#late friday night is not the most ideal time to post this - but I wanted to get it done before the weekend

[allthewriteplaces]

A Magnolia In May ~ Chapter Twenty-Two

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've posted anything about our beloved Shelby clan, but hopefully this funny filler chapter will make up for the absence. Also, there won't be a chapter next week because I'm going on a trip to a cottage with the family!! Chapter Summary: There might be a new addition to the Shelby family in the coming months.

Chapter Warnings: None, just overall chaos.

Word Count: 2369

Chapter Twenty-Two

Minutes turned into hours and before we knew it, it was past nine o’clock, past some of the kids’ bedtimes. It was arranged that for tonight, everyone could stay here and then leave in the morning, since even in an area as safe as this, it wasn’t ideal to go travelling at night. 

It was evident the kids wouldn’t be going to sleep anytime soon, what with all the excitement that was going on, therefore, Arthur proposed that the best and most reasonable approach to this little dilemma was to let them all stay up as late as they wanted to in hopes that they’d eventually tire themselves out. The only rule that was set, was that they play nicely and quietly. 

Most of the time was spent catching up with one another. 

Lizzie did end up announcing that she was seeing someone else, much to everyone’s surprise and delight, including Thomas’ and from what she told us, he seemed like a good and honest man and Polly insisted on meeting him immediately, to which Lizzie jokingly responded that she doesn’t want to scare him away. In a more serious tone, she added, 

“That’s also why I don’t want him to meet Ruby and Charlie yet. It’s not that I don’t think he’ll love them. I have mentioned them multiple times in conversation, but the last thing I want to do is confuse them. You know, they already have a dad, and adding a new person to the mix, they might not know what to call them.” 

“When John and I married,” Esme said, “his kids just called me Esme. I didn’t ask them to call me ‘mum’ until they were ready to do so, even though he kept insisting that they do. I knew it wasn’t easy for them, losing their mother, so I didn’t want to rush them. Sure, our situations are different, but you get what I mean.” 

“I do,” Lizzie answered. 

I sat there a minute, minding my own business, but then I turned to her. 

“You know, I thought the same thing when Thomas and I first got together; the children already have a mother --” I gestured to her “-- and the last thing I want is to take that away  from you and make you feel like you’re being replaced.” 

“Hardly,” she said with a laugh. “Perhaps if you were Miss Carleton or Tatiana, I wouldn’t have gone down so easily. I would have done whatever it took to keep my children as far away from your influence as possible, but you’re different from them, I would be a fool not to see it. You’re not just with Tommy because of his status or to stay off his bad side, you love him. With every fibre of your being.” 

“I do,” I answered with a nod. 

“You’re as much a Shelby now as the rest of us,” said Arthur. 

“Speaking of Miss Carleton, we do have a meeting on Friday,” Thomas put in. 

“Goodie,” Lizzie groaned sarcastically, which made him laugh. “And who’s we?” 

“I don’t mean it literally, I mean as in myself,” he corrected himself. 

“Well then, why didn’t you just say I have a meeting?” she countered. 

“You know what I meant,” he said, rolling his eyes and sipping his whiskey. 

“This is what you have to look forward to,” said Polly, shaking her head and gesturing to Thomas and Lizzie as they bickered, much like children would and I had to purse my lips together to keep from smiling. 

“What on Earth is there to talk about anyway? I thought you quit betting on horses after the last time. You said it went horribly and the horse ended up--” 

“One, he was already sick,” he answered, his voice deepening with controlled irritation at Lizzie having brought up a sore spot in Thomas’ past. “Two, she is here to see one of our horses in the stables. She hasn’t been herself these past few weeks and since she has owned horses before, she might be able to determine what’s wrong with her and if not, I will phone a doctor to come and check on her.” 

“Her?” Aunt Eliza raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes,” he answered. “Grace’s Secret is a girl horse.” 

“Hmm…” she nodded. 

We all noticed how she trailed off and Thomas tilted his head to one side. 

“Hmm?” I asked, repeating her response. 

“You don’t think she could be…” she continued slowly. 

“Could be what?” he asked. 

She hesitated. “Is there a chance she could be pregnant?” 

Thomas’ glass nearly slipped from his hand and landed on the floor, shattering into a million pieces and staining the ground with the alcohol inside of it. 

I thought back to when I’d gone to clean out the stables while the children were in the schoolroom and I’d seen her and another horse together and it looked to me that things had gotten very intimate. 

I mentioned it to Thomas later on that day as I washed and dried the dishes but we didn’t think much of it, considering there was little chance it would happen. Now all of her symptoms made sense: She’d been grazing a lot more these past couple of weeks and she tired more easily, she kept looking at her abdomen and holding her tail up. 

“It happened once with our mare. We thought she’d gotten into some bad grass and was sick, but no, our stablehand told us she was expecting. Albert and I were shocked. We had no idea how to care for a pregnant horse, but he was with us every step of the way, showed us what to do and when the foal arrived, she was a happy, healthy little thing.” 

“I remember that,” I said, “You both woke us up just before the sun came up and we saw it all happen. Alice cried because she thought it was gross, seeing all the blood.” 

She laughed. “Poor thing. She wouldn’t come out of her room for hours.” 

Ada smiled. “At least we don’t have to do it standing up.” 

“True,” said Lizzie, “I thought I was going to pass out having Ruby, and I was laying down in a comfortable bed the whole time.” 

“Try having twins,” said Eliza, “Sure, I had some time in between to rest, but still, it took a lot of energy out of me.” 

“They still do,” I laughed, to which she had to laugh as well. 

“They do,” she nodded, “but it’s worth every minute I get to spend with them.” 

Uncle Albert put his arm around her and held her close. 

“Cheers, Tommy,” said Ada, “You’re going to be a grandfather.” 

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Esme replied. 

“Sure it is, he raised her, and now she’s having a child.” 

“True, but he’s a human,” said Linda, “she’s a horse, in order for her to be his child, he would have to be a horse as well, and so would Ruby and Charlie and so would all of us and not to mention, Jessie and Tommy wouldn’t be able to--” 

“Great, Now you put the image of us with horse bodies in my head!” 

“You’re welcome,” Linda grinned. 

“I was being sarcastic.” 

“Well, so was I.” 

“Really, I didn’t notice.” 

“I don’t want to picture it, either,” said Lizzie, rubbing her temples. 

“No one asked for your opinion, Nancy,” Linda snapped. 

“It’s Lizzie and you know it!” she said, pointing at her. 

“Wouldn’t our top half be human and bottom half be horse?” said Ada. 

“It’s still uncanny,” said Lizzie. 

“I don’t have a single clue what’s going on anymore,” Ben said, confused. 

Aberama looked around awkwardly as the ladies continued to argue, fixing his hat to give himself something to do.  “I stopped listening after food was mentioned.” 

“No one said anything about food,”  said Arthur. 

“Exactly.” 

Thomas. cleared his throat, clearly not finding a single part of this discussion amusing even though the rest of us were trying hard not to laugh too loudly as to rouse suspicion. “I’m going to need more whiskey for this conversation.” 

“Make it a double!” Ben called as he walked away. 

For once, Thomas Shelby, who always had an answer to everything, who would outlive the Good Lord, Himself trying to have the last word, was rendered speechless. 

I watched him get off the couch and go into the cellar to retrieve another bottle. 

“Who knew something like that would rattle him,” Arthur observed. 

“I’ve seen him get pretty worked up over things like this,” said Polly, “he just needs some time to calm down, get his head on straight, then he’ll know what to do.” 

He came back and then sat down next to me, looking calmer, but still dazed by the shock of the news that was just dropped at his feet. 

“Tommy, a pregnant horse is not the end of the world,” she continued once he’d taken a drink from his new glass of whiskey. “Call a doctor, have him come take a look at her and then from there we can figure out what to do. There’s no sense worrying about it until we know for sure.” 

Thomas considered his aunt’s words. I wasn’t surprised that she was once again the voice of reason in the family, the one to pull them back when they got a little rowdy, then he set his glass down on the table and nodded. 

“You’re right, Pol,” he said softly. “I just worry about her, you know? She’s been with the family since Charlie was a baby and it’s the only part of Grace I have left.” 

Everyone was quiet and Polly leaned forward. 

“That’s not exactly true,” she began. “You still have memories of when the two of you were together, don’t you? Sure, not all of them may have been pleasant, but no matter how bad things got, the love was always there. And you two shared some very happy moments, like the first time you took her dancing, and your wedding day, and the birth of your son.” 

She paused for a moment and said in a much lower, more reassuring voice,

“No one can take those happy memories away from you.” 

He met her gaze and I thought for one second, his eyes gleamed with tears. It made me want to reach out and comfort him, to put an arm around his shoulder, to hold him and tell him it was all going to be alright. 

But I didn’t. I could tell this was one of those moments where he didn’t necessarily want physical affection, and he said later on that my silent presence was more than enough to keep him grounded. 

He seemed to be thinking about something for a long while, but he came back down to Earth a few seconds later and smiled one of those rare Thomas Shelby smiles before saying, “Why’re there so many sad faces here, eh? This is a party. We should be celebrating.” 

“Actually,” said Esme, standing up, her long, stunning curls falling in front of her face as she did so. “I think I’ll be heading off to bed. We have a long journey ahead of us and if I’m going to survive the drive in the carriage with the kids, I’m going to need all the sleep I can get.” 

She went upstairs and I didn’t miss the wink she threw my way. 

I wondered what she meant by it, but I didn’t have much time to ponder it because Aberama and Polly also rose from their places, stating that they, too, were going to be heading back home right after breakfast. 

“Make sure this one gets some sleep,” she told me while looking at Thomas, who tilted his head to one side innocently. 

“I will,” I reassured her. 

“Good girl,” she answered and the three of them went upstairs. 

The rest of us stayed down for a little while longer. It was almost midnight by the time we all went to bed. Even by midnight, the children were all asleep, including my cousins, who had been known to stay up past their bedtime when there was just too much excitement. 

For tonight, I elected to stay in my own room so as not to rouse suspicion and to not tempt Thomas into staying up late. 

“But it’s my birthday,” he protested, his voice whiny like a child. 

“No buts, Mister Shelby. I promised your aunt I would make sure you get some rest, and you can make those puppy dog eyes at me all you want, it’s not going to work.” 

“How do you know it won’t work?” 

“Because I have cared for more than enough children to know how this whole thing works and I can be quite strict when it comes to following the rules of the household, yours included.” 

“I can’t sleep without you, though,” he pleaded. 

It was clear he would try every trick in the book to make me give in, but while his tactics were well thought out and carefully planned, so were mine. 

Still, we could compromise, that was something that worked in the children’s and their parents’ favours in the past, and maybe it would work for us as well. 

“Fine. If you promise to go right to sleep, no funny business, I will stay in your room with you.” 

He pretended to think it over, tapping his finger against his chin. 

“Very well,” he said after a few seconds. “No funny business.” 

“Good,” I said and then after I changed into my nightgown, I went down the hallway and went into his room, closing the door softly behind me.  

He was grinning like he’d just won a gambling match by the time I slid into the bed next to him. I playfully rolled my eyes and turned onto my side facing away from him. His arm wrapped around my middle to hold me in one spot, he kissed my shoulder and my neck once. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. “This was the best birthday I’ve had.” 

I smiled to myself, snuggling up closer to him. 

Then shortly afterwards, I heard him snore softly.

To Be Continued. Taglist: @cillmequick @zablife @sherbitdibdab @runnning-outof-time @izabesworld

[billconrad]

Most Authors Are Goodhearted People

    As a teenager, I read on a coffee mug, “Workers got to do what they got to do, and authors write about it from the sidelines.” This flippant remark cracked me up, but I was a brat who had no appreciation of how difficult it is to write a book. At the time, my father was a talented author of ceramics textbooks.

    I have since matured, and, like my father, I became an author. This journey provided a newfound perspective on writing, marketing, and English. Along the way, I met many fellow authors who were all goodhearted people who wished to make the world a better place. Why are they goodhearted people? While developing a plot, the author must create an ideal (writeable) world; hope is the most significant ingredient.

    Why? We want our characters to make it through the plot and hope readers enjoy their words. Yet, books may contain horror, conflict, criminals, death, torture, imprisonment, and all kinds of unpleasant topics. Plus, they may have trashy stories, have bad morals, and treat their characters poorly.     An early example of a distasteful book is Frankenstein’s Monster by Mary Shelley. In its day, this book was horrific, gory, controversial, and unethical. Today, we see disturbing plots like The Exorcist, Friday the 13th, The Shining, and Silence of the Lambs.

    Why did such nasty stories succeed? Even deplorable characters can overcome adversity, survive, thrive, mature, and change. But what about genuinely awful authors? Or the authors who intentionally create contemptible works? There will always be exceptions to the rule. What about books written for revenge, shock value, manipulation, or terror? Evil people use whatever tools they can find to spread their hate.

    When someone sets out to be an author, they have an overall goal to contribute (publish). The authors I met want to add goodness instead of spreading evil. Their contribution may not be successful, but there is an honest attempt to be positive.

    I saw a personal improvement once I became an author. This means that I think more about the people surrounding me, what they should do to better their lives, and what I should do to improve my life. This positive change was gradual, but I can trace it back to writing. In addition, I read many positive posts on the Facebook group Writers Helping Writers. The authors positively contributed to the comments, worked hard to perfect their words, and tried to make the world a better place.

    I concede that the same goodhearted argument could apply to oil workers, teachers, drafting technicians, clowns, and stockbrokers. They all want positive change, but authors still have a special place in our society. They work late into the night, writing textbooks, fiction, comic books, scripts, plays, and poems that shape future generations. This positive dedication makes them unique and positive members of society.

    You’re the best -Bill

    December 09, 2023

    Hey book lovers, I published four. Please check them out:

    Interviewing Immortality. A dramatic first-person psychological thriller that weaves a tale of intrigue, suspense, and self-confrontation.

    Pushed to the Edge of Survival. A drama, romance, and science fiction story about two unlikely people surviving a shipwreck and living with the consequences.

    Cable Ties. A slow-burn political thriller that reflects the realities of modern intelligence, law enforcement, department cooperation, and international politics.

    Saving Immortality. Continuing in the first-person psychological thriller genre, James Kimble searches for his former captor to answer his life’s questions.

    These books are available in soft-cover on Amazon and eBook format everywhere.

[spaceorphan18]

99 Perspectives on a Single Love Story #36

A/N: The Story of Kurt and Blaine told through the eyes of everyone else but them. Each chapter is a different perspective in the ongoing tale of their love story.

I started something like this a while back - and now I’m taking the idea and really running with it. Each chapter is a ficlet of a different character at a different point in Kurt and Blaine’s life - documenting their love story. This starts in Audition, and each chapter will be paired with a different episode until reaching Dreams Come True.

[Ao3]

***

Hiram and LeRoy Berry (On My Way) 

It had been cute but somewhat alarming when the idea of Rachel and Finn’s marriage first came to their attention.  But a month has gone by, and for as much as they suggested to postpone it, Rachel is still a Berry.  And Berrys are headstrong and ambitious.  It’s not surprising that she’ll push on through to get what she wants.  It doesn’t mean that either Hiram or LeRoy are happy about it though.  Finn Hudson is a good kid.  His mother is good people.  And someday, possibly after Rachel has her Tony, it would be a nice present for herself to nab a permanent piece of man candy.

But honestly.  She could have waited.  If not for herself then at least for her dads who have now dug a hole so deep with the positivity around the marriage they can not utterly see a way out.  

There are wedding preparation materials all over the dining room table.  Bridal magazine, fabric swatches, plates of various sweets and cupcakes.  This little game is becoming frightening real all too quickly.  Rachel’s at the table, chattering away with her friends Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson (the latter of whom they have just recently met - and whom they both agree is a delightful young man).  But the reality of the situation is - this wedding is now happening way quicker than it should be.  And if they can’t convince Rachel to back out - maybe her friends can help.  

As Rachel takes a bathroom break, Hiram and LeRoy jump on the chance to join the kids at the table.  

“So, uh, so this is coming along nicely,” Hiram says, conversationally, pointing around at the piles on the table.  

“Rachel’s going to make an exquisite bride,” Blaine says, cooing over a page in a bridal gown magazine with a post-it note that reads ‘maybe’ on it.  

“She isn’t she?” LeRoy says, forcing a smile as he looks at the magazine.  “But you know what, if she really wants this dress -- I think a fall wedding might be a better match.  The color scheme is all wrong in spring.” 

“Yes, yes, that’s right - we wouldn’t want the color scheme to be wrong for our baby girl’s big day,” Hiram agrees.  “You know what might be better than a fall wedding? A fall of 2024 wedding.”

“Yes!” LeRoy agrees quickly.  “Fall of 2024.  I hear it’s supposed to be a good year.” 

“The Plaza Hotel might have an opening in the Fall of 2024,” Hiram adds.  “LeRoy, check to see if The Plaza Hotel has an availability in 2024.  We should book that now.  Wouldn’t want to lose out on such a location.” 

Kurt seems to understand where this is going.  Blaine does not.  

“See, Blaine, I told you -- we really need to wait until we’re thirty,” Kurt says, turning towards Blaine, as if this is something he’s said many times before.  Blaine rolls his eyes at Kurt.  

Both LeRoy and Hiram pause -- as it hits them that they have a couple of young gays in front of them.  They look fondly at each other, and then at Kurt and Blaine.

“So, so, uh, are the two of you, uh, the two of you together?” Hiram asks, a grin on his face.  

“We are,” Blaine says proudly, grabbing Kurt’s hand.  

“And planning to get married?” Hiram asks.  And then a devastating thought enters his brain. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, please tell me you don’t want to have a double wedding. I cannot afford a double wedding.”  He points directly at Kurt.  “Your dad with this excellent lube shop cannot afford a double wedding.” 

“Calm down, Hiram, I’m sure they’re not going to crash any weddings any time soon,” LeRoy says, waving a dismissive hand at him.  

“Someday, we’d like to get married,” Blaine admits, looking adoringly at Kurt. 

Kurt grins at him, but he’s more held back.  “But not yet.  We want to be ready.” 

“Good because marriage is terrible,” Hiram says unexpectedly. “And you should tell Rachel that.” 

“Hiram, c’mon,” LeRoy says, tilting his head at his husband.  “How often to we come across a young, gay couple in Ohio? Let’s not discourage them.” 

“Well, we shouldn’t be encouraging them either.  We are, after all, responsible adults.” 

“True,” LeRoy agrees. “But marriage isn’t as awful as you’re making it sound.” 

“Oh, well yes, yes,” Hiram says, thinking it over. “It, uh, it starts out all, uh, all rainbows and glitter but then you wake up one day and you have a mortgage you’ll be paying into your eighties and a partner who believes Velveeta is an acceptable cheese substitute.” 

“It was one dish,” LeRoy argues.  “And how many times have I told you -- you don’t like what I cook, you can cook yourself.” 

“Oh, no no no no no,” Hiram wiggles a finger at him. “You said, LeRoy, you said as part of our marriage vows that I would never have to cook.  Do you remember our marriage vows, LeRoy, they were sacred.” He then turns to Kurt and Blaine.  “I do, however, make a good French Toast. Kurt, you’ve never been over on a Sunday morning for one of our Brunch and Broadway meals, it is the talk of the town.” 

“They are exquisite,” LeRoy agrees.

Blaine looks up to them with wide eyes.  “They sound delightful.” 

“Don’t encourage them, Blaine…” Kurt says, leaning over to whisper in Blaine’s ear. 

“So, now, where were we? Oh, right.  Teen marriage,” Hiram says.  “Not a good idea”

“Not a good idea, right,” LeRoy agrees. 

Hiram continues.  “And maybe, maybe maybe, since the two of you are teens -- a delightful teen couple who is not getting married.  Maybe the two of you might want to mention they should wait.” 

There’s an awkward pause, as Kurt and Blaine aren’t sure what to say to that.  

“I told them from day one that they should wait,” Kurt finally admits.  

“But they’re so in love, Kurt,” Blaine argues, as if it’s not the first time the two of them have had this conversation.  “Do you really want to get in the way of that?”

“No, right, right, right, but listen to your partner, Blaine,” Hiram says, excitedly.  “Kurt is right.  You can be in love when you’re older.  In fact, it’s a lot better when you’re older.  You’ll have jobs and careers and your own piano rooms.  And a much better idea as to whether or not your partner is, in fact, a bit crazy.” 

“Oh, I’m crazy now, huh” LeRoy is aghast at the low blow.  

“Well, I mean, your crazy idea is what got us in this mess in the first place,” Hiram points out.  

“Yes, it was my idea to be supportive,” LeRoy says defensively, “And hopefully let her come to her own decision.  But if you really want to play the blame game -- let me remind you that you were the one who wanted to have a child in the first place.  So, technically, this is all your fault.” 

“Well, I just wanted to impart wisdom on a small being in the hopes that I could produce someone just as magical as I am.”

“And you think I’m the crazy one.” 

At that moment, Rachel comes out of the bathroom.  “Dads, hi, what are you guys talking about?” 

“Nothing honey,” LeRoy says, pulling her to sit on his lap.

“We were, uh, we were just talking about how ravishing you’re going to be on your big day,” Hiram covers, picking up one of the magazines.  Rachel coos. 

As Hiram, LeRoy, and Rachel start discussing the wedding, they fail to notice Kurt and Blaine lean into each other.  

“Do you think some day we’ll be like them?” Blaine asks, looking adoringly at Rachel’s dads.  

Kurt shakes his head in disbelief.  “God, I hope not....”

[magnetothemagnificent]

Hi, I just saw your post about Jewish high holidays, and I was wondering what Jewish holidays should be given off? I’m working on my Master’s and want to be a university professor eventually, and I want to make note of what days to never give assignments over one day, or what days to call professors attention to as a TA. I remember getting a midterm on Yom Kippur once and the girl behind me struggling to plan writing it early so she could go home, and I don’t want to make anyone deal with that

So there's different "levels" of holidays in Judaism, especially in regards to observance.

Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year and a fast day, and I think it's a given it should be given off. It's honestly upsetting it's not a mandated day-off in the US.

The appropriate well-wish for a gentile to give to a Jewish person in the days coming up to Yom Kippur is "Have a meaningful day."

Rosh HaShana is the Jewish New Year, and it's two days long. Ideally I would give off for Rosh HaShana as well.

The appropriate well-wish is "Shana Tova" ("Have a good year") or "Have a sweet new year"

Pesach (Passover) is also super important in Judaism, especially the Seder, which in Israel is one night and outside of Israel is two nights. I would give off for the first two days of Pesach if possible.

The appropriate well-wish is "Chag Sameach" ("Happy Holiday") or "Happy Pesach"

Sukkot and Shavuot are Regalim, (Pesach is the third Regel) which means they are important agricultural pilgrimage holidays. Nowadays we don't have the Temple so there's no pilgrimage, but Sukkot and Shavuot are also super important. Sukkot begins five days after Yom Kippur, and the first two nights outside of Israel are observed as important holidays. (One night in Israel). Sukkot is technically a week long, as is Pesach, but work is permitted in certain cases on Chol HaMoed (days that aren't the begining holidays but are still important).

The appropriate well-wishes are "Chag Sameach" or "Happy Sukkot/Shavuot"

EDIT: Forgot to mention Tisha B'Av. Tisha B'Av is the saddest day of the year and a fast day, and it's one of the most difficult fasts because it's long and during the hot Summer. I would be patient with students/workers and allow them time off if they need it.

The appropriate well-wish is "have a meaningful day."

These are the holidays for which work isn't permitted, and the laws follow similar laws to Shabbat.

There are other important holidays, during which work is permitted, but it would still be ideal to allow students/workers to miss an hour or two for services.

Purim is a holiday commemorating Mordechai and Esther's victory over Haman. The day before Purim is observed by some as a fast day, so I would be patient with workers/students on this day. One of the Mitzvot of Purim is reading/ hearing the Megilla being read, which is done the night of Purim (so the night before technically, since Jewish days begin the night before) and during Purim day. Often Megilla reading is done during Morning Services at synagogue, so I would be patient with people who might come in late in the morning due to this.

The appropriate well-wish is "Chag Sameach" or "Happy Purim".

Chanukah is a fun holiday, but there really are no restrictions. The Chanukiah/Menorah is lit at night, so giving workers/students off is only an issue for night classes/shifts.

The appropriate well-wish is "Chag Sameach" or "Happy Chanukah".

Saturday in general is also a complicated day to have work due on. I know most professors don't have class on Saturday, but they may make assignments due on Saturday, Saturday night, or Friday night, which can be difficult for students who observe Shabbat. I would just give students the option to turn assignments in on Sunday instead.

I really appreciate your desire to create a more inclusive environment for Jewish students, and university environments would be so much better if there were more people like you.

[rommahh]

Love On Tour…Actually

{Im sorry for how late this was. I went to the show Friday and honestly, it was the best day of my life. I had a little PCD which made me super unmotivated but I’m back. I love you all, R}

You woke up a little grumpy, you won’t lie. You didn’t like waking up alone especially on a show day. It made you uncomfortable to be left to your own devices without any structure or schedule. You understood that Harry was a busy man but it would’ve been nice to receive some text so you could plan your day accordingly.

Sitting on the couch in the lounge of your hotel room, you chowed down on leftover pasta while watching Netflix on your iPad. You had yet to receive a text from Harry even though you had texted him hours ago when you woke up. It was hard to tell if he was ignoring you out of anger or if he was simply just lost in track. Either way you felt dejected.

On the other hand, Harry hadn’t even noticed that he iced you. He was busy running around Nashville trying to get things ready for tonight’s show. He bought you a new dress and shoes, and got the ring fitted. It was hard to figure out your ring size but he end up measuring your finger when you were passed out asleep in bed last night. When you slept, you slept and he knew that would be the perfect time to measure your finger.

Harry was so busy that morning, that by the end of his errands he realized he didn’t even have time to go back to the hotel before rehearsals. He was sporting a small cough and his vocal chords felt overworked but that’s all apart of tour.

Pulling his phone out of his back pocket as he walked into the arena, he dialed your number quickly. He had people trying to talk to him but he paid them no mind.

“Oh? Would you look who’s here?” Harry’s head shot up to the sound of your voice. There you sat on his dressing room couch, arms crossed over one another as you glared at him. Your gaze burned through him and he could just tell he was in trouble.

“Hello lovie.” Harry rasped.

“Harry you sound like shit but here you are up and about running around. You should’ve slept in this morning.” Scolding as you stand up to walk in front of him. Harry could feel the anger radiate off of you but you hid it well. He melted into your hands that cupped his warm cheeks.

“I had a lot of errands to run and I didn’t want to wake you. Also it’s just a sore throat from singing and traveling- comes with being on tour.” He mumbles dropping his head into your neck. You caress the hairs on the back on his neck and massage the tense muscles.

“You’ve got to think about yourself more, Harry. You have a show to put on but you can’t put on your best show if you’re not at your best. I am not happy with you at all.” Even though your words were scolding him, you held him your arms in the most soothing way. That’s what Harry loved about you, you cared for him like no one else could (aside from his mom). You could tell him off with your harshest words but he’d always feel your love from miles away.

“You’re right love, sorry for not keeping in touch today.” You hum in acknowledgement. You both pulled away from each other when his driver walked in with Harry’s abundance of bags. “Thank you, sir.”

“What all did you buy?” You ask walking towards the bags. Harry’s arm shot out in front of you making you stop. You looked up at him in shock. “Fine be secretive.”

You huffed before making your way back to the couch. Harry rolled his eyes at you, making way to his shopping bags. Plucking the bag from Nordstrom he plopped it down on the table in front of you.

“I just didn’t want you snooping at some other stuff. I bought you this, for tonight.” He sat down beside you, thighs touching leaving no room between you two.

“Im not trying to be mean. Just a little peeved that you left this morning without telling me. You also have a cold and I wanna take care of you since you won’t do it.” A hand rubs his forehead luring his eyes shut.

“Sorry baby, I thank you for caring so much.” He whispers sleepily.

“Im always gonna care for my bubs.” Kissing him on the lips, your turn your attention to the bag. The small grey bag had light tissue paper covering the product within the bag. The tissue falls to the floor as you dig into the bag. A silky champagne dress, folded neatly to decrease wrinkles, sits in the bag. The dress was soft and you knew it was loose enough to give you the room to dance. Soft snores escaped the boy beside you- the exhaustion evident on his face.

You pull the dress out of the bag and walk over to where his outfit of the night hung. The dress was hung beside his to be steamed for later. Turning around, you smile at the sight of your curled up boyfriend. Your heart hurt knowing that in a few minutes he would have to go rehearse.

Harry sleepily went through rehearsals sitting in a chair the whole time. He knew his stage cues and performance, he only had one more thing to rehearse but it required for you to not be in the room. He gave one look to Jeff to signal him to get you out. Jeff made up some excuse saying that he needed help with some social media post for the show.

Before the show, there was a catered dinner from some local restaurant. Harry ate a light meal of fresh vegetables and a sweet iced tea which has grown on him having lived in the states for some years. You ate grilled chicken and fries enjoying the free food. The two of you ate alone in his dressing room- wanting a moment of piece before the crazy.

“How are you feeling?” You ask Harry. He shrugs, he was more nervous than anything but you wouldn’t understand why if he had told that to you. He felt floaty. Tonight would be a game changer, a step in a whole new direction. This is something he’s wanted to do for years now but it’s finally happening, and he’s scared.

"Im ok, a little tired but what else is new. I can't wait to sleep all night and cuddle with you." He grabs your hand from across the table. you squeeze it, frowning at his revelation.

"I don't like that you're so tired." You worry, his hand squeezes yours in reassurance.

“Im ok, it’s all apart if the job.” He looks down to your bare ring finger, thumb brushing over the empty spot. Your nails were done in your favorite way, some funky pattern you found from Pinterest all painted on short coffin nails.

“I love you Harry and I’m so proud of you. I know that these years put us both in a bad place mentally but I’m happy of where we are now.” Harry could almost tear up to your words. They settled into his mind, resonating. He was making the perfect decision and you solidified that ideal.

2014

Harry didn’t know how they did it. A show every night, a new state everyday, a new country every few months- he was burnt out. He was tired of shared tour buses and the lack of autonomy. Last nights LA show was amazing, the crowd was amazing, the energy was amazing- so why did he feel so horrid?

He walked around in The Grove, security guards walking in front and behind him. He wanted a peaceful day alone but here they were. Fans watched suspiciously trying to decipher if it was Harry or not. His hat and sunglasses were obviously not the disguise he thought they would be.

As the whispers got louder, his heart started to flurry more. Panic seeped into his veins as he looked for an escape. Bolting in the Barnes and Nobles- security guards close behind- Harry asked for the employees to close shop just for a moment. Harry only needed a moment to get a car near by to escape to. Feeling overwhelmed, Harry hid.

In between the historical fiction and romance aisle is where he sat. Head between his knees, trying to catch his breathe.

“Are you ok?” A voice asked from above him. His head whipped up in shock. Standing there was you, three books clutched between your arms. Adjusting your dress you dropped down to the floor in front of him.

“I-im fine, tired but fine.” He replied. He looked different than he did the night before, you thought. Last night, he was energetic and full of life and now, now you saw a boy whose exhaustion overpowered him.

“You here for any books?” You were just trying to change the subject, something you did with yourself when you had panic attacks.

“Oh no, I don’t-“ he stuttered shaking his head. You smiled at him before pulling a book from your stack. The fault In Our Stars, your new favorite.

“I love this book, one of my favorites. Heard a movie is coming out too so that’s fun.” You joke. Harry’s relaxed slightly, you nestled closer to him. Opening the book, you began reading, your gentle voice calming Harry.

At the start of chapter four, an interruption pulled you both away. Harry’s security guard told Harry that a car was waiting and the perimeter of the store was clear. Harry nodded telling the guard to give him five more minutes.

“I guess this is it.” You mumble closing your book. Harry nods but makes no move to leave. Something clicks in him as he looks at your face again.

“You were at the concert last night, meet and greet?” He muses.

“Yeah, One Direction is my favorite band. My friend bought our vip tickets for my birthday. Best night ever.” You say quietly, scared that he might think that you’re some obsessed fan.

“Oh, well I’m glad you enjoyed the show….so why didn’t you freak out today or- or expose where I was?”

“You’re a human being, just like me. You get nervous, frustrated, and sad just like me. You get panic attacks just like. Who am I to treat you differently?” Your words did so much for Harry. “Now don’t get me wrong, you’re my favorite in the band, but I don’t idolize you nor do I wish to be in your position cause I know it must be hard.”

“It is. Hard, I mean, really really hard. I love my job but I’m tired.” The silence you two shared burned a connection between you two. “This may be weird but could I have your number? I like talking to you and I wanna hear more of this book.”

Placing your hand made bookmark in the book, you closed in and gently placed it on Harry’s lap. “Have it. I have one at home and if you still want to talk about it- I’ll give you my number.”

Harry stills as the book sits in his lap. “I want to talk to you about the book.”

After exchanging numbers, Harry was urged by you to go. Walking side by side to the door, you were separated by his security.

“Harry, don’t let this keep hurting you. Find the joy and grasp on to it.”

You turned out to be his joy. Calls every night after shows and different books being read together, you both gravitated towards each other. Everyday was a new day to grow closer together. He invited you to more concerts, paying for every ticket because he just needed to be with you.

The show was going beautifully. Harry looked amazing in stage in all white and most fans were captivated by your outfit too. It worried you to see Harry so exhausted on stage but you knew he would stick it through like he always does. Proud was an understatement in your eyes. Harry made you more than proud.

You stood in the back of the watermelon pit at the end of the aisle where his stage stopped a few feet away. Jeff stood beside you like he normally did but he was acting suspicious. You two never stood on the side of Harry’s exit but this is where Jeff said you’d get the best view tonight.

Harry sang his final ‘we’ll be alright’ before doing his stage stroll and bows, but instead of finishing in the middle of the stage- he went down stage to the place he normally exits to at the end of the night. You watched in confusion, along with the crowd, as he walked down the steps to you. The crowd erupted in screams as the lights focused on where you were standing.

“What are you doing?” You asked with large eyes of shock. You felt your heart stop in your chest. The crowd getting louder by the moment. Harry walked closer to you, one hand digging into his pocket while his eyes focused on your face. You couldn’t place what was happening but you’re eyes welled with even more tears nonetheless. Jeff was to the side with a huge smile and his phone out to capture the moment.

“Y/N, my love, my light, the best thing that has happened to me,” he didn’t have his mic on so the crowd couldn’t hear him but you could hear him perfectly. As if you two were the only ones in the large arena, you could only see Harry. “From the moment I met you in the bookstore, I knew you were meant to be in my life. Somehow you took me from my darkest place and guided me to my lightest.

I know our lives have been hard but we’ve always found a way to be alright. I want that for the rest of my life. I want you to be by my side for the rest of my life, so will you please, my love, marry me?”

You gave him no time to answer as you yanked him up by his arm. You wept as you exclaimed loud yeses, yeses that could be heard by a few fans who screamed in excitement igniting the rest of the crowd to scream. Harry picked you up in his arms, throwing one arm out to wave at the crowd before bounding backstage.

“Oh my god Harry!” You exclaimed as he set you down. He only had a few minutes to talk so you kept it quick. You pulled his face down to your kissing his lips. This kiss pulled you both deeper into each other.

He pulled away making you whine. “I gotta go back but I promise you’ll get it all tonight. I can’t believe you said yes. I love you so much.”

Harry’s energy multiplied by 100 going back on stage. He even went as far as to explain what watermelon sugar was about. Remembering when the song was made, it made your legs clench together- a pulse overwhelming your lower regions.

Looking down at your hand, you could feel yourself tear up again at the ring he bought you. It fit perfectly in your hand, you remember him measuring your hand that night even though he thought you were asleep. The thought of your future made your heart swell. A future with new music, a wedding, a nice house, and babies made your heart swell. This was something you couldn’t wait for.

Harry found his joy in you but he never knew about the joy he was to your dark life.

[sultryvodka]

𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙜𝙚! 𝙖𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙤𝙮𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨 | 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 1

𝙥𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙚 - 𝙢𝙖𝙮 4𝙩𝙝

warnings: mild swearing, mildly suggestive (if you squint lol)

| armin - colt - eren - jean - porco |

armin arlert

• i think most, if not all of us, agree that armin looks like the type to get all flustered with PDA & shy away from his emotions --- HOWEVER.

• rather than being all over you, he finds himself most comfortable with holding your hand or having an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

• he wouldn't mind you being clingy though 👀

• would occasionally place a gentle peck on your forehead, cheeks & his personal favorite; the palm of your hands.

• you guys' dates would mostly end up being in a library, café & restaurants with a nice warm atmosphere.

• i bet he would be the kind of guy to take you to the beach whenever you're stressed out in hopes of calming you down.

• gets very defensive when his friends tease you, if a man could bark his friends away, it's armin arlert.

• this lad over here would establish a routine with you (with your consent & opinions ofc)

• mondays to friday mornings are centered on school, you guys do your own thing at school & walk you home while making sure to stop by a convenience store for snacks, assuming that you guys don't live together yet.

• both of you make it a point to check on one another to make sure you guys aren't wearing yourselves out.

• which leads me to the conclusion that your parents grew very fond of him & treats him more like their child

• when you guys are having a sleepover, this whole lowkey facade of his takes a 180 and the second you reach the bedroom he'll shower you with cuddles and kisses.

• you would watch movies (mostly rom-com just bc armin makes it work okay) tucked in a warm futon with popcorn and candies between you two.

• armin strikes me as a very studious guy and he does this to ensure you guys' future together ^-^

• all in all armin cares about you so much and he doesn't mind being vulnerable to you. he is your safe haven, and so are you to him.

colt grice

• okay can we talk about how this perfect man deserves some more attention

• colt, my man, gives me disney's prince florian vibes. the soft-spoken, kind-hearted, & just an absolute dream.

• he's the kind of guy to take you to the park, a greenhouse, & WORKSHOPS!!!

• given the idea that he is in fact a shy little baby, he is actually pretty active with you. every date you guys have is different. mans has a quest planned out for y'all.

• at school i think that you might be the one to initiate skinship. doesn't have to be kisses on the lips, it's more of gently trailing your index on the back of his hand or rubbing a hand on his forearm when he gets a little anxious.

• the type to peek through your classroom's door because bubba's too shy to ask someone to call for you 🤧

• colt, in my opinion, is very domestic in private, now don't get me wrong he may be a little too shy in public because he isn't used to it but i promise you he takes on the nurturing role of the relationship more than you are.

• he helps you with cleaning, folding your clothes, and god if you guys get periods, he's got a whole pouch in his locker just for you.

• he doesn't do it intentionally, he happens to know you so well that he notices the slight change in your moods & cravings.

• colt often reads a book while you guys cuddle during the afternoons once all the work is done, he'd make you tea or whatever you want. he hums a tune, probably from old disney movies that his brother falco used to enjoy as a kid.

• your parents are more invested in your marriage than you and colt combined.

• okay, now if you happen to have a baby or a toddler somewhere around the house, someone keep this man from turning into a putty.

• as much as colt acts prim and proper most of the time, he has his moments where he just wants to be an entire mess. perhaps sleeping past his usual waking time, indulging in more snacks than usual. you know, loosen up? yeah, that is a side of his that only YOU will ever be allowed to see.

• so yes you and colt would be labeled as the: put-together couple who needs a little bit of adventure every now and then.

eren jaeger

• i hope i don't ramble too long because i love him sm

• mr. loverboy over here is a simp for you, more than you are a simp for him! he is not afraid to show you off and shower you with flattery. now he does this because he feels so lucky to have you.

• he can be a little cliché (well maybe not as much as jean --- more on that later), like he'll randomly interrupt your vacant class with a gift box he put together, & a bouquet. yes. (carla helped him pick out flowers from her shop)

• he's the type to crash his lips with yours in the middle of campus when you achieve something or when he does, vice-versa. if he plays in one of your school's teams, there just HAS to be a bet that if he wins he gets a kiss... or more... or something else.

• dates with eren are usually random than planned. like it pops in his head and he'll inform you right away. he respects your vacancy too of course but if you aren't he might pout just a little bit.

• his ideal dates are prop shop dates, going to hotspots, amusement parks, antique shops! & maybe late night drinks at a quiet bar where you can both enjoy the solace of the atmosphere.

• on special occasions, he does plan ahead. usually it's something on the simpler side. candlelit dinners at home or somewhere you guys both enjoy dining.

• if eren's had a bad day, best believe that he will run to you for comfort. only you can help keep his aggressive response to anger at bay.

• if given the chance he would take you around the world, he's that passionate in making sure you live a little

• hear me out... you and eren would probably have the most philosophical conversations, just laying on your backs beneath his room's skylight? heavenly.

• eren can get a little poetic expressing himself & i believe that it's just wonderful. no one can describe their feelings as good as eren.

• his favorite look of yours is when your eyes beam with excitement, it usually happens when you spot something that you used to enjoy as a kid or when you're concentrating on one of your hobbies.

• he's a very touchy person too, his hands are usually on your stomach/waist, his kisses are random & they linger for awhile.

• when you're asleep next to him, it's his habit to solemnly watch you while his own drowsiness starts to take over.

• eren is passionate & sometimes people might take it the wrong way. one of the reasons eren loves you is because of the way you understand how he is. mutual growth for y'all ♡.

jean kirschtein

• jean is not afraid to pull a live performance for you, you see this man is at the top of the world when he's with you. from 80s hits to recent releases this man will blast his playlists catered for you.

• dates with jean are certainly spent on concerts, (him & eren bond over chase atlantic don't argue with me) music festivals, thrifting & late night drives!!!

• personally, i don't see jean as very gimmicky unless you guys are with his friends, he takes you very seriously and you are his top priority.

• at school i think he's definitely one of those flirtatious boyfriends. the kind who would not miss an opportunity to blow you a kiss or throw you a wink. he can be a bit of a dork, who wouldn't be? if he can get one of your rare smiles 🥺

• jean's the type to ask his pals for help when it comes to styling. not because he dresses badly but he's too focused on getting a flush on your cheeks. he's a hopeless romantic.

• if you guys happen to stay at home, he'll definitely serenade you with the amount of songs he had written recently just for you.

• since he bonds with sasha and connie, his jokes are either dad jokes or something that went viral on tiktok. he's the perfect balance of goofy and mature.

• if you aren't much of an active person he wouldn't mind being lazy with you and insist on a diy spa day at home.

• it's just netflix with a tub of ice cream and face masks on.

• since jean is quite the romantic, he would be into couple outfits or items that aren't cringey obv and probably doesn't mind using your perfume or vice-versa.

• jean probably asked you out during one of his gigs, offering you a single rose afterwards.

• he's the type to leave you random post-it notes if he visits your house. just random phrases or doodles. and boy does he pick you up every single day on his smexy motorcycle.

• he'll bring you coffee and breakfast to-go. this man's spoiling you baby.

• aside from that, i feel like jean would make you hand-made gifts with the help of his momma. he thinks it's sentimental when you make your presents because it's one of a kind.

• jean does all these things because he's 100% about you being a constant person in his life. he loves how he can be whoever he wants when he's around you, i'm certain you guys wouldn't have it any other way either.

porco galliard

• porco can be a dick if he wants to not to you though, this tough guy turns into putty just for you. he definitely loves being treated like a baby.

• at first he might come off as cold because he isn't used to the whole romance thing and he gets flustered with the slightest pecks so you might have to initiate at first.

• but once you guys get through the awkward phase this boy would straight up greet you with a passionate kiss and does not give a damn about everybody who witnessed it. he might even have a stupid smirk on his face.

• like eren, i feel like porco would be very passionate and intense. he doesn't say much but he definitely shows you just how much he adores you.

• speaking of friends (: reiner would tease him every second of the day. i bet he would team up with bertholdt to annoy this poor boy. annie and pieck's not much help either.

•whenever you're stressed, porco would run you a bath and give you massages very often. he'll sit on the edge of the tub while he runs his hand through your hair.

•his type of dates would be watching at a cinema or a drive-in, going to the mall just to look around,he's a simple guy.

•if you guys happen to have an argument, porco would distance himself for a few minutes to a few hours just to process the situation and avoid anything his aggression might cause.

•he knew that if he wanted you guys to work he needed to be better.

•he would come back though and hold you in his arms while you guys talk it out.

•i bet he's one of the aot characters who would be an athlete, so most days you'll end up watching him practice.

•overtime, porco would be more open to being intimate in public and post stories of you two just doing things most couples do.

•he's proud that you're his and he's all yours.

•porco is a great guy and he would do anything just to make you smile.

i hope you guys liked these~! let me know who you guys want to be in the second part. requests are open and as always, stay safe! - 🌸☁️

[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.”

[true-blue-megamind]

FAN THEORY THURSDAY – Why Did Metroman Retire?

Happy Almost-Friday, everyone! And even though Minion threatens to smother everything he cooks in old Limburger cheese each time I say it: SPOILER WARNING!

Yes, I know, it’s three a.m. and it’s technically Friday, but I’m still calling this Thursday night, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Okay, let’s be honest, Metroman is a character who seems, on the surface, to require little explanation in the film Megamind. He’s only present in the beginning and end, and we spend half the movie believing he’s dead, and we learn that Metroman has done something almost unheard of among superheroes: he’s chosen to retire. The question is: why? There is a tendency to think that he's simply a spoiled rich boy who, (in his social life, at least,) does what he wants without regard for others, but is that really fair? Or could there be other possible reasons? Well, let’s take a look at a few fan theories that may explain why he chose to abandon heroism for a music career.

Metroman Didn’t Want to Be a Hero

Although he’s clearly based on—and perhaps even poking a little fun at—the Man of Steel, Metroman was no Superman. (I mean, okay, he was technically a super-man, since he had strength, speed, and powers far beyond what a human would possess.) Except, here’s the thing: he’s not a carbon copy of the Man of Steel; Metroman and Superman have completely different lives and personalities. This remains true despite the fact that they share a similar origin—that of being aliens from a dead planet—and identical powers—including laser-vision and flight. Even their code names are comparable. However, if we look deeper, it becomes obvious that Metroman and Superman are two very different characters.

Superman is all about being an upstanding hero. Although he can be annoyingly persnickety, and sometimes displays nearly oppressively unyielding strictures about right and wrong, one thing you can say about the Man of Steel is that he’s generally integral. He is exactly what his public image portrays him to be: a Good Guy through and through. The same isn’t true of Metroman, and in some ways that makes him a more complex and interesting character.

The childhoods of the two heroes are extremely different. As I’ve mentioned in Why Was Megamind Raised in Prison, when a boy, Metroman was a bully, not only making young Megamind an outsider and the object of everything from teasing to physical attacks, but also inspiring other students to do the same. Superman, on the other hand, far from being a bully was bullied by Pete Ross. Rather than using his powers against others, he was too responsible and good-hearted to use them even against Pete Ross. Metroman is adopted by super-wealthy parents, and is essentially a trust-fund baby, while Superman was adopted by a farm family. He grows up with a good work ethic and hometown values. Indeed, this economic discrepancy continues into adulthood. As far as we can tell, Metroman doesn’t need to work and has no job outside being a superhero. Superman, conversely, has to earn a living as a journalist. Finally, in the majority of comics, Superman avoids most public appearances, unless he feels they serve some beneficial social purpose. Indeed, he goes to great lengths to keep his identity a secret and avoid the public eye as much as possible. The first time we see Metroman in the film, however, he is basking in a crowd’s adoration at the dedication of a museum in his honor. Indeed, in the original script, then called Mastermind, Metroman’s real identity seems to be widely known. (In case you’re wondering, this is where the name Wayne Smith, commonly used in the fandom, originates from.) So, we see that these character are actually very different: one is a hero strictly for the greater good, and the other, while he certainly does a lot of good things, is also in it for the fame.

This may seem like I’m being harsh toward poor Wayne Smith, but his flaws do not, in fact, make him a bad person. The issue is that we’re comparing him to Superman who, while still certainly imperfect, is intended to be a better-than-average person in every way, including moral. Make no mistake, Metro City’s former hero isn’t any sort of villain; what he is is normal. If we’re honest, most of us would be pleased by wide-spread accolades and honors. He reacts to positive fame the same way nearly anyone would because, at his heart, he’s really just a typical guy. That is the material point: Wayne Smith really only wants to be an average citizen—a music star, perhaps, but still a relatively ordinary person. In that way, he and Megamind are alike: they both desire, more than nearly anything else, to be normal. The key difference is that Megamind’s sincere and driving concern for his city also makes him ideal for becoming a hero. (You can learn more about this particular fan theory in The Warden and in Megamind and Identity.)

So, why did Wayne Smith become a Defender in the first place, then? Again, I’ve briefly touched on this in previous posts, but it appears likely that Metroman was pushed into heroism just as much as Megamind was pushed into supervillainy. Because he was a bully with superpowers, it’s likely that adults around him realized something had to be done about Wayne. Otherwise he was a danger. So, they constructed an environment—the Li’l Gifted School—where he could be conditioned to seek the praise of others as well as to fight Megamind, who had been singled out as his future nemesis. (In fact, that conditioning is probably why he opted for a career that would put him on stage, aside from a probable love of music.)

Because the path chosen for Megamind involved more hardships and pain, it’s easy to forget that Metroman was in essentially the exact same plight. However, the fact remains that these were both children, and they were both being coerced into perceived destinies they didn’t want. Neither of them were given a choice and, in the end, both of them cast off the expectations pressed upon them to become the people they really wanted to be. The difference is that, because of our natural biases, Megamind’s rise to Defender of Metro City seems more noteworthy than Metroman’s step into Mr. Average Joe. The truth, however, is that both characters were basically doing the same thing: being true to themselves.

Metroman May Have Had Health Concerns

We know Megamind and Metroman are close to the same age—although the latter appears to be about a year rather than days old when he lands on Earth—but what that age is is open to supposition. We know, however, that they are almost certainly in their thirties, probably in their mid- to late-thirties. (Take a look at How Old is Megamind for more information about that.) However, we can see that Wayne is already going gray around the temples. Of course, some people’s genetics simply cause them to go gray earlier, and that’s certainly a possibility, but one fan theory suggest there may be more going on. The idea has been put forward that Wayne’s super-speed may be having an adverse effect on him, forcing his body to work overtime to keep up. The resulting physical stress could be making him age prematurely.

That’s not the only factor to consider. As hard as heroism may have been on his body, the effects on Metroman’s mind would have been even greater. Before the events in the movie, Metro City’s authorities—and, indeed, all its citizens—became too reliant upon their superhuman hero, and as a result that hero was run ragged. That isn’t a mere hypothesis. A scene that was storyboarded but never included in the final film makes Metroman’s plight perfectly clear. We see him being called from one end of the city to the other for everything from a massive explosion to an old lady needing help opening a jar. Keep in mind that, when hearing a cry for assistance, the hero would likely be unable to tell who truly needed him urgently and who was simply making unnecessary demands, thus he would have to rush to every call he heard. Even the city’s law enforcement seems to take him for granted, refusing to take criminals he just hand-delivered to jail because they’re on lunch break. The cumulative effect is that Metroman looks nearly frantic with stress.

This is important because, aside from the obvious mental and emotional concerns, this sort of stress accelerates aging as well. According to an article in the Huffington Post, when glycation and telomere shortening, as well as the over-oxidation, are caused by enduring heightened stress for prolonged periods of time, it can result not only in graying hair and premature wrinkles, but heart trouble as well. Even the memory can be affected, as one study by the University of Wisconsin found that stress can age a person’s brain up to four years faster than normal, and contribute to cognitive problems later in life. (The study was part of a presentation—you have no idea how badly I wanted to write that word in all-caps—and is thus currently unpublished, but information about it can be found in an article from Over Sixty.)

Metroman Retired for the Good of Everybody

As you can see, in a strange way, having a super-powered Defender was actually crippling Metro City. In fact, it may be truly damaging to the local infrastructure and official organizations. Youtuber Olaf Scholtens, in his video Megamind: Power and Identity, uses the metaphor of an airplane manufacturer to explain what’s going on. (If you’ve read my own post Megamind and Identity, you’ve seen this before.) Engineers and factories put a lot of effort and expense into making certain aircraft are as safe as possible, but what would happen if they felt they could confidently assume a superhero would simply catch any plane that crashed, saving everyone on board? Safety standards would probably become far more lax, and people might be in far more danger as a result. Given the way that nearly everyone in Metro City seems to assume Metroman will always save the day, it’s possible that, within the urban area, the same thing could be happening with things like building code enforcement, large construction projects, and even public safety measures. Bridges might not be properly built, fire hazards might not be addressed, and, given the blasé attitudes of the cops in the storyboard, law enforcement officers might not even be bothering to keep an eye on things. By retiring, Metroman forced the city to become more self-sufficient again.

That, however, may not have been the only problem Metroman was trying to solve. Remember the whole discussion about the former Defender’s school boy bullying and the apparent conspiracy to turn one boy into a hero and the other into a supervillain? It’s possible Wayne may have felt remorse for the former and found out about the latter. Having battled Megamind so much in the past, he also may have realized that the blue man never actually hurt anyone, and in fact went out of his way to stage their confrontations in abandoned places. (Again, you can read more about that in both Megamind and Identity and The Warden.) It may be that Metroman real “brilliant plan” wasn’t simply to fake his death, but in doing so to prod Megamind into becoming a hero and thus accepted by society.

There is an alternative theory, put forward in a Reddit post, that Megamind and Metroman’s parents may have known one another, and may have sent both children to Earth with the intention of them becoming a dynamic duo, fighting evil together with Megamind as the brains and Metroman as the brawn. This could have been what Megamind’s father meant when he told his son: “You are destined for greatness.” While there is very little support for this in the movie, it would explain why, in the vast cosmos, both of the young survivors were sent not only to the same planet, but even to the same city.

Whatever the reason may have been, one thing is certain: there certainly is some evidence that Metroman intended his one-time nemesis to become a hero. One of his lines, after Roxanne and Megamind discover he’s still alive, supports this. You know the one. “If there’s bad, good will rise up against it. It’s taken me a long time to find my calling; now it’s time you find yours.” Then, of course, there is another line, when Music Man is watching his former enemy take the role of Defender of Metro City: “way to go, Little Buddy. I knew you had it in you.”

If Metroman really did purposefully help Megamind step into heroism, that could also explain why he didn’t stop Megamind from taking over the city—perhaps he trusted the blue man not to harm anyone and to eventually come to his senses—as well as why he refuses to overtly help defeat Titan. He does, however, clearly subtly assist Megamind, as the latter almost certainly went back to Wayne’s hideout to scan his appearance and voice into the holowatch. All of this together makes it seem quite plausible that Metroman not only wanted to retire, but also wanted the blue man to take his place.

Megamind and Metroman by White-Night-56 on Deviant Art

Maybe this means that, now that Megamind is the Defender of Metro City, he and Music Man occasionally get together to commiserate over the more difficult aspects of being a superhero and joke about the old days.

It’s also quite possible that all of these fan theories could be true. The film Megamind is, among other things, surprisingly subtle, complex, and subversive for an animated movie. Every time I dive deep into some aspect or other of the plot, I am once again impressed by the amount of thought and detail that went into this work. No wonder Megamind—and its characters—have so many dedicated fans.

[softcallofdutyimagines]

More Then a Woman | Frank Woods x Fem!Reader | Chapter 3

Summary:

Woods is out for his usual, morning run. Everything is fine... you know, except that it goes just about as bad as it usually has been lately. With results even less stellar then usual and a weight of worry unlike anything he's felt as of yet on top of it, could a chance meeting with you be enough to turn things as bleak as this around?

Tags: Slow burn, fluff

Chpt 1 | Chpt 2 | Chpt 4 | Warnings: None except language

No music, no people, and just the barest rays of sunlight.

It’s just after seven am, and Frank is out for his morning run.

Every morning starts off like this, just him and the road, while he organizes his thoughts for the day. Most days he plans out all the shit he has to do and measuring out his time into neat compartments, but lately…

He can’t get his mind off of you.

A single sound byte of you calling him complete with varying, imagined inflections from that one day with Mason, plays over and over again.

Sargent! Sargent Woods! Woods! Woods!

Woods…

A small, secretive part of him wishes he could hear you call him Frank. Just once.

Or... no.

No, he doesn’t.

This is crazy. Even if he ignores the fact that he’s met you a grand total of twice in his entire life… He doesn’t have time for a, a girlfriend. Besides, you’re young and pretty… two things of which he is not. How does he know you don’t have someone already? And, for argument’s sake, let’s say you didn’t. Why the fuck would you want him?

Such is the state of the ongoing debate in his mind.

Woods shakes his head, breathing hard and attempting to refocus on the road before him. He checks his watch and picks up the pace. He’s behind again.

In fact, it’s been far too long since he’s reached a new best, no matter how hard he pushes. He runs and he runs until his lungs burn like a knife in his chest and an eerie darkness creeps into the edges of his vision. At last, he can’t go on any further, and slows to a walk. Gasping for air and dripping sweat, he trudges up to the lamp post he’s been using as a finish line and gives it a tap.

With a great heave of breath, he checks his watch a final time. Off from his best by nearly a whole minute this morning.

He runs a hand through his soaked hair, every inch of his face down to the very air he breathes conveys his dismay and suddenly he feels far too aware of his own body. The fine lines and creases slowly drawing in around his eyes and forehead. The chilly kiss of wind as it blows over patches of his scalp that he swears it didn’t use to. The clicking and dull, constant ache in his back and joints.

And suddenly the dreaded phrase, “getting too old” worms into his mind.

The street light shuts off, pulling him out of the thought induced stasis. He wipes his forehead and takes a look around. Not a soul in sight. Normally he’d find such conditions ideal, but suddenly, he feels very... alone.

All this life lived so far, and what does he have to show for it?

A case of medals, a shitload of exclusive skills and tactics, and… and…?

An empty, hollow house to bar out the rest of the world? A cold bed for two, one side always perfectly made and never disturbed? A fridge of beer and a cable tv, always set to the same, droning channel, to give the illusion of company as he drinks alone on Friday nights?

What happens when he retires and the fighting is done?

These... things. These meaningless, empty things, will be all he has left.

For all the gruff exterior. All the ‘fuck you’ and ‘watch this’ attitude. All the pomp, and arrogance, and pride, and passion, and creativity, and humor, and zeal for life and living… Is it too much to wish that, maybe, he had someone to share it all with?

Fuck.

Lost in his thoughts once more, his breath hitches as his shoe kicks a familiar glass door. He looks up and reads the sign. It’s the same coffee shop he stops at every morning after a good, hard run well done.

Frank looks down and gives his ever so slight, and yet slowly ever developing, gut a pat. Ugh, he winces. He remembers a time when he was still able to say ‘his abs.’

For a moment, he considers skipping this time, but… fuck it.

He orders his usual and a plain bagel for breakfast as he goes to find a seat. As of now, he has the whole place to himself, but before he can go back to reflecting on his own loneliness again, the door chimes and a lone figure power walks in. Frank nearly spits out his bagel in an effort not to choke as he watches you hustle up to the register in a sharp, white pantsuit.

You look… like… an angel. Draped in white and floating across the floor in the loose, but flattering fabric. It’s then that he catches that same fluttering feeling in his chest, just as he did when you were calling for him last time. He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you turn around and catch his gaze.

“Oh, hey!”, you smile and wave politely, even bothering to make your way over while you wait on your order.

Woods snaps to attention, ripped out of his daydream at the sound of your voice. He takes in a sharp breath as he sits up a little straighter, hoping against hope that he looks more impressive then he’s been feeling thus far.

“Good morning Sargent, wh-”

“Frank”, he grunts, realizing a bit too late that he sounds far too harsh. “Uh, please. You know, I’m off duty and all...”, he trails off, taking a convenient sip of coffee to mask the awkwardness.

You make an ‘ah’ shape with your mouth and give a nod. “Frank”, you give the name a test and, as far as he can tell, decide that you like it. With a smile, you ask if you can join him at the table and introduce yourself by name in the process.

And in that moment, he commits it to memory where, from then on, it will stay safely locked away, exactly as you said it, til the day he dies.

“So, what are you doing out so early?”, you laugh.

He quickly explains he’s been out for a run, hoping that you won’t press for details. Luckily, you do not, and he takes the opportunity to ask you the same question. Likewise, you quickly explain that you’re headed to work and running a bit behind.

After that, it feels like you’re out of conversation material, and a thick silence settles between you. But, before things get too awkward, Frank decides to pick up the conversation, “So, uh… I’ve been meaning to uh, apologize…”

You cock your head in confused interest, but say nothing.

“You know, when we first met and all… I um, I’m sorry I said that stupid shit before I left like that. I don’t want you to think I’m… you know, crazy or something, heh”, he laughs humorlessly, and looks away, itching at the back of his neck nervously.

“Hm? Oh, it’s no trouble, I honestly forgot about it for a moment there”, you laugh, and it’s the nicest sound he’s ever heard. Like a fresh breeze in summer, carrying with it the smell of clean linens on the line and warm grass….

Your eyes smile deeply into his as he holds your gaze. For the briefest of moments, he feels connected to and understood by another human being like he never has before.

He takes a breath and it's as though he can feel the very scene he described. Gone is the smell of stale coffee beans and dried sweat. No more pain in his lungs or cramps in his legs. No more worrying about all the years and age slowly building onto him. No more haunting fear of loneliness.

Just the sensation of you.

Without his perception, his rough, callused hand slides in stuttering increments closer and closer still in the direction of yours. And just like that, the trance is broken as the barista calls your name. You jerk your head around to look, and the broken eye contact brings Woods screeching back into reality. He blinks and refamiliarizes himself with his surroundings.

Everything looks… dull in comparison to the vivid daydream held in your eyes.

You look back towards him, wearing that same smile, “Well it’s been nice catching up, but I have to go…”, you reach out and give his hand a friendly squeeze, “Take care now!”

The Sargent tries to return the sentiment, but all he can manage is a winded sounding grunt. He never knew someone’s skin could feel so soft. And warm.

Even after you’ve left for the door, his entire arm is still buzzing with electricity as every nerve from the tips of his fingers to the length of his spinal column light up with an excitement that he couldn’t put to words in a thousand years.

He brings up that same hand to where he can see it, turning it over slowly and flexing his fingers experimentally, as though noticing the extremity for the first time. It feels… new, after coming in contact with your disarming touch, and suddenly he doesn’t feel so aged and wizened as he was just minutes ago.

And when he’s good and through with his coffee and bagel, he makes up his mind to achieve something he hasn’t in a long time… With a few hops to limber up and a deep breath for luck, he manages a run all the way back home.

[omori-brainrot]

The Only One Left

tws: suicide, emetophobia, self-harm, death, grief, alcohol mentions

After the worst neutral ending, Aubrey and Kel soon follow Mari, Basil, and Sunny. Hero is the only one left, and he’s struggling to live with that. But at least his college friends are there when he needs it most.

I’m so sorry but this barged into my brain and wouldn’t leave until it was written and posted.

When Hero goes back to school after the funeral, he hangs one of Kel’s old jerseys on the knob of his dorm-room closet. He needs something to remember his brother by, something to make him feel like he’s not alone. Of course, he’s not really alone. He’s still an underclassman, so he shares his room with Josh.

He’d gotten lucky with his roommate: they’d managed to reach the storybook ideal of not only getting along, but becoming friends. Still. He wished there was no one around to see him cry for hours over the jersey, to see him start favoring the snooze button over his morning classes, to see him sink deeper into himself until he was sure he’d never surface.

Josh had been good-natured about it, at least. He never pointed out the cutting classes when Hero despaired about his grades after the fact, and when Hero couldn’t bring himself to stop sobbing when Josh needed to study, he just put on headphones or went to the library without a single complaint or sign of annoyance.

Hero wonders if Josh knows how close he feels to dying too.

How everyday feels like tar is pulsing through his body, getting caught in his organs and weighing him down until it feels like he’ll never breathe again.

He tells himself that if he joined his old friends, he’d be inflicting the same pain he lived with everyday onto his college friends. That if he were gone, their lives would be shattered instead of his.

Get over yourself. They don’t care that much. They don’t even know you. You only met a year and a half ago. They were fine without you before then. And besides, you’re not the best company anyway. You weren’t there though to stop Mari from hanging herself. You couldn't see the signs. You weren’t there enough to stop Sunny and Basil from stabbing themselves the night before Sunny was supposed to get a new start. You should have reached out earlier. You weren’t there enough to keep Aubrey from getting into that stupid drunk accident. You knew she was drinking too much and too often in an attempt to make her world bearable, you should have done something. You couldn’t stop Kel from poisoning himself with all those chemicals in the bathroom. You knew how hard it was for him to open up about negative emotions without being prompted, and you knew he was so alone after everyone else left. You should have come back from college more often. Why would anyone still want to be friends with you? Why would anyone care if someone like you was gone?

When thinking about his new friends doesn’t work, he reminds himself of his parents. They’d already lost one child. They’d be devastated to lose another. He couldn’t do that to them.

It doesn’t matter. They’re disappointed in you anyway. They see your falling grades and talk about how you shouldn’t give up on your dreams just because of what happened to Kel. They don’t understand that your only dream now is to make this constant pain stop. Besides, what does it matter if this hurts them? They should have been there for Kel when you were gone. As soon as you think that, you feel terrible. Which only makes you want to hurt yourself more.

Still, something makes him want to keep trying for a little while longer. Whatever it takes.

Which is how he ends up sitting over the trash can, taking a flimsy plastic dining hall knife to his arms.

If he wants to hurt himself but doesn’t want to die, this is the best he can do. Besides, it’s a little past midnight after a Friday, so Josh is attending whatever gatherings a non-imploding person attends on a Friday night.

Hero supposes that he should feel worse that things have come to this. But with every sting he only feels relief, even when he presses hard enough for the knife to draw shallow lines of blood.

For once, he’s barely thinking about anything else. Even with the jersey casting a shadow at the corner of his eye. He could get used to this sense of mindless pain.

When the door swings open and the light flicks on at a much earlier time than expected, his first response is to flinch back. It’s a second too late when it occurs to him that she should be rolling his sleeves back down.

Josh runs over, gently grabbing his arms and keeping him from doing so. “Wait. Wait.” He inspects the wounds for a moment. Looking worried, yet relieved that the injuries aren’t serious, he locks eyes with Hero. “Are you okay?” Hero opens his mouth, searching for an answer, but Josh continues. “Wait, you don’t have to answer that. That was a dumb question. Of course you’re not.”

“Yeah.” Hero says under his breath. He averts his eyes to the side of Josh’s head. He should have been more careful. What kind of person gets caught their first time self-harming? No wonder he’s so useless.

“If you let me take the knife with me, I can get some wet paper towels from the bathroom to help you clean up.” Josh holds out his hand, eyebrows creased in concern but eyes wide with expectation. Hero hands the knife over, ignoring the pang of reluctance to stop.

Josh races out of the room, and Hero takes a moment to look at his own cuts. He’s surprised at how many there are. He’d stopped paying attention while he was doing it. However, none of them look very bad, with the worst only bleeding very lightly.

Josh comes back faster than Hero expected, and diligently gets to work pressing the paper towels to the bleeding cuts. Hero winces a little at the sting, but he doesn’t mind this. It reminds him of when he was a child and his mother would clean up his scrapes. He realizes with a jolt that he doesn’t want to go back to hurting himself tonight.

“I hope you don’t mind me prying, but does this have anything to do with what you were telling me a couple months ago?”

“About—” Hero swallows thickly. He can’t bring himself to clarify. Besides, what could Josh be referring to besides Kel’s death? “Yeah.” His voice comes out strained.

“I’m sorry.” They sit in silence for a moment. “Hey, would it make it better or worse if I got Michelle and Dennis? We could get ice cream and you could tell us about your brother. Dennis said that helped when his aunt died.”

He was sure he’d want to say no—heck, he couldn’t bring himself to go to his favorite classes easily. But ice cream sounded nice, and he’d never noticed it before, but he was aching for someone to talk to. There was only one issue.

“Isn’t it almost one a.m.?”

Josh waved a hand dismissively. “That’s no problem if you want to go. I know a great all-night diner.”

That’s how he ended up in a nearly empty Denny’s with a few casual friends.

“Of course he’d refer to Denny’s as ‘a great all-night diner’.” Michelle dips a fry in her chocolate milkshake. Hero smiles slightly at her, eating a spoonful of his hot fudge sundae. The coldness of the ice cream is soothing, and he feels just a little bit better.

“Yeah, Josh, did you think Hero’s never heard of Denny’s before?”

“Hey, you’re not one to criticize me here. We came here for ice cream and you got pancakes.” Josh’s voice is light with playful teasing.

“So? They’re dessert pancakes. And there’s a scoop of ice cream on them.” Dennis gestures to the scoop with a flourish. “What does that have to do with you treating Denny’s like some obscure local mystery, anyway?”

Hero laughs a little. It feels unfamiliar and distant, but at the same time, somehow… right. He’s glad to not be alone tonight. Josh smiles with him. His eyes are still tinged with worry, but he’d reassured Hero on the drive here that none of the others had been told about the self-harm.

“So, Josh said we’re here because you had something to get off your mind?” Michelle looks at him, her worry less intense but still noticeable, like the mechanical whirring of a fridge in the background.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, poking at his sundae. How could he even begin to say what was wrong? Hero figured he should just start with the part that had been hurting him the most in the past months. “I don’t know if you remember my brother’s funeral a while ago, but…”

“You miss him?” Her voice is soft, gentle.

He nods, tears burning in his eyes.

“What was he like?”

Hero takes a rattling breath. “He really liked basketball. He played it every day after school. I don’t think he was all that close with anyone on his team, but he liked playing it a lot.”

“Is the jersey on your closet his team jersey?” Josh glances at him.

He shakes his head. “No, he just bought that one at the store. Sports clothes were like his default uniform, whether he had practice or not.”

Dennis nods slightly. “I’ve known people like that. I think they just practice so much it’s not worth changing clothes.”

A small smile tugs at Hero’s lips. “Yep, that sounds like Kel. Always on the move.” He glances across the restaurant at another one of the late-night patrons, someone about his age drinking a cup of coffee. “Honestly, I bet part of it was all the caffeine .” Hero wrinkles his nose, a strange mixture of affection and loss nested in the hollowness of his chest. “He drank an unnatural amount of Orange Joe.”

“I didn’t know anyone actually drank that.” Michelle takes a long sip of her milkshake.

“Small base of loyal customers, I guess.” A memory drifts into Hero’s mind, and for once he doesn’t push it away. “I can’t believe he kept drinking it after that hot dog competition. He won, but he drank so much Orange Joe afterwards that he threw up before we left the fair. He always said it was worth it, though.”

Michelle shakes her head. “Siblings.”

For a moment, Hero is reminded of a dozen other conversations he’s had about Kel. He’d tell his grade school classmates about a recent squabble, or something funny Kel did, and that’s what they’d say.

Then the stark contrast of reality hits him. This isn’t a petty fight that will be resolved in a few hours, or a story where nothing serious is wrong. He’s up at one am having this conversation because Kel is gone, because Kel will never win another game, will never drink more unhealthy quantities of soda, will never even graduate high school. He’s here because Kel was found dead on the bathroom floor, next to an emptied bottle of cleaning fluid, and Hero hadn’t done enough to stop him.

He puts his spoon down and lays his head in his arms. Everything feels so heavy. “I should have been there.”

“It wasn’t your fault—” Josh starts, but Hero doesn’t let him finish.

“Yes, it was!” A few of the other late-night patrons glance at their table, and he realizes he said that much louder than he meant to. Taking a shuddering breath, he continues more quietly. “I should have been there. I could have taken more time off school, he was more important than a few stupid assignments. I…” he has to stop to take another uneven breath. His voice is shaky, and he’s not sure how much longer he can speak before he dissolves into sobs, so he talks faster. “I knew he was having a hard time, and I don’t think anyone else could tell because he just acted like he was fine. If I had been there…” He breaks. The crying he was holding back can’t be contained any longer. His shoulders shake and his throat burns. He doesn’t even care if the other people in the diner are staring. Through a blur of tears, he can see his friends looking at him with concern, waiting for him to get it all out.

When he catches his breath, he forces himself to keep talking. He feels like he has to get this out, no matter how much it hurts, no matter if he has to look away from his friends to bear to say it. “He killed himself. And I wasn’t there.”

Michelle is the first to speak. “I’m so sorry…”

Josh puts a hand over his. “That’s horrible… I’m sorry you have to live with that.” He pulls his hand back. “You must feel horribly guilty, but I really don’t think it was your fault.”

“You… don’t?” God, he imagines he looks so pathetic right now.

“Yeah, I mean, you’re just a person. There’s only so much you could have done. You clearly loved him a lot, and I’m sure that meant a lot to him.”

“But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t there enough.” Hero’s sure he sounds like a broken record, but it’s all he’s been able to think about in the months since Kel’s death.

“Dude, you can’t save everyone. You can’t hold yourself to that standard.” Dennis’s voice is gentle, encouraging.

Hero looks away again, fresh tears emerging. “If that was all it was, maybe I’d think you’re right. But it’s not the first time this has happened.” He picks up his spoon, smushing the unmelted parts of the ice cream as he speaks. “I looked it up and it’s called a suicide cluster, but everyone else in town just calls it a curse.” He wipes away the new tears. “It doesn’t matter what you call it, though. Everyone I’ve grown up with is gone.”

“Shit…” For once, Josh is at a loss for words.

Michelle shakes her head. “It’s still not your fault. The only person who’s life and mental health you’re personally responsible for is your own. The most any of us can do for anyone else is be there and hope that’s enough, but if it’s not, that’s not your fault.”

Josh seems to come back to himself. “Yeah, absolutely. I stand by what I said before, no matter how many people died, because the same logic applies each time.”

“Wow… thanks.” It hasn’t fully set in, and to be honest, he doesn’t fully believe it either, but hearing that someone else believes it makes him feel a little better. “I’m… I’m scared it will never stop. What if everyone I get close to just keeps dying?”

“I… don’t think that will happen.” Dennis shrugs. “I mean, no matter what your town says, you’re not cursed or anything. It won’t go on forever.”

“Yeah, I guess so. My brain just needs to catch up, I guess.”

“It will, eventually.”

Michelle tilts her head slightly to one side. “If you don’t mind me asking, who else did you lose? No pressure, don’t answer if it will make things worse.”

Hero shakes his head. “It’s fine, I came here to get things off my chest anyway.” He pauses for a moment. “Let’s see… first, there was my high school girlfriend. That was four years ago. Last summer, her younger brother and a boy we were friends with growing up died on the same night, and earlier this year, before what happened to Kel, another friend got into an accident.” He feels like he should be more emotional as he says it, but he just feels empty. Like he’ll never feel human again.

“That’s terrible… if you ever want to talk about any of them, I’d be glad to listen.”

“Thanks.” The missing emotion is already bubbling back up a bit, and he has to swallow back tears. “You know, I don’t think anyone’s really asked me about any of them before tonight.” He sighs. “I kind of wish they would, now. I really liked telling you guys about Kel.”

“He sounds like a great brother.”

Hero’s tears start falling again, but somehow it isn’t as bad as before. “Thanks, he was.”

[kythed]

circus mirrors & stereo hearts

sugawara koushi x reader

this one goes out to my new friend, @twat-101 :) it’s a bit long, but I hope you still like it ! sending lotsa love your way <3

synopsis: (y/n) is struggling with her mental health so her best friend suga-san invites her over to study. general chaos and dumbassery ensues.

warnings: some swearing, mentions of mental health struggles, suga’s tone deaf singing.

word count: 4,226

--

Koushi always kept his windows open. Always.

In the winter, this transformed his room into a tiny Antarctica, replete with stray snowflakes, but in the summer, it meant cool tradewinds cutting through the typically stifling heat, creating a little pocket of the ideal climate. You often found yourself there in these warmer months, perched on the corner of his bed, contently listening to him blithely gossip about his teammates or playing a giggly game of Connect Four rife with not so subtle cheating.

Today, a sunny August Saturday, was no different. Koushi sat cross legged on the carpet. Sprawled out across his pale blue comforter, which smelled of fresh linen and that familiar Old Spice he’d been wearing since the eighth grade, you listened to him recite a chapter from your history book, something about post World War II foreign policy. Struggling to remain attentive, however, you found yourself spiraling into those cheerless resignations of hopelessness that had been far too frequent for you lately.

“--which resulted in Europe’s economic recovery chiefly in terms of raw materials, food, and fuel. The Soviet Union soon attempted to replicate a similar plan but ultimately-- hey, (Y/N)?”

You blinked hard and sunk back into reality, turning onto your cheek to look Koushi in his big brown eyes full of rather matronly concern. “Hmm?”

“Do you know what we’re learning about right now?” he asked, sounding both amused and disapproving. A strand of grey fell in front of his face and he quickly blew it away, smiling slightly. “Because it seems like you’ve been zoning out for the last ten or so minutes. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but Mr. Shishido specifically said this chapter was going to be on the test.”

“Uh… something about muzzer Roosia?” you joked with an exaggerated accent.

Koushi rolled his eyes and flicked your forehead. You yelped and glared at him reproachfully. “We were talking about the Marshall Plan. The United States’ recovery aid program for Western Europe after wartime devastation.”

“Right, right, I knew that,” you protested as Koushi tugged on your forearms and you toppled off the bed, nearly landing right on top of him. With a soft laugh, he extracted his limbs from yours and plopped his head into your lap like he used to when you were kids, resting beneath the boughs of that little oak tree in his backyard, listening to a choir of cicadas croon under a late afternoon sun. The ghost of a grin flitted over your face as you looked back on those halcyon days of your childhood. Usually Koushi’s mom would come out onto the porch with a couple of already-melting lemon popsicles in hand, and the two of you would scramble out of each other’s embrace and tear towards her, breathlessly racing for a priceless reward of sweet smiles and sticky hands.

What you wouldn’t give to go back to that time of gleeful oblivion, before your world became characterized by that all too persistent self-consciousness and excruciating anxiety. What you wouldn’t give to once again feel worthy of Koushi’s innocent adoration…

“--(Y/N)!”

For the second time today, you shook yourself awake. Koushi gazed up at you, brows furrowed. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was asking if you needed to take a little study break. Obviously, you do. I swear, your attention span gets shorter every day.” He pointed somewhere behind you. “Mind grabbing my phone? It’s on the bed.”

You leaned over as far as you could without disturbing Koushi’s position, head still nestled in your lap, and swept your hand over the covers before it bumped into his phone, which you promptly snatched and dropped onto his stomach. He gave a soft “oomph” at the impact before pulling up his Spotify and selecting a playlist, the cover of which was a selfie of the two of you at last year’s spring carnival. A blurred sakura tree provided the perfect backdrop for your smiling faces pressed cheek-to-cheek to fit in the frame. Sugar dusted the corners of Koushi’s mouth, the last trace of the powdered donut you’d shared right before.

“What’s that? I don’t think I’ve listened to that one before.” You reached for the phone, but Koushi held it out just out of reach as music began to play, batting your hand away. “I look awful in that picture; you could’ve chosen something a little more flattering.”

“Oh, shush. You looked pretty that day, wearing that blue sundress with the little flowers on the hem… blue really suits you, you know.” Koushi smiled fondly at his screen, and you blushed despite yourself. “It’s a compilation of all our songs. I listened to this a lot last summer when you were in France with your family for a month. Whenever I missed you. You were off climbing the Eiffel Tower or making croissants and I was lounging around here, bored out of my mind and wishing you were home so we could be bored together.”

“You sappy bastard,” you said, though you really felt quite touched. “I didn’t even realize we had a song.”

“Not just a song,” he corrected. “Songs. Plural. Most of the songs we’ve ever listened to together, I reckon. Anything that reminds me of you, I put on here.”

“Why in the world would you do that?” you asked, aghast at his effort.

Koushi laughed at your surprise. “You’re my best friend, (Y/N). And believe or not, you mean a lot to me. I just like remembering the stuff we’ve done together.”

You nodded slowly, letting your fingers rest on his forehead and gently play with his grey locks. His eyes closed as you settled into a brief, comfortable almost-silence, tainted only by the soft, muffled melody trickling from tiny phone speakers. You cocked your head. “What song is this?”

“You don’t remember?” Koushi asked, sounding almost offended. He turned the volume up a few notches and held the phone closer to your ear.

Let's Marvin Gaye and get it on

You got the healing that I want

Just like they say it in the song

Until the dawn, let's Marvin Gaye and get it on

“I don’t know if--” you cut off as it dawned on you. “Wait… no way. This isn’t…?”

“It is.” Koushi laughed as your face flushed a vivid crimson. “Uchimura’s party.”

Though embarrassed, you grinned, remembering that night. “The song that played at her twelfth birthday while we were in the closet during seven minutes in heaven.”

“We were way too young for that dumb game,” Koushi said with a smile, shaking his head. “God, I was so nervous. That was my first kiss, you know.”

“It was mine too,” you admitted. You remembered sitting on the carpeted floor of Uchimura’s rather cramped closet, knees touching, just barely able to see the outline of Koushi’s face illuminated by the smallest sliver of light shining through a crack in the door. He’d leaned forward, taking your hand in his own small clammy one. “It was really just a peck, though. It might not have counted.”

“It counted,” said Koushi firmly. “Whenever I get asked about my first kiss, I say it was ours. I say it was the best one I’ve ever had, too.”

You shook your head with a soft laugh. “Now, I know that’s a lie. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

“Neither did I,” agreed Koushi. He caught your eye, crinkling his nose cutely. “That’s what made it so sweet. It was innocent. I tasted your bubblegum chapstick on my lips afterwards.”

“Bubblegum chapstick, huh?” You rolled your eyes and poked him softly in the ribs. “I couldn’t look you straight in the eyes for like three weeks after that.”

“I remember. You kept running away whenever I tried to talk to you.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not sure we would’ve even stayed friends if Ms. Miyato hadn’t partnered us up for the volcano project at the end of that month.” You recalled those afternoons spent in Koushi’s kitchen, newspapers covering every visible surface and a huge, paper-mache volcano resting on the dining table, splattered with orange and yellow paint and smelling strongly of Elmer’s glue and vinegar. Oftentimes, work sessions would dissolve into paint fights, staining your school uniforms with small, colorful hand prints.

“Nah,” said Koushi confidently. “I wouldn’t have let you go that easily.”

“Maybe you should’ve,” you said under your breath.

Koushi stared at you for a second, sighing. Then he reached up to grasp your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours and softly stroking his thumb across your palm. “You know, it was Uchimura’s eighteenth last weekend. You didn’t come.”

“Yeah. I had to study.” That was a lie. You just hadn’t thought anyone really wanted you there. Uchimura had been a friend of yours for years, but she had plenty of other friends to celebrate with. Probably didn’t even notice you weren’t there…

“She asked me where you were,” Koushi continued. “I said I didn’t know because you didn’t answer my texts that night.”

“Sorry,” you said quietly, avoiding eye contact. “Studying.”

“On a Friday night?” You didn’t answer, and Koushi squeezed your hand. “I had to choose Daichi for my charades partner… do you have any idea how shit he is at charades? He flopped on the ground and started convulsing, so I guessed ‘epilepsy.’ Guess what the word really was.”

“What?”

“Orgasm. The word was orgasm. You’d think he could just execute a simple pelvic thrust and make a face, but no, he had to go ahead and act like my great uncle Kaito when he had that heart attack at his ninety-fifth birthday last year.”

You cracked a small smile, imagining Daichi violently wiggling on the floor like a fish out of water. “Sounds like I missed out, then.”

“You really did,” said Koushi, eyes twinkling. He suddenly got solemn. “I missed you. Would’ve been a million times more fun with you there.”

“I doubt it.” You fiddled with the edge of your shirt, smile fading. “I can be a real killjoy sometimes.”

“Not to me,” said Koushi. “Whenever you walk into the room, suddenly that’s the only room I wanna be in.”

Your breath caught in your throat and you swallowed thickly. “Koushi… why are you telling me this?”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said simply. He took your hand again, the one that had been playing with his hair, and held it to his chest. You felt his heart beat erratically beneath your palm. “You’ve been avoiding all our friends in general.”

“That’s not true,” you protested, though your heart sank. He had noticed. You wished you didn’t have to drag him into all your problems. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Busy with what, (Y/N)? Homework? Our physics teacher came and talked to me at my locker after school, asking if you’ve been struggling with any personal issues, because apparently you haven’t been turning in your assignments.” Koushi glanced up at you. “It seems like you’ve just been locked away in your room whenever you’re not in class. Not doing work, not going out. Remember a couple weeks ago, when I asked if you wanted to go see that movie with me at the drive-in? You said you had a family dinner in town, but later I passed by on my bike and your bedroom light was on. And today, it took four separate phone calls before you finally picked up and I managed to invite you over… I’ve been worried.”

“Maybe I’m just changing,” you protested weakly. “That’s a thing that happens. People change.”

“I agree, you have been changing. Just not for the better.” Koushi squeezed your hand again, his skin warm on your own. “I haven’t seen you smile, really smile, for ages. You’re always faking these days. What’s going on?”

“I…” you trailed off, trying to think of some excuse. The last thing you wanted was for Koushi to see what was really going on inside your head.

“The truth, (Y/N).”

You relented, shoulders sagging. “Just been tired, I guess.”

“Tired of what?”

“Tired of…” Your eyes grew moist despite your best efforts and you fought to keep from choking on the sob rising up your throat.

“Tired of…?” he pressed on, eyebrow raised.

Your next words tumbled out in a rush. “Just tired of being me, okay? It’s like… it’s just like, whenever I look in the mirror… I don’t like what I see. I don’t like myself, so I don’t want to be me anymore. I’m so tired of it. And I feel like everyone else is, too. Everyone is tired of my shit, so I thought I’d just do you all a favor and disappear.”

Your words stunned Koushi into silence. He remained resting in your lap for a few long seconds before he felt something hot and wet roll down his cheek. A tear. But not his own.

He looked up just in time for another one of your tears to land on his face, right underneath his eye. Quickly, he sat up and tenderly cupped your face in his hands, gently brushing the tears away with his thumbs. “Oh, (Y/N)... c’mere. That’s such bullshit.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you hiccupped as he pulled you into his lap by your waist-- facing him-- and gingerly tucked your head into the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this. It’s gross, I know.”

“It’s not gross,” said Koushi, fiercely hugging you to his chest. “It’s much better than watching you try to pretend like you’re fine. I don’t care if your snot gets on my shirt-- that’s a small price to pay. So long as I can be there for you right now.”

You cried harder, immense guilt racking your body at his inexplicable kindness. “I’ve been treating you terribly these past few months, but you’re still so good to me. Goddamnit, Koushi. I don’t deserve you.”

Koushi pulled you back by the shoulders, narrowed eyes searching your face, though tears continued to stream down your cheeks. “(Y/N). You don’t have to earn my love.”

“I-- love?” you asked, eyes wide. You snatched a tissue from Koushi’s bedside table and blew your nose loudly.

“Yeah,” he said firmly, without missing a beat. “I said it. I love you. And don’t ask if I mean in a friend way or a girlfriend way, because the answer is neither. I love you like you’re the person I wanna spend the rest of my life with. I don’t care if that means as, like, your husband or just as your best friend. Whatever I can get, I’m happy with, because I love you like you’re a part of me. Unconditionally. I thought you knew that.”

“Please, don’t say that,” you sobbed, covering your face with your hands. “I’m not good enough for you. I’m really not.”

Koushi pulled your hands away so he could look you in the eye. “What don't you understand about the term ‘unconditional love’? It’s unconditional. There is literally nothing you nor anyone else can say or do to change that. Unconditional love is not a feeling, it’s a choice, and I’ve made that choice. I’ve had nearly two decades to think about it, so now I’m telling you I will love you no matter what. I always have, alright? This isn’t exactly how I wanted to say it, but it’s true.”

You stared at him, disbelieving. You hadn’t known he’d felt this way. Of course, you two had been partners-in-crime your entire lives, and you couldn’t count the number of times he’d materialized at your side as soon as you were in the slightest bit of trouble. Whenever you were a dollar short at the canteen, he’d stuff a five in your hand and push you towards the front of the line. That time you went camping with his family and you forgot your sleeping bag, he’d given you his and spent the night shivering. He always carried an extra pen for you because yours often inexplicably ran out of ink in the middle of a test. He’d been there for every crush, boyfriend, and breakup, cheering you on and drying your tears when the time came. He’d been there when your pet dog died and you planned a funeral in your backyard, complete with a little cardboard headstone, holding an umbrella above your head when it began to rain but you weren’t done mourning. He’d just always been there when you needed him.

You’d tried to be there for him, too, because, as you had begun to realize, his pain was your pain and vice versa. That time when you were six and he’d lost his favorite stuffed animal (a giraffe) it had felt like you’d lost yours too. That day in junior high when he fell out of the oak tree trying to retrieve a stray frisbee and broke his arm, you swore you felt the same pain in yours. Last year when he got dumped outside the gym on Valentine’s Day and you found him sitting in a corner, trying to hide the fact he’d obviously been crying-- you’d stayed late to crack stupid jokes and eat the chocolate he meant to give to his girlfriend, because he deserved a girl who would eat the damn chocolate. Not stomp on his heart and leave it to bleed. I love you like you’re a part of me. You understood.

“It’s okay to not be okay sometimes, but it’s not okay to bundle it all up and bury it deep inside when you have someone right next to you wanting to help you bear that burden.” Koushi’s voice shook just slightly. “It just… it hurts to see you like this, okay? (Y/N), if you love me back, then let me help you. Let me be there for you. Please.”

You were silent for a moment, staring into his pleading eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes.

Then you took a deep breath and started laughing through the tears. You were sure you looked insane, puffy eyes, red nose, and mascara running down your cheeks, but it didn’t matter. “I do. I love you, too. I love you. I didn’t know I loved you before, but now I do, because if you were torn away from me that heartbreak would probably kill me. No, it would definitely kill me. And it would hurt like a motherfucker while it did.”

Koushi let out the breath he’d been holding then, after a brief pause, began to laugh with you as you laced your arms around the back of your neck. “Oh, yeah? Well, losing you would probably hurt like a father-fucker to me.”

“Is that worse than a motherfucker?” you asked, giggling at the ridiculousness of it all. Here you were, bawling on the floor of your best friend’s room while you confessed your love to one another and cussed each other out at the same time.

“For sure. It’s a million times worse than a motherfucker. It’s like, if something hurting like a motherfucker is the equivalent of getting shot by a Nerf gun, something hurting like a fatherfucker probably feels like getting run over by a tank.” Koushi intertwined his fingers with yours yet again and smiled.

“You’re a dumbass,” you said, but you laughed anyways as Koushi looked proud of himself.

“I know,” he said softly, affectionately. “But I’m your dumbass.”

You sighed and shook your head. “I’d love you to be. But you could still do so much better than me--”

“Will you stop saying that, already?” Koushi took your face in his hand, stroking his thumb right beneath your eye. “You’re the most radiant person I’ve ever met. Notice how I didn’t say ‘beautiful’ because the word beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it. Although you are that, too.”

“Oh, goodness. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again-- you’re so sappy.”

Koushi rolled his eyes with a smile. “Yeah, I am. You like it though.”

“You caught me,” you said as he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. You leaned into it, savoring the warmth of his lips on your skin. “I do.”

“But really, (Y/N),” he said seriously. “It astounds me that you don’t realize that.”

“Don’t realize what?”

“That you’re cool! You’re so cool and fun and awesome. And a zillion other adjectives I could sit here and list out for hours. You’re the only person who can make me laugh when I cry, and you make the best hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted, and you’re a literal god at Mario Kart, and you’ve got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever had the privilege to look into.” You flushed as Koushi thought for a moment, chewing on his lip before his eyes widened. “It’s kinda like a circus mirror, I think.”

“What?” You furrowed your brow.

“The way you see yourself is like someone looking into one of those circus mirrors. It makes you look too tall, or really squished, or just bent out of shape in general. And if that was the only mirror you’d ever looked into, you’d probably think that ugly, distorted reflection is how you actually look in real life. You can’t see yourself for how amazing you really are-- but everyone else can.”

“Well, aren’t you just full of relevant analogies today?” you teased. A circus mirror. Now that was something new. You had to give Koushi credit for the comparison-- it actually did kind of make sense.

“What can I say?” he said, puffing out his chest. “I’m a poet.”

“So I guess that would make you my real mirror then?” you offered shyly. Koushi looked confused for a second. “If the way I see myself is supposedly ‘distorted,’ then you can reflect to me how I supposedly really am.”

“Oh, yes!” he said happily. “I’m the mirror. I like that. Quit talking like you don’t believe me, though. You’re incredible. A little thick-skulled sometimes, yes, but incredible nonetheless.”

“It’s going to be hard for me,” you said quietly, gently running a hand through his hair. “Really hard. I haven’t liked myself for a long time.”

“I know. I know. But someday, you’ll be able to understand what a beautiful human being you are. I’m sure of it. I need you to promise you won’t give up until that happens.”

He held out his pinky for a pinky swear, something you two did frequently as children. You smiled and laced your pinky with his. “Alright. I promise.”

“Good.” Koushi stood up, brushed the wrinkles from his pants, and offered you his hand. You took it and he pulled you up. “Listen. Do you remember this song?”

His little playlist had been playing this entire time. You hadn’t noticed. You strained to catch the lyrics. “Turn it up a little, I can’t quite hear.”

...a stereo

It beats for you, so listen close

Hear my thoughts in every note

“Koushi.” A slow smile spread across your face. “Tell me this isn’t Stereo Hearts.”

“Oh, this is Stereo Hearts alright!” he responded gleefully. He took your hand and spun you around like a ballroom dancer, catching you before you tripped over his bedside table. “You remember when we--”

“When we performed it at the junior high talent show and got booed off the stage?” You giggled, remembering that awful night that was somehow hilarious in retrospect. “I still have nightmares about that.”

Koushi continued to swing you around in some sort of clumsy dance, pulling you this way and that while you laughed wildly. “It’s ‘cause you were such a shit singer.”

You gasped in mock offense. “No way! You’re a much worse singer than I am. At least I can carry a tune.”

Koushi just rolled his eyes and grabbed a hairbrush from his shelf, using it like a microphone. He sat you down on the edge of the bed and began to serenade you in his terrible, tone-deaf manner.

Make me your radio

Turn me up when you feel low

This melody was meant for you

Just sing along to my stereo

“God, you really do suck at this,” you said, but he just smiled and kept singing. You had to admit, it was sweet. As silly as the memory associated with the song was, it remained a nostalgic favorite even now. You had to join in a few times, just for memory’s sake.

I only pray you never leave me behind

Because good music can be so hard to find

Koushi sat down next to you and wound one arm around your waist, leaning close.

I take your hand and pull it closer to mine

Thought love was dead, but now you're changing my mind

You turned and leaned in too, nearly touching noses.

“Hey,” he said in an almost whisper. “(Y/N) (L/N), I love you.”

“Hey,” you whispered back, gaze flitting down to his lips and back up again. “I love you, too, you sappy bastard.”

...so sing along to my stereo

“I know.” He closed the remaining inch of distance. Your hand tangled itself in his hair while his tugged your body a little closer.

The kiss was almost as good as the one in Uchimura’s closet all those years ago. Almost.

[not-poignant]

Hi Pia! ❤️ I'm not sure if someone had already asked that question but gotta give it a try... can you share what's your posting routine? I mean - how long (in general) do you wait to post a chapter? Do you post it immediately, once it's written or do you reread it or wait till you have some more?

I hope you have a fantastic day/night ❤️

I don't really have a posting routine honestly. At least, not one that's the same for all stories.

Falling Falling Stars goes up as soon as I have a chapter that's been edited (by me and ideally my beta). Usually that's a 12-hour turnaround from finishing the first draft to putting it up.

The Ice Plague on the other hand I have about 11 extra chapters for that aren't yet posted, and it gets updated (when we come back) once every 2-3 weeks on a Thursday or a Friday on a fairly strict schedule.

The Nascent Diplomat goes up once I have the next chapter for the Patreon account. That can vary from 'beginning of the month to end of the month' depending on how I'm writing.

The only thing I really try and stick to these days, is to post in the evening my time, because that usually ranges from morning-early afternoon for most Europeans, and morning for most people in the USA. Since most of the people who read my writing are from the Northern Hemisphere, it makes more sense to just catch them while they're more likely to be awake, lol.

If I post in the morning on my time, I skip generally most of the Europeans, and it's getting increasingly late for the USians (I'm GMT+8). And there's a 'dead zone' / bug on AO3 which doesn't archive your fics properly which is smack bang in the middle of the afternoon for me, so that's out too.

I rarely sit on chapters for long if I have a choice in the matter. I am an antsy / amped writer, if I have a chapter, I want to share it ASAP, and it's a struggle sometimes to write a buffer. I suppose that's why I'm a serial writer like this, instead of just a novel writer lmao.

I would never post something immediately after it's written, without editing, though. I actually...can't even do that to my beta, she deserves better than that. She deserves some effort on my behalf, so that she doesn't have to chase the typos and grammar errors I can catch myself.

I have never posted something that hasn't been looked over by at least me, at least once or twice. And in an ideal world, with my beta looking over it as well. Tbh imho, that's like an audience ordering a fully cooked meal and handing them all the raw ingredients and going 'you figure it out.' I just couldn't let myself x.x My writing is by no means perfect - it's really not - but it's way less perfect before you folks see the AO3 version.

tl;dr - Always at night (my time), but the routine changes per story!

I hope you have a fantastic day/night too anon!

[jmbringitonworld]

A Fall in the Forest

AO3 link (where all future chapters will be posted)

I'll be honest with you all, I don't know what I'm doing here. I've never written a Reader insert fic, and have never wanted to before. But Papyrus is one of my top three favourite Undertale characters, and there's just so much beautiful fanart of him on Tumblr (especially from @a-snowpoff, this is all your fault, how dare you), and it's awakened a desire to write a ReaderxPaps fic, that I never thought I was capable of. Which is terrible, because I have two other fics that demand my attention, and I hate how I keep getting distracted from them. And yet, here I am. Getting distracted. AGAIN. I am an amalgamation of mistakes.

For those who've read my other fic, "Why You Shouldn't Mess With The Machine" and other works in that AU, this fic takes place after the events of that one, but still in the same universe. As such, some of the characters from that one may make the occasional appearance here, but it is absolutely NOT necessary to have read that fic, to know what's going on here. I promise you that everything you need to know will eventually be explained here. Also, I guess this fic technically spoils the eventual conclusion of that one, but let's face it, the plot wasn't the focus of that story, it was all about the character interactions and bonding, the character exploration and development, and the slice-of-life fluff. So feel free to read or ignore either fic, as you like.

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Chapter 1: An Unexpected Saviour

Walking in the massive forest on the outskirts of the city, with only my tiny, snow-white puffball of a dog and the fading light of the setting sun for company, wasn’t my ideal way to spend my Friday evening, but I got off work late today and Poff needed her walk. The café I worked at was a small place, very cosy and welcoming, but its smoke detectors weren’t advanced enough to differentiate between a genuine fire, and a fire elemental monster showing off to her friends. To be fair, we’d never had one come to the café before, but with how popular we were getting, and given how most of our customers were monsters, it was only a matter of time before this happened. My boss was really upset, though; he was a real people person in his old age, and he treated his clients and employees like family. It was why I continued to work for him, after all these years, even though I could probably find a better-paying job elsewhere. It was also why myself and all of my coworkers had insisted on staying late to help with the clean-up. One of my colleagues had even already bought a new, MTT-brand smoke and fire detection system for the shop. Guess it pays to be related to one of the most enterprising spider monsters in Ebott City.

I probably should’ve skipped Poff’s daily walk today, but I knew from experience that if I’d tried that, the little fluffball would’ve sat in front of the door for the rest of the day, crying her tiny heart out. And my stupid, bleeding heart can’t stand that sound. Gah, why am I such a sucker?! Well, I guess I could also have chosen to walk somewhere inside the city, but with it being a Friday evening, the streets would’ve been packed with folks out celebrating the end of the week. And unlike my boss, I’m... very much not a people person. So, spooky forest at night it was.

My internal grumblings were cut short when Poff came to a sudden halt. Lifting her fluffy white head high in the air, she sniffed excitedly, having clearly detected a scent which caught her interest. Then, without warning, she yanked her leash out of my hand, and took off through the trees, disappearing from view within seconds. Caught completely off guard, I was unable to stop her in time. My heart pounding in my chest, I immediately gave chase, running after her and yelling her name at the top of my lungs. Stupid, stupid, stupid ! I mentally berated myself, kicking myself for not having kept a firmer grip on Poff’s lead. I know I was tired, and Poff was usually a very obedient, if easily excitable, dog, but that’s no excuse! I’d had her since she was a puppy and, outside of work, she was all I had. I should’ve been more attentive. If anything were to happen to her, I’d never forgive myself.

The sun had well and truly set by now, no light able to peek through the dense canopy of leaves. I took out my phone and used it as a flashlight to light my way. On top of the darkness, and the growing chill in the air, I was also completely lost. Everywhere I looked, the trees seemed identical. I’d never been this deep into the forest before, I had always been very careful to stick to the path, but in my desperation to find my dog, I hadn’t thought twice about where I was going. If I thought it was the perfect setting for a horror movie before, that was nothing compared to my current situation. All alone and hopelessly lost, in the middle of the deep, dark woods, with only the light from my phone to illuminate my path, I was well and truly screwed. As dread and fear clawed at my heart, I fought back my tears and kept walking. Crying would solve nothing, I knew, and no matter what, I had to stay determined.

The forest was eerily silent, only my footsteps and haggard breaths could be heard, which was why the rustling of leaves in the distance immediately caught my attention. Without a second thought, I rushed off in the direction of the sound, phone held high in hopes of seeing what had made the noise, and so, I completely missed the hidden trap right in front of me.

Burning pain shot through my left leg, as barbed wire wrapped itself around my foot, the sharp metal digging brutally into the tender flesh of my ankle. With a shriek, I fell to the floor, my phone tumbling from my limp hand and crashing hard on the ground, with a loud crack . Instantly, the area was plunged into total darkness as the phone’s light extinguished. Shit. What the hell do I do now ? I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer, as I shakily reached towards my foot, trying to pry the wire off of me. But the bloody thing was wrapped too tightly and my fingers were too numb from the cold, and trembling too hard from my shock and pain. I couldn’t get free. Oh stars, is this how I die? My heart sank into the depths of the earth, and straight into hell, where I would surely soon join it.

I was starting to hyperventilate by this point, and sobbing with abandon, as I sat there in agony. Terror and despair welling up within me, I desperately cried out for help.

And someone, or some thing , came.

From out of the shadows of the trees stepped a tall, humanoid, hulking figure. It walked towards my frozen form with big steps, its long, thin legs quickly eating up the distance between us. When the creature (person?) reached me, its body seemed to fold in half, the upper part lowering until what appeared to be its head hovered in front of my own. I swallowed a scream as a skeletal head stared back at me, its eye sockets shrunken into its skull, sharp, jagged teeth jutting crookedly out of its mouth. Holy shit, the Grim Reaper has come for my soul ! Then they started talking.

“Hello, Human! Was that your cry for help I heard? Are you hurt? Do you need help? My help?”

I blinked. I’d never heard such a loud voice before; it made my ears ring a little. It also sounded distinctly masculine (so I was going to assume the... person was male until told otherwise), and, more importantly, surprisingly... kind . Compassionate. I hadn’t expected that. I definitely heard concern in his voice and, now that I was looking properly, I could see that his expression seemed genuinely worried. For me . Oh. No one had been worried for my sake in... some time. No one besides my boss, anyway. Despite my pain and my fear, I felt hope spark in my chest. I hesitantly spoke up.

“I-I stepped in this wire trap, and now I’m stuck. Please, I need your help. I-it really hurts...”

The stranger looked down, seeming to finally notice my imprisoned foot. I heard a loud gasp, as he brought two gloved hands to the sides of his head, uh, skull .

“Oh no! I’m so sorry, Human! I didn’t mean to capture you! But please, do not fear! For I, the Great Papyrus, shall have you freed in but a moment!”

And then, with a gentleness that belied his massive size and, quite frankly, fearsome appearance, he easily pried the wire from my leg, taking care not to injure me further. He didn’t seem to mind the wire cutting into his red gloves, but I guess bones don’t feel pain in the same way flesh does? When my foot was free at last, the stranger gingerly held it in his hands, peering closely at my ragged wounds with a frown.

“I am sorry, Human, your injuries seem serious. Oh, this is all my fault!” I had to admit, he had quite the flair for the dramatics. If I were in any other situation, I’d probably be laughing. He then took off the long, tattered, red scarf he was wearing and, with utmost delicacy, began wrapping it around my torn and bleeding ankle. I rushed to stop him.

“Wait! Don't do that! You’ll get your scarf dirty!”

But he ignored my protests with a shake of his skull, quickly finishing his makeshift bandage and tying the ends up in a bow.

“Nonsense, Human! Your wounds are more important than my scarf! Besides, it was my trap which hurt you. I must make it up to you! Oh, I know!” he looked at me with an eager expression. It was oddly... cute. “My father will surely be able to heal you! There’s little he can’t do, after all, nyeh heh heh! Come, Human, I shall bring you to him at once!”

And before I could fully register his words, he lifted me up into his arms in a bridal carry with seemingly no effort whatsoever.

“O-oh, but, u-um, that’s-... a-aren’t I heavy?”

I’d never been carried by anyone before, not since I was a child anyway, so I couldn’t help feeling a little embarrassed. But the monster (I assumed he was a monster, and not a zombie or Grim Reaper), Papyrus (and why did that name sound vaguely familiar? Had I heard it before? Aside from the font, that is), merely grinned at me with a level of confidence I’d never seen in anyone else.

“Nyeh heh heh! Worry not, Human! I, the Great (and very capable) Papyrus, am also very strong! There’s no weight so great that I cannot carry! Be they physical or emotional! Nyeh!”

True to his words, he marched off with me in his arms, as if I weighed nothing at all. His arms held me securely to his rib cage, being very careful not to jostle me and aggravate my injury. Despite seemingly being made of nothing but bones, Papyrus was clearly very strong, just as he’d claimed. Must be because of his magic , I assumed. Monsters sure were amazing. And this one was no exception , I thought as he offered me a brilliant smile. I could feel a blush rise, unbidden, to my cheeks, at that look, coupled with the way he cradled me in his arms, as if I were a princess. Well, he certainly seemed like a prince in that moment. He’d come rushing to my rescue like my very own knight in shining armour. Heck, he even wore armour, I noticed! Sure, it wasn’t exactly shining and had clearly seen better days, but Papyrus had obviously been maintaining it well, and the white of his chest plate was almost blinding in the near pitch black of the surrounding forest. My hero .

“Human! I really am sorry! About my trap! I am a master hunter, you see, and have laid many traps throughout the forest. But they were meant to capture animals! Not humans! I had absolutely no intention of harming humans! I promise!”

Papyrus was clearly very upset about this whole incident. He’d treated me with nothing but kindness since the moment we met and I didn’t doubt his sincerity. There was no way someone who held me this gently and looked at me so earnestly could be capable of hurting another person. I gave Papyrus the most reassuring smile I could.

“Don’t worry, I believe you. This was all just an unfortunate accident. Please don’t blame yourself.”

Papyrus heaved a large sigh of relief ( how ? He had no lungs, right?).

“Nyeh heh heh! Thank you for believing me, Human. You are very kind. And! Very forgiving. It may not have been my intention to capture you, but you are still quite the catch!”

Oh gosh . I buried my burning face in his chest plate, and he tightened his grip on me slightly. I waved away his concerned questions, as butterflies began to flutter in my belly. For someone so loud and enthusiastic, he could be surprisingly charming at times. It wasn’t fair. I was not at all prepared for these feelings. But this guy, my unexpected saviour, brought them out in me so effortlessly. It really wasn’t fair.

“So, Human. What brings you so deep into our forest?”

At that question, I felt as if I’d been dowsed in icy water, as reality hit me in the face once more. Against my will, I started tearing up again.

“Oh. Poff! M-my dog, she’s small, white and fluffy, just like a snow poff! I was taking my dog out for a walk and she suddenly ran off! I tried to follow her, but I wasn’t fast enough, and I got lost, and then I stepped into that trap-”

A sob cut off my panicked rambling, and Papyrus came to halt, gripping me tightly.

“Hey hey! Please don’t cry, Human! It will be all right! I promise you that once I have brought you safely to my house, I, expert tracker Papyrus, shall go look for your precious pet! And I shall find her! And then I shall bring her to you! And then-! Uh...”

I giggled wetly, wiping away my tears.

“And then I shall shower you in thanks and praise,” Papyrus beamed at me, and my fears slowly started melting away in the face of his conviction. “If it were anyone else, I’d doubt that they would be able to find one single, tiny dog, in such a massive forest. But when you say it, I can’t help but believe in you.”

I couldn’t quite describe the look Papyrus gave me right then. He seemed incredibly happy, and proud, but also a little... sad? Disbelieving? Ashamed? I didn’t know him too well yet, but it almost seemed like he was on the verge of tears, despite his wide smile. I didn’t understand why, but I didn’t have the courage to ask him about it. All I knew was that something about that look made my heart break a little.

After that, Papyrus kept up a constant stream of conversation while he walked, and through that I’d learned that he lived with his older brother, their father, and their human friend, in a large cabin in the woods. He spent his days placing and checking on the many traps he’d laid throughout the forest, cooking up all of the animals he caught. He mentioned, several times, that he was a “master chef”, and that he was particularly fond of spaghetti (and regaled me at length on the wonders of each type of pasta), and in return, I’d told him of my own job as a pastry chef at a small café in the city. He got especially lively at that reveal. It was nice being able to share my love of cooking with someone. Most people I knew just loved eating the food I made; no one had ever been all that interested in the actual process of making it. Papyrus enjoyed both, to the extreme. He was definitely a very passionate person. I wonder if I can get him that passionate about something other than food , the thought drifted through my mind and I immediately squashed it with a vengeance. No! Bad brain, very, very bad brain ! No naughty thoughts about a guy you only just met, and who’d almost certainly saved your life. Besides, he probably had very high standards.

At some point during the conversation, I’d given him my name, but he seemed content to just call me “Human”. Which was fine by me; I wasn’t too eager to have my name shouted at max volume, for all the world to hear. Besides, the way he called me “Human” was oddly endearing. I never thought I’d ever find someone addressing me by my species to be adorable, but then again, I never thought I’d develop a crush on a skeleton who looked like he’d just stepped out of a horror movie, and yet here we were. Today was full of surprises.

Time seemed to fly by, because before I knew it, the two of us had arrived in front of a cabin. It was huge, at least two stories and made of wood. It also looked remarkably new, as if it’d been built just recently. It couldn’t have been older than a year old, so Papyrus and his family must’ve moved here quite recently. I wonder why?

“Nyeh heh heh! Welcome, Human, to scenic My House!”

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This first chapter was originally meant to include your meeting with Pap's family, but this forest bit got too long, so I decided to cut it in half. The second half shifts tone quite a bit, though, so perhaps it's better this way. Anyway, I at least know where the second chapter's going, though after that, I'm not sure. I know where this fic's going to end, and have a vague idea of how it's going to get there, but I haven't planned everything out like I usually do. I'm honestly just winging it (Wing Din- *is shot*).

See, THIS is why I don't write multi-chaptered fics with one big, continuous plot! I normally only write oneshots or collections of oneshots. I am WAY out of my comfort zone here.

Which is why any feedback or words of support you may have are very important to me! I don't know what I'm doing here, or if I even really want to do it, especially when I'm so attached to my other projects, so unless people actually want me to continue this, I'll probably leave it on the backburner after chapter 2, and update this as and when inspiration hits me. I'm writing the other two fics out of love; I'm writing this out of morbid curiosity. Who knows, maybe I'll grow to love this, we'll just have to see. In the meantime, I'll try my best to get out chapter 2 as soon as I can.

AO3 link again, because I'm planning to post all future updates on that site exclusively, because this is eventually going to have smut, and I want to keep this blog SFW (I know that some of my followers are minors, and I'm also not comfortable posting anything NSFW on Tumblr).

Horrortale belongs to Sour Apple Studios

[batarella]

I Don’t Hate You - Part 14 (Jason Todd x Reader)

Hi. this is batarella’s friend speaking. she said she’ll be in hiding for the next 24 hours until the next chapter is posted before an angry mob shows up outside her house.

WORDS: 7337 WARNINGS: THE AMOUNT OF ANGST IN THIS ONE IS ASTRONOMICAL. SO MUCH VIOLENCE. HEARTBREAK. FIGHTING. SELF HARM. 

Masterlist

I DON’T HATE YOU - MASTERLIST

-----

At the back of his car, parked in the school’s driveway, he pulled you into the backseat before he was just about to take you home.

Your legs were over his lap, his arm around you leaning against the car door and his other hand resting comfortably over your breast, you sighed into his warmth. And because it was heated inside, the windows were too fogged up for anyone to see you.

Jason. Jason. Jason. Jason. Jason.

For one thing, the sex was phenomenal. He was getting so good at it.

So good at it. You could have all your filthy daydreams all day.

You just loved it when he takes careful notice of how you react to the million different ways he touches you, how he explores your body well enough to give you an even better orgasm than the last one. And how he handles you, so gentle, cherishing each part of you, making you feel so treasured and precious. If there was a book on how to love someone, this was an entirely new section you never found out about until now. Fucking was one thing. But doing it with someone you’d give up your own life for, someone you loved so tremendously, it was certainly the most beautiful thing in the world. He’d kiss every part of you, make you feel like you were made of gold by the way he holds you so delicately. But when it calls for it, your hips end up getting bruises and you’d barely be able to walk the next day. Fuck, you were obsessed with it. It had only been a few months, and still you could barely keep your grabby hands off him.

But that was just one thing. You haven’t had a fight in so long, you could barely remember the last time you were mad at him. And when you did, you wanted nothing more than to forget it. As far as you knew, each second you spent with Jason was the last, and it would all be a waste if you weren’t trying your best at being happy with him. He kisses you more. Tried better to make you feel like you were the world. Every Friday he stays over at your place for the night and you’d end up staying awake the whole time watching movies, talking, fucking, or sneaking out into the city.

And the urban exploring. There were so many places abandoned in Gotham it was a surprise the city was still up at all. From all the monstrous villain attacks that end up leaving some mall too destroyed, a church too unsafe to have people in, an old toy shop forgotten, carnivals, mansions, and most of all, asylums. You and Jason have gone through so many of these places, it was always going to be something special that only you and him shared. Even when the places were borderline haunted, you’d hold his hand, look around and up at the roofs about to fall in, and it would be the best things to remember.

But…

There was just one thing that held you back.

“Hey,” you whispered, and he went down to kiss your neck. “Can you take me home now?”

“Just a sec.”

You gasped when he took your earlobe in with his teeth.

“Let’s continue this at home.”

Jason smiled, then his phone rang. You kissed his cheek and neck while he answered, hand trailing down his crotch.

“Bruce?”

You kept going, straddling his lap while licking his neck. He held back a groan, but he grinded up to you.

“Shit. Can I take a pass?” he said. He held the back of your head and pulled you away before he’d moan, but you kept going.

“Fine.”

He hung up, then you felt him sigh. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to take you home now. I got to go…”

You stopped, then pulled away to look at him in the eye, then look down. “Hey,” he kissed you again. “I’ll call you tonight. I won't be out too late.”

You slid off him and forced yourself to smile.

“It’s fine.”

You hadn’t told him yet. And frankly, you didn’t want to. You weren’t sure you believed it yourself.

“What is it that he’s asking you to do, again?”

You watched every detail on his face.

“He wants me to work in his company. I’m his assistant. Some sort of sidekick,” he laughed.

You forced yourself to buy it.

So even with a thought at the back of your mind, something that had lingered for months since that night of your first time, you chose to ignore it, or just not believe it entirely. Whatever it was, it wasn’t true. What you saw wasn’t actually there. And if it was true, it would break everything you worked so hard to build for months. You weren’t going to let that happen. So as long as he was okay, alive, with you, nothing else should matter.

Should it?

-----

It would have been so easy.

Penguin. On his knees, unarmed and struggling to even get up. There were dozens of guns around the room left by his unconscious goons. And with Robin standing over him, having the liberty of doing whatever it was he wished onto this sick, corrupted little man, Robin had every reason to end this son of a bitch’s life. Just a few weeks ago he put Dick in a coma in Bludhaven. This was supposed to be when they bring him to justice, to bring everyone he’s ever killed to justice.

A pistol, sitting right in front of him. It was so easy to pick up, place right up against Cobblepot’s twisted skull, and pull the trigger.

But then…

Then…

He found himself doing that very same act, just when he thought it had only been a thing of his mind. Robin held a gun in his hand, pointed it right into the Penguin’s head. And in that split second, he realized what he was doing.

A batarang came flying in and pierced his hand. Robin dropped the gun, hissing and falling to his knees on the ground.

Batman never looked at him so furiously.

Brought into the cave, Robin started for the door.

“Good night.”

“Jason-“

“I said good night.”

“JASON.”

He knew what was about to happen. So many times, he’d been warned. Weeks and weeks have happened and still, Jason managed to do that. Any second longer, Cobblepot would be dead, and Jason would be a killer. He proved to everyone and himself that he was willing to take a life, something Robin wasn’t supposed to stand for.

Jason stopped, his hand injuring itself from gripping too hard.

“Take that suit off,” Batman said. “And leave it here. For good.”

“You’re kidding me-“

“FOR GOOD!”

He looked at Bruce dead in the eye. The larger man was unmoving, furious beyond belief, and had just about enough of his rebellious antics. Jason knew exactly what was going to happen and did it anyway. Did he do it on purpose? To show Bruce that despite being by his side for so many years, his beliefs never rubbed off on him? That after all those years taking care of himself, he, having twice as much street smarts as Bruce and Dick combined, knew that the only real way of ridding the world of a villain’s horrible doings was to rid the world of the villain entirely?

Bruce wouldn’t know. He’d been sheltered far too much in his life. But Jason’s life was a disaster enough for him to know Robin’s ideals just weren’t for him. That he was destined for something so entirely different, far from what Dick was doing, from anybody else. He was right. He was no Dick Grayson. He never will be.

So fine. Let Bruce take the suit.

“You know damn well keeping him alive kills hundreds more, Bruce. How do you live with that?”

“I live knowing I keep myself from being just as much of a killer as he is. You don’t know half the things I’d do if I fell into that hole.”

“Then you're a coward,” Jason fired back. “You can't control yourself. That’s on you. Think of all the people you could have saved.”

“And the people I’ll kill? So many more.”

Bruce left the cave.

Jason stormed into his room, ripped his suit off and threw it right across the hall.

Then he punched the wall hard enough to leave a small dent.

He didn’t scream or break anything more. He was lost. He knew he wasn’t going to find himself for a longer time than he’d think. He stayed against that wall, his fist in a hole, long enough to find any thought he could focus on, but it was true, no matter how much he tried to go with Bruce’s fucking morals, he ended up falling right back into his own.

He did kill that man. The one that fell four stories off a building. He killed him. The blood was on his hands. And all this? It was all just a way for him to justify what he did so he wouldn’t get eaten up by the guilt. Or the lack of guilt, thereof. That was what he feared of himself the most.

Because even after he’d realized he’d killed that man, he felt nothing. In fact, he was proud of it. And he’d do it again. Over and over. So long as it were the people who’d killed so many more, left so many families empty and broken, he’ll never feel a shred of regret. And that was what he was trying to make up for. He was afraid of himself, of what he’ll become.

Being Robin was the only thing holding him back from being what he was truly meant to be. That he had ideals to follow whether or not he agreed to them. He had something to tell him what was supposed to be. And now, without the suit, he knew he’d have to succumb. He’ll have to become someone he had always believed in. and even though he loved Bruce, Dick, Alfred, he was always going to fight for the people. Not justice. Not himself. For the people. No matter what it takes, that’s where he’s headed.

And good god, did it scare him. It scared him to death.

His phone rang. You. He forgot he promised to call you that night.

“Asshole.” He heard your voice, and he slid with his back against the wall, eyes shut close.

“Sorry. I was just about to call.”

“You sound beaten up. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m tired.”

“Are you sure-“

“Yes,” he sighed, running his wet palms over his scrunched-up face. He wanted to break everything he could get his hands on. His whole room. Everything he could touch. He really didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

But everything with you was going so well...

“I can come over if you want. I have a movie I’ve been wanting us to watch.”

“It’s fine. You stay there.”

You were silent. For a while.

“Can we watch it this Friday?”

“I don’t think I can go there tomorrow. I’ll just see you in school.”

“Why not?”

He counted to ten. The last thing he wanted was to lash out on you.

“Just… I’ll try, okay?”

“Fine,” you grunted. “I’ll just go to bed, then.”

“Good night.”

He heard you scoff. “What is wrong with you?”

“You said you wanted to go to be-“

“Fine. Maybe I will.”

You hung up.

Months since your last fight. And just like that, you hated him again.

The dent in the wall turned into a hallowed-out hole he’d punched over and over.

-----

You had every right to be mad at him.

But, after knowing what you know now, you chose not to.

Jason kept his eyes on his food and tried his best not to look at you. Expecting you to ignore him, or possibly destroy your tray like you’d do when you fought, he looked up at you in surprised when you suddenly took his hand.

His eyes. They looked so sad, and yet so beautiful. You had changed. For him.

“I’m not mad at you…”

He swallowed his food, licked his lips, then with a long, deepening sigh he nodded at you. “Okay…”

“If there’s anything wrong, you can tell me.”

“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong.”

He rubbed his thumb over your hand, then slowly pulled away so he can go back to eating. You let it slide.

And this. It went on for days. You didn’t fight. But he wasn’t happy, either. He still kissed you, held you when he could. But he had so much in his mind you just knew he was never going to tell you. One thing you did notice, in fact, the bruises he came home with had almost completely disappeared. So with that, you were contented.

Until…

“Y/N and Brandon. You will be partners for this project.”

“Absolutely not,” you cried out in class. “I want another partner.”

Another jock stood up, “I’ll be your partner, hot stuff!!”

“DOWN!” You screamed, and he fell to his chair shivering.

“I want another partner,” you said to the teacher. He brushed you off, however. You wanted to choke him right at that second.

Brandon, on the other hand, looked amused. And when class ended, you went straight up to him.

“Football Freak. Tell Jerry we can't be partners.”

“Come on, Y/N. It’ll be fun. If you want I’ll take you over to my house-“

“I will tear out your eyes and step over them with my heels, you shit-headed troll.”

“There you go again with those petty little insults.” Brandon stood you off, and he’d gotten bigger now. “We both know you want thi-“

His body hitting the lockers was loud enough to turn everyone’s head. And they immediately looked at you.

But you hadn’t moved a muscle.

Jason, with the veins on his forehead looking so close to popping, grabbed Brandon by the collar once again and held him up against the wall.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Todd?!”

He didn’t even respond. Jason started punching him mindlessly on the floor. Hit after hit, you saw how his knuckles bruised. You called out his name, but he didn’t listen. Brandon’s blood already spilled on the floor and he kicked him off, and Jason landed on the ground. Wiping the blood off his lips, he lunged after Jason.

One hit to the face, but again, Jason was far too skilled for him. Grabbing his foot, he stretched it all the way to his back, and smashed his face to the ground. The crowd erupted in cries, some cheering for Jason. Some for Brandon.

They rolled on the floor. No one was trying to stop them. Jason managed to stand back up, grab Brandon by the shirt and slammed him right against the concrete walls. You heard a loud grunt and a tooth might have fell out.

And just before he went after Brandon again, you stepped in.

You didn’t even hold him back, or grab his arms just to stop him. All you did, and the only thing you needed to do, was stand in front of him, hold your hand up to his chest, and look at him straight in the eye.

So many times, Jason held you back from doing the same. He’s stopped you from almost pulling a girl’s hair right out of her scalp, from slamming someone’s head right into a concrete pillar. He’s stopped you from ruining someone’s life just by the psychological twisting of your words. You had your own jealous rage that was so easy to lash out on. Even just talking to another girl made you all crabby. And you knew he had his own as well.

But his jealousy. His was so much worse.

Now. Just now, you hoped he’d listen to you just as you’ve always listened to him. He did stop. And you forced him to look at you in the eye.

You saw him try to calm himself.

“ASSHOLE,” Brandon cried out. “YOU JEALOUS I WAS TALKING TO YOUR BITCH OF A GIRLFRIEND?!”

Jason’s head boiled and he tried to push you away, but you didn’t let him. You stood your ground, grabbing his shoulders. “Jason, stop-“

“NEWSFLASH. WE USED TO DATE, JACKASS. ALL THE WAY BACK TO EIGHTH FUCKING GRADE.”

“SHUT UP!!!”

You never let go. You still held on to him. Grabbing his hand, you pulled him towards the door. “Jason, let’s go home.”

“HOPE YOU FEEL GREAT ABOUT GETTING TO TAP THAT ASS, JASON TODD-“

You grabbed a book from one student’s arms and slammed its spine right at Brandon’s already bruised face. He fell to the floor.

“Jason, take me home right now.”

He tried so hard to shrug you off, but eventually, he went with you, and you both stormed out of the school, went right to his car before any of the teachers would find him.

You felt his hand shaking. His whole body was at that point. And when you reached the car, you tried to grab hold of him.

And he pushed you away so forcibly you almost tumbled. “Jason-“

“Get in the fucking car.”

You watched him wipe the last of his blood from his busted lip, then walk over to the driver’s seat before slamming the door so hard you could have sword the window broke behind him. Swallowing, you went in the passenger seat.

He never drove out of that parking lot faster than he did.

The best thing you could have done was console him, speak in the lightest voice you could and make sure you let him know you didn’t think he did anything wrong. That was all he needed.

But you didn’t do that.

Instead, you looked straight forward, blocking out all the noises, and sat as still as you could.

“Jason, we were barely even talking-“

“I don’t want you anywhere near that guy.”

“I wasn’t-.”

“Is it true?”

You bit your lip. “What?”

“You and Brandon? Is it true?”

You desperately wanted to go back somehow and beat the crap out of Brandon yourself. You wanted him unconscious. Worse. Dead.

You wanted to put all the blame on him instead of admitting this time, that you were in the wrong. So wrong.

You gulped, took in the cold, stale air, then whispered. “Yes…”

He slammed his fist against the car horn and you flinched at the horrible, ear shattering noise.

“YOU SAID YOU NEVER DATED ANYONE BEFORE.”

“IT WAS IN EIGHTH FUCKING GRADE. IT LASTED A MONTH. IT WAS STUPID AND IT DIDN’T MEAN SHIT. I TELL THAT TO EVERYONE ’CUZ I WANT TO PRETEND IT NEVER HAPPENED WITH THAT ASSHOLE.”

“YOU FUCKING LIED.”

“IT WAS NOTHING. WE WERE KIDS. I WAS BEING STUPID. IT WASN’T EVEN A REAL RELATIONSHIP.”

“YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I FUCKING HATE HIM.”

You breathed. But nothing has felt so hard to do. Your visions became so much of a blur and nothing in front of you made much sense anymore.

“I remember. You told me in that fucking library. That he hit on you and you rejected him…”

You bit your lip. “How was I supposed to know we’d get together…”

“You could have told me anytime the past year, Y/N,” he faked a laugh. “Never once did you mention any of that.”

“You hated that guy to the bone. If I had told you, you’d have hated me, too.“

He violently stepped on the break, and your body was thrown back against the chair. He was an inch away from slamming into another car.

“You. Lied.”

“It wasn’t a big deal…”

“It is to me.”

“So this is what you mean when you get just as jealous as I do?” you scoffed. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion-“

“YOU ALMOST KILL PEOPLE WHEN THEY SIT NEXT TO ME.”

“AND YOU DIDN’T DO THE SAME THING JUST NOW?!”

“YOU-“ he slammed his fist against the window. “FUCK THIS.”

You weren’t crying, though you really fucking wanted to. You wanted to show him just how much he hurt you. And nothing came out. You sat there, an empty, dry-eyed idiot.

“I’m not going to apologize for this,” you said.

“You’re proud of what you did? That’s big. Even for you.”

“I told you. It was nothing.”

“That dickhead didn’t seem to think so.”

“If it weren’t him, would you still whack his brains out?”

“Y/N,” he growled. “If it were just about anyone-anyone­-in the whole damn building, I’ll beat them to a bloody pulp.”

“How fucking romantic.”

“Like you're just so adorable when you get jealous.”

“GOD, YOU-“ you stuffed your head into your palm. When was this fucking car ride going to end?

“What other things are you keeping from me?”

“OH. SO WE’RE BACK TO THAT FUCKING CONVERSATION?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t go out at night? You don’t get into fights? You’re not hiding anything from me at all?”

“I told you I-“

“That you’re what?”

“I get into fights! Exactly like this one!”

“At night?!”

A volcano just about to erupt. There was no way you can keep this down anymore. You couldn’t hold this in. Not for a second longer.

And when you watched Jason being silent, looking away from you with his whole face as red of anger as your own, you knew it was true. He was practically outrightly admitting it right now.

And your heart. It never once felt as heavy as it did now.

“I know you’re Robin.”

He reached your house, stopped just by the curb.

Silence.

Your heart was beating so frantically in your chest, yet you didn’t move. You stopped breathing. You looked right in front of you and he did the same.

You wanted desperately for him to say just about anything to contradict what you’d said, to tell you convincingly that it wasn’t true, that you were being insane. Perhaps even tell you another truth that would have been less believable but a lot better to take in. You wanted him to tell you he never hid anything from you, and you’ll happily take the fall for this one.

If he denied being Robin, you’ll apologize for what happened with Brandon. You’ll pour out you're entire fucking heart and soul to beg for his forgiveness. You’ll lose just about everything about yourself trying to prove to him that you’ll always, always be truthful and that you never once thought of lying to his face knowing it would hurt him in the end. All you needed was just a word of denial. Fuck it being so convincing. If he just said it wasn’t true, then you’ll willingly let this go.

But all you heard was the heartbreaking, bitter silence.

His head frozen in place, eyes locked onto the window. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t look at you.

And at that, your heart broke beyond repair.

And you knew nothing was going to get you out of this. Every fight. Every argument. It never felt like you’d never get through it and you always ended up forgetting what happened, move on, and be just as happy with him as the last day. No fight ever made you feel like you’d never want to go through it all again if it meant you didn’t get to lose him.

But now. There was no getting through this. There was no fixing this.

He got those bruises from fighting, alright. He didn’t lie about that. He just completely left out the part about him being a costumed vigilante, blatantly walking right into death’s door willingly every single night. And he had been for years. He never once hinted anything to you.

And even if you did fix this, would you want a boyfriend you’d have to worry about every night? That he wouldn’t come home at all? Would you marry him, have a family? Have your kids understand that their father died for people he didn’t even know? Would you survive that heartbreak?

Well, your heart was definitely broken now.

“We’re done…” Jason said.

It all didn’t seem so real.

“For good.”

But you understood. Entirely. What did he expect? That you’d object? That you’d beg for him to stay despite everything and apologize on his behalf?

He lost you the moment he admitted to it, despite him not saying anything at all. And now, you lost him. Forever.

“Goodbye, Jay.”

You slammed the door behind you and never looked back.

-----

Now

You were crying your heart out by now. And the therapist, well, she just watched with so much pity for you, you’d have been embarrassed if it wasn’t her job to watch you cry.

“I never once thought that thing with Brandon affected him so much…”

“I think,” she said. “It was amplified by all the other things he was dealing with at home. You said he was already in some kind of mood before all this happened?”

“Yes. He was. Days before. Something happened with him and Bruce. He was upset for a while.”

“It wasn’t just with Brandon, then. It just happened to coincide.”

She gave you a box of tissues, and you took it, taking three from the box and wiping your eyes.

“I guess… but it was after I told him about what I knew when he broke up with me.”

The therapist nodded. “I see. And do you regret letting him know that?”

You looked at the ground.

“If I’d have seen him in school, have the time to realize I should call him back, I don’t think it would have done us any good to keep it more of a secret…”

You gulped.

“But I had known that was the last time I was ever going to see him…”

There it was. Three years-worth of guilt, all put into words. It came crashing down like the shittiest story ever told and the therapist looked at you like she was about to cry as well.

But this was your story. Your shitty story. Everyone cried from this.

“If I had known, I would have happily kept it for the rest of my life…”

The therapist looked at the ground with you as well.

“I don’t think… that would do any good…”

“He died a few days after that,” you blurted out. “Our break up got him depressed, and he ran away from home one night, chased after some crime leader in his neighborhood to air out his anger and it cost him his life. That’s why I blame myself for all this. That’s why I’m gonna have to live with the fact that he died because of me. I let him go too soon. I shouldn’t have gotten out of that car. I should have told him how this was all going to work out. But no, I didn’t. I got out of that car and he died from it.”

Another lie. You knew exactly how he died. It wasn’t from a small-time thug in his neighborhood. It was from someone too utterly deranged to even mention.

“If I had just stayed behind, told him how much I loved him, that I never would have wanted to waste what we had for nothing, he would still be alive. None of this would have happened. I was a coward and I had an unbelievable amount of pride. He died because of that. Because of me.”

The therapist took her mug from the side table, sipped from it, and looked at you. You were covering your face with your hands. “Y/N…”

You looked up at her, your face a mess.

“You can't blame yourself-“

“I do. And I always will.”

She sighed, then gave you the moment you needed of silence.

“He didn’t die because you subjected him to it without his consent. He died because of the horrible way he dealt with it. He died from himself. He picked that fight because he was afraid he’ll lose you. And he did the same when he actually did lose you.”

You looked up.

“It was beyond your control.”

“I could have stopped it…”

“You wouldn’t have known…”

“And that’s why I’m always going to live with it. I didn’t know. I was stupid enough to think he was strong enough to keep himself alive. I have to live with the fact that the last time I ever got to see him was in a stupid fight…”

She stood up and went to her table, grabbing a mug and filling it with water. She gave it to you, and you took it. “Thank you,” you said with your nose filled.

She took her seat. You were silent now. You were giving her a chance to speak. Hopefully to change all this.

“Sometimes, we end up losing people too soon, and we most often regret what we said, or what we didn’t say, the last time we saw them.

“But what of the last few months? You said it was perfect. The best months of your relationship. You were happy with him. And that’s months compared to the one single day you fought. Sometimes, it isn’t about where you got to in the end. It’s about how you spend most of the days you did have. And you were happy. He was happy.”

You looked up from the floor and watched her kind eyes.

“And I think your boy had many issues with himself. At home. With a dysfunctional family. It wasn’t just you, Y/N. It was everything built up. You breaking up was just a symptom of it. All you did was make his life more bearable. Better. I think he would have said that right now if he were here.”

You sipped at your water, feeling the cold pour down your throat.

Better. Sure. Like you didn’t absolutely ruin his life right after that.

-----

Then

Love was never truly something to understand.

You never understood it at all. Neither did Jason. But you both knew it was something so beautiful, something you thought you could only ever have with each other.

They said love is just a type of sanity that society accepted. And it was true. Definitely. You fell so hard for him you were borderline insane. And love made you hurt in so many ways you never thought it could. It was never something to understand. It was just something to feel.

Love isn’t about light and darkness. It isn’t about how people are compatible. It is about depth. It is infinite.

And when it destroys, it hurts more than any kind of physical hurt there was. Love destroys so much; it has ruined so much of the world. The fucking Trojan War was caused by love. And how many died from that? Thousands, not including the civilians affected in battle. All because of a woman named Helen. Men fought over her, for love. And it ended up burning cities.

It’s both a beautiful and ugly being. It is, in fact, a being. An entire entity. And it goes around, striking so many in the heart and leave them helpless beyond fix. It chooses who to hurt. Some, just one sided, and it hurts like a bitch when it does. And when they’re lucky, two people fall for each other.

And when it ends, it hurts even more.

Wrecked beds. Walls filled with fist-shaped holes. Glass broken on the floor. Sheets thrown out. Books torn. Desks almost destroyed. Clothes thrown out in piles. Chairs thrown against the wall. Shelves falling to the ground. Mirrors broken in pieces.

Jason destroyed everything in his room. And you destroyed everything in yours.

Two people with equal darkness. Equal anger. Equal demons. In so many ways, you were perfect together. In some ways, it creates the kind of chaos no one could possibly interfere with.

.

Jason grabbed his desk chair, the one he’d just bought after he destroyed the last one, and slammed it on the floor repeatedly until it was in three separate pieces. And even then, he took a piece, and slammed it again.

.

You grabbed your brush. Your pencil holders. Your books. Your bags. Your fucking laptop. And you threw everything all the way to the other side of the room. Your mother probably heard you by now. But she didn’t think to knock.

.

Jason threw the chair pieces away and started for his desk. His fist was bruised by now, but he could barely feel the pain if it was even there at all. He threw everything off the surface, started balling his fist and slammed it right against the table. Over and over. He wanted it destroyed.

.

You still felt that rage. You wanted it gone. You took your clothes, started tearing them with their bare hands, then you let your tears fall as you took everything out from your closet. Nothing. Nothing worked. It was just as strong as it had been. It was always there.

.

His phone started to ring. He didn’t care who it was. He took his phone, threw it against the wall and heard the sparks burst out of it. It fell into pieces on the ground. He went over it, stepped on it with his foot repeatedly until it was broken beyond any kind of repair.

.

Your scissors. Your fucking scissors. You took your entire fucking drawer full of scissors and started hauling them right into the wall, one by one like you would with darts. They stuck on their sharp ends. You grabbed them, threw them at the door. And when your mother walked in, dodging a pair of scissors just before it landed near her head, you screamed for her to get out.

.

Bottles. From when he drank a boatload of booze the night before. He grabbed them, started throwing them against the window. Each time he did, it created a new crack, getting larger and larger the harder he threw the bottles. Finally, the window broke, and he shivered at the new rush of cold air.

.

You wanted to punch something. Anything. You started with the pillows but the lack of pain did nothing to ease your muscles. So you went for the wall. You punched it. Repeatedly. Then your hand broke by your own strength and you screamed immensely at the pain.

.

He tore his bed. The sheets. The pillows. The whole floor was filled with feathers by now and he couldn’t care less. He ripped everything with his bare hands, threw them across the room. The mattress was all that’s left. And even then, he started to tear it open.

.

You started hearing his voice. His damned voice. The one you’d hear when he’d console you, rub your back, places kisses on your head. You cursed at that voice and screamed your heart out just to block it out. But nothing worked. It was all you heard.

.

All he could see was your beautiful, untainted face. And he desperately wanted to forget it. He wanted to forget everything about you. He saw you in the mirror. And with his fist, he slammed it until it shattered around him.

.

You still couldn’t stop hearing his voice. This time it was screaming at you for what you did. It was all over the room. Echoing so loudly within the walls of your skull. You fell to the ground and started pulling your own hair. You screamed at the pain.

.

He closed his eyes. You. you. you. It was all he saw. Your face when you’d calm him down. The look in your eyes that always made his heart melt. He stopped punching. He stopped destroying. In the middle of his wrecked room, he sat down and leaned against the foot of his bed.

.

The tears that you unknowingly held back were here. And they wouldn’t stop pouring out of you. uncontrollably. They fell. You were crying, screaming into the cold, empty air, and still, you heard his voice screaming just as painfully.

.

Jason never cried so much in his life. Not when his father left. Not when his mother died. Not when he almost dies of hunger one night in the streets. Not when he was first told he was adopted. Never. Not once did he cry. And now, his head against the mattress so torn and destroyed, he sobbed, and your face was all he saw.

.

You pressed your face against the floor. You hated him so much. You hated how he made you fall in love with him so fucking hard and leave you hurting this much. You hated how he ruined your life, changed you when you never asked to be changed. You hated how you loved him. You hated how you still did.

.

He wished he was dead. He wished everything never happened. He never should’ve picked that fight, or accepted that detention sentence in the library. He wished he never met you, never fell in love with you, never hoped for something and lose himself so far off that he’d never climb out of it.

.

The anger was all too much. You hated him, but you hated yourself even more. You hated yourself for everything that happened, how you ruined it. How you ruined him. And you hated yourself most of all, because all you could think about right at that moment was how, despite everything, you still wished he wasn’t nearly as hurt as you. You still cared so deeply for him, enough that you wished he’d be okay.

.

Jason was never going to be okay. He’ll never get out of this. He threw his head against the hard mattress and sobbed his heart out. He screamed, gripped on his hair. And he swore, with all his life, he was never going to replace you. he was never going to find anyone else that could possibly fill in the hole you left him. Let that hole be. He didn’t want himself fixed. If he were to be hurt, he only wished that it were by you.

.

You gripped on the carpet and let the burn seep through your palm. You never needed him this much before. Ever. You never yearned for his hold, for his real voice to whisper in your ear as much as you did now. You never wanted his lips on you, his hand holding you up as much as you did now. You never wanted him to hold you so tight to make you believe this couldn’t possibly be over anymore… as much as you did now. And it was. It was over. You lost him.

.

Jason lost you. Over something he could’ve easily told you a long time ago. You would have understood. You would have taken cared of him. None of this would have happened if he’d just been less of a coward. He lost you. And he was going to hate himself for that for the rest of his life.

.

You just laid there, silently on the floor, and kept the tears flowing and the cries echoing. You let the hurt fill through you, and you made sure to punish yourself by letting you feel every inch of it. You let yourself realize that you were going to have to go through the next days of your life living through his hellish nightmare.

.

Jason gripped his hair again. What the fuck was he thinking? Of course, he won't expect you to understand. Of course, he didn’t want you to get hurt like that. Subjecting you into that life, forcing you to have a partner who was putting his life out on the table every night. You didn’t deserve that pain. You didn’t deserve him. He never should have met you. He never should have let you fall in love.

.

You crawled to lean against the wall, just to have something hold the weight of your body. You never felt so heavy. And when you looked up at the ceiling, you screamed into your palms. Jason would have been worth it. He would have been worth all those reckless nights. And even if you were to lose him to that lifestyle he had, it was better than a life without him at all. A life you were going to have now.

.

Jason threw one last punch on the floor, and nothing changed. Nothing eased up. There was still that pain in his chest. He looked up the ceiling, letting himself see your face again. He let himself cry over the fact that he was never going to hold you, touch you, kiss you, ever again. You were everything to him. And you were gone. He let you go.

.

You wanted him. You loved him. You were still undeniably in love with him. And it was the most painful thing in the world knowing he wasn’t yours anymore.

.

He was always going to love you. Always. And tomorrow, he was going to have to wake up without hearing the sound of your voice.

.

You swallowed, sobbing silently into your hands. You didn’t want this anymore. You wanted to wake up with all this being a dream.

.

He needed to talk to you. just once more. He needed to hear your voice. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he shouldn’t have thrown it all away.

.

You looked at your phone. Hoping he’d call. Hoping he’d try to reach out, telling you how much of an asshole he was and that this was all going to be okay.

.

He’d broken his phone, so he rushed to his drawers, rummaged through the piles he’d thrown on the floor to find the old, broken phone he stopped using after being locked in the library with you.

.

Maybe you should call him first. Apologize. Tell him you’d willingly go through all that just as long as he was yours. But your finger was stuck hovering over the black screen.

.

He took his phone, plugged it to the wall to charge. He was shaking so hard. And the minutes felt the longest waiting for the screen to light up.

.

You turned your phone on and his face stared back at you. Your wallpaper. A picture of you and him in bed. Your faces smiling. Your lips on his cheek. Him winking at the phone. Your heart broke all over again.

.

His phone finally turned on, and he forgot his sim card was still in his other broken phone. He raced to it, his fingers trembling, and put it in his old one. Without a moment of doubt, he called you.

.

Your heart stopped when his name popped up on the screen. He was calling you.

.

You weren’t answering. Five. Ten seconds passed. Nothing.

.

You wanted to answer. But you ended up staring at your phone with your heart blowing up all the way up your throat.

.

‘Please answer. Please, Y/N. I love you.’

.

You took too long. His name disappeared. And it ended up a missed call. You dropped your phone to the ground.

.

His heart shattered at the blank, empty sound at the other end of the phone. He sobbed on the floor, clutching his phone to his chest.

.

You looked away from the screen before his picture changed your mind. His beautiful face. You made the decision. You let him go.

.

Nothing mattered anymore.

.

Everything was going to change.

.

You were gone.

.

Jason is a memory.

.

You destroyed him.

.

Jason ruined your life.

.

It’s over.

.

It was done.

----

I DON’T HATE YOU - MASTERLIST

----

  everyartistwas-firstanamateur  @sarcasmismyfirstlove @damned-queen-of-gotham @idkmanicantenglish @wunderstell @birdy-bat-riya @get-loki@everyday-imfangirling @comic-nerd-dc @multifandoms916 @icequeen208@offendedfishnoises @egdolan @xemiefx @arkhamtoddler @elsenthal@mythicbitchx @supremehaunter @ burning-alive  @lucy-roo  roseangel013bf @ loxbbg  reclusive-chicken-nuggethttp-cherries shadowsndaisiesriver9noble zphilophobiazannoylinglyaries @knightfall05x @l-horizon11

[mercuryislove]

Don’t hate me but… I kinda want you to answer all of the deep dive WIP asks 🥺 if that’s unreasonable tho, just 2, 9, and 10 please!

I am SORRY for the delay!!! i answered every question for BOTH projects so you're in for like.... several thousand words of shit that makes absolutely no sense, but i hope you you enjoy it! :)

1. Who are two characters that don't like each other? What do they reveal about each other to the readers? Will they ever learn to put aside their differences?

White Crane: okay this is hard because like. so many people do not like each other. (I know I made a post once about how terrible it would be to be one of twenty-eight people that have the power of dead gods but are trapped in stupid human bodies and you're all a thousand years old and hate each other so so so so so much because you all SUCK.) But for the sake of simplicity, I will talk about Ciaran and Sihla who never got along but only played nice to keep Anwei happy. They absolutely do NOT put aside their differences lmao once everything kind of, um, blows up between the three of them, all they want to do is KILL each other. She makes it her life's goal to make him suffer, and he basically loses his sanity in the process of trying to find a way to kill her for good. The beef is unbelievable. ANYWAY, what they reveal about each other is that Ciaran is not nearly as innocent in anything as he likes to pretend and Sihla is not as guilty as everyone says she is. I mean, she is still a terrible person in many ways, but that does not excuse the things he did to her all those years ago. She hates him for many, many good reasons.

Old Blood: Andhira HATES the entire Ekion family, but specifically the oldest son (who does not have an official name yet.... oops). He doesn't much care for her either but is usually too busy trying to better his social standing to worry too much about her. Except when they're in the same room together (which happens semi-regularly because her brother is kind of in love with him lmao). They hate each other for the exact same reason and it's that they're both SO arrogant. They look down on everyone around them (which in Andhira's case is like. fair. She's the firstborn of the two most powerful people on the planet, and the only person that comes close to that level of power is her twin brother who was born a mere fourteen minutes after her) but think the other is completely unjustified in their actions. Really all it reveals to a reader is that they both kind of suck and need to get over themselves because all that behavior does is make people resent you. They only put aside their differences because she does kind of need his help once or twice, but they would gladly spit in each other's face and/or push each other down a flight of stairs in the name of pettiness.

--

2. What do you hope your readers will take away from your wip? Is there an intentional theme to the story?

These can be answered together! I started writing these stories because I wanted to have fun but they've both kind of morphed into a long-winded way of saying that like. it's okay to be messed up and hate yourself and have major internal struggles because there are people who still love you. I KNOW it doesn't sound like that from uhhhhhh literally everything I've ever said about this stuff but bear with me. The BIG theme is that love is EVERYTHING. All kinds of love. It's the reason to keep on going. You are never alone, even strangers can love you in their own way, etc etc etc etc. Also gay love fucking prevails always and forever.

--

3. What do you love most about your protagonist?

Yixing is funny and weird and definitely a horse girl and he kind of sucks sometimes because he's stubborn as hell and has terrible people skills and maybe also a drinking problem, but he is kind and empathetic and despite the absolute hell he's lived through, he still sees the good in people and knows that it's easy to make mistakes and that most people deserve second chances in life. Also I like him because he is without a doubt the ideal man and I made him that way on purpose. And god I wish we could drink together. I'm talking stumbling drunk, crying on the bathroom floor, please-hold-my-hair-i'm-about-to-throw-up kind of drinking. We would have a great time being stupid together I think.

Vera is resilient and mean and stubborn and cold and off-putting and hard to get to know, and she sucks for those reasons but it's also why I love her so much. She has also lived through hell and it didn't make her try to see the good in people like Yixing does. It just made her bitter and resentful. She warms up over time, but she fights tooth and nail against it. I also love her so much because she is the archetype of like. the washed up former prodigy that has to return sort of against her will to her old life, and she realizes that she misses it in some ways but also remembers exactly why she left. I would Not want to drink with her (because she doesn't drink anymore), but I would love to take one of her art classes.

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4. Is there anything in the story that is implied but not directly stated? Will this become more relevant later on? How perceptive would a reader have to be to pick up on this?

White Crane: This is hard because I'm so invested in my own shit that it feels obvious to me, but I try to lay out a little candy trail that tells the reader that Ciaran and Anwei are Not What They Seem right from the start. It’s hard to explain without specific examples but it’s in the way they talk, they way they interact with other people, the way certain things they say don’t line up, etc etc etc. And there is a Big Hint of what will happen to Ciaran in the second and third installment, but idk if that counts. Also there are definitely implications that Yixing is trans but that's neither here nor there (honestly I’ve gone back and forth on whether or not he should be explicitly trans or if it should be left to reader interpretation because well... I don’t know if I'm capable of writing the nuance of transness because I'm not trans despite my complex and confusing relationship with gender but I'm also not a thirty-something year old Asian man NOR am I a god NOR am I a former vampire hunter NOR am I like. any of the things I write about other than a mean lesbian so. who knows?)

Old Blood: TRUE FANS already know this one, but regular degular readers that haven't participated in funny question friday or read my random late night posting would not immediately know that Josef and the Sovereign were once involved. Basically the only characters in the story that know are Josef, Luka, the Sovereign himself, and Tahire. But there are definitely some hints peppered throughout conversations and perhaps some photos and trinkets that Josef has kept after all this time... It has like no weight on the events of the story but I just think it's fun. Once again I am way too invested to know if it's easy to pick up on or not but I think it takes some theorizing about maybe? Other than that there aren’t any significant secrets.

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5. Which character has the most intricate backstory? Is this backstory common knowledge from the start, or is it revealed later on? How does the backstory affect the narrative?

White Crane: this is unfair because some of the characters are almost a thousand years old and some of them are like. 35. I DO have a full timeline written out of the thousand years of history that Ciaran and Anwei have lived through, if that counts as an answer. Like it doesn't have every single day and year, but it has all the big events for sure. Barring that, Yixing definitely has a pretty complex backstory. The man gets around lol and I try (and maybe fail?) to make him seem not too complex initially but then things get revealed and you learn more about him and are like “oh my god no wonder this man has Problems.” Also if he was like. “normal” and perhaps “well-adjusted” the story would not exist at all because he is the way he is and makes some of the stupid decisions he does because of his weird little life.

Old Blood: ONCE AGAIN, this is unfair because the Sovereign is like older than god. And Vera is 37. But like. I haven't fleshed him or any of the old ass vampires out nearly as much as Vera so there's your answer I guess? And I guess the important things are known from the start (that she was a prodigy, that she retired because terrible shit happened and she couldn't handle it, that she suffers from significant ptsd because of it, etc), but there is a lot of detail that doesn't come out until much later when she has to confront her Feelings (ewww feelings). Uh... the backstory affects the narrative because it wouldn't exist at all if Vera wasn't plagued by her fucked up blood nightmares lol

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6. Which two characters have the most complicated relationship? How does their relationship develop over time?

White Crane: Ciaran and Anwei totally. They love each other because they're brother and sister and were all the other had for a VERY long time (and even when they were still uh mortal, they relied on each other constantly), but also they hate each other because they're brother and sister. You know how it is with siblings. I love my brother and sister to pieces but I can't imagine being immortal and having to put up with the both of them for all eternity (sorry guys if you are reading this somehow.... I love you but we are all so annoying god bless). They handled their newfound godhood very, very, very differently and it kind of colors their relationship for the rest of time. There were times where they were extremely codependent and other times where they didn't speak to each other for DECADES. At the start of our story, they're on much better terms and have buried all their hatchets, but it doesn't take much for that to change....

Old Blood: Probably Vera and Andhira? They're only brought together because of their shared fucked up blood nightmares, and neither of them like that thought. They both resent the other for everything they are, and Vera is pretty much completely hostile to Andhira about it for a long time (and Andhira is only just barely cordial lol), but obviously a significant part of the plot revolves around them like. falling in love so they DO get over it after a while :)

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7. What is the most heart-wrenching scene in your wip? Why?

White Crane: When Yixing fucking DIES. I feel like this one should be self-explanatory. But I mean if you would like further explanation, it's unpleasant and slow and agonizing and nobody can do anything to stop it (haha....... unless?) so Ciaran gets to hold him for a long time and feel really bad about it lol

Old Blood: idk if there are any really heart-wrenching scenes but there are definitely some miserable and uncomfortable scenes like where Vera relives in vivid detail the days that she witnessed the gruesome deaths of her young apprentice and her last lover. They're upsetting because those are the two days that basically ruined her life (and one was the final straw that sent her spiraling completely out of control) and it's painful to watch her have to live with the guilt of what happened even if it wasn't her fault.

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8. What is a song that you associate with your wip? Explain.

White Crane: not to be basic but absolutely without a doubt in my stupid mind “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” by Tears for Fears lol it's because uh. well. Everybody wants to rule the world right? Basically way back in 2019 when I was crafting the ideas for the dnd campaign that became this thing instead, I was definitely having a metal gear moment (honestly I’m about to have a metal gear moment NOW lol) and was listening to a lot of like. mgs adjacent music and latched onto this song (and also promises, promises by naked eyes lmao) as some like thematic element. Like my brain making amvs. You know how it is. ANYWAY the point is. The concept was originally way different and was supposed to be more about the immediate aftermath of the so-called end of the world (yes Yixing was still there and yes he was still just some guy), and it focused a lot more on power struggles between all of these insane people that were granted godhood in the wake of the dying world. Which........ is something I'd like to write about at some point because it's intriguing in its own way but at the time I was unequipped to write about that when I really just wanted to write about people who are, for all intents and purposes, quite average getting caught up in the batshit drama of higher powers. (fun fact: Ciaran was supposed to be a tyrant king that ran a death cult and Anwei and Yixing were working together to figure out a way to kill him. Which is. Kind of what my dnd campaign is like now lol BASICALLY he's like if Big Boss was unkillable and could also rip souls out of people's bodies and eat them. I absolutely do not remember what this question originally was. Something about a song?)

Old Blood: THIS is the reason it took me so long to answer this whole thing. I thought long and hard and looked through all my playlists and listened to random songs that came to mind but it turns out the song I was looking for was right in front of me the whole time. DUH. It's “Golden Light” by Twin Shadow :) In my humble homo interpretation, I think it's a song about being afraid to fall in love and. Well. That's the whole point. Also #spoilers but the first time Vera sees Andhira and is like “oops I think I have feelings” is when they've just arrived at Andhira's home and the sun is rising and she looks over at her as they stand at the top of a hill and she has her eyes closed to the sun and she's bathed in golden light and OOUGGGGHGHHH poetic cinema. (honorable mention goes to “Groove is in the Heart” by Deee-lite because it’s quintessential early 90s music that Vera would be super into)

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9. What does your protagonist want most? What would they do to achieve this? What is something they wouldn't do to achieve this?

White Crane: Yixing wants to be happy for once. Like actually really happy instead of just. getting by. There's a scene where they're making wishes for the next seasons during the summer solstice and someone asks what he wants and he's like “uh I guess I want to still be alive at the end of the year?” and the other person is like “isn't that what everyone wants? Raise the fucking bar please. What do you REALLY want?” and he's stands there for a really long time and thinks about it before finally saying “I think I just want to be happy for once” and everyone else is like. wow. Way to kill the fucking mood dude. Anyway. He has had fleeting moments of happiness in his life but wants nothing more than to feel that way forever. It's kind of hard to say what he wouldn't do for that because like. there's not really much you CAN do in the first place, so I feel like there's even less you couldn't do. I guess he wouldn't like sell his soul to the devil or something lmao (though by being involved with Ciaran he's pretty much halfway there)

Old Blood: to be left alone. Vera just wants a normal life. She really truly does want to pretend that none of the horrible shit happened to her and that she was never a world-famous hunter. And she wants to teach art classes and live a quiet life!!! I mean, she is already mostly doing that exact thing when we first meet her, but obviously she has some hindrances (aka fucked up blood nightmares). She is begrudgingly helping Andhira because she assumes that will fix her problem and that she'll be able to get to that quiet living as soon as all is said and done. The only thing she really wouldn't do to get what she wants is like... live somewhere far away from Josef and Luka lol She likes having them close by more than she wants to be left alone.

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10. Within your story's world, were there any events that impacted every character (or most characters)? How would they be different if this event never happened? (Alternatively, erase an important even from on character's backstory and imagine where they'd be now.)

White Crane: well. If the stupid old gods didn't all kill themselves and almost end the world then I guess none of this story would exist lol But the actual answer is like. If Yixing had never run out on his girlfriend of ten years then he wouldn't have moved across the continent to Jengmi and wouldn't have made a name for himself way out there and wouldn't have been scouted and recruited and wouldn't have met Ciaran or Anwei and wouldn't have gotten in the middle of the batshit grudge between a bunch of ancient petty gay people and wouldn't have DIED and wouldn't have made one of the ancient petty gay people in particular lose his grip on his humanity via a lust for power in a desperate attempt to guarantee his safety and wouldn't have been the reason that tens of thousands of people die in his name and wouldn't have accidentally set off a chain of events that resulted in him having to hunt down and kill the Actual God that started it all in a fit of jealous rage. So like. maybe he should have just gone through with the wedding. All things considered, his life would have been way less stressful.

Old Blood: uhhh, that's tough because the stuff that happens only really has any effect on the mortal characters (I mean yeah people still try to kill the Sovereign but they're too dumb to know the ACTUAL way to kill him.... haha unless??), so it would be more like a what if Vera didn't witness the violent deaths of both her apprentice and her lover and have a full blown nervous breakdown and abandon her career? Well...... I think most things in the plot would transpire more or less the same, except she would be WAY less pissed off about it. In fact, she would probably be hyped as hell to get the chance to make the acquaintance of the Sovereign's family like Josef had before her. The thought of Vera being upbeat and not a sleep-deprived asshole that hates being dragged back to her old life..... ew. Not that I enjoy her suffering but you know what I mean. It just wouldn't be the same.

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11. What is something from your wip that you just really want to ramble about?

Are you sure you're ready for this. This is going to be so so so so long I'm sorry in advance. It's Saturday night and I'm alone and kind of sad so I'm just going to let loose.

As I hone down plot elements for next two installments in my little trilogy, I have kind of become obsessed with the passage of time and how different it must feel to someone that, well, lives forever. One of the ways I'd written (that has since been kind of changed) for Yixing to start to figure out what Ciaran really is was that he would casually be looking through his bookshelf and find an old photograph of Ciaran, Anwei, and their mom standing backstage together after one of his performances. And when he eventually asks Ciaran about it, he gets upset because how dare you touch the one thing I have left to remember my mother? To remember what my life used to be like? There are so many names and faces and places and foods and sensations that I've forgotten in the 940 years I've lived like this and I would give anything I have to see any of it just one more time because I didn't know that the last time I would ever speak to my mom we would have an argument on the phone about how I need to go to the temple and pray for good fortune on my birthday, or that the last time I would ever see my best friend would be at 6am when we both came into the studio to practice and he asked me to go out to breakfast and I said no because I thought a nap would be more important. And there are so many people that I've watched die whose names I never learned and whose faces I forgot the moment I turned away, and there are so many others that I loved so dearly that I had to leave behind because they grew old and I didn't. And I have lived lifetimes in solitude to keep myself a secret from other people and I have died more than any person should ever have to die and I have witnessed atrocities no one should ever witness and I hate everything about this life so much but I love everything about this life so much and I wouldn’t trade it for anything but I think I would give it all away in an instant if only to remember the scent of my mother's favorite perfume and I think I would give it all away in an instant if it meant I didn't have to watch you turn to dust in my arms.

ANYWAY. I think a lot about the agony of loving things that aren't permanent and how it really DOES drive you mad because lately I have been unbelievably nostalgic for certain things that weren't even that long ago but..... I didn't appreciate them at the time and I feel so guilty about it. (And like. I too would give up my entire life to be able to remember the scent of my grandmother's favorite perfume.) And all my pent-up sadness is for things that only happened in my childhood. I have pictures and videos and other people to share those memories with, but what does it feel like to be one of very few people that watched the entire world fall apart and rebuild itself and have nothing to hold onto from that time? What does it feel like to foster dozens of generations of children and outlive every single one of them? What does it feel like to have only fragments of memories of entire lifetimes? How lonely is it? I mean, Ciaran and Anwei have each other and that makes a difference but it still has to be the most isolating feeling. And then there's the pain that comes with memories that have faded or otherwise become hazy. I doubt either of them remember their father's face. They hadn't seen him in years even before it all happened. If it wasn't for that single photo he has, they wouldn't remember their mother's face either. Do they still remember her name? Or her birthday? Do they remember anyone else? Cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, coworkers? If they do, do they even want to talk about it? One thing I worry about in my own life (and this is how I know I have Problems) is that I'm so afraid that talking about memories will alter them somehow. There are so many things that I don't even like to share because once the words are spoken the little vhs tape that has all my memories has been recorded over, even if it's just by a single frame. Something about it has been changed forever each time I talk about it. Do they feel the same way and keep things to themselves instead of sharing the sadness? I think maybe they used to talk about the “old days” or whatever much more often back in the past, but as the years went by.... they just learned to keep it to themselves.

I think maybe I have a lot of anxiety about the passage of time and of being forgotten!

Anyway again. The passage of time drives me insane. And I think it would make me even more insane if I had been chosen to carry the mantle of a dead god and would live forever. My dog died a year ago and I still cry like every single day thinking about her. If I was doomed to live forever I don't know how the sadness wouldn't swallow me whole! No wonder all the people in this book are fucking CRAZY!!

And don't even get me started on the Sovereign lol he's like “oh boo-hoo you've lived for not even a thousand years? Bitch they hadn't invented fucking GLASS yet when I was born. The horse wasn't domesticated yet. Cry harder!!”

[goodgirlsfanficawards]

The theme of this WIP Wednesday is Angst! We’re kicking off with five current WIPs that will hurt your feelings. 

Three Bullets by agoodgirl

3 Aug 2020, E, 3.2K, 2/4 chapters, 41 kudos

'I'm... I'm sor-' she gets cut off by Rio turning around and giving her the look of death. He starts to walk up to her setting the paper on the table.

Now their chest are almost touching. Rio is looking down on her. His eyes were black and she missed it when he would grin at her.

She tried again. 'Rio... I'm sorry'

He sighs. 'You don't get to be sorry, Elizabeth' spitting the words with so much anger it almost made her flinch.

'It was an accident, I didn't mean for it to happen, I couldn't kill him and I especially didn't mean to shoot you, you know that'. She started to explain kepts getting closer to her. Her lower back reaches tables edge

He has her cornered. His features soften and he laughed.

'Three bullets is not an accident, leaving me to die is also not an accident, you wanted to be King right, so you killed the King'.

swear on a silver knife by ms_scarlet / @mego42​

15 Dec 2020, E, 15.6K, 1/7 chapters, 88 kudos

But apparently, Fitzpatrick had only been avoiding Beth, because here he is, in this bar, looking at her expectantly like they’d had plans to meet, and this isn’t a freak coincidence while she’s—

Beth’s entire body goes cold as the reality of the circumstances hits her, and she can practically feel the blood drain from her face. 

“Now?” she whispers, her lips numb, searching his person for anything that looks like it could be a hidden weapon, but the simple slacks, sweater, and leather jacket thrown over top give nothing away. Not that that means anything, she’s never seen evidence of a gun before Rio produced one either, and oh God—

She’s suddenly grateful for all of the practice she’s had not acknowledging the corner booth throughout the night because even though her body goes entirely rigid, it’s still all she can do to keep from checking to see if Rio’s looking. Panic and fear rise like bile in her throat as she’s suddenly seized by the completely irrational conviction that if he looks over, if he sees them, he’ll somehow know, and if he knows, then he’ll—he’ll—

He’ll what? Escape? Kill her? 

Die knowing she was behind it? Again? 

Something Wicked This Way Comes. by MoneyraindownonU

4 Oct 2020, M, 4.5K, 1/4 chapters, 185 kudos

“She’s breathing but not responsive. She's not waking up.“-

Beth's words falter as she hears a low groan again. she looks down at Annie, still clearly unresponsive. She looks back up at Ruby and clocks she has noticed it too. They’re eyes searching the dark area around them. Only lit by the  dim post light. Until they land on the biker.

He staggers standing up, holding onto his rib and leaning back against the tree. Lighting flashes bright again and Beth quickly see he's in a black long sleeve shirt  that clings to his wet body thanks to their impromptu storm that has now stopped and black jeans. He’s tall, tan and lean but muscular with short cropped hair. 

Even though the lighting illuminated their space for what feels like a millisecond it’s enough time for Beth's eyes to connect to his. And she sees how dark they are.  Pure black. Blacker than his clothes or mangled bike. Blacker than the night sky above them.

It almost takes her breath away at the cold breeze that licks at her skin but it washes away by the time the light of the bolt clears out. 

Breathing Down My Neck by vuccijl / @lilliloves​

9 May 2020, M, 9.8K, 2/? Chapters, 232 kudos

“It was me or you.” She shoots back refusing to answer his question. “You made that clear.”

”Did I?” He asks, raising both eyebrows in question. 

“I’m tired of sitting around waiting for you to kill me.” She cries in frustration. No one can make her feel this way - so off kilter, so frenzied, so unsure.

No one but him.

He reaches around the waistband of his pants and she holds her breath as he pulls out a gun. He tosses it onto the table next to him and nods in its direction.

“Do it.”

Love Despite by Briology / @itsbriology​

2 May 2020, M, 20.2K, 5/10 chapters, 293 kudos

He couldn’t fathom what her problem was. The more he thought about it though, the more he wanted, needed to know. He knew it probably had something to do with the fact that it was the first time in years that something had genuinely piqued his interest. He couldn’t remember the last time he thought about anything other than finding the bottom of a glass or end of a blunt on a late Friday night after work. 

She coos a sleeping Jane and gently packs her into the stroller, just thankful that most of the snow had been shoveled at this point and it wouldn’t be an absolute nightmare trying to get home. It broke her heart but the routine was becoming easier. Bundling Jane up until she could barely move through all the layers and then make the trek to the bus and then further trek back to her apartment became her routine. The pepper spray made her feel better about doing it in the middle of the night after her graveyard shifts but it wasn’t ideal. Doing this alone on a single paycheck wasn’t ideal. 

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