#it’s hard to fully enjoy his acting when the material really is just. so shit. but i do like his choices and his mannerisms hes fun.ty sacha

[miqojak]

10 fandoms, 10 characters, 10 tags

Basic rules: choose 10 fandoms that you are part of/support, and choose a favorite character from each of those. Then, tag ten folks!

Tagged by: @dragonsongmakhali and @thefreelanceangel (thanks! I get around to tagged things eventually, lmao)

This isn't in any particular order, they're just in whatever order they came to mind! I'll also note that I've never really understood the concept of 'being in a fandom'? I just...like the thing? So I guess this is more like "A handful of my all time favorite characters, many of whom went on to inspire me to write similar OCs whether I realized it at the time or not." Anyways, I wax verbose on this, so...buckle up, and thanks ahead of time if you decide to read it all!

I'll go through my recent notifications to tag some folks who've interacted lately (also thanks, I've been very ill and out of it for what feels like months now...) @ashenbun, @the-sycophant, @eorzeanflowers, @iron-sparrow, @briar-ffxiv, @merlwybs-wife, @sundered-souls, @superbolided, @ahollowgrave

1. Harley Quinn, Batman

What's not to love? She's quirky, she's (incredibly) smart, she's bi, and she's just one of many female characters I love for being flawed, but better for it! She's dealing with mental illness, and feels like only this one person understands her - and having been wrapped around a narcissist's finger before? I get it. You don't realize they're a piece of shit until...one day you do, or one day your friends get through to you that this is unhealthy, and you're not really yourself around this person. I love that she gets to be her own character these days, and live her own life, and do what she wants to do (when she figures that out) - I actually love that she works more and more with the Batfam in recent material because...she was never a villain. She's always been chaotic neutral! She changed who she was for the Joker, and was always miserable and mistreated no matter how hard she tried to be exactly who and what he wanted (a mewling servant) - and more often than not, even when she did what she thought he wanted, he still punished and humiliated her (like when she almost killed Batman). Bruce has LONG been on Harley's side, and long tried to talk some sense into her...but I think they'd been 'at odds' for too long for his words to get through to her, and it took the initial mutual compassion (and eventual love) shared between her and Pamela for someone's 'get the fuck out' speech to finally sink in. And now she's a fully realized character/woman with her own goals, her own personality, her own style... and if people don't like that she can do crime AND do good stuff alongside the Batfam? They can fuck off - at least, I imagine she'd say that, tbh. It's her choice - she never wanted what the Joker wanted. She just wanted him to notice her. Now she can act on her whims, and live in the moment and live up to her fullest potential! (Plus, while I'm not Jewish, I love that she is! At least in most iterations that I've seen.)

I think 'hurt people hurt people' is another good tagline for her - because the instant she's shown real compassion...be it from Bruce-outside-the-suit, or Poison Ivy? You can see her heart. You can see the sweet, and loving person she is under all the performing...or 'masking', you might say. The tragic clown doesn't need your laughter... they need your compassion. They need you to listen.

2. Mackayla Lane, The Fever Series (I've read this series at least 6 times, and recommend you read it, too!)

Mackayla is a self-centered, pink-loving, girly-girl who doesn't think heavy thoughts - she likes to sunbathe, paint her nails, and enjoy lazy southern days by the pool, when she's not working part time as a bartender. Until her sister is murdered on a trip abroad, and in her fervor to find out what happened - and why it feels like nothing is being done about it - she picks up and goes to Ireland in search of clues her own damn self...and finds out about this whole hidden legacy of the Sidhe, Sidhe-Seers, and why/how she and her sister are tied into this world. It's such an emotional journey! She evolves into someone different a few times throughout this journey of grief, self-discovery, and...eventually, love. She learns to be more introspective, to be more aware of those around her, to look deeper in herself for strength, so as to never be a damsel in distress again - she fights furiously for a sister we never get to see alive. (and I love a good story about a character central to the plot who is dead before the story even begins, tbh.) She goes from someone I'd roll my eyes at, to someone I'd look up to, instead. She learns to be fierce, but not to lose her compassion in doing so. She learns to fight for not just herself, but others. She suffers, and it breaks her for a time - but she comes out of it stronger for it. She doesn't let it hold her down, anymore - she can't afford to, doesn't want to...she wants to fight back.

I love character development, and she's got it in spades...and that's not even touching on all the OTHER amazing characters around her in this series. Also, if you like a spicy slow-burn, this is it. 'Begrudging allies to lovers' is how I'd term it, I suppose. (I still long for a high production value show of this series...especially bc it would appeal to all kinds of people - it even goes post-apocalyptic later on! But not for the usual reasons.)

3. Margo Hanson, The Magicians (The show, not the books, for once)

Feminist icon without being 'cringe' about it - and has a line I love, later on, about how her father told her she could be anything she wanted...until she wanted to be those things. Suddenly, the world wanted her to pick - you can't be strong AND womanly; 'you can't have both,' they told her. And she said 'Fuck You', and did it anyways. She is impossibly strong, but even she feels deeply on the inside. She rarely, if ever, lets it show how heavy the weight of the world is...she just shoulders on, and does the things no one else will do. She stands up for what's right, and now and then she fucks things up, too...because she's only human. But she's never apologetic about who she is. She lives out loud, owns her body, owns her opinions, and the rest of the world better get the fuck out of her way, because she's got a witty one-liner...and a gun.

He's an alcoholic/addict, he's a wet rag, and he's basically the world's best occultist... whether you love him or hate him. (I love bisexuals getting the spotlight in media, so it's nice that he's that, too!) He's a rat bastard who's just trying to get by in a world that's chewed him up and spit him out time and time again - he drinks the pain away, he chases death, and...despite his best efforts, he lives. Because anytime he actually comes close to death, he realizes that it's all worth fighting for, actually - even if he always falls off the path again. Notably, neither he nor Harley Quinn were really supposed to be longstanding characters...and now they're both fully fleshed out people, and a couple of my favorites! I like that he's complex, mentally ill, and still tries to do what's right, most of the time. But the world pushes his hand, and something's got to give, and unfortunately it's usually the people around him who end up paying the price...which doesn't mean that he doesn't carry that guilt for the rest of his life, mind you. But the world itself was saved! ...though he'll never not regret the harm it causes the few people he lets close, and how it then causes so many others to avoid him like the plague, as they assume he's just a shit who will sacrifice his friends at the drop of a hat. He's the reluctant savior. The...anti-hero? I'm not even sure that's right, because he does want to do good. He just... does some fucked up things to achieve that good, because there's often genuinely no other way - and no one else has the fortitude or the know-how to do it but him. So he'll carry that load, so others don't have to. He'll smoke it away, drink it away...anything he has to, to quiet the guilt, and shame of saving the world from the shadows...never being thanked for it, because he doesn't fly around in spandex, or drive a fancy animal-themed car.

4. John Constantine, Hellblazer/DC Comics (An anti-hero I love, a rare bi-disaster MAN in media, and my favorite occultist/wizardy person in fiction, I think...besides Margo.)

Also, his Hellblazer comics are very politically left leaning and he shits on Tories and racists and homophobia, etc. He might hide his pain in ways that make him seem like a piece of shit, but at heart he knows what's right, and that his fellow man deserves better. (Also, it's implied that he slept with/dated King Shark...you go, king.)

5. Dracula, Bram Stoker's Dracula and Castlevania (first the game, then the show) I was obsessed with the book even as a kid, and when I saw the most iconic scene in a video game ever, I was in love with his Castlevania counterpart, too.

Not much else to add to this one - I just think he's cool! I love vampires! I love Mina, as well, for all the strength she shows in the face of almost-certain-doom...but I love a good villain, and Dracula is the perfect villain. Also, it turns out the whole book might just have been one big, gay metaphor from a man in the closet! That's pretty cool to find out, after all these years. I do love the backstory from the film of him being SO IN LOVE with his wife that he cursed God and just...became a vampire. Because 'I fought in your crusades and you let the woman I love kill herself? Fuck you, I'm just never going to die. Now I'll kill all your beloved humans!' Castlevania's backstory is similar enough that I enjoy both iterations of it - a man driven to madness by love, and loss...and in Castlevania, it's not even his FAULT he keeps getting summoned back, which is where this scene below even comes from, which kinda cracks me up. He specifically points out what pieces of shit humans are...they say they hate him, but it's humans who always summon him back to do THEIR dirty work.

6. Taimi, Guild Wars 2

When you first meet her, she's a bobble headed child prodigy, even among the incredibly intelligent race of Asura, with big hair and an even bigger pink bow on her head - who has a terminal illness, and a physical disability from it that makes it hard for her to walk...but it never stops her. Not even once. Commander might be a badass, but they'd be nothing without Taimi's vast intelligence saving the world time and again - and you almost have to watch her die! She loses her favorite mech, which is both a walking apparatus and her best friend, and goes on to lose her best friend/love interest...and the pain never breaks her. She's a literal child, a teen/young adult by current story - and the endurance and compassion and strength she shows are just...making me emotional to even write about. And while she's still alive in story at present (and they've aged her up over time!)... we discussed with her not that long ago in story how she is dying - and she feels the pressure to get as much done as she can before that day. But one day, she won't be with us anymore...and despite all the people that Commander has lost? I'll never be ready to lose my little rat-daughter.

Go play Guild Wars 2.

7. Jaina, World of Warcraft

You meet her as a young woman, in Warcraft - an idealist who believes in peace, and stands against the open, and blatant racism against the Orcs, and the Horde. She strives for this peace so hard that she allows her own father to be executed - and for years, she stands with the Horde, and speaks on their behalf and fights for peace...until those same people go out of their way to not just screw her over, but almost kill one of the only family members she has who accepts her, and steal an ancient artifact that could basically just wipe out the Alliance much like the bomb that was used to wipe out the whole city she was in charge of. She suffers from the guilt of not trying harder to help Arthas. She suffers so...so much guilt, for so many things. She isn't perfect, and she has acted out of hurt, and rage at times - but she grows, and learns, and becomes this whole person comprised of beautiful flaws and complexities. I know what it's like to have your friends betray you, and want to burn it all down. I know what it's like, to need years to come to terms with that hurt. I know the pain of years and years of guilt and self-loathing and 'what-if's'. Jaina has become an amazing woman who has helped people, hurt people, and learned both difficult, and beautiful lessons along the way, to become an ultimately better person who still believes in the rights of all people...just with less of that youthful naivete that got her so hurt and blindsided.

8. Ahsoka, Star Wars: The Clone Wars

I put off watching Clone Wars, and thought I wouldn't like how they worked Ahsoka in...and boy was I ever wrong. Finally, at long last, there's a female character who is given as thorough a Jedi treatment as Luke, or Anakin...if not better! I love analyzing the 'family lineage' of which Jedi mentors which, and it's a bit funny how Qui-Gon was a rule-breaker paired with Obi-Wan-the-rule-lover...and then he ended up with a padawan even more about going against the grain, because Qui-Gon was supposed to have 'raised' Anakin, himself - then Anakin ends up with a Padawan in an attempt to teach him about how to move on from loss...because all padawans grow up and move on with their lives, one day - but he ended up with someone just as hard-headed and outspoken and out-going as him, and he got a taste of what it was like to be his master! All that said, Ahsoka grows and develops and learns hard lessons, and...grows up as a child soldier in a war the Jedi never should have been a part of, anyways - and (spoilers) when she goes on to be wrongfully accused of a crime by the Jedi Council...they try to walk it back later by saying 'oh this was clearly a test by the Force and you've passed, hooray promotion'. Ahsoka is having none of it. It's hypocrisy. It's a lie. They can't put their own pride aside, and admit that they were wrong! And why would she want to be a part of an organization like that? That's not a promotion at all. Now she'd be just like them, and that leaves a sour taste in her mouth. (Not to mention other hypocritical things she notices throughout the series.) She goes on to learn to live in balance - not all emotions are bad. It's not about complete eradication of emotion, but learning which ones to cultivate, and which ones to set aside and think on. She learns what the elder (extremist) Jedi will not - balance. She becomes better than all those who came before...even Yoda, who is in her Jedi-family-lineage; he admits that the Jedi are blinded by their arrogance, but he's among them! I love everything about her story...so far, at least. I've got yet more catching up to do with Rebels and the Ahsoka show.

9. Asajj Ventress, Star Wars: The Clone Wars

Honestly, I like her for a lot of the reasons I like Ahsoka - they're like two sides of a coin, and I think she even says this to Ahsoka later in the series. But Asajj suffered immensely early in life, and lost two father figures (even if one of them was her kidnapper) - to include a Jedi Knight who was briefly her Master, before he was slain in battle. She was picked up by Count Dooku, and had her pain and hate stoked like a fire...and in time he betrayed her, as well. And still...she went on to be resilient, strong, smart, and a master in her own fields of stealth and assassination. She learned hard lessons, and learned to think for herself - she learned that she didn't need any of those men who had come before, in her life...she only needed herself. Her own wits. Her own strength. Her own intelligence. Much like Ahsoka, she broke away from what others tried to mold her into, and became her own woman... whether people liked who she became, or not.

She's a badass. Watch Clone Wars. Read her books.

10. Buffy, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Does this one need a reason? She's an imperfect badass, too! She's a lot like Mac, mentioned earlier - she's girly, but not always. Sometimes it concerns her what people might think of that - being feminine, but strong - but she learns to embrace her strength and ferocity and role in the supernatural world... although not without bucking against the system just like Ahsoka and Ventress do - she makes it her own. She plays by her rules, not the Council's, not her Watcher's...and when she does so selfishly, and screws up, she learns a hard lesson about the wisdom and input of your friends and family, and considering how your choices affect those around you. She decides she will not be a dog on a leash for the Council (maybe she was some inspiration for Ahsoka...) - she's here to do two things: look fly, and kick monster ass. Oh yeah - and empower other young women to do the same.

Honorable mentions for Spike (from Buffy), Lucifer (from the self-titled show), Aurene (GW2), Eliot Waugh (The Magicians), Catra (SPOP)

You'll no doubt note that pretty much all the women on the list are people who suffered immensely/were wronged and eventually grew stronger for that, and overcame both the situation and their own flaws...I love a bitch who can overcome both her own flaws, and the world itself being against her!

[haleigh-sloth]

I remember a few months ago you said that you were much less adverse to endeavor's arc compared to your old way of thinking and I wanted to ask.

¿How adverse you were to his arc and why?

(Moslty asking since I'm curious and my opinion on endeavor did a 180° when I realized that I actually like his arc) (I'm not an apologist though(not even a stan) I'm aware that he abused his family and that he has a responsability I mostly just really enjoy his arc)

Oy....it's just a situation where I am unsure if I would have come to those conclusions on my own without the fandom space I was in, or if I would have thought differently. I've always, 100%, since I started the manga wanted Touya to go home, and I always to some extent knew Endeavor was going to be a part of that. What I used to participate in is the Endeavor doomsday mentality where everyone acted as if the very idea of Enjidemption was just the worst thing to happen to the manga, was being done so horribly, reading literally everything he did in bad faith yadda yadda yadda, behavior that made reading the manga absolutely miserable.

So it's not that I ever had a huge issue with Enjidemption, I just used to have this mindset that it was being done so awful and all that.

I don't think that anymore.

What I do think is that his arc will either sit well with you or it will not. There is no right or wrong answer to that, everybody consumes his arc differently, it affects everyone differently. I don't have an issue with his arc on principle. Mainly because I am fully accepting of the fact that Horikoshi is writing this manga for himself and people he feels may relate to the material of the Todoroki family. I never had any solid expectations for the Todorokis other than I desperately want Touya to go home. What has changed for me also is that I used to not like the idea of Endeavor being involved in saving his son, I wanted it to be only Shouto! But!!! Touya is not written in a way where that can happen!!! He just isn't!!! He wants his dad! He needs his dad. It's a part of the story I've actually grown to really appreciate because Touya is a very hard pill to swallow if you're wanting a victim who picks themselves up by their boot straps and works on themselves on their own. An abuse victim whose answer to begin healing is getting love from the person who hurt him the most. Most of the main victims of BNHA are not like that, not Toga, not Tomura, and certainly not Touya, honestly barely Shouto too (without Midoriya he would have continued what he was doing). It's not for everyone. But I appreciate it for what it is, because it's a really nuanced take on abuse victims irl who still cling to the people who hurt them the most. Touya is that victim. It obviously doesn't represent the whole, but it represents someone out there (many someones).

I still have some criticisms of how it was done, but nowhere near like anything I used to say. I think overall it's done pretty well, and the fact that it exists is not an issue on principle. It's either for you or it isn't and it's up to each reader to decide that.

However I've completely ditched whatever fandom space still spouts shit like "Hori is an abuse apologist who hates abuse victims" because honestly I don't even know where to begin to unpack such a bullshit statement as that.

[maleficore]

FINALLY SOMEONE FUCKING SAID IT. AND YOU WORDED MY THOUGHTS SO PERFECTLY TOO.

On a first run you really feel like a kid in a theme park going WOOOOW 👁️👁️ but then after the second run, third, it stops having that effect because you look deeper and there's just.. nothing. I give Astarion girlies a lot of grief for analysing every fucking twitch of his eyelid and treating headcanons as dogma, but there's really not enough canon material to have fun with. In a lot of places shit is so shallow if you don't read into everything like a maniac.

I too have a 1000+ hours in the game and on each subsequent playthrough after you've discovered more and more of the AHA! stuff that makes replayability in any way fun, things begin to fall flat. Especially with how unwilling the game is to make your choices actually matter. Approval doesn't mean shit with how easy it is to gain it without even trying and how hard it is to lose unless you actively do. Unless things are directly related to their quest Companions won't challenge you in any way or leave, even if you commit heinous fucking acts (it's especially jarring with Wyll. Oh yeah let's just let the gnome slaves die, who cares. Definitely not the Blade of Frontiers!)

At this point I only play as a challenge because combat can get so random, it's the only part of the game that doesn't stop being fun. You just gotta crank up the difficulty once you get better at it. Solo tactician, honour mode, solo honour mode etc. The in-game story matters fuck all to me now. It's way better in my head so why even bother, I've already seen everything there is to see.

I'm dabbling in playing through the original Baldur's Gate games on the side and now THAT is writing. I'm not gonna lie, there are moments where BG3 feels like a sims game next to it. Which is kind of obvious when you look at how the fandom playerbase interacts with the game at large. It's a 60$ oc maker and dating sim with combat mechanics at this point and the devs are fully embracing it more and more with each patch. I keep close to the lore speculation/headcanon crowd, but that side of the fandom is SO big you literally cannot escape it. It's not that it's a wrong way to play, you've paid for the game you can do what you like with it, but that is NOT what devs of a crpg should be aiming for their game to be.

And the thing in general is... You can give the player a lot of freedom and still have stakes, consequences, different endings, but to achieve that you have to not be afraid of upsetting your players. Larian seems allergic to that. They rewrote a LOT of the story last minute because of player feedback in EA (again... Wyll my darling, I'm so sorry for what was done to you) and continue to do so even now AFTER RELEASE. I don't know why people enjoy playing an 18+ game and being treated by it like they're fucking 5 years old and can't handle being upset or something not catering to them, but it seems that is where we're at now as a society and every form of storytelling suffers as a result.

Baldur's Gate 3's biggest writing flaw is the fact that they were so obsessed with accounting for every single player choice that they spread themselves out too thin, and ended up telling a half-baked story because of it.

Rather than giving characters long, thoughtful, UNIQUE scenes that enhanced specific companions' arcs and the overall story, or hell, actually gave you DIFFERENT DIALOGUE later on, they focused on making a story so general and loose that it could account for every possible way a player might interact with it...

And as a result?

It's so diluted with flavors that you cannot tell what the fuck you're tasting anymore.

It's mellow and weak, because it has to be mellow and weak in order for everyone to love the taste...but the result is.

You love nothing. It's surface-level and shallow, and you're forced to do the fanfic and analysis work for it, to account for its milquetoast, non-committal narrative shrugging. That's why the fandom is so big and fun and diverse.

It's a nothing cake, almost like a Disney project designed by marketing executives, trying to appeal to every demographic imaginable.

And some of you like that sort of thing.

But I look at it and say...it's a cake with layers of potential, but none of the decoration, none of the finesse, lacking daring decisions or inventive baker flourishing.

There I said it. Take me to church and beat me with a bible.

[coffeeastronaut]

Insane to me that 13s finale was so bad like ik i literally quit watching during her run bc it sucked so bad but like. What. we got:

straight up incomprehensible plot with multiple irrelevant or unaddressed plot points beginning and then never getting finished or explained in any way (was was the master Rasputin? why did the plan have to happen in two different time periods? what were those two warring planets? why did we need the cybermen AND the daleks? why did the master use his big doe eyes to hypnotize those people?)

Comprehensible plot points that were botched (matryoshka cyberman, kidnapped energy source alien thing, ai holo doctor, yaz being/becoming the doctor in her own right, the doctor has so many friends forever and thats why shes a winner, master x doctor haties 4ever, yaz wondering if she’ll get left behind like other companions/being worried abt turning into them, dan leaving)

Comprehensible plot points that were stupid as shit (the master needing ace and tegan for the matryoshka.. he couldn’t have just kept it in his pocket? forced regeneration into the master so that he can wreck her reputation for some reason? siesmologists being kidnapped and also he graffitied some paintings (for some reason?) and these things are Clearly Related Duh. master wants to um, be the doctor for some reason? yeah im not touching that one frankly. the doctor suffering zero consequences from forced regeneration only to get laser beamed to death but then shes fine to like get ice cream and chit chat but she is dying. Dont think abt it too much.)

chibby coincidence catastrophe. this cunt loves to not write cause and effect lets just get lucky or slip or trip or fucking whatever. teagan slipping on that ladder so that she can get jumpscared but then it’s fine actually she can just slide away like dark souls, graham just like idk chilling and running into ace in the dalek lave pit, random traitor dalek (who is immediately killed and never relevant again???) just happens to contact the doctor just in time for the other daleks to use it as a trap????

and like on top of all this it had so many moments where you can practically feel chibnall begging the audience to get hype bc look xyz thing is here from previous thing on the show! like w/ the classic companions coming back (and i do love them! But WHERE was the relevancy beyond making yaz uncomfortable bc they both left in bad circumstances. Where was it.), or all of the doctors homies showing up to pilot the tardis with her (you WISH you were the stolen earth you WISH-), or the fugitive doctor (sorry i didnt watch that ep. but i know enough to know it was nothing more then a callback.), or seeing all the other doctors in 13s like dreamscape place or whatever the fuck (and what was the point of that? she just idk says hi guys! and then sits in there and waits? hello?), the companion support group (cute concept! joked abt in fandom for years! but so lame in execution im sorry!), UNIT being involved for some reason (this is the least egregious imo, since it slotted neatly into the plot. however since they didnt do anything other then say hey doc check out these paintings! ahhughh cybermen! it’s still stupid as shit.) ace and graham flirting for some reason???? LIKE WHAT WAS THE POINT HERE. Dan leaving (why didn’t he leave at the end of last episode when he was clearly thinking about it??) like ten minutes into the episode, and the doc is like okay bye! [leaves him homeless on the street] like what horrible pacing that was. And where the hell was ryan? Dan and graham come pick yaz up and ryan is no where to be seen. Maybe he could smell the bad vibes and stayed home. Christ

Yaz especially felt just soooooo botched and shitty. As i said before i quit watching after 13’s first season, but i did catch the last five min of the sea devils and even just there it was. Pretty fucking clear that they were confessing love to one another, but we ~cant be together ever~ (says the cunt whos had countless kinda-sorta-girlfriends and at least one wife!) because itll ~be sad~ (you wish you were tenrose you WISH-).

Her competence at flying the fucking tardis, delegating tasks, planning, and executing on all of it was flawless! that’s an insane level of skill for a companion to have, only ever shown in new who with River Song, and outliers like Doctor-Donna, Bad Wolf Rose, or whatever that was with immortal Clara. To have her do all that, especially with such success… it’s crazy. Usually we only see that level of competence from ex-companions, like Martha, Micky, dimension-hopping Rose, or Sarah Jane.

Both those things said. You’re telling me. The Doctor is regenerating. So. Yaz is just. Gonna go home? What? Not even that the the doctor intentionally abandoned her- although, arguably she did- just. She’s leaving i fucking guess. For no reason? After all that? I understand it’s partially a writing thing and mandip leaving the show or whatever, but like, that was seriously the best you can do? She just dips and goes to a support group?

And that feeds into a greater problem with the episode, the idea that all of this works bc the doctor has all these friends. And then she just like. Leaves. She just dips. Hits the fucking bricks ALONE. and again it’s partially the writer swap i’m sure. But what on Gods Green Fucking Earth. Not to mention it all hinges on her having friends but none of them seem to actually like her or be friends with her. it’s like houseplants instead of characters.

absolutely a shameful end to a shameful run of the show. I really hope that jodie/13 get the chance to come back under better writers in the future for audio dramas or whatever.

in conclusion, tldr, or whatever: jesus christ that shit

SUCKED

[xpeachesncream]

fiend | one shot

f i e n d ;

a person who wants something really bad, and keeps coming back for more.

because that's exactly what you are with your boss who dicks you down properly, time and time again.

pairing: assistant!reader x ceo!yg

genre: ceo au | smut

words: 2.7k

warnings: cussing, mature language/implied sexual content, bondage, unprotected rough sex that makes you cry, multiple orgasms, breast play, fingering, oral (m. & f. receiving), pussy smacking, ass smacking, dirty talking, doggy style, choking, i think that’s it? 

note: uh, definitely filthiest smut i’ve ever written by far.. i’m sorry lmao i’m trying to experiment with smut and yoongi is the one i’ve decided to experiment with. again, pls excuse any errors. enjoy!

Your eyes drifted down the hallway, quickly making eye contact with your boss before you turned the corner. Soon after, you heard his foot steps following behind you, his fingers grazing the buttons of his blazer as he unbuttoned them and quickly loosened the tie around his neck as he continued to follow your path.

You bit your lip as you took one last look behind you, seeing him coming for you, the lust seeping through his skin. Apparent in his eyes. In his walk. The way he licked his bottom lip.

You turned the knob to a room, not knowing who's it was but you didn't give a single fuck. All these rich folk and their big ass homes, there was no way any of them truly and actually cared about each and every single room in the house. Before you could fully shut the door, your boss slips himself in, silently shutting it close for you and locking it.

"Running away from me?" Yoongi asks in your ear, his breath grazing your neck.

"There's no fun if I don't, right?" You slightly cock your head to the side, a smirk slowly growing at the corner of your lips. Suddenly, you feel the cold material from his tie wrap around your wrists.

"Hmm." He hums. "Now that I've got you though, you're not going anywhere." He says lowly, holding the tie tightly as he bends you forward onto the side of the drawer against the wall. He finishes tying his tie around your wrist, your breathing slightly hitching when he tightens it. You feel him lift the back of your dress up, your thong exposing your ass cheeks and your folds almost swallowing the material with how bent you are at the moment.

How you got here? You didn't know, but you also didn't care. Min Yoongi was one of the youngest thriving CEOs to exist and out of all applicants, he had chosen your innocent ass as his assistant. You literally had just graduated not too long ago, finding an ad for the position online as you nonchalantly surfed the web and did your rounds of poking for entry-level positions. It didn't contain many requirements, which sparked your interest. But you figured you'd never land the job having interviewed amongst other women and men who had been executive assistants previously for months, even years.

Little did you know that you'd star in your own Fifty Shades of Grey movie, and honestly, all this shit was worth it to you. You didn't care about the dirty ass looks the rest of the staff would give you. You didn't care about the shit talking they'd do. You were never one to worry about little things like that; You did you and you carried your own shit. You knew the women were jealous, and you knew they wanted to be you.

Why would you be mad about that?

It ultimately became Yoongi's weakness. You just had it like that.

You'd watch as they'd take your job and prepare Yoongi's coffee in the morning, hoping to bat an eyelash and shower him in compliments. You sat at your desk smirking to yourself at how hard they tried. Sometimes Yoongi would acknowledge it, most of the time - he didn't. Because he was fixated on you and you had yet to learn that.

He wasn't one to build relationships with his staff, he made sure to keep his personal life separate from his career. He didn't talk much in the beginning, having random people train you before he began to step in and show you the ropes himself. He'd come off cold at first, barely showing any expressions. Barely acknowledging you by name, even. But as time went on, you were able to exceed his expectations, doing things before he'd even ask and you found him slowly unraveling around you. He'd tell you goodmorning as soon as he'd catch sight of you at your desk. He'd ask how your day was. He'd ask for your opinion on certain things. He'd ask for you to fully handle his schedule because he loved the way you treated him so delicately, moving appointments around just so he'd have time to breathe and eat. Then, you'd catch his smile. His laugh. How he'd shower you in compliments, talking about how nice you looked that day. He'd leave you notes on your desk, thanking you for your hard work.

If you weren't mistaken, you had felt a small crush developing for your boss. But, you knew you had to keep it professional. That is - until Min Yoongi had caught on and acted on it. He stood behind you as he looked over your shoulder at the computer screen. He had one hand planted on your desk, while the other rested on the top of your chair. You looked up at him from your seat, his eyes locked onto yours. He edged his face closer to yours, locking your lips with his. You couldn't help but gasp as you quickly pulled away, pushing yourself off after reality had settled in. But he had grabbed your wrist ever so gently, shaking his head as he told you to stop holding back.  Something so innocent had turned lustful, full of desire and passion. You gave in and allowed him to get a taste of all of you. Once you were in, there was no going back. He fucked you so good that you could barely walk, fucking you in all places you could imagine - his office, his car, his home, his kitchen, balcony, now this party that was flooded with such highly important people. All you wanted was him, all you craved for was him; Just as he had craved for you every second of his day.

That's why your ass was bent over on someone's expensive ass black dresser, Yoongi's tie tied tightly around your wrists as he swipes his fingers down his tongue before giving your pussy a good smack. You let out a small whimper as he pulls your panties down and throws them aside, his tongue licking a stripe in between your folds.

"You gonna be a good girl for me?"

"Yes." You whimper once again when you feel him spread your cheeks to take full advantage of the position you were in. You feel his tongue gently probe your entrance before you hear him suck you dry, a slight chuckle releasing from his lips as he pulls away and starts to insert two fingers to stretch you out. His long fingers start slowly, Yoongi full out enjoying the sound of your wetness every time he pulls in and out. He curves his digits upwards, causing you to twitch on the drawer from how deep he's tickling your core.

"Ohhhhh, Yoongi, please." You mewl. Your hands are slightly getting tired from being held behind you, but at the same time, you're so fucking turned on at how rough he's handling you - like he had been wanting you all night. Which, he has. He couldn't believe the audacity you had to show up to this party in that tightly fitted dress, hugging you in all the right places. You caught on quick, teasing him throughout the night by grazing your hand against his, brushing your fingers across his manhood area ever so gently in passing, whispering how good he looked in his suit.

"Stay still. You said you'd be good." He says, quickening his pace while he held the tie down to keep your hands in place. The faster he pumps his fingers in and out of you, the quicker you feel yourself coming undone.

"Hohhhh, fuck." You moan. "I'm close."

"Gonna cum around these fingers, baby?" You want to hold on so badly, but you can't. And you don't. You find yourself trembling on top of the dresser, Yoongi licking up your mess and completely disregarding how overly sensitive you are right now. The pain turns into more pleasure for you, and you want nothing more than to feel him inside of you.

But he has other plans first. He wastes no time bringing you back up to standing position by holding his tie, aggressively getting you on your knees in the middle of the room.

"You better make good use of those hands when I let them go." He says, undoing his tie. You slightly wince at how sore you are from keeping your hands in one position for some time, but you brush it off as Yoongi stands in front of you, ready for you to unzip his pants and let his aching dick free. He loves watching you suck him on your knees, the sight of your pretty face and his dick going in and out of your mouth being something out of this world for him. He ain't ever gotten head so good until he's gotten it from you.

And so you're craving to make him feel just as good as he made you feel, gripping his hardened member when it springs free from his boxers, your tongue following its length like a guide. His dick wasn't the thickest, but it was long and that shit never failed to make you cum time and time again. That shit never failed to tear you up. You suck his tip, your tongue swirling around the pooling pre-cum before you pull back with a pop. You watch from below as he tilts his head back in pleasure, small moans leaving his mouth as his hands are tangled in your hair. He begins to lower you onto his dick, steadying the pace before he wants you to start taking him all the way. His tip tickles the back of your throat while he keeps you there for a good minute, tears streaming from your eyes as you choke on him, saliva trailing from your mouth and his tip once he tugs your head back.

"So fucking pretty when you take my shit like that." He smirks before biting his bottom lip, his grey hair lightly brushing past his eyes. You swallow him whole a couple of times more, more saliva trailing down his dick and between your mouth and his tip before he's satisfied with how fucked out you look simply from taking his dick down your throat. "What do you want me to do to you, pretty girl?"

"Fuck me, please." You whine. He grips your chin and stands you up to eye level.

"You want me?" You nod. "Tell me how much you want me, babygirl."

"I want you so bad, Yoongi. Please. Wanna feel you."

He smirks. "Gonna make you feel good, sweetheart. Don't worry about that." He doesn't hesitate to carry you, albeit he struggles a bit with his pants below his ankles, allowing you to wrap your legs around his torso before dropping you onto the bed. You wiggle yourself up a little higher before he crawls on top, his lips pressing against yours. The kiss quickly becomes messy, your hands getting tangled in his hair as his tongue sensually caressed your mouth. You moan into it while his hands work to bring the bottom portion of your dress above your waist. He pulls down your top portion just enough to expose your bare breasts, his hands giving them a good squeeze before taking your nipples in between his fingers and giving them a good pinch. You let out a small cry as he pulls away from the kiss, your nipples feeling incredibly hard and sensitive from his touch. He brings his mouth down to one nipple at a time, toying with it for a second by using his tongue to flick the bud around before sucking.

"That feels so good." You let out breathily. He lets out a small moan as he sucks on the other before bringing his mouth back up to yours. You wiggle yourself onto him, feeling his tip graze your folds, driving you insane. The heat is pooling in your core, almost unbearable at the fact.

"You want this dick in you now?" He whispers in your ear, nibbling at your earlobe right after. You let out a hiss as you nod, letting out a small whimper as you watch him pump his dick a few times below you. He inserts the tip, your mouth slightly open at how fucking good he feels slowly filling you up. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you grip onto his shirt while he bottoms out, the sound of your wetness bouncing off of the walls while he rolls his hips into you, working inwards and outwards. He keeps your legs open with his hands, making sure your wide enough to feel every inch of him inside of you.

"Fuuuuck, Yoongi." You moan. "Give it to me." He picks up his pace. "Just like that, just like that." You repeatedly whine until you can't cry it out any longer. The pleasure completely takes over your body as you bounce up and down in his grip, his eyes marveling at your titties bouncing around while he fucks you senselessly.

"Always so good to me." He groans. "Taking me in so perfectly. I wish you could see how fucking good you look crying out for me." You were absolutely perfect to him, in every way possible. The music outside is so loud at this point that you're sure no one can hear you yelling his name in this room. Your nails are digging into his clothed arms, his hands now making his way up to your neck to slightly grip onto it while he aggressively hammers into you.

"I'm gonna cum again." You manage to spit out as his hands are barely giving you room to speak. Sooner or later, one to two more powerful thrusts in, you feel yourself spiraling out of control, groaning as you tremble underneath him. He bites onto his bottom lip as he slows his pace to help you ride out your high and places a sloppy kiss onto your lips.

"Turn around for me." He says, you quickly obeying silently. He has you on your fours towards the edge of the bed, his tie now wrapped around your mouth and in between your teeth. He tugs on it ever so slightly to the side, getting a good look at your face before planting a kiss on on your neck. He quickly swipes his hand down your pussy, knowing full well how sensitive you still are. You twitch at the sensation, Yoongi letting out a small chuckle at how sexy and vulnerable you are right now. He slips himself in, letting out a moan at how wet you are around him. He holds onto his tie as he fucks into you quick, tears streaming down your cheeks. You let out a loud moan, but it's muffled through the material of his tie, enjoying every bit of the pain and pleasure your boss is bringing you at this moment. He grips your ass with his free hand before giving it a good smack, groans leaving his mouth as he pumps in and out.

"Who's pussy is this?" He leans forward and asks in your ear.

"Yours." You mumble.

"Who's?"

"Youuuuurs." You cry.

"Shit, babygirl. I'm gonna cum. Gonna fill you up so good." He leans back, his high coming to a close. Your eyes shut close as you feel your walls constrict around him at the same time he lets himself go, his cum coating your walls while you coat his dick. He lets the tie go gently, allowing you to breathe through your high, huffing and puffing to regulate yourself. You let out a small gasp feeling him remove himself from inside of you, cum leaking out of your throbbing pussy. You can barely fix your position, your legs trembling and weak from how fucked out you are. Yoongi takes a napkin from the nearby dresser, wiping you clean before getting himself together and helping you up.

"So much for enjoying the party like you wanted." You tease as you fix yourself in the full length mirror near the bed. Yoongi stands behind you, adjusting his blazer and shirt and tossing his tie aside since it had been drenched from your saliva.

"Didn't have to be such a tease."

"I thought that's what you wanted." He comes from behind you, lowering himself to your ear.

"You know I always want you though, so there's no need to be one. You ever think about that?" He says lowly near your ear as he lifts up your long lost panties with his finger.

[missymurphy1985]

The Dressing Room (Cillian Murphy one shot)

Warning - smut

A/N - Cillian is performing onstage in Grief is the Thing With Feathers.. He has no wife or children here, he's just a carefree bachelor 😉

Request? Yes

Taglist @queenshelby @margoo0 @being-worthy @peakyscillian @peakyciills @janelongxox @elenavampire21 @ysmmsy @cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @namelesslosers @misscarolineshelby @screemqueen @cilleveryone @peaky-cillian @misselsbells06 @datewithgianni @heidimoreton

It was 9pm by the time you'd arrived at the back doors of the Gaiety in Dublin, hoping to catch a glimpse of him as he left the theatre and hopefully get your copy of Grief signed. You had tickets to see the play the following night - opening night - tonights show was just a warm up. You knew he normally left the theatre after the curtain call, avoiding the crowd at the front and never having a drink after a show with the crew. Tonight however, seemed to be the one night he didn't leave on schedule...

You checked your watch - 9:30pm. It was the middle of October and my god you were freezing, but you knew if you left now he'd come out... Just another ten minutes...

9:55pm.

10:15pm.

Your fingers were so cold, you couldn't feel them anymore. Your feet were like blocks of ice at the end of your legs. Looking around, you could hear the throng of people at the front of the building start to quieten - they were clearly moving on too. Your bladder was screaming at you - you knew that last cup of coffee on the train was a bad idea....

You were regretting your decision massively. The only reason you came tonight was because it would be quieter than tomorrow - just a warm up show for close friends and family. Obviously he had decided to stay behind for a while, or maybe he'd left through the main entrance... Fuck it. Wrapping your coat around you, you turned to leave before you finally heard the back door open. Turning, you saw him. Wrapped up in a long tan coloured scarf and beanie hat, but it was undoubtedly him. He spotted you with your book and pen and you definitely saw him sigh and roll his eyes.

"Cillian, I'm sorry I just - "

"Come back tomorrow night and I'll sign whatever you want me to sign," he huffed, turning his back on you and walking towards the car park.

"Are you fucking serious?" You almost laughed, looking to the night sky.

"What did you say?" Shit, you said that louder than you thought...

"I said - are you serious... I've been stood here for nearly two hours waiting for you, desperate for a wee, freezing my fucking arse off, and all you can tell me is to come back tomorrow? The self-proclaimed nice guy of Hollywood huh, not so nice are you? All I wanted was a fucking autograph.." You turned on your heel shaking your head and walked away.

"Hey! I never said I wouldn't sign it, I said I'd sign it tomorrow! Jesus... Some sense of fucking entitlement huh?"

"Fuck you, Cillian." Your angry eyes met his stunned ones for a moment, before you turned around and walked away.

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

The following evening, after a lot of angry discussions with yourself in your head, scolding yourself for acting like a spoilt, entitled brat, you finally decided that the train ride and hotel booking was worth more than your pride. You'd arrived at the theatre with your tail between your legs, hoping he hadn't prewarned the staff about the psycho girl with red hair and banned you from the theatre....

Fortunately nothing happened. You watched the show in awe, his performance was utterly mesmerising... And it was easy to understand why he looked so exhausted the night before - my god the man barely stopped to take a breath!! You felt so guilty.. the thought of asking him to sign anything right now was absolutely terrifying, so you decided not to bother... Picking up your bag after curtain call, you made your way back into the foyer when there was a sudden tap on your shoulder. Turning around, one of the stewards was smiling at you.

"Miss? Were you at the stage door behind the building around 11pm last night?"

"Um... Yes... I know I wasn't supposed to be there and it won't happen again -"

"Could you come with me please?"

You panicked - you knew it was trespassing... He led you back into the theatre and up through the stage into the backstage area. Your hands were so shaky, the panic coursing through you, when your eyes suddenly made sense of where you were - the large door in front of you with Dressing Room clearly emblazoned across it...

The steward knocked, and a thick Irish brogue called him in. He opened the door and ushered you inside before you could protest. Sat on the couch was Cillian, his makeup freshly removed and he was back in his normal clothes again. On the table in front of him was a bottle of rum.

"I owe you an apology... What's your name?" he looked up at you and smiled, offering you a glass.

"I'm sorry, what the fuck?" You asked, looking at him like he'd grown an extra head.

"I was an ass last night - figured one drink with me and an autograph might soften the blow a little?"

He offered you the glass again and you took it. He clinked his glass against yours and knocked the rum back in one, you did the same. Rum wasn't your normal beverage of choice but it'd do for now. He poured a second glass each for you and you sipped this one.

"Haven't eaten since lunchtime - this is gonna go straight to my head," you laughed.

The two of you chatted - over an hour had gone by before either of you noticing. You were sat on the couch side by side as he continued to top your glass up. Now and again your hands would meet, or legs brush up against each other, and you swore you saw him bite his lip and smile every single time... Was he flirting with you?

"Don't you have somewhere you need to be?" You asked after a short pause.

"Everyone thinks I've already gone, only the steward knows I'm here. This is where I was last night - hiding. Pretty sad huh?" His words were definitely slower now the rum had kicked in.

"Not really - it's an intense show, needing some downtime on your own isn't a bad thing?" You were definitely slurring your words a little, trying hard not to be a complete lightweight and failing miserably.

"I owe you an autograph..." His blue eyes met yours, another lip bite... You felt your stomach knot...

"Yes you do..." You had to squeeze your thighs together to suppress the sudden ache you felt between them, his eyes were seeing into your soul, you could feel them burning into you.

"And where would you like me to sign?" You reached into your bag and groaned - you hadn't brought the book... You hadn't brought anything... A thought entered your head... And you'd had just about enough rum to ask for it...

"Ever had a tattoo of your autograph done before?" You asked him. He shook his head.

"Nope. So you want me to sign your arm?" You shook your head.

"Leg?"

"No."

"Back?"

"No..."

"Then where?" You unbuttoned your blouse from the neck down, his eyes widening with each loosened button. You stopped unbuttoning once you reached your cleavage, pulling the shirt off one shoulder to hang by your elbow. You tapped on your collarbone.

"Maybe a quote from the okay, written across here, and your autograph underneath?" His eyes covered your chest, following your finger as you traced a line over your collarbone.

"Uh... Yeah, yeah I can do that... Let me grab a pen..." He grabbed one from the desk, and came back, kneeling on the floor between your legs as he tried to figure out the best angle to get at your skin without smudging it... Or touching something inappropriate...

"This is tricky... Can you lay down?" He asked, and you lay on the couch - your blouse hanging further down now exposing the black lace bra underneath. He cleared his throat and focussed on your future tattoo. It was impossible to write it without laying his right arm directly on top of your breast, and his left hand holding the skin on the right side of your chest tight, just above your right breast. Once he'd decided the right quote, he set to work, his right arm brushing across your nipple as it moved, sending vibrations and shockwaves through you. You couldn't help but feel the dampness between your thighs, and you had no control over how deep your breathing suddenly became and your eyes fluttering closed at the sensations.

"Enjoying yourself?" He asked, watching your thighs clenching.

"Mhmm.."

"What is it you're enjoying, exactly?" He moved his arm again, brushing over your breast.

"Mm... That... Do it again.."

"This?" His fingers traced over your left breast at the tip, circling the skin softly, tracing slightly under the material of your bra.

"Yes..."

"I can't get all the way across your collarbone... Your bra strap's in my way.." he whispered, and you arched your back as he reached a hand underneath your blouse, pinging the clasp skilfully. You pulled your arm out of the sleeve and he pulled the bra strap down over your hand, lifting it off your chest. Your left breast fully exposed now, and your left hand resting on your abdomen, scraping your nails over it, so tempted to run it down over your core that was now desperately throbbing, aching for attention. He looked down at your hand, and smiled.

You bit your lip as he stretched the skin again, setting back to work. He knelt closer to you, he was hovering over your chest now and you felt something digging into your right arm. Shifting slightly, his obvious erection was directly underneath your forearm. You bit your lip, and moved your arm so it was rubbing against it, making his hand slip, a deep groan emitting from his lips.

"I need your name..." He moved his mouth to your ear, the pen gone and his hand cupping your left breast, "Need to know what name I'm calling as I bend you over this sofa..." You gasped as his lips met your earlobe, his fingers squeezed your breast, moving down over your abdomen and under your jeans. His eyes met yours, looking for permission. You nodded, telling him your name.

"Y/n... If you don't tell me to stop now, there's no going back..."

"Don't you fucking dare." That was all he needed to hear. He stood, moving to the door and locking it, turning back to find you also standing. His body met yours, lips crashing together as your hands raked through his hair, tugging at the strands. He lifted you off the floor, your legs wrapping round his waist as he carried you to the wall, pinning you against it. You could feel his erection pressing into you through your clothes, which he soon began to remove quickly. You stood bare in front of him, as his fingers moved between your legs, tapping the inside of your thigh to open them. You lifted one leg in the air, hooked under your elbow, as his fingers teased you.

"No playing... Need you inside me now, please..." You gasped, as he unzipped his jeans allowing them to fall to the ground. Your hand quickly slipped inside his boxer shorts, gripping the shaft of his erection and moving your hand up and down making his hips buck. You removed your hand, only to pull the shorts down to meet his jeans on the floor around his ankles. Lifting your body, he wrapped your legs around his waist and lined himself against your slick opening, pushing inside you slowly as you both let out primal, deep groans.

"Holy shit.. so deep, Cillian fuck..." Your breath caught in your throat as he bottomed out, his lips quickly capturing yours in a heated exchange, you hands digging into his shoulders as he began to thrust up into you. You rotated your hips as much as you could to meet his thrusts, soon stopping when his desire took over and he increased the force and pace of them.

"You feel so good.. clamping that hot little pussy around me... You gonna cum for me y/n?"

"You're gonna have to do better than that Murphy..." You smirked, biting your lip, hoping he was about to make good his threat of the sofa...

Within seconds he had you there. Your upper body bent over the back of the couch as he pounded into you from behind.

"Harder... Harder!!" You begged, your orgasm so close it was almost painful. You could hear him panting behind you, his cock pulsing and throbbing deep within you and you knew he was as close as you were.

His hand reached over your back, and gripped your long red hair - pulling it back, setting you on fire. The coil in your abdomen exploded, your core erupting with the most powerful orgasm you'd ever had.

"Fuck yes... Fuck.. yes... Y/n, fuck..." He grunted behind you feeling your walls contracting around him, before releasing his load deep into you, your name on repeat as he came.

He skilfully turned you whilst remaining inside, hoisting you up so your legs were round his waist again. You rested your head against his shoulder as he carried you to the couch, sitting down with you still in his arms, his cock still inside softening.

"That was something else..." He panted, stroking your back and neck.

"That was amazing..."

"Am I forgiven?"

"Hmm... More work needed." He pulled you back and grinned.

"So what do I have to do to earn your full forgiveness?" You grinded your hips against him and nudged his nose with yours. He bit his lip and felt himself hardening again inside you. Your hips rotated on him, squeezing your walls around him, edging him back to full erection deep within you.

"You gonna ride me?"

"I'm gonna ride you so fucking hard..." You moved his hands to your breasts, leaning back to give him full access to them and bounced like your life depended on it. He squeezed your nipples under his fingers, watching your soaked core devour his cock, bouncing on it.

"That's it... That's it..." You gasped as he moved his hand down to rub your clit under his thumb as your hips rocked against him, your hands resting on his knees behind you.

"You like that? My fingers rubbing your clit while you ride me?" His voice was like velvet against your ears, his words edging you closer. He pressed your clit with his thumb harder, his other hand rolling your breast under his palm, squeezing the flesh.

"Please... Oh fuck I'm gonna cum Cillian..."

"Let it go, I've got you baby.." your core throbbed as your orgasm swamped you, taking him with you as he threw his head back against the sofa, filling you up a second time. Both of you panting against each other again as you came down from your climaxes.

"Fuck me... I have to be forgiven now..."

"Getting there," you smiled, pulling your body off his and grabbing your clothes off the floor. You pulled out a notepad and pen, writing something down and stuffing it in his jeans pocket on the floor. You dressed quickly, his eyes watching your every move.

"Leaving already?"

"My phone number is in your jeans pocket. Call me if you're in town again?" He smiled and nodded, promising to take you up on the offer. You leaned over him, stealing one more kiss, before heading out the door.

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

Your phone buzzing on your bedside table woke you the following morning. A number you didn't recognise calling you. Answering it groggily, the voice suddenly woke you up with a start.

"I still owe you an autograph."

[notaninterest]

Carnal *2* (Hisoka x Reader)

[A/N]: sorry for not updating on this passing Thursday! I had a major life event occur so i had to break away for a week. here's chapter 2!

also i know it says [Y/N]'s POV, but it doesn't tread all the way back to the first few scenes. It's a continuation from where you left back last time :)

enjoy!

Warnings: graphic smut, heavy sexual themes, Hisoka becoming tired.

‘Well at least he’s handsome.’ You had thought to yourself when you first spotted him in the corner of the bar, almost completely hidden by the shadows. You had to avert your eyes quickly so he didn’t notice that you noticed him, focusing back on your pole work. You have to attract him to you somehow. But how?

You can feel his gaze on you and you swallow, deciding to switch up your routine. You clench both hands on the pole, keeping your arms straight. You make sure your ass is in full view before you start gyrating your hips to imitate the act of doggy style. You could feel your nervousness bringing your nen out so you quickly use Zetsu and switch to In to keep any traces of aura away. It was only for a split second. No one could’ve noticed it. You stand back up, hands still on the pole as you walk up to it, beginning to try to climb up it. The atmosphere was the same, rambunctious one it’s always been, but a clean sense of tension easily struck your body. You stumble a bit as you attempt to further climb up the pole. Damn! He noticed. You stuck out like a sore thumb to him. You could tell by the way his gaze bore into your face rather than your body. He wasn’t interested in what you had to offer, like the rest of the people here. He was instead interested in figuring you out. Fuck. You desperately try to focus on your dance, but as you’re sliding down the pole, your crotch rubs against it and you gasp. Touches like these were a stranger to you. You never had the time to form any sexual relationships, so you never experienced something like this before. You let up, feeling embarrassed but quickly continuing on with your dance. The music ends soon and you walk as calmly as possible back into the dressing room before beginning to panic. Your cover was blown and there was a limited amount of time you had before Hisoka approached you. You decided you were done with dances for the night and you would refuse any lap dance requests. Sex was a service you didn’t provide so you didn’t have to worry about that.

Until the boss that had hired you waltzed into the dressing room a few minutes later, connecting his slimy eyes with your clearly panicked ones. You came to him four months ago asking for a job after you had set your sights on hunting the magician after passing the Hunter exam. You had found out he frequents this specific joint once a year to “blow off some steam” according to your informant. You planned to catch him off guard while he went to the back rooms with one of the dancers and, hopefully, end his reign of fear amongst the people. The owner of the strip club allowed you in and you worked your way up to becoming one of the better dancers there, despite not having any previous dancing or sexual experience. You were impressed with yourself. Plus you made bank, so it wasn’t a bad profession.

Your boss walks up to you, pulling you aside. “The man you’re looking for has requested a room with you.” You flinch. “What? I thought I told you--” “Cut the shit. I already tried to explain to him that it’s a service you don’t provide, but he was rather...persuasive.” You could immediately tell by the way the man’s eyes shined that there was money involved. Must be a hefty amount too judging by the way he was talking to you. “Anyway, go please him. I’m not giving you a choice. It’s either that or you lose your job.” The boss says before turning around. You swallow your pride. You couldn’t afford to lose this job. You kind of enjoyed it. “For how long?” You ask. “The rest of the night.” The man replies before slinking off into his office. “What?! You expect me to stay holed up in this room for twelve hours?!” You angrily spit, but the boss was already long gone. Your hands clenched into fists. This bastard! He requested you for twelve hours?! You were going to give this asshole a piece of your mind.

_______

You squeak as your weak body is flipped onto your stomach. He intended to use the rest of the time on you?! You turn to look at him over your shoulder. “Wait just a damn minute! You’re crazy if you think for another second that I’ll- ah!” You expel a noise of surprise as Hisoka bites your left asscheek, a sultry look settling in those damned yellow eyes of his. He licks over the area to soothe it and you grit your teeth, looking at him with eyes full of anger. You flip back over to face him in all of his...naked glory. You blush at the sight before you. He’s certainly what those others call well-built. He’s bulky, but the perfect amount for his frame. The magician sits up on his knees, watching your dilemma. Your eyes trail down his body, following his ripped chest, the eight-pack that lays on his abdomen and then to his still hard cock, which makes your eyes bug out of your head. How did that thing fit inside of you?! Your face is a scarlet red as you stare at it, seeing it covered in your juices. “Do you like what you see, [Y/N]?~” Hisoka husks, smirking at your reaction. He knows he’s well-endowed, the cocky bastard. You clench your teeth, shooting a glare his way. “Listen here you son of a-” “Ah ah.” He silences you quickly, flipping you back onto your stomach. “While that little exchange was certainly entertaining, I’m not finished with you yet.” His voice grows more serious and you find yourself swallowing in nervousness. “Now, how long have you been here, scouting me out?” He asks, a claw trailing up your sensitive back. You can’t help but react, arching your back as the sharp finger rolls up your spine. “L-Like I’ll tell you anything more.” You huff, glaring at him over your shoulder. Hisoka stares back at you before smirking that trademark smug smirk, returning his hand back to his side. “Very well…” He seductively drawls, grabbing your ankle and dragging you towards him. You squeak at the sudden movement, feeling his heat behind you instantly. You let out yet another noise of surprise as your lower half is lifted into the air, stopping at a certain height. You look over your shoulder to see that your pussy is once again level with his mouth. You blush even more. “N-No. Not again.” You whimper, looking helplessly into his dominant yellow gaze. Hisoka chuckles. “Then tell me what I want to hear.” He deadpans, an unamused look on his face. You can’t reveal the statistics of your mission, so you lower your head in defeat. “I cannot tell you…” You whisper. “Then I will continue until you do.” He remarks lowly. You feel his talented tongue descend on your lower lips once again, and you can’t help the moan that spills from your mouth.

Damn. He’s really got the upper hand on you. There’s no escaping him as he has an iron grip on your hips. You cry out when he sucks on your sensitive clit, wiggling a little in his grasp. He chuckles, simply tightening his grip. You squirm fruitlessly, letting out obscene noises as he relentlessly snacks on your leaking pussy, leaving you no room to escape. You eventually hit your peak again and spill all over Hisoka’s mouth. He greedily laps up all you have to offer, moan slightly while doing so. After he’s finished, he drops you on your stomach, allowing you to recover from your orgasm. You flip into a sitting position, sighing and angling your head downwards a little. Hisoka suddenly shifts behind you, whispering, “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Your expression hardens into one of anger. “You...You asshole!” You snap, swinging your fist into his smug face, which materializes into a cloud of dust that dissipates as soon as your punch is thrown. “Oh [Y/N].~ Your continued attempts to hurt me only serve to turn me on further.” He purrs into your left ear. In your anger, you’ve failed to notice that he’s broken a sweat. You sneer, throwing back your left elbow in another attempt to hit him. You’re met again with thin air. All of a sudden, you’re picked up by your shoulders and thrown face first into the bed. Before you can even lift yourself back up, a powerful hand pushes you down by the shoulder blades, pushing your front down and leaving your backside up. One of your flushed cheeks presses into the mattress and you get a peripheral view of Hisoka admiring the position he’s put you in, his yellow eyes dark with desire. “This one is my favorite.~” He rasps, placing his cock at your entrance. Your eyes widen. You squirm a bit, trying to maneuver away from him but he holds you there by your scratched up hips, not letting you escape. “Anything you have to tell me before I start again, [Y/N]?~” He murmurs. He runs his dick up your wet slit. You mull over your options, finding that there’s only one you can make. With your silence as his answer, he slowly enters you again with a shaky breath. You open your mouth in a silent scream as he splits you open yet again. “O-Oh fuuuck.” You wail into the bed sheets as he fully seats himself in, clenching within your fists tightly. Hisoka chuckles and begins thrusting, the pace hard and punishing. His hips smack against your ass, the sound of skin smacking into skin filling up the gaps between your moans and his. He digs his claws into your hips, cutting deeply into them. You yelp in pain, but it’s soon overshadowed by the pleasure of him thrusting into you. You faintly notice the blood running down your legs, but you pay no mind to it. “Ah!” You scream in a higher octave as he hits into you rather harshly, brushing a rather sensitive spot within your pussy. Hisoka pauses, stopping all motion. “Oh?” He murmurs to himself. You can feel the devilish smile radiating off of him. Your eyes are closed so you don’t start crying from how unbelievably good it feels. Your body is shaking from the immense pleasure and you can’t stop the desperate whimper that leaves your throat from the lack of friction. “Hmm…” Hisoka hums, a delighted chuckle leaving his mouth at an apparent discovery he’s made. Just what was this clown up to?

You let out an obscene cry as he resumes his thrusting, aiming for that sensitive spot deep within you...and he hits it every single time. “H-Holy- AAAA- !!!” You scream as loud as you possibly can as this man hits this point every single time with each well-timed stroke. Tears prick your eyes as the pleasure is immense. You can feel your orgasm coming, but it feels different from the others. “Wai- S-Stop! I don’t-” Your cries fall on deaf ears as he lifts you up by the hair, pressing your back against his chiseled chest as he fucks you upright against him. You can hear him panting heavily in your ear, an occasional sound coming up. He wraps his pale, brawny arms tightly around your midsection, fucking you as hard as he can. He continuously hits that point deep with you, making you scream an ungodly amount. “His-Hisoka! S-Stop! I won’t-” You shake your head from left to right, reduced to an incoherent, blubbering mess. Hisoka, however, seems to be riled up by the fact that you said his name, thrusting into you with more fervor. With one last thrust up into that sensitive spot, you cum. But as you cum this time, you squirt. Hisoka holds you upright as you make a mess of him, the pillows, front-end of the sheets and fluffy throw-over. You convulse around him as you spray the bed, your body jolting each time you squirt. Your mouth is agape the entire time in an airless wail, drool dripping down your chin. He lets go of you when you finish your spectacle and you fall limply onto your cum, unable to move. You listen as he takes a deep breath, shakily exhaling. “Oh wonderful.~” He moans, moving into your recovering vision. The black spots eventually fade from view and your face to face with the smiling, sweaty magician. He holds an expression of happiness, one that contrasts drastically to your defeated one. “What could you possibly be smiling about now?” You grumble, your extremities feeling numb. “I haven’t had one that can squirt in so long. You’re going to be so much more fun.~” He lustifully drawls, backing out of your view soon after. So that’s what that was? It sure is intense. You feel him petting your head, laying on the other side of you. He’s waiting for you to recover. How...nice? The silence that overtakes you two is comfortable. It prods a stem of information out of you. “Four…” You say, breaking the silence. “Four what?” “Four months. I’ve been stationed here to scout you out for four months now.” You whisper, shakily raising yourself up to a sitting position. Hisoka looks pleased. “That’s all I’m going to tell you.” You firmly say, refusing to spill anymore vital information.

“Mm...I don’t think it is.” The transmuter frowns, grabbing you by the neck. He gives your throat a light, warning squeeze. “Eh?! But you used me already! You’re done!” You exclaim, your two nimble hands wrapping around his wrist in an attempt to retch his hand off of your neck. Hisoka simply smiles, pointing downwards. “I haven’t even cum yet.” His point is emphasized by his still hard cock, which is absolutely drenched in your juices at this point. “And we’ve still got nine hours left.” He smiles, letting go of your throat. You swallow. Just what have you gotten yourself into? You lean into your hands, using the support to keep you upright. You look down at him as he rests against the semi-soaked pillows with his hands tucked beneath his shoulders, his eyes closed and that same signature, lazy smug smirk written all over his face. You decide to run your gaze over his bare body, taking it all in. This is the first and most likely last time you’ll ever be able to see it, so you take advantage of it.

So...this is what the body of a trained mass murderer looks like. There’s only muscle, not a single ounce of excess skin being apparent on him. You look up at his angular face. All points of his face were sharp. Not a plane untouched. It’s then you notice his hair sticking to his sweaty pale forehead. His makeup appears smudged as well, making it apparent that he’s wiped his face from the amount he sweat. He still holds a formidable amount of stamina, but he can sweat. At least he’s not invincible to normal human woes, unlike many others claim. He’s not nearly as sweaty as you though. You look over the muscled plane of his chest. His two pectorals jut out intimidatingly. He’s certainly ripped, judging by his eight-pack that follows suit. You wonder what intense training he had to undergo to obtain abdominals of that capacity. You shiver. Nothing good. You know that’s for sure. Then comes his erection, which is resting against his stomach, hard as ever. It twitches, surely unhappy that it hasn’t released yet. You swallow. You have no idea how you’re going to get him to achieve his peak after you’ve reached your own around a total of four times now, each more intense than the last. You shift your gaze, moving to his toned legs. He had some killer thighs. You can only dream that your plushy thighs will reach that amount of muscle and definition. His calves were just as strong. His feet were clawed just like his hands. You realize that the more you stare at him, the more you lust for him. Damn your carnal desires. Yet...you have him for another nine hours. You can take your fill...and surely you wouldn’t want to be near him again, right? Yeah. That has to be right. You decide that it’s your turn to become the predator, smoothing a hand over his abs. The hard muscle contracts at your touch and you see him open one yellow eye in the corner of your left eye. Perfect. Let him watch you enjoy his body. You trace the dips in between each muscle, watching intently as the abdominal muscle contracts under each of your touches. It’s kind of beautiful in its own sinister way. You continue this until you reach your face down, running your tongue over each one instead. You hear him grunt under his breath, a smile forming on your lips as you proceed, licking all the way down to his member. As soon as you reach it, you stare down at it as if you’re starving, craving the taste of it. And at the current moment, you were. You stand his dick up with your hand, gazing at the length and thickness of it. This monstrosity has been inside you twice and you didn’t have much time to explore it with your mouth earlier. You peek over at his face. Both of Hisoka’s yellow eyes are open, watching you closely. He remains in his restful position, seeming to encourage you to discover on your own. You smile to yourself.

You move your hand up and down his dick softly, watching and feeling as it twitches in your hand, excited to have some attention. You smirk, moving so you’re in between Hisoka’s legs this time. He moves to accommodate you and you get yourself comfortable between them, staring up into his dark gaze as you hold his hard cock. He’s not smiling. You keep eye contact with him as you kiss the tip of his dick, kitten licking it. His upper lip twitches, but he remains impassive otherwise. You smile, accepting the unspoken challenge. Keeping your eyes trained on his, you suck his tip into your mouth, running your tongue around it. It appears to be sensitive, telling by the way he hisses and the way his body shivers. His eyes narrow a bit and yours remain open, wanting to see his raw reaction. He doesn’t break eye contact with you. You suck him further into your mouth, slowly of course. He grits his teeth, sucking in a breath. You run your tongue on his sensitive underside, drawing a shaky exhale from him. You keep going down, relaxing your throat when he reaches that point. His yellow eyes alight in surprise as you keep slurping him down all the way to the bottom. As he cock fills up your narrow throat, he throws his head back, strain apparent in the muscles of his neck. A choked moan leaves his lips and you cheer victoriously in your head. Your lips eventually touch the base of his dick. You’ve successfully swallowed him whole. You pause for a moment. Then, you swallow around the mass in your throat, listening as a laboured breath exhales into a deep, breathy moan. With your newfound skill, you lurch back all the way, sucking yourself back to the bottom quicker now. A heated hiss reaches your ears and you watch as his head raises back up, his eyes reconnecting with yours, alight with a fiery desire. You smile in your head, looking at him with an innocence that drives him utterly crazy. You continue your ministrations, drinking in all the noises the magician makes. “S-Such a - uhhn! - ggggood girl!” He pants, a strained smirk reaching his face. Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the sound of his praise. This must’ve turned him on more than anything because you hear a loud, “Ohhh fuuuck!” You smile to yourself, continuing to suck him off before he eventually spills into your mouth, which you swallow. You pull back and look down at Hisoka, who’s panting heavily. Sweat adheres to his whole body. His usual slicked back hair is now all over the place and his usual calm demeanor is replaced with that of a mess. You look down at him in shock. You caused...this? You smile. You’re proud of yourself. It must be one of the rarest things to see Hisoka Morrow looking like this. And damn if you didn’t deserve it!

“Tch.” Hisoka tuts, looking away in...shame?! “Eh?! What?!” You exclaim in confusion. One of the most feared people in the world? Shame?

“Not very many people get to see me like this…much less a sex worker like you…” He sighs, an aura of utter shame surrounding him. Your left eye twitches. “Excuse me! I’ll have you know I’m more than just a sex worker!” You yell at him, smacking his shoulder for added effect. You grit your teeth, crossing your arms before you get too rough with it. “It’s just…,” He continues, piquing your interest. “None of them have made me do this before.” And he scoots up, tucking his legs into his body and sitting up in them, turning so his back is facing you. You gasp as you see deep scratch marks lining up both of his shoulder blades. They lined up perfectly with Hisoka’s own hands. “You...did this to yourself?” You ask softly, reaching out to prod around the wound. He covers it with his hand though, turning around to face you once more. Your hand then lands on his pale cheek instead. Hisoka pauses for just a brief moment, stunned. He enraptures your right hand in his left one, moving your hand closer to his mouth. You yelp in surprise when he bites your palm, throwing your hand away from his face. He smirks. You shake your hand in an attempt to will away the pain, glaring at him. You shove him with a Nen-powered blow. It clearly doesn’t do anything and he slowly falls backwards, dramatically plopping on his back. You roll your eyes. A lazy smile makes way to his face. “Say [Y/N]...Would you be willing to do more work this time? I’m feeling a bit tired.~'' It's only then you notice he’s erect again.

You bristle. “What?! Hisoka, you horndog!”

Hisoka chuckles deeply. “Sorry, I can’t help it staring at you.”

You blush heavily from that comment, crossing your arms again and turning away. You hear him move too late before you can evade and he grabs you, pulling you atop of him. You have to place your hands on his chest to stop yourself from falling forward. You first look down at him in some sort of surprise, then one of anger. “I’m not just a sex worker, Hisoka.” You snidely comment, sitting up straight and crossing your arms. He frowns. “I know you’re not, [Y/N].” He replies honestly, nothing giving way to any form of deception whatsoever. You look at him again and sigh. “I can’t.” You mumble. Hisoka pauses. “Come again?” “I can’t.” You say louder, looking away bashfully. Hisoka tilts his head. “Why not?” “Because I’m not turned on.” You say flatly, looking him dead in the eye. His yellow eyes grow dark with lust. “I can change that.” He rasps. “Yeah but you don’t want to do any-“

“Come sit on my face.”

You blink.

“What.”

“Come sit on my face.” He repeats in that same seductive voice of his, the same mischievous grin on his face, the same sultry look in his yellow eyes.

Your face shines a brilliant shade of red. “What’s wrong, [Y/N]? You’re looking a bit...flustered.” Hisoka chuckles. You swallow your pride. Hisoka knows what he’s doing. “Okay. I will.” He smiles deviously at your consent, watching your crawl up and over his face. He places his hands at the tops on your thighs, willing you to sit on his face. As soon as his mouth connects with your pussy, he sets straight to work, claiming every inch with his mouth. Your body convulses in surprise and you let out a choked moan. His eyes haven’t disconnected from yours, watching you intently. His tongue manages to slip inside you and you gasp, letting out a wail of pleasure. His grips tightens on your thighs and his hips raise slightly. He quickly settles back down, continuing to feast on you. You grab the top of the headboard for balance, subconsciously beginning to grind against his face. Hisoka’s breathing changes instantly and he’s quick to move out from beneath you. You pant, sitting on his navel. He wipes his mouth, licking his lips. He still wears his signature smirk, albeit lazily. “You can’t do that, [Y/N].~ You almost made me skip the main course.” Hisoka murmurs huskily, getting comfortable. You position yourself over his dick, looking down at him nervously. He smiles up at you, easing your anxiety. You slowly begin to sit down on his hard cock, gasping as he fills you up yet again. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling. You struggle to get the rest of him inside of you, but you manage at your own pace, fully sitting down on him now. You whine at the feeling of being so full. Hisoka shakily exhales, gripping the sheets below him. “Don’t be afraid to move, [Y/N].” He growls and you get the point, pushing yourself up and back down. You whimper as Hisoka grunts. You place your hands on his toned chest for leverage, pressing down as you push yourself up again, pulling yourself up to his tip before sinking back down. You set a steady rhythm, moaning up a storm. Hisoka lets his own pleasure be known through deep groans and shudders. It felt different in this position. His cock seems to be going deeper within you. Your moans end on a higher octave because of this. Hisoka seems to be enjoying this just as much, thrusting up to meet you in the middle. His hand creeps up your body, starting by rubbing your clit a few times, making you squeal. He then rubs his hand over your stomach, enjoying the beauty of it. You grow flustered at his actions, feeling shy. He eventually slides up your body to reach his goal: your boob. You squeak at his light squeeze on your right breast, slightly messing up the rhythm of your bouncing. Hisoka smirks with gritted teeth and flips you on your back, effectively taking over. He speeds up the pace, causing you to raise your voice. “Ahn- fuck! Hi-Hisoka!” You moan loudly, your toes curling as your orgasm approaches fast. “Are you -pant- gonna cum again, [Y/N]?” Hisoka groans, fucking you as fast as he can. You nod your head vigorously, too caught up in the feeling of your body almost breaking with the pressure building up. Hisoka smiles at your response, moving his hand down your beautiful stomach and reaching your clit. With just a few more circular motions on it, you snap, arching your back with a cry. Just like that, he sends you flying into the realm of ecstasy once again. You’re blinded by a white light before you finally come crashing down, back landing flat on the bed.

You were breathing hard, your arm laying over your eyes as you calm down. You hear Hisoka lay beside you, panting as well. When you feel calm enough, you lower your arm from your face, looking over at Hisoka, who’s resting peacefully beside you. His hair was disheveled from his usual slicked back style. It now rests over his sweaty forehead and the pieces that aren’t resting on his forehead are slicked back behind his ears and the back of his neck. He looks like quite the specimen right about now. He glances over to you as well, feeling you examining his face. It boosts his ego. He smiles lazily, running his eyes over your face. He really appreciates your features. They were so gorgeous to him, especially those [e/c] eyes. He’s too worn out to do anything more, so he rests his eyes, falling asleep.

You decide to take a nap as well, tired from all the activity.

You soon pass out for an undetermined amount of time.

*******

Word count: 4700+

Next chapter should be expected next Saturday, May 15th. I will hold to it this time!

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Dimitrescu Daughter HCs

I thought this would only take a few minutes. I was so, so very wrong. Anyway, some of these are somewhat exclusive to my fic (Serenade), but they’ll make sense even if you haven’t read that.

Daniela:

Others have already talked about how Daniela reads a ton of romance novels, so I’m not really going to go into that very much, just saying that I agree 100%, I mean c’mon, it’s practically canon.

While she mainly sources books from her family’s library, there are a few she’s “acquired” over the years that she keeps locked away in her room. These tend to be a bit, ahem, steamier than her mother would approve of/let her read under normal circumstances.

How did she get these? Well, there has to be someone who delivers goods to Castle Dimitrescu (Duke, perhaps?), seeing as the Maidens need, like, actual food to survive. Sometimes Daniela manages to convince them to order books for her, usually just asking for books by authors she likes, or ones she’s heard maidens whispering about.

No, the delivery person does not read the book’s summaries or reviews, they have a feeling (based on titles and covers alone) that they don’t want to know.

As for her experiences with actual romance… she’s so very, very excited about it, all the time. Wants to kiss every cute Maiden she sees, and sometimes daydreams about a beautiful woman fleeing from lycans who comes to the castle for shelter, clinging to Dani for warmth and protection, and it’s love at first sight, and they kiss and kiss and right as it gets to the good part-! Someone interrupts her daydream (usually Cassandra).

However, her actual experiences are fairly limited. Sure, she has kissed Maidens, but she tends to get over excited. Like in Serenade, she starts to rush the process, and usually ends up draining her “lover” aka victim before anything more intimate happens.

She’s definitely done sexual things, just, well, not with other people. Private things. Usually during or after reading one of her special books. You get the picture.

Because of this, and her aforementioned love of romance novels, Daniela has become somewhat obsessed with the idea of her first time. She wants everything to be perfect. The setting, the timing, who she’s with… Hence her reaction in chapter 3 of Serenade. It’s not that she didn’t want to continue, just that the circumstances didn’t feel right. She’s very particular!

Favorite Music Genre: Girl goes wild for an emotional, gut-wrenching love/power ballad. The type to lie in bed and cry while listening to Hozier or Lorde (not that she can hear either of them, considering her limited music options). Doesn’t admit it, though, and mostly listens to indie pop when other people can hear. That and whatever the Maiden plays on piano ;)

Okay it feels weird to joke about her loving music I wrote, anywayyyy

Hobbies: Other than reading there’s not too much I can see her doing, really. She’d be sure to get into anything that her s/o enjoys, though, even if it’s something difficult or time-consuming. Writing is something she’d love, but it’s difficult for her to keep her focus on just one project at a time. Ideally she’d write short stories, romantic ones obvs, and have someone else proofread/edit them. For the most part she’d write within fantasy and historical setting (seeing as she’s got experience in both of those departments).

ADHD, BABY. Bigtime, seriously. Maybe this is just my adhd ass projecting, but I can’t not see her as having it. For her it mainly manifests with hyper-focusing/difficulty staying on task. It’s like a switch with those on either end, flipping back and forth every once in a while. She can spend six hours reading two different books in one sitting, but if someone just breathes too loudly it disrupts her completely. Because of this she’s somewhat prone to abandoning projects. It’s a sore subject for her, and her sisters are aware, normally only bringing it up if they’re really angry with her.

Opinions on the four lords: Thinks Heisenberg is a tool (pun intended), also thinks that he secretly reads super erotic novels. She doesn’t have any proof, though, and would never say anything about it out loud. Just makes fun of him in her head. Doesn’t actually judge him for what she thinks he reads, just judges his personality and the “need he feels to hide his secret”. Loves Donna, and low-key thinks she’s attractive. Daniela mostly bases that off the portrait she’s seen, but, like many fans, also thinks the hands are nice. The puppets don’t bother her, though she also doesn’t really care about them, other than thinking that Donna interacting with them is cute.

Opinions continued: Moreau is… uh… fish boy. Daniela thinks he’s weird, kinda gross, and hardly considers him a “real” lord. Poor boy :(  At least she doesn’t actively make fun of him?... Even if that’s only because she kinda forgets about him most of the time. As for Lady Dimitrescu, well, obviously Daniela loves her mom. The whole family is very close, and as the “youngest”, Daniela gets a lot of attention. Sometimes she thinks her mother is too strict, but at the end of the day there’s no love lost.

Bela:

Cleans up after her sisters a lot, but still nowhere near as much as any of the Maidens do. Often agrees to help with messes in exchange for blackmail material. “Oh, Daniela, what a shame you broke mother’s favorite dish… I could help, but you owe me one.” At the end of the day, though, there’s plenty she would slide.

Being the “oldest”, she’s expected to behave the best, and often feels more restricted than her sisters. Being an example is hard! Occasionally she’ll have the impulse to rebel, but this usually only manifests in scenarios like the one mentioned above, aka she’ll simply be more lenient of her siblings for a bit.

Overall far less sadistic than her sisters. Cares more about the quality of pain then the amount of it. Only ever goes overboard if someone full out threatens or hurts her family. Insults towards them still earn her ire, and will get her to punish someone, but it’s not enough to make her resort to torture. Usually.

Gets the most restless out of the three. As cool (and large) as the castle is, it’s all she’s ever really known. If not for her weakness to cold, she’d go out on hikes a lot. Nature interests her, fascinates her, but she’d be a little less fond of most of it in person. Like, oh, waterfalls sound so cool, followed by a hundred complaints about the noise. Thinks deer are the cutest shit ever (second only to humans, maybe).

Unlike Daniela (though that HC is relevant almost exclusively to Serenade), Bela has actually slept with a Maiden before. She doesn’t really care for them enough to consider it a relationship, instead admiring them for their entertainment value. Definitely could fall for a Maiden, simply hasn’t yet. Of the three I feel like she takes the longest to fall in love, and even longer to actually act on her feelings. Sometimes resents her siblings because they unknowingly “claimed” a Maiden that she was starting to be interested in. However, she fully acknowledges that she should have said something if she didn’t want to lose the girl, considering the situation they live in.

Favorite music genre: Classical, full orchestra style, with a soft spot for swing/jazz. Enjoys having music play softly while she reads, and is very particular about the volume. Absolutely would argue with her sisters if they tried to change the music or turn it up.

Hobbies: Reading, duh. Less interested in romance than Daniela by a considerable amount. For the most part she reads non-fiction books, enjoying learning about history and the sciences. Astronomy is at the top of her favorites list, followed by biology, then obscure (and often bloody) pieces of history. Niche=perfect. Also enjoys music, even if she had to rely mostly on self-teaching books. Knows the basics of piano, but doesn’t actively play, much preferring both the violin and harp. Most of the time she’ll only play if she knows her sisters won’t bother her, or if her mother asks her to.

Opinions on the four lords: Admires Heisenberg’s work/his edgenuity, but thinks the actual man is a temperamental child… who smells like wet dog. He’s only been at Castle Dimitrescu a couple times (per Mother Miranda’s request), and both times Bela moved to the other side of the house so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge his existence. While she would never admit it, she’s low-key creeped out by Donna’s dolls, and really only tolerates Angie. However, she would never act on her nerves, out of consideration for Donna’s feelings. She knows that her mother gets along well with the dollmaker, and keeps this at the forefront of her mind.

Opinions continued: “Moreau who? Oh, the fish guy? He’s still alive?... Good for him.” Wants to make Lady Dimitrescu proud, but not as desperately as Cassandra. Unknowingly mimics a lot of her mother’s little habits and ticks, and would be quietly embarrassed if someone pointed it out to her. As mentioned previously, she feels like she has to be an example for the others, and somewhat resents the pressure this puts on her. On the other hand, she does enjoy being “responsible for” (read: in charge of) her sisters. Additionally, she is the most likely to get away with lying to Alcina, though she does not often do so. This isn’t because she’s the most manipulative (that’s Cass), or the best liar (that’s Dani, if she’s trying), but simply because Alcina doesn’t think her oldest daughter would lie. Even if she doubts something Bela says, she’ll usually give her the benefit of the doubt… as long as it doesn’t happen very often.

Cassandra:

Sleeps the most of the three, if only because she’s the most active of them. Not as fast as the others while in swarm mode, but the fastest on foot, partially because she’s more likely to simply walk places. She knows the sound of feet on the floor scares the Maidens, and she drinks their fear with utter pleasure. Additionally she claims that it just feels nice to “stretch her legs”. But she will not hesitate to enter swarm mode when chasing someone. As fun as it is to smell their fear, she can get impatient, wanting to get close and personal to her target.

Tends to hide most of her feelings, sometimes even opting to “convert” them into anger. In other words, think of her emotional state as an ever-filling bottle of water. As things happen, she feels emotions, and the rate at which water pours into the bottle increases. Ideally if the water level started getting too high, she would address whatever is increasing the flow of water. Instead of that, she often uses anger, which is equivalent to shaking the bottle a bit and letting water messily spill out of it. Doesn’t address the actual problem, but let’s her release some pressure/free up some room.

Goes through Maidens faster than her siblings (yes, even Daniela “draining you of blood is romantic” Dimitrescu). Not all of them even die in the basement, sometimes what was supposed to be a “warning” turns into “oh shit the blood won’t stop coming out, this is how I die, in this accursed castle, no friends or family to mourn me, just the painful knowledge that I will not be the last, I will die for no cause, no glory, just the bitter whims of a blood-soaked mistress” or something along those lines.

While more likely to get attached to someone than Bela, Cassandra isn’t one to do much about it. She might flirt, might even try to kiss (or, uh, kiss while also not wearing clothes wink wink), but she won’t (usually) claim someone as her own, or protest if one of her sisters wants to have some fun with them (even if it’s the bloody kind of fun). Technically gets over breakups and “breakups” (i.e. death) easier than either of her sisters. To be fully accurate, Daniela still goes through lovers faster, but she also remembers them and cares for them for longer post-breakup.

Somewhat of a blood kink. Like, more than vampires automatically have. In intimate settings she cares more about the quantity of blood and what she can do with it (loves bloodstains) than what causes the bloodshed.

Favorite music genre: Rock ‘n roll. Leans towards older stuff, as well as heavier songs. Soft spot for symphonic metal, but doesn’t admit it out of the fear that some might consider it a “weaker form” of the genre. Almost exclusively listens to bands that have female vocalists, and gets crushes on them more than she’d ever admit.

Hobbies: Art! Painting, mostly, but dabbles in sculpture from time to time. It’s been too long since I took an art class for me to suggest a style for her paintings, but I imagine her sculptures would be somewhat abstract. Her art would revolve around emotion, the stronger and rawer the better, with viewers often being left uncomfortable. While Alcina buys plenty of art supplies for her, Cassandra is fond of improvising, especially by creating her own “tools” (of questionable efficiency) out of items she has laying around. She is absolutely the one who took her mother’s lipstick. If you don’t know what that means, don’t worry, it’s just mentioned in one of the RE8 notes that Lady Dimitrescu’s valuable lipstick is missing.

Opinions on the four lords: Tolerates Heisenberg more than the rest of her family by a considerable amount. She’s seen glimpses of his work, his steampunk-adjacent style, and actually kind of digs it. While Bela cares more about the science behind his work, Cassandra just digs the aesthetic. Sometimes for her art she also needs things she can’t get from the castle, and are too obscure to get from a merchant, so she trades tools/ideas with Heisenberg in exchange for him making something for her. “Can you make a battery but whenever it’s in use it makes a horrible screaming sound?” “Yes. PS I hate your mother and Miranda.” “I didn’t fucking ask.”

Opinions continued: Doesn’t really care much about Donna, but acknowledges her as a fellow artist, and would be willing to consult her if she talked more (and talked without Angie). Cassandra hasn’t met Moreau, thankfully (he would cry). Knows about him from her sister/mother, and as a result doesn’t care about him. Internally whenever someone mentions him, she pictures, like, a Goldfish Cracker (the snack that smiles back) with legs except also it’s green and moldy.

Opinions cont.: Loves her mother so much. Determined to please her, to make her proud, but often left feeling less loved than her sisters. This strains her relationship with her family, not that she’d ever voice her feelings and talk through the issue. Let’s be real, Alcina would probably feel guilty for not realizing how Cass felt. Nonetheless, Cassandra probably spends the most time with her mother, often offering to assist her with tasks, or trying to get her to appreciate her art.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: III

“You can have me tonight or never

I thought you understood

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

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

—Wrong, Zayn and Kehlani

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

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

word count: 24.2k

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

///

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

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

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

Harry still hates clubs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very satisfied, yeah. Your help was greatly appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that so?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The name’s Styles. Harry Styles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not going.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lock the door on your way out!” 

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is, until she met Harry seven days ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing he notices is the dress. 

Fuck, the dress. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nice to see you again, Disco Ball.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far from it, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like your dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been thinking about you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It felt really nice.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t mind it, either.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, y-yes.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We do make quite the team, don’t we?

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

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

Alright, Watson. What time will you be home?

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

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

I’ll see you there, then. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fan came in. Wanna come check it out?

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

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

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

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

Sounds good to me, Sherlock. 

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

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

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

“Shut up.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I— I can’t. I’m—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hands off.” 

“W-What?”

“Hands off.”

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

“Ask for permission.” 

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

“Please what?”

“Please—can I—can I cum?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

///

The third week is when things escalate for the better. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need interior design advice. 

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

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

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

Genuinely? 

Yup!

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

Alright, shoot. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Immature? 

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

Another message interrupts his spiraling negative conclusions.

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N ignores the bristling across her cheeks. 

Alright, go head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you watch your video before you sent it?

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, whoops. Sorry for the indecent exposure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touché.

Exactly. 

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

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

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

You did it on purpose, didn’t you?

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

Maybe.

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

Alright, l’ll bite. Tick for tack. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You read my mind.

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

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

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

She practically drops her phone when it vibrates.

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

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

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

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

Hours? You want me down your throat for hours?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m going to call you.

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

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

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

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

[daisies-and-buttercups]

Day 10 /bonus!/ Nightmares - Luca Changretta

Summary: Grief can come in many forms, and for some, it’s nightmares. 

A/N: thank you so much @potc4life for your request 💖 I really enjoyed focusing on this side of Luca (which hopefully worked out), so I hope you like this as much as I liked writing it 💕

Words: 1.1k

September prompts here

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He woke up, his hands flying forward, trying to grab onto his brother, his fingers struggling to find the material in the dark, before his movements came to a halt, the dream now getting away from him and leaving him fully awake. They were gone, he was aware of that, but every night he still dreamt of them, their faces alternating between dreams, the memory of better times or of cold deaths printed behind his eyelids.

He wished he had the strength to deal with it better, control his emotions, but the lack of sleep was starting to take a toll on his days, and the fear of closing his eyes was weighing on his nights, the constant battle exhausting.  People dismissed his behaviour, knowing that not only he was still dealing with grief, but the plan of heading to Birmingham was nearing its end, the departing date set two days from now, yet another thing weighing on the man. He had it all planned out, every document ready, every man on call, ready to board the ship, but the lack of sleep made every little thing so much more complicated.  He spent the day looking over everything again, stuck in the same place as he had been for hours. That night he fell asleep, his eyes burning, his mind trying to keep up with his attempts of staying distracted, of thinking of anything but the nightmares that were plaguing him.

His eyes opened, the cold floor pressing hard against his cheek. He could smell it, the scent of blood, but he couldn’t move. The voices were unclear, yet loud, close to him, the only thing that he heard was the gunshot that rang next to him, his fathers body falling limp next to him, his eyes right before his own.  Another gunshot was heard, a gasp escaping someone’s lips, a body falling behind him, this time, and even without seeing it he knew it was Angel’s. 

He opened his eyes, the feelings still choking him as they had in the dream. He looked at his hands, the way they shook, making him look weak. He wasn’t, he knew, but ever since he was a little boy he knew the way he had to look, act, and dress, to earn respect. And shaking hands wasn't part of the package. “Fuck.”  He thought of his mother, alone, the question he was too afraid to ask still in his mind. A knock on the door alerted him, making him sit up, ignoring the annoyance that he felt in his chest. He wanted to be alone, still shaken up from the dream.  “Come in.” He waited, watching as Matteo came in, the light from the hall seeping into the room, staining everything with its yellow tinge. “Boss, I’ve-“ he paused, holding the papers tighter. “Is everything alright?”  “What are you talking about, Matteo?” He sighed, standing and looking out of the window, watching the first people line the streets, the road near the port getting ready for the fish market, each stand carefully filled with the freshest fish. “You’re crying.” Matteo wasn’t sure if speaking those words out loud was a smart idea, but he’d been working with Luca for years now, and he cared for him. Seeing him cry was a first, though, and he wasn’t fully sure about how to act.  Luca stood still, hearing those foreign words. His hand reached up to his eyes, feeling the wetness that lingered under them, the remnants of a tear. “I had a nightmare.” He muttered, his hand still there, as if trapped. “Oh.” Matteo waited, lighting a light and closing the door behind him, knowing that the last thing you want in a moment of weakness is for people to see you. He didn’t count himself within those people, staying in the room along his side for support. “Grief is… hard.” He tried, not really knowing what to say. “Yeah, no shit, Matteo.”  Luca’s tone was bitter, harsh, but he didn’t mean to be.  “You’ll get over it.” “That’s not what you say.” “I… I never had to comfort someone through grief.” “Then don’t. I can go ahead without you.” Silence fell over the room once more, Luca’s hands rubbing his lips in thought, the feeling of tiredness picking at his brain, making his words harsher than he wanted, or less calculated than usual. He had known Matteo for years, after he had joined as a soldier for the Changrettas and, eventually, became a good friend, growing close to everyone in the family while still keeping his distance.  “I apologise.” he sighed, turning to look at Matteo, “you were trying to help. Thanks.” There was some sarcasm in his voice, but Matteo pretended not to notice, thinking of what to say next. Death was something they saw often, every day, some weeks, but he never had to comfort someone. Himself, once, but it didn’t count, cause he had no words for himself. Just liquor.  “I just want to get this over with. I see them every night in my dreams, y’know? Their deaths, each night, different. But I’m always there, aren’t I? Since I wasn't there when it happened, it only seems fair, doesn’t it?” “You’re not to blame.”  “But they are. The Shelby’s. They’ll pay.” “They will.” he nodded, grabbing the closest chair and moving it so that he could sit, feeling like that was a better choice than standing. “I need you to promise me something, Matteo.” “Yeah?”  “There’s one question that keeps popping in my head, y’know?” he picked the small box of matchsticks, placing one between his lips, “I think about my mother. If I don’t come back-” “Luca.” “If I don’t come back,” he repeated, throwing him a warning glance, “you take care of her, you hear? She’ll have no one. No sons, no husband, no one to take care-” he felt the tears come this time, filling his eyes at the idea of his mother completely alone. She could take care of herself, but she shouldn’t. She deserved better.  “I’ll take care of her, if you don’t come back. But,” he stood, approaching Luca with a soft smile, trying to comfort him as well as he could, “you will come back. Trust me.”  He hummed, nodding at his words, not really believing them, something in his gut telling him that there was no guarantee that he would come back, but no intention of breaking the younger man’s hopes with his pessimism.  “Let’s get these sons of bitches.” he spoke, a motivation for both of them. It was still early, too early to start the day, but there was no other thing to do. So guns in hand, they walked out, gathering the documents they needed for their entry in England, waiting for the men that would join them for the vendetta.  Luca looked at Matteo, sharing a knowing look, and lowered his hat, heading towards the port.  “Let’s get these sons of bitches” he repeated, only for himself this time. 

[starlight-loki]

Headcanon of the day: Loki x Mystic!Reader

This sort of acts as context for a fic I have coming out in the next day or two. I thought I'd release this first as a kind of shittily-written backstory for it, so that the relationship dynamics make sense :) Enjoy!

UPDATE: the fic is all done! you can read it here

(this is quite long and the Keep Reading option won't work, dammit. my apologies 😅)

You know something's wrong as soon as Stephen bursts into your room, a troubled look in his eyes

"They're here."

Stephen had been talking about this for a while -- it was just a matter of time before Thor and Loki arrived in New York looking for their father

He told you from the start that they were going to need help; your help

At first you protested because you were still in the midst of learning everything there was to know about the mystic arts.

you weren't a beginner by any means, but you definitely didn't feel you were at a level where you could just... fight the goddess of death

Now, you realized as Stephen rushed out of your room as quickly as he came, you were out of time to prepare: you had to use what you knew and hope it was enough

You stepped down the stairs into the main entrance of the Sanctum just as Stephen brought Loki back from the void with a thud

"Right, I'm sending Y/N with you. The two of you are going to need help with this whole... situation."

"We don't need help, especially not from a mortal, you second-rate-"

Stephen sends all three of you through a portal before Loki can even finish pulling out his knives

at first, you really can't stand either of them

Thor is... too much muscle, not enough brain

while Loki on the other hand is half part brain, half part whining weasel

You honestly feel like you got stuck babysitting the two of them, and there's a part of you that hopes this mission Stephen sent you on won't be so bad after all

Of course, everything sort of went to shit when you found yourself on Sakaar

You were the first to arrive, and were admittedly terrified when you came face to face with the Grandmaster

you had powers and were strong enough to defend yourself, sure, but this seemed like a whole other ball of wax entirely

You chucked a few illusions here, as well as a couple fancy tricks you learned from Stephen there, and soon enough you became the Grandmaster's... magic show.

It was disappointing really, to know that your powers were being used to amaze three headed ogres and other folks who looked like they walked straight out of the Capitol from The Hunger Games, but at least you weren't fighting in the arena

or worse... dead.

to your surprise, Loki showed up a week later -- escorted to your room by none other than the Grandmaster himself

"Y/N, I've got another wizard for you!"

(you swear you can see Loki's jaw clench at the Grandmaster's term, and it takes all you can not to laugh)

"He can do illusions too. Maybe you two can, y'know, think up a big show for us tonight."

Loki's surprised to see you (and also relieved to see a familiar face, finally), but he quickly disguises his relief as disgust before you can think anything more of it

"I'm not sharing my bed." You say tightly, and Loki shoots you a glare before settling down on the couch in the corner of the room

At first, the two of you barely talk to each other despite sharing a room

You really just throw some illusions together during your show, and then head back to the room to sulk in silence

It honestly starts to feel like you're living the same day over and over, that is until you wake up to the sound of screaming

You rush over to Loki, to find he was having a violent nightmare

When he finally wakes up, terror in his eyes and not fully registering his surroundings, you place a hand over his forehead gently

You remembered an incantation you read once while at the Sanctum, one that could calm even the most restless mind, and you mumbled the words to the best of your ability

To your relief, Loki's breathing slowed as the last of his nightmare faded away

"You okay?"

You don't know why, but you find yourself reaching to hold Loki's hand in both of your own

His fear, his memories... you could almost feel them physically reverberate in you

maybe your initial conceptions about Loki were wrong, after all. Maybe he wasn't nearly as bad as you thought

you go out of your way to try and be a little nicer to him, sneaking in drinks and other treats you managed to grab on your way out of the Grandmaster's parties for him to try

sometimes, the two of you would even stay up until the early hours of morning, sharing stories and laughing together and actually feeling happy

for a garbage planet, maybe things weren't quite so bad.

until the night you had a nightmare. you could've sworn it was real, the way everyone in your dream seemed to dissolve into ash right in front of your eyes

you didn't realize you were crying out in your sleep until Loki woke you up, the entire situation reminiscent of when you first caught him having a nightmare of his own

you see the worry in his eyes, and you can't stop yourself from crying as the events from your dream played through your mind

"It's alright. It's not real. You're safe, Y/N. You're safe."

Loki repeats those words quietly like a lullaby until your breathing calms, and you grab his wrist before he can retreat back over to the couch

"Please stay."

the two of you don't realize just how touchstarved you are until you're both lying together, holding each other as if the world were about to end

(i'm getting Pompeii-esque visuals, am i crying??? maybe)

as your relationship progresses into purgatory-type territory -- somewhere between friendship and romance -- you realize the connection between the two of you grows stronger

specifically, the telepathic connection

before you know it, you can hear Loki's thoughts, and he can hear yours

you suspect it has something to do with the incantation you used to heal him after his nightmare

(you never did read the warnings on that one. oops.)

after a while, the two of you managed to control your telepathic abilities, to the point where you didn't hear the other's each and every thought

there was only a soft buzzing noise in the background of your mind, as if Loki's energy was gently reminding you he was there

Loki found your thoughts incredibly irritating at first

especially how you never seemed to shut up when you were nervous

there was a certain comfort in knowing you were only a thought away, though. especially when the day finally comes when you have to battle Hela

there's a moment when you're convinced Loki had died -- when he ran back into the palace to summon Surtur -- and your breath stops all together in your throat

for a few seconds, you couldn't hear his thoughts anymore. the constant white noise in the back of your mind was gone

when it suddenly resumes out of nowhere as you flew away from the remains of Asgard with Thor and everyone else, you couldn't help but make a run for Loki

you found him in one of the sleeping quarters on the ship, and before you could think twice, you kissed him. hard.

"You idiot! You could've died!"

You can't stop the tears of relief and the smile that lights up your face as you take him in

"I didn't die, however. I'm still here."

All you can do is laugh, and to your utmost delight, Loki pulls you in for another kiss

except this time, you freeze.

"Do you have the Tesseract?"

the way Loki's hands tense around your waist tells you everything

"...why would you think that?"

"I'm a mystic, you idiot! I practically pick up on energy for a living!"

Realizing he really can't hide anything from you, Loki materializes the Tesseract and holds it out to you carefully

"What were you hoping to achieve with this?" You ask, your voice nothing more than a horrified whisper

the lost look in his eyes tells you everything: he wasn't really sure, himself.

you conjure a portal and send the Tesseract far, far away from the two of you, and you can almost see the relief visibly fill Loki's eyes as that temptation disappeared

You realized as you landed back on Earth that the two of you were finally safe. You were home, and you had Loki now, too.

Things were going to be okay.

Until of course, the day your visions started.

[yyparkq]

cuffed

Since you decided to end your arrangement with Jackson six months ago with respect to his newfound girlfriend, you exerted an awful lot of effort to stop yourself from coming back to him every time you’re feeling lonely. Depriving your own self of mindblowing orgasms takes too much of your energy and willpower but thankfully you manage to get by with toys to play with yourself…and occasional hookups from blind dates.

Never in your whole life has your current situation crossed your mind. Even as you usually roleplay and engage in kinks, you never imagined being stuck in a situation so frustrating and embarrassing—thanks for the drought brought to you by the demands of your career and the lack of trustworthy dudes around you to satisfy you.

In your apartment, you have a magnificent view of the setting sun painting the sky a mixed hue of orange and magenta at the veranda, one of your favorite places to spend time contemplating about things. Now is definitely not that time, though. Not when you’re stark naked on your bed with one of your wrists handcuffed in one of your bedposts after your fuck for the night—who turns out to be having a pregnant girlfriend—left you alone in a hurry to attend to some emergency situation just before going down on you.

The situation infuriates the hell out of you. You were too blindsided by your sexual needs earlier that you simply agree to the man’s requests, even if it meant being tied up while being fucked. As soon as you reached your apartment, articles of your clothing were discarded quickly and your wrist ended up being cuffed. The man you were with excused himself for a while when his phone didn’t stop ringing. You expected him to turn his phone off and resume touching your body but to your surprise, you saw him peeking at your door, fully dressed again and with a look of panic and terror in his eyes. Within a few feet away from you, he told you that he actually has a girlfriend and that she’s at the hospital right now about to give birth to their child. What a douche.

You were too shocked to respond immediately and just let him get his way only to remember that your hands are remotely tied as soon as you heard your front door shut.

It was one of those times when you wish you were in your normal logical self. You could have saved yourself the trouble if you noticed immediately that one of your wrists is bound. Looking around the room, you found the nearest piece of clothing you previously wore six feet away from you, too impossible for you to barely reach. The only thing that you could use at that point to cover yourself is the bed sheets where you were lain on.

You couldn’t stay like that forever. You need to act and think quickly before you could actually spend the night helpless in your own apartment.

Fortunately, you noticed that your smartwatch remained fastened around your other wrist—the free wrist—and you were able to call and ask someone for help. You’re too embarrassed to call just anyone so you managed to narrow your list to the two most trustworthy people in your life—your two best friends. The first resort is your girl best friend from college. She’s been one of the constant people in your life and you’re fairly confident the situation will not faze your friendship and she will not judge you at all. But she wasn’t picking up your calls and you’re slowly getting anxious so you opt to phone the other person on your list—Jackson Wang.

As if he’s been waiting for you to call at that moment, Jackson picks up his phone only after a ring. You sighed in relief as you heard his familiar voice on the other line, your stomach tied in knots as you spoke to him, asking him to come over to your apartment immediately, not disclosing the situation yet because you’re too ashamed.

Jackson must have sensed the urgency in your voice even though you tried to act cool since it took him only less than an hour to reach your house. He let himself in using your old passcode he knew very well by heart.

He was dumbfounded when he arrived and saw the situation you are in. For almost five minutes, he was laughing his ass off looking at you and not even bothering to free your wrist from the restraints.

Oh god, you miss him terribly. It’s almost half a year since you’ve been in the same room and in this close proximity with this man and you’d be lying if you say you don’t miss him one bit. After all, he has the ability to cloud your mind any time of the day; most especially at night when you’re lonely and craving someone’s touch.

“So,” he says and clears his throat before continuing. “You need my help?”

You roll your eyes, reminded of how annoying he could be when he’s not pleasing you on the bed. “Why do you think I called you here then? To mock the shit out of me? Get the fucking keys on the kitchen counter, Jackson. Please. For goodness sake!”

He cocks an eyebrow at your tone.

“No, I thought you’re horny and that motherfucker didn’t even get to touch you? You know I’d be glad to help you with your release,” he says, reaching out to caress your thighs on top of the sheets.

You know. To be honest, a part of you hoped you could spend the night with him. He’s irreplaceable. You never found a guy as good as Jackson does make you feel when it comes to bed. Though you never really told him, he’s set the standard too high for all the other guys and you’re evidently struggling because of it. Most guys you dated to fill in the void of him doesn’t come as close to him. They all prioritized their own releases and hardly even cared whether you reached yours or not. It’s frustrating.

You let your free hand clutch the material draped on your chest and feel your heart thump loudly as his hand inched closer to the apex of your thighs. You’re afraid he might feel the wetness still dripping out of your core. After hearing his voice on the other line after a long time, you were reminded of how good he could make you feel with his tongue and hands working wonders on your body and you can’t help but touch yourself once again, having a little fun of your own.

Jackson lifts the cover from your body and you almost shriek when the cold air nip against your flushed skin. Your legs attempt to close together in reflex but both his hands immediately stop it. He takes a good look at your core and smirks at the way your juices were smeared between your legs, visibly staining the light gray sheets beneath you.

“I thought he didn’t even touch you and yet you’re here dripping wet,” he squints at the realization. “Did you touch yourself?” he asks, thumbing between your folds to gather your wetness and bringing his own fingers to his lips.

You stare as Jackson licked your juices off his fingers clean. His eyes turning darker with lust as you moan at the sight of him. At this point, you can feel your core burning with desire more than ever and you couldn’t care less whether or not his pronounced girlfriend finds out about the two of you fucking behind her back. You want him back. He was yours to begin with, anyway.

“I asked you, baby.”

Your pussy clenched at the hoarseness of his voice and you groaned at the fact that nothing’s still inside you. “Fuck me, Jackson.”

“Were you thinking about that motherfucker while touching yourself? You know you can’t get what you want unless you answer my question.”

“God damn it. I was thinking of you. Shit—” you scream when he slaps your pussy quite harshly.

He’s definitely enjoying this. “Watch your words, baby. Now, tell me, what was I doing when you were touching yourself?” he asks before lightly patting your core to ease the pain.

“When—when you..when you ate my pussy during your girlfriend’s birthday party,” you stutter.

He smirks, recalling how he devoured your pussy inside the house while his girlfriend attended to her guests at the party. “Oh, yeah. That was fun.”

The memory and the sight of you squirming beneath him was enough for Jackson to undress to take out his dick and stroke it a few times before running the tip along your folds to lubricate himself.

“You’re still on pill?” he asks and you nod. He hovers over you on the bed.

Jackson kisses you before finally sheathing himself inside of you. He pants and stops moving for a while, letting you adjust around his girth for a few seconds, before thrusting into you. “Fucking tight. I miss you,” he whispers to your ear and lightly bites on the sensitive area of your neck. His hands roam around your body before settling one to play on your clit and the other to massage your breast and pinch your nipple.

Jackson fucked you fast and hard, filling you up deliciously after six fucking months.

The room is filled with your heavy pants and mixed noises of skin slapping against skin and metal clacking of the handcuffs against the bedpost. Your bounded wrist starting to ache but you didn’t mind.

You bite your lip and grip Jackson’s hair harder as you feel yourself nearing your release. “I’m about to cum—fuck, Jackson—stop..oh my god.”

“Good girl,” Jackson praises you for cumming so hard and fast but did not waver with his thrusts.

You quiver and try to stop his hips from moving but he still continues to pound into you, lifting your left leg up and positioning himself from your behind this time. You’re twice as helpless with having only one hand free.

“I want you to cum again, baby girl,” he groans to your ear. His thrusts are getting sloppier signaling his release. He doesn’t have to tell you twice as you came right after him.

Jackson stays buried inside of you for a few more minutes as you two try to catch your breath. Eventually, he gets up and retrieves the keys to your handcuffs from the pocket of his pants.

You stare at him in disbelief. “You had the fucking keys all this time?”

“Yes, I saw it on the couch,” he smirks and unlocks the metal.

“Then why didn’t you remove this shit earlier you motherfucker,”

“You know how much I enjoy seeing you beg baby.”

Jackson grabs a towel from your drawer and cleans you up, not missing the chance to tease you once in a while. He inspects your previously bounded wrists and places light kisses around the marked area.

You were almost touched by the gesture until you remember his girlfriend and the shit you just did behind her back.

“Hey, what about…your girlfriend?” you try to play it cool. Honestly, you don’t even remember her name by now.

“Yeah, we broke up two months ago,” he says nonchalantly.

Two months ago? And he didn’t bother telling you?

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Dress Code (Post-War ficlet)

(A/N: Some Post-War MIC!Eragon/Arya for you all. 

I’ve extended the Rider War timeline to be closer to 5-ish years. Eragon has more time to mature, Arya has more time to heal. They start a relationship around a year before the war ends, and while I have a basic idea of how it comes about I’m not ready to put it into writing for you all yet. There’s about a year or so of Arya and Fírnen remaining behind in Alagaësia to help with reconstruction and reintegration of the elves into the world without starting an incident while Islanzadí heals, and then they join Eragon and Saphira at the Rider School. At this point, even a year on, the school is still in some phases of construction and only has maybe a dozen students + their dragons, possibly less. Everyone is still trying to settle in to the new reality, and Eragon is still getting used to the admin role he now has to take.

I’ll probably post more about MIC!Eragon and Arya’s relationship, especially as it is post-war. In the meantime, take this. It’s a little spicy, so fair warning. Cheers mates!)

~~~

Eragon scrubbed his hands through his hair, frustration edging his voice. “Remind me why I agreed to host this?” 

Invitations to the Rider School’s gala were strewn across his desk, addresses of dignitaries from the chiefdoms surrounding Mount Arngor paperclipped to each. He held in his hand three different menus in various stages of translation and tweaking, trying his best to work through the grammar of the local dialect and please the varied dietary restrictions of all in attendance. An itinerary draft sat incomplete under a handful of pens, half abandoned until the Rider’s leader could muster up the focus to finish it.

For all the good will these events garnered, they always brought in more paperwork than he thought they were worth.

“Because people tend to get nervous when dragons and Riders begin massing in one place and it looks like no one knows what’s going on.” Eragon leaned back in his chair and tilted his head to watch Arya across the room. His mate was cross legged on the floor, a portion of Fírnen’s saddle in her lap while the rest spilled out like a comically large sea turtle. A half-threaded leather needle dangled from her lips as she closely examined a patch of torn stitching to judge the length she needed. “And it’s one of the fastest ways to show that yes, the Riders have leaders in you and Saphira, and that you both aren’t as scary as they might think.”

From outside the exterior porthole a chuffing snort signaled Saphira’s amusement. That anyone would dare to put her majestic yet terrifying visage into the same league of frightening as Eragon’s squishy, scaleless frame was laughable.

Down below the cliffside, the sounds of Fírnen’s playful growls as he entertained a handful of yearlings and hatchlings rumbled up the mountain. The fledgling Riders and their dragons were on a day of leave after a month of hard work and lessons, leaving Eragon, Saphira, Arya, and Fírnen time to catch up on the tasks that went by the wayside during instruction. 

Eragon felt Saphira yawn wide, barbed tongue curling at its tip. His jaw twinged slightly as her teeth clicked together. Don’t forget your meeting this afternoon. Saphira stretched out one massive paw and began fastidiously cleaning the scales around her claws, irritated by the stone dust from construction that still remained in the nooks and crannies of the mountain’s halls. I will fly you down, but after that I must take the hatchlings to hunt.

Thank you. I won’t forget. Eragon assured as he set the menus down and picked up the draft of the event itinerary, clicking his pen in distracted boredom. As he worked, Arya finished her repairs and began the process of conditioning the rejoined pieces, working neatsfoot oil into the saddle with a soft rag.

Saphira’s deep breathing outside signaled her shift to a light doze in the afternoon sun. The sound was soothing, lulling her Rider into a state of half focused haze.

Once again drifting away from his work, Eragon’s eyes snagged on the invitation’s request of a black tie dress code. It sent his mind to other places, and, the corners of his lips curling into a mischievous smile, he let his chair turn again. 

“You know…” Arya looked up to see her mate tapping his pen against his lips. “There is one thing I don’t mind about these fancy events though.” Mirth danced in his eyes, along with something a little more, as he lifted his gaze from the papers in his hand. 

The elf set the saddle aside, wiping her hands on the rag. This should be interesting. He only acted this innocent for two reasons, one distinctly more alluring than the other. “Oh really?” She stood and stretched, fingers linked above her head as she lifted onto her toes. “And what would that be?”

“You.” Eragon broke into a blush tinged smile and set the itinerary aside, turning his chair fully to face her. “I will never get tired of seeing you all dressed up.”

Arya let out a soft laugh and approached him. His gaze boldly roamed over her form, still marveling years on that she was his and he was hers. “Really! I love you no matter what you wear. But there’s something about the way you can pull off a black dress….” Eragon practically purred in approval as the elf settled into his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. The tang of leather conditioner wrapped around Arya’s earthy scent, reminding him of their time in the field and nights around watch fires, working on their gear and simply enjoying each other's company. It was just so simply her, so entwined in his mind with who she was, that it made his heart flutter. “What will you wear this time?”

Arya cocked her head coyly, braid brushing against her back as she shifted her weight to his knees with a thoughtful hum. “I don’t know. You pick.” A sly grin touched her lips. “Within reason, of course.”

Eragon leaned back, mind awhirl with possibilities. Almost subconsciously his hands had found Arya’s sides to steady her on her perch. As he mulled over the choice she had given him, his thumbs rubbed small circles against her ribs, eliciting a pleased sigh that danced in his ears. She leaned into his touch, content. 

“Hmm...I think…” An image solidified in Eragon’s imagination, bringing back that hooded eye grin as he went a step further and imagined it covering less of his mate’s body and more of his bedroom floor. “Black dress. Mid length. Something backless.” 

Arya huffed a quiet laugh, her smirk suddenly tinged with a tiny twist that he couldn’t quite place. Awkwardness? “Love...we’re trying to make friends here, not send them running for the other side of the continent.”

It took a long, long moment for Eragon to realize her meaning. With a slight pang of guilt his grin drooped, and in quiet apology he slipped his hands under the soft material of his mate’s shirt. Calloused fingers slid up her back, ghosting over the multitude of scars that still decorated her skin, as he pulled her down to him until their foreheads touched.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured. He could feel the uptick in her heart rate through her skin, the warmth of her breath against his cheek as he massaged the silky rifts below her shoulder blades. “I’m sorry. You’d think after all this time I’d remember. They’re so much a part of you that I–” 

Arya silenced him, brushing her lips against his. The contact flushed warmth down from his cheeks to his throat and over his chest. “I like that you forget.” Her smile feathered against his skin as she shifted her body closer to his and pulled away from the light kiss. “I think it’s one of the sweetest things you do.” 

Relieved, Eragon smiled back. Taking one of his mate’s hands from where she had braced against his shoulder, he pressed lips to her palm in one last apology before returning his grip to her sides. The feeling of warm, bare skin beneath his fingertips and the new position of her hips had him quickly distracted again, and he soon found himself itching to continue their banter. “Well...what about me, then?” 

“What about you?”

“What should I wear for the gala?” 

Arya hummed quietly, teasing her fingers down his chest. “It’s black tie, isn’t it?” Eragon nodded in confirmation, doing his best to keep from moving beyond the gentle dance of his fingers against the elf’s sides. She was always more composed than he during these little games, to the point that the Rider’s leader found himself pushing his limits to better match her whenever they arose. “Well then. I say you should wear just your slacks and a tie.” She gently tapped the end of his nose before dragging her hands across the tightening muscles of his abdomen, nails lightly scraping through the material of his shirt. Her voice took on a low purr, rippling with a possessive edge from deep within her chest and sending tingles of anticipation across Eragon’s skin. “It doesn't say anything about wearing something along with it, does it not?”

Eragon raised his eyebrow, control cracking. His hands settled on her hips as she draped her wrists over his shoulders, pulling her closer. He could feel the heat between their bodies growing, pooling over their clothed skin. “Well, if it’s the dress code you’re insisting on, who am I to break the rules?” His mate grinned that little devilish smirk that set his heart pounding, fire dancing in her eyes as she leaned in closer. Eragon let his eyes drift closed, lifting away from the back of the chair to meet her–

And frowned in confusion when he felt her cheek brush his. The light touch was followed by a breathy whisper in his ear. 

“You’re going to be late for your meeting with Blödhgarm and Telvi if you don’t hurry.”

Eragon opened his eyes to find Arya pulling away from reaching over his shoulder, the small clock he kept on his desk in her hand. 

It read only eight minutes to two in the afternoon. He was supposed to be meeting the elves to go over plans for a new family housing addition at two o’clock sharp.

“Oh shit!” 

Eragon bolted to his feet, unceremoniously dumping Arya off her perch on his lap. The elf couldn’t help but laugh as he dashed around the room, searching frantically for the plans Gerard had drawn up for him and the set of drafting tools necessary to make any adjustments. Outside Saphira similarly surged to her feet and shook herself. Her wings rustled like parchment as she unfurled them and stretched, ready to leap from the mountain shelf to the courtyard below.

I can see them nearing the gate. Saphira’s warning echoed in Eragon’s mind. You need to hurry, Little One.

I’m trying! I can’t find the damn plans! Eragon jerked his gaze from ripping apart a cluttered drawer of stationary when his mate gave a short, sharp whistle. Arya stood by the porthole with his messenger bag in hand, and wordlessly slipped the protected tube that held Gerard’s plans and the box of tools in when the man looked up. He let out a wordless cry of relief and hurried over, ducking his head and lifting his arm slightly to allow Arya to loop the strap down over his shoulder and settle the bag onto his hip. 

“Where would I be without you?” Eragon asked, half sincere and half rhetorical as the elven Rider adjusted his shirt. He leaned in, hopeful and thrilled as always.

Still grinning, Arya allowed him to give her a quick kiss. Her hand lingered at his cheek, checking him over out of habit before swiping a few stray locks of his curling bangs away from his face. “In Carvahall, living a quiet life without dragons, elves, dwarves and Urgals.” Pleased that he was presentable, the elf gave him a kiss of her own before turning him to the waiting Saphira and giving him a push. “Now go! Fírnen and I are teaching Silas and Rakka some flying, so we’ll see you both at dinner.”

Eragon gave one last wave and tightened the saddle straps around his legs. With that, Saphira took two great strides and launched herself from the cliff.

[moonstruckbucky]

The Recruit (7/?)

Summary: Becoming a SHIELD agent had been your dream and finally, you’ve achieved it. You’re at the top of your class in every field except one—hand to hand combat, and it doesn’t impress Captain Rogers in the slightest. Instead, it seems to convince him you’re useless, setting off a tense relationship between the two of you. In an effort to bridge the gap, Bucky offers to help you train to earn your way back into Steve’s good graces. What could possibly go wrong?

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!Reader x Bucky Barnes (not Stucky)

Warnings for Chapter: Nothin’ but fluff and soft, squishy Bucky. A bit of amgry Steve.

Notes:  So... hi? It’s been a few months since the last update. I needed to step away for a while. Things were getting a little too heated here and it was really affecting how I felt about writing. And I hated that, quite frankly. I hated that I allowed people’s attitudes to get to me so bad it tainted one of the loves in my life. So. To the negative energy around here? Here’s a big middle finger. I’m not done yet. Clean up your act, and remember that all of us providing free content are fucking people. Y’all are getting a new, less bullshit-tolerant version of me. Smarten up. 

Also, enjoy! x

Series Masterlist //  Main Masterlist

When the quinjet touches down, you’re swept into the conference room to debrief the mission’s success. Sam, again, lets you take the lead in running down the mission, detailing the information hidden on the flash drive you’d managed to retrieve that contained the names of higher-ups within the organization. A quick cross-reference reveals their pasts associated with HYDRA, and Director Hill congratulates you on a job well done. 

You can’t help but preen, a warmth in your chest that spreads outward. Your fellow agents grin proudly, offer their congratulations yet again, and Sam smirks like the proud mentor he is in the corner of the room, still adorning his wingsuit. Though Hill grants you a small crooked smile, she’s quick to express that your mission report is due by eight the next morning, fully completed and as detailed as possible, before the room is dismissed.

A few of the agents pull you into conversation out in the hall, complimenting you, asking advice. It’s strange - you’re as green, or greener, than some of these other agents, and yet they’re flocking to you. You thank them for their praises but ultimately brush them off - you’re sure any one of them would have been able to perform the job as well as you had.

It takes some effort to get away, your desire to get to Bucky, to see and talk to him, overwhelming you. Despite being in desperate need of a shower, you decide to forego it and head to the elevator. You scrape your nails through your hair, tousle it, and smooth it down, adjust your uniform. There’s a nick in the left sleeve from a wayward knife blade, and your boot is untied. Sweat caked to your hair and exhaustion in your eyes, but you’re determined.

Bucky’s floor is empty, his door closed. Soft music plays from behind the wood, and you rap your knuckles three times. It takes a moment, but the music stops, and you can hear Bucky’s footsteps scuffing across the carpet as he nears the door.

The surprise is clear on his face when he takes you in, and it’s quickly shrouded by worry as those eyes of his, so bright and blue, rake over your form. He tugs you into his room, your feet getting tangled together, and you nearly get acquainted with his floor.

“Bucky!” you squeak, and then his hands are...everywhere. Running over your arms and legs, pressing for bruises or breaks or fractures, and while your face heats up under his scrutiny, you still manage to get a grip on his hands.

He stills, eyebrows still pinched in worry, a doubtful frown creasing his forehead.

“I’m okay,” you tell him softly, offer a smile that helps to drive the point home. “Mission was a success, no injuries, we’re all fine.”

You feel hot under his eyes as he gazes at you, hard and unwavering, until whatever he sees is enough to convince him. He nods sagely and takes a step back, taking his warmth with him. If he notices the slight shudder of your shoulders, he says nothing.

“I, um, I actually wanted to talk to you...about this morning.”

At that, Bucky withdraws a little. Crosses his arms over his broad chest and paints on a steely facade of indifference. It makes your stomach drop, but you plough on.

“I’m sorry I ran.” Even a highly-trained former assassin can’t hide the fact he’s taken aback by your statement, and it gives you the momentum to continue. “I got into my head and I...I panicked. I thought I was taking advantage—” you ignore his snort— “and that it would look like I was trying to...to sleep my way up the ranks. And so I ran. But I had some time to think and I owe you that apology. If I embarrassed you, or humiliated you, or made you think I was rejecting you… I’m sorry.”

As you’d spoken, Bucky had taken some steps forward, a teasing smirk curling his mouth. His chest inches from yours, he leers down at you, and it takes a strong willpower not to lean into him. He lowers his head until his mouth is just centimeters from yours, his warm breath brushing over your cheeks and his eyes keeping yours locked in their trap.

A cornered animal, but running is the last thing you want when he’s looking at you like this.

“You really think you could take advantage of a super-soldier?” comes his lilting, velvet voice. It washes over you like a blanket, raising gooseflesh beneath your uniform and yet hiking the temperature up a thousand degrees. Something low in your belly curls, squeezes, makes your blood race.

You tilt your face, let your lips brush over his as you speak, “I think I can be very persuasive.”

A slight upward curl of his smirk and then he’s kissing you so deeply you have to tilt your head back. Much like in the gym, everything is Bucky. His mouth is soft but unyielding against yours, so fluid it feels like a dance you’ve done a thousand times. Sighing against his mouth, you sink into him, and he hums in reply.

His body is hard and hot where he pulls you in, his flesh hand scorching your skin even through your catsuit. The gunmetal hand cups your jaw, thumb presses into the bone to coax your mouth open. Your knees buckle at the first glide of his tongue against your bottom lip, and you feel the muscles of his forearm flexing to balance.

Your fingers slide into his hair, kept down and smooth like it’s been freshly washed, curl around the strands and tug just enough to make him tremble and groan low in his chest. His teeth are sharp against your lower lip and you hiss, mewl when he soothes the sting.

When he pulls away, an audible noise between your parting mouths, you’re left breathless. A - mostly - innocent kiss that has you gripping his hair tightly just to remain upright. Chest heaving, you watch him, dark eyelashes like feathers over his cheeks, and then those eyes flutter open.

“I suppose that means I’m forgiven?” It’s breathier than you intend, but who could blame you after a kiss like that?

Cheekily, he smirks and shrugs. “Haven’t decided yet.”

A narrowing of your eyes and you tug again on his hair. His eyelids flutter again and that muscle ticks in his jaw as he clenches it.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he warns with a tilt of his head and a look that sets your blood on fire.It’s too warm in here, and your mind has poor timing in remembering you’ve got news for him. So you make the painful move of stepping back and lowering your hands to his chest.

“I spoke with the Captain,” you murmur, glancing away and letting your mind drift to earlier that morning.

Bucky’s eyebrows rise, and he walks backwards with you until the two of you can drop onto the couch. He pulls your legs across his lap, a move that’s so casual yet intimate it takes you a minute to recover.

“What happened?”

“He was waiting outside my room. And he apologized. For how he’s been treating me, that it wasn’t fair and he’d understand if I couldn’t forgive him.”

You groan a little under your breath as Bucky’s hands work over your legs, fingertips digging deep despite the material of the uniform. You catch the look on his face.

“You look surprised.”

“I am,” he admits. And then: “He clammed up pretty fast when I asked him about why he was being such a stubborn prick to you. I’m glad to hear he smartened up.”

“You talked about me?” The thought of the rigid Captain and Bucky discussing you puts a weird feeling in your belly - one you’re not sure is good or bad.

“We did. After he called you out in the gym. We were on a mission together and I tried to get some information out of him, but he wouldn’t say a word except to tell me to shut it. What did you tell him?”

You sigh through your nose, wince when Bucky digs into a tender spot on your calf. It’s almost jarring out at ease you feel with him. “Told him it’d take some time. I’d be civil, but that he shouldn’t count on us being friendly any time soon.”

He snorts. “Bet that sat just peachy with him.”

“He was actually quite accepting of it. I think he knew he didn’t really have any room to argue.”

Bucky hums thoughtfully, and a silence ensues for a little while. He’s stopped his massage of your legs, though he still keeps contact, both palms warm through the tac suit.

In the midst of the silence, a thought occurs to you, and you mumble, “He said I was a good agent. One of the best he’s seen.”

Bucky’s eyebrows rise again - it isn’t often Steve dishes out compliments of that caliber. He watches your expression carefully; sees that you’re zoning out a little bit, mind someplace else, but not too far.

“He’s not wrong,” he adds gently, pulling you back to the present. You turn your eyes to him, slightly awed and speechless. He nods, as if to reaffirm his opinion. “You are a good agent. You’re smart and quick, and you bust your ass here. You’re strong, and you don’t take shit, even from Steve - especially from Steve. You’re gonna go far, I’m sure of it. So I can tell you that that compliment? He means it.”

You purse your lips and sink into the couch, slightly uncomfortable with Bucky’s praise. You appreciate it, you do, but between his sincerity and the attention showered upon you by your fellow agents, it’s a lot to shoulder in just a day. Not to mention the mental whiplash courtesy of the Captain’s supposed heartfelt apology.

Bucky seems to notice the war within you, the shadow that’s suddenly passed over your face. With a gentle smile, he tugs you into his lap and stands, carries you easily to his bedroom. He sets you down on your feet, the carpet plush and soft. He reaches for the zipper of your suit, catching your confused leer.

“Relax,” he huffs, “not doin’ anything but getting you comfortable. I can see how tired you are.”

Shoulders drooping, you let him undress you until you’re down to the tank top and spandex shorts you put on beneath the suit. He steps silently to his dresser, a feat that amazes you given his sheer size, pulls open a couple of drawers. He drops some dark, soft clothing into your arms.

“I’ll let ya get changed.” He leaves his room, closes the door behind him, to give you some privacy. The thought makes your heart stutter.

You’re swimming in his clothes, a pair of heavy sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt that instantly surrounds you in his scent. It’s comforting, and you close your eyes and smile as you bury your nose in the collar. You feel awkward, though, standing in the middle of his bedroom. You glance at the bed - are you allowed there? He didn’t explicitly say no and yet…

Before you can worry too deeply, Bucky comes back with a mug clutched in his vibranium hand. The smell of green tea wafts into your nose as he gets closer, and the ceramic is warm when he hands it to you. You breathe deeply before the first sip, and you get a small hint of sweetness.

“Honey?” you question.

“Learned a thing or two since coming off ice. C’mon.”

He tugs once on the baggy sleeve of your shirt and climbs onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard with those long legs out in front of him. He helps you balance carefully, maneuvers you so that you’re tucked up into his lap, mug clutched tight between your hands.

He radiates heat, and a fog settles over you, a sleepy, honey-slow descent into exhaustion. You get halfway through the tea before you begin to doze; his metal fingers clink against the mug when he gently takes it from you, sets it on the nightstand, and shimmies down the bed while keeping you curled up against him.

It’s hours later when you wake. No light streams through the windows; you’ve slept through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. The bed beside you is empty but warm from Bucky’s body heat, so he hasn’t been gone long. Still exhausted, you roll over, hug Bucky’s pillow to your face, and drift off again.

In the kitchen, Bucky swirls a glass of bourbon, leans against the counter. A tray with a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches rests on the counter behind him, a quick dinner for the two of you considering everyone else has turned in for the night. Steve sits across from him at the island, needing a break from endless paperwork and mission organization. He’d found Bucky bent over the counter, putting together the sandwiches.

At Steve’s questioning look, he’d said, “Y/N slept through dinner.”

And something sour curdles deep in his belly at the knowledge you’d slept - full context unknown - with Bucky. Found comfort in his best friend despite knowing he has no right. Not after the way he’s treated you.

“She said you apologized.”

Steve glances up at his friend, nods calmly. “Thought it was extremely overdue, and I didn’t really want her to leave because of me. Sam said she did well today, leading the team.”

“Bet that just ruffles your feathers, doesn’t it?”

Steve’s ready to retort, irritated, until he sees the gleam in Bucky’s eye, the smirk fighting to break through. He quickly deflates with a twitch of a smile.

“No, I’m...I’m happy to hear she’s not letting what I said get to her. I’m happy to hear she’s doing well.” It’s not a lie, but it’s said with a kind of hopeless tone that has Bucky tilting his head.

“When are you gonna tell me what all that was really about?” Bucky questions carefully. Sighing, Steve digs his thumbs into his eyes and shrugs. “Because even I gotta admit that isn’t like you at all. You always give people a chance before you have a bad opinion of them.”

“I don’t have a bad opinion of her…”

Bucky clenches his jaw, squeezes the glass in his hand. “You were on her ass from day one, pushing her and humiliating her when she didn’t meet whatever imaginary standard you’d set for her. She’s a rookie, Steve, she’s learning, and she’s learning fast if you ask me.”

He knows Bucky is right, yet his words paired with that acrid feeling in his stomach makes him scoot back from the island and turn to leave the room. Bucky calls his name, frustration and almost disbelief evident in his tone, but he ignores it.

He knows he’s being petty and stubborn and unreasonable, but he can’t help it. He’s normally not the type to run away from a fight, but how could he tell Bucky his true reason for his behavior? How could he tell his best friend that the girl he’s into reminds him of the very one she replaced? That her determination and confidence sent his heart hammering in his chest the very first day he met her?

….That he’s into the very same woman Bucky is?

Steve scrubs a hand over his face with a grunt as he stomps back to his room. That nauseous feeling still bubbling in his belly, he paces. He needs something to do, something that doesn’t require him to think, where he can shut his brain off. An idea crops up, one he knows is bad, but he can’t seem to stop himself from grabbing a jacket and exiting his room again.

[teeztheflag]

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Ateez! Reaction to getting intimidate with you while the members/ a member are/is in the same room

warnings: some of them behave like fu*kboys/di*kheads, argument, disrespect, alcohol, strong language, suggestive, teasing, doing unholy things in a church

a/n: this turned out so dumb I am sorry anon but I finished it lmfao also they’re more like teasing? because I cannot get my head into people fu*king in front of others and not caring about it 😂

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k i m h o n g j o o n g

Hong Joong always has been a mixture of someone who liked to show off his girl and keep her to himself so you weren’t really shocked when he started to kiss down your exposed neck at a gathering at their mansion that night.

First you were really flustered and giggled but the sexual tension quickly arose when he took a good hold on your hips from behind breathing hotly down your cleavage.

You gulped unsure of what to think about the situation and gasped when you saw Park Seong Hwa standing at the other end of the room a glass of wine in his hand and a mischievous smile on his face.

Was he watching you?

You frowned trying to stop Hong Joong in his motions but quickly realized that he already saw the other one seemingly enjoying the scene.

You turned around and hurt took over your features.

„I am not a cheep whore Kim Hong Joong. Whatever you and Seong Hwa have going on don’t ever dare to involve me in it again.“ You hissed out trying to push away the tears and stormed away.

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p a r k s e o n g h w a

Seong Hwa‘s birthday was known to be the biggest event of the year in his hometown. As the bachelor always threw the most outrageous and glamorous parties it was his friends this time that wanted to prepare something special.

They booked you: a student with little to no money but good dancing skills on the pool.

You started your show and even if Seong Hwa first wasn’t into the idea at all while he sat down in front of you on a single chair the moment he layed his eyes on you his heart skipped a beat.

You personated everything the young rich loved; you were so beautiful he got flustered and tried to hide his reddening cheeks.

The dress on you was way too short and the show went on with the cheering from his guests that the young bachelor zoned out completely by now. He felt himself shuddering and becoming nervous when the young lady started walking to him with confident steps but a deer like gaze.

You sat down on his lap your arms casually wrapping around his shoulders and he cursed lowly at the sweet scent you gave off when you leaned down to whisper in his ear.

„Happy Birthday, Mr. Park.“

You were about to dance on him when he stopped you in your tracks and you were panicking if you did something wrong. Seong Hwa looked you into the eyes and clenched his teeth.

„I swear you don’t know what you’re doing to me right now so stop.“

„Y - you’re joking, right?“ But the desperate look in his eyes told he was more than serious about this.

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j e o n g y u n h o

You just couldn’t look away. It was always something you wondered about. And not only you... definitely your whole circle of friends.

You really didn’t want to look but your gaze just seemed to magically find its way down to Yun Ho‘s crotch where - wait a sec. Is it what you think it is?

Gosh, you had a drink too much. When you looked up you weren’t really sure anymore if this was the reality but on the other side of the room on the couch Yun Ho caught your gaze and suppressed a smirk.

Since it was embarrassing you quickly averted your gaze back to the movie hoping the two of you would just forget about the incident.

„Another round? I am getting shots!“ The others agreed and you got slightly nervous when Yun Ho came back with a tablet and handed everyone a shot.

„I am suggesting brother shots because we’ve all been so busy lately!“

„Why do you sat down next to (y/n), then? Very calculated don’t you think.“ Jong Ho eyed the latter suspiciously and Yun Ho sent him a kiss.

You were so dizzy that you were thinking about what brother shots were again when Yun Ho already linked your arms and drank. Right in the moment you remembered he already placed a cherry tasting kiss on your lips.

You couldn’t hold yourself back to lick the remaining droplets off while Yun Ho watched you eagerly.

„How does it taste?“

You frowned at him still progressing what a wasted night this was. Suddenly Yun Ho wipes away the last droplets off with his thumb and brushes it also over you bottom lip.

Your mouth opens but no words seem to leave your lips while he smiles mischievously.

„G-good... too good.“

„Ah, you want another one?“

You debate and your gaze drifts to the others around you but they seem much too intoxicated themselves to notice.

„Yes.“ Yun Ho chuckles and you close your eyes waiting for his lips to finally touch yours again. When a cold material instead meets you your eyes shoot open and you see Yun Ho laughing at you.

„I meant another shot, (y/n).“ He winks and you roll your eyes pouting at him for getting the wrong ideas...

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k a n g y e o s a n g

Yeo Sang‘s family and yours were good friends since ages and it was a must to attend the sunday‘s service together.

Like usually your families sat next to eachother again but Yeo Sang tended to sit next to his friends in the last row this day. Just when you went up to get to your parents a voice stopped you.

„(y/n)! Come sit with us!“ You turn around and see San smiling at you and also the other boys were together. You just grew close to them a while ago and you didn’t see a reason to say no.

When you realized Woo Young made place for you between him and Yeo Sang your mood quickly changed. You frowned at the boy exactly knowing what you told him a month ago when you were drunk - that you had a crush on Yeo Sang since forever...

Problem was... Yeo Sang probably has been asexual or simply ignoring you for his own sake. As you expected he didn’t even greet you but just relaxed further into the bench.

The service started and the boys next to you seemed to fall asleep one after another while the priest was really into his game. You also weren’t the biggest fan of it but you knew how to be respectful.

It was time to pray with your eyes closed when you suddenly tense up. Your eyes immediately shoot open and your gazes drifts to the site where Yeo Sang is watching you intensely.

You are frozen and not able to move a muscle while he digs his hand further into your tigh. You quickly look around to see if someone notices but stop when you hear a giggle coming from right next to you from Woo Young.

Yeo Sang starts to draw slow circles into your skin and you recognize how warm his hand feels against your exposed flesh. You don’t know how to put it but your body tells you to invite his touches rather than scold him and retrieve his hand...

When he leans down you flinch and close your eyes uttering the last words of the prayer hoping to not die at how hard your heart beats against your ribcage.

His breath tickles the hairs on your neck and you can smell a strong perfume coming from him before he whispers.

„(y/n)... you’re a little whore squirming like this in a church...“

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s o n g m i n g i

„Well, a bet is a bet.“

„Min Gi, you aren’t serious about this? I thought it was a joke! If I knew you would be a dick I wouldn’t have obliged!“

Min Gi let’s out a laugh and drags you back inside the karaoke room where your friends were partying like there’s no tomorrow.

He sat you down next to him and brought his arm over your shoulder to keep you close so you couldn’t escape. He side glanced your form and smiles to see your arms crossed and a pout adorning your face.

„Cute.“

„What?“

„Oh, nothing. Just enjoying the view.“ His eyes turn into crescents while he grins at you.

Times flies by and you know your boyfriend good enough that he wouldn’t let his price slip. So when your food arrives everyone gasps when you start to feed Min Gi like he was the king of South Korea.

„Damn, what the heck are you two doing?“

Some couldn’t control their laughter and you feel like sinking into a hole of embarrassment when Min Gi explains that you just realized how he should be really treated.

Everyone knew you were sassy and didn’t take any shit and so it has also been with your boyfriend. Min Gi loved to tease you endlessly and he knew that having you serve him in front of your friends was something you wouldn’t like. He took it as a revenge for you making him jelous the last week and a dangerous glint appears in his eyes thinking back to the evening.

„Mh, my love. I have some sauce on my chin...“

„So what?“

„Lick it away.“

„You are unbelievable!“

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c h o i s a n

San always has been an affectionate person that needed a lot of attention from his s/o. You on the other hand liked to stick to simple holding hands in public and a little peck here or there but nothing too exaggerated.

San knew you were shy but sometimes he couldn’t hold himself back to tease you openly so people would see who you belong to. No, that wasn’t the only reason he liked to show off he was just fully engulfed in your form and needed to touch whenever he could.

This caused you scolding him from time to time when he did inappropriate things in the different areas.

For example in a car. With Jong Ho and Seong Hwa in the back. You were standing at a red light when you felt San‘s hand sneaking up your thigh leaving a tickling sensation in the process. The boys were tired but you were sure they were still awake in the back.

Quickly you try to retrieve San‘s hand but his grip just strengthens and the nerve this boy has! When you glance to him he’s just sheepishly looking outside acting like he does nothing. He always messed with you inside his car but this time it was worse because there were your friends in the back!

„San!“ You whisper-yell to your boyfriend who looks up to you for a second before leaning in to your side.

„What?“

„Stop!“

„No!“ Then he leans back and when you try to forcefully pull his hand back you’re suddenly with a clap to your thigh leaving you flushed and aroused because of the mixture of pain and pleasure.

„Mh... are we already there?“ Oh, Jong Ho probably actually fell asleep.

„Five minutes.“ San ignites with a big smile to the back.

After you drop off the two San suddenly locks the car and leans over so his arm is around the lean of your seat. Out of reflex you lean back clearly intimidated by his posture but also confused what he wanted to do now.

„Did it hurt, baby?“

You shyly nod and your gaze falls to your lap where you’re playing with the hem of your skirt. San’s tongue pokes out to wetten his bottom lip and a low chuckle leaves him.

„Can you whine like that for me again when we’re home?“

„San!“

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j u n g w o o y o u n g

Jung Woo Young meant danger; that’s what everyone knew. You couldn’t deny the fact that he intrigued you beyond everything that was appropriate... meaning you fantasized about the boy way too much. Everything about him was perfect.

If you just could have a taste of his lips once in your life... It was just a little joke and daydreaming for you; nothing serious. And maybe his image also helped you to relieve some stress in lonely nights but really nothing more.

Although you didn’t expect this houseparty to be too spectacular things actually spiced up when you saw the boy and his friends entering the party. You suddenly felt more excited and thanked god you decided to join your friends this night.

You saw Woo Young quickly being accompanied by a girl and immediately your face fell. Dammit... Just stop dreaming of somebody you will never have!

„(y/n)?“ Oh, yes! You were currently playing beerpong and it was your turn. Well, if you didn’t get the boy you would at least just win this game. And you did. With a big crowd around you the other girls cheering for you because you won against the best of the boys in this game.

With a big grin and clearly tipsy by now you dragged your friend inside to dance accompanied by the others. You swayed your hips, laughed and had a lot of fun. Until you felt someone’s hand sneaking around your waist to level your rhythm up to his.

You turned around and saw no other than the Jung Woo Young eyefucking you shameless.

„What are you doing?“

„Getting revenge for my friend; but in my own way.“

You look over to Yeo Sang the one you just managed to destroy and see him winking at you from afar.

Your eyes quickly drift to Woo Young’s chest and you mumble to yourself. „This would be more like a prize...“

Woo Young is able to hear your words because instead of you he didn’t touch a single bottle tonight and because of that he decides to take things a little further. Suddenly the boy leads you out of the crowd upstairs to a secluded room where he’s quickly placing hungry kisses over your exposed collarbone.

You’re feeling like paralyzed both of the boldness and the pleasure.

Your eyes open wide when you hear a chuckle coming from the other side of the room and you frown seeing Yeo Sang sitting casually in a chair enjoying the show.

„Like you said. Your prize and our revenge.“

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c h o i j o n g h o

Another one of those boring business nights with Jong Ho and you were quickly deciding to roam around the big mansion you landed in this time.

Gosh, how rich was his boss again? This house looked more like a palace to you and made you again wonder; what the hell was Jong Ho even working?

You turned corner after corner and whined knowing you got lost.

„Dammit... I am so stupid!“

„Here you are. Mrs. Choi we‘re missing your presence!“

Choi san comes out of the dark with a smile on his face and a hand tugged into his pockets. He looked ravishing but you guessed he already knew that by the way he always held himself. For you, San was a friend. A good one because he helped you and your husband in more than one way.

You puffed out some air and rolled your eyes. „What could be so interesting that you would need me?“

„Tsk, always so sassy... Jong Ho is currently leading in the game you should join us.“

„How much?“

„That’s for you to find out.“ A chuckle leaves you and with quick steps you get to San and link arms so he can guide you back.

The room was dark and huge with a single poker table in the middle where only three very young and dangerously looking gentlemen were still deeply engulfed into the game. Woo Young who stands next to the table winks at you and you try to hide the uneasiness he’s causing you every time with his little flirt attempts.

Hong Joong and Yun Ho still played with Jong Ho and being the bold human you were you emerged the table with confident steps and sat down on Jong Ho‘s lap to make your presence very clear to everyone.

Jong Ho immediately maneuvered his hands so he could sneak one of his arms around your waist and adjust your position; what the hell...

You were practically sitting widespread on his right thigh now but Jong Ho only seemed to be interested in the game.

They played silently while the others were casually getting drinks from the bar. You on the other hand were busy in understanding the game and Jong Ho‘s cards. You shuffled your body and position from time to time trying to not put too much pressure on your husband‘s thigh.

After a while with a lot of struggling Jong Ho groaned out annoyed and gave your hip a squeeze only to push you down on his thigh stronger than before.

„Fuck!“

All eyes were on you immediately and you know you shouldn’t have teased him so much...

„You want to distract me or put on a show for my friends?“

You were flustered beyond everything and just looked down to hide the embarrassment. „Neither.“

„Neither what?“

„Neither, sir.“ It was only a whisper but everyone clearly heard the word coming out of your mouth.

Jong Ho smiles triumphantly at the others knowing he not only won the game when he shows his cards but also that he would teach you a lesson in a few minutes.

[c-is-for-circinate]

So as close as I am to fully escaping Hades for the first time, I figure I might take this opportunity to write down a couple of things I'm scared of from this ending. The story is so good so far! But I have seen good stories before! And there are patterns, right, patterns it's so easy for even good stories to fall into, so yeah, I have fears, and they mostly come down to Hades himself.

(Yep, this one got long again! People seem to be enjoying my game-reaction rambles, so, for your enjoyment under the cut: themes of separation and reunion, predictions for what Zagreus is the god of, and a whole lot of discussion of familial abuse dynamics, how they're depicted in fiction, and the work it takes to change them in real life. Stay warned! Stay safe!)

(ALSO, I still haven't made it past the first couple of chambers in the Temple of Styx, so no spoilers in the reblogs/comments please! Yes, even though the whole post is me going on about predictions and hopes and concerns about the path the story might take. I WILL GET THERE SOON.)

It has been really interesting watching some of the stuff the game is doing with themes of parting and reunion, and how that corresponds to life and death. So many of our social links are about reuniting estranged loved ones: Chaos and Nyx, Eurydice and Orpheus, Patroclus and Achilles. Hades is estranged from Olympus, Persephone left. And every time we leave, or try to leave, it is both an attempt at a parting (and Meg and Than are so hurt by that goodbye, or lack thereof) and an attempt at a reunion with our mother. Every time we die it's a reunion, every time we die it's fun, it's great, we get to go back home and check in with all of our friends and be impressed by whoever made Employee Of The [Timeperiod] and sell fish to the cook and put down yet more rugs. (My Zagreus has something of a rug addiction. What can you do.)

It's at the point where I feel pretty secure in stating that Zagreus is going to discover eventually that he is both life/death/rebirth god, and god of partings and reunions. Both halves of both of those things. People leave each other when they die and re-find their loved ones in death; you go away from one group of people to come back to another; you have to depart to return, and I really think that's where we're going to end up with Zagreus. He's going to reunite his various friends with their loved ones, he's probably going to restore communications between Hades and Olympus and even Persephone, he's going to reunite with his mom, and he's going to come back to the Underworld before he leaves to see everyone up top all over again. And of course the vehicle for all of this coming and going is death, because death is the ultimate departure and reuniter. (This is absolutely a religious concept containing a whole bunch of "oh hey our culture has a lot of Christian influence, doesn't it", Greek trappings aside, but that's fine, it's a game made in 2018 not 300 BC, these things happen. They keep calling the Underworld 'hell' and 'infernal'. It's all good.) Of course he's a cthonic god. Of course he bleeds, because you have to bleed in order to die, and Zagreus has to die again and again and again. That's his whole thing.

Thing is, though, looking at those themes, I am also continually aware of the fact that some partings are for a really good reason. Some partings should not end in reunion.

Yes, of course this is about Hades the abusive dad. I have been talking about Hades the abusive dad basically non-stop since I started playing this game, where did you think this post was going.

There are a few things I'm nervous about, separate but related, and at the core it all comes down to, I'm not okay with it if we learn why Hades got to be this way, and Zagreus forgives him as we-the-audience are meant to do, and Hades promises to do better, and nothing concrete about the situation is forced to change. Actual, meaningful, practical, logistical, non-hypothetical non-metaphorical change, not just for Zagreus but for Hades himself.

Because I know how this story tends to go, in fiction. Fictional abusive parents (especially in fantasy/sci-fi stories) tend to come in two types: 'coerced their offspring into actual murder with a side of physical abuse and optional unethical lab experimentation', or 'this was here to create character conflict, we didn't mean for it to read as actually abusive, this parent just has flaws to make them a good character, we swear!' Hades isn't the first type--we have never once seen Hades strike his son, or anybody, or even come out from behind his desk--which means that the fear is, always, always, in every piece of fiction, that he's the second. That the writers are going to decide that the right response to his abuses is remorse, forgiveness, and one really good conversation. That they don't realize it's abuse in the first place.

And, like. They have to know, right? They have to. They can't have done this by accident. (Sometimes, writers get so close by accident.) They can't have done so well at drawing out this situation simply by going, 'well, people are meant to fear this god, so they'd probably react like this, and I guess based on what I've seen in other stories or vague acquaintances they'd then do this,' and never put the name on the situation. Every single time we leave to the tune of a Hades word-flash, he's being dismissive, insulting, and sometimes downright cruel. He is cruel. They have to know!!!

But oh boy have I been consuming media for a lot of years, and oh boy have I run into a lot of writers who don't know.

Reconciliation is such a loaded word, but stories about dysfunctional families really do love it. Stories based around themes of reunion are primed for it. And of course, it's nice, it ties a happy ending off with a sweet little bow, everyone gets to be with the people they love and the family is safe and nobody gets hurt, but so rarely have I seen stories that show the actual work required to rebuild those relationships in a realistic or meaningful way. So rarely do stories trying to build that happy ending actually let the victim of abuse set and maintain boundaries. The character never gets to actually just cut the damn ties to the thing that hurt them. The character so rarely even gets to be safe.

And it's so hard in this game specifically, because "THERE IS NO ESCAPE", because every single thing about this game says that the story's not over when Zagreus gets to the surface, that no matter what he's going to have to come back. It's so hard, because this is a game about reunions. I am not going to get an ending where the abused kid trying to flee his toxic home and abusive dad actually gets to leave and stay gone, not in this one. And that hurts (I have watched and supported and done my best to help multiple real-life friends get the fuck out of homes like that, and stay gone, I have seen how hard it is, how complicated, how awful, and there are never stories for that), but I can live with it, if I get an ending where Zagreus is at least safe. Where things change. Where they really change.

Which is why I need actual, concrete, material changes in the logistics and power structure of the Underworld for this ending to be okay. Understanding why Hades is Like That doesn't cut it. Remorse doesn't cut it! Because look, even if Hades wants to do better, even if he admits he's at fault and tries to be better, he is still set up in a position as an all-powerful tyrant, and trying to become a better person is hard. There is nobody around who can keep him in check when he starts backsliding, which he will. Even if he doesn't want to, he will.

Because people are people, and it's really difficult to break patterns! Especially if everything around them stays the same. Hades is going to slip at some point, be cruel, be callous, be tyrannical, no matter how much of an effort he's making. Not to mention, it is STRESSFUL to face your own crimes and improve, it sucks, it feels bad. And what do habitual abusers do when they feel bad? What's the only coping mechanism Hades appears to have established for dealing with his own shit? That's right, it's inflicting suffering on everyone else around him. (This is why it doesn't really matter what circumstances drove Hades to act this way, why it can't matter--I believe that he is suffering, but he copes with that suffering by inflicting additional suffering on everyone around him, everyone who relies on him, and that's still true no matter what made him feel bad to begin with.) So then we just get a great old guilt-->lashing out-->more guilt-->more lashing out merry-go-round of abuse even as Hades is trying to change. That's how these things work. And yes, change is possible, improvement is absolutely possible, but the environment needs to change first. The system that enables and rewards Hades for acting this way can't stay in place. Things need to actually change, with people who are around to support Hades in his growth and also check his power, people who have power of their own to stop him. And however it happens, for this story with this protagonist with these goals to feel like a happy ending, Zagreus needs to be safe.

It would be okay, though a little disappointing, if those changes were mostly based in magic and fate and, idk, divine mind-control. (This story has been so grounded in actual human dynamics that a fantastical solution to a realistic problem would feel like a letdown, but if it actually solved the problem I'd be okay with it, more or less.) It would be okay, though a little disappointing, if the responsibility for bringing Hades to heel fell upon Zagreus and Persephone, if the two family members who he hurt badly enough that they felt the need to run away from him entirely now had to shoulder the burden of helping him fix himself. (There are definitely ways to write that dynamic better and ways to write it worse, and I think I trust these writers to land on the 'better' side of the scale, but I still don't love the implications.) I think I'd be pretty into it if Hades took a vacation off to Olympus to Work Out His Shit with his own family, while a coalition of Meg, Nyx, Thanatos, Zagreus, and Queen Persephone took over running the Underworld in his absence. I think we might end up getting some combination of those things. I'm hopeful. I think these writers might know what they've written. I think they might have a sense for what it'll take to fix.

But yeah, I'm nervous. (Nervous enough that I might switch to God Mode just to get through, combat has started getting really tedious instead of fun, I want to know what happens next, and this is a game and there is no shame in making it more fun for myself by making the boring parts a little quicker and easier.) I've seen so many stories go wrong. This one has done so much to earn my trust. We'll see if it breaks.