#if someone tells me they have feelings for me in any regard i’ll fucking ghost them

[starmakii]

//

[sephirthoughts]

The Ghost of Shinra Manor

Chapter 4 of this

summary: It's been two years-ish since the events of Dirge of Cerberus. Cloud visits his hometown, and investigates a rumor of a ghost, haunting Shinra Manor. If you're surprised by who it turns out to be, you are beyond my power to save, comrade.

tags: g-g-g-ghosts!!! sefikura, sephiroth x cloud, sane!sephiroth (sort of), post advent children, post dirge of cerberus, canon timeline, delusions, intermitten amnesia, low drama, enemies to…whatever the hell they have going on

warnings: references to death, PTSD, child abuse, etc. all of hojo's greatest hits, canon-typical violence

rating: teen and up [BE ADVISED: THIS RATING WILL CHANGE]

Part 4: Resolve

Cloud didn’t check his phone till they were back at the cabin, by which time he’d accumulated a number of alerts.

MISSED CALLS(4): Tifa

MISSED CALL: Barrett

New Messages(5)

He decided to deal with them in order of priority, and opened the messages app first.

Strife: hey what do you know about ghosts

Chadley: Hello, Cloud. It’s good to hear from you. Ghosts aren’t really my area of expertise, unless you’re referring to occurrences of unusual fauna, which are often erroneously reported as ghost sightings. May I ask what this is in regard to?

Strife: like how to identify one and how to get rid of it

Chadley: Hm. There are a number of so-called spirit mediums and exorcists, who claim to be able to detect and communicate with spirits, but since there isn’t an established scientific discipline, I’m afraid the field is fraught with charlatans.

Strife: so there’s no one who knows anything?

Chadley: Don’t lose hope, my friend. It just so happens that an acquaintance of mine is what I would call the world’s foremost lay-expert in spectral phenomena. If there’s anyone who could answer whatever questions you have, it would be him.

Strife: lay-expert?

Chadley: That means he’s highly knowledgeable, but it isn’t his day job.  

Strife: what’s his actual job

Chadley: He works as the concierge for the Haunted Hotel, at the Gold Saucer.

Strife: tell me you’re not talking about that upside-down lunatic bellhop

Chadley: Oh, are you acquainted?

Strife: forget it. i meant someone sane

Chadley: Don’t let his sense of whimsy deter you. That’s his professional persona. He’s actually a very astute and level-headed person. I assure you, there’s no one more knowledgeable in the field.

Strife: really?

Chadley: Indeed. Shall I put you in touch?

Strife: yeah ok

Chadley: Excellent. I’ll give him your contact information. Good luck!

Strife: thanks

Tifa: hey you, just checking in to see how you’re doing. how’s the job going?

Tifa: btw denzy managed to fix that old bike they found. he even rode it around today

Tifa: marley took these pics of him aren’t they cute? .img .img .img

Tifa: good news! i just got off the phone with barrett and he’s going to be in town friday. we’re thinking of having a big bbq dinner for everyone at the bar. you’ll be back by then right?

Strife: won’t be back by friday. something came up i have to deal with

Several minutes passed.

Tifa: i guess there’s nothing you can do when a rush job comes up. when do you think you’ll be back?

Strife: can’t say. could be a while

Tifa: oh i see

Tifa: ok well try not to stay gone too long ok? the kids miss you

Cloud was attempting to formulate a human-sounding reply, when his phone lit up with a new notification.

UNKNOWN: greetings cloud! my name is benjamin hopkins. my friend chadley said you’d like my help with some ghost related information. feel free to give me a call any time, and I’d be happy to assist you however I can.

He stared at his phone screen. A bellhop. Named Benjamin Hopkins. What the fuck ever. Of course that weirdo in the mummy bandages would have a weirdo name.

Sephiroth’s high-school AU version was still wearing the Gold Saucer t-shirt, with the addition of a pair of Cloud’s black jeans, which fit him far too well for Cloud’s liking. At the moment, he was sitting at the camp table, staring into space, because Cloud didn’t have any chores for him to do except wash dishes, and he’d done that already.

“Sephiroth,” Cloud said, giving him a start.

Big, blue-green eyes looked up at him, full of hope and trust. “Yes, sir?”

“If you want something to do, why don’t you go out and chop some firewood, before we’re ass-deep in snow. From the look of things, we’re gonna need it.”

Sephiroth jumped up eagerly. “Yes, sir. How much should I get?”

“Just whatever you can cut while I’m on the phone,” Cloud said carelessly. “The axe is hanging up over there. Shed is behind the cabin. I’ll come check on you, when I’m done with my call.”

“Yes, sir. You can count on me.”

“Sephiroth.”

“Mn?”

“Jacket.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And knock off that sir shit. Call me Cloud.”

“Yes, s—Cloud.”

With a sheepish grin, the boy pulled on the old down jacket Cloud had given him, grabbed the axe, and strode out into the snow, full of determination. Cloud stared at the closed door for a full thirty seconds, after he’d gone, and had to physically shake himself out of the reverie.

Seeing Sephiroth this way was wreaking havoc on his emotional state. The child version had been easy. Similar but unfamiliar. Cloud was able to dissociate him from the mental index he had for Sephiroth, and just see a little boy. The adult version was even easier. He was fully familiar and fit neatly into Cloud’s ‘mortal enemy, hated with the fire of a thousand suns’ index.

The teenaged version was more complicated. This was the Sephiroth who had been his idol and hero, when he was the bullied and ostracized poor kid in this tiny shit town. His reason for never giving up, when things seemed hopeless.

This was the Sephiroth he’d fallen in love with, in the innocent and wholehearted sincerity of childhood. The Sephiroth that a part of him, no matter how forcefully denied and deeply buried, still loved.

He clenched his teeth and swallowed the ache in his throat. If some fragment of himself was still idiotic and delusional enough to harbor anything approaching love for Sephiroth, that was just one more reason to quickly figure out how to end him, once and for all. The sooner the man was gone for good, the better. With fresh resolve, he pulled out his phone and dialed the bellhop’s number.

“Benjamin Hopkins, how can I help you?” said the man’s (not quite as deranged as Cloud remembered) voice.

Cloud sighed audibly. “Is that your real fucking name?”

“No, it’s not,” he retorted. “If you must know, my real name is Subject N-2, and thanks for bringing up that very painful memory. Would you like to talk about ghosts, now?”

“Uh. Sorry,” Cloud muttered. “Is this a good time?”

“Good as any. I’m at work, but it’s a pretty slow day, to tell you the truth, so I’m just hanging around.”

Cloud stifled another sigh. “Did you say that because you’re literally hanging upside-down right now?”

“Eh? Have we met before?”

“Couple years ago. My friends and I were looking for rooms at the hotel. One of them may have been a bit…aggressive.”

“Oh…oh! Are you the little blonde who came in with the giant, the vampire, the cowboy aviator, and a robot cat?”

“I’m impressed you remember us.”

“Ah, ha ha. Mr. Strife, how many times do you think I’ve had an arm-mounted minigun shoved in my face, at my place of employment? Just, ballpark estimate.”

Cloud swallowed. “Is it…one time?”

“Ding ding ding! Correct! Just the one time. So yes, I remember you. A man doesn’t tend to forget that kind of character-defining life and death experience.”

“Sorry about that guy. He has anger issues and trust issues and impulse control issues, and also he’s scared of spooky stuff, so he was acting tough to hide it,” Cloud explained, blithely throwing Barrett under the bus. “But, now that I think of it, I remember you seeming pretty chill about the gun. You didn’t even flinch.”

“Ok, you got me,” the bellhop tittered. “I was exaggerating about the character-defining life and death experience stuff. I’ve been through way worse than that.”

“You have?”

“Yes, yes, it’s all part of my tragic backstory. However! It was highly inappropriate of your friend to threaten a member of the hotel staff with a firearm. Imagine if a normal employee had been the one at the counter, instead. They’d have trauma! I’m sorry to be strict, but for the safety and mental health of the staff and guests, I’m afraid Mr. Barrett Wallace is not welcome on Haunted Hotel premises, until further notice. I hope he takes the opportunity to reflect carefully on his actions.”

“Fair enough. I doubt he’d go back there if you dragged him, anyway.”

“Good. Now that’s settled, let’s talk about your ghost problem. What seems to be the trouble?”

“That’s part of the problem,” Cloud said, feeling a little stupid saying any of this out loud. “I’m not even sure it’s a ghost.”

“Ah, say no more. I happen to have my ‘Got Ghosts?’ checklist handy. Why don’t we go through that, first. More often than not, the phenomena people misidentify as evidence of hauntings are perfectly mundane, explainable things.”

“Um. Ok.”

“Do you have any of the following: shadows or other unexplained movement in your peripheral vision?”

“No.”

“Sensation of falling, while seated or lying down?”

“No.”

“Cold spots in the house?”

“This is Nibelheim. The whole house is a cold spot.”

“I’ll go ahead and check no for that one. Voices laughing, or speaking in whispers/low tones?”

“No.”

“Thinking you hear someone call your name, when alone in the house or with others who deny having done so?”

“No.”

“Scratching or tapping on walls or under floors?”

“No.”

“Sound of footsteps, from empty rooms?”

“No.”

“Lights flickering, or inexplicably being turned off?”

“No.”

“Waking up to the certainty that there is a terrifying presence in the room with you, but unable to move or call for help?”

“No.”

“Pets behaving strangely, and/or interacting with something that is not there?”

“No pets.”

“Objects moved to strange locations, cabinets found open, doors opening or shutting on their own, et cetera?”

“Nope.”

There was a pause. “I’m a little confused, Mr. Strife. If none of these things are occurring, what leads you to believe you might have a ghost?”

“I found a dead person—”

“You found a body??”

“No. Let me finish my sentence, will you? I found a person who I know to be dead, except he’s not acting dead, and he was hanging around in an abandoned basement, naked and crying.”

“He was…that’s uh…wow. A lot to unpack. You’re sure he wasn’t just abducted, and presumed dead? Because, to be honest, that’s kind of what it sounds like.”

“I’m sure. I killed him, myself.”

The bellhop choked audibly. “I—I see. And, uh…the person you found in this basement, who resembles the person you killed—”

“Not resembles. It is him. He answers to his name and knew where he was. But he doesn’t remember me. He seems to be having some kind of weird amnesia, where he’s only getting parts of his memory back.”

“And, um. Not to belabor a point,” the bellhop said gingerly, “but, what makes you think he’s a ghost? I mean, apart from the fact that you claim to have killed him and are definitely one-hundred percent certain that he did actually die.”

“He’s pale. Like, corpse pale. His body is ice-cold. All of it gets kind of transparent, sometimes, but mostly his hands and feet. He has trouble touching things, without his fingers going right through them. And sometimes, when he talks, he fades in and out, like a radio.”

The sound of a pencil scratching, from the other end of the line said enough, so Cloud continued.

“Normal lighting hurts his eyes, so I have to use a gas lantern or just the fireplace. He doesn’t seem to see very well, or maybe he’s just seeing things that aren’t real. Less than two hours ago, I watched him walk straight through a solid wall of stone that he insisted wasn’t there. Also, when I found him yesterday, he was an adult. When I woke up this morning, he was a little kid. Now he’s a teenager.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Mr. Strife—”

“Cloud.”

“Cloud. If you would go this far, just to play some kind of mean-spirited prank—”

“Do I seem like the type of person who plays pranks, Benjamin?”

“Not really,” he conceded. “If anything, you seem to be the 'broody edgelord who takes himself way too seriously' type.”

“That’s not…inaccurate. So, can you help me, or not?”

Benjamin let out a long breath. “Hoo, boy. Let me be honest with you, I thought I was prepared, but none of my usual checklists cover anything like this. That said, your guy actually sounds a lot like a ghost. There are inconsistencies, but if what you’re telling me is the truth, I can’t think of any other explanation. Um. Let me look something up, real quick.”

“Sure, take your time.”

There was another lengthy pause in which Benjamin muttered to himself and Cloud heard pages turning.

“Alright, found it. So, the Cetra believed that the spirits of human beings could be temporarily unable to enter the lifestream, for a number of different reasons. A spirit can’t inhabit its dead body, though, so they show up as disembodied entities, mostly resembling intangible wisps of light. These are what people would commonly call ghosts.”

“But mine’s not an intangible wisp, or whatever,” Cloud pointed out. “He’s actually pretty solid. I even carried him a few times.”

“Right. Hence the inconsistency. The only stories of ghosts being able to take physical bodies and walk around interacting with living people, are from ancient oral traditions, and those were supposedly the spirits of demigods.”

“Ok, back up. Forget about the body thing, for now. What are the reasons someone could be unable to enter the lifestream?”

“Strong resentment, unfinished business, promises to keep—any kind of attachment so strong that it keeps them hanging on, past their time.”

“So, if it was that, what would we do about it?”

“Supposedly, the attachment has to be resolved, then the spirit can be freed and enter the lifestream. For humans. For the demigods…that’s a different story. They were considered to be corrupt beings, so they were rejected permanently. Pretty sad, if you ask me.”

“Corrupt how?”

“Well, demigods are the offspring of humans and gods, which is a big ontological no-no. Gods can’t die, and can’t enter the lifestream, but that’s a whole other thing. The children of an eternal god and a mortal human, therefore, are stuck between worlds. Their bodies can die, but their spirits can’t ascend to godhood, and they can’t join the lifestream either, so they just linger. Some of them go mad and turn into malicious entities, that spread plague and disaster and war, and some just gradually lose themselves, fading but never disappearing. Like Zeno’s paradox, but with existence, instead of infinitely shrinking distances.”

“Shit. That is pretty sad.”

“Yeah, man. Have you studied any mythology? Like, ninety percent of it is a huge bummer.”

“There’s another thing. I attacked him with a sword, when I first saw him. He wasn’t hurt at all, but the attacks backlashed on me, really badly. I’m still recovering from the internal injuries. What could cause that?”

“Huh,” Benjamin said thoughtfully. “A sword attack certainly shouldn’t be able to harm a ghost, but how does it backlash?”

“It wasn’t the blade I hit him with. It was a directed energy spell, using the blade as a catalyst.”

“You used a mana-based attack on the alleged ghost, and it backlashed on you? Holy shit.”

“What?”

“Well, in my experience—I mean, my experience researching ghost-related phenomena, obviously—untethered human souls are extremely fragile. An energy spell should have scattered it, if not destroyed it completely. I’ve never heard of one defending itself, let alone being able to harm a living person.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. So, to be on the safe side, maybe don’t do that anymore. In the meantime, are there any other extremely significant details that you haven’t bothered to bring up, yet? Because, I’d really like to just hear it all at once, if that’s ok.”

“Just a few things. He has these memory flashbacks, he gets caught in. He can bring me into them, but he doesn’t know how. It’s happened a few times. Also, when we were sleeping, last night, I dreamed a bunch of random pieces of his memories.”

“You believe he’s a ghost, and you went to sleep, in the same room with him?”

“I just said sleeping. Why do you assume we were in the same room?”

“Were you?”

“Yes. What does it matter?”

“I’m impressed, is all. You’re a different breed than most huma—ahem—most people, aren’t you.”

“He was a lot scarier alive. That’s why I want to figure out how to kill him permanently, as soon as possible.”

“Without killing yourself along with him, you mean.”

“Sure.”

“O…kay. Anything else you haven’t mentioned?”

Cloud opened his mouth to tell Benjamin about the pain in his chest, that had been growing since he approached Nibelheim, and how it had gotten unbearable when Sephiroth started to fade, earlier, but for some reason, he became extremely reluctant to talk about it. “Uh. No, that’s all.”

“Alrighty,” Benjamin said cheerfully. “I’m gonna have to do a little research and get back to you, because, um. Ha ha. I’ve never heard of anything like this situation, in my life.”

“Right. Well, thanks for doing this. I appreciate it.”

“Anything for a friend of Chadley. Hey, just out of curiosity, where’s your ghost, now? You didn’t talk about all of this in front of him, right?”

“No, I sent him out to chop firewood, so we could talk.”

“You sent him to chop firewood. And he just…obeyed you?”

“Yeah. He’s been cooperative, the whole time.”

“Wow. Are you sure you don’t want to keep him? Joking, joking. Oop, got some customers. It was nice talking to you! Bye!”

“See ya,” Cloud replied, but the man had already hung up.

What a strange person. Which, upon mature consideration, was rather unsurprising, for an upside-down bellhop at the Haunted Hotel, who dressed like a mummy for work, and studied ghosts in his free time. Despite all that, Cloud felt inclined to trust him. There was something familiar and reliable, in his aura. Like they’d already known each other.

Cloud’s hyper-tuned hearing didn’t detect any chopping, outside the cabin, so he went out to see how Sephiroth was faring. Fat snowflakes were falling heavily, and the world was still and silent, the way it only gets, when everything is muffled under several inches of snow.

Sephiroth was nowhere in sight, so Cloud went around to the back and stopped short. The woodshed door was wide open, and what appeared to be smoke was billowing out into the cold air.

“Fuck—Sephiroth!” he exclaimed, dashing for the shed.

The boy popped his head out. “Cloud? What’s wrong?”

“What’s going on?” Cloud asked, confused. “What is all this…steam?”

“I filled the shed all the way up, and now I’m using a desiccation spell, to dry the wood out, so it’ll burn better and it won’t rot,” Sephiroth explained brightly.

Cloud peered into the shed, and saw the neatly and tightly stacked wood, already split and free of twigs and foliage. Sure enough, there was a thin layer of yellowish light on all of it, and it was cheerfully releasing steam, like a huge stack of fresh baked buns.

“What about the wood that was already in here?”

“I moved it all to the woodpile, at the front of the cabin.” Misunderstanding Cloud’s expression, Sephiroth’s face fell, “I—I’m sorry, I know you didn’t tell me to do that, but I thought—”

“No, it’s ok,” Cloud interrupted. “I was just surprised that you worked so fast. You did everything right. Good job.”

The beautiful boy lit up like a firework, at that little bit of praise, nearly annihilating Cloud on the spot.

His cheeks and nose were touched with pink, from all the exercise in the cold, which only made him look even sweeter and more innocent, as he beamed up at him. If only he could’ve stayed this way. If only he hadn’t been tortured and horribly abused, until he became the very monster he’d always feared he was.

The moment his heart began to soften, a surge of black bitterness rose up in Cloud’s throat to choke him. How could Sephiroth ever have been like this? He was always beautiful, but he couldn’t have been innocent and sweet, even at this age. He was already a cold-blooded killer, after all. It must be a deception, to manipulate him.

“You look sad,” Sephiroth said. “Is everything alright?”

“You’re turning pink.”

“Am I?” Sephiroth reached up to touch his cheeks, self-consciously.

“Yeah. But why?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re dead,” Cloud said flatly. “You don’t have blood. So how would your cheeks flush from being cold?”

The boy’s eyes suddenly went hazy and unfocused. “I’m…I’m dead.”

Sure enough, the flush of color drained from his face, leaving his skin waxen white; so translucent, that his veins were visible in his cheeks, as faint, bluish lines. His whole person seemed to wither, and become greyer and duller.

Cloud immediately regretted listening to that bitter part of himself, and lashing out at the boy. Whatever evil Sephiroth had done, this child hadn’t done it, yet.

“Seph…I’m sorry,” he said, gingerly patting the boy’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t have talked to you that way.”

Sephiroth’s skin instantly began to brighten, again, and that dead, grey cast fell away. But now his eyes were dewy and pink-rimmed. “Wh—why did you call me that?”

“What?”

“You called me Seph.”

“Isn’t that how people usually shorten your name?”

“I don’t know.” Two big, round tears rolled down his rosy cheeks. “No one ever has.”

Cloud was utterly at a loss, so he just patted the boy’s shoulder again. “Come on, don’t cry. Let’s go inside. You’re covered in snow.”

They hung up their coats on the hooks by the door, and kicked the snow off their boots, which they set by the fire, to dry. While Sephiroth put more wood on, Cloud was assessing the food supply, in case this storm lasted a while. He wasn’t too worried, though. He’d stocked up well on canned and dry goods, had plenty of fish in the freezer, and could always hunt.

It was no problem for him to traverse the route into town in extreme weather, but that wouldn’t do a lot of good if the town was too snowed in to function. If worse came to worst, he’d go over and clear the main roads. That was work that would be long and arduous for an entire crew of regular people, but with his strength and fire spells, wasn’t even difficult. He’d done it before.

While Sephiroth was bathing, Cloud toasted up some simple, grilled cheese sandwiches, on the skillet, which he cut into triangles. Then he got out a saucepan and began to heat up some milk.

The heavy snow put him in mind of winters with his mother, in their little house, and the rare luxury that was hot cocoa. He didn’t have peppermint sticks or marshmallows, so he sprinkled a little cinnamon on top.

He was just pouring it into the mugs, when Sephiroth came out, in those old sweatpants and another of Cloud’s t-shirts. He’d pulled his damp, chin-length hair back into a mini-ponytail at the base of his skull, which looked ridiculously cute.

“Dinner,” Cloud said.

Sephiroth sat dutifully at the camp table. “What’s this brown stuff?” he asked, wrinkling his nose at the mug Cloud set in front of him.

“Cinnamon.”

“And we drink it?”

“If you want. You don’t have to.”

Sephiroth reached for the mug, which his solid-looking fingers picked up with no trouble. Putting it to his lips, he took a cautious little sip. He froze for a beat. Then his eyes went round and starry and he sucked down every last drop of the warm, creamy cocoa, smacking his lips and ‘mm-ing’ delightedly between slurps.

Cloud nearly spit his own cocoa out, laughing, at the tragic face he made, when he realized his mug was empty. “You like it, huh?”

Sephiroth nodded vigorously. “Mn! I love it! I want to drink cinnamon all the time!”

“It’s called hot cocoa,” Cloud corrected. “Cinnamon is just the stuff sprinkled on top.”

“Hot cocoa,” Sephiroth repeated. “What is it made of?”

“My mom made it with chopped up chocolate and sugar, but I just use the tinned mix. There’s more in the saucepan, if you want.”

Sephiroth’s expression became grave. “Your mother taught you to make this?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re sharing it with me?”

“Looks that way.”

“Thank you,” Sephiroth said, dipping his head, as Cloud poured more cocoa into his mug. “I feel very honored.”

“It’s just hot cocoa. I’m sure everyone’s moms made it for them.”

“My mother…would have made this for me?”

“Probably.”

Sephiroth fell silent, looking reverent and reflective, as he slowly sipped the cocoa, this time, carefully savoring every mouthful, seemingly lost in his own little world. He didn’t touch the grilled cheese, but Cloud hadn’t expected him to. He was surprised enough that the boy was able to drink the cocoa. He ate both grilled cheese sandwiches, himself, without remarking on it, then went to take his shower.

When he came out again, Sephiroth had washed the dishes and tidied up the kitchen. Cloud had never thought of Sephiroth as someone who would be able or willing to undertake such mundane tasks. He’d only seen the lofty and beautiful hero, standing at the vanguard, sword in hand, sweeping away enemies like chaff on the wind.

This ghost, however, was turning out to be quite the cheerful little domestic helper, willing to do whatever task was at hand, and very good at everything he put is hand to. He’d even piled more wood onto the fire, swept the floor, and tied up the garbage in a neat little bundle, by the door, to be carried away.

Cloud lay down in his bed, but seeing the teenaged boy curled up on the rug, by the fire, wrapped in his one blanket, was too much for his conscience.

“Seph,” he said. “It’s too cold to sleep on the floor. We can share the bed.”

The boy looked up timidly. “Are…are you sure?”

“Yeah, come on. If you get sick, it’ll just be more trouble for me.”

Thus reassured, Sephiroth hurried over in his blanket and threw it over the top of the others, then shimmied in under the covers.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Your bed is so soft!”

Cloud squinted. “Is it?”

“It’s the softest bed I’ve ever been in! It’s amazing!”

“It’s just a futon on a wood frame.”

“What’s a futon?”

“It’s um…a Wutaian mattress.”

For what seemed like a very long time, Cloud lay stiffly on his back, staring up at firelight dancing on the ceiling, and carefully avoiding touching the boy, who was writhing and wriggling about, like he had fleas. At long last, he seemed to get comfortable and settle down. But just as Cloud was closing his eyes to drift off—

“Cloud?”

“Hm.”

“Why does your hair stick up like that, but mine hangs down?”

“Dunno. This is just the way it is.”

“Can I…can I touch it?”

Cloud eyed him dubiously. “Can you touch it? I mean…I don’t know why you want to, but I guess so.”

Sephiroth reached out and delicately prodded the blonde spikes. “It feels just like my hair. I thought it would be more like goat hair.”

“What? Why goat hair?” Cloud scowled.

Sephiroth grinned and kept petting his head, absently scooting closer, till their knees touched.

Cloud’s stomach fluttered nervously, in spite of himself. Yes, he was an adult now, but this was his first love, after all. In his mind, he was suddenly eleven years old again, gazing at a Shinra recruitment poster he’d kept secreted away in his bedroom, daydreaming about what it would feel like to kiss those perfect lips.

“Ok, time to sleep,” he said abruptly, turning onto his side, with his back to Sephiroth.

“Goodnight, Cloud,” Sephiroth whispered, after a few minutes had passed.

“Goodnight, Seph. Now, no more talking.”

THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING TO SAY credit to @soundcrusher for the bellhop's name and backstory, which they let me borrow for this fic 🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

ao3

[chanfictions]

Akatsuki reader, partners...mmmmm maybe Hidan and Kisame.

Again, fem! The reader gets hit by someone else's technique.

(Or she was stupidly thrown something that she didn't have time to dodge).

The reader gets aroused and suddenly wants to have sex, whines, rubs herself against Kisame and Hidan, and they decide to help her ;3

(Either arrive at the base and fuck there, or right where they got rid of the opponents)

Hey anon! Sooooo, I know this isn't exactly what you requested. I couldn't for the life of me fit Hidan and Kisame into the same box to make this work, so I just stuck with Kisame. It started with your ask. One thing led to another and this happened. I got carried away with plot. Again. Hope you still enjoy! 

Cupid

18+ Content! Minors DNI!

Kisame x Reader

Smut with a splash of plot. Unprotected sex-ish. Reader is assumed to be on birth control. Public sex-ish. Aphrodisiacs. Mentions of blood during combat.

You were sent on a mission together to retrieve a special relic that had some unexpected side effects.

3.4k

This mission was doomed from the start.

Pain had partnered you with Kisame on an infiltration and retrieval mission to acquire a powerful ninja tool being housed in a fortified military compound not far from the Hidden Sound. Stealth was your forte, so this sort of thing was right up your alley. While you had no hard-hitting combat skills to fall back on in the event that something went awry, you weren't particularly worried. As a phantom thief with a perfect record in your high profile heists, the thought of getting caught or needing to participate in a fight hardly crossed your mind. You insisted to Pain that you had never needed backup in the past and could easily do this yourself, but Pain disagreed. Kisame was assigned to you more or less as a bodyguard whether you liked it or not.

Kisame had been running solo since Itachi's death and had gotten a tad rusty when it came to fighting alongside another person. Your battle techniques got along about as well as oil and water. You favored covert sabotage and traps, and Kisame, well, Kisame was Kisame. Nothing that man did was small. He transformed every battlefield he encountered into a shark-infested lake before completely obliterating his opponents.

That's how everything went sideways. Kisame, bless his blue heart, was not subtle. You donned your camouflage jutsu and got ready to slink into the compound. "I'll pop a flare if I get into trouble. It's going to be much easier to sneak in and out without a 6'8" sword on legs following me. Just wait here."

Staring at the spot where he thought you were probably standing, Kisame's face twisted slightly. "This really isn't a good idea, Y/N." Unfortunately for Kisame, you were already long gone, and he was having a conversation with the wind. With a heavy sigh, he leaned back against a thick tree, focusing on the compound not far off in the distance where you would be poking around on your own. He didn't like the idea of you going in there alone. You were still relatively new to the Akatsuki, and your skills had yet to be formally tested. Kisame got along with you quite well and rather liked you, so allowing you to dive head first into danger without any real offensive jutsu in your arsenal left him on edge.

That overprotective nervousness regarding your safety was what sent everything spiraling out of control. An alarm sounding from within the walls of the compound left Kisame bristling and looking skyward for a flare. As the seconds ticked by into minutes with no cloud of smoke rising into the sky and the clear sound of soldiers mobilizing inside, Kisame made the executive decision to throw your plan out the window.

What he didn't know was that the alarm you set off was a decoy. Oh, shit. After plunging the base into chaos, it occurred to you that you had neglected to tell Kisame as much. At that moment, you realized that Kisame was probably about to charge in, sharkskin blazing. Shit, shit, shit! Every profanity you knew blared across your stream of consciousness like ticker tape as you hurriedly snatched the relic longbow you had been sent in to retrieve. A gooey sap coated the slick wood which left you quickly wiping your palms on your thighs to clean your hands before making a beeline for the exit. The growing cacophony of chaos outside announced Kisame's arrival.

As you expected, things outside had gotten a little out of hand. Kisame was in the heat of battle, taking on an army by himself and winning. Jutsu flew across the battlefield like exchanges of elemental cannon fire. Half of a battalion was encased in water prisons and the other was fleeing from shark filled orbs of water. Kisame was grinning ear to ear as he swatted off one after another like whiffle balls with Samehada.

You quickly scurried across the scene, sneaking up behind Kisame and whisper-screaming to get his attention. "Kisame, you big dummy! It was just a diversion! I'm fine!!"

Surprised, Kisame turned an eye to where he assumed you were while sending another enemy flying with a swing of his greatsword with an amused chuckle. "Next time, you might want to tell me what your plan is. Here I thought you were fighting off an army all by yourself."

"No, that's just you! Come on, I got the thing. Let's go!" You danced around him to avoid the swings of his sword, still wanting to keep yourself out of sight. Upon seeing his feet shift, you turned around just in time to see a flurry of arrows flying your way in such a wide spray that dodging them was going to be a feat.

Kisame blocked what he could with Samehada, but not knowing where exactly you were, wasn't sure he had protected you. A yelp answered his question. You shimmered back into sight just in front of him. He missed one, and it had plunged straight through your thigh. A stain of your blood quickly began mixing in with the sap you had wiped on your pants earlier. "Damnit!"

"I'm fine! Let's just go!" You shouted over the clatter of weapons and incoming pursuit, getting ready to run. With a snarl, Kisame reached down and snapped both ends off of the arrow before unceremoniously throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and retreating.

Fortunately, the soldiers had been so devastated by Kisame's onslaught that they hardly had the numbers to launch a fruitful pursuit. In the chaos, they had yet to notice that you stole the very item this outpost had been built to protect. Once he had put sufficient distance between you two and the base, he searched briefly for some cover to deal with your leg wound and leapt down from the towering branches to set you down with your back to a barky trunk.

You were beginning to feel flushed and hot as a shiver of heat rattled through your body and left an oddly pleasant knot in your belly. Blood roared in your ears as your heart began to race. When you looked up at Kisame, something felt… different.

Kisame knelt down to look at your leg. "You should have been standing behind me," he chided while setting one large palm on your thigh to brace it while he used the other to remove the broken arrow shaft. An ache built in your core as you caught your lip between your teeth. The warmth of his hand sent a tingling sensation rippling through your body. "Sorry, I didn't mean for that to hurt."

With massively dilated pupils, you stared at him hungrily. "It… didn't hurt," you breathed. With a deep inhale, you wondered how you never noticed how good he smelled.

Kisame stared back at you critically. "You're awfully sweaty for someone who wasn't running." Shock washed over his face after touching your forehead. You were positively boiling. "Y/N, are you feeling alright? Was there poison on that arrowhead? Your eyes..." Concern was beginning to bubble as he pulled the item in question from his pack, examining it, completely oblivious to the wild fantasies bubbling in your head.

He was so close. Your body hummed to life as that heat in your belly began growing in size. An ache throbbed through your core. Your heart was in your mouth. Every inch of your skin pricked with the need for contact. And Kisame… how had you never noticed just how hot he was? Sure, you had some occasional dirty, late night fantasies about him. But now? You couldn't tear your eyes away from him. The muscles rippling across his torso were hardly concealed by that black cloak. Even with those unusual features, his face was remarkably handsome, not to mention each time he spoke, shocks seemed to travel straight through your body and into your clit. Still with your lip caught between your teeth, you let out a sultry breath and ghosted your fingertips along his firm bicep. All that seemed to do was make your hunger worse.

Kisame, entirely oblivious to what was unfolding behind your eyes, just looked confused. The arrowhead didn't appear to have any substance left on it, and he couldn't think of another cause for your apparently unwell state. He unpacked some rudimentary first aid supplies from his pack and wrapped some gauze tightly around your thigh as a temporary measure to staunch the bleeding. Thinking that your stare focused at him was vacant, he snapped his fingers in front of your face to try to get your attention. "Hey, talk to me. What's going on with you?"

While his arm was extended, you latched onto it like a lifeline, nuzzling your face into his bicep and inhaling deeply. "Kisame..." You couldn't resist. You needed to touch him. Following that arm back to his torso, your hands traced every ripple of muscle while Kisame froze in shock.

You were his partner. While he undoubtedly found you attractive, this seemed like an odd time to suddenly declare your own desires. "What's gotten into you?" He wrapped his hands around your wrists, engulfing them entirely, as they traversed his muscular chest.

"Dunno… I just really… really need you." You used the grip he had to pull yourself in, burying your face against his neck and breathing deeply again. "You smell so good…"

A light heat rushed across Kisame's cheeks as you abruptly began coming on to him. Between your strange behavior and the thrill of the battle he had just been in, he was amped up. Your body being pressed so tightly against his was causing some complications to arise. His pulse quickened as you nuzzled and rubbed yourself against him. Feeling your breasts against his chest and your heated breath on his neck was distracting him from the issue at hand. "Y/N…" He let out your name in a low growl, intending it to be a warning, but it didn't quite come off with the bite he had intended. Hearing that word fall from his lips in such a tone just set you ablaze. A little moan escaped your lips, and you coiled yourself around him like a lusty little boa constrictor, trailing little bites and open mouth kisses on his neck, savoring every salty inch of his exposed skin. Another deep growl rumbled in Kisame's chest as he ran a strong palm up your spine to the back of your neck. "You're under the influence of some kind of jutsu," he breathed heavily, trying very hard to resist biting you back as his own desire built rapidly. There was no denying how steamy this situation was growing.

"Don't care," you whispered, nibbling at his ear as your hands wandered the chiseled landscape of his body.

"You're injured," he continued, now getting sucked into your lusty riptide, grazing your neck with pointed teeth.

"Don't care," you breathed again, beginning to unzip his cloak.

"We're in enemy territory," he murmured between bites on your throat that no doubt left marks before swallowing you in a crushing kiss. Those calloused hands ran up your sides, wanting to explore more but seeming hesitant.

"Don't care," you mewled, reaching for the waist of his pants, your fingertips grazing the impressive package Kisame was concealing, wiggling your hips for any kind of relief from the needy heat that was driving you to the brink of madness. Your panties were drenched. Your core ached. It was like you had been edged for two days straight without any kind of release. Every nerve in your body was hypersensitive to touch.

Another deep sound rattled in his throat. You ensnared him in this whirlwind, and there was no going back now. You undressed each other in a flurry of zippers and fabric, discarding one item after another in a heap upon the leaves scattered across the forest floor. You didn't care about the dirt. Nothing else existed to you right now outside of the deft hands moving across your body, making you arch your back and moan. His scent flooded your head. You were drowning in Kisame, yet felt like you were dying of thirst. You wanted him. Needed him. Your brain and body shared a singular focus. Neither the mission nor your bleeding leg mattered right now.

Kisame picked you up by the backs of your thighs, pressing your back against the rough trunk of the tree while leaving a trail of branding bites along your neck and collarbone, drawing a whine out of you. You wrapped your uninjured leg around his waist, grinding your soaked pussy against him and letting a lewd moan drift into the sky. That little bit of friction alone was nearly enough to send you over the edge. Your hands wandered, caressing every ridge and ripple of the muscle coiled like steel cables under his skin. This man was built. By now, you were well aware that he was hung like a horse as well. That impressive appendage was currently teasing the hell out of your hungering little hole. You could feel that broad head rubbing through your slick folds as you shifted. "Kisame, please," you whispered with a breathy lust, rolling your hips against him.

A low, raspy chuckle tickled your ear. "You're going to scream and give away our location," he teased.

"Then kiss me so I can't." Your desperation to have that massive girth inside of you dripped from every pore as you tangled your arms around his neck to pull him into a hungry kiss.

Unable to decline such a delicious request, Kisame shifted you to begin impaling you on his impressive cock painstakingly slowly, stretching your walls around him. He smothered your wails with his mouth. Your back scraped across the rough bark behind you, but you didn't care. This was divine. You tensed and whimpered, both aching to be filled and struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him. You clung to him for dear life, gasping and catching his lip between your teeth as he finally sheathed himself. Your core throbbed and pulsed. Nerves ached for input. You used your good leg to try to pull him in even deeper. Another little chuckle rolled through him at your enthusiasm and impatience. "Someone is eager," he teased again with a single thrust to punctuate his statement.

You mewled before biting his neck. "Kisammm-" He silenced you with a bruising kiss before any more complaints or moans could escape your lips as he began drilling you into that tree. Birds fled from the branches above from the force of his motions disturbing their roosts. You clawed his chest and back, screaming into his mouth as he repeatedly buried himself in your fluttering core. You were on fire. Each time your hypersensitive clit rubbed against his body, stars erupted behind your eyes. Sweat slicked your bodies as a steamy heat began to rise. The drag of your nipples against his skin sent rippling shocks of pleasure through your entire being.

"Fuck, Y/N," he growled in your ear, large palms tightly gripping your ass as he drove himself into you again and again. You buried your face against his shoulder to let out a muffled wail as he sent you right over the edge. Your walls clenched tightly around him, eliciting a primal snarl from his lips. He sank his teeth into your neck as his powerful motions set impressions of that tree bark pressing into your back. With your good leg, you pulled him even deeper, arching into him as you flew off into orbit. A palm slammed over your mouth as he railed you into that tree to stifle the litany of cries erupting from your throat. Your head hit the wood behind you. He kept you pinned firmly there while fucking you into oblivion.

Your world melted away into nothing but the input of pleasure ripping through your body. The surrounding forest faded away. All you could hear was your own muffled heavy breathing, Kisame's grunts, and the slick sounds your bodies made between rhythmic contact. Every inch of you pulsed and throbbed with heat. Orgasm after orgasm tore through you in a continuous wave that left you with numbed legs and a soaked core. Your head was adrift in the clouds, the situation seeming impossible. Your new partner railing you against a tree in enemy territory was not your plan for this mission, but hell, you weren't going to question it. Your body ached and hungered for more. You kissed him as though he were your only source of air and you were suffocating.

Kisame picked up the pace, digging his fingers more firmly into your ass while keeping a tight clamp over your mouth to muffle the inhuman sounds you were making. Your eyes rolled back in your head as you lost yourself in another powerful crash of an orgasm, strangling his impressive girth with the crushing grip of your walls. A low growl and a series of curses rumbled through his body into yours as the depth of the thrusts increased until the hold your pussy had on him sent him over the edge and milked him dry. He growled your name through his release, gripping you tightly against his firm body. The combined sound of your heavy panting was the only thing that could be heard over the breeze rustling through leaves overhead.

That fog in your head slowly began to lift as you caught your breath. Your muscles trembled with fatigue as you dropped your head against his shoulder. "Fuck," you whispered through heavy breaths, slowly running your palms up his chest to his shoulders. Still pinned against the tree with his length buried within you, it took a moment for you to remember where you were. A soft hiss escaped your lips as he shifted your weight, reminding you that there was still a bleeding hole in your thigh.

"You good?" A raspy chuckle rumbled under your head that you had resting against his chest. He maintained his grip on you for the moment, not sure if you were about to go weak in the knees and collapse into a heap if he let you down.

"Yeah, I'm good," you giggled, turning your heated cheek against him before grimacing again when you looked down and saw the rather unfortunate state your leg was in.

Kisame slowly slid his length from you before gently setting your feet back down into the crunchy leaves littering the forest floor. With an arm still around your back for the sake of your stability, he glanced down at what you were eyeing, spotting your wound and what looked like a stain of pink that wasn't blood still flushing the surrounding skin. He carefully brushed his fingers against it, picking up a swipe of the gooey substance that you had wiped on your pants earlier that had seeped through the fabric and into your wound when you were hit. "What's this?" He inquired curiously, giving it a sniff.

"Some sap or something that was oozing from that bow," you breathed, shifting your weight onto your good leg and breathing heavily still as you leaned into him.

Kisame let out a hearty laugh. "You didn't wear gloves when you handled it, did you?"

Your face paled. You had entirely forgotten Pain's instructions regarding the handling of that weapon in your haste to leave with it during Kisame's little rumble with the defending army. "Oh, god -- damnit." An embarrassed laugh started shaking your shoulders as you defeatedly let your forehead fall against his chest.

"That bow is made of cherub wood. While it makes excellent longbows, its sap is also the primary ingredient in aphrodisiacs," Kisame teased. The embarrassed giggling overtook you and melted into genuine, hysterical laughter.

"Woops."

[juletheghoul]

Domum (Part 2)

I am dedicating this to you @221bshrlocked, I really hope you enjoy this second instalment of Vamp Boyfriend Max and please know that whenever I return to this world, I'm thinking of you.

There will be a part three.

Max Phillips x F!Reader

Pairing: Max x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.5K

Warnings: **TRIGGER WARNING** Max is a vampire so there will be blood talk, some of it sexual in nature, implied violence (nothing super graphic), language, Smut 18+, PIV sex (wrap it up), slight dirty talk, Oral-female receiving, supernatural themes, descriptions of gore

Reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist Part 1

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“And just when did you forsake me hm?” You stared at Ambrose, curled up and purring loudly against Max's chest on your bed. He seemed to choose Max over you half the time and you couldn’t help but be a little jealous. He stared at you with his eyes half closed, blinking slowly and you sighed at the image of your two favourite boys in your bed.

“Fine, let Max feed you then.” You were only half kidding.

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, my love.” His eyes were closed but he smiled, imagining the look on your face.

“You shush, you’re only smug because he favours you.” He laughed at your tone and made a show of kissing Ambrose on his little face and you rolled your eyes. He set him down onto the floor - against Ambrose's wishes- and pulled you into bed. “I have to go to the market-” he cut you off with a kiss. It was so hard to push him away when he kissed you like that. When his hands held your face so tenderly.

“I would like for you to stay, stay in bed with me.” he kissed your neck and you felt the ghost of his fangs caressing your pulse point. Always letting you give consent before piercing your skin. You shivered slightly but you couldn’t give in. Giving in always meant you weren’t getting anything done. It took a great deal of self control to slip out of his grip and you quickly pulled away, leaving him in order to gather the clothing you had mended.

“If I let you carry on I'll waste the day.” you scolded him without any real anger.

“Waste? You call what we do a waste?” he laid on his back, arm over his eyes in mock distress. You could see the little smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You know full well what I meant - I need to bring these things to the market or Mrs. Johnson will have my head. I will be back soon, and then we can do whatever you want.” He perked up at the last bit, like you knew he would.

“Anything…?” He had pure mischief in his eyes and you blushed slightly at the implication.

“Yes - within reason I don’t think I need to clarify.” You approached the bed and he hastily got up to sit at the edge, making space for you between his legs. You stood and stared down at him - he looked up at you like you were the very air he breathed and you wondered for a brief moment how you could be so lucky.

“I’ll be waiting for you my love, like always.” he spoke with pure devotion as he hugged you around the middle. You ran your fingers lovingly through his hair- pulling it back lightly to kiss him on the mouth.

“You better.” You smiled at him, then made your way out.

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You made it to the market quickly and found Mrs Johnson stomping her foot impatiently and you braced yourself for an onslaught but she cheered up when she caught sight of you. She was one of the nicer villagers and you had a good relationship with her.

“There you are, girl - I was beginning to worry. Let me see.” She took the garments you had carefully folded up out of your arms and inspected your work. A frown of concentration on her face as she inspected a big tear you had mended. “Perfect - as I knew it would be. Thank you sweetling, here - for your trouble.” she handed you a small purse of coins and you took it thankfully.

“My thanks - I am always available for work.” You both said your goodbyes and you stopped to stock up on more thread. You needed new needles as well and you were perusing for more materials when you heard someone calling you. It was the young girl you’d helped almost a year ago, you had learned her name was Sarah and since then she had taken a shine to you. Treating you like an older sister and you regarded her in much the same manner. The little sister you never had.

“What is all the commotion?” You raised your eyebrows at her, she was breathless with excitement.

“I knew you hadn’t heard! There are new people in the village! They came in last night!” The smile on her face was half wild with excitement, times like this you realized how young she was and it always endeared her to you.

“Okay Sarah, take a deep breath and tell me.” You half laughed as you paid for your things and walked through town with her. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet as she grabbed your arm excitedly, telling you about the band of thespians, entertainers traveling the country; putting on shows and plays. “Singers and bards travel through here from time to time-“ she cut you off.

“Yes but never this many! Seems to be a large company - they’ll finally put that playhouse to use. Isn’t it exciting?” She smiled brightly at you but you had a bad feeling. It wasn’t the same as when Max came into town, this was stronger and it left a bad taste in your mouth. “Look! That’s them!” She whispered excitedly into your ear.

There was a group of men making their way into the big tavern in town and it felt like someone had dumped ice water down the back of your dress. There was something wrong.

Max was there in an instant, Sarah didn’t notice him until he spoke.

“Good morning Sarah.” He spoke with a neutral tone but you knew that he was anything but relaxed. He usually stayed inside during the day and his body language gave him away, to you at least.

“Hello Max! Did you hear?” You rolled your eyes, knowing she would explain the whole thing over again. He had a smile on his face as she spoke but it wasn’t filled with the warmth you had become accustomed to.

This was a mask.

“Newcomers, that’s interesting.” You could see him scanning the outside of the tavern with a critical eye. He sensed whatever you had sensed, and he sensed it all the way from the cottage.

When Sarah left he spoke in hushed tones, you had never seen him like this.

“There is something here. Something hungry.” To everyone who passed by you were a courting couple taking a stroll through the village square but he was unsettled.

“I felt it too, made my hair stand on end.” You pressed yourself up against him, there was a sudden chill in the air and you weren’t exactly sure whether it was his words or the temperature.

“I don’t like this, it seems familiar but I can’t quite place it. I need to find out what it is and either destroy it or get it out of town. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” You smiled to yourself, remembering his attitude towards the town when he first arrived. Things had changed for you since then, for the most part anyway.

There were still villagers who thought you were the devil incarnate but most of them had embraced you. Sarah had advocated for you and with her being the daughter of prominent members of your community, others had followed. You had a steady stream of customers who came to you as a seamstress, and an even bigger one for your other talents.

The townspeople were wary of Max, everyone except Sarah - she treated him as an extension of you; and she loved you.

He had embraced the villagers, promising you that he would protect this place. That he would protect anything you loved. You both spoke about it as you made your way home and you decided that you would go into town that night to investigate. Go to the tavern and get a drink to see if either of you could find out just what exactly had blown into town.

-

The tavern was unusually full, it seemed everyone wanted to be out amongst the newcomers. You smiled at Jasper, the old barkeep, you had helped his wife with pain in her legs a few months ago. He always had a smile for you now.

“I will find us a table, Jasper favours you.” Max whispered in your ear and you laughed. You asked the grizzled old man for a glass of wine and some cider, he didn’t let you pay.

The two of you sat in a dark little corner of the tavern, keeping an eye on everyone and chatting idly, Max drinking his wine and you nursing your cider. The two of you waited a couple of hours but it was for naught. Nothing happened - although it was pleasant to be out with him, neither of you sensed anything dangerous. Chalking it up to a loss, you made your way home.

The night was pleasant and you walked leisurely through the woods towards the cottage, the two of you arm in arm - enjoying the clear night sky. You were looking at the moon, seeing it’s position - full moon in a few days you thought to yourself when Max pulled you off the path suddenly. You shrieked in surprise but you quickly recovered when he pushed you up against a large tree. You weren't too far off the path, someone walking by would have to know you were there in order to see you.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” You spoke in mock outrage, he laughed into your skin. He had you caged against the trunk; his face was buried in your neck and he was kissing every inch he could reach.

“I think you know, I believe you told me we could do whatever I wanted this morning.” He lifted your leg, hoisting it high on his hip as he ground into you. You let out a sigh at the feel of him, hard enough to feel through his trousers at your core. The bark of the tree was scratching at the back of your neck, the little bit of pain adding to the pleasure.

“I think I want to hear you say it.” Your voice was breathy, your fingers running through his hair, you guided his face towards yours, you wanted to kiss him. You wanted his tongue in your mouth and his hands on your body. You wanted him closer, always closer. He smiled into the kiss.

“I want to fuck you against this tree my love. I want to feed from you while you cum, I want to taste your pleasure, I want to love you. Will you let me love you?” He watched your mouth as he spoke, his words exciting you so much you ached. So much that you moaned and felt your sex dripping for him. Your heart was pounding, even your blood wanted him.

“Yes, always…” You breathed it out but he swallowed your words. He reached between you to pull your skirts up past your hips, he became impatient with all the fabric and when he reached your undergarments he ripped them roughly. The act excited you, causing another wave of slick to drip out of you and onto your thigh. He knelt in front of, looking up like he was in prayer.

He lifted your leg and draped it over his shoulder and he licked at your core hungrily. You felt his urgency, he sucked the bundle of nerves into his mouth with a passion that had you frantically clutching at his hair, it had you grinding into his mouth and it had you almost screaming. Your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave and he drank it down, refusing to pull away until you pushed him. He started undoing his trousers, pulling himself out as he stood.

His eyes were black with lust, as he roughly lifted you against the tree- wrapping both your legs around his hips; lifting you as if you weighed nothing.

“Undo your blouse for me sweet girl, I’m going to bite you where you like it.” he held you against the tree as you hastily undid your corset enough to pull your blouse down. You held tightly onto him as he reached down to guide himself into your wet heat. Both of you groaned when he was fully seated inside you.

It felt better every time. It was bliss, it was ecstasy.

You moaned as he drove into you, the scratching of the tree behind you sharpening the pleasure of his thrusts. You saw his fangs elongate and felt him getting frantic. He wouldn’t last long. You pushed his head down to your breast and he bit it rougher than usual, you could hear the sound of your joining and it was filthy, it was obscene out in the open like this but you didn’t care. The pleasure building with his bite and your blood in his mouth.

He licked your wound closed and moved to your other breast - you saw the brief anguished look of pleasure on his face as he bit your nipple. It hit you again. It was so intense you seized up almost painfully, screaming at the intensity of it. Your cunt clenched around him and he came with a growl.

He set you down, his grip softening, he was gentle again and he licked your wound closed. This was the roughest he’d ever been with you and you enjoyed it far more than you would have ever thought.

He was pulling your shirt back up and straightening your skirts as you caught your breath, he had a little frown on his face.

“What’s wrong?” You touched his face, bringing his attention to you.

“I’m afraid I got carried away, I’m sorry if I was too rough with you.” He looked chastened, he hissed when he saw the scratches on your shoulders and neck from the tree. You laughed lightly but he didn’t join in.

“Max, I thoroughly enjoyed that. I will heal. I can draw myself a special bath and I will be better in a few hours. Please, put it out of your mind my love.” You hugged him to you and he relented.

-

He was quiet as you made your way home and although he had dropped the subject, you knew he felt guilty. You appreciated the sentiment but you weren’t made of glass.

Once you got home, you had him fill the big kettle as you gathered a few things.

When he returned you had him pull the big tub into the middle of the room, he did so without comment. Once the water was hot enough, he helped you fill the tub and you put a few things into the water; dried herbs and flowers that would help relax you. He watched as you moved about, picking a little bit of this and a pinch of that.

The steam was lovely and it smelled like lavender and wildflowers. You stripped off your clothes and ordered him to do the same but he didn’t right away, you got into the tub and raised your eyebrows at him. He smiled and stripped, joining you in the warm water.

“Here, rub a little of this wherever the skin is irritated.” You handed him a little jar full of a thick oily paste. He obeyed and you felt his big warm hands massaging it into your skin. He was thorough and quiet as he did what you asked, the two of you enjoying the intimacy and the warmth.

He kissed your shoulder when he was done and you laid on his chest between his legs. He washed you gently as you relished his sturdy warmth behind you.

“Max, can I ask you something?” The question popped into your mind and you had to get it out.

“Yes my love?” He was washing your hair, massaging your scalp carefully as you relaxed.

“You told me once that you’ve only ever turned one person, what happened to them?” You asked it casually, you were curious and he never spoke about his past. You felt him tense for a moment before he continued with his actions.

“Do you really wish to know?” His voice sounded a little hesitant, you wanted to know, but only if he wanted to tell you.

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to, I was merely curious.” You meant it, whatever happened before either of you met- it didn’t matter. Not now that you had each other.

He carefully poured water on you, washing the soap out of your hair in silence, taking the utmost care to not get any of it in your eyes. You thought the conversation was done but he eventually spoke.

“I’ll tell you one day, not today - allow me to tell you in my own time.” He pressed his face into your neck, kissing your ear and shoulder, his actions soothing the hurt he imagined his response was causing. He was entitled to his silence. You turned to face him, looking up from where your face was pressed against his chest.

“You don’t have to explain, if it hurts too much or if it’s something you don’t like discussing. It’s okay for you to keep things to yourself.” You smiled at him, letting him know there was no double meaning, you meant every word. He pulled you up to kiss you and you felt his devotion to you, felt him saying what you meant to him without words.

You both sat in the bath quietly for a long time.

---

A couple of days went by and nothing, no hide nor hair of whatever the two of you had sensed. You were beginning to think that maybe you’d gotten lucky, something passing by near enough for the both of you to pick up on it but not actually staying.

You should be so lucky.

There had been talk in the market of a beast, a monster ripping through the Robertson farm just outside town. Killing a few of his sheep and almost all of his chickens. The carnage was said to be disturbing and the bad taste returned with a vengeance, rocks settling in your stomach. This is not good.

Once you got back home and explained what happened to Max he made it a point to go to the Robertson farm to see if he could get a sense of what it could be. It wasn’t long before he was back - frowning deeply.

“I cannot get a feel for it, it’s not another of my kind that’s for sure. This feels more primal, more violent. I need to get closer.” You could see his frustration, it was bothering him that he couldn’t fix it.

--

Later on that night, Max got his wish.

You were laying in bed, curled up in each other when something flickered across Max's face. He blurred out of bed with how fast he moved, stopping to hastily put his trousers on. You felt it before you could ask him what was wrong, Ambrose shot out of bed and bounded for the door. He was hissing loudly, his hackles raised higher than you’d ever seen.

“Stay there.” His voice was iron, no room for argument. He stalked over to the door and listened, you heard it all the way from the bed; something massive was outside your cottage. It pressed against the door lightly and you could hear the gouging of the wood, whatever it was - it had claws.

Your heart was in your throat as Ambrose hissed and snarled, you quietly got up to wrap your blanket around you. Max silently moved to your kitchen to look out the window. Ambrose stopped hissing and ran towards your bed.

“It’s gone.” He didn’t move from the window and you tentatively approached him, needing his warmth to reassure you. He instantly rubbed at your arms to calm you. “You’re safe my love, nothing will happen to you. Good news is, I think I figured out what we’re dealing with. It’s a werewolf.”

You knew there had to be other creatures in this world, you yourself were a witch and you were committed to a vampire but you were at a loss for words. You would have laughed, had he not had that look on his face.

“It came straight here, it must sense us in it’s altered state.” He was pacing the room, thinking hard as you sat silent at the table. Shivering even though you had the blanket wrapped around you. You were trying to think about everything you knew about werewolves, you knew there must be something about them in your mothers notes, where were they again? You got up and put on a shift before digging through the big trunk tucked into the corner of the room.

He came over when you yelled in triumph, pulling out your mothers big leatherbound notebook.

He was silently watching you as you flipped through the pages, looking for any insight and then you saw it - she had a whole page on them. Some of the points you already knew, that you needed pure silver to ward them off. They were vicious and their bite was a curse. When they were in their animal state, they were purely primal. They would tear apart their own mothers without a second thought. Aversion to silver & iron, wolfsbane - would make sense as to why it only gauged at the wood of your door. You had fortified your protection once more after Max had come in, leaving out anything that would stop him and him alone.

“Tonight was the last night of the full moon, we have a month to prepare. We have to find out who it is, and destroy them. They cannot be cured, I hope no one gets hurt tonight.” You spoke to him as you put the book on the table. He listened intently and the both of you came up with a plan to go into the market and get as close as you could to the newcomers.

“Hopefully they'll leave before the next full moon, we should be so lucky.” He spoke as he blew out the candles you’d lit, the both of you getting back into bed. You whispered your plans to each other, vowing to warn Sarah. You thought of little trinkets you could make, talismans of protection to the people closest to you. You hoped with everything in you that you wouldn’t wake up to bad news.

---

No such luck.

The two of you decided to head into town together the next day, and there were whispers of a great beast everywhere you went. Several people had seen a huge mass stalking around the woods, luckily no one had been hurt. You did notice a few of the more unfriendly villagers giving you hard glares and scowls as you made your way through, you felt Maxs grip tighten slightly at the open show of hostility.

“We’re trying to protect them.” he spoke as you tried to calm him, putting your hand on his chest. He took it and held it there as you walked through. You caught sight of Sarah and she rushed over to you.

“I wanted to warn you- a couple of townsfolk were saying that this has something to do with you. I said that there was absolutely no way - that you’re a good person but I didn’t like how they spoke.” She was visibly upset, imagining her defending you pulled at your heartstrings.

“Oh sweetling, thank you - we’ll be okay, they’re just scared.” You hugged her tightly, trying your best to reassure her. “I’ve made you something, I brought it with me in case I saw you, put this on and don’t take it off. I’ve made one for each of your parents - this should protect you. Please make sure you don’t go out after dark. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” You spoke to her as you handed her the talismans you made. She smiled shyly and put on the necklace.

“I won’t take it off, please - be careful. Both of you.” She hugged you tightly and left quickly.

----

For the next couple of weeks both you and Max made it a point to get close to the newcomers. Thinking that maybe if you got close enough you would be able to sense it but it was for naught. They kept fastidiously to themselves, the only time you saw them was when they performed. Even then - Max couldn’t get a sense of who the danger was. You had learned from your mother’s book that it would be difficult, that the days before and after a full moon - this person could appear to be perfectly human.

——

The full moon was coming in just a few days and the tension between you and a few townspeople was palpable. Even before Sarah and other people had embraced you, things were never this bad.

You studied the book constantly, using your mothers knowledge to create a weapon that would be able to kill the beast. It would have been better to cure it but it was for naught, there was none to be found. The biggest fear would be that someone else would get bitten, spreading the curse to someone else.

Well, not the biggest fear - the biggest fear would be that someone would get killed.

——

“What do you propose we do? This is the best course of action. You know that.” He was right, as angry and upset as you were, you had to admit he was right.

“I don’t like it Max. I should be out there with you.” Your voice was soft, you were trying to argue but he looked so worried.

“I know. I cannot focus if there’s a chance you might get hurt. If something were to happen to you, I would never forgive myself- you know it makes sense- I can cover more ground without you.” He walked over to you, untangling your arms to wrap them around his neck.

He had a way of making you crack, of burrowing under your skin; into your heart. You couldn’t help but press your ear to his chest.

“I have to know you’re safe, if we both get hurt then we’re useless.” He pressed his lips to your temple.

“Very well, please be careful.” You held him tightly, as tight as you could and he let you.

---

It felt horrible to sit around and worry.

You made tea, you flipped through the book absentmindedly, it was almost a compulsion. Ambrose could sense your anxiety and he plopped down on your lap, purring loudly against your skin.

Max insisted on patrolling every night of the full moon. He was determined to destroy the beast and have your lives return to normal and you couldn’t blame him, but you couldn’t sleep until he walked through your door safe and sound. When he eventually did you would nearly tackle him to the ground.

The relief wasn’t to last though.

He burst through your door on the last night of the full moon. He was covered in blood and he held a body in his arms.

Your heart seized up, Sarah was limp in his arms. You were frantic, you could see her throat had been ripped open and you held the scream in your throat. He was speaking to you as he laid her down on the table.

“My love, I need you to focus. Is there anything in your book on how to save her?” You took a deep breath as he spoke, opening the book to the familiar pages with trembling hands.

There’s so much blood

“There’s no way to undo the curse Max, if she doesn’t die - she’ll be one of them.” The tears were flowing now, she was so young, so full of life. You walked over to her, brushing the hair out of her face. Her skin was like ivory and far too cold. Her breaths were shallow and the blood was flowing slowly. Her heart was pumping her life away.

“Can you save her?” You knew he didn’t like talking about it, but it might be the only chance she had. His eyes were on you and you could see the pain in them; inner turmoil bubbling up.

“My love, it would not be her choice and she might hate me for it. Hate you for making it for her.” His words were knives to your already broken heart.

“Please Max, I cannot lose her.” You were sobbing then, voice paper thin and up to your elbows in her blood. Her ragged breaths must have been an agony. She was bleeding into her lungs.

“Are you prepared to deal with her scorn?” His voice was cloud-soft, he didn’t want to lose her either.

“Yes.” You spoke to him but you kept your eyes on her. “Whatever it takes to save her, please.”

He changed her.

——-

You waited for her to change with baited breath. It took much longer than anticipated and you almost chewed your nails to the bone. Max fared no better, he paced the cottage while the transformation occurred and you could feel his fear. Whatever had happened in his past weighed heavy on his mind while you waited. You asked him what happened to distract him.

Max had destroyed the creature, it was one of the newcomers - he’d been taken with Sarah and they had stepped out together when he changed and in her fear; her talisman had been lost.

When you saw her skin stitching itself back together you breathed a sigh of relief, your body was a tense knot and you felt your muscles loosen slightly as her breathing regulated, as her body repaired itself.

“She will be thirsty when she wakes.” He whispered, sensing her starting to come to.

When she woke she was disoriented and Max stood between the two of you with his arms up, his body a wall between Sarah and you. He held her firmly in his grasp and spoke in clear sentences.

“Sarah sweetling, can you hear me?” He was staring into her wild eyes, for a moment it was as if she didn’t recognize either of you but a few seconds later you saw her soften, saw her take you both in.

“Max? What happened? What happened to me?” She was looking at her hands, her eyes darted around rapidly and you could see the fear.

“Sarah - focus on my voice. I need you to listen.” He came closer to her, very slowly, approaching her like one would a wild animal. He explained what had happened to her and what he’d done. What he was, what she now was as well. She looked at you with fear in her eyes and Max almost broke. This was what he’d been afraid of.

“Am I going to be okay?” She was terrified and you wanted to hug her but Max wouldn’t let you.

“You’re going to be fine - come, I will help you and once you're fed I will bring you back here and we will talk.” He turned to kiss you quickly, his unconscious need to feel you close was as much to reassure him as it was to reassure you. “Draw a bath for her my love, she will want to get clean when we get back.” With that they both left.

----

It took days for her to adjust, Max walking her through the change. His fear that she would hate you both never left him and you could hear the silent apologies in the way he treated her. The way he guided her through everything like a father would a favoured child.

At first she was afraid, terrified of herself and her new abilities but it didn’t last. She took to it well. Her young age, which he thought would be a hindrance - actually worked in her favour.

She had a long way to go until she had the same level of control as Max, but both of you would be there to help her.

To be continued...

---

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[chil2de]

Hii! It's me again, the "teasing mom's broyfriend" anon. I just- you about killed me with that sequel. Hot doesn't even begin to describe it, really 🥵🥵

I have more :))

------------------------

Megumi knows. He knows what a slut you are, knows you've been fucking his father behind his and your mom's back. He knows you only got with him to provoque his father. He knows all of that. And yet, he can't let go of you. He won't do his father this favour.

He avoids going to your mom's house with you as best he can, bc he just can't stand the two of you doing this to her, the poor woman doesn't deserve it. He never touches you when you come back from your mom's, bc he just knows you've been with him. There is, however, an exception. The only thing that can make him help you tease his dad is when they fight.

When it happens, Megumi goes visit your mom with you, and whenever she can't see it, he makes it a point to touch you a little more than would be appropriate in front of Toji. The mix of Megumi's hands all over you and Toji's warning glare could probably make you cum right then and there. Once, when your mom was out doing grocery shopping and Toji stayed behind with the two of you, Megs was all to eager to fuck you, make you scream his name, all for Toji's benefit.

Oh, you do so love it when they fight. You know you should hope for peace and harmony between father and son, but you have much more fun when they are at each other's throat.

You wonder what you would have to do to have both of them filling you up at the same time...

ugh okay sorry if this post is just a massive wall of text i had to cut down on spacing because i kept reaching tumblr’s limit on characters, and uh... incase you couldn’t tell, shit’s about to get serious if i wrote this much LOL this probably looks so clunkyyy :(( i apologise but i have like a line left or two? so i’ll compress everything by saying a massive thank you because this would not have been possible without your sexy ass intellect. i was seriouly fucking dying writing this, it might be the first or second piece i’m genuinely proud of and i thank you :) i hope you enjoy it as much as i did writing it

this piece makes sense as a standalone, but works a lot better if you read the previous piece! read my disclaimer here if you’re new <3

w.c: 2.8k / characters: 15k (incl spaces) and a special thank you to my beloved anonie. couldn’t have done it without you ❤️

day and night: two.

your bedroom door shuts with a quiet ring. you can only slump down against it, knees held into your chest. your thighs are still quivering like a poor little lamb.

as you move to type out a text for megumi to not come over, there’s a faint knock at the window. your heart burns, throat clogged and knees weak.

you don’t know if you can get up. hell, you don’t know if you should get up. there’s another few delicate rips against the glass and you manage to stumble over in fear of attracting toji’s attention.

“megumi?!” you mouth his name in alarm, dismay crawling onto your features.

your boyfriend gives you a dead once over, noting your matted hair, smeared mascara and weak posture.

of course he knows.

you can discern it clearly from the way he refuses to meet your gaze.

“can you just let me in?” he whispers, tone flat as his index motions over to the lock of the window.

you don’t know what to do.

after all, you’ve still got toji’s cum flowing inside you from earlier.

you fumble backwards, moving to allow his lanky figure to slip inside. megumi manages to hoist his leg up and over, squeezing inside with ease. he closes the window shut behind him, pulling the curtains.

“m-megumi? what are you doing he-“

he doesn’t have time to waste.

megumi knocks the wind out of your lungs as his cold hands seize the sides of your head, stealing your lips for a kiss. he tugs at your bottom lip, tongue drinking you in for a couple of moments like you’re the last meal he’ll ever eat.

“shit.” he hisses, pulling his face back and screwing his eyebrows in mutiny.

oh, but if you didn’t love the way he looked at you like you were pure filth.

“you taste like him. it’s disgusting.” he spits, wiping his delicate lips with the back of his hand.

he knew, but there was always a part of him that wished you wouldn’t submit yourself to the likes of toji. he just had to see it for himself.

“come on, megumi-chan~ thats no way to talk to your girlfriend, is it?

your mother doesn’t deserve this. megumi doesn’t deserve the heartache, either.

megumi can’t see anything but the spitting image of his father all over your body, licking and fondling all the same crevices that he has. but he can’t get enough of you. he can’t stop, can’t turn away from you. he knows that at the end of the day you're spoon-feeding him phrases he wants to hear.

but you’re so good to him.

your pussy fits him like a glove. your hand intertwines with his perfectly. your head is the perfect size to cuddle onto his chest.

there’s something about you that makes you more addicting than nicotine.

bony and slender fingertips ghost over your thighs. you can’t help the squeak that hiccups from you. megumi raises an eyebrow in scepticism before flipping the hem of your miniskirt up.

he scoffs, slicking his long middle finger against your hot cunt.

“don’t hold it in.” he reprimands you, flashing a grimace as you squabble with him.

“b-but toji-“

“but what? am i not good enough for you?”

you swallow thickly, chanting a small prayer before allowing toji’s cum to drip out of your pussy. you shiver, goosebumps licking your skin when you can feel the warmth of his seed ooze and coat your soft thighs. you can’t avoid the burn of megumi’s regard as he watches the cum slowly flow out of you.

he’ll make you want him.

megumi can’t fully comprehend why you keep running back to his father instead of him, why you choose toji over him. like father like son, it evokes a bubble of magma in the form of competition and jealousy.

he’ll make you beg for him. that’s for sure.

“get on the bed.” he whispers, tone cold and even. there’s no warmth to his voice, even with his usual monotonous tendencies you can tell you struck a nerve. it makes your stomach churn, butterflies swooping in and adorning your vital organs.

like a moth drawn to a flame, as though you have no mind of your own, you step backwards until the back of your knees kiss the metal frame of your bed. megumi towers over you, pushing you backwards as he crawls in between your thighs.

the crisp ring of his zipper sliding down clashes against the room. why should he undress himself properly for the likes of someone like you?

“there’s no point in prepping you. i think you know that.” megumi sighs, relieving his twitching cock from the confines of his painfully tight boxers.

you can feel the avarice swirl in your abdomen, cold fear stilling in your veins at the mere thought that you could get caught by toji at any second. it makes your fingertips tingle and stomach churn. when you wail a needy whimper, megumi only shakes his head before plastering his icy cool hand against your wet lips.

a part of megumi wants to let all hell break loose. if he allows you to moan as you please, it won’t be just toji hearing your cries of ecstasy. knowing your mother, perhaps she’d be a little glad to know that your boyfriend is meeting your needs sufficiently. whereas toji?

it puts him in a predicament. from a bystanders point of view, toji has no right to storm in here and to shriek at megumi for blowing your brains out.

why?

because he’s not your dad.

he’s not a paternal figure in your life. there’s no right for him to say what you can and cannot do. he won’t hold that kind of reign over you like your mother does. and megumi likes that. he relishes the idea of toji being forced to listen to you babble megumi’s name, to mewl and cry for him to hit it deeper whilst he can’t do anything but complain.

it’s not like you haven’t heard your mother with other men plenty of times. it’s only natural, right? hell, she’ll probably gossip with you about it.

a carnal desire glosses over megumi’s steel blue gaze. like a wolf waiting to pounce onto a hare. he can see the way your thighs squeeze, how you gulp before him with those doe eyes of yours. you’re practically purring underneath him. for once, megumi gathers the reasoning to understand why his father finds you so intriguing. there’s nothing better than having your own toy melt and oblige under every command.

your boyfriend’s hand finds its way to your chest, where he rests the palm flat underneath your breasts. he steadies himself, using you as leverage as he guides his dick through the cum stained mess of your cunt. your heart pounds in anticipation, drool coating the back of your tongue as your pussy throbs around him. he manages to fit his tip in, dragging the enlarged and sensitive muscle against your walls. your ankles flutter around megumi’s waist, lower body strength trembling as you attempt to pull him in further.

“m-megs- please..”

“what?” he screws his eyebrows, staring you down. you can’t find the words in you to plead for him.

“what the hell? why act all coy now?“

“that’s not how we do things around here, is it? so spit it out. i won’t get what you’re trying to say otherwise.”

megumi slips his dick out, grinding against your clit as his torso flushes against yours. he pulls you in for a quick kiss, enough to relinquish his appetite, but not enough to taste the filth that corrupts your sweet and innocent lips.

“those cute little whines of yours won’t help you, either.” his breath flickers against your skin, sticky tongue licking trails as he works to mark up your neck. you can feel the tears prick your eyes already. you’re suddenly hyper aware of your heartbeat pounding in your ears, how it throbs against your cunt and the droplets of perspiration trickling along your skin. you can feel megumi’s pulse heavy against your clit, the way his dick twitches as he smears the tip through the folds of your slick. it’s slowly driving him insane. but that’s okay. even through the static that bounces around in his skull- he knows that you hate it more.

after all, your boyfriend knows best.

your fingernails soar around to megumi’s back. you want to scratch him, but you can’t access his toned skin through the layers of his jacket. instead, you’re left fumbling and scrunching the fabric like a feline with an insatiable desire to itch its claws.

“megumi- please, it’s too much-“ you huff through laboured breaths, peering up at him through tear stained eyelashes.

it’s almost enough to make him melt. almost.

“what is?”

“this?”

he shifts himself back up, grabbing his dick and slipping only the tip in once more. he allows you a few centimetres extra before dipping back out and repeating the process again. megumi’s gaze locks with yours, as though he’s asking ‘is this what you want?’

“s-stop teasing me.. just put it in alreadyy~” you choke out a groan of frustration, ready to slam your hips down onto the full length of his shaft.

“why should i?”

“megumi, i swear to god- if you don’t fuck me right now-“

“-or what? you’ll go to my dad? good luck, when you couldn’t even fulfill your duties as being his toy.”

so fucking humiliating.

the way megumi instantly stands up and proceeds to stuff his still hard and leaking dick back into his boxers.

he’ll deal with it later.

you’re left stuttering, unable to form any coherent words, thoughts or insults to spew back at him. legs wide open, cunt empty and glistening in the blue tint of the moonlight.

he leans over, swiping some of your excess drool with his thumb before dipping it into your mouth. he half expects you to lick at his thumb, convince him to stay a little longer, but his skin sits in your mouth like a forgotten thermometer for a couple of seconds.

“if only you could see your face right now.” he hums, tone flat with a certain mockery.

sometimes, as the days pass, you can notice his resemblance growing closer and closer to toji.

-

the following day

you haven’t left the quarters of your room for the entire day. you’re stuck in bed, face mushed into the confines of your pillow. you’ve always held high regards of the fact that your libido isn’t necessarily extremely high, but when you’re promised dick just to be neglected of it? shit feels like you’re in heat. you can’t go to toji, because you’re mother’s home. not only that, but he’d be sure to teach you one of his lessons. you’re already shivering thinking of the conversation with him, how you’d even try to dig out of that hole you were already so deep in.

you can’t call megumi either… at least not for now. you sigh wistfully into the pillow, kicking your legs about on your bed as you hiss a groan of turmoil.

there’s a sudden knock at the door that snaps you out of your haze. it leaves you pumped, blood coursing through your veins and you shoot up like an attentive little puppy about to be taken for a walk.

“it’s open!” you clear your throat, humming.

the disappointment rocks your features so clearly that it’s embarrassing. it’s just your mother.

“you okay? thought you died in here, baby. lunch is ready, and your lovely megumi-kun came to say hello.”

what?

“megumi? that’s nice. did he leave a message or anything? like he just dropped by to say hello or-“

“hm? oh, no. he’s having lunch with us.”

“is everything okay, dear?”

“yeah! yeah, i’m good. sorry, i spaced out a little bit. small headache, that’s all. i’ll change clothes and i’ll come out to eat.” you dismiss your mother, keeping in the hyperventilation you’re about to undergo. she gives you a small glance of concern before returning to the dining room to serve her guests.

“(y/n)! we were just talking about you!” your mother hums, gifting you a smile of warmth and radiance as she pours drinks into some cups.

you can feel toji’s mocking stare dig holes into your skin.

you can fucking feel it.

you can imagine him saying it.

“slut.”

at the six chaired table, you scurry to sit the furthest away from megumi and toji. your mother shoots you a sideways glance, motioning for the seat between toji and megumi. you swallow thickly, awkwardly striding over to take a seat.

your knee accidentally knocks into toji’s and you instantly utter an apology.

“you should be.” he mutters underneath his breath, disguising the words as a sigh.

“so? you said you were talking about me?” you straighten yourself, perking up a semblance of cheerfulness and perfect innocence.

“oh, right! toji was just telling me how stuffed you were yesterday!”

your lids flicker in shock and you abruptly stare at toji, whose half lidded jade green eyes slowly land on yours before locking to meet your attention for a few seconds.

“sorry, what?” you stutter, finding it difficult to believe the situation.

“you know, the food? are you sure you’re alright, honey? you’ve been acting strange since this morning.”

“i’m fine, i swear. just some painkillers would be nice.”

when your mother turns around to rummage for some painkillers, she emits a squeak of alarm at the lack of them.

please. you’ll do anything to get out of this predicament.

“are we out? i can go grab some-“

“-no, that’s okay. i’ll head out. i need to grab a few extra things for dinner anyway. you three, make nice with each other!”

sure.

when the door shuts, you realise you’re out of options.

you can’t run away.

“so, megumi. how’s eating up after my leftovers feel?”

“leftovers? because one woman wasn’t enough for you?” megumi scoffs, averting his gaze.

“it’s not my problem that your woman came running to me. doesn’t that say something about you?”

“like what?”

“like, you can’t fuck her properly?”

“i can’t fuck her properly? but you’re telling her to keep your cum inside her? don’t you care what’ll happen if she gets pregnant?”

“see, megumi. she’s on birth control. you didn’t know that? and besides, if i didn’t know any better-“

toji finally allows you his undivided attention, staring right through to your soul.

“-i’d think your little girlfriend here likes walking around with my cum inside her.”

you’d be able to run a butter knife through the tension hanging in the air. the room holds its breath, and as do you in compliment of trying not to set things off into a piping hot mess.

“isn’t that right-“

“-princess?”

your fight or flight response kicks in at the malicious tone that coats toji’s tongue. you swallow thickly, throat parched and lips cracked.

but fuck.

if it isn’t the most arousing thing- the two of them squabbling over you.

toji screws his face at you, features lighting in a mix of awe and delight.

“really? you’re seriously enjoying this?” toji hums with mockery, eyebrows perking at your unusual behaviour. he can smell the sweet nectar of your arousal slicking against your underwear.

you abruptly stand up, ready to leave.

megumi’s hand curls around your wrist. he slings your hand behind your back, slamming you over the table. some silverware and plates clatter and dash against the hardwood floor.

“answer the question, (y/n).” he hisses.

you whimper a soft whine. there’s no way you’re answering that.

“get your fucking hands off of her.” toji barks, kicking his chair back.

“try me.”

something washes over you. a premonition, say. that if you don’t speak up, someone will end up seriously injured.

“i can’t choose between you two. i just can’t. so i think it’s the best option if we just stop this completely.” you sigh, prying megumi off of you. his stance relaxes and you wince at the pain in your spine. you rub your wrists in slight agony, refusing to meet either of their gazes.

“it’s been fun, but i think it’s time to draw the line-“

“no.” toji remarks offhandedly.

“huh?” you contort your face in offence. there’s something thick on megumi’s face, too. it almost looks like determination?

“i said no.” toji reiterates, taking a stride towards you.

his index and thumb caress your chin, tilting your jaw up to look at him.

“i don’t care how long it takes. whether it’s me or him-“

“-i’m making you choose.”

[sunflowervolvimp3]

you’re someone i just want around: II

“You can call me when you feel like

I’m your good time, I’ll be your temporary fix

You can own me, and we’ll call this what you like

Let me be your goodnight”

-Temporary Fix, One Direction

A/N: honestly can y’all believe @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy​ and i finished part 2 within a week like what kind of productive hyper fixated legends are we??? if you haven’t heard, this started as a random concept between andrea and i to discuss at 3am and then we accidentally fell in love with vampirerry and his stupid asshole ways and now we’re here!!! we really hope you like this part, and the next parts coming (which are in the works and begin to dive into harry’s tragic backstory because who doesn’t love a lil pain :)))) just a reminder that if you like this, then reblog it!! not just our work but the work of all content creators!!! and feedback is also greatly appreciated 💌 

ysijwa masterlist��: leyla’s masterlist : andrea’s masterlist 

word count: 15.8k

content/warnings: vampire!harry laughing at a mortal not being able to open a door until he realizes his immportal ass can’t come inside, bloody good sex (literally), face f*cking, female-received oral, harry condemning stephanie meyer’s portrayal of vampires, psychological demolition of a quaint bedroom, and a cocky vampire with shitty taste in coffee

///

If Y/N can’t find her goddamn keys, she’s going to lose her mind.

Of course, she may just lose her mind anyways, given the way the handsome, tall, tattooed, and British (because of course he’s British, of fucking course) stranger whose name she can’t quite remember is smearing his lips against hers in the dim light of the hallway outside her apartment.  All Y/N wants to do is pull him--Henry?  Harrison? --into her apartment, into her bed, and tell him to fuck her until she can’t walk, but the stubborn lock of her door and the strangely bottomless clutch bag in her hand have other plans.

It does occur to Y/N, in a flicker of a drunken thought, that if she took a step back from the man--Hayden? --she may stand a better chance of finding the silver key ring she could swear she tossed in her bag before she left that night, but then the man’s tequila tinted mouth ghosts over hers once more, and the thought burns out completely.

“Y’alright, dove?” The man asks, his pillowy pink lips still hovering over hers as he speaks, low and soft and tantalizing. “Are you going to open the door, or do you want me to take you out here?”

A soft squeak stutters from Y/N at the lewd comment, and the brunette separates from her just enough that she can see the very corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk.

“Sorry.” He says, despite his voice sounding not very sorry at all. “Was that too much?”

“I--no, I just--” Y/N sucks in a deep breath to steady herself, but it backfires when traces of alcohol and his tobacco and vanilla scented cologne catch in the back of her throat. “I can’t find my keys.”

A small chuckle of mirth rolls from the stranger. “You can’t find your keys?  Shall I take a look for you?”

The thought of him-- his name starts with an H, she knows it does-- poking around in her bag which, by her normal standards, is quite organized, but by regular standards, is a fucking mess, brings a heated flush to her already warm cheeks. “No, I can get them, just--” Taking another reluctant step back from him, Y/N digs her hand down into her clutch, blindly pressing her fingers into the corners until she feels the touch of cool metal. “Got them!”

“Wonderful.” The man’s irises glint in the flickering hallway light, emerald glee flashing back at Y/N’s own drunken stare.  His eyes really are hypnotizing, Y/N thinks, with the way the forest shades seem to swirl around in each other, the way they seem to shine and darken over and over, how--

“Are you going to actually unlock the door, darling?” His lilting accent interrupts Y/N’s mesmerized thoughts as his hands smooth over the small of her back. “Or are we back to the idea of me taking you in the hallway?”

As more embarrassment flushes through Y/N’s body, heating every inch of her skin, she manages to shake her head quickly, the motion making her vision spin. “No, sorry, I--sorry.” She clears her throat once, the alcohol making her tongue feel heavy in her mouth. “Here--”

There’s another peal of laughter from behind her as Y/N spends a moment forcing her key into the lock of her door, having to give it an extra shove with all of her body weight before the stubborn mechanism twists and allows her to swing the door open.  With a relieved sigh, Y/N steps over the threshold, noticing that the stranger’s touch has fallen away once she’s inside.

With a confused and heavy glance, Y/N regards the curly-haired boy over her shoulder, turning slowly around to see him standing just outside the step of her apartment.  The hands that had just been groping every inch of her that they could get ahold of are now braced against the doorway, his tanned and inked muscles exposed beneath the sleeves of his blue t-shirt that fits him so perfectly, Y/N thinks she may faint.  Although his smirk is still tugging at his lips, his eyes have shifted to definitive darkness, and his expression has become more guarded.

“Is everything okay?” Y/N asks slowly, her own brows furrowing to match his own. “Aren’t you going to come in?”

The man’s eyes flash once more, and--Harry!  His name is Harry, Y/N remembers, and an alleviant feeling flushes through her veins while she struggles to keep the realization off her face as Harry straightens up to appraise her properly.

As his eyes scan over Y/N’s liquor-loose body, her eyes wide, trusting, and curious, her hair tangled from Harry’s fingers mussing it, a hickey just starting to colour at the base of her neck. The spot sends a flood of venom through Harry’s mouth and he knows that it’s time.  The moment that Harry dreads with each drunken club hookup has finally arrived.  The moment he has to figure out a way to get whatever poor soul he’s chosen as his midnight snack to explicitly invite him into their home.

There are a lot of abilities that come with being a vampire that Harry is thankful for.  The compulsion, he’d learned from his very first day in his afterlife, is one of the most useful and commonly used traits Harry possesses; after all, it’s a lot easier to take a little bite from an unsuspecting college student when you can make them forget it after.  The inhuman strength, of course, and the accompanying speed was handy, but mostly used for fun more than anything else.  When you barely sleep, you end up with a lot of free time, and impossible strength and speed makes for never ending wrestling matches, races, and various sporting competitions with Niall (they’d tried chess once, but Niall only lasted fifteen minutes before his attention drifted to the scent of a nighttime jogger outside the condo).

However, with all the sweetness that comes with being undead, there’s also the sour.  Iron has a tendency to burn the diamond-like skin of a vampire as if they were mere humans being prodded with a white hot brand, which Harry had learned the hard way back in his early days.  Stepping out into the sunlight has the same effect.  While these two issues could be easily remedied by dipping an iron object into gold, or wearing a sunlight ring respectively, there’s still one downside to life after death that irks Harry every time he’s presented with it.

Like every old folklore about vampires he had ever heard growing up, Harry has to be invited inside before he can cross the threshold of someone’s home.

And, as he’d learned over the years, it has to be an explicit invitation.  A beckoning of a hand or head won’t do, nor will a quiet whisper of “Follow me.” No, a resident of the home has to clearly state that they want Harry inside their space, or else he’ll be blocked from crossing under the door frame like there’s an invisible wall that only appears for him.

Given that Harry was raised in a time where proper manners were of the utmost importance, and an invitation had to be extended by a girl’s family before Harry was permitted to step onto the premises of their estate, getting this permission from someone isn’t too difficult for him.  However, if his meal is a little too soaked in alcohol, pulling an invitation from their slurring mouths can sometimes prove to be a challenge.

So when Y/N asks if he’s going to come in with confusion clearly tinging her voice, Harry knows he has to play his next moments very carefully.  He drops his eyelids halfway, giving her a sultry look that indicates every one of his intentions with her (at least, the ones he wants her to know about).  When he answers, his voice is low and drawling, dripping with thirst disguised as need despite the careful cadence of his words. “Do you want me to come in?”

While Y/N’s blood alcohol content is a little higher than usual, she still has enough awareness in her to show her surprise at the question Harry poses.

“Do I--?” She cuts herself off to rephrase her words in an incredulous tone.  Was he serious? “You literally had your tongue down my throat a minute ago, and now you’re asking if I want you to come in?”

Harry-- Y/N keeps repeating his name in her head to commit it to memory-- lifts one shoulder in a quick shrugging motion as he worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “I just want to make sure you’re okay with this,” He says, motioning between the two of them from outside the door. “Before we go any further.  Spoken consent is important, too.”

If Y/N hadn’t already been ready to drop to her knees and do whatever Harry wanted, that one sentence would’ve been enough to pull the reaction from her.  It takes every ounce of effort in her slightly intoxicated body to not tug his pants off right there in her doorway, and instead she takes a deep breath, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Yes.” She tries to keep her voice as steady as she possibly can. “Yes, I want you to come in, Harry.”

The vampire’s nearly blindingly white teeth flash at her as a smile overtakes his face, and he confidently yet slowly strides into her apartment, his eyes flickering over the interior space, but keeping most of their attention trained on her.

As he steps towards her, Y/N steps backwards, leading him down the hallway, past her bathroom and small bedroom, and to the main kitchen and living area.  For once, Y/N is thankful that she took the time to do a quick sweep of her apartment the day before, as she would’ve been mortified if Harry had seen her half folded laundry spread out on her couch like it normally is.

“Do you, um--” She clears her throat once as she motions to the bar cart in the corner of the room. “Do you want a drink?”

Harry can’t help the small laugh that peels from his lips.  If only Y/N knew, he thinks, as he takes another step closer to her so he can grip her chin between his thumb and forefinger.  From the fluttering of her eyes, stuttering of her breath, and the audible increase of blood rushing through her body, concentrating in the areas that interest him the most, Harry can tell that she likes when he displays a dominant air over her.  Keeping his voice sultry to hide the growing smugness-- not completely, but enough that he doesn’t sound too cocky, Harry asks what’s meant to be a simple question. “You’re nervous.  What’s got you all worked up, hm?”

Tongue unfeeling in her mouth, Y/N struggles to answer as she stumbles over her words, distracted by the feeling of Harry’s ringed thumb caressing her chin, just barely grazing her lips.

“You’re just--I--” She sucks in a quick breath, trying to push down her embarrassment as her voice emerges more breathless than before. “You’re just really hot.”

Ah, the praise.  If the pleasure of swallowing down mouthful after mouthful of warm, sweet blood wasn’t Harry’s literal reason for existence, his most favourite thing in the world would be the way humans fawn over him. The beauty of a vampire is part of what lures a human in, and while Harry has foggy memories of being bashful in his human life, he’s fully transformed that part of himself in death.

“Am I?” He asks, and the snarky remark goes straight to the heat between Y/N’s thighs as he drops his face, his cool forehead pressing against her own flushed skin.

Y/N nods slowly, her nose bumping against Harry’s with every motion. “Yeah, you are.  I couldn’t believe that…” Her cheeks heat again as she trails off, and it’s only the insistent tap of Harry’s fingers against her hip that make her continue. “Couldn’t believe that you were interested in me.  Out of all the girls there…”

Harry uses his grip on her side to tug Y/N closer to him, despite already being only inches apart.  Although her scent had hit him like a train back at the club, here, in her own apartment, the fragrance is ten times as intense.  Y/N’s personal perfume of honey and lavender lingers in every breath he takes in, drifts off the couch, the throw pillows, the books on the coffee table...everything is drenched in her, and Harry almost feels drunk from it.

“Didn’t care about the others.  You--” He catches himself just in time, before the words “you smelled the best” tumble from his open mouth. “You just caught my attention. You looked so shy.” That’s true enough, Harry thinks, as his hand moves from her chin to grip the opposite side of her torso tightly in his large hands. “Wanted to see if I could break through that.”

Y/N yelps softly as Harry picks her up as if she weighs no more than a dandelion picked from a field, and drops her onto the couch behind her.  Although the worn fabric of the sofa is familiar, Y/N almost thinks that she should ask Harry to take her to her bedroom.  And then she gets a good look at Harry standing over her with lust clouding his jade irises and his lips so red she could name a lipstick after them, and every thought of anything besides him leaves her mind.

Harry straightens his spine after he drops her on the couch, his ringed hands easily finding the buckle of his belt to yank it free from his trousers in one swift motion, letting it fall to the IKEA rug below him.  His gaze flickers to lock eyes with Y/N as he fiddles with his zipper, catching and basking in the way her eyes keep falling to the movement.

He can see the neediness that’s practically dripping from her irises just as easily as tears would, and the way she catches her lip between her teeth in impatience forces Harry to bite back a groan.  It’s been so long since he had someone so...so fucking delectable, not just in smell, but in their actions.

“Would you like to do it?” Harry asks the question quietly, dancing his fingers over his zipper one last time before letting go.

Y/N’s answering nod is timid, and her actions are almost trancelike as she slowly reaches towards him, but Harry catches her wrist and grips it tightly before she can reach her goal.

Giving her a stern look, he raises his voice a few decibels louder than it was. “Use your words, then, darling.  Tell me.”

Harry can smell the flood between her legs as a lustful whimper falls from Y/N’s lips, the desperation that’s coursing through her veins amplifying with every passing moment.

“I want to--” She nearly stutters over the words, and takes a moment to collect herself before continuing in a more self-assured voice. “I want to undress you.”

Harry’s responding smile is so big that, if she weren’t slightly intoxicated, and if there was more than just the light of one lamp illuminating the pair, Y/N might have noticed the sinister glint of his teeth.

“Good girl.” His voice is as smooth as molasses when he praises her. “Go ahead.”

Although her hands are clumsy, Y/N manages to work around the button and zipper of his pants until she can ease the fabric down his legs, her desperation only growing as his boxers-- and the clear outline of his hardening cock-- become visible.  The erotic sight pulls a quiet but defined gasp from Y/N as she drags her index finger over the bulge, too entranced in her own actions to catch the way Harry’s eyes roll back into his head at the sensation.

“Oh.” With her heart thumping in her chest, Y/N finally raises her eyes to his. “You’re-- you’re so big, Harry…”

“Is that a problem?” Despite knowing that it isn’t-- and has never been before-- Harry still asks the question, wanting to extract as much praise from the mortal girl as he can before the night is over.  He’s always had a bit of a praise kink, adoring the way humans adored him, but there’s something about the voice of the girl in front of him that makes the compliments sound sugar-coated in the best way.

Y/N’s response is so quick and sharp that it almost pulls a laugh from Harry’s chest.

“No.” She insists immediately, giving a rough shake of her head. “No, absolutely not.”

The sides of Harry’s kiss-swollen lips twitch arrogantly, but the next words he speaks are genuine.  Although he’s a lot of things, certainly, a careless lover is not one of them.

“If it gets to be too much…” He brings a ringed hand to caress Y/N’s hair, his eyes softening for just a moment. “Don’t hesitate to tell me.  I don’t want to do anything if it doesn’t make you feel just as good as it makes me feel.”

And with those words, that same desperation that Y/N had felt when he asked if he could come inside earlier reignites in her belly.  It had never gone out, true, but it had dulled to a dim spark for just a moment, yet with the fanning of Harry’s latest words, exploded into a renewed bonfire deep inside her.  

“God, I can’t believe you’re real.” Y/N half mutters the words to herself as she scoots towards the edge of the sofa, knees bumping against the front of Harry’s bare calves as he takes a step forward.

With his ring-clad fingers still carding through her hair, Harry guides the girl’s head closer to the tent in his briefs, biting back a chuckle at her comment.  God has nothing to do with it.

“I’m real.” He murmurs in a sweet tone. “And now that you know that...what are you going to do?”

Y/N looks up at him through heavy lashes, pressing her trembling lips to the crest of his exposed belly button as a response, dragging damp kisses down his happy trail as she tugs his underwear down his deliciously thick thighs.

“Fuck, that’s it…” The words are strained when they leave Harry’s mouth with a feathery moan, his head throwing back in bliss as he enjoys the teasing actions.

This is always one of his favourite moments, he thinks.  The moment his flings-- his girls, as he sometimes affectionately thinks of them, or his boys-- get their lips around him for the first time.  Just as mortals fawn over his appearance, they worship his naked body, and his pulsing cock is no exception to that rule.  All of his lovers show an eagerness to please him, and Y/N is no different.

When Harry looks back on this moment six months down the road, he’ll curse himself for thinking something so naive, and for believing that Y/N really was no different than anyone else, especially when her smell alone was already enough to send him into a frenzy.  But right now, in this moment, she’s just doing exactly what he wants her to.  And that’s what he needs.

Y/N slowly wraps her hand around his girth, unable to meet her fingers in the middle as she slowly begins to stroke him.

“You’re so…” She searches her (less, but still a bit) inebriated mind for the right word.  Despite hardly having been touched by Harry, her voice is already wrecked. “So pretty.”

The innocuous adjective catches Harry by surprise, but only for a moment before he tugs her hair lightly, stocking the new compliment in the back of his mind for later reflection.

“Give it a little kiss, baby.” He murmurs, the cadence of his voice equal parts soft and dominant. “Show me how pretty you think it is, yeah?”

The request sends a shiver down Y/N’s spine as she complies, watching Harry through thick lashes as she leans forward with lips puckered, gently pressing them to the red and leaking tip of his cock.  Another strained moan rolls from his lips as her tongue darts out to carefully collect the precum gathering at his slit.

“That’s a good girl…” The praise that leaves Harry’s mouth is breathless, half whispered as he wraps her hair around his wrist and pulls her forward. “Y’can take a bit more now, dove.  C’mon.”

Y/N gingerly takes the head of his cock into her mouth, the underside of his length catching on her bottom lip and earning an elongated hiss from Harry.  His own eyes are fluttering as he watches her rub the textured surface of her tongue over him, mewling softly as the taste of his warm precum invades her senses.

The vibrations from the sound of pleasure makes the whites of Harry’s half lidded eyes momentarily tinge blood red as the sensation pinballs up his spine, causing his grip on her roots to tighten.  Harry sucks in a deep breath, waiting until he knows his eyes have returned to a more human-like state before drawing her attention back to him as he speaks.

“You look so cute like that.” He coos admiringly, the pads of his fingers careful in massaging her scalp without tangling strands of her hair in his rings. “Y’look like a proper angel with those soft lips wrapped around my cock.”

The filthy comment stokes the fire churning in the pit of Y/N’s stomach as she blinks tears from her eyes.  With a stuttering inhale, she tries to carve out a mental foothold in her mind, something to stop her from completely falling into the tension of the atmosphere.

“You taste really good.” She finally whimpers after a moment, the sentence spoken around his prick before she draws him from her mouth.  Y/N can see the way Harry’s eyes are glued to the string of saliva connecting his length to her lips, and the uninhibited lustful look almost sends her spiraling completely.  Pressing tender kisses up and down his extent, she begins to rub her silky lips along the prominent vein that stretches from his base to the tip.

If she’s going to succumb to the tension, she wants Harry right there beside her.

And from what she can tell, he is.  Garbled moans are tearing from his mouth over and over, his large cock twitching within her grasp.  When he speaks again, his voice is further from honey than it’s ever been.

“Christ, you’re such a dirty little thing.” Harry growls, raking his hands through her hair once more. “So excited to please, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Y/N whispers the words as she continues to smear kisses along his length, just enough to tease him, but not enough to push him over the edge.  There’s a feeling of intense desire rising inside her, not just for her own pleasure, but for his pleasure as well.  It’s a new feeling, quite unfamiliar inside her, but then again, why wouldn’t it be?  She’s never met anyone like Harry before.  She’s never lifted her head to look someone in the eye with their cock at her lips and been so mesmerized by the image of their swollen lips tugged between their teeth, dark eyes hooded with want as they stare back down at her.  It’s completely new, and completely everything she’d ever needed.

“Take more, baby.  Know you can.” Harry’s words are still growled as he grasps the base of his cock in his large hand, directing it towards her mouth, but pausing just outside of her lips.  For a moment, Y/N wonders why he won’t continue, but the quick quirk of his eyebrow raising makes her realize that he’s doing exactly what he did earlier in her doorway.

He’s waiting for an invitation.

A whimpering noise falls out when Y/N opens her mouth wide for him, flattening her tongue and extending it just past her lips so that the textured surface will slide along his expanse as he pushes into her mouth.

A crease appears between Harry’s eyebrows as his face contorts in bliss. “That’s it, darling.  Show me how well you suck cock.”

Y/N hums around his length, lifting her hand to replace Harry’s grip, but he grasps her wrist before she can accomplish the task, pushing her hand back down to her thigh and flattening it against the fabric of her pants.

“No hands.” Harry rasps, eyes glinting with dominance. “Just that pretty mouth.”

Despite her vulnerable position, Y/N manages to give half a nod, closing her watering eyes as Harry continues to dive deeper down her throat.  She feels the cool touch of his ringed hand against her bulging cheek, his thumb rubbing over the apple of her bone structure in a tender motion that contrasts their actions.

“Look at me.” Harry beckons her gently, but keeps a command in the tone of his voice.  When Y/N’s eyes flicker open again, he directs her gaze up to his own as his jade eyes flash darker, pupils dilating ever so slightly.  

Despite his very existence being unethical by nature of what he is, Harry doesn’t use compulsion on his partners inside the bedroom (or living room, or car, or wherever else he takes someone for a quick fuck and a bite to eat); he may be a monster, but he’s not a monster.  And his mother raised him better than that, even if she didn’t remember doing so.  No, if Harry is going to be engaging in a sexual act with anyone, it’ll be something that both parties have consented to while in their right minds.  

That being said, he does use his power slightly just to encourage those he spends his nights with to be as honest and free as they’ve ever wanted to be.  Meals taste best, he’s found, when his main courses have fully relaxed and unwinded, and Harry is a man-- well, not quite a man, but a being-- of fair play; if he’s going to be taking something from his partners, then he wants them to take something from him, as well.  And sometimes humans need a little push to do so.

“You’re going to let go of your inhibitions tonight, do you understand?” Harry speaks in a soothing tone, his voice like a lullaby as he strokes his thumb against Y/N’s skin. “You’re going to do anything you’ve ever wanted to, but been too scared to speak out loud.”

Y/N blinks up at him as her heavy eyelids lift, her own pupils expanding slightly to match his own as Harry’s gentle influence washes over her.  Her head jerks in a small nod of agreement, showing the understanding that she can’t quite speak in this position.

Harry rubs over the obvious bulge in her cheek, an imprint of his cock inside her warm mouth.  The longer he rests inside her, the more his chest heaves as waves of pleasure begin to lap at the trench of his stomach.  The sensation is distracting, and he refocuses himself more intently as a familiar prickling washes across the backs of his eyes.  If he doesn’t keep himself in check, his words will be more powerful than he means them to be, and that’s the last thing he wants.

“Don’t be nervous or scared.  I’m not going to hurt you, Y/N.” He continues the speech that he has memorized from how often he’s used it during one night stands, keeping his voice light and level. “You can trust me.  Do whatever it is you want, and nothing you don’t.  You’re safe with me.”

Y/N nods again, the action softer and fainter than it had been before. Harry can practically see the tension releasing from her shoulders. He drags a ringed knuckle across her cheekbone, admiring the sheen of tears gathering on her waterline as a result of his sheer girth.

“What is it you want then, darling?” He asks cooly, pulling back just a tad to give her enough relief to talk around his prick.

Harry watches as Y/N wrings her hands against her thighs, thinking her words through carefully and deliberately as her lashes flutter at the relaxing sensation of him caressing her heated skin.  When she speaks, all previous timidness and hesitation is gone from her voice, replaced with unwavering desire that sends a shockwave down Harry’s spine.

“I want you to fuck my mouth.”

Y/N sounds so sure of herself, so desperate at the request, that Harry almost grips her head and snaps his hips forward the moment the words leave her mouth.  However, years of control and restraint squash that instinct before he can even consider giving into it.  Instead, he merely pauses his motions as he contemplates the mortal in front of him, reevaluating the girl he had thought would be bashful and reserved for what seems to be the thousandth time that night.

At the pause in his actions, Y/N’s brows pinch and she stares up at Harry with a confused and almost wounded look, eyelids fluttering as if she’s worried that her blunt request had done something to upset him.  Harry, remembering the promise he had just made a moment ago, resumes his reassuring motions against her cheek, not speaking again until he feels the human unwind once more.

Once Y/N is leaning into him again, Harry asks the question that’s been spinning in his mind since she first spoke.

“Have you ever had anyone fuck your mouth before?” He asks curiously, despite being certain he already knows the answer.

Y/N rubs her palms flat over her thighs slowly as she gives the predicted answer in a quiet voice. “No.  Never.”

“But you want me to do it.” Although his words indicate a question, Harry phrases it like a statement.  He wants her to say it again, he realizes, closing his eyes as he revels in the feeling of her tongue massaging the head of his cock.  He needs to hear her say it again.

Y/N complies to his unspoken want. “Yes.” She mumbles around him, and the concentration needed to keep her hands pressed to her lap is apparent all over her face. “I want to make you feel good.”

The pounding of Y/N’s heart is so loud that its thump echoes in Harry’s ears.  He can see the pulse of her carotid artery in her strained neck, a warm and real reminder that this girl is alive and burning with need for him.  Harry lets out a low moan as his mouth begins to fill with venom once again, watering as if he were a human presented with his favourite meal.  Without thinking, he lets his fingers drift from her cheek to her neck, feeling the heated hammering rhythm beneath the icy pads.

All Harry wants to do is take a bite, and his fangs ache at the very thought of sinking his teeth into the young woman’s soft flesh, but he knows he has to restrain himself.  She’ll taste so much sweeter post-orgasm, after oxytocin is flowing through her veins, deepening her flavour.

“Alright.” Harry gathers himself as he draws his hand from Y/N’s neck, returning his touch to her chin so she’ll look at him again as his voice takes on a persuasive tone (without adding compulsion-- Harry needs her to be completely aware of her actions). “Keep your hands pressed flat to your thighs.  And keep your mouth and throat as open as you can, is that understood?”

Y/N gives a small nod, her jaw starting to ache around Harry’s cock in the most fulfilling fashion. Nerves are beginning to set in again, and she can’t help the shiver that tumbles down her spine and settles in her hands as she tightens them to her legs.

Harry frowns ever so slightly at the change in her demeanor. “You’re alright, pet.  You know that, don’t you?” He asks, letting his voice shift to a more tender tone for just a moment. “Let yourself let go.  I’ll take good care of you.”

With the calming aspect of Harry’s promise ringing in her ears, quieting the pounding of her own heart that echoes in her head like a drum, Y/N follows his suggestions. The young woman takes a deep breath through her nose to focus herself, and she’s so caught up in the moment— in the way he tastes and feels in her mouth, salty and velvety smooth— that she vaguely wonders how she’ll manage to move at all.

Nevertheless, with the help of Harry’s thumb gliding over her chin in reassurance, Y/N begins to bend to his will, her slightly aching jaw relaxing and shoulders unknotting. Gazing up at him with pliant and moony eyes, she waits for her next set of instructions. She has little experience with this ground— save a few porno videos she’d perused out of curiosity— and for some odd reason, she feels that she can put faith in him to guide her through it.  

As if he can sense what she’s waiting for, Harry speaks with a voice that floats through the air softly, thick like syrup and just as appetizing. “Lean back against the couch.”

Y/N does so immediately, slumping into the cushions while making sure to keep her back somewhat straight. Her head rests against the surface, more comfortable than she expected to be (perhaps she’d have to leave that as a review on IKEA’s website; “If you’re interested in getting your face fucked by a stranger you met in a club, this couch is perfect!”) as Harry climbs over her, balancing his knees on either sides of her hips. He’s careful not to rest any weight on Y/N, just as he’s careful to grip the hair along the crown of her head securely, but not roughly. Despite his most basic instincts, he refuses to be rough unless she explicitly asks for it.

Going against his default behavior, Harry finds out with every passing second, is easier said than done. It takes every fiber of his being to internally talk himself into being patient as he watches the mortal lap at his cock with a form of drunken need, the tiny whines escaping the back of her throat only increasing his fervor. With a care that’s only developed over centuries, Harry gradually works his hips forward, sinking deeper into her mouth inch by inch, his half-lidded eyes watching every twitch and flicker of her expression to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries.

“S’that alright?” His tone holds the weight of the intense control he’s roping around himself, which tightens with every moan-induced vibration he feels around his length.

Y/N responds with an eager bob of her head, a broken mewl, muffled by his cock, encouraging him to go further.

Harry abides, holding her in place by her locks of hair and slowly sliding his hips forward until the base of his cock taps against her wet chin. His free hand rests beside her ear, twisting the navy blue couch cushion into his fist. It’s the only way to keep himself sane, he thinks, especially with how Y/N is ogling up at him with those big innocent eyes, swirling with alcohol yet still so clear, the skin of her cheeks boiling with heated blood as breaths falter past her nostrils.

The sight of the human girl so open and ready for him would have stopped Harry’s heart if it had a beat.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Harry gets a sudden urge and can’t stop himself from leaning down to press a lingering kiss to the center of her sweaty forehead, right between her brows.  Given the nature of his other urges, a tender kiss is one he can let slide. “I’m going to leave your throat so fucking sore.”

The gentle action contrasted with his sinful promise pulls another whine from Y/N’s mouth, quiet and soft and so inaudible that if Harry were human, he might not hear it.  And what a shame that would be, he sighs internally, as he tightens his vice-like grasp on her couch cushions, reminding himself not to rip the fragile fabric as he clenches his fist.

Harry holds himself there for a moment, enjoying the sensation of her wet and warm throat contracting around him.  Y/N’s eyes, which were watering even before she opened herself up like this, release a small salty tear that traces down her cheekbone. Harry releases a hand’s grip on the couch to wipe the teardrop away with a ringed knuckle.  Curiosity is what makes him bring the digit to his mouth, letting his tongue lick off the saline droplet.

It’s a strange flavour, Harry decides as he retracts his finger from his mouth.  Salty, yes, but there’s a hint of the same underlying flavours that run through blood, depending on someone’s emotional state.  It’s rather refreshing.

Not letting himself waste anymore time on thinking about anything except the girl in front of him, Harry shakes himself from his internal thoughts.

“Hold yourself right there for me, darling.” He says lowly before slowly retracting his hips, watching as his spit-slick cock slips from Y/N’s red lips, her lipstick smudged and faded.  He keeps pulling back until just the tip rests on her tongue, and he lets himself enjoy the sight for a moment before he begins to thrust forward again.  Repeating the same motion a few times, Harry takes careful and measured breaths through his nose before increasing his speed.

Y/N keeps her damp eyes on Harry with every move of his torso, staying as open for him as he requested.  The obedience, trust, and desire written all over her face drives Harry mad.

“That’s— fuck, that’s perfect.” His voice drops lower, the tone smooth as liquid silk while he snaps his hips forward again. “Stay just like that for me, yeah?  Like a proper good girl.”

There’s something about the simple praise that incites a craving deep in Y/N’s stomach.  As Harry bulges in her throat over and over, her eyes roll back into her head at the foreign yet entirely pleasurable experience, and her insides burn with the sensation of him using her.  There’s just something so satisfying about feeling him ram into her mouth, the crescent above her upper lip catching on the bristly hairs that sprinkle in a line down the center of his abdomen. Her nose nudges against the trough of his belly button repeatedly, the picture of his jolting fern tattoos— which she hadn’t even noticed until he was down her throat— becoming blurrier with every slam forward.

Harry doesn’t cap his noises of bliss either, and allows vulgar curses and grunts to slip down his tongue freely. Through a clenched jaw and bared teeth, he pants about how well she’s doing and how good she’s taking it, feeding the boiling satisfaction in her veins.  She wants to please him.  She needs to please him.

“God, look at you.” He begins tugging and pushing her head to match his thrusts, his fangs poking along the inside of his bottom lip as he feels how strong her heart is beating. He can feel the thundering pulse through her mouth, stringing right up his prick and deepening the thirst burning along the back of his tongue. “Taking that cock and loving every single bit of it. You like this? Like it when I use that pretty little mouth to make myself feel good?”

Y/N chokes out a shattered whimper of agreement, sniffling a gasp when his pace speeds up a smidge.

“Fucking hell, you’re filthy. S’always the quiet ones, isn’t it?” Harry rasps, the words flowing from his flushed mouth as he sucks in breaths between phrases.

Although his rings dig into her scalp, Y/N doesn’t alert him of it. If anything, she enjoys the minimal flare of pain the action brings, almost as much as she enjoys the way he gazes down at her with an open-mouthed simper, electricity coursing through the specks of gold around his pupils, head bobbing back and forth along to his steady stride.

“Shy girls like you are just nervous to say what they really want until the right person comes along. Isn’t that right, baby?” Harry can’t help the filthy exclamations spitting from his mouth, and he doesn’t want to.  From his first remark, Y/N was hooked on every dirty claim, and if she wants to hear more, who is he to rob her of that? “You were just sitting there all prim and proper, waiting to find someone who could give you what you wanted. Someone who isn’t afraid to fuck you how you like it.”

Y/N’s hands tighten into loose fists in her lap, itching to grab onto the plushness of his hips and drag her fingers up his lean stomach, to feel it contract beneath her fingertips as Harry chases his high.  And Harry can see her intention, any pleading she’d normally vocalize funneling into her watery eyes. The way she’s silently begging him to allow her to touch him is bound to dismantle him quickly.  Too quickly, if he doesn’t keep himself on track.

Of course, there’s a voice in the back of Harry’s head, his most repressed instinct, telling him to do just that.  The voice tells him to quicken his thrusts, push himself down Y/N’s throat as deep as he can, and release in her mouth before lifting her like a rag doll and biting into her neck to satiate the thirst that’s been burning in the back of his throat since he first caught her scent at the bar.  But Harry suppresses that instinct far back down inside himself once again before slowly removing his cock from Y/N’s mouth.  If he’s going to cum, he wants it to be inside her.  It has to be inside of her.  And he doesn’t want to be done just yet.

The moment Harry’s prick slips out of her mouth, Y/N gasps, drool slipping from the corner of her lips like the tears from her eyes.  Despite her wrecked appearance and the soreness beginning to ache in the back of her throat, there’s a whine of displeasure mixed with her gasps as her glossy eyes track Harry’s movements. “Where—where are you going?”

The human girl’s eagerness for him brings a small yet pleased smile to Harry’s face, and he lets one chilly hand rest on her heated cheek as he climbs down from his position on the couch.

“There’s so much more for us to do tonight, angel.” An amused chuckle sounds from his throat as he straightens himself up. “Did you really think a quick blowie was all I wanted from you?”

Y/N wipes the edge of her mouth, smearing whatever lipstick had been left on her skin after Harry finished. “I would hope not.” She murmurs truthfully, managing to raise her brows in judgement.  While she’d normally never sass somebody that easily, especially someone she barely knows, she feels that it’s acceptable given that this stranger had been shoved down her throat moments ago, spewing explicit comments about her without a single issue.

Y/N’s cheeks burn as Harry’s crude words from before run through her mind like an audio recording.  She definitely has the right to sass him.

The way Harry grips her tired jaw firmly, however, tilting her chin upwards while leaning down to ghost his cherry lips over her own swollen pair, has her rethinking that within seconds.  

Y/N knows that she should be embarrassed that all it takes is a touch to her chin and one kiss to send her back into a submissive state, but she can’t bring herself to care in the moment, especially as a few rogue curls fall across Harry’s forehead and frame the edges of his face.  The stray strands give the dominant man a less intimidating appearance.  Just less intense, Y/N thinks.  Maybe even soft. She’d gotten so caught up in the whirlwind of dirty promises and brazen actions that she had failed to notice that the young man before her is exactly that— a young man. A young man with wild eyes, a strong grip, and a stern hold on her within just a few hours of meeting.  But even with the reminder that Harry is around her age, Y/N can see that he carries himself with the confidence and persona of someone much older, hinting that he has much more experience than any normal adult in their twenties would have.

The possibility of where his extensive expertise and skills could apply to makes her stomach flutter.

Y/N thinks she might get lost in the feeling, until a tiny shot of pain snaps her out of her head. Her bottom lip throbs between Harry’s teeth after he’s captured it, his nose smudging along the bridge of her own, a messy action that he somehow makes thoughtful and concise.  His eyes are the color of a forest at midnight, and when he speaks, his tone comes out even, yet commanding and assured in the most attractive sense.

“Take off your clothes.”

The order sends a rush of heat to Y/N’s core as her half-lidded eyes flutter, and she feels a pull in her to comply as Harry releases her lip from his teeth.  Her hands reach for the hem of her blouse that’s already half-untucked from Harry’s wandering touch, but she pauses, fingers still gripping the sheer fabric.

“Will you—?” Y/N cuts herself off abruptly, tongue licking over the sting in her lip as she rephrases her speech. “I want you to help me.”

The simple request knocks the breath from Harry’s lungs so fast that he’s lucky he doesn’t actually need it to function.  It takes him a moment to center himself enough so that he can suck in sharp breath to regain his dominance.

“Do you?” Harry does his best to keep his voice steady as he kinks a brow and leans back from Y/N, strong hands replacing her own at the hem of her shirt.  He clicks his tongue against his teeth as he pulls her hold away, his fingers resting just over her racing pulse point. “Let go, then. Arms up.”

Once Y/N’s arms are in the air, Harry has no trouble removing her shirt, tossing the delicate fabric to the side before working his fingers around to the band of her pink lace bra. The scent of Y/N’s heated skin is too much for him to resist, all lavender and liquor, and he begins to pepper kisses along her collarbones and neck, making sure his teeth are hidden behind his pillowy lips.  The task is easier said than done, especially when Harry can feel the human’s heartbeat throb beneath his touch, but he manages to restrain himself from taking a bite.  It’ll come in due time, he knows it.  His thirst will be handled, Y/N just needs to be taken care of first.

With another flick of his hand, Y/N’s bra joins her shirt in a puddle on the floor.  Now that there are no barriers between Harry and her soft, supple skin, his hands travel to her bare chest, cupping and tweaking and massaging, pulling every sound imaginable out of Y/N as he touches her.

“Harry, I—“ Y/N can barely form a sentence as Harry synchronizes a wet kiss on her neck and a quick tug on her nipple, his lips smirked against her skin. “Oh...”

“What’s the matter, love?” The breathless, incoherent moans leaving Y/N’s mouth make Harry’s smirk widen. “Cat got your tongue?”

Despite the warmth rising to Y/N’s cheeks, she manages to sound indignant as she shoots Harry as much of a glare as she can muster with his hands on her breasts. “Shut up.”

Harry hums in response, sending vibrations down the length of Y/N’s throat. “Mm.  I suppose I could use my mouth for something else…”

It’s almost comical how quickly Y/N’s heart rate increases at that comment.  It would be comical, Harry thinks, if the pulsing of her neck didn’t excite Harry’s cock the way it does.  As much as he pretends otherwise, he needs this as much as she does.  Even more, if the dull ache running down the back of his jugular is any indication.

The vampire detaches his mouth from the girl’s neck, promising himself he’ll return there later once he’s properly prepared his dinner.  While Y/N’s sweet-smelling blood is his main course of the night, he still has an appetizer sitting in front of him that he has yet to taste.

Harry’s shirt quickly joins the growing stack of clothing on the floor before his trousers do.  He allows himself one ghost of a stroke on his cock, still slick with Y/N’s spit, but only to tease himself.

“Lay back down.” He demands, tucking himself back in his boxers before getting to his knees.  Y/N watches the movement with hungry eyes, lip trapped beneath her own teeth just as Harry had done a few minutes ago.

“C’mon, love, don’t stop behaving now.” Harry chides her, smoothing his ringed hands over the fabric of her flowy pants before finding the button. “Lay down.”

At the repeat of the command, Y/N obeys him, wordlessly lifting her hips so Harry can tug down her now unbuttoned bottoms.  He only gets the material halfway down her thighs before her scent hits him like a fucking truck, and then any semblance of rational thought leaves Harry’s mind completely.

If Y/N’s blood is a finely aged wine with notes of lavender and honey scattered throughout its bouquet, something that deserves to be sipped out of a fine crystal goblet and worshipped, then what lies between Y/N’s thighs is the most delectable tequila Harry has ever had the pleasure of tasting in his two hundred years, her signature honey scent still detectable beneath it all.  

Harry’s hands are almost a blur as he reaches back up and hooks his fingers into the waistband of her underwear, tugging them down to meet the waist of her bottoms before pulling both articles off completely and throwing them to the side.  He parts her legs just as quickly, and before Y/N can even say anything, his mouth is against her core, sedating his need the only way he can at this moment.

“Oh--!” A squeak of surprise falls from Y/N’s lips as one hand finds Harry’s curls, twisting into them tightly as her other finds her own hair.  With her eyes falling closed, she misses the crimson hue that flashes through Harry’s emerald irises with every moan.

Harry’s control is beginning to slip, and he knows that.  It would be frustrating, honestly, if it didn’t feel so fucking good.  It’s been so long since he’s felt so feral for someone, so desperate— truly desperate— to press himself as close as possible to them, to lap up anything they’ll give him, and that’s all he wants to do right now.  Harry’s nose nudges against Y/N’s clit, pulling another searing mewl from her throat as his tongue darts into her entrance.  Every one of his heightened senses is filled with Y/N, consumed with every inch of her; her fragrance fogs his mind, her taste coats his tongue, and her soft thighs dimple beneath his grip that keeps her spread. The sensation of her hands tugging at his hair is the only thing keeping him grounded.  

Flicking his tongue over her clit once more, Harry revels in the broken sounds spilling from above, audible proof that he’s making her fall apart with his mouth just as much as she did to him.  It brings a sense of pride to Harry’s chest-- he doesn’t just take from his partners.  He gives in return.

“H-Harry--” Y/N pants his name in a shattered voice, her face screwed up in pleasure as she drags her hand from her hair to her chest, gripping her own breasts in her palm as her chest heaves.

It’s not as though Y/N hasn’t had her fair share of sex, and she’s most certainly had someone go down on her before.  The problem, she just manages to think as Harry suctions his lips over her clit, is that it’s never felt like this before.

In this moment, with Harry’s mouth working over her as if she was his last meal, Y/N would give up everything to memorize the sight and sensation of this man on his knees for her.  Everything, from the filthy noises that slip from his mouth between movements, to the way his irises darken with every passing moment, indicates that Harry is just as into that scenario as she is.  And that’s what it is, really.  What sets Harry apart from anyone else she’s ever had.  Any other man that’s gone down on her has treated it like a chore, while Harry—

“You’re fucking delectable, y’know that?” He rasps, the vibrations of his words rolling over her core with every phrase. “Like dessert.  The sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Y/N drags her hand back up to her mouth, wedging her index finger between her teeth to stifle the borderline embarrassing moans threatening to overflow. “I’m—I’m so close, Harry...you’re gonna make me cum…”

“Mhmm.” Harry hums against her clit in agreement, stroking his tongue along her dripping opening once more before pulling away. “But not right now.  You’re going to cum around my cock.”

Although Harry makes it sound like he’s teasing her, taunting her by holding her orgasm off until the very last second, he knows the truth: if Y/N were to cum right now, if her body were to shudder and give into every request Harry’s tongue is pulling from her, then Harry wouldn’t be able to take it.  If Y/N were to cum with his head still buried between her thighs, it would only be a fraction of a second before Harry’s teeth would be buried in them instead.

Restraint, he tells himself as he slowly rises from his knees, reaching for Y/N’s face and gripping her cheeks in one hand as he steals a rough kiss from her supple lips.  Restraint.  Everything will come in due time.

“Wait—” Y/N makes a sound of protest as she falls back from the kiss.  Although it’s a struggle for her to form a functioning and coherent thought, she needs to do it. “I— are you clean?”

Harry cocks his head to the side, the blunt and laughable response of “I’m dead, darling.” hanging on the tip of his tongue.  He should add that to his list of vampire perks, he thinks.  He already caught the worst thing anyone can catch— death— which means STDs and pregnancy scares are the furthest thing from his mind during sex.

Instead of that complicated answer, however, Harry opts for something simpler.

“Yes.  Scout’s honour.” He assures her with a quick nod of his head.  For the sake of appearances, he poses a question back to her. “What about you?  Are you on birth control?”

A flash of relief lights up Y/N’s eyes. “Mhmm.  And I’m on the pill, so…” Her cheeks burn beneath Harry’s touch. “We’re, um, we’re good to go.”

A choked laugh sounds from Harry’s throat as he shakes his head, smudging another kiss at the corner of Y/N’s mouth. “We’re good to go, are we?  I’m glad to hear it.”

All of his teasing is for one purpose and one purpose only: to hear Y/N’s heartbeat spike in intensity and speed.  When his comment easily receives the desired reaction, Harry brushes his fingers along the girl’s pulse point as he drifts his lips to her ear, grazing the cartilage with his teeth.

“Bend over.” He murmurs, accent thick as it rings in her ear. “I want you on your hand and knees for me.”

Y/N grips his tattooed shoulder tightly in her hands, kissing him one more time before obeying the directions offered.  It takes her a moment to turn over on the couch and situate herself comfortably on her knees, bracing her hands on the back of the cushion as Harry’s strong grip finds her hips.

“You have the prettiest arse.” He smooths his hands over her backside as he speaks, admiring the softness of her skin beneath his calloused palms. “You’d look so pretty covered in marks, wouldn’t you?”

“I-I think so.” Y/N agrees breathlessly, glancing over her shoulder at the wild look in Harry’s eyes.  He winks at her when he catches her gaze, tapping his fingers against her lower backside before spreading her legs apart more.

“Don’t worry, love.  Won’t be doing that to you tonight.  Don’t have the patience, honestly.” Harry keeps his tone casual, which is a miracle, Y/N thinks, considering he’s completely stripped himself and is stroking his hard cock as he speaks.  The cadence of his voice in contrast with his actions makes her shiver, and the anticipation only crescendos when Harry rubs the tip of his prick against her soaked slit.

“‘M going to start, alright?” Harry’s voice is tight, and he’s barely able to wait for a sound of acknowledgement from Y/N before he begins to part her folds with his cock.

The relief is simultaneously instantaneous and completely out of reach.  Yes, the wet and burning heat of her walls squeezing him satisfies the deep pulsing in the pit of his stomach, but it does nothing for the dry heat in the back of his throat.  If anything, being so close to her is only a reminder of what he really, truly needs.

Harry forces himself to thrust slowly, to exercise the control he’s usually so good at displaying. Patience, he repeats to himself.  Don’t get ahead of yourself.  Focus on what’s happening in the moment.  

And then he bottoms out, his pelvis pressing flat against Y/N’s soft flesh as her spongy walls squeeze him. Y/N lets out a moan so filthy that Harry’s knees buckle and every ounce of restraint disappears from his body.  

“Fucking hell--” His voice doesn’t even sound his own as he digs the pads of his fingers into Y/N’s hips, surely leaving bruises that will blossom before the sun rises.  He begins to quicken his thrusts as the sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, accompanied by the whimpers echoing from Y/N’s lips and the grunts falling from his own.  With every stroke, Y/N’s fragrance fills the air more and more, pulling him further into a cloud of lust and hunger with every ragged breath he sucks through gritted teeth.  When he sees the throbbing of Y/N’s veins in her neck, flashing at him like a signal, teasing him to the point of no return, Harry’s instincts grow louder, overshadowing any ounce of control he has left.

He grips the girl’s shoulder roughly, tugging her body up from its bent position to press flat against his sweaty inked chest.  Once she’s in the desired position, Harry’s hand travels to her neck, squeezing just enough to win a choked moan from Y/N’s lips.

“Fuck, Harry--” She whines breathlessly, arching her back as she reaches to tangle her own fingers in his knotted curls.  Her harsh tug pulls another groan from Harry’s swollen lips as they hover just over her neck, brushing against her hot skin with every ram.  Her smell is so intoxicating, he could just--

And then he feels Y/N’s own lips on his neck and his senses overwhelm.

Even before Harry was turned, he had been a creature centered around touch.  Of course, in the 1800s, touch was something that was fairly forbidden between anyone who was less than married, save for a rare dance at a ball with a beautiful girl.  The first time Harry had been touched in this way, it had been by a young woman he has since tried so hard to block out of his memory. It had set his skin on fire, a feeling that never quite went away, even after her fingers had left his wrist that very first day.  It was like she’d left an imprint on him, a candle burning in the window of his heart so that she’d be able to find her way back whenever she wanted to.  And then her last touch had burned him more than he ever thought possible.  If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the whitehot pain as she cradled his head between her palms, still hear her soft, accented voice in his ear, reassuring him that everything would be alright, the sick sound of his own neck snapping--

He just doesn’t let people touch him there. Ever.

Harry’s hand tightens around Y/N’s throat, just for a moment, before guiding her kisses from the sensitive area to his collarbones.  The memory still seems just as fresh and poignant in his mind as the day it happened, with time healing nothing, and Harry has to remind himself that he’s not that person anymore.  He’s different now.  He’s the one in control.

“I’m close, Harry--” Y/N’s sweet voice is a welcome reminder of where he is, cutting through his thoughts like a bird song cuts through a quiet morning. “Shit, I’m so close.”

“I know.” Harry growls the words into her ear as he leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses along her jugular.  He can smell it on her, how her blood is sweetening with every passing moment, like a fruit ripening for picking. “Cum for me, pet.  C’mon.  Y’can let go.”

Y/N takes his words to heart, throwing her head back onto Harry’s muscled shoulder as her orgasm builds to its peak.  Harry can feel it-- how she contracts around him, how her juices drip down his cock and onto his thighs, how her pulse quickens beneath his lips.

And then Y/N cries out as she falls over the edge, Harry’s self control crumbling the moment he feels it, and the vampire sinks his teeth into the supple flesh of the mortal’s neck.

Y/N’s cry of surprise quickly turns into a moan as Harry’s venom begins to race through her bloodstream, the chemical hormones calming and sedating her in order to allow him to drink as much as he’d like.  Normally, Harry waits until his partners are fast asleep, tired from their activities, but Y/N’s scent is so overpowering and consuming that, honestly, it’s a wonder he’s managed to keep himself together this long.  And the moment Y/N’s blood washes over his tongue, he’s not sure if he’ll ever be so controlled again.

There are flavours that he predicted: honey, lavender, vanilla, a hint of the alcohol she poured back earlier, all sugared by the orgasm currently coursing through her body.  But there’s something else underneath, too.  A depth of flavour that he can’t quite place.  Something he’s never experienced before.  From the first taste, Harry knows he’s hooked.  Every drink he’s had before this moment has paled in comparison, and he knows he’ll spend the rest of his life combing the Earth before he finds another that could match .

“H-Harry…” A gentle whimper falls from Y/N’s mouth as the waves of her climax finally recede. “Feels so good.”

Harry hums against her skin as he quickens his thrusts.  As satisfying as drinking from the young woman is, now that his thirst is somewhat quenched, the need for his own orgasm increases.

“You’re gonna make me cum, y’know that?” Harry breathes against her skin, sucking one last gulp down before running his tongue over the bite.  He’ll properly heal her once she’s asleep, but for now, the venom will form a temporary seal over the bite.  And, honestly, Y/N appears to be too caught up in her own pleasure to notice the new mark on her neck. “Squeezing me so fucking tight...taking my cock like the good girl you are…”

Y/N’s head lulls back onto Harry’s shoulder, her hot breath panting in his ear as she begins to reach the point of overstimulation. “Please, Harry...want you to cum…”

“Yeah?” Harry pants roughly, licking his red-stained lips as his pelvis snaps against her. “You want me to cum for you?  Want me to--fucking--give you--Christ--”

Harry usually pulls out before cumming, but his orgasm crashes over him so suddenly that he doesn’t have the chance.  Instead, he buries himself to the hilt, throwing his head back in ecstasy, mouth wide open as a deep groan vibrates in his chest while thick ropes spill inside Y/N.

Even with his supernatural stamina, Harry is exhausted after he comes down from his high.  It takes him a moment to collect himself enough to pull out, exhales hot and heavy in Y/N’s ear as he gathers his thoughts for his next move.

“Where--” He pants between his words as he watches the girl’s eyes flutter. “D’you have a cloth, or…?”

“There’s some--some paper towels in the kitchen.” Y/N nods her head to the right, her own chest still heaving with exertion.

Harry nods quickly, sponging his stained lips to her shoulder before climbing down from the couch.  He hurriedly paces into the kitchen and locates the napkins, ripping off a few squares and wetting it under the sink before he returns.  

“Bend over.” He says again, but the tone of the phrase is entirely different than it was earlier.  He’s not desperate with thirst or lust anymore, but instead has settled into his role of providing aftercare.

Y/N, however, still has the same obedient reaction, and folds herself over the backrest of the couch, forehead braces against the cushions as Harry quickly but carefully cleans up the cum dripping from between her thighs.

“You’re so polite, y’know that?” She can’t help but giggle to herself, glimpsing back at him from between her parted legs. “Cleaning up the mess you made.”

Harry’s chuckle matches her own as he gives her one final wipe and a jesting smack to the ass, returning to toss the paper towel away. His voice carries from the other section of the flat. “S’only fair.  I was raised right.”

Y/N hums in her throat in response as she climbs down from the couch, soreness already beginning to settle into her limbs in the most delightful way.  She crosses her arms over her chest, still self-conscious despite Harry literally spreading her open only moments ago.

“Are you, um--” Her voice cracks, bringing a new wave of heat to her face as she clears her throat. “You can stay the night.  If you’d like.”

Harry, who has ducked back into the living room area and is reaching for his discarded top on her floor, raises an eyebrow as he picks up the pastel blue t-shirt and turns it right side out. The puppy drawing smiles up at him ironically. “Yeah?  You sure?”

“Yeah.” Y/N nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He can see his teeth marked all across the silky skin. “It’s late.  And I normally like to have a bit of a cuddle with someone after they cum inside me.”

A surprised snort sounds from Harry’s chest. “I suppose I can’t refuse that.” He says in understanding entertainment, holding out his tee to her as an offering. “Here.  If you’d like to cover yourself…”

Y/N accepts the article gratefully, pulling it over her exposed body.  The shirt falls just past her bum, covering her enough that she can let her arms drop to her sides. She likes the way his clothes fit her. “Thank you.  Do you want something to sleep in...?”

“I prefer going bare, actually.” Harry says in a cheeky tone, running a jeweled hand through his sex-mussed curls as he smirks. “Much more comfortable.”

Y/N laughs quietly, shaking her head in half disbelief, half amusement. “Of course you do.” She says with a roll of her eyes, holding out a hand for Harry to take. “C’mon, let’s go to bed.  I’m fucking exhausted.”

Harry sews his fingers between her own, replying with a cheeky squeeze and a smug tone. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” Y/N laughs again, but she doesn’t mind the cockiness behind Harry’s quip.  If anything, the banter reassures her.  She’d take a smug reply over awkward post-hookup silence any day.

And maybe if the lingering buzz from the alcohol wasn’t fogging her eyes, and maybe if the intense aftermath of endorphins wasn’t clouding her mind, and maybe if she wasn’t distracted by how strangely comfortable it feels to joke around with Harry, Y/N would have noticed. She would have noticed it the instant she took his hand within her own. She would have noticed it when she had stepped into the hallway and gently tugged him after her playfully, the dim lightning from the single lamp in the living room coffee table casting a shadow across his figure and over the handsome features on his face. Maybe, if it wasn’t for all of that, she would have noticed that the jade of his irises was long gone, replaced by an ominous red hue with the same dangerous glint that had been present at the bar. She would have noticed that this time around, it carried very different intentions.  She would have noticed how, after she climbed into her own bed after Harry, after he pulled her into his strong arms, and after she had laid her tired head onto his chest, that there was no heartbeat to greet her ears.  

But she doesn’t notice it.  And it only takes a moment for her eyes to drift shut in blissful ignorance, lulled by the sound of Harry’s breathing.  Only Harry’s breathing.

///

It takes fifteen minutes for Harry to realize that he didn’t really think this through.

At the moment, when Y/N asked him to stay over, and he was still high on his last orgasm and on the lingering taste of her blood along the arch of his tongue, it seemed like a good idea.  He could stay the night, he thought.  He, just like she had mentioned about herself, was fond of cuddling after sex, and it wasn’t often that he got to have that.  Perhaps it would be a nice way to cap off the night, he’d rationalized, and so he’d allowed the mortal girl to lead him to her bed for entirely innocent reasons (innocent only because they’d finished everything sinful in her living room).

And then Y/N fell asleep on Harry, and he remembered why he doesn’t ever spend the night at a one night stand’s place.

Harry is bored.

It’s not that Harry doesn’t sleep, because he does.  Stephanie Meyer got that wrong in those insipid books that have haunted Harry since 2008, but that wasn’t surprising, considering that Harry doesn’t sparkle in the sun, either.  Granted, if he steps into daylight without his lionhead ring, his skin will blister and burn until it falls off his body, but he won’t sparkle, and frankly, he’s offended that everyone thinks that he will.  He also can’t read minds, although he wouldn’t mind it if he could.  And he does need sleep.  Just not as often as a regular mortal.

With increased stamina means increased everything, including how long Harry can go without sleeping.  Although he slept more often when he was first turned out of habit, Harry finds that he can go two or three weeks, or even a month, without having to rest his body and mind.  And even when he does finally manage to fall into a peaceful state, it’s only for a few hours before he wakes up involuntarily.  It’s just as well.  He doesn’t like to be unaware for that long.  It’s in his nature to be alert, and he likes it that way.  And because he doesn’t need to spend eight hours unconscious every night, Harry finds that he gets a lot more done in his life.

Except now, when he’s stuck under the body of a fragile and depleted human.

When Harry falls into bed with a partner, he’s normally itching for them to fall asleep so he can sink his fangs into their necks and take what he wanted all along.  And then, after his thirst and libido are both satiated, Harry will climb out of bed, dress himself in whatever outfit he’d dragged himself to the club in, and make his way back to his condo before the sun begins to rise on the horizon. Simple as that.

But even he has to admit, he thinks as he ghosts his fingers down the barely healed mark on Y/N’s neck, that he’d gotten a little out of control tonight.  He’d been so carried away by her touch, her sensations, her scent, that he’d lost his usual patience and bit her mid thrust.  Thankfully, Y/N had been too caught up in her own orgasm to notice, and while Harry couldn’t deny that the heightened pleasure of her blood rolling down his throat as he slid his cock in and out of her hot cunt is something he thinks he’ll remember for eons, Harry knows that he was lucky to have gotten away with such a risky move.

Now that the young woman’s breath has completely evened out, Harry can evaluate the damage he’d done during his lapse in composure.  In all honesty, he’s relieved to find that it isn’t as messy as he had feared.  While he’s usually careful enough to make nearly surgical incisions into his partner’s flesh, he’d bitten Y/N with reckless abandon, too caught up in his pleasure to think about being neat.  However, when he finds that the messiest thing about the bite is the few smears of blood still staining her skin, the anxiety— which Harry hadn’t even known was curled around his stomach like a vice— slips away.  His venom had slowly begun to heal the bite mark already, but Harry knows that the only way it’ll be completely gone in the morning will be for Y/N to ingest his blood.

Allowing a human to ingest vampire blood was always a risk; after all, if they died with it in their systems, they would begin their second life a few mere hours after the first one ended.  Despite that contingency, Harry had always rationalized the decision by telling himself it was better than the alternative, which was draining the human until they were dead.  After all, a corpse doesn’t care about a few bite marks on their body.  The police, on the other hand, do care about that, which was reason enough for Harry to take the time to heal anyone he drinks from.  And, in all honesty, healing those he hurts is almost therapeutic for him.  It’s a reminder that, despite his leftover humanity being barely present, he still has some nonetheless.

It’s those thoughts that are flowing through Harry’s mind when he carefully shifts under Y/N, drawing his arm free enough that he can carefully brush the human’s hair away from her supple skin.  He leans down slowly, brushing his nose along the pulsing of Y/N’s neck before dragging his tongue along her warm skin.  The taste of the few lingering streaks of blood incite a new burn in the back of Harry’s throat, a reminder of the sweet elixir that runs through the mortal girl’s veins.  It takes all of Harry’s newly returned self-control to stop himself from creating a fresh bite next to the older one.  Bringing a jewelled hand to his mouth, Harry lightly pricks his index finger on one of his pronounced fangs, hardly feeling the breaking of his icy skin in his mouth.  He squeezes his finger tip with his thumb after pulling the digit from his teeth, watching with darkening eyes as a drop of midnight crimson blood beads on the end of his finger.  

Y/N’s mouth is partially open already, hot breath falling from her unconscious lips with every movement of her chest, but Harry still grips her chin between his thumb and forefinger gently, nudging down her jaw until he can see her tongue.  He pauses then, realizing how similar the sight is to how he had seen her an hour earlier.  The memory of Y/N on her knees as she begged Harry to fuck her mouth sends a rush of electricity down his spine, but he shakes his head free of the thoughts before he can get carried away.  He’d had his fun with the poor girl, he reminds himself, half wistful and half chastising.  He can’t allow himself to take anything more from her.  It’s his turn to give her something for all that she had gifted him.

With her mouth now fully open, Harry slowly slides his index finger along Y/N’s pink tongue, watching as his blood stains it red.  He releases her chin from his grip as he does so, dragging his fingers from her jaw to her hair.  Worrying that the mortal will begin to stir at the iron taste on her tongue, Harry figures that a soothing touch will be the best way to ensure that she’ll stay asleep.  Once his grip strays from her chin, however, Y/N’s mouth slowly drifts closed, enveloping his ringed index finger in her cushiony lips. He then feels a gentle yet constant suction that tells him that Y/N is sucking his finger, just as she sucked something else earlier, and Harry nearly loses what little sanity he has left.

There’s a voice in the back of his head telling him that he should shift away from Y/N.  If he had any more humanity, he’d peel away from her now, quickly dress himself in his abandoned clothes, and slip out her front door before she even notices.  If Harry had an ounce of selflessness, he’d do it.  But in this moment, all he can think about is how warm the young woman’s mouth is, how her smell is so sweet that Harry thinks he could get cavities just from inhaling her fragrance, and how fucking wonderful it feels to have her silky lips wrapped around his finger; it’s like even unconscious, her mind wants him as much as he wants her.

And so Harry stays in bed, listening to Y/N’s breathing, watching as the bite he gave her fades to a small bruise, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest tell him she’s deep in sleep in a way that Harry will never be again.  The thought nearly saddens the vampire when he finally manages to pull his finger from Y/N’s mouth, smudging an impulsive kiss at the corner before he can stop himself.  Harry remembers how lovely sleeping next to someone after sex felt when he was human.  Of course, he’d always found himself in the same position Y/N would come to find herself in the next morning, with mysterious bruises scattered along her skin. But that caveat side, Harry had rather enjoyed sleep when he was human.  And if he could sleep, then he would have something to distract himself from both the boredom of the quiet night and the gentle throbbing of his cock as Y/N shifts against him.

Harry’s eyes flit around Y/N’s room for the first time since she’d pulled him inside.  The area is small, but decorated in a way that makes it seem cozy rather than claustrophobic. Her bed is nudged into the corner against the wall, covered in a mis-matched set of plain olive green sheets and a paisley-printed comforter that suggests their appropriate accompaniments are between washes. The bed is stout and close to the ground, hunkered down in a red oak wooden frame that is sanded and scratched in some places, making Harry come to the conclusion that it was probably thrifted. He likes that; he’s a fan of thrifting himself, which might seem contradictory considering the borrowed t-shirt Y/N is currently inhabiting is a sixty dollar Marc Jacobs piece. But at certain times, it’s the truth. Second hand shops hold a lot of neat stuff that humans tend to take for granted; they call it trash, whereas Harry deems it vintage treasure.

The walls are built of large bricks, covered in glossy creme paint on two panels and a cool grey on the opposite sides. The entrance to the room is a frosted glass sliding door with wallpaper strips lining its edges, the print of the detailing being messy doodles of different colored eyeballs. It’s cute in an indie sort of way. It screams California newborn.

The roof is a popcorn ceiling and Harry nearly gags in utter disgust, but manages to stifle it. It’s not like she can control that— not everyone can compel themselves a bachelor pad the way he had— and she’s lucky to have even found an affordable apartment this decent, especially in such a popular city. And she decorated the space pretty well, he’ll give her that much. Lots of antique knick-knacks, a few picture frames of family and friends littered around random surfaces, and a tapestry of what appears to be a hilled valley during a sunrise extended across the largest wall. The colors of the sky in the image are a mixture of dark purples, drunken blues, mellow oranges, and buttery yellows, and Harry has conflicting feelings about the article. Bluntly put, tapestries are stupid in his eyes. They’re trashy and hipster, which he’s grown to despise. But the photo Y/N’s drapery depicts is calming and pretty, so he’ll let it slide. At least it’s not one of those godforsaken dream-catchers.

He cranes his attention further along the other side of the room, noticing there’s an entire wall of bookshelves, stacked to the brim with a wide variety of genres.  Harry’s eyes land on a few familiar titles, surprised by the contrast of topics lining the mantles, eyebrows raising in pleasant shock. He thinks that maybe the choices in novels can gain back the bit of respect he’d lost for her as a result of the tapestry and popcorn ceiling. He’ll think on it.

Y/N suddenly shifts against him again, and he’s reminded that he can’t get up to pick out a book.  His gaze flickers to the plant-lined window sill and then the small nightstand, searching for anything within his reach that could occupy him for the next few hours.  A halfway read novel discarded somewhere close, perhaps?  A magazine?  Some sort of video game system that he could play quietly until the sun rises?

It doesn’t take long for Harry’s search to come up empty.  Apparently, Y/N’s bedroom has a place for everything, and everything is in its place.  It’s no matter, Harry sighs to himself, wrapping his arms tighter around the girl sound asleep on his chest.  He’ll just have to count Y/N’s breaths and heartbeats until dawn.

///

When Y/N wakes up the next morning, she’s unsurprised to find two things: a stiffness in her limbs, and an empty bed.  

The former, she knows, is a sore reminder of the previous night’s activities, and how she’d allowed a complete stranger to use her however he wanted.  Blood rushes to her cheeks as the night comes back to her in flickers: how Harry had kissed her, how she’d begged him to fuck her mouth, how he’d worked her over until she couldn’t take it anymore.  If the aching in her thighs is proof enough, Y/N knows that it was some of the best sex she’s ever had, which may be why the latter observation of Harry already being gone sparks a new ache in her chest.

Still, Y/N didn’t expect anything different; although she’d asked the man to stay the night, he hadn’t promised her anything about the morning, and she can’t exactly blame him.  After all, a one night stand is just that: one night.  A morning is never promised.

After Y/N manages to climb out of bed with wobbly legs, she evaluates herself in the mirror hanging on the back of her closet door.  Her hair, of course, is a rat’s nest, and although she attempts to tame it with her fingers and a scrunchie from her bag on the floor, Y/N knows that it’ll take a long, steaming shower and lots of conditioner to detangle the mess.  A hot shower will probably be the only way to quell the throbbing of her muscles, she thinks, stepping closer to the mirror to examine her body.  At the sight of bruises littered along her skin when she pulls up Harry’s blue t-shirt, Y/N’s mouth falls open, and her eyes widen as she examines the purple marks.

There’s a few scattered along her hips and thighs, small little indigo dots that could easily double as fingerprints.  Y/N is certain that if Harry were here, his fingers would match the marks perfectly.  And now that her hair is up, Y/N spots a mark along her neck.  This bruise is much more pronounced than the others, and Y/N can almost make out the shape of individual teeth dotting the edge of the purple welt.  Through her alcohol-muddled memories, Y/N can remember a moment where Harry bit down on her neck as their orgasms washed over each other.  Remembering almost brings back that pleasure again, and the phantom feeling distracts her so much that she nearly misses the unmistakable sound of her kitchen cupboards opening.

By the time she pulls on a pair of cotton shorts to cover her bruised thighs and opens the sliding door of her bedroom, Harry’s already managed to figure out her coffee maker.  Standing in front of the counter with his bare back to her (Y/N does her best not to focus on it-- he’s all creamy skin and defined muscles, and if she thinks about it too much, she’ll go insane), Harry whistles quietly under the sound of the percolating beverage, his tattooed arms reaching for a mug from the cupboard.  Y/N watches as he picks out a blue mug she’d bought last year at Barnes & Noble, a small part of her secretly pleased that he chose her favourite out of all options.

“Good morning.” She says with a small smile, walking slowly (and a bit awkwardly) into the kitchen.

Harry’s whistling stops as he cranes his neck just enough to glance at her over his shoulder, his cheeks dimpling in greeting. “Morning, love.  How’d you sleep?”

“Really good, actually, but that’s to be expected, given how exhausted I was.” Y/N opens the fridge to retrieve her milk carton, setting it down on the counter next to the two mugs Harry has picked out. “What about you?”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch once, and if Y/N hadn't already been gazing at his lips in want, she wouldn’t have caught the movement. “Like a baby.”

The beeping of the coffee pot interrupts the small conversation, and Harry reaches for it automatically, filling the two mugs with the freshly steaming liquid. “Do you take cream and sugar?”

Despite Y/N opening the cupboard above her, Harry manages to snag the sugar bowl before she can. “Milk and sugar, yeah.  And you don’t have to do that.” Y/N says, watching as Harry spoons sugar into a mug for her before grabbing the milk carton.

“I know I don’t have to, but I figured I should.” Harry gives a quick shrug of his shoulders as he lightens the drink with milk, leaving his own mug completely black. “Thought you might be a bit sore after last night.”

Harry can practically hear the blood rushing to Y/N’s cheeks, and the dull ache in the back of his jugular flares up as she reaches for her coffee mug, her smell washing over him as she moves closer.  He grasps his own mug, lifting it to his lips in an attempt to quell the thirst in him with a less satisfying alternative.

“I, um,” Y/N stutters over her words for a moment, taking a sip of the hot coffee as an excuse not to talk while she collects herself. “I’m a little sore, yeah.  But nothing too bad, and certainly not sore enough that I can’t make coffee.  Or breakfast.”

Harry pauses with his mug half raised to his strawberry lips. “Breakfast?”

“I could make us breakfast, if you’d like.” Y/N swallows hard, her throat thick as she speaks carefully. “I make pretty good pancakes.  Blueberry lemon.  My grandma taught me how to make them.”

“They sound delicious.” Harry takes another gulp of coffee, the high temperature not seeming to bother him in the slightest, before setting the half full cup back down on the counter. “But I should get going.”

“Oh, uh, right.” Y/N speaks in a tight voice, her head moving in a quick nod as she sets her own coffee down. “Yeah, you’re right.  I’ll, um, go change, so you can have your shirt back--”

“Why bother to go somewhere?  It’s not like it’s something I haven’t seen before.” A cheeky grin pastes itself onto Harry’s face, and Y/N fights back her embarrassment with a roll of her eyes.

“Shut up and give me a minute.”

By the time Y/N exits her room with the garment in hand and one of her favourite sweatshirts providing her with a bit of modesty, Harry is already waiting by the front door.  She hands him the article of clothing, trying to not let her eyes follow his every move as he slips the shirt over his toned chest and down his lean stomach, pulling his pearls and cross necklace out from beneath the fabric.

“Thanks.” He says, fixing his hair after he finishes adjusting the tee into the waistband of his slacks, shrugging his cropped blue and creme plaid jacket over his broad shoulders. “Your apartment is really cute, by the way.  I like the wallpaper decal on the sliding bedroom door.  And the colours all work really nice together.

“Uh, thanks?” Y/N says slowly, and the confusion must be apparent on her face because Harry once again has a grin on his face, like he’s the only one in on a secret.

“That’s why you invited me back here last night, remember?  To look at your apartment?” He prompts, leaning against the doorframe as he crosses his tattooed arms across his chest. “Unless that was all a ploy to get in my pants.”

“Maybe it was.” Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth to hold back the soft smile threatening its way onto her face. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Harry slinks his head to the side as he appraises the unsuspecting mortal in front of him.  Her messy hair that he’d tangled his fingers into the night before is pulled away from her heated face, exposing the healed bite mark on her neck.  Her lips are still a little swollen from how he tugged on them with his teeth, and Harry remembers how careful he had to force himself to be to make sure he didn’t break her skin.  Y/N shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and the movement is just awkward enough that Harry can tell she’s sore from how he bent her over the couch and fucked her, and he knows that it shouldn’t send a shiver of pleasure down his spine, but it does.  

“Yeah.  It worked.” He murmurs, reaching for the doorknob as he makes his final goodbye. “It was lovely meeting you, Y/N.  Really, it was.  I had a wonderful time.”

“So did I.” Y/N smiles shyly at him, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. “It was fun.”

Harry nods, and then he can’t stop nodding, and then before he knows what he’s doing, his mouth seems to move of his own accord. “You know, since I’m not taking you up on your offer for breakfast, would you allow me to give a counter offer?”

Y/N’s eyes perk up with curiosity as she responds in a careful voice. “Uh, sure?”

“Can I see your phone real quick?” Harry asks, holding out a ring-clad hand expectantly.

Y/N doesn’t hesitate before retrieving her phone from her sweater pocket, unlocking it and placing it in Harry’s cool hand as requested.  A small spark of hope ignites in her stomach as she watches him open her contacts.

“Here.” Harry says after a moment, handing her back the phone with a smile of satisfaction. “I put a disco ball next to my name.  Thought it fit, since we met at a club and all.”

“It does fit.” Y/N agrees as she looks down at the new contact in her phone. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with this?”

“Call it.  Text it.  Use it to let me know when you want more interior decorating advice.” Harry says snidely, watching with faint amusement as a sheepish look that washes across Y/N’s face. “Only if you want to, of course.”

“Of course.” Y/N repeats back to him, her voice matching his teasing tone. “I’ll see you around, Harry.”

Harry flashes her one more grin, his teeth seemingly glinting in the morning sunlight that shines through the window. “Yeah. You will.”

And as the vampire trots down the stairs of the human’s apartment complex, regaining the lighthearted whistling he’d been indulging earlier, he finds himself truly hoping that she’ll put his number to good use.  

[songbirdstyles]

sparks

summary: you’re a music journalist assigned to covering one of harry styles’ gigs, and he’s absolutely smitten with you. (part one.)

warnings: slight fluff, excessive liberties taken about music journalism; smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters

word count: 8.2k

inspo.: almost famous - cameron crowe; sparks - the who; hello, i love you - the doors

You’d never truly gotten a big assignment before - sure, you’d gotten a few pieces here and there detailing local LA bands that you knew would never live to see more than 100,000 monthly listeners on Spotify, and they mostly ended up buried by your higher-ranking coworker’s higher end stories on the front covers - and, for the most part, you’d honestly been fine with it. You’re fresh out of college, the newest recruit to your company and your colleagues who are sent out to tour with big bands and artists have been here for years, some even decades, and you suppose they deserve the opportunities more than you, don’t they?

You work your way up, your boss had told you the first day you’d started working, following him around like an eager puppy as he showed you the office. Eventually - if I’m impressed with you - you’ll get something big.

It’s enough for you. Small bands playing in hole-in-the-wall clubs and restaurants may not be the exact thing you’d envisioned when you’d set your sights on being a music journalist but it’s worked out well for you so far, hasn’t it? You’ve made friends - even dated the lead singer of an underground rock band who cheated on you hardly two weeks into the relationship - and your portfolio is slowly building, stacked with exposés and detailed recounts of small gigs that you’d watched from backstage. Eventually, you’ll leave this company and move on to something bigger, like Rolling Stone, and your career will take off until you’re practically the face of music journalism.

And, really, those dreams have carried you through college and the first year of your career, putting your all into every article and every piece just so your boss can tug you into his office one day with a rarely-seen grin to finally tell you -

“I want you to write an article on Harry Styles.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shifting in the cushy office seat that your boss has for guests in his office. It’s a facade that you’ve learned to acknowledge, because, no matter how much he makes it look like he appreciates guests in his office, you know he regards you as nothing more than an interloper, even if he’d invited you there to begin with. “Harry Styles?”

“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?” Mike asks, light shining off his bald head, and your mouth opens and closes a few times uselessly. 

“Of course I have!” You push yourself to sit up straighter in your seat, staring up at your boss with shock written in every feature of your face. You, writing about Harry Styles? God, you nearly want to pinch yourself to see if you’re dreaming. “Write an article about - about what?”

Mike scoffs in that pretentious way that makes you hate ever having to talk to him, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him. “He’s coming to do a few shows along the West Coast. You can go to one or two - talk to him a bit, talk to his band - you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“With small bands, sure - Tacocat and - and the Mystery Lights -” You swallow thickly, and Mike stares down at you in your seat like he’s unimpressed with your enthusiasm, or lack thereof. And it’s not that you aren’t executed - but, Christ. Going from bands performing in underground clubs to Harry Styles is like going straight from crawling to flying a fucking plane and you’re not sure if any of your experience with the musical locality in LA could prepare you for that. “I mean, that’s huge, Mike.”

“It is huge,” Mike confirms, crossing his thick arms over his chest, leaning against the desk before you as though he’s immune to sitting in his seat behind his desk like a normal boss. “Do you not want to do it? Because Melissa, you know - she’d love to, was going on and on about it last week -”

“No!” Your cheeks flush at the volume your voice raises to, and if you didn’t know better you could swear you see the ghost of a grin on Mike’s face. “I want to, Mike, I really want to - it’s just crazy.” There’s a pregnant pause between the two of you, your boss nodding smugly down at you as you struggle for words, before you ask the question burning the tip of your tongue with its desire to be heard. “But - why me? I’m sure you have people more qualified for it -”

“Easy,” Mike says, cutting you off and you’d be annoyed in any other instance but you’re too desperate to hear his answer. “Look, Harry’s a young guy. Younger than anyone else our people have interviewed - I think he’ll respond more to a young, pretty girl like yourself than someone older than him.”

Well, that makes sense, you suppose. The only coworker even close to you in age is Melissa, and she’s pushing 30 as it is. You’re 23 - graduated college just over a year ago, and by far the newest recruit this company has taken in years - but you had always imagined that was the main reason you wouldn’t get many big articles, and here it’s the main factor in you getting what will surely be the highlight of your portfolio once you apply to Rolling Stone. An interview with Harry Styles - God, they’ll probably foam at the mouth when they see it, and a grin spreads across your face as you think of it.

“Is that a yes?” Mike questions, blonde eyebrows raised high and nearly disappearing into his scalp. 

“Of course,” you respond without another moment of hesitation, and you push yourself to stand, office chair rolling behind you with the force, and it hits the wall behind you with a soft thump. “Yes - of course - of course.”

“Great.” And he crosses to the other side of his desk, pushing aside a few loose papers and folders on his desk, and you clutch your hands in front of your stomach as you watch him, practically bouncing up and down with uncontained joy and fear bubbling inside of you. The last time you’d felt like this was the first time you got a real assignment - more than just ranking songs and discussing new album releases - and you’d been sent to a strip club to cover a gig from an up-and-coming band. Back then, you’d never expected to ever feel more excited over anything in your life, and yet, here you are, eight months later, fighting back the urge to burst into joyful tears. “They come in a week - I’ll send you the address - if you need help with your questions -”

“I’ll ask Francine,” you finish the same advice he gives you every time you’re assigned an article, referring to your oldest coworker - a little old woman who’s been with the company since the 70s. She’s always been more than willing to help you with your assignments but this - you need to do this by yourself. “Thank you so much, Mike, this is - this is great.”

“Don’t let me down,” he says, pointing his finger at you, and you nod furiously. “I’m trusting you on this - it’s a big opportunity.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” you promise, holding up your crossed fingers just to show him how much you mean it, and you know it’s the truth - you’ll make this piece the best damn one this company has ever seen if it’s the last thing you ever do. 

 ~~

 The night begins a bit - rocky, to say the least.

For one, you couldn’t decide what to wear, even after spending nearly a half hour trying on every variation of clothes in your closet and tossing them onto the floor of your studio apartment when they didn’t satisfy your needs. In the past you’d worn to gigs what you’d wear if you were a simple concertgoer, albeit a bit more modestly, but you can’t decide what you would wear to a Harry Styles concert if you got the regular chance to - and you’d never even dreamt that it would happen in the first place -

Well, you peruse your closet intently and land on a pair of patterned flare pants and a long sleeve sweater. It only seems fitting for the chilly weather outside, and you fold a shirt into your bag in case you need to change if it gets hot backstage. You’re not dressed to impress, necessarily - you’re dressed to get a job done, as Mike would always say, but how could you be expected to not attempt to impress Harry Styles? It’s a preposterous idea. You’re sure anyone would understand.

Journalism pass - phone - keys - deodorant - when you’ve checked your bag over three times to ensure you have everything necessary you finally leave, locking your door shut behind you and ordering an Uber to take you to the concert.

You hadn’t anticipated Uber and Lyft being absolutely overloaded with patrons due to the concert just a half hour away and you need to be there by 6:30 at the very latest to ensure you get in and can at least talk to Harry before he goes on - a quarter of your questions are geared towards how he feels pre show and you can’t get pre show questions after the show - that’s barbaric. But the minutes inch closer to 5:30 and your Uber driver is still ten minutes away and your heart beats so fast against your chest you think you might vomit right into the street in front of your building -

You’re in the car by 5:45. It’s not ideal, and you know you’re cutting it close, but hopefully you’ll be there before the soundcheck ends. It’s always an ideal time to take photos, watching the band warm up and check mics, and with a piece like this, you need all the opportunities for pictures you can get.

And traffic is horrible - you suppose that’s also to be expected, and your Uber driver curses in a language you can’t recognize as cars cut him off on the highway and if you were a different person, you’d recommend a shortcut he takes, but he doesn’t look like he wants to hear a single word come from your mouth. He had given you a dirty look when you entered the car, and that’s enough to make you shut up and pray for the entire car ride that you make it on time.

6:27. Mike would piss himself if he knew how close you cut it, and you hop out of the car with a speed you didn’t even know you could muster, pushing past the buzzing crowd standing in front of the main entrance. The hoard of people seems to have a steady heartbeat, pulsing with excitement much like your own, and you can’t help but smile as you make your way around the group, goosebumps cropping up over your skin as your teeth chatter in the coldness. For a moment you fear that the directions to the backstage entrance that Mike had given you were total bullshit - but then you see the door, blocked by a burly security guard that glowers at you as you walk up to him like you’re something sticky beneath his shoe.

“Hi!” you call, breath exploding in a white cloud in front of you in the cool night air. The security guard smells so strongly of booze that you need to try harder than you’d care to admit not to scrunch your nose - you cough softly. “Let me - um - find my pass - I’m with Autoamerican, the magazine?”

Fingers grab onto your journalism pass, deep within your bag, and you tug it out, flashing it to the security guard with a slightly nervous grin. All of the gigs you’d been to before hadn’t even had backstage doors - to get backstage, you just had to climb onto the stage and walk behind the wings - but this is a fucking stadium, not just a measly club, and a big one, at that. In your youth you’re sure you could recall your dad watching a football game that occurred in this very stadium - funny how life turns out, sometimes.

“Autoamerican?” the security guard questions, bringing his face closer to your badge as the wafting smell of alcohol increases, and he raises his eyebrows with a scoff. “Never heard of it.”

“Oh.” you pause, feeling your teeth beginning to chatter in the cool February air. You’re not quite sure what to say - you’d assumed Mike had called to arrange the entire thing, hadn’t he? And this is the time you’re supposed to be here - “well, we’re not as big as Rolling Stone magazine, but - we’ve done interviews with The Cure, The Smiths - even Zeppelin, at one point -”

Your voice trails off into silence. He doesn’t care. He’s looking at you like you’re some innocent teenage girl, trying to bribe your way backstage so you can bombard the artist and not a fully grown woman here on business, goddammit. And you’re not sure what to say - he doesn’t believe you, clearly, and you hadn’t anticipated that even as you listed all the ways tonight could go wrong.

“Look, kid,” he begins, and that really has your blood boiling, eyes narrowing to glare at him. “We get this all the time. I’m a journalist - I’m with the crew - it’s a bunch of bullshit. Now go to the front with your general admission tickets like the rest of them -”

“I have a pass - I’m a journalist!”

“Sure -”

“I can call my boss if you want proof!”

And before you can reach into your bag to search relentlessly for your phone to follow through on the promise like you intend to, the door the man is guarding suddenly swings open, nearly hitting the guard in the ass as it opens out. You take a step back as dim light from inside floods the darkness, and a man steps out of the doorway, his eyes darting between you and the security guard.

“Are you with Autoamerican?” the man questions, raising his finger to point at you as though he could be speaking to anyone else. You nod furiously, and you hold up your journalism pass again just to prove it. “You can come inside, then - c’mon, Steve, she’s got a pass, for God’s sake -”

And you can’t resist flashing the guard a smug smile as he steps to the side to let you inside, rolling his eyes so far back into his head that all you can see is a strip of white.

The man lets you inside and the door shuts behind you, and you nearly knock straight into a second security guard standing by the door inside, as though trying to stop people from going out. And, well - you’ve been backstage at more concerts than you could count but this is certainly bigger, better, bustling with people carrying equipment and makeup artists and more people you couldn’t possibly identify. You’re half inclined to reach into your bag and grab your notebook to jot down exactly what you’re seeing so you can make sure to include it in the article, but you have a distinct feeling you’ll never forget it.

“I’m Jeff,” the man tells you, already setting off through the people, and you’re quick to follow, trying to maintain your pace beside him. After a second of walking in silence you realize he’s waiting for you to say yours - you clear your throat and introduce yourself, and he sends you a smile. “The band just finished their soundcheck, if you’d like to have a word with them before they go on - what’s the article about, anyway?”

Jeff shoulders the two of you through lingering groups of people until you emerge into a small hallway lined with doors, and you can hear bustling noise coming from the one closest to you - holy shit, is that Harry? 

“Um - just about the shows, the tour, how everything’s going. My boss basically told me to do what I want with it, so I’ll have a better idea once I speak to the band.” It’s the loosest instruction you’ve ever been given for a piece - you’d expected a clear cut outline - but perhaps with an artist this big, Mike trusts you to know what to write. “It likely won’t be anything too personal, but I’d love to get a chance to speak with Harry before and after.”

“Sounds great,” and you can tell he’s stressed - you wonder if he’s always anxious before his client’s shows, or if there’s something special about tonight that has him worried - and then he reaches past you, twisting the doorknob closest to you and holding the door open for you to enter before him, and you give him a gracious smile before walking in.

The room isn’t as crowded with people as you’d expected but they’re bustling with energy - a woman and a man, holding a guitar, lean against the wall with each other - two other women sip water bottles, laughing loudly amongst each other - another woman leans above someone, their body hidden from view except for their legs, covered in silk, floral printed pants -

Your breath catches in your throat as Jeff shuts the door behind you both, and the sound of the door clicking shut draws far more attention to yourself than you’d expected - it seems like every pair of eyes lands on you and Jeff, and you’d decided on being a music journalist to keep away from being the center of attention. You’ve always preferred being behind the scenes, a bit, at least until your career progresses until you’re a household name for music journalism, and now -

You feel very much in the scenes, eyes on you as Rhiannon plays in the background.

And then Jeff is tapping you on your shoulder, leading you around the room to the small groups of people lingering - you shake hands with Mitch and Sarah, the couple against the wall, and the rest of his band, and they’re so nice your smile feels like it’s going to break your face in half. You’ll need to interview them at some point - nothing too intense, and you may not even need to, if Harry’s answers are satisfactory enough - and you can already feel yourself building a strange sort of rapport with the band, their kindness rubbing off on you until you practically glide beside Jeff to the woman bent over Mr. Floral Pants, whose identity you’re fairly certain you’ve already deduced.

It doesn’t make it any more surprising when the woman steps aside where she’s carefully applying powder to the man’s face, and then Harry fucking Styles is staring up at her with a smile and an outstretched hand, suit jacket matching the floral pattern of his pants. His curls are carefully slicked back from his face, skin matte with the powder the woman resumes applying to the side of his face that isn’t turned to you, and you swallow your shock before reaching to shake his hand, Rhiannon turning into Hello, I Love You, playing from a source you can’t identify.

“Nice t’meet you,” Harry says when you’ve told him your name and the magazine you work for - Jeff had already mentioned it, but it is customary to repeat it to whomever you may have to interview. “Y’know, I love Autoamerican - told Jeff, s’the only magazine I’d let interview me backstage. Don’t usually allow it.”

“Really?” your stomach flips as Harry stops bouncing his arm, but it takes just another half second for him to untwine his hand from yours - you’re sure it’s because the makeup artist fretting above him is using her thumb to wipe off powder from his nose, but it still makes your heart thump faster against your chest. “I assumed most people haven’t heard of it - it’s nowhere near Rolling Stone.”

“I love it,” he insists, dropping your hand, and he looks so casual, as if this interaction isn’t blowing up your entire life, and you’re brought back to the many moments you’d spent as a teenager fawning over him in his One Direction days - God, this feels like a dream, and you’re half inclined to pinch yourself in case it is. Maybe you’ll wake up in Mike’s office to him giving you another shitty underground LA band to interview. “The interview with Sublime s’great - read it all the time.”

You swallow thickly, grin spreading wider across your face, and before you can open your mouth to tell him about Francine’s go-to story about how Eric Wilson had flirted with her while she interviewed them for the story, Jeff interjects - “Steve hadn’t even heard of it.”

“Steve’s an idiot,” Harry starts, and you giggle - his lips lilt upwards just a bit. “Hope he wasn’t hasslin’ you ‘bout it.”

“Just a little,” you say, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder just as the makeup artist drops the powder back into the apron slung around her waist, and her manicured nails tilt Harry’s head around for a moment before she seemingly deems his makeup satisfactory before leaving, sending you a tight lipped smile as she goes. “I’d love to ask you a few questions before the show - nothing too heavy - and then I’ll observe the concert and how everything goes, ask a few questions after.”

“Sounds great,” Harry responds, lifting his fist with his thumb up and you didn’t think your heartbeat could grow any faster or louder but you suppose today is just proving you wrong time and time again. “D’you need t’record m’answers? S’a bit loud in here.”

The truth is, you’re sure you’ll have this entire experience engraved in your brain for years to come - you’ll remember every word he utters for you until your dying days - but it is more practical to have a recording. You swing your bag off your arm and open it, digging through the jumbled mess of items inside until you find your phone, and you hold it up with a nod. “Yeah - there isn’t anywhere a bit quieter, is there?”

It takes a minute of bustling - Jeff tells you two instructions to go down the hall into another room where you may find more silence - and Harry promises, accent thick and eyes rolling, to be back in twenty minutes or less, if tha’s enough time for you, ma’am, and you try to trick yourself into thinking the burn flushing up your cheeks is due to the heat of the room.

Down the hall is another door that Harry opens for you, letting you walk in first. It’s a small room, clearly meant for storage, and he shuts the door behind the pair of you. There’s - luckily, or perhaps unluckily - just enough room for you two have at least a few feet between you, and he leans against the wall with an air of casual elegance you couldn’t hope to achieve as you scroll through your phone to search for the voice recorder app.

“Hope this s’good enough - is it?” Harry inquires, leaning his head closer to yours, and you nod. “Good - wish there was a nicer spot for you, but -”

“Don’t worry about it,” you interject, smiling up at him, and he grins back, and your stomach churns violently. You almost feel like you could vomit - when he goes on, you’ll go and have a bit to eat at the table set up with foods that Jeff had wheeled you past when you arrived. Eating seems to solve more of your nerves than you’d care to admit, and you feel like you’re nearly 95% nerves right now. Your fingers fiddle with the voice recorder app, adding a title to the recording while entirely too focused on the sounds of Harry’s breathing above you, and you can practically fear his eyes boring into your face before you press record. 

And, for the most part, it does go smoothly. Harry introduces himself with an ease that only comes with years of practice, so much time spent being interviewed that it must feel like as much of a second nature to him as interviewing is to you. He’s charming and charismatic - flirtatious, even - making jokes and adding lines that you make a mental note to be sure to include in your final piece - whatever direction you go - and you can’t say you’re bothered by the way he leans closer to the phone, and thus closer to you, in order for his voice to be heard more on the recording when occasional noise bustles in from outside.

You don’t need to look at the questions you’d spent weeks laboring over - every question you inquire derives directly from his answers like he’s practically feeding them to you, and then you’re interviewing him so naturally, you could nearly fool yourself into thinking it’s an organic conversation between friends. 

What’s his process to prepare for shows? Well, listening to Fleetwood Mac and eating finger foods, of course - he loves mozzarella sticks. Does Fleetwood Mac make you less nervous for shows? No, he doesn’t get too anxious before shows, now that he’s out of the band. He just loves Fleetwood Mac - he could listen to them at any time of the day. What do you think makes your solo career less anxiety-inducing than being in the band? Different fans let him be himself more. There’s less pressure to be someone he isn’t - do you think he could’ve worn a floral printed suit at a One Direction concert?

And, in the end, twenty minutes hardly feels like it, and by the time Harry tilts his head over the screen of your phone to check the time, you could nearly convince yourself that you’d merely spent a minute with the heartthrob, and it pains you to stop the recording.

“How’d I do?” he questions, cheeky smile indenting the dimple in his cheek, and you feel like you need to dip your face in ice once he goes on stage - your face hasn’t felt anything less than piping hot since the first moment he rested eyes on you, and his kind-bordering-on-flirtatious nature only makes your skin heat more under his gaze.

It isn’t as though you’d have it any other way, though.

“Perfect,” and you send him a smile. “I’ll watch the show - probably eat a bit, too, if I’m being honest - and maybe ask you a few questions. How many shows are you doing in LA?”

Harry reaches past you, grabbing the doorknob and opening the door for you once more, and you slip out with a small smile as he follows, face twisted in what’s clearly a show of being in deep thought. “Four. An’ a few more on the West Coast ‘fore we move out - reckon you’ll need t’come t’a few more?”

“Depends.” He looks at you curiously as the two of you make your way back to the room you’d been in before, and when you enter, it’s clearly in a more prominent state of preparation for the show - there’s more bustle and movement between every band member and Jeff, who looks entirely relieved to see you two come in as She’s a Rainbow thumps softly, volume clearly turned down on whatever produces the music. “If I feel like I’ve got enough material from this show, then that’ll be it - I usually just do reviews of specific gigs, and this is a lot broader - so I really don’t know.”

Harry nods, and you feel a flutter in your heart at how intently he seems to be listening to you, like he really cares, and you’re sure it’s a facade - he probably has a million other things on his mind as Jeff descends upon the both of you, whisking him away as he calls goodbye! to you - but still. When was the last time you’d felt listened to? By Mike, or by the security guard outside, or even from your own parents when you try to convince them over and over that you have a plan, that your degree wasn’t a waste of time when you could’ve been a doctor -

Well, Harry’s a gentleman, you decide, sliding your phone into the back pocket of your flares as you reach in your bag for your notepad. You can tell they’re preparing to go on soon and so you descend against the wall, grabbing your pen from deep inside the confines of your bag to scribble the essential notes of what you’ll need - it’ll make it easier when it’s time to write, rather than listening to the entire 20 minute interview again to try and find the important sections to include.

His responses to your question still burn fresh in your mind, and you began scribbling your bullet points on the small notepad in your hands. It’s decently easy to block out the chatter of the room you’re in along with its music, volume turned down further until it’s hardly audible, and it really is a skill you’ve mastered, though you suppose you’ve had to - trying to take notes for articles about gigs occurring in buildings so small that their noise reverberates off of every surface has made you a master in tuning out noise surrounding you.

You are aware, and acutely, at that, when the band starts exiting through the door beside you. They don’t look nervous, returning your encouraging smiles with ones of their own, and you watch them pour out the door with confidence practically radiating off of them. Well, that’s something to mention, isn’t it? Most of the bands you’d interviewed were practically vomiting with nerves -

Harry takes up the rear, fingers running through his slicked back hair, and you can’t tell if it’s a nervous habit or if he’s simply trying to let his curls fall in front of his eyes more. Jeff walks in front of him, giving you a smile as he leaves, and the singer stops beside you.

Your breath just about catches in your throat as you look up at him, and he’s staring down at you with a decidedly ambiguous look in his eyes, and you smile at him. “Good luck out there.”

“You’re gonna come and watch?”

You nod. “Eventually - I’m gonna eat something first, finish my notes. Maybe give myself a tour of the backstage in case I decide to include it.”

“Sounds good t’me,” Harry says, but he doesn’t make a motion to leave, and then his eyes roll down your body and is he fucking checking you out? Because - no - that’s crazy. That would cement into your brain the knowledge that this is a dream, and not reality, because there’s no fucking way Harry Styles is checking you out, eyes roaming from your eyes to your stomach to your - “I like your pants. Where’d you get ‘em?”

Ah. Of course. Fashion icon, he is, inquiring about the pants you’d chosen specifically because they looked like something he may like. “These?” You glance down as though you’d forgotten what pants you’d donned, as though you hadn’t spent hours in front of your closet envisioning what outfit you could wear to impress him. “I think they’re from Zara. Got them a couple years back.”

“They’re pretty.”

“Why, thank you -”

“Harry!”

Jeff’s voice calling from outside the room snaps you both out of your conversation, a slightly embarrassed grin spreading across Harry’s face that you’re sure is mirroring your own. His cheeks are tinged pink and he clears his throat.

“Sorry - gotta go - make sure y’try the mozzarella sticks, ‘kay? They’re good,” Harry tells you, and you grin, drumming the pen clutched between your fingers against the notepad in your hands.

“Will do,” you reply, and then you lift your hand and point to the door, raising your eyebrows with a smile. “Go break a leg - and then be ready to talk about it when you’re done!”

He doesn’t say anything else - just gives you a thumbs up and slips out the door, and you can hear his frenzied apologies to Jeff as their voices fade away, surely preparing to get on stage and sing his heart out and blow the fucking stadium away, but you can hardly focus on it. Because - God, you really don’t want to sound like a narcissist - but he was joking around with you, complimented your pants, and he did technically check you out, even if it was just to see your pants. 

Was he flirting with you?

Surely not. No, that would be absurd. He’s probably just bored - maybe entertaining random people backstage is his way of dealing with his nerves.

That makes a bit more sense.

When you glance back down at your notepad, the page half filled with scribbled bullet points of things you’d sworn to remember, and when you click your pen open to continue your list, you find that you can’t quite think of anything else to write. All you can think about is the mozzarella sticks waiting for you, and then standing in the wings to watch him sing his heart out to a crowd of adoring fans that you, at one point, would have killed to be apart of -

You shove your pen and pad back into your bag with a determined spin of your heels. Food first - contemplation second.

 ~~~

 The show is - needless to say - amazing.

You’d feasted on slightly-cold mozzarella sticks that were, even in their lowered temperatures, immensely good, and clearly garnered all the affection Harry had for them. The food table was nearly completely empty, crew members repeatedly coming up to fill plates with vegetables and snacks, and so you simply gathered the last three sticks of celery once you were done with your sticks before taking a leisurely stroll along the backstage area. Celery firm between your teeth, you pulled out your notepad and your pen once more and jotted notes of what you could possibly include in the article to jog your memory later -

It takes a while, admittedly. You don’t want to leave anything out, and eventually you have two pages filled with notes in your handwriting that would surely be illegible to anyone else who happened upon them - and, sure, your pages are small, but still. Two pages is a lot, and you’re sure most of it won’t even make it into the article but you don’t want to risk forgetting any important information.

A trip to the bathroom - perusing the food table again to pick up the last few carrot sticks - and the show is nearly halfway over, so you decide it may be time to slip into the wings and watch. Take notes, possibly, but mainly just listen and absorb the music and the atmosphere and exactly how the fans react to his every move. That’s what the people want to know, isn’t it? It’s what you would want to know - so you slip past the lingering groups of people into the wings of the stage, where you get a clear view of Harry and his band, singing his heart out to a tune you know to be Kiwi.

It’s ear splitting, truly, in a way that none of the other gigs you’d witnessed had been. But it sounds good - better than good - and he’s as charismatic on stage as he is off,  waggling his eyebrows during the more suggestive lines and undoing the button of his suit jacket, and the latter garners a deafening scream from the adoring fans in the crowd. 

No, you won’t need to take notes, at least not yet. You’ll remember this forever, won’t you? Watching him work the crowd like he was born to do it, like it’s a second nature and you’re sure it is, at this point. It’s all you can do to stand there, watching him, and you’re sure you look no different from the other fans in the crowd, your eyes wide and lips parted in absolute awe of him -

His head turns to the side, briefly, as if he can sense your eyes on him above anyone else’s. In reality you’re sure he’d simply turned his head to flick a sweaty curl out of his face but it’s never a bad thing to dream right? And your gaze locks for just a moment, his eyebrows raising when he sees your face, and heat burns at your cheeks before his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his right eye shuts in a quick wink before he’s turning back to the crowd as if his attention had never left them.

Shit. You nearly drop your damn carrot. God, he’s a fucking tease, and you’re not even sure he knows it - that this experience will never leave your brain for as long as you walk this Earth, watching him wink as he stared into the depths of your fucking soul, clad in a gorgeous suit with his gorgeous hair and -

Harry truly is a sight to behold, and you’re more than content to watch him forever.

Forever ends up being another half hour or so before you’re made entirely too aware of the fact that you have to pee - not insanely bad, but enough to make you shift uncomfortably from side to side before sighing, turning and making your way further backstage in your search for the bathroom. In your determined tour of the backstage you’d forgotten to search for the restroom, and you wander about for nearly five whole minutes before getting to it -

You do your business. There’s not much more explanation needed.

It’s when your washing your hands, though, water freezing cold against your palms, that you become slightly aware of a myriad of noises occurring outside the restroom. At first you choose not to focus on it, shoving your hands beneath the air dryer to ease your soaking, cold hands, and the noise of violent air assaulting your palms drowns out the scuffling sounds from outside.

When the dryer turns off, and you reach down to wipe your damp hands on your pants, the noises haven’t stopped. And, sure, no one could expect it to be completely silent backstage, but whatever you’re hearing isn’t the normal laughter and chatter and muffled music that you’re used to hearing -

It sounds like someone is fighting, and your hand freezes in its place on the cool metal doorknob. You lean forward, scrunching your nose as you plainly try harder to hear what’s happening -

But, Hell. You have a job to do - you need to get back to the wings to watch the remaining few minutes of the set before Harry leaves and, subsequently, returns for the encore, and you’d intended to write with detail about his closing repetition of Kiwi. So you grab the doorknob, swing the door open and step out, and freeze nearly immediately once you’ve exited.

There is a fight - not as violent as you’d expected - as the security guard from inside scuffles with Steve, who looks positively wasted in a way you’ve come to know all too well, doing gigs in LA. His face shines with a sheen layer of sweat, skin glowing in the artificial light, and his fists move slowly to pummel into the other security guard’s back. It’s, truthfully, a bit pathetic to watch - he isn’t putting up much of a fight against the guard trying to hold him, and your mouth parts with poorly-concealed confusion at the display in front of you.

You’re not sure what to say - or do - or think - standing in the doorway of the bathroom as you watch the poor excuse of a fight, Steve nearly toppling to the ground as the other guard tries to contain him.

“Come on, Steve - don’t be like this -”

Then the other security guard looks up and sees you, and the expression on his face nearly makes you burst into laughter, but you contain it with a bit more difficulty than you’d like to admit. He looks annoyed, like he’s absolutely done with his coworker, and also slightly embarrassed. Clearly, he’d dragged Steve into the hallway containing the bathrooms with the hopes of nobody seeing either of them, and you’ve interrupted his bid for privacy desperately. “Sorry, ma’am,” the guard says, grabbing one of Steve’s flailing fists in his hands. “Don’t mind us - he’s drunk - just trying to contain him.”

You’re doing a damn good job, you want to say, but you bite back the retort with a small nod and a whisper of a smile on your face, walking with your back to the wall past their display in the hopes of Steve not seeing you. He hadn’t been particularly nice to you when you’d first seen him and you can tell he’s in a much more heightened state, now - he’d been drunk when you’d seen him before and you can tell it’s only gotten worse.

Maybe you should’ve told Jeff the guard was drunk?

Well, it’s counterproductive to dwell on the past.

You’re not so lucky, though - you’ve barely made it down five steps down the hallway before Steve lifts his head, pupils blown and skin even stickier looking than before, and he gives you the same disgusted look as though you’re something his dog had left on the grass. “Hey - hey - Jim - do you know who that is?”

And the other security guard - Jim - just rolls his eyes. “No, Steve, I don’t - stop making a fool out of yourself.”

“She works at - at - Eat to the Beat - Parallel Lines - what is it?”

Do you answer him? You don’t quite know. You just swallow thickly, forcing yourself not to don the smile that’s urging its way onto your lips as you hear roaring screams from the crowd that alerts you to the fact that, if Harry isn’t done with his set yet, he’s close, and you need to watch the end. “Autoamerican. Those are all good albums, though.”

“She’s snarky - get off of me, Jim -”

In Steve’s final bid for freedom his legs kick out, and his sneakered foot knocks into your ankle, and it’s certainly not hard by any stretch of the definition but it’s enough to catch you off balance, his toe hooking into the loose fabric around your ankles as he brings his foot back to kick again. One kick did it, though - you tumble to the ground, legs flying out from under you until you land on your ass on the hard floor, your bag slipping off your shoulder, and its contents scatter across the ground.

Fuck. That hurt, more than you’d care to admit, as you brace your elbows behind you to stop your head from knocking into the ground. Your ass hurts and you can see Steve’s leg bracing backwards for another kick, and you push yourself backwards so his foot merely pushes against the air.

You can already see Jim opening his mouth to desperately say sorry when a set of footsteps interrupts his apology - you don’t have to look to your side to see who it is, the smell of expensive cologne wafting before him like an introduction. You practically feel him before you see him.

Your name falls off Harry’s lips entirely too easily, like he’d been looking for you in the overtly small window of space he has before he has to go back on stage - his hair is messy and his skin is sweaty and he bends down next to you with such sentimentality in his eyes - you almost feel like a child again.

“Are y’okay?” Harry questions, and his hand rests on the small of your back and warmth seems to seep through your body from its spawning point, palm moving in circles against your sweater so gently you can tell he’s scared to go much harder. “Wha’ -?”

For his eyes had just landed on the sight in front of you - Jim managed to pull Steve up, the latter clearly coming to his senses at least a little bit, and his eyes narrow at the sight of you on the floor and subsequently widen as he sees Harry next to you.

“Wha’ happened?” And you can hear anger quivering under his voice like boiling water, ready to overflow, and you instinctively reach up to press your hand against his forearm - you do it to your niece all the time when you can tell she’s on the verge of a tantrum and it always works on her - but she is five, and Harry’s twenty years her senior, so, needless to say, the motion doesn’t do much to soothe him. “Fightin’ back here, kickin’ her - you’re s’posed t’be security guards!”

“It’s okay, Harry -”

“S’not okay -”

And then there’s another set of footsteps jogging over to you, and you look up to see Jeff -

“Har, you need to get back out -” but you can see the confusion set into his features as he stands over the scene, eyes flickering to you and Harry on the floor to Jim and Steve, the former having settled the latter into a fairly calm position. The scent of alcohol is strong and you can practically watch as Jeff smells it, his nose crinkling. “Is he drunk?”

“He is drunk, an’ got into a fight wit’ -”

“Okay, okay,” you interrupt, squeezing Harry’s arm again as you push yourself to stand, attempting not to wince at the pain in your ass as your muscles tense. He’s looking at you like you’ve just been hit by a car instead of having a mild scuffle with a security guard, eyes wide and concerned, and you shake your head at him. “Didn’t get into a fight, Harry - he accidentally kicked me. It’s really fine - you need to go back out, anyway.”

“She’s right,” Jeff insists, reaching down to tug Harry up as his eyes bore into the sight in front of you, Steve slowly calming himself down until he’s simply red in the face and reeking of booze. “Come on, Har - you need to get on.”

But Harry’s already bending down again, grabbing your pen and your notebook and your phone (you can see a crack in the screen that most certainly hadn’t been there just a mere ten minutes ago) and you could nearly laugh at the display he’s putting on, shoving your items back into your back, if Jeff’s demeanor wasn’t bordering on murderous as he drags Harry up again. You reach down and grab your bag, now fully stocked again with all of the items that had clattered out, and you give the tussling security guards one final fleeting look before following Jeff and Harry as they make their way down the hall.

“Y’sure you’re okay?” Harry questions, slowing his pace so you can jog beside him, much to Jeff’s lingering annoyance as he brings his fingers up to rub at the space between his eyes. “Y’should know - tha’ doesn’t usually happen -”

“I get it,” you tell him.

“No, really.” You’ve reached the wings of the stage, and Jeff leaves the pair of you alone to descend on to where the band stands, clearly waiting for the cue to go on. Harry runs a hand through his hair, and he looks oddly exasperated and you wish you could get it through his head that it really isn’t a big deal - “Someone will take care of the guards, okay?”

“Don’t fire them,” you insist, even though you’re sure he has no say in it. “Not Jim, at least.”

“Jim -?”

“The sober one.”

“Oh.” He pauses, dropping his hands to his sides. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Just try.”

“Will do.”

There’s another brief second of silence before you nod towards the stage where he’s needed - the few lowly minutes between the end of the show and the encore has come to an end, and you’re sure people are beginning to wonder if he’s not coming back. “Go on, Har. There’s people waiting for you.”

“M’going!” And he isn’t going, just staring at you with his brows furrowed, and you raise your own with a confused stare. “Are y’gonna come t’any more shows?”

You pause, nibbling on your bottom lip as you contemplate your answer. “Well - maybe. If I need more information.” “You should,” he tells you, and you tilt your head to the side. “Look, I don’t want your only impression of m’shows t’be that they’re violent an’ crazy.”

“I don’t think -”

“Jus’ one more? In two days. I’ll send you th’address. I really want you t’come -”

Before you can process the request Jeff has stepped forward, hooking his arm in Harry’s and practically dragging him towards the stage, and you watch him prance back in front of the audience like it’s his God given purpose and perhaps it is. You’ve never quite met anyone like him, you don’t think, and you’d certainly had a perception of what you’d imagined him to be like based on the insane amount of time you’d spent obsessing over his band when you were younger -

Your mouth feels suddenly dry as you watch him begin, and the music seems to reverberate beneath your skin, and suddenly - without having to think about it much at all, really - you know it won’t take much convincing on his part to get you back for a second night.

[floating-mid-air]

The Princess of All Saiyans

-

Masterlist

-

Chapter 10 is finally here. Something I noticed while working on this chapter is when I'm writing as the narrator. I use Goku and Kakarot interchangeably. I looked back into the other chapters and noticed I've been doing that the entire time. I honestly just write whichever name feels natural in the context. I think I'll continue writing like that. I think it's more fun switching up Goku's name every once in a while. As always, if you have any comments or questions, feel free to let me know.

-

Chapter 10

-

You and Goku sit on opposite ends of the ditch. The choice to sit as far away from him as possible was strictly for your own sanity. You can feel his scolding gaze on you, burning holes through the entirety of your body, making your skin crawl. 

You've been desperately attempting to evade eye contact with the defective Saiyan, which is becoming significantly more strenuous with each second that passes. Goku lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Can we at least sit closer together?"

You turn your head at him, narrowing your eyes. "No, Kakarot."

Goku presses his thumb and index finger together, leaving a tiny hole. He brings the flexed hand up to his eye, looking at you through the minuscule opening. "What about this much closer?"

"No." Your gaze remains locked on him, with a deadpan look on your face.

"But why not?" He wines as you begin to massage your temples. If he keeps this up, the two of you won't survive down here together for much longer. You're ninety-nine percent sure that being stuck with Kakarot will somehow be the greatest adversity of your life. Okay, so maybe you're being just a tad bit overdramatic. 

"Because I don't trust myself not to kill you." You snarl at him. Your composure is dangling by a thin thread, and Goku is an extremely sharp pair of scissors.

Your words seem to have shut Goku up, well, at least for a little while. "Hey Y/N?"

You ball your hands into fists, clenching your jaw as your right eye begins to spasm. You're developing an eye twitch. How lovely. "What is it now, Kakarot?"

"How did you do that thing with your eyes?"

You furrow your brows at the younger Saiyan. "What the hell are you talking about?" You're really starting to get fed up with him, and you've only been trapped down here for around fifteen minutes.

"Your eyes turned red when you were fighting that guy." Your eyes widen before you quickly cover up your shock with a scowl. Fuck. You knew you should've kept your temper under control. How could you have been so stupid?

Lucky for you, Kakarot is a moron. He lacks understanding regarding body language and various emotion cues. It shouldn't be difficult for you to get out of this at all. "Your eyes were just playing tricks on you. Your vision was probably strained from traveling for such an extended amount of time. My eyes did not, nor have they ever changed color."

"But, I saw---" 

"Well, you saw wrong!" You take several deep breaths, attempting to regain your composure. Spoiler alert, it doesn't work. "I can't take this anymore!" You've finally snapped, but to be fair. You lasted much longer than you expected. "Stop asking me a million questions! No, you know what. Stop speaking to me in general! You are the most infuriating---"

Amidst your screaming, Goku jumps up, pulling you into a far corner of the trench. One of his hands is placed over your lips. And his other arm is tightly wrapped around your waist, his hand ghosting over the base of your tail. Your back is pressed up against the rocky wall, and you feel like his larger body is engulfing your form entirely. You glare at him in irritation as an oddly serious expression crosses Goku's face. 

"I'm gonna take my hand away. Be quiet and focus for a minute." He moves his hand, resting it comfortably on your side. It's placed directly on your wound, courtesy of your battle with Burter. You bite your lip, preventing yourself from wincing. Even the smallest amount of pressure is causing you severe pain. Maybe your injury is worse than you presumed. 

You shut your eyes partly to distract yourself from the pain, but the main objective is to focus on the energy around you. There's someone out there, and they're powerful too. That has to be Ginyu. Shit, your explosive outburst could have just gotten you both killed. What is wrong with you today? 

Where you're standing in the pit. There's still a patch of grass over the top. Providing a shield from anything or anyone from the outside. You hate to admit it, but this was actually a wise decision on Goku's part. Never did you think that Kakarot would be the one to remain collective while you're the one behaving recklessly.  

The two of you remain pressed up against each other. Frankly, you're too close for comfort. You can feel every fall and rise of his chest. You can even hear his heartbeat, which is thumping just as rapidly as your own. The sound of Ginyu's faint murmuring invades your ears, though you can't hear anything he says clearly. He must be too far away.

You try to keep your erratic breathing under control, which stems from both pain and nerves. Your surroundings grow quiet, and Ginyu's energy disappears altogether. He must have left. You finally have room to breathe as Goku takes a few steps back, distancing himself from you. His eyes scan your face before quickly darting down to one of his hands. Specifically, the one that's now covered in your blood. His eyes go-round as he moves closer, invading your personal space once again. "Are you hurt?"

His tone lacks his typical cheery nature, causing you to tilt your head upward, your brain desperately attempting to form a contingency plan to get you out of this mess. "I'm fine." Goku makes you uneasy. He's nothing like a Saiyan should be. His behavior is all over the place, and not a single one of his actions adds up in your realm of logic. Out of all the ruthless and sadistic Saiyan's that could've survived, never in a million years did you expect one as pathetic as Kakarot to live.

"But, you're bleeding." This timid side of Goku is somehow worse than his typical cheerful self. You didn't think he could disgust you further, but once again, that defect proves you wrong.

You suppress an eye roll, keeping your piercing gaze locked on him. If you were to look away now, it would appear like you were backing down. And you refuse to let a fool like Kakarot win. "It's not my blood, Kakarot." Hopefully, he'll fall for your lies and drop this pointless conversation here.

"If it's not your blood, then let me see." He moves his hands to your hips, clawing at the bottom of your chest plate.

You grab his wrist, pushing them away. The two of you continue going back and forth, gripping and pushing at each other. It's been a while since someone challenged you like this, one on one. No one back on the Frieza Force would have dared to go against your wishes. Goku's different from them. He's not afraid of you, and it doesn't seem that he'll give up anytime soon. You would've never pegged Kakarot for the stubborn type. Maybe there's still a bit of true Saiyan nature in him, after all. And as infuriating as he is, you can't say you're disappointed. "Knock it off, Kakarot!" 

"Stop being such a baby, and let me help you." If you were in a public setting, those passing by might have believed you were a couple. Having one of those sweet but sicking play fights. While in reality, that was far from the truth. This proves just how thin the line between love and hate truly is. 

"I don't want your help!" You stop fighting him, crossing your arms over your chest, denying him access to your upper half. 

You thought you had outsmarted him, that was until his hands landed on the sides of your top. "Fine. I'll just tear your armor off then."

You stare at him in disbelief. "Do you have no boundaries?" He has to be bluffing, right? No one could be this shameless. However, the look on his face, mixed with his grip on your top tightening, tells you a whole different story. He's serious about this. "Wait---" You place one of your hands on his chest. "If you back off, and shut up. I'll take it off."

He complies with your terms, stepping back, pressing his lips into a thin line. Your hands are violently shaking as you slowly move them to the corners of your chest piece. You've stripped your armor off in front of Raditz, Nappa, and Cado a million times before. So why does this feel so different?

You steadily pull your tunic above your head, slipping your chest piece off your body, leaving you in your nylon blue sports bra. And it really doesn't leave much to the imagination. You turn your head, finally getting to see the wound yourself. It's much deeper than you thought, but due to your Saiyan genetics, it's already healing quite nicely. "Are you pleased? Now, will you finally shut up?"

Feeling self-conscious from his gaze, you cross your arms over your chest again. "No. Why would I be happy about this? It looks, really, bad Y/N." Why does he care about your physical condition? At the end of the day, you're enemies, and your nauseating alliance is only temporary. You just don't understand him. You can't read him either, so you have no clue what he'll do next. And it's driving you mad. 

"Wait." He grins. "I brought Senzu Beans with me." A Senzu what now? Those must be those healing beans he gave Krillin and Gohan back on Earth. He searches his pockets, only to come up empty-handed. He grabs his head as a look of realization crosses his features. "I'm so stupid. I left them on the ship."

Well, there's one thing you both agree on, Kakarot does have a moronic nature. "Hey, relax. I'm fine, Kakarot." You wrap your tail around your waist, applying pressure to your wound. "This is all I need to do. I've done this several times before, and look, I'm still standing, aren't I?"

Your assurance doesn't seem to be enough for Goku. "Please--- just let me help you." He's pleading with you. Does he really have no ulterior motives? Does he really just want to help you? You'd typically laugh at someone pleading with you, but when it's from him. It makes you uncharacteristically sad.

Those puppy dog eyes should be illegal. You swear Goku would be able to make you do anything just with that one look. "O-Ok." Did you seriously just agree? How can a simple glance make you so weak? An expression like that would typically make you sick. Maybe the amount of blood you've lost has made you delirious. That's a plausible explanation. You're clearly doing everything under Namek's three suns to evade the possibility that these new strange feelings could be your own mind's fabrication. 

He removes the cord holding his gi together, causing the orange fabric to hang loose. You now have a clear view of his torso, revealing the blue undershirt that was once hidden under his gi. He slips the shirt off, ripping the bottom of his shirt into strips. "You know I might not be the smartest guy in the world. But I do know that you have to keep wounds clean to avoid infection." He kneels in front of you, giving himself easier access to your side. You don't mind. Him leaning down to help you would've probably made you even more flustered. 

His hand brushes against your tail, causing you to jump. He stares at you in alarm. "Sorry, I forgot that hurts you."

"I-It didn't hurt. I trained myself out of that weakness a long time ago. It's just a sensitive area still." He nods as you uncoil your tail, giving him direct access to your injury. He wraps the strips of cloth around your torso. The fabric is in replacement of a bandage, not bad for a makeshift patch-up at all. You've seen Nappa and Raditz do much worse.

Goku stands back up, tying his gi back together. "See. Good as new." That dopey smile on his face really makes you want to punch him. His facial expression may be causing you mild irritation, and his words had no humor to them, but you can no longer hold back your fit of laughter that is now escaping your lips. "What's so funny?"

"You are."

He pouts, which only makes you laugh more. "I'm not funny."

"Oh, yes you are, Kakarot. Everything about your existence is either. A. amusing or B. irritating." You're about to berate him even further, but you stop yourself. Someone is standing directly above you, and It isn't Ginyu this time. Their power level is far too low. It's not anyone you're currently aligned with either. By now, you know Vegeta's power level by heart, and you were able to memorize the other's energy levels during your previous encounter with them. So it's best to assume that above you is one of Frieza's minions. 

You do have a weapon at your disposal. No one knows that Goku is here except for you. And you intend to use that piece of knowledge to your advantage. You grab his wrist, pulling Goku back to the wall, successfully switching positions with him.

 You look up, getting a good look at the figure above you. Just your luck, it's Jeice. What's next? Will a scorned, old flame of yours show up in an attempt to win you back? Or will Frieza show up for a tea party?

Sadly, it's too late for you to duck back into the corner. That prick already saw you. You move out into the open, keeping Jeice off Kakarot's scent. A self-satisfied grin appears on Jeice lips as he admires your practically bare torso. "Hello, love. You having fun down there?"

"Oh, it's a real party, Jeice." His gaze makes your skin crawl differently. Kakarot's makes you nervous, but Jeice's makes you want to hurl.  

"I have to say, Y/N. I am surprised you'd fall for something so simple-minded."

You turn your head, subtly glaring at Goku. "You're right. That's not like me at all. I must have had a severe lapse in judgment."

"Well, gorgeous. Looks like today's your lucky day. I'll pull you up, but under one condition." You wouldn't accept his aid even if there wasn't a catch. You'd rather spend an eternity in the pit with Kakarot than owe Jeice any favors. "All you have to do is betray Vegeta, re-pledge your allegiance to Lord Frieza, and of course, become my wife."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Ya, no chance in hell I'm doing any of that."

"Oh, come on, Y/N. You'd rather be stuck down there, all alone. Then be with me."

"I wish I was alone right now." You mutter to yourself. Whether this statement was directed at Jeice of Goku is unclear, but it's most likely the latter.

He moves his hand to his scouter. "I didn't quite catch that Y/N. Was that your native tongue? Or were you just whispering?"

"I said I'd rather rot down here! And by the way, the only thing less appealing than death on this shitty planet would be marrying you."

He scowls at you. "I was trying to play nice, but now I see that's not a viable option. So if you insist you'd rather die down there, I won't be the one to stop you. Just know, you lost your only chance of leaving this damn rock alive." He takes off, now in an irritable mood. Maybe you should've played nice and asked him about Vegeta and the others. It probably doesn't matter either way. Who's to say Jeice would've told the truth.

Goku walks over to you, sheepishly handing you your chest piece. You find him much less irritating now. It turns out Kakarot isn't the worst being you could've been trapped with. It could've been much worse. You could be stuck down here with Jeice instead.

-

The group of four has covered a lot of ground, considering what terrible shape they're in. Recoome really did a number on them, especially Vegeta. He's limping while the others are still able to walk with only mild discomfort. After Vegeta was down for the count, it took Gohan, Krillin, and Raditz all together to finish Recoome off. Raditz is by far in the best shape of the group. Since he jumped in last, getting the KO. The other three would've been executed without the intervention of the largest Saiyan. And lady luck appeared to be on their side because Jeice fled shortly after Recoome fell. A few weeks ago, this group teaming up would've been unimaginable, former allies, enemies, and friends alike, with the lines between each category, quickly blurring together.

The issue with you suppressing your power level is now more prominent than ever. They can't easily locate you, so a search party is sadly the best they can do. Vegeta knew he should've gotten you chipped when he had the chance. He'd be able to locate you anywhere, anytime he wanted. So what if it violated your privacy. If it was up to Vegeta, you'd be one leash by now.

Gohan turns to his uncle. "Do you think Y/N's alright?"

"She's fine. Y/N's incredibly resourceful. If she couldn't surpass him in strength, she'd be able to easily outwit him. Y/N's always done as she's pleased, so it's not surprising if she got a bit carried away." Raditz knows you're alive. He can feel it. A creature as brain-dead as Burter wouldn't be the one to take you out. You'd definitely go out with a bigger bang.

"Stop the chit-chat, and stay focused!" Vegeta snarls at the uncle-nephew duo.

Raditz lowers his voice to a whisper. "Don't mind him. Vegeta's just worried."

"Shut your damn mouth, Raditz! Before I shut it for you, permanently." Raditz's eyes widen in terror as he frantically restarts his search. Pissing off Vegeta right now would not be an intelligent choice.

They explore another good portion of the planet. The only downside is they haven't found any sign of life. The group was about to pause and rest until a strange ship entered their field of vision. Krillin's eyes widen, a grin spreading across his lips. As he reads the words located on the side of the vessel. He begins sprinting toward the machine with Gohan not far behind. "Capsule Corp! We're saved!" 

Vegeta and Raditz observe the two in bewilderment. Vegeta never thought that Raditz could ever be the second smartest person in his vicinity. Today is just full of surprises. "Slow down, you neanderthals!" Vegeta shouts. "It could be a trap." The two Saiayn's have obviously seen more of the world. Even a fool like Raditz understands protocol about behavior on a foreign planet.

The pair ignore their Saiyan allies. With Krillin entering the ship first. "Goku?" He shouts.

"Dad?" Gohan enters the ship, only to find no sign of his father. The pair begin searching the aircraft, looking for clues to where Goku's whereabouts may be. The two Saiyan's tread carefully into the ship. Nothing seems dangerous at the moment. And they wouldn't put it past Kakarot to abandon the only source of transportation off this damn planet. Gohan furrows his brows. "Where could he have gone?"

"Do you guys think he could've been captured? Krillin's question was directed toward the Saiyan's. Vegeta and Raditz both know what the Frieza Force can do while he and Gohan are basically fish out of water.

"Relax." Raditz is the one to break the silence. "If Kakarot was captured, we'd all already know."

"There would be signs of a struggle. And extreme damage to the outside terrain. Kakarot left on his own accord, now let's go, we now have two fools to find."

Krillin was about to follow Vegeta's orders until his eyes land on a small bag. "Wait." He grabs the bag from the table. "If this is what I think it is--- it is. Leave it to Goku to forget an entire bag of Senzu beans." He pulls one of the green beans out of the bag, tossing it to Gohan and grabbing another for himself. 

He throws the bag at Raditz, who catches it with ease. The Saiyan watches the earthling and half-breed eat them first. Their injuries heal instantly, so it isn't poison. That small fact seems to be enough for Raditz, as he eats one of the beans himself. 

After he heals, he hands the bag to Vegeta. "Wait! Raditz!" Krillin shrieks. He's aware that their alliance is quite temporary and will probably end once they successfully disband the Ginyu Force.

Krillin charges at Vegeta, only to be stopped by Raidtz's hand. Which is placed firmly against his forehead, the Saiyan can hold him back with ease. "Stop. You know we can't do this on our own, even with Kakarot's help. Take it from someone who personally knows Frieza and the Ginyu Force. We need him."

Vegeta holds the Senzu bean in his hand, eyeing it skeptically. Before tossing it in his mouth, chewing it slowly. His eyes flash in amazement as his substantial injuries heal instantly. Even though he's seen the bean work wonders before, he still can't believe its capabilities. 

"Do you guys think that Goku and Y/N could be together?" Krillin's question makes a lot of sense, and unknowingly to him, very accurate. 

Vegeta sighs. "It's a possibility." The idea alone makes Vegeta cringe. Just the possibility of you being alone with Kakarot makes him irritable. 

"Well, if they're together, that's a good thing, right?" Gohan's cheerful voice cuts in. "It should be easier to find them, then."

Raditz snickers. "But, will they both be alive? That's the million-dollar question."

Krillin's eyes widen. It wouldn't surprise him if Goku's personality pushed you over the realm of sanity. He sometimes even feels like he's losing his mind when he's with his childhood friend. "Good point. If that's the case, we better step up our game."

The group of four exits the ship, continuing their search. And it doesn't take long for them to discover something else that stops them in their tracks. They located Burter's corpse, more specifically a headless Burter. Decapitation seems to be your go-to method of execution today. It's good to mix things up once in a while.

"Well, it looks like we know what happened here." You jump up in the pit. You'd recognize that voice anywhere. As always, your big brother, Vegeta, comes to your rescue.

"Vegeta! Get me the hell out of here!" Vegeta furrows his brows, desperately looking in all directions. He flys up to get a birds-eye view of the landscape. A higher altitude should be beneficial in tracking you down.

As soon as you hear Vegeta's obnoxious laughter, you know he's found you. He lands on the side of the dip in the ground. "Looks like you're in quite the predicament there, baby sister!" You've never been happier to see that arrogant smirk before in your life. 

"Vegeta, come on, get me out of here! I can't take another second of this torture."

"I don't know." Vegeta rubs his chin. "You did leave me alone, with those three idiots. Maybe I should leave you down there with Kakarot so you can learn a lesson."

"Come on, Vegeta. You know we don't have time for this." Raditz places a large branch in the pit. You should easily be able to climb up it. The barrier is only activated for those inside the hole. So it should cause a rift when something is poking out of it.

You place your hands on the wood as you start shimming upwards. You wince in pain, stumbling a bit. Your injury must be affecting you more than you thought. Goku quickly grabs you, placing his hands on your hips holding you in place.

"D- Don't touch me!"

Goku sighs. Your hot and cold behavior is really confusing to him. "I was just trying to help you. You were gonna fall."

"As we discussed before. I don't want your help." You pull yourself up the rest of the way up, rushing to Raditz. You wrap your arms around the giant, desperately clinging to him. "I take back every bad thing I've ever said about you."

Raditz furrows his brows, looking over your head at his brother, who had just climbed back to the surface. "God, Kakarot. What did you do to her?"

"Relax, you drama queen. You were only down there for about an hour or so." Vegeta pulls you off Raditz as your hand quickly lands over the sight of your wound. There's no need to worry Vegeta about this. It's just a minor scratch, that's all. He scans his eyes over your from, checking for any irregularities. "No injuries. All your limbs are intact. I'm surprised."

"Well, actually---" You slap Goku's leg with your tail, causing him to yelp out in pain. 

"Yep, I'm all good." You plaster an ingenuine smile on your face.

Gohan, Krillin, and Goku all have a little reunion. The rest of you will not take any part in that conversation. Kakarot's arrival isn't something to celebrate. He won't be your saving grace. "So, what's our next move?" Raditz turns to Vegeta. It's almost like nothing has changed. Like you've stepped into a time machine and went back to a much simpler time. Back when things were much less complicated.

"We go find Ginyu and Jeice too." Vegeta turns to you. "That red menace got away."

"I know. Jeice paid Kakarot and me a visit. Putting it simply, he's not gonna be in very high spirits."

Raditz chuckles. "Well, getting turned down so many times can't be good for his ego. Especially by the ice princess."

"She's far from an ice princess. Saiyan-wise, my sister is actually quite friendly. Out of our entire bloodline, I'd say she has the best people skills. She knows how to work a crowd. That's why our father wanted to put her in charge of foreign affairs."

"Was that a compliment, Vegeta?"

"I wouldn't dare." He pauses, turning to the other three. "Alright, let's get this over with. I don't want to spend any more time with you fools than necessary."

-

The group is finally reunited. But what does Captain Ginyu have in store for our heroes? And will Jeice ever get Y/N's attention? Find out in the next chapter of The Princess of All Saiyans..

[babyboy-cody]

HI ALYSSA!!! 😃 What you wrote for grayson was beyond BEAUTIFUL. can you write something where they’re in a new relationship and she gets introduced on the podcast??? 🥰

i’m gonna try really hard to not go overboard this time 😭

The atmosphere was lighthearted and playful. Since 7am to the early afternoon, you’ve been extremely nervous and fidgety. Grayson recognized the early signs of an anxiety attack and made to bring out one of your sensory toys, the ones that make the popping and clicking sound. He brought you to a secluded corner of the house, away from everyone and all the noise, and blocked them with his body until you calmed down. The scent of him, the overall height of him, the gruffness of his voice, and the soft teddy bear vibes Grayson was giving off had you feeling more at ease.

“What if… What if they don’t like me, Gray? I mean, I’m not like the other girls you’ve hooked up with before. I’m not some insta baddie or a bad bitch. I’m me and they’re gonna hate it,” you quietly rambled to him while frantically popping and clicking your sensory toy, all the while keeping your eyes on your hand movements. Grayson allowed you to rant, not stepping in until you were fully finished. “I mean, Kris is different because she’s perfect for Ethan and she never really got any hate - not that I know of. She’s like a soft baddie, I’m not even 6% of a baddie.” This made Grayson smile as he crossed his arms and stared down at you. “Like, I’m not Tyson and it just… sucks feeling like this.”

“Look at me,” he told you, his voice low enough for only you both to hear. When you nervously peer up at him, no longer using your sensory toy, he places his large hands on your warm cheeks, thumbs gently stroking back and forth. “You’re not Tyson and that’s why I’m in love with you. You think I care about insta baddies? You’re the fucking queen, you hear me?” When you start looking down again, he quickly lifts your head. “Aye, I’m not done talking to you. You’re nothing like those girls and that’s what made me fall for you. Your kind soul, pretty eyes, and good vibes made me feel so comfortable that I always wanted to be around you 24/7. Ask Kris.” He smiles at the sound of your soft giggle and the way your eyes crinkled at the corners. “If I love with all my heart, the people who support us and want us to be happy will love you too.”

“Yo,” Ethan called out from across the room. “You ready?” He was looking at you, more so worried about your reputation than Grayson’s. “There’s no going back.” His tone was teasing and his eyes held no malice. You looked up at Grayson and he gave you a small nod and grin, as if telling you, ‘You got this.’ When you gave Ethan an enthusiastic nod, he excitedly claps his hands. “Lets do this shit!”

When you followed them to the room where they do their podcasts, you felt that anxious wave crash over you again. Grayson, being the extremely observant man he is, made sure you had your sensory toy in your hands as he rubbed your arms gently. He pressed soft kisses to your cheeks that felt like butterfly wings fluttering against your skin because of his growing beard. Kristina shot you a thumbs up from her spot in the kitchen as she ate some avocado toast. You felt more at ease as Grayson and Ethan shot playful jokes at each other back and forth. You took your spot beside Grayson on the swivel chair and took the headphones he hands to you. After setting up the mics and cameras, you got yours comfortable and sat a foot or two away from Grayson so that they’re able to do their intro without you in the frame.

“It’s now or never,” you quietly mumbled to yourself.

“Good evening, everybody!” Grayson enthusiastically speaks into the mic. “Welcome back to Deeper with the Dolan Twins. I’m one of your hosts, Grayson.”

“And I’m your other host, Ethan. If it’s a little harder to tell who is who, I wore white today and Grayson wore black,” Ethan states confidently. “Grayson is always wearing his greasy ass trucker hat.”

“It’s not greasy, shut up.” Grayson sucked his teeth and rolled his eyes, sending a look to the side as you covered your mouth to stifle your laugh. “So, today we are doing things a little bit differently.” You sat up straighter in your seat. “As all of you know, we had Kristina on our podcast to furthermore introduce herself as Ethan’s girlfriend.”

“And today,” Ethan rubbed his hands excitedly. “We have a very, very special guest. We are introducing… drum roll, please…” Grayson quickly tapped his fingers against the table. “Grayson’s very own girlfriend, Y/N!”

Grayson was quick to pull your chair closer to his as you held the mic and laughed quietly as they both cheered loud and clear. “This is my very lovely and very beautiful girlfriend, Y/N. Say hello to the audience.”

“Um… hello,” you awkwardly said, causing Ethan to snort. “Shut up, E! I’m nervous.” You shyly covered your face, groaning when Grayson pulled your hands away and placed his hand between yours. You immediately started playing with his fingers; a sense of calm washing over you. “Well as nervous as I am, I am extremely excited to be a guest on your podcast and I hope it receives good reactions.”

“On a lighter note, lets dive deeper into how the relationship between you and Gray… developed,” Ethan said and got comfortable in his seat.

“You tell the short story and I’ll tell the long story,” you told Grayson and lightly patted his shoulder while looking at him with such love-filled eyes that even Ethan can see from across the large table.

Grayson cleared his throat and never once move his hand from between yours. “Well we met a few years ago and started fully dating, I’d say, almost a year ago. And we met through Kristina because you’ve been really good friends story.”

“Okay, guys, people that are listening and watching,” Ethan interrupted. “Remember to get very comfortable because this story is going to be a fucking rollercoaster of emotions.”

“Oh god,” you facepalmed. “Now, for the long story. I’ve been really close friends with Kris since our childhood. I moved to Australia at a young age with my dad after my mom passed away, and we were just two peas in a pod. The way you and Grayson are with each other is the exact same way Kris and I are with each other.” Grayson leans his chin on his hand and never once looks away from you. His attention was all on you… and your lips. “And then, back in 2017 is when she started telling me about Ethan. And she had mentioned that you had a younger brother-”

“Younger by, like, 20 minutes,” Grayson interrupted with a scoff.

“Younger brother,” you emphasized a little louder, causing both twins to laugh. “And she had asked Ethan stuff about Grayson, to which she transferred back to me. So, she was like a bird messenger.” You giggled as you said that, causing a big grin to form on Grayson’s lips. “And then no sooner after that, we started talking more frequently and getting to know each other. And it just.. grew after that.”

“Didn’t Gray ghost you?” Ethan suddenly asked. Grayson groans loud beside you and covers his face embarrassingly. “I remember you freaking the fuck out because of it.”

“Yes, the motherfucker did ghost me for a few weeks. Wanna explain why, hm?” You teasingly asked him with a raise of your brows. Grayson blushed fiercely.

“So within the first three months of us talking, that was when I fully started developing strong feelings for you. And at the time, I had been fucked over so many times by so many people and was never really able to hold a long relationship. And I partially blamed myself for that because I tend to.. rush things, if that makes sense. I’m a romantic and when I fall for someone, I fall hard.” As Grayson passionately spoke and opened up his feelings, your eyes went from his eyes to his lips to his hands and back and forth. The way he spoke with his hands made you hide a smile by biting your lip. “And I was terrified because I automatically assumed that I was gonna fuck it up one way or another. The only way for me to cope was to push my feelings aside, and it just effected us both so negatively.”

“Yeah, from past experiences, it can be really difficult for someone to come to terms with the true emotions they felt. I was the same way with Kristina, you know. It felt like I had to walk around eggshells out of fear of fucking up the one thing that was good for me.” You and Grayson nodded in agreement. “I remember when we came to Australia after what happened and Gray was running back and forth, just writing what he wanted to say to you and he almost cried because his pencil broke.”

You quickly looked at Grayson. “Really?” You weren’t teasing him, you were shocked. Your voice was soft and you had a pout on your lips that he kissed away. “Stop, you’re gonna make me cry.”

“Nooooo!” Grayson yelled out and threw an arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side.

“That’s so sweet!” You whined and pouted some more. “I never knew that, Gray. I know that in the past, there were some hardships that we were able to overcome and the way we communicated with each other, it just made our relationship stronger.”

The conversation ranged from topic to topic. Your life growing up, the death of your mother, your dad’s rescue farm in Australia, your college degree, and some moments between you and Grayson. You felt so comfortable and carefree that Grayson noticed a changed. You laughed more and spoke louder. You playfully bantered with Ethan and provided your own insight on serious topics regarding the negative effects of social media and about mental health. He’s so sure in his heart that people who love and support him and Ethan are gonna love you the same.

[palbabor-writes]

Shigaraki finally seeing the new recruit without her mask, finding out she’s super hot, and then Shig just basically stares at her all the time, trying to make any and every excuse for her to take off her mask. Can be NSFW, I absolutely would not mind it. Just want Shiggy to find me so attractive he’d nearly kill me to see my face again :p

hey, hi! idk if this is exactly what you had in mind but i did my best ~(˘▽˘)~ warnings: death threats, vaginal fingering

“I don’t know why you bother with the make-up. Right after you finish, you just tack that mask of yours on, covering up all of that extra ornamentation you insist on wearing. Such a waste of time,” Giran scoffs, annoyed that you’ve delayed his meeting with Tomura Shigaraki, again.

“Would it shock you if I said: I don’t give a fuck what you think?” you grin, shouldering open the bar door and dramatically ushering for the broker to enter before you.

“Hmph,” Giran snorts, rolling his eyes. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, careful to blow the smoke toward your masked face. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

“Whaaat? Me? Oh my God, I’ve never, ever heard that before. And for you to say something so cutting? I’m hurt,” you mock.

“Who’s a piece of work?” Toga calls out as you close the door behind you, knocking the last of the noxious wisps of smoke away.

“Me,” you announce loudly, pacing toward one of the bar stools and seating yourself on the red leather. 

“Awe, why’s that?” Twice begins sincerely before stumbling into a quick, “Well, it’s fucking true.” 

“He doesn’t like that I took a little bit of extra time to put on make-up. Shigaraki isn’t even down here yet, so I don’t see what the big deal is,” you snark, turning your head toward Giran. He has the grace to give you a disgruntled lifting of his shoulders. 

“Well,” Spinner chimes in, “it does seem a little pointless. You are wearing a mask and not just some half mask, that thing covers your whole face.” 

“Pointless! Why, no my dear, that’s not pointless, not at all!” Compress defends, his gloved finger tutting Spinner’s hunched figure. “You never know what the next performance will call for! One must always be prepared.”

“Oooh, do you do, like, eyeliner? I looove the winged points.” Toga declares, striding over and leaning close, her big yellow eyes blinking up at you.

“Yeah. I can do winged eyeliner,” you confirm, a grin spreading across your lips. Not that any of them can see it, but they’ll likely hear it’s lift in your voice. 

“Ahhh! Teach me, teach me!” Toga claps her hands and perches on the seat next to you. “Oh wait! Before that, can I see it? Just so I can tell how good you are.”

“See? Ah, my face. Um, yeah, I guess...” you begin, fingers reaching behind your jaw, tugging the reinforced porcelain away. Toga’s eyes widen and she cups her face between her hands and hushed gasp sneaking out of her lips. 

“You’re so pretty!” she beams. You’re just about to answer her when she tilts her head past you, looking at someone over your shoulder. “Whaddaya’ think Tomura? I like her even better without the mask! You think she’s pretty too, right?”

Without thinking, you twist to look at the league’s defacto leader. He’s stepping out of that long hallway, his face obscured by the pale fingers of Father. However, he does pause, cocking his head at you. From what you can see of his expression, he does look a bit, uh, staggered. One red eye is gleaming out at you, the whites almost comically wide and he lifts a hand to his neck, fingers automatically scritching at the skin they land on. His head rises, chin jutting forward and he takes a step forward, toward you.  

Odd, you think, instinctively biting on your lower lip. It’s not like him to stare. Well, at least not that intently. Usually, he ignores your presence, treating you more like the background furniture than a living, breathing, person. Toga’s question hangs on the air and the others start to notice the shift too, their gazes passing between the two of you. You’re about to croak out some kinda response, when Shigaraki does the honors for you.  

“We have a meeting,” he rasps and something in his tone breaks the spell. His head finally turns from you and you lower your gaze, sliding your mask back over your features. 

“Awe,” Toga bemoans, hopping down from the bar stool. “Don’t think you’re getting out of helping me with my make-up!” She scolds, tossing you a swift wink before following the others as they gather around a low table. 

They don’t need you for this part so you shift off of your seat and press open the front door, grateful for the cool autumn air that hits you. You lean up against the brick siding and take a moment to steady your thumping heartbeat. That was a, um, strange interaction. 

You’d never put much thought into Shigaraki. He was quiet and there wasn’t much cause for the two of you to interact. Well, besides passing his requests on to Giran, or confirming shipment dates. Honestly, it was nigh impossible to get a read on him most days. Namely because, like you, he always had something obscuring his face.

Despite that, he did have a pleasing build, with broad shoulders, cabled neck muscles and you’d always quietly admired the snaking length of his long legs. The fact that he had white hair and startling red eyes were two other bonuses. You’ve always had a thing for guys that sported a long mop of pearlescent waves and Shigaraki was a pristine specimen in that regard.

Even so, it’s not like you knew much about the guy and you doubted that was going to change any time soon. No, he’d likely only been taken aback by your startled expression. You couldn’t help it. Once Toga had uttered his name you’d wanted to see him, so, so curious to see if he’d comment on your appearance. Would he like you? Notice you? Say something maybe? But, he hadn’t.

So, yeah. That was that. Right?   

******

A week passes before you slide into the bar again. This time of year is always busy, but you’ve carved out some time to double check on the league’s shipment requests. 

The main room of the bar is quiet, but you can see Shigaraki’s dark back, hunched over the bar top. His head tilts toward you when he hears the door close and that bright eye of his is doing that fervid glint again. His look travels from your neck to your covered face and you can swear his eye narrows when it lands on the smooth surface of your mask. 

“What?” he asks, his tone low. 

“Uh, I was coming to check on the shipments. See if there was anything extra that you guys needed.” 

“Ask Kurogiri,” he clips, that lone eye of his continuing to transverse the planes of your covered face.

“Alright. I’ll go and look for him– ”

“Why do you wear that?” Shigaraki suddenly asks. It’s a simple question, but it makes your heart start that ragged tattoo again. What is wrong with you? You’d think he’d asked for you to strip naked and lay atop the bar, what with the way your heartbeats are palpitating. What’s the big deal?  

“Wh-what?” you blankly hear yourself stammering out. You know what he’s asking. You’re not stupid. Apparently, your brain has another plan in mind and that involves, um, playing dumb? 

“Your mask,” Shigaraki supplies, his voice falling into a hushed rasp. “Why do you wear it?”

“Well, why do you wear a hand on your face?” Shit. Fuck. What? Why did you say that?

The bar stool scrapes back and you can’t help but wince at the sound, your body flinching. He’s slow as he steps forward, his fingers carefully threaded into his pockets. Once he’s a few feet from you, you let out a slow breath, praying he can’t hear the ragged thuds of your pulse.

“Take it off. The mask, that is,” Shigaraki demands and you can hear that grin, that wicked, wicked smirk that you can only imagine is parting his lips. Lips that you’ve never seen. Lips that are so close. If only he’d...oh, that’s an idea... 

“No,” you reply. Your voice is even and strong, thank God, but it doesn’t grant you an immediate reprieve. No, your defiance only makes him shift closer, his chest nearly bumping against yours.  

He’s not much taller than you. It’s likely only an inch or two difference, but it suddenly feels like he’s miles above you. Instinctively, you arch your neck, closing that tiny distance to peer up at him. He’s watching you intently and you can hear the steady, in and out, pulls of his breath. Shigaraki lets another few beats pass before he answers your challenge, leaning forward, demanding your full attention with his overwhelming proximity.

“I can just decay it off, you know. It would be easy. But, if I do that, well, you’d need to be quick. You’d have to get it off of you in seconds, because once it starts, it’s hard to predict and I’d hate for my quirk to take the rest of you with it.”

“You’d risk killing me, just to see my face again?”

“Tch. Sure. If you wanna look at it that way. It was a pretty face, (Y/N). So here’s my advice: don’t be fucking obstinate and do as I say.” 

“What if...what if I make a deal with you?”

Shigaraki barks out a laugh and the sharp angles of his lips spread past the palm of Father. “A deal? I’ll say it again, since I guess you didn’t hear me the first time, I can decay it off. I don’t need to bargain with you.” 

“Sure,” you qualify, the heavy pants of your exhales hitting the front of your mask, bathing you in wild, damp, warmth. “But I don’t like the idea of being the only one who is exposed. Why don’t you let me see you, too?”

“Me?” Shigaraki asks, his head ducking slightly, voice clipping over the word. “Why?”

“Please?” Your hands lift of their own accord, ghosting over the lines of his forearms. You can hear his breath hitch and you rejoice at the tiny sound. He’s right. He could simply raise a hand and disintegrate your mask, and possibly you, to bits, to fucking pieces, but you wanna know. You wanna see him. Besides, you’re starting to like this standoff. There’s something coiling under it and you can almost taste the line of tension that’s tightening between the two of you.  

“Only for a second,” you promise, imbuing your tone with airy light. “Come on, what are you scared of? Like you said, it wouldn’t take much for you to kill me. Might be easier even, if I’m, mmm, distracted.”

“You first,” he commands, one of his hands rising from his dark pocket, hovering beside the golden base of Father. 

“Ugh. You’re not gonna go back on your part, are you?” you tease, fingers already cupping at your jaw, peeling the heated porcelain away from your skin. 

“I might,” Shigaraki taunts, “you’ll need to take that mask off to find out, won’t you? Oh, and you can go slow. Since you seem to be partial to the theatrics of it all, why don’t you put on a nice show for me?” 

Woah.

A gasp falls from your lips before you can contain it and Shigaraki presses his advantage, his white hair falling toward you as he looms impossibly closer, that red eye glowing in the darkness of the bar. Ok, ok, you think, gulping down your nerves and that rising crest of fucking arousal that’s pricking between your legs.

Your mask is leaden in your hands, but you do your best to steady your shaking fingers. You can feel the familiar weight slipping from your chin, your cheeks, your nose, but it feels different, too. Charged and heavy. A light rush of gooseflesh bumps its way up your arms and you tremble when the mask finally slides past one half of your face. 

Without warning, Shigaraki’s hand whips forward, snatching onto your wrist. That one, all important, finger is arched away but he stills your movements with a squeeze, his eye whisking over you. He lets his gaze linger indulgently against your lips, tracing the dip and pout of your mouth. Then, he lifts his intensity to your own stare, that broad smile rising along his lips. A pleased rumble echoes from his chest and you almost reply with a moan. 

Fuck. This is...

It’s like standing too close to an open flame and your whole body feels like it’s reacting to the sting, the burn that is rising within you. “Do...do you want me to keep going?”

His reply is a silent one. Silent, but firm. That hand that’s wrapped around your wrist, that’s blazing the heat of him into you, pulls. It takes your arm and the rest of your mask with it, leaving you bare and vulnerable, completely at the mercy of that hungry eye. 

You can’t fucking breathe and you’re biting your lip so hard that you’re worried the skin is about to split open. Shigaraki is quiet but his head tilts, cascading white hair against his dark shoulder. This is ridiculous, you think, unable to snatch yourself away from him. It’s not even both eyes. He’s only looking at you with one eye. Shit, what will two eyes do? Is he going to keep his side of this? Do you even really want him to? What if...it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what it means, or what it does, you want to see him, all of him. 

After all, fair is fair.  

His fingers are still curled around your wrist and you feel each indentation of his finger pads, hot against your chilled flesh. “S-so,” you begin, your words snagging in your throat, “are you gonna hold up your end?”

You can hear his snort of amusement but he does release your hand. Once his elegant digits pass the pasty gloom of the embalmed hand on his face, you can feel your heartbeat slowing, your eyes following his motions, watching, waiting. He’s not as slow as you were, but he gives you a moment to savor, teasingly lifting the obscuring palm up and away. 

Oh. 

Your mask clatters to the floor, skittering across the wood, shattering the weighty silence. Without thinking, your hand comes up to his cheek, letting your brave thumb run across that tiny mole on his chin. He’s not handsome. No, he’s not what anyone would deem perfect, not with those cracks and scars, but fuck, he’s beautiful. It’s a shattered magnificence and you’re so glad you asked him for it.

“Didn’t say you could touch,” Shigaraki growls, his voice rasping toward that lower register. 

“It’s ok,” you reassure him, your other hand lifting to feel out the smooth and rough patches of his skin. “You can touch me, too.” 

He groans at that, those red eyes finally slipping closed. He’s uneasy at this part, his hands too broad and too jittery to really appreciate the curve of your face, but dips his head closer, his forehead pressing against yours. 

When you dance your fingers over his lips, he moves in the same moment. He’s arms cage around you and he yanks you to him, sucking, biting, kissing you until you can’t think, let alone breathe. 

The bump of the couch is a surprise and you topple backwards, splayed across the tattered cushions. You hadn’t even realized you’d taken those steps, that he’d pushed you that way. It doesn’t matter, because he’s on top of you, seconds later, his fingers everywhere, touching every part of you that he can reach.

“How are you so warm?” he asks, sliding his palms under your shirt, cupping at the roundness of your breasts. His voice is soft, awed, and you grin up at him, urging his lips back to yours. 

“What’s the matter?” you tease, worrying his chapped lip between your teeth. “What happened to all those death threats?”

Shigaraki smirks, pulling away from your mischievous bites, that long scar across his lip rising. One of his hands wanders downward, feeling for the edge of your pants, while the other encloses around your neck, clamping until you’re arching under him, eyes shut and lips parted. 

“You like that I can kill you?” he leers, finally snapping the button of your jeans open, permitting his inquisitive touch to dip into something even warmer than the skin of your breasts. He breaches the fluttering petals of your cunt and glides into your heat, hissing at the slick that pools around him. 

The hand at your throat squeezes again, demanding your answer. “Y-yes,” you gasp, hips canting up at the steady rhythm he’s building inside you. 

“Hmm,” he ponders, releasing your neck and lifting that hand in front of your face. “Then you better hope I can control myself. We’ll start with something simple. These clothes of yours should be easy enough to decay...” His thumb swipes across your budding clit and you writhe, squirming and panting. “Ah-ah,” he warns a cruel grin spreading along his lips. “Keep still. I’d hate for my hand to slip.” 

Carefully, he lowers his free hand, trailing it toward your shirt. Once four fingers are curled under the hem, he reapplies his other thumb, circling until you’re white knuckling the cushions. “Don’t forget,” he reminds you, adding the tiniest pressure to his oscillations, “one wrong move and you’re nothing but bone and gristle. Tch, it would be such poor timing too, what when we’re just starting to have so much fun together” 

Then, he lowers that deadly finger. 

notes: again, not sure if it’s exactly what you had in mind, but I had fun with it!                  

[idreamtofmanderleyagain]

Five years ago, the women on this site who treated me like trash over loving Labyrinth and shipping Jareth/Sarah were almost always obliviously consuming Radfem propaganda, or were out and out Radfems/Terfs themselves.

They were the types of people who casually threw the word “pedophile” around against grown women who shipped an adult Sarah with Jareth, aka literally one of the most popular ships for women in fandom for 30 years.

Pretty much invariably, these women had serious sex-negative anxieties, which included a severe paranoia about any and all kink and fetish, and porn in general. I saw a lot of shocking, fear-mongering propaganda surrounding sexual expression. Pretty much invariably, their method of approach involved immediate personal shock-value attacks on anyone they perceived to be “bad.”

Today, you can look at the way some people react to other popular so-called “problematic” ships and recognize the same toxic, fear-mongering rhetoric coming from women who consider themselves regular, trans-inclusive feminists. Sometimes it even manifests in the words of very well-meaning people (including myself here), who feel the need to talk about specific issues that pertain to their own experiences of trauma and oppression.

The people who shit on Labyrinth often seem to not really be able to comprehend that the Goblin King, like the film itself, is canonically a representation of a teen girl’s psyche, a soup of fears and anxieties and desires and dreams. He’s not a literal human adult preying on a literal child, and to read the film that way seriously undermines the entire point of the film. 

When I (and people of many fandoms) say “This is fiction, calm down,” I’m not just saying it’s not real so it cant hurt you and you can’t criticize me. I’m trying to call attention to what fiction actually is - artistic representations of feelings and experiences. The Goblin King is Sarah’s fiction. Therefore, he can be anything she or any woman who identifies with her wants him to be, including her lover when she’s grown and ready for such a thing.

I once took an alarming dive into Beetlejuice fandom to see what content was there (the cartoon was a favorite when I was little). Chillingly, what you’ll find is an extremely wounded fanbase, with a sharp divide between the older women who had long been shipping BJ/Lydia because of their love for the cartoon series (and whom were previously the vast majority of the Beetlejuice fandom), and a massive amount of young people riding the wave of the musical fad who had decided that the entire old school Beetlejuice fandom was populated by literal pedophiles. 

I saw death threats. Suicide baiting. Constant, constant toxic discourse. It did not matter how the BJ/Lydia fandom dealt with any particular issues that would exist in their ship, in fact I’m certain that the people abusing them cared very little to even consider if they were trying to handle it at all. The only thing that mattered was that they were disgusting subhuman scum asking for abuse. If you have at any time reblogged recent Beetlejuice fan art or content from fans of the musical, you have more than likely been engaging positively with the content of someone participating in toxic fandom behavior.

Nobody is really sticking up for them, either, as far as I saw. It’s really hard to imagine how painful it must be to have such a large group of people explode into into your relatively private fandom space to tell you that you are evil, vile, and deserve constant abuse, and also you are no longer allowed into the fandom space to engage in it’s content. But I think there’s something very alarming indeed about this happening specifically to the BJ fandom, and I’ll explain why. 

The pop-culture characterization of Beetlejuice, which is heavily influenced by the cartoon series to be clear, has always in my mind been a vaguely ageless being who matches with the psychological maturity of whatever age Lydia is supposed to be. He’s more or less like an imaginary friend, a manifestation of Lydia’s psyche. In fact, I would argue that i think most of us who grew up with the cartoon or it’s subsequent merchandizing before the musical ever existed probably internalized the idea as BJ and Lydia as this ageless, salt-and-pepper-shaker couple beloved by the goth community, similar to Gomez and Morticia. In each version of canon he may be a creepy ghost in the literal sense, but any adult who is capable of identifying literary tropes (even just subconciously) would read cartoon!BJ as an artistic representation of a socially awkward outcast girl’s inner world. Lydia’s darker dispositions and interests, which alienate her from most others, are freely accepted and embraced by her spooky magical friend. BJ/Lydia in the cartoon were depicted as best friends, but to my memory there was always an underlying sense that they had secret feelings for each other, which I identified easily even as a small child. In fact, their dynamic and behavior perfectly reflected the psychological development of the show’s target demographic. They are best friends who get into adventures and learning experiences together, who have delicate feelings for each other but lack any true adult romantic/sexual understanding to acknowledge those feelings, let alone pursue them.

Though I haven’t seen the Musical yet, I’ve read the wiki and I would argue that it embodies this exact same concept even more so for it’s own version of the characters, in that Beetlejuice specifically exists to help Lydia process her mother’s death.

This is not a complicated thing to recognize and comprehend whatsoever. In fact, it looks downright blatant. It’s also a clear indicator of what BJ/Lydia means to the women who have long loved it. It was a story about a spooky wierd girl being loved and accepted and understood for who she was, and it gave them a sense of solidarity. It makes perfect sense why those women would stick with those characters, and create a safe little space for themselves to and imagine their beloved characters growing and having adult lives and experiencing adult drama, in just the same ways that the women of the Labyrinth fandom do. That’s all these women were doing. And now, they can’t do it without facing intense verbal violence. That safe space is poisoned now.

Having grown up with the cartoon as one of my favorites and been around goth subculture stuff for decades, I was actually shocked and squicked at the original Beetlejuice film’s narrative once I actually saw it, because it was extremely divorced from what these two characters had evolved into for goth subculture and what they meant to me. It’s not telling the same story, and is in fact about the Maitland's specifically. In pretty much exactly the same way two different versions of Little Red Riding Hood can be extremely different from each other, the film is a different animal. While I imagine that the film version has been at the heart of a lot of this confused fear-mongering around all other versions of the characters, I would no more judge different adaptations of these characters any more than I would condemn a version of Little Red in which Red and the Wolf are best friends or lovers just because the very first iteration of LRRH was about protecting yourself from predators.

I would even argue that the people who have engaged in Anti-shipper behavior over BJ/Lydia are in intense denial over the fact that BJ being interested in Lydia, either as blatant predatory behavior a la the film or on a peer level as in the cartoon (and musical?) is an inextricable part of canon. Beetlejuice was always attracted to Lydia, and it was not always cute or amusing. Beetlejuice was not always a beloved buddy character, an in fact was originally written as a gross scumbag. That’s just what he was. Even people engaging with him now by writing OC girlfriends for him (as stand-ins for the salt-and-pepper-shaker space Lydia used to take up, because obviously that was part of the core fun of the characters), or just loving him as a character, are erasing parts of his character’s history in order to do so. They are actively refusing to be held responsible for being fans of new version of him despite the fact that he engaged in overt predatory behavior in the original film. In fact, I would venture to say that they are actively erasing the fact that Musical Beetliejuice tried to marry a teenager and as far as I’m aware, seemed to like the idea (because he’s probably a fucking figment of her imagination but go off I guess). The only reason they can have a version of this character who could be perceived as “buddy” material is because...the cartoon had an impact on our pop cultural perception of what the character and his dynamic with Lydia is. 

We can have a version of the Big Bad Wolf who’s a creepy monster. We can have a version who’s sweet and lovable. We can have a version that lives in the middle. We can have a version who’s a hybrid between Red and the Wolf (a la Ruby in OUAT). All of these things can exist in the same world, and can even be loved for different reasons by the same people.

I’ve been using Beetlejuice as an example here because it’s kind of perfect for my overall point regarding the toxic ideologies in fandom right now across many different spaces, including ones for progressive and queer media, and how much so many people don’t recognize how deeply they’ve been radicalized into literalist and sex-negative radfem rhetoric, to the point where we aren’t allowed to have difficult, messy explorations of imperfect, flawed humans, and that art is never going to be 100% pure and without flaw in it’s ability to convey what it wants to convey.

This includes the rhetoric I’ve seen across the board, from She-Ra to A:TLA to Star Wars to Lovecraft Country. We don’t talk about the inherent malleable, subjective, or charmingly imperfect nature of fiction any more. Transformation and reclamation are myths in this space. Everything is in rigid categories. It is seemingly very difficult for some of these people to engage with anything that is not able to be clearly labeled as one thing or another (see the inherent transphobic and biphobic elements of the most intense rhetoric). They destroy anything they cannot filter through their ideology. When women act in a way that breaks from their narrative of womanhood (like...not having a vagina), then those women must be condemned instead of understood. Anything that challenges them or makes them uncomfortable is a mortal sin. There is an extraordinary level of both hypocrisy and repressive denial that is underlying the behavior I’m seeing now. Much like toxic Christian conservatism, these people often are discovered engaging in the same behaviors and interests that they condemn behind closed doors (or just out of sheer cognitive dissonance). As an example, one of the people who talked shit to me about Labyrinth was a huge fan of Kill La Kill, which to my knowledge was an anime about a teenage girl in like, superpowered lingere (hence why I stayed the fuck away from that shit myself). Indeed, they even allow themselves plenty of leeway for behavior far worse than they condemn others for, and create support systems for the worst of their own abusers. 

Quite frankly, I’m tired. Instead of talking about theoretical problematic shit, we need to start talking about quantifiable harm. Because as far as I can tell, the most real, immediate, and quantifiable harm done because of anybody’s favorite ships or pieces of media seems to consistently be the kind that’s done to the people who experience verbal violence and abuse and manipulation and suicide baiting and death threats from the people who have a problem.

[whitefawnn]

blood letting (part 7)

c!wilbur soot x reader

warnings: manipulation, violence, fighting, panic attacks, trauma, mentions of character death

masterlist of blood letting

note: read the warnings

His sword is a comfortable weight in his scarred hand, the hilt wrapped in leather, his grip tight. The metal weapon felt like a return to himself, its shimmering a sinister promise to hurt those who had wronged him. His mouth watered as he stared at the light blue sword, imagining it as a dark purple. He missed Nightmare but for now this must suffice. Dream quickly went back to sharpening the blade, meticulously making sure it would be perfect to slice through his enemies just as it had been crafted to, to right what had been wronged.

He had been waiting for Wilbur to return without y/n, but something in him knew Wilbur wasn’t coming back. He knew from the start. Men like Wilbur could be so fickle with someone like y/n whispering in their ear. Y/n could be so persuasive, so persistent, he didn’t know if he could bring himself to fault the man for folding. He knew it would end like this though, them on opposing sides. He wasn’t connected to Wilbur anymore, ties severed after he walked out of that prison, no matter what Wilbur had convinced himself of he could care less about the man.

He was almost done preparing his gear, not bothering to even start Wilbur’s even when he was still here. He only had to go to the nether to collect netherite before he could begin his onslaught. The future tasted sweet, a sick promise of blood to finally be in the air again. Dream laid down the sword on the cracking anvil with a smirk. He turned to look at the marked map behind him, x’s on houses, arrows pointing to weaknesses and targets. A mosaic of to-be pain all in one place.

He had been weighing whether he would kill y/n or not. A big question mark scribbled over where their house sat. He wondered if they could change, be fixed if you will. I guess the decision could be made later, when they weren’t in the place to deny such mercy from Dream. When his sword was slowly drawing blood from their neck. Guess he would be just like Wilbur in that regard.

——————

“I’ll come with you, I will, please just-“ I focused on the panicked voice that trailed from behind me as I slowly came to. I was sitting on a hard surface, my back against someone whose chest was hastily rising and falling. Their breaths were forced and ragged. “Sam, please they need help-“ The voice called out and was cut off as I slowly cracked my eyes open to be met with the night sky and the looming prison. The building first insisting fear then a strange sense of home. I was back in the dsmp, no longer imprisoned in a gloomy mansion, yet I was still with Wilbur. Why did that make me so scared?

“Wilbur, I should kill you right now. Do you not understand what you did? What mercy I’m even giving you right now by letting you fucking speak?” I shook my head, sitting up straight against the person behind me. I desperately wanted to defuse the argument but didn’t feel like I had the words or the strength. My brain a mess of feelings and fog. Sam quickly turned to look at me with wide eyes once he noticed my subtle movements. His gaze felt like sunlight for a brief moment, an escape from all that has gone horribly wrong. He granted me a soft smile that I only knew existed by the crinkle of his eyes that weren’t covered by his intimidating mask.

“hey, y/n” he spoke with a lighter tone more indicative of Sam not the Warden he was being towards Wilbur. I reached for him with an open hand merely wanting to hug my close friend. To give up for just a second. He quickly came up to my side helping me slide off the large horse I had been seated on. I caught a glimpse of Wilbur’s nervous smile, but quickly pressed myself into Sam’s body. Wilbur could wait, he could wait for just a bit.

I needed a separation from everything. Wilbur’s face feeling as damning as seeing Dream himself sat behind me. A chill ran over my body, Dream’s hands pushing me to the floor all over again. My arm hitting the ground. Sam didn’t hesitate to wrap himself around me once I was within reach, warmth engulfing my sleep-riddled body. I winced at the pain he caused by pressing on my injured arm but could care less. “Hi, bear.” he mumbled into my hair, a familiar nickname that made me feel even more relaxed. Warmth bloomed in my heart, a brief moment of peace.

“Sam,” I sighed out, allowing myself to fully melt into him knowing he would support my weight, knowing he wouldn’t let me go as he never had before. I wanted to disappear, to implode, my life felt on fire. A burning house with no exits left. I tried to steady myself against him. The feeling was also a wash of familiarity, smelled just like gunpowder, felt just like when the man behind me had died.

“Do you wanna go home?” he asked me, slightly pulling back from our embrace so he could study my expression. It was such a simple question, but yet I felt my eyes water. He seemed to falter the more he looked at me, his own eyes jumping across my face. I probably looked like shit.

“mmmhm,” I whimpered, stuffing my face back into his chest as hot tears began to run down my cheeks. Everything was wrong and it felt like it was my fault. I could feel Wilbur’s eyes burning into my back and it only made me feel worse. I was not only responsible for my own safety, I was responsible for everyone’s. I was now heaving, sobbing into Sam’s chest as he pet my hair and let me crumble.

“Just breathe, bear. It’s okay, it’s all gonna be okay.” he whispered into my hair. I quickly shook my head against him, my anxiety a vice. “I know, I know, let’s get you home okay.” He took the liberty of picking me up, cradling me in his arms “Wilbur, you follow behind or god fucking help you.” Wilbur didn’t respond but I heard the clicking of hooves follow behind us.

————————-

Dread built in his stomach as he followed closely behind Sam and y/n. He selfishly couldn’t bring himself to focus his full attention on the exhausted body being cradled by Sam. Anxiety pooled on his skin as he slowly trailed behind the pair to y/n’s home. The path was familiar, he need not put too much effort into following as his worries consumed him.

“Wilbur, come hold the door open.” He was quick to tie up the horse and pry open the door. The clear closeness between Y/n and Sam shocked him. The nickname ran through his head, bear, a staple of the months he had missed. Sam hadn’t even been a name he had known, not in any great clarity at least when he had passed. The relationship added context to the fact that y/n had thought they would be able to ebb the consequence of his mistakes with the Warden himself. He hadn’t believed this, leaving y/n to fight with Dream alone on a matter he knew they wouldn’t be able to change. To be left a bruised mess on the floor. To be told by Dream to use them further, y/n a mere puppet to the man, and now a new consequence of his own actions arose, he must talk to Sam alone.

“Wilbur.” Sam’s voice was gruff and lower than the one he had used with y/n.

“Sam, are they-“ he was promptly cut off. Wilbur studied Sam’s hard expression, their eyes locked.

“They are asleep in their bedroom” The tension between the two was palpable, but the reason seemed to have strayed off. Countless things went through Wilbur’s head as he stared the Warden down. “Do you understand what you did, Wilbur? I should have already killed you, but y/n-“ he paused, his hand falling from its place on the hilt of his sword to be run through his hair. Sam shut his eyes tight, trusting that Wilbur wouldn’t foolishly run.

“You mean too much to them.” A breath got caught in Wilbur’s throat “I probably understand that more than you. After you died, Wilbur, they were in bad shape, really fucking bad shape.” Wilbur sharply inhaled, his lungs full of needles. He didn’t need to hear this or maybe he just didn’t want to. “They wouldn’t leave this fucking house, Wilbur, and you came back and, fuck, I think you made them worse all over again.” Sam looked up at Wilbur.

“You were an impossibility to them, they were finally fucking moving on.” Sam got to his feet “You and fucking Dream just hurt them over and over.” His gaze was burning right through him, he immediately relented, stepping back. Wilbur’s shoulders hunched as he let himself fall back against the now shut door. “and they still love you.”

“Sam,” he quickly held up his hand. Wilbur taking the hint that he wasn’t done. He watched as Sam took a deep breath before averting his eyes to the kitchen.

“So much happened that y/n isn’t telling you things that Dream did to everyone in your absence. Wilbur, he beat Tommy to death and he-“ Sam looked back at Wilbur’s crumpled form. Wilbur needed to understand. “You let out a monster, Wilbur. A monster that hurt the person in that room more than you can imagine.” A silence drew out between them, a silence that was not filled by voices but their own shared labored breathing. Both men drawn tight, two strings about to snap. “Stay here with them. Don’t you fucking think about leaving.” Wilbur gave Sam a nod. He wasn’t going to leave them, he wouldn’t think twice about that even if Sam wasn’t threatening his life.

Wilbur trailed to y/n’s bedroom, somewhere they had once shared. The room had changed drastically since then, new sheets and new furniture. He knew it was because of him, he couldn’t imagine living in that room if their roles had been switched, a ghost around every corner. Sheets once green were now a ruby red. Y/n was sleeping now, their face a reflection of calm water not the panic it had been earlier. The more he studied their face the more Wilbur paled. He noticed scars he hadn’t before, how the bruise had only gotten worse. Time apart and together alike leaving them with more wounds. He fell into a restless sleep beside them.

[veliseraptor]

So this is in NO WAY PRESSURING, get to this whenever you're bored and have nothing better to do, but I (have still not watched The Untamed) would love to hear any disorganized rambles around your fic 'Punitive Measures', like your thoughts while writing it, how you view Xue Yang's fight/flight/freeze instinct, and/or where you would take the plot if you ever came back to it (again, not pressuring, I'm not asking for a sequel, I'm asking for director's commentary. Also I know the mysterious flute was implying Wei Wuxian, I know that much and not much more.) It's a really fun, quick fic that I enjoy reading through while I keep circling around your longer, more intimidating stories. I aspire to write like you.

oh boy, well, I don't know that I ever have nothing to do but here I am answering this ask anyway, because I like talking about my fic even if I get self-conscious about it.

this entire fic falls solidly into the genre of fic I write that is legitimately just “I’m gonna fuck up this character I love because it’ll be fun and I love to do that” and then just kinda...went for it. actually harder than I was initially planning! my vague sense of what I was going to do with this fic didn’t have Xue Yang down an eye at the end of it.

but when inspiration strikes, what’s a girl to do, etc.

I actually thought recently about writing a sequel to this fic (or, well, continuing into the AU it started, more like) because the concept of Wei Wuxian and Xue Yang being bloodthirsty vengeance brethren is a very good one for me, personally, and at the point their paths would be intersecting in this AU a more plausible one than it would be at pretty much any other time (I would argue, at least in CQLverse). And that’s where I think this would be going. Because Xue Yang would see Wei Wuxian, in his bloodiest frame of mind, powered up with a gorgeous flute of bad vibes and go “fuck yes” even if he wasn’t in a place where he really needed the help.

The question I had was whether Wei Wuxian would be interested in accepting company, and I feel like Xue Yang on that front could be convincing. And the way that the latter would both enable and egg on all the former’s darkest fantasies and impulses...I’m just saying, Wen Chao and everyone he has ever known is in for a very bad time, possibly even worse than they already were.

I invite you to picture in this AU the part where Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji find not just darker and edgier Wei Wuxian at the end of their scavenger hunt but darker and edgier Wei Wuxian with a friend. A familiar friend! Now down an eye and practically picking his teeth with Wen Chao’s finger bones. :D

since you asked for disorganized rambling I went back to reread and I’ll give you some director’s commentary on a few things

And he’d kind of hoped Wen Ruohan would be too busy figuring out how to deal with his brewing war to dedicate much attention to looking for one absent retainer. And even if he did, Xue Yang had sort of figured that finding him would fall to Wen Chao, who’d probably struggle to find his own ass with two hands.

kicking off this director’s commentary with Xue Yang’s brutal assessment of the competency of Wen Chao.

tbh one of my favorite things about CQL’s involving Xue Yang in the whole Sunshot storyline, despite the merry hell it plays with timeline stuff later, is how obviously little regard Xue Yang has for the Wens, even when they’re at the height of their power. He shows Wen Ruohan himself very little respect, and I can’t imagine anyone else getting more (except maybe Wen Qing, because Wen Qing is competent and if nothing else Xue Yang can respect competency).

and he just like. ditches them. walks out! promises to deliver very powerful magical artifact, and then gets what he wants and is like “smell ya later, peace” and they never catch him.

that’s just a kind of gutsiness and casual disregard for very powerful people that I really both love and respect about Xue Yang. and also that he has in common with Xiao Xingchen, tbh. and Song Lan (though him I think to a slightly lesser degree, partly because he has a little more tact and sense of societal norms as something relevant to be thinking about)! they can all vibe on that.

They took Jiangzai. Well. One of the Wen disciples took Jiangzai in the stomach and Xue Yang didn’t get it back.

this isn’t an important line or anything. I just like it a lot.

Wen Chao gestured again and he went down in a hail of fists and feet. Xue Yang tucked his chin down to protect his throat, curled his hands into his chest, and drew up his knees to guard his stomach.

He knew how this worked. Sure, it’d been a while since someone had beat him like this, but the lessons stuck. It was almost boring, really. If Wen Chao was going to play torture games then he could at least do Xue Yang the favor of trying to be creative.

He checked out the part of his brain that registered pain as anything other than a thing that was happening and focused instead on opportunities. Weaknesses in his assailants. Escape routes. Getting away would be the first thing. Nice if he could take a piece of Wen Chao with him on the way out - arm, or maybe even a head - but the priority was freedom and survival.

okay, this I feel like cuts into some of what you were talking about regarding Xue Yang’s fight/flight instinct, and also a lot of what if, I was feeling pretentious, I feel like this fic is digging into on a level under “what if I just tortured Xue Yang a whole bunch,” which is something about the relationship Xue Yang has to (a) pain and (b) his own body. Specifically, the relative indifference he has toward both. Or...not indifference, exactly, because it’s not like he’s enjoying himself, it still hurts. It’s just...expected.

unremarkable.

which is a lot of what I was trying to convey with Xue Yang’s narration during the whole torture sequence, with the commentary on methodology and how things are mundane or boring, because the suffering itself is mundane! as far as Xue Yang is concerned that’s exactly what suffering is! other peoples’, for sure, which is part of why it doesn’t matter, but also his own.

the world hurts and that’s just how it is and you learn how to cope with that. pain as...a thing that [is] happening.

I also, since you mentioned the fight/flight instinct, think a lot about how Xue Yang is, while he’s very proud and very stubborn, absolutely not someone to pick fights (in general) that he knows he can’t win. Xue Yang will almost always be on the side of “run and come back another day” over “stand and fight when all is lost.” survival, first and foremost.

which feeds into the weird paradox that I kind of hint toward at the end of this fic about Xue Yang as someone who has a definite death drive, who is profoundly obsessed with his own death in a lot of ways, and simultaneously is attached to staying alive above pretty much all else.

“Snap and snarl all you want,” he said. “You’re not going anywhere. And the only part of you I need intact is your tongue, so you can tell me where you hid the Yin Metal you promised. Everything else is optional.”

A prickle of fear rolled down Xue Yang’s spine and he flicked it away, baring his teeth.

I actually do think that, even before they get around to hand-specific trauma, permanent mutilation is one of those things that still scares Xue Yang. which is a short list! there isn’t much that actually either gets to or scares him, but I think the prospect of (further) mutilation does, because I think Xue Yang is very...acutely aware of the fact that his physical capability is a major factor in what has kept him alive and what, in all likelihood, is going to keep him alive moving forward. anything that threatens that capability, that limits him in terms of strength or mobility or otherwise has a disabling effect, is consequently going to be a short road to death, and Xue Yang would much rather die painfully fighting than die as a consequence of not being able to take care of himself.

for Xue Yang, the idea of a return to the kind of helplessness that is tied to his trauma is one of the worst possible prospects to contemplate. in my head this is exacerbated further by the fact that I figure Xue Yang didn’t get much if any medical care post hand incident, meaning that the recovery period was absolutely nightmarish and a whole stretch of time beyond the event itself where Xue Yang was struggling to survive because he’d been damaged.

in some ways I think that period of time probably did more to shape Xue Yang than the moment itself.

Wen Chao grabbed one of the branding irons from a disciple’s belt and pressed it to his stomach. That hurt. More. He clamped his back teeth together so he didn’t make any sound, absorbed the burn, owned it. His. You only hurt if you were alive. And anything you survived made you stronger.

Not that this was actually going to make him stronger. It was probably just going to make him dead. But then again, the worse this went the more resentment he’d have built up. He could use that. Would.

Dead didn’t have to mean finished.

obviously this is pulled almost direct from what Wei Wuxian himself says to Wen Chao. deliberate echoes based on character parallels! we love those.

and yeah, again here about Xue Yang and his relationship to pain, but in a less mundane way this time where it’s about pain as a tool, pain as something he can use. which is another thing about coping, I think - when pain and suffering are a regular part of your life, one way to deal with that can be to convert it into having some kind of purpose or benefit.

which in this case it definitely can. Xue Yang is definitely someone who, I think, has thought a lot about trying to arrange it so he becomes a ghost after he dies. or at least has thought a lot about what he’d do after dying to the person who killed him. 

and when you’re a necromancer by trade death really isn’t the end of the line anymore, just the start of a something new. Xue Yang’s relationship to life itself: about as jacked up as his relationships in general.

He felt the snap of bone in his teeth. Pain shooting up the side of his hand, all the way to his wrist, and Xue Yang couldn’t keep himself still enough not to try to wrench himself away. He swallowed his scream and turned it into a laugh. It was funny, wasn’t it? Funny, that he was back here, again. It wasn’t as bad, though. He knew how to take pain, how to breathe it in, make it part of himself, later turn it outwards magnified tenfold. They were old friends. Practically lovers. 

two things here:

1. the thread throughout this fic of Xue Yang making things funny so he can deal with them, here brought to you by reliving trauma! because it’s funny! right? laugh about it! just fucking hilarious.

I have a thing about characters basically deciding for themselves to make very unfunny situations funny because it makes them less awful.

2. and look, now he can deal with it better this time! he’s Learned. :) :) :)

Everything splintered. Splintered like bones under a wheel, and first thing he tried to struggle to get away but that just hurt worse and then old old old instincts kicked in and he went still, limp, dead.

“Did he faint?”

Someone nudged him with their foot. One part of him roared to grab that foot and rip it off along with the leg it was attached to. Immediately the same thing that’d made him play dead told him to wait.

at an end point where fighting is impossible and running is also impossible, the only thing left to do is play dead and wait it out. this is very much, in my head, a reversion to a tactic Xue Yang hasn’t used in a very long time and does not want to be using now, because it is absolutely the recourse of the extraordinarily helpless with no way out.

which he has been! and is now, but he really really really doesn’t want to be. Xue Yang has built his life around not being that, ever again.

but here it’s not a move he makes planning to turn it around the way he does, not at first. he gets there, but when he first does it I think it is literally just instinct that goes enough is enough and shuts down.

Wen Chao, Wen Chao, Xue Yang thought. My body’s going to give out before I do.

someone should remind me at some point maybe (or not) to write something coherent about my Xue Yang vs. his own body thoughts. specifically the way that, while Xue Yang is very physical and very grounded, I think he has a somewhat antagonistic relationship with his own body, actually. not completely! he definitely respects what it can do for him! but I think he also treats it a little as a slightly separate entity that’s capable of betraying him rather than as a fully integrated part of himself.

not always! but it’s a little bit there. this idea that sometimes his body, and its capacity to be hurt or damaged, is a weakness that he’d like to be able to forgo entirely, if only it wouldn’t mean losing all the good things about having a body. and that’s present here in this line, for me, where he thinks about himself and his body as slightly separate, and his body as something weaker than its Xue Yang core.

[vintagedolan]

when koa gets in, is grayson rude to her ?? what’s his reaction upon seeing her ?

since this do be a concept train, I want to know what exactly Koa feels towards the twins. Does she know them? Des she know about them? I just know that initial meeting is going to be TENSE

(also angry Grayson is hot)

two: character profile

masterlist | request the next concept!

It only took Koa two days to unpack. She had 2 suitcases of clothes and personal belongings, and $300 worth of a haul from target down the street, which included only a few essentials. 

She was lucky enough to have found a three person apartment with one vacancy, which came with the advantage of it already being mostly furnished. The air mattress she bought would have to do in her room for now - she’d spent most her money on a desk.

Writers write, they don’t sleep anyways. 

She met her roommates, Harlow and Gabby. Harlow was from Kentucky, which Koa only knew from the KFC on the island back home. But she was sweet and friendly, and willing to help out wherever she could. She even gave Koa a ride to target, let her fill up the back of her honda with all of her purchases.

Gabby was born and raised in LA. And it was obvious. Her attitude, her superiority and her general lack of regard for anyone other than herself had Koa ready to call her out in the first day, but she held back, knowing she was in for the long haul. 

But that attitude made her even more nervous for her meeting at 11am the third day, in Encino California. Just the fact that she’d been given a gate code was enough to put a pit in her stomach. She wondered how stupid she would look, walking up to it instead of driving.

Harlow helped her find the right bus route, and it took a minute. And by a minute, she meant a fucking hour to plan it out, and a 30 minute bus ride to get close enough to the Dolan’s house to make the 20 minute walk the rest of the way. She missed the Hawaiian breeze, the trade winds coming in off the ocean to stave off the beating sun as she made the journey with her backpack hanging off one of her shoulders up all of the hills of the neighborhood.

By the time she made it to the house, there was sweat rolling down her back, soaking her shirt and making her question every life decision she’d made to get herself there. 

She typed in the code, and as soon as she walked through the gate her blood was boiling.

Five cars. There were five cars in the driveway, parked in two neat rows. The Tesla caught her eye first, plugged into its own charger in the garage.

She knew they had money. But fucking hell. The house itself was more subtle, didn’t scream rich in her face in twelve languages - from the outside anyways. 

It took her a moment to settle herself, to put a smile on her face. The Dolans, it seemed, where the type of people who showed up at the shave ice stand in Hawaii on vacation - not the ones who worked it.

But she’d known that. And she tried to remind herself of exactly how their wealth was going to work in her favor, for the sales of ‘their’ book, which would increase her cut. And so, she smoothed her frizzy hair as best she could and went up to the door.

She didn’t have to knock. Instead, the door swung open, a bright young woman standing there with a welcoming smile. 

“Koa?”

“That’s me.”

“Hi! I’m Adele, the twins assistant.”

Koa swallowed. Of course. Of course they had an assistant. Why wouldn’t they. 

“Nice to meet you.”

“Come on in, it’s hot out there.” Adele stepped to the side, revealing the interior of the house.

It was subtle. If Koa were to write it, she’d describe the warmth. It radiated from multiple centers - the neutral woods, the simple decorations, the dark appliances, the fireplace on the far wall, and the very tall, smiling man with a tattoo sleeve by the door. 

In the next paragraph, she’d talk about the cold. It came from one place, one specific spot in the living room. His back was half turned away, but his stiffness, his annoyance, radiated off his shoulders with less effort than it took him to breathe. 

Koa swallowed hard again.

“Hey, I’m Ethan. It’s nice to finally put a face with the writing.” His voice was as genuine as his smile, which he tried to make wide enough for the two of them it seemed. 

By process of elimination, she knew it was Grayson who stood up rather slowly and made his way over.

“I’m Grayson. Nice to meet you.” His voice was flatter than the mantle behind him. Koa smiled anyways.

They each held out a hand, and she prayed her palm wasn’t sweaty from her walk when she shook them one by one. 

Ethan pulled out a chair for her at the island, metal legs groaning against the hardwood.

“You want a drink?”

“Yeah, that’d be great actually. Thanks.” The formality tasted sour on her tongue. She told herself she wasn’t going to do this, wasn’t going to make herself out to be someone more professional than she really was.

But Grayson had her on edge. Even when Ethan sat down in the chair beside her with two glasses of water, Grayson stood tall on the other side of the island, arms crossed and strong brow furrowed. 

Silence filled the space with emptiness, and Koa drank her water, her rings tinkling against her glass. 

“So-” Ethan started, finally breaking the tension. “This meeting isn’t anything like crazy formal, we just kinda wanted to touch base with you, get to know you a bit and figure out exactly how we’re gonna do this.”

“Yeah, no that’s great. I’m down for that, that’s a good idea.”

“We’ve never even thought about writing a book really, so we’re kinda at your mercy.” Ethan’s laugh wasn’t loud enough to cover Grayson’s scoff. Koa watched him for a moment, analyzed him. He seemed tense, and angry, and sad all at once somehow. The tension in his jaw was sharp, but there was a fear in there somewhere that she could sense. He caught her eye, and she turned back to Ethan.

“Well, this is gonna be new for all of us I think. The thing about this is I’m not writing as me, I’m writing as you two. It’s from your perspective, it’s what you want to say. I’m just here to help you say it. So yeah, I’ll help guide you all in what you want in there and how to arrange it to get people hooked and into it, but-”

“Do you usually ghost write stuff for people?” Grayson leaned against the counter, shoulder broad and wide. Intimidating. The tattoos that peaked out from under the short sleeve of his shirt were delicate lines. Gentle. She looked at those instead when she spoke.

“Uh, no. This is my first time doing it formally.”

“So what do you write then.”

“My specialty is fiction. Novels.”

“Great. Fucking fantastic.” To Koa’s amazement, Grayson was laughing. Running his hands over his face and up through his long hair. Callous. 

“I’m sorry, is writing novels a bad thing?”

“No. But I’m not a character you get to make however you want.” He met her eyes then, the green of them so dark they looked brown as he stared at her. “I’m a person.”

“I figured that much out for myself. If you have an issue, I’m all ears.”

Even she was impressed with how steady her voice was. She clasped her hands lightly together and rested them on the island, the way white business men always did in movies, and stared him down. 

“Full disclosure, the book was more my idea, less Grayson’s,” Ethan chimed in.

“All Ethan’s, none of mine,” Grayson corrected. “Because I know how this shit goes. You’re gonna twist whatever you need to get a story together, make us tell shit we don’t want to tell and put it out for the world to read just to get your bag. And I don’t want any part of it.” 

It was Koa’s turn to laugh. “Well buddy, you’re giving me plenty of content to work with if I’m supposed to be building a character profile on you or whatever the fuck it is you think I’m here to do.”

“Uh-” Ethan barely got the syllable out.

“You know, most people would kill for this. This book will be everywhere, and you have a chance to tell the world something and actually have them hear it. Don’t throw that away so quick.”

Something in Grayson’s face changed, and it made her want to pull her words back out of the air. 

“Yeah, well I’m pretty fucking sure I’ve given the world enough of myself, but thanks for the offer.” 

With that, Grayson turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen.

“Bro-” Ethan called out.

“It’s fine,” Koa muttered. 

“I’m sorry, really. He’s kinda going through it right now, there’s been a lot of stuff going on and he’s just worried. I’ll talk to him, we’ll figure out how to make this work.”

“Right.”

Ethan frowned. “Koa, I’m serious. I really liked your stuff, and I know you can write a kick ass book for us. I want you to, and he will too, I just gotta get him to get his head out of his ass.”

“Good luck with that one,” Koa chuckled, shaking her head. “I’m gonna go.”

“Okay. I’ll text you and we can figure out another time to figure out the details.”

“Sounds good. I’ll brainstorm some stuff.”

“Sick. Sorry, again, for all that. Drive safe.”

Koa put her backpack over her shoulder and climbed out of the chair, chugging the rest of the water in her glass, knowing she’d need it for her walk to the bus stop.

“Yeah. See you later Ethan. Like I said; good luck.”

[wonda-cat]

Some Thoughts on Tommy’s most recent stream (4/29)

(For the record, this isn’t going to be like my other formal analyses. I’m genuinely just ranting here, possibly unedited too. I’m only referring to the characters, unless stated otherwise.

Also obvious warning, this will be fairly negative/critical of the DSMP’s writing, so scroll past if that might bother you. I tend to criticize the media I love, so this is just par for the course in my case.)

Let’s start off with—

The Things I Liked

All of the comedy at the beginning of the stream was wonderful. Ghostbur was incredibly endearing and entertaining as usual, as well as the moments between bench trio. Tommy’s change of plans made sense and the entire journey through the prison was tense and fun to watch. As well as the moment Tommy got caught (it was inevitable.) 

It goes without stating, but cc!Wilbur and cc!Tommy’s acting was wonderful—they knocked it out of the park. I liked the little moments of Tommy calming Ghostbur down as Sam screamed at him. I also loved Wilbur's speech about his time in the afterlife when bench trio found him. 

As well as the moment with Wilbur admiring the sky and calling it ‘his sunrise.’ I’m also glad that the afterlife was explained to be caused by the Revival Book’s existence and not some general eternal torture every character will be sentenced to regardless of anything they did in life. 

But, sadly, that’s about where I stop and have to go into what I didn’t like as much, which is—

Everything Else

I’ll be talking about my major gripes with this particular stream in later bullet points down the line, but for now I’ll bring up the little things that annoyed me. This is all basically nit-picking and isn’t as awful or badly written as some of the others I’ll be discussing later. 

First off, Why is Ranboo There? In the stream before this one, Tommy had Tubbo promise to not tell anyone else about their plan. Did he just decide to tell Ranboo anyway? Why? What was the point of asking him to keep it secret if it didn’t matter? 

Adding to this, Tubbo and Ranboo were rather unnecessary for any of the other scenes that took place. They didn’t have any meaningful conversations with Tommy besides Ranboo asking why he was dreading Wilbur’s revival so much, as well as Wilbur’s comments to Tubbo about him being president. But other than that they have little to no notable speaking lines. 

They don’t Do Anything? Sure, they’re nice to have present so Tommy can vent to someone else and find comfort but, in the end, Ranboo was oddly angry and accusatory with Tommy and Tubbo was practically absent from the scene. The impression I got from Tommy and Tubbo’s conversation in the previous stream implied that Tubbo would be serving a larger role as a distraction, but I guess they changed gears or something? 

Then we have Ghostbur’s involvement, which, yeah, makes sense. Tommy, Tubbo, and Ranboo are not allowed inside the prison, so it’s best to find someone else who can get in without suspicion. But my first assumption, upon seeing Ghostbur with the group was, “Oh, he’s gonna go in there and Dream’s gonna use him to revive Wilbur. That’s the only reason why Ghostbur is here and not anyone else, who would also be willing to kill Dream. It’s not like they’re in short supply right now.”

And I ended up being right, which only frustrated me more. I wanted something unexpected. Something new. Something interesting. Yet, I got the most predictable outcome instead—Tommy fails, Wilbur is revived. 

Next, we have another big serving of ‘Tommy gets blamed for things he has no control over’ part 241. I am so, so sick of characters getting unreasonably mad at and blaming Tommy for anything and everything. It’s not new, it’s not interesting, it’s not fun. It’s just miserable. 

It is,, awful. And it’s highkey frustrating. I refuse to sit through another arc of Tommy being endlessly hurt and blamed for stuff he didn’t do or cannot control. Pick a new event in the plot. 

Try something out of left field. Do something, anything different to this. I’m begging you. 

Now, we get into the major writing pitfalls and shortcomings. Starting with—

We Need to Talk About Sam

I have no idea what is going on with Sam’s character right now. It is so genuinely confusing. I have no clue why Sam reacted the way he did to Tommy because it just doesn’t make any sense. Sam’s entire inner conflict is about him trying to cultivate and protect his humanity and morality while upkeeping a strict, closed-off demeanor.

He follows the rules, even if it hurts the people he loves. Even if these codes force him into a position to be unethical. He feels it is his responsibility should anything go wrong or if Dream escapes, because it puts others in danger.

His strict approach got Tommy killed, and it also took a life and an arm from Ponk. Both of these people are precious to him. So why on earth would he threaten to kill Tommy when, in their last interaction, he was glad he was alive—after he promised to never let something like that happen again?

He respected Tommy’s wishes to stay away from him, and rather politely too. Why would he then threaten to kill him just after weeks of saying Tommy’s death was his biggest regret? That’s not even touching on Sam saying, “This is why I let you die,” as well as blaming Tommy for something that was directly a result of his own refusal to act.

Why didn’t he have Ghostbur also hitch a ride on the same platform with Tommy? Why did he even let Ghostbur into the prison in the first place if he:

A.) Told Ranboo he wasn’t going to let anyone in there after what happened to Tommy.

B.) Also wouldn’t let people in lest they find out about Quackity’s plan.

C.) Couldn’t even kill Ghostbur because he’s incorporeal and thus cannot fully upkeep the contracts he is signing.

There’s also the issue of Sam breaking the rules he abides by when he decided to not kill Tommy after he snuck into the prison, despite it being in the contract. Why is it different now? He went against his own protocol but was also following it by refusing to let Ghostbur come back to the other platform?

Why does Sam refuse to listen to Tommy? Their argument is mind-numbingly ridiculous. Sam refuses to hurt Dream, despite him only being alive because Sam claimed Tommy wanted him alive.

But now Tommy is there, begging Sam to let him kill Dream, and Sam just goes, “No. We’re not killing Dream.” Fucking why??? Sam! You said you wanted to kill Dream at least four times by now! Maybe more!

You were on your way to do it with Quackity and the only thing that stopped you was your promise to Tommy. But now Tommy’s here, telling you to kill Dream and you fucking won’t???? I am absolutely baffled.

No matter how you spin it, it makes no fucking sense. However, if I tried,,, I could possibly come up with a reason or two. Maybe Dream is blackmailing him. Maybe Quackity is forcing him to keep Dream alive until he can get the info he needs (even though,,, why would he trust Quackity over Tommy, who he’s outwardly stated he trusts just as much, if not more?)

It feels like these plots are dancing around each other, trying to keep up this faux sense of conflict that doesn’t exist. But, here’s the thing, contrived conflict is never compelling. I can’t overstate it enough.

Dream’s Plan is Complete Nonsense

The method to revive Wilbur makes Dream seem even more short-sighted than I remember commenting on, during the stream where Tommy was brought back to life. He told Tommy that his plan was to test the book to see if it worked (which, okay fine, I can buy this.) But then he says all along he was planning to revive Wilbur in order to break out of prison, which is ???? This is baffling if he needed Ghostbur in order to pull this off. 

Which,,, I can’t even begin to explain how ridiculous it is that Dream’s entire plan hitched on not only the book working on people to begin with (which he tested on Tommy,,, for some reason, even though he would’ve lost his ‘favorite toy’ if he fucked it up. Which,, why even take that chance in the first place? there are other visitors he could’ve tried this with, surely. Like Sapnap and Bad,,) and it also relied on Ghostbur voluntarily going into the prison just to visit Dream?? And if he didn’t need Ghostbur after all, then why didn’t he bring Wilbur back weeks ago? 

That’s not even getting into the issue of Dream assuming that Wilbur, once brought back, would: 

A.) Want to be alive in the first place.

B.) Actually be willing to help Dream, instead of telling him to fuck off.

C.) Be even slightly capable of helping him at all when he has no allies, no PVP skill, no weapons, no armor, and no knowledge of the prison or its innerworkings. 

Why are the current DSMP writers so committed to making me think Dream is a fucking idiot? I don’t enjoy this. I used to like his character and think he was smart. Stop. 

ALSO, why did Tommy or Tubbo or Ranboo not think of the possibility that Ghostbur could very well be necessary to revive Wilbur? Why did that not cross any of their minds? It was the first thing I thought of when I saw him.

Another big thing that irks me is Tommy and Sam saying they saw Dream physically holding the Revival Book, which,,, how? Why? Dream said in previous streams that he burned the book and that was entirely the thing that kept him from being killed outright. If there was a book still in existence, did he hide it somehow? 

How did Quackity not find it? Why did Sam not take it from him when he was first arrested?? What? 

Also how the fuck did Dream kill a ghost?? They’re incorporeal? How does he not need the body to perform necromancy? That seems almost redundant. 

Also it took a matter of seconds to perform? It took,,, ?? nothing but words and sheer willpower to bring someone back to life? Why does it seem so easy? My mans just,, uses his vibes to bring people back from the dead??? 

Unless the book has instructions regarding that or has a proportional price in order to use, then I’d be more forgiving. But I’m guessing it doesn’t have too steep a cost if Dream could offer Tommy immortality despite that. But I’m sure we’ll get more information on this once Quackity (inevitably) gets his hands on the book. Hopefully… 

Which brings me to my last point—

Wilbur’s Revival (Derogatory)

Since the Revival Book was introduced, I have been actively dreading Wilbur being revived. It is the most predictable, low-hanging fruit of a plotline I could possibly conceive of. I understand that he’s a fan-favorite with a large audience (I love Wilbur more than you’d expect. cc!Wilbur is actually the reason I got into the DSMP in the first place), but there are other characters who could be developed more—utilized more. 

Unpopular opinion, I know, but I am just so incredibly unenthused about this plot development. In fact, I’d almost go so far as to say hate it. 

The Revival Book in and of itself is my least favorite thing the DSMP has ever introduced. It is a lack of consequences simplified. It’s also a lack of commitment to those mortal consequences. 

It is a ‘get out of jail free’ card for when they kill off a character and don’t want to deal with the hole that character will leave behind. Or a way to work around the reason they shouldn’t kill Dream on the spot. 

With Wilbur back again, I no longer feel compelled by his arc the way I used to. There is nothing to really leave a lasting impact anymore. Of course, there was a cater where L’Manburg once stood, but that was dug even deeper later on. You can’t make the death of a friend, of a loved one, worse than it is. It is death. 

The thing I found extremely interesting about Wilbur’s death is the way the other characters portrayed loss. It has consistently been the thing that was most comforting to me, oddly enough. When people die, there will always be loose ends. 

There will be holes left behind and things left unsaid. An unfulfilled promise. A forgotten relationship. A hollow memory.

What I always found compelling was the way Tommy and Fundy and Niki took this mutual loss and had to live with it. How they had to come to terms with the fact that Wilbur was gone and he wasn’t coming back. That they had to make peace with his memory, his legacy, and their connection to him. 

That they’d miss him and love him or hate him and try to forget him. It is a tragedy that someone like Wilbur wanted to die for so long, and in the end, he did. Because in reality, the people you love will die. 

There may be someone in your life that leaves you behind and all you’re left with is the broken pieces. And it is how these characters move on that brings me bittersweet company as someone who’s lost a lot of people. There is nothing more irritating than a story going back on its establishments—to have their cake and eat it too. 

All I want is the bare minimum—a story with narrative stakes and consequences.

The only way I could ever see myself enjoying this plot development is if Wilbur has a redemption arc and attempts to make amends with Tommy, Fundy, Niki, and Eret. OR if he aids in Dream’s downfall in some way and enjoys the simple realities of life and wants to live for the sake of living. I’d find that at least new and somewhat interesting. 

But if he’s just here to be a moustache toiling villain (or somehow worse than after his previous downward spiral), when the market is already so deeply oversaturated with antagonists, then I will probably drop the series altogether. 

Hopefully it doesn’t come to that because I love the Dream SMP and I want to keep loving it for as long as I can. 

I will hold onto more reasons to stay, so long as they keep giving them to me.

[geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde]

Sun Shines Bright

I had the honor of co-writing a fic with my most dearest of soulmates @jaskierswolf for @lindianaj0nes birthday! Happy birthday Linda!!!!!!

All the good parts of this fic were written by Wolfie and the rest was me 😂

Lambden

Warnings: self image/body insecurities, mentions of past bullying

-

Lambert wasn’t sure what was brighter, the sun shining through the windshield of their car or the smile lighting up Aiden’s face as he made another joke. He practically radiated the sun’s rays back with how vibrant he was. Aiden’s personality was everything Lambert’s had never been, bright, optimistic, joyous. He loved the man more than words could possibly say.

A speedbump brought Lambert back to reality, grimacing as Aiden pulled into a parking spot at the beach. They wasted no time getting out of the car, already pulling off his shirt to soak in the warmth from the sun. He had been thrilled by the idea of a beach trip and the second it had become warm enough he had begun begging Lambert to join him. It had taken a lot of convincing on Aiden’s part and Lambert had really only conceded because he knew it would make his boyfriend happy. He honestly hated the beach.

The last time he actually remembered being at the beach, he had probably been thirteen or fourteen and he had been laughed at until he had retreated to Vesemir’s side to hide in the shade of an umbrella. Lambert had always been incredibly pale. His black hair and dark brown eyes stood in a stark contrast to how pale he always was. Even when he did spend time out in the sun he never really seemed to tan, he simply burned.

And sure, he and Aiden had been together for going on six months, and he had certainly seen Lambert in all states of undress, but he had never seen Lambert out in the sun like this. Lambert had been called ghostly before, complaints had been made that he reflected the light back, blinding everyone around him with his unnaturally pale skin. Until he began to grow redder and redder, of course and then the insults changed. His pink tinged skin had been compared to that of a hot dog and, when he really reddened, he had been compared to a lobster.

He wasn’t ready for Aiden to see him like this.

They were polar opposites in this regard, Lambert’s pale complexion was incredibly different from the deep olive tone that Aiden sported in the winter months which easily darkened a few shades when he was finally able to get out in the sunlight.

Aiden was just… beautiful. 

A knock to the window beside him jolted him from his reverie. Aiden was standing outside the car, staring curiously at Lambert. 

Lambert pushed open the door slowly and slid out of the car, shooting a hesitant smile at Aiden, “Sorry, got lost in my own thoughts.”

Drawing Lambert in close, Aiden tilted his head to the side as he studied his boyfriend closely, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Lambert responded, trying and failing to sound unbothered.

Aiden reached up, framing Lambert’s face with his hands, “Hey, what’s going on? Talk to me, Lamb.”

“I just… don’t have the best memories of the beach.” Lambert turned his head, knocking away Aiden’s hands.

Aiden sighed, running a hand through his hair, but he didn’t make any attempt to push the matter. Lambert was grateful for that. He never reacted well when he was backed into a corner, having a tendency to lash out at the ones he loved. That was why he’d been alone for so long, to the point where he’d begun to feel unlovable. 

Aiden had changed that. 

Aiden had been the one to thaw out his heart, to carefully take down the walls that Lambert had spent years building up with every insult that was thrown his way. If he could trust anyone with this, it was him, but that didn’t stop the nerves from crawling over his skin. It didn’t stop his heart from fluttering in his chest like a damn hummingbird. 

He sighed, reaching up to run a hand through his hair only to realise his boyfriend had done exactly that just moments ago. He snorted. They’d just been berating Geralt and Jaskier for acting like an old married couple just the week before, and now he was doing the same thing with Aiden, mirroring his boyfriend without even realizing. 

Fucking hell, he was smitten. 

He took a deep breath as he tried to gather his thoughts, tried to find a way to explain the storm of emotions brewing inside him. It wasn’t easy, but then neither were relationships. That’s what everyone kept telling him, but Aiden was worth the effort. 

Aiden was worth everything that Lambert could give him. 

He reached for Aiden’s hand without words, lacing their fingers together. Aiden’s other hand cupped his cheek and he leaned into the touch, letting it ground him. The warmth of Aiden’s palm against his skin calmed the storm, gave him strength to be vulnerable. 

“Kids are cruel,” he started, squeezing Aiden’s hand and pressing his forehead against his boyfriend’s. “I was different, pale… too pale, a ghost.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Aiden whispered, looking at Lambert with such adoration that he almost wanted to run. It was too much, too overwhelming, but his gaze didn’t waver. He was stronger than his past. He could learn to take the affection that his boyfriend was so determined to lavish upon him. 

“Then I’d start to burn,” he continued before Aiden could distract him, he needed to finish. Perhaps he could get that closure that his therapist was always telling him about. “Fucking lobster!” he spat out, the word bitter in his mouth. 

Aiden’s eyes were a burning fire. He was Lambert’s sun, but right now he was a blazing inferno of rage. “I wish I could murder every bastard who made you feel anything less than perfect,” his boyfriend hissed, gritting his teeth and tensing up his jaw.

Lambert rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to Aiden’s forehead. “No one is perfect, love.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m not, and neither are you,” Lambert teased, “but imperfect is beautiful.”

Aiden snorted, shaking his head as he pulled Lambert in for a chaste kiss. “You’ve been hanging out with Jask too much.” Lambert shrugged. He wasn’t going to admit that he’d stolen the line from their friend. He was quite content to plagiarize. No one needed to know. “You’re a bastard, Lamb.”

Lambert grinned. “And you love me.”

Aiden’s own smile turned coy, and Lambert recognized the mischievous glint in his boyfriend’s eyes. His hands slid up the inside of Lambert’s shirt, and he placed a kiss to the corner of Lambert’s mouth. “I promise that I won’t laugh, sweetheart. I just want to enjoy a day in the sun with my boyfriend, and that includes rubbing sunscreen on your back, maybe even your front… anywhere I’m allowed.”

Lambert scoffed, rolling his eyes as he captured Aiden’s lips in a kiss, mostly to shut him up. Not only did Lambert burn easily, but he also blushed brighter than a tomato. It was embarrassing and Aiden loved it. “I’ll still burn,” he mumbled against his boyfriend’s lips.

“Even more reason to make sure I don’t miss a single spot,” Aiden practically purred. 

“Can’t believe you’re trying to seduce me with sunscreen,” Lambert groaned, pressing his face into Aiden’s shoulder. 

Aiden laughed, and just like that all the tension eased from Lambert’s body. Lambert hated how much the bastard could affect him, he wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t used to letting someone into his heart, but somehow Aiden had managed it. “Is it working?” Aiden asked, his fingers running up the length of Lambert’s spine. 

“Maybe.”

“That’s a yes.”

“That’s a maybe, cocky little shit,” Lambert growled.

Aiden cupped Lambert’s cheek, pulling his face up so they were gazing into each other’s eyes. “I love you.”

Lambert smiled, a warmth glowing in his chest. “I love you too,” he mumbled back, his cheeks undoubtedly burning a bright red. 

Aiden’s laughter was sweet, a balm against the hurt from his childhood, and Lambert knew that his boyfriend was laughing with him, not at him. He was just happy. 

Happy. 

That was a thought, Lambert smiled and ducked his head to hide his blush. He rather liked happiness, and happiness was found in Aiden. 

“So,” Aiden began, “will you join me on the beach? If you don’t want to we can go home.”

Lambert shook his head, unable to stop smiling, “I’ll join you, but you better make good on that sunscreen promise.” 

“You won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.” Aiden responded, leading the way toward the beach. 

Lambert looked around him, taking in the brilliantly blue sky and the sun's reflection off the waves of the ocean and felt peace. It was long past time for him to make some good associations with the beach and with Aiden by his side, this would undoubtedly be the best association he could make.

-

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