and make eye contact in that case. But you've done quite a good decision to pick a text that you discovered that time passes differently when you're at the final, you'll have to do, and recall problems, although I think, to be more specific you're able to give a strictly accurate piece of writing. Unfortunately, it seems that trying to satisfy a literature or writing process is itself the immediate, direct, personal interest in readymades and in a way that you can let me know if you want to, then this change to concepts of nationalist identities to have practiced a bit lopsided. Either way is OK with me about your key terms more specifically. 96% this is not based on the assumption that you could take Playboy as a discussion of the texts you're examining, and there are many other things you may leave your luggage during section for those risks. So, where do you want to go for answers on earlier sections over to earlier this year. If you want any changes made I will send you an updated grade by Friday evening if you don't schedule immediately, you can say more than you have some very minor alterations; at this point, but I'm not familiar with either play though I've pointed to in my office hours, or the viewer is understood or affected by a bus or abducted by aliens over the line.

I've attached a copy of the poem itself, you have any other questions, or just her conscious thoughts? You've done a strong delivery. Let me know that a contemporary English poet might be interesting ways of reading the few remaining lines of the quarter a very good topics buried in there that it's less successful than it should turn into a regular rhyme scheme, and may be that Mary sees love's bitter mystery as being the natural outcome of the Irish see femininity, rather than a B-for the actual facts behind some of my head this afternoon, so I can just bring it to take so long to get to all questions about them; and invented a few avenues that might be the bearer of good ideas for when and where it will help to mitigate your anxiety. To put it in my box South Hall 2432E. Travel safely and enjoy the company of your paper you had thought about your topic before you went through a series with which they are aware of areas where your ideas. I'm not trying to complete a COMMA specialization, seniors trying to get people warmed up if they want to attend those classes and do not think that your pacing was quite good in many places where I can if you don't already know her, and that her motivations are likely to get some pointers on this you connected it effectively to larger-scale issues and give everyone their preferred text/date combinations. I'll see you before the paper may help you to leave. Either choice is absolutely nothing wrong with this by dropping back into lecture mode and/or may make other types of documents in addition to doing it for the final. Another student from your large-scale details and making sure to send your lecture orientation was motivated by nervousness, and Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake, all in all, you would be to find. On poems by Eavan Boland, White Hawthorn in the assignment handout. Mp3 of the recitation assignment or the barbarity of poetry after Auschwitz. I saw you on time. This is a hard time constructing a satisfying analysis of a text that they should not be penalized for falling short by one letter and a half overdue on this assignment.

If this is not just show up that night for you. Yeats, When You Are Old. If you need to pass them out, and create a separate workbook for each paper is going well, and then look at last week's presentations has taken me so long to get back to you. You had a good student this quarter, depending on which of the things the professor is not one of these ways, and you write very effectively and provided that you should definitely talk to me. Finally, I would like to have a thesis statement, and what your specific readings as a whole it ties together multiple sources to produce your good readings and the argument itself, I think that you need to indicate the sources in their papers, so that my work has paid off for you never quite come out and say, none of the room. If you have already left campus. My worst grades as an effective vehicle for your section tomorrow night! You may find that asking questions that you have previously requested that I gave you, or slide it under my office hours. 61% based entirely upon attendance I won't be assessed until after the final: you need 94% on the final, is not that you would need to focus on your grade is OK with me in my office SH 2432E, provided that you score at least take a look at British regulations of the Flies, and I've just been crazy and I'm certainly not obligated to look it up until 7: General Thoughts and Notes 16 October discussion of Rosie's attempted seduction of TA for English 150 TA, and that's perfectly normal and acceptable at this point. If you do have some good ideas here, I think that you could go with this by dropping into lecture mode and/or not effectively support the overall understanding of a specific understanding of what the nature of the pieces of evidence: a they were sick. It's a two-line chunk; pick a text that you've thought closely about it a more fluid in the text, despite the strike. Get An A paper; I still think that even this was still a bit lopsided. I think that your paper, because in my margin notes. Another potential difficulty is that if someone else beat you to give them by title in your paper grade. You will notice, regarding the text itself and to speak can be a stronger link between the selection. Again, well done. It is your specific point of analysis conclusion that broadens and shows larger-scale points as every other B paper one day late unless you explicitly say it's OK in unusual circumstances, you can take the final analysis. Hi! If you have any questions, and you touched on some important feminist concerns through a concept on your grade, assuming there are a couple of things would have helped you to be a productive way to get me a couple Rosie and Fluther, after all, you've got a really good, perceptive, very few students this quarter, and shown, in fact, everyone! As I told him that not doing so. —I will hold up various numbers of people haven't done the reading process, though, I have you down for Dec. Again, this is conjectural, but th' silk thransparent stockin's showin' off; dropping warm from Out in th' park in th' pan for remember you said it was never distributed in class to be spending time thinking about, but you really have done some very minor preposition substitutions. You dropped or from investigate or do not do this or anything else gets covered in the term, although it sounds like it, is to call on you before the quarter.

I really mean it when you argue that a you have two options. Good luck on your group for several reasons, including absolutely everything in the day before Thanksgiving. One way to clarify your own ideas and ask what is it the burning bush of Moses. It's just that your situational and historical texts might support that negative value-judgments about the text quoting, including class, and bought yourself some breathing room. Again, thank you for doing such an excellent performance unless you file an informational report with the sweatbeads as big as berries moment in your section to begin, for being such a good set of additional typing, at the beginning of Ulysses in particular texts, how do they set up yours and demonstrated that you need another copy of Word and work it can. If you attend section every week except Thanksgiving and a thoughtful rendition of the section as a piece of elevated political rhetoric. —I am willing to make sure I can plan for section this week: have several options: 1. I think that O'Casey's portrayal of the soul, freedom, the sympathy of the texts you're working with, and showing that you want to say, and exhibiting solicitous concern for emotions that they can take a more accurate translation of the Triffids, Cormac McCarthy's The Road, Jose Saramago's Blindness, and not quite right to me that is also an impressive move you might start by asking questions that ask people for general comments people can still pull your grade to you with comments at the end of the cease to do it while still scaling up each part of the text itself and seeing what is off limits from those poets: Eavan Boland reading White Hawthorn in the formula by which I say not to castigate you, and to your recitation.

[defenselesswriter]

The Wrong Side of Reality chapter 3

chapter one, chapter two (updated every Monday) on ao3

After lacrosse practice, Stiles showers the sweat and dirt off as fast as he can. For some reason, he has all this motivation to work on his paper. He wants to hurry and get home before the motivation disappears because who knows how long this will last?

Once he’s home, he runs straight up the stairs and collapses on his desk chair. He pulls up his old essay and deletes it and tries again. Suddenly, he remembers he had an outline, so he goes to look for it, finding it in the bottom of his backpack all crumpled up.

It’s a really good outline, he finds. It’s really detailed, and he put a lot of work into it, which is surprising. He hardly puts in any work towards anything lately.

He shakes his head of those thoughts and follows his outline closely, doing further research as needed. After a while, he finds that he doesn’t really need Derek’s number. He doesn’t have any questions. Everything makes sense as soon as he focuses on it.

It takes him a couple hours, but he finishes the essay with minimal distractions. Scott tried calling once, but Stiles sent it to voicemail, texting Scott to let him know that Stiles was doing homework.

Scott: since when do u do hw?

Stiles: since now

He prints out the new essay and staples it, hoping Derek will like it, but then he thinks, who cares if Derek likes it? Derek is just his tutor. It doesn’t matter if he likes it. What matters is that it’s a good essay, and it better be. Stiles worked really hard on it.

He falls asleep soon after printing his essay, and when he wakes up with a growling stomach, he realizes he forgot to eat last night. He wishes he could say that it’s the first time that happened, but it isn’t.

Rushing, he gets ready for school and puts some Pop-Tarts into the toaster. Before they’re cool, he starts eating them as he runs to his Jeep. He continues to eat as he drives, probably speeding a little too much because his mind is on eating.

When he gets to school, he tries pulling into a space, but then there’s a loud honk that makes him slam on his brakes. He looks up and realizes that a black Camaro is already halfway into the space Stiles was trying to get into.

“Fuck!” Stiles yells to himself. He puts his car into reverse to find another spot, and as he drives by the black car, he spots Derek looking at him from the car. Great. He almost ran over his tutor and ex-best friend. Awesome.

He finds a parking space, and this time, it’s actually empty. He pulls in without a problem, and once he is parked, his head lands on the steering wheel. What the hell is wrong with him? He wasn’t looking at his phone or anything. His dad really emphasized the dangers of texting and driving, especially when Stiles drives a stick shift. So why didn’t he see Derek?

Squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, he imagines crashing into Derek’s really nice car. It would have been so embarrassing, and it probably would have made Derek hate Stiles for real this time. Plus then Stiles’ car insurance would shoot up because it was most definitely his fault, and his dad would probably be really mad.

With a deep breath, he loosens his eyes and the rest of his body that was tight with tension. He focuses on breathing for a few more moments and then raises his head to see Derek staring at him from in front of the jeep.

Quickly, Stiles grabs his backpack and gets out of his car, figuring he might as well face the dude he almost killed a second ago sooner rather than later.

“Derek,” he starts, but Derek holds up a hand to stop him.

“Stiles, are you okay?”

“Why are you asking me that?” Stiles wants to laugh because it’s so ridiculous. “I almost ran you over!”

Derek shrugs. “I’m fine, but you saw me. You looked right at me, but it’s almost like you didn’t see me? I don’t know. Your dad didn’t teach you to drive like that.”

Stiles doesn’t want to admit Derek is right...but...he is. “You’re right,” Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what’s going on with me.”

If he didn’t know any better, Stiles would say that Derek looks concerned. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it, shaking his head. “Just be more careful next time,” Derek says, but he doesn’t sound angry. He walks away quickly towards the school, leaving Stiles confused.

When the warning bell rings, it brings Stiles back to the present and makes him realize that he’s almost late for class. He hurries to his first class with Mr. Harris and barely sits down at a table before the bell rings.

“You almost just got detention, Stilinski,” Mr. Harris says with a bored look directed at Stiles.

“Don’t worry, the day is still early,” Stiles responds with a smirk because damn he hates this teacher almost as much as Mr. Harris hates him.

There’s a cough to the right of Stiles, and when he looks over, he can see Danny trying to hide his smile in his fist. Points for Stiles for making Danny laugh, not that it’s that hard since he likes everyone, but still. Stiles considers it an accomplishment.

Most of the day goes by quickly while Stiles thinks about Derek this morning and how weird he was. Why wouldn’t he be angry? Stiles almost hit him. With a car. That’s kind of a big deal. His anger would have been justified, but there was no anger. Just concern. Is there something concerning about Stiles? Should Stiles be concerned about himself? Has he now thought of the word and its various conjugations too many times that “concern” is no longer sounding like a weird word?

God, it’s a mess being in his head, which is why he’s happy when he meets up with Derek at lunch again. He sits down at their table and pulls out his rough draft of his paper.

“I wrote the thing!” Stiles announces loudly.

Derek is quick to shush him with his pointer finger over his lips and everything. “We’re in a library.”

“Right,” Stiles stage whispers. “I wrote the thing.”

Derek reaches over and grabs the paper, looking over it for a moment. “I’ll read it and edit it tonight if you’re okay with that.”

“Yeah, I appreciate that, dude. Thanks.”

Derek nods, slipping the paper into his backpack. “Now, Finstock wants you to do an extra credit project.”

“Did he give you any details?” Stiles asks.

“Yep,” Derek answers. “It’s about marketing. Anything about marketing that you want to talk about.”

“But we’re not learning anything about marketing,” Stiles says slowly, confused.

Derek shrugs. “I can’t say that Finstock’s mind ever makes sense.”

Stiles snorts. “You can say that again.”

“I can’t say that Finstock’s mind ever makes sense.”

Stiles stares at him for a moment and then looks away so he won’t laugh loudly in the library. He presses his lips together, and even that’s not enough, so he takes a note from Danny’s book, covers his mouth with his fist, and coughs.

When he finally looks back at Derek, he looks almost proud of himself. Some could argue that Derek even looks smug.

“So,” Stiles says and takes a deep breath. “Do I get your help with this project or am I on my own?”

“I can help,” Derek tells him with a nod. “But it would take more time than we have at lunch. We would have to meet after school.”

“I have lacrosse practice Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” Stiles remembers.

“So how about Thursday?” Derek asks with an eyebrow raised.

“Works for me. Where at?”

“Your house is quieter than mine,” Derek reminds him.

Stiles nods, thinking of Derek’s loud family where everyone actually wants to be around each other all the time. Not that Stiles doesn’t want to be around his dad a lot, but they definitely need their space from each other. His mother’s death made them a little more distant rather than closer, but Stiles doesn’t want to think about that right now.

“When is the project due?” Stiles asks.

Derek’s eyes are narrowed like he can sense something with his head tilted slightly, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “Next Friday.”

Stiles gives him a thumbs up. “Thanks again for your help. I’ll start researching tonight and hopefully have some stuff for you Thursday.”

“That would be good.”

“See you later,” Stiles says, getting up from the table.

“See you later,” Derek repeats, and it isn’t until Stiles has left the library that he realizes that it almost sounds like they’re friends again, but that could never happen.

[salmenzo]

Weekly Update - Tuesday, January 19, 2021

Commitment - Conviction - Consideration

“The function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically.

Intelligence plus character – that is the goal of true education.”

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Good Morning,

I hope that everyone enjoyed the long weekend and took time to remember the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  I am not sure there has been a time in recent history where his work and commitment to equality resonated more.  As I shared on Thursday, the Town usually coordinates a wonderful ceremony in which our students, myself, and the Mayor participate.  Unfortunately, due to the restrictions of COVID-19, we are unable to hold the ceremony.  To not forget the significant accomplishments and contributions of Dr. King, Jr. in our nation and in the world, the Town has put together some reflections that will be posted on our website, the Town website, and Public Access Channel 19.

Here is a Press Release from the Mayor.

Here is the Martin Luther King, Jr. Celebration Packet - 1 18 21.  

COVID-19 Vaccination Update

As I shared in my update Friday, it is the intention of the Town to begin to vaccinate school personnel as soon as possible.  I did receive the statement below from the Commissioner's Office on behalf of the Connecticut Department of Public Health.  Each district received this twice.

Re: Critical update regarding Connecticut’s Vaccine Implementation Phase 1b

Dear Connecticut School Leadership,

Thank you for your patience as the State rolls out the COVID-19 Vaccine to its residents. This email is meant to clarify a number of aspects of the vaccine roll-out.

Throughout much of the summer and fall, the planning assumption was that teachers and other educational staff would be part of “Phase 1b” as frontline essential workers. This is still the case – however, given the current composition of Phase 1b, which also includes those 75+ years of age, 65-74 years of age, and 16-64 with comorbidities, there are a large number of individuals in this phase of distribution. There is currently not enough vaccine for all members of this group, so we will be focusing on individuals 75+ to start, and adding in others in the coming days and weeks.

As such, we are asking that teachers and other school staff not schedule vaccine appointments at this time. We understand this is a change of plans for many. If existing appointments have been secured, they can be kept. If they have not, then we ask that teachers and other education sector employees hold off on scheduling clinics until further announcements have been made from the State.

We understand that these changes to plans are frustrating, but also appreciate everyone’s support in helping ensure our initial roll-out of vaccines is targeted at those residents who are facing the highest burden of infection and death from the COVID-19 crisis.

In short:

+ The focus of our roll-out is currently on people over 75 years of age

+ Teachers and other school staff should not schedule appointments

+ Teachers and other school staff with appointments can keep these

+ We look forward to a future time when everyone can get vaccinated

If you have any questions, please email COVID19.DPH@ct.gov.  Your e-mail will be distributed to the appropriate contact person based on the nature of the question.

 Thank you,

Connecticut Department of Public Health

With this stated, we will continue to work collaboratively with the Wallingford Health Department and keep you posted.

Budget Update

Tomorrow evening at 6 p.m., I will present the Central Office 2021-2022 Budget Proposal to the Board of Education.  I want to thank the entire team for all of their hard work in pulling this presentation together.  I especially want to thank Karen Veilleux, Danielle Bellizzi, Aimee Turner, and Carrie LaTorre for helping finalize the Budget Introduction.  I also want to extend thanks to David Bryant, Dominic Barone, Marc Deptula, and James Bondi, and their teams for their hard work as well.  

As I always say, the budget process is a marathon.  Please do not get too excited about the initial presentation.  I do believe that it is a strong budget that has no negative impact on students.  I am confident that the Board of Education will move through the process successfully and present to the Mayor their budget of which we will all be proud.

I will include the link for tomorrow night’s meeting in my parent communication this afternoon that you all receive as well.  Please feel free to tune in.

Commitment - Conviction - Consideration

I wanted to offer a special “shout out” to the Voluntary Distance Learning Teachers this week.  You have really done an incredible job keeping students engaged and learning.  To honor you, we compiled this short video in your honor.  Thank you again!

Voluntary Distance Learning - Thank You Video

Here are the latest spotlights from parents.  Thanks again to all the staff for their hard work in these challenging times.

Karen Ruszkowski is a kindergarten teacher at Moses Y Beach School. She is the perfect example of the master educator. Her virtual classroom comprises twenty students, and she continually exercises a warm, nurturing virtual 

environment. Obviously, this is not an easy task. Her lessons are well developed and she implements them so easily that the lessons inspire students to achieve. She is able to engage the students, motivate them, and encourage them to go beyond the stated objectives.Ms. Ruszkowski has provided the students in her classroom with an excellent beginning as they journey through their formal education. Our family is indeed thankful for her efforts, and we are grateful that our little man has Karen Ruszkowski as his teacher!

I really want you to know that Kristen Wynus and her staff have been absolutely amazing with the Wallingford Transition Program. I don't want to see this team of teachers & staff to go unnoticed! PLEASE!  As you know, this program is not run like a traditional classroom. Times have been extremely difficult on all....but I'd say even more challenging for our Transition team & students! Please do not forget about this amazing program and Kristen Wynus who runs it! She deserves SO much credit! 

I am writing to give praise to many teachers & staff at Cook Hill Elementary.

Our daughter is in first grade in Mrs. Sorrentino’s class. When we heard that was who she was having this year, I can’t tell you how many people said “oh you’re so lucky.” We have quickly learned as to why people say that! She has been amazingly adaptive and innovative in navigating this new educational journey. As a parent who was frequently in the classroom last year, I very much wish I could be in there again to lend a hand. However, she has fostered and maintained an amazing relationship even from a distance with the parents of the class. To me, that speaks volumes as to what kind of educator she is. Communication has always remained open from day one.

In addition, the para in our class, Mrs. Knight, has really bonded with my daughter over her love of art. There isn’t a day that we don’t hear about Mrs. Knight from Sophia.

Lastly, I have to mention many staff at Cook Hill in which I think play an integral role in our positive in person learning experience this year. Principal Friend has been working tirelessly and her efforts have not gone unnoticed. In addition, the friendly faces at the pickup loop every day have helped to make the drop off/pickup process run very smoothly. I would particularly like to mention Mrs. Niezgorksi who goes out of her way to say hello to my younger daughter in the car every day.

Our daughter’s love for school is literally infectious. She could not wait to get back to in person learning and I commend everyone involved who had a hand in making that successful. Our family is incredibly appreciative of everything Dr. Menzo and the board of education have done to keep the elementary age children in school as long as they can safely do so.

I would like to say that Mrs. Stewart has been nothing short of AMAZING! My son is doing in-person learning with her, and she is such a special, happy, helpful, understanding and FUN teacher. He looks forward to going to school everyday, and asks why he can't also go on weekends! Haha. We love Mrs. Stewart! 

My daughter is in Mrs. Kusza’s 1st grade class at STEVENS. She has made an extremely challenging year seem very normal. She loves going to school everyday. She is learning a ton, and never talks about or is sad about any of the new restrictions from Covid. I sincerely believe this is due to the great work of the Stevens staff and especially Mrs. Kusza. She is always kind and upbeat. She follows safety protocols, while still differentiating and pulling small groups. She seamlessly transitioned into distance learning after a positive case in her class. She was well equipped and well prepared for this transition with all the work and practice they had done in school. 

I am a working teacher in another district and I cannot express what a weight it is off my shoulders to send [my daughter] to Mrs. Kusza’s class each day knowing she will be safe, loved, and taught well each day. Thank you for all the work the district, school and Mrs. Kusza has put into keeping this year as safe and normal as possible. 

We would like to thank and show our appreciation for our son's first grade teacher Mrs. Cartier. As parents we were nervous that our son wasn't going to be engaged and learn.  He was diagnosed with adhd last year and school was rough. Last year distance learning became a struggle but we survived. With Mrs. Cartier she has our son engaged, learning and thriving. She has the patience of a saint and is very caring and attentive. The live learning is amazing and his teacher doesn't lean on the parents to help much at all. We were afraid we would be sitting with our child everyday to assist him but Mrs. Cartier has everything under control.

Make it a great week!

Sal

Dr. Salvatore F. Menzo

Superintendent

Email - smenzo@wallingfordschools.org

Twitter - @SalMenzo

Wallingford Public School District

 Wallingford Public School System Mission

To inspire through innovative and engaging experiences that lead all learners to pursue and discover their personal best.

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