#on top of being someone who’s broad shouldered and sturdy as fuck

[fizzytoo]

how tall is adrien he just seems like he would tower over EVERYONE

he tall! he’s 6’2”/189cm 🦔

he’s like one of those big dogs that doesn’t know they’re huge. he likes the drape his entire body onto his shorter friends and act like it’s not a problem

[cosmiccandyangel]

👁🍬🕺The Rising Signs Being Eye Candy🕺🍬👁

🍬♈️🕺aries rising: LUCIOUS head of hair, the body of someone who can kick major Ass™️ , competitive yet enthusiastic nature, magnetic confidence, skilled winner with a beaming smile on their face

🍭♉️🕺taurus rising: voice of an absolute angel, a breath of fresh air, the finest taste in all the things, broad shoulders that make for a natural born cuddler, a body SO fkn good for HUGGIN

🍬♊️🕺gemini rising: impressive puzzle solver, intoxicating wit and sense of humor, strong arms and nervous system, able to swoop anybody up and carry them to a utopia

🍭♋️🕺cancer rising: softest belly for top notch belly rubs, boobies that make the best pillows, a nurturing aura and warmest gaze to ever peer into your soul

🍬♌️🕺leo rising: a live performer wherever they go, glowing heart and distracting attire, ballin like a ballerina, their posse is their prized accessory

🍭♍️🕺virgo rising: CLEAN N PRISTINE🧼, healthy and wealthy, dainty or built like a luxury vehicle, washboard abs of steel, perfect and sparkly on the surface

🍬♎️🕺libra rising: angels begin to sing at the batting of their eyelashes, natural good luck charms, can carry the whole world on their back like a god/dess, hypnotizing lil social butterflies

🍭♏️🕺scorpio rising: eyes are equipped with laser beams, sleek n mysteriously sexy, powerfully alluring aura, secret tattoos, PACKIN HEAT in the pants ;)

🍬♐️🕺sagittarius rising: probably has an absolute dump truck🍑, a body built for running on a whim, playful and active, a scalding burst of euphoria upon a first glance

🍭♑️🕺capricorn rising: sturdy and NOT to be fucked with, the mullets of the zodiac; business in the front, party in the back, strong bones to possibly bludgeon anything in their way, feels like it costs a lot of money to hang out with them

🍬♒️🕺aquarius rising: flexible lil aliens, possibly a yoga master, eyes that have seen too much paranormal shit, someone who feels like they’re always on the outside looking in, quirky cuties

🍭♓️🕺pisces rising: giant kaleidoscope eyes, delusional yet contagious laughter, absolute dream woman/man/Being, an intense chameleon-like aura(where did they come from, where did they go? 👀)

[whosjunglejim4322]

Warnings: SMUT, husbandau!, aged up Johnny (by a little, he's around 32), sex without a condom, he fucks you back to sleep

You're usually not one to wake so easily. Well, truthfully, it's just your willpower in allowing yourself to be released from the peace of slumber that's weak. However, your body seems to know exactly what it wants before your mind does.

You're a little vexed to be pulled from your dream by the throbbing between your legs, the content in said dream being the cause for it. You can feel the slight slickness of arousal as you rub your thighs together underneath the comforter.

Instinctually, you reach over your husbands side, only to find an empty space where he'd usually be lying. Mouth agape, hair a messy halo around his peaceful, enchanting face, and all yours to rub up against and hopefully rouse.

You're a little upset, admittedly. Not at him, it's quite the normal occurrence for him to get up in the middle of the night to do some reading when he can't sleep; you just wish that you weren't so needy and desperate to feel the warmth of his palms against your skin. You wish your dream would have let him continue touching you, if waking up to his absence was the ladder.

Even so, not even your dreams can do him justice.

You begrudgingly pull yourself from the warmth of the bed, the floor cold against your bare feet as you walk to the door, and out the room. It's not hard to scout him from the top of the staircase, sat in his usual spot on the far right corner of the couch, a book perched between his long fingers.

He doesn't notice you at first as you descend towards him, too engrossed in his novel, black rimmed glasses perched on the elegant bridge of his nose. 

You really are sort of sad for the people who might not ever get to see him like this, bare faced and still heartwrenchingy beautiful in a loose tee shirt and sweats fit for bed. He makes your chest unbearably warm.

"I'm coming to sit on your lap." Your voice is quiet enough to not startle him completely, being any louder would be unnecessary anyways since it's just the two of you.

A warm smile tugs at the corner of his heart shaped lips, his adoring eyes finding yours in the dim light of the livingroom. He corners his page and leans over to place it on the coffee table, before opening his wide arms in a welcoming manner.

"What woke you, sweetheart?" He presses a kiss to the crown of your head as you settle against his sturdy frame, knees locked on either side of his hips, hands warm between the broad plane of his back and the cushions that he's reclined against.

"Mm, a dream." He feels you smile against his neck, and suddenly realizes exactly what type of dream it was, as your lips place a deliberate kiss to the soft skin just under his ear. He'd be able to guess your advances under any circumstances.

Still, he decides to feign obliviousness, the timbre of his voice sending vibrations through your chest as he speaks.

"Oh really? What kind of dream was it," His hands, wide and fever inducing, rub your back, up and down. "was it a nightmare?"

You shake your head, the tip of your nose gliding against the sharp edge of his jaw, absentmindedly admiring his familiar, redolent scent.

"It was a good dream, too good." His resolve to be teasingly indifferent begins to crumble when you wiggle your hips against his crotch like that, your underwear leaving such a thin layer between your pussy, and his dick that sits freely underneath his pajama bottoms; half hard and twitching.

His hands venture lower so he can cup the softness of your bum, a shiver of excitement slithering up your spine and raising the hairs on the back of your neck. Your body and senses alike will never not respond to him.

"Well, tell me what happened baby," You let out a gasp against his throat as he guides your hips to rut against him, spurring you on with a voice that is almost akin to a purr. "I bet it had something to do with us, hmm?"

All you can do is hum, too easily enthralled by the feel of his length and the friction the cloth covering it provides for your clit. It's still an overwhelming thing, knowing he's yours, completely. It's been two years since getting married, and you're almost positive it'll always be this all consuming.

He knows you so well too, content with taking influence over the situation. After all, it's one of his favorite things; to have you in such an intimate way, to love you in all the ways he knows will have you putty in his hands.

"Let's see..." He begins, pushing his hips up against you in a manner that is too slow, and too light for your liking. "did I have my mouth on you? Was I making you feel good with my tongue?"

Heat fills your belly, thighs trembling slightly. Your soft whimper is melodic in his ear, your face nuzzled against his neck. He shivers.

"Or maybe, hmm...maybe I was fucking you," He doesn't give you time to asnwer his questions nor does he speak as if he is demanding one. He's taking his time, working you up.

"I'll bet I was holding you just like this, huh baby? Bet I was making you cry over my cock."

Your body lurches from the surge of arousal that shoots through you like a lighting bolt, piercing all other senses and forcing you to whine out into the quiet room. The rise and fall of his chest accelerates.

"Please, will you fuck me?" Your fingers are grasping the front of his shirt, head moving from the juncture of his neck to his face, the puffs of air from his plush mouth, warm against your lips.

He cups your face, not needing to strain his eyes in the dark room to already know your eyes are pleading. He feels it in the way you quiver against him, too.

"Of course, whatever you want." He smiles into the kiss, expecting it, awaiting it eagerly.

Your arms settle around his neck, fingers carding through the soft hairs at his nape that are a little bit longer than usual since he hasn't been able to get a haircut. You say it makes him look pretty, so he's okay with it.

He senses your urgency when your tongue slips into his mouth. He responds quickly by skimming past it with his own, skillful fingers moving between your bodies to pull his length from his sweats.

He's properly hard now, twitching. It's no surprise, he's always been weak for you. Too weak, he finds it embarrassing, but he wouldn't change a thing. There's no one he'd rather be a fool for.

You suck in a breath when you feel him pulling your panties to the side, your mouths parting for just a moment as your foreheads rest against eachother. He feels your jaw go a little slack in the way it always does when he first slides it in, and he bites down on his lip.

When you sink all the way down, backs of your thighs pressed to the top of his, he lets out a satisfied sigh, clinging onto you tighter with arms that encapsulate you like a boa.

You're thankful he takes care of you, his long legs give him leverage and allowing him to thrust into you from the bottom as you grind down onto him with a shared rythym. Your soft whines in his ear have him groaning.

"O-oh John." Your cheek rests against his shoulder, hands slipping underneath his shirt and settling on his trim waist. His skin is so warm underneath your fingers, muscles bulging from underneath the smooth surface as he works.

"Feels good baby?" His voice falters just for a second, your use of his formal name still sending throbs of warmth through his veins even after several years. Such a simple notion, so powerful when it's passing your lips.

And of course you've taken note of this, expecting the sudden and momentary fervour of his hips as they buck up into you, jolting you both as you cling to him.

You cry out, practically buried in his chest. You can smell the soap from his earlier shower clinging to his skin, the scent of the dryer sheets you used in the laundry on his soft tee shirt. Little things.

"Feels s-so good, your dick is so good." You might be slightly incoherent to anyone else, voice hiccupy through his thrusts as he hits such a sweet spot inside of you, you squeeze around him.

"I know sweetheart, you take it so well, so so well," his tone is a bit rougher now, you can tell by the sloppiness of his thrusts that he's close. But he'd never allow himself to finish first when he knows you need him so badly, woke up just to come find him.

"My sweet sweet girl, want you to cum all over me." He can feel you flutter around him, the sound of your wetness leaving an ache in his belly.

You kiss him, hard, and for a moment all you know is him. The slip of his tongue in your mouth, his nose pressed against yours, eyelashes tickling your cheek. For a moment it is as if your body never got used to being in the arms of someone so incredible.

You rock your hips against him, suckling his kiss bitten bottom lip as his cock throbs inside of you. At this point you'd never be able to wear a condom with him unless absolutely necessary, too used the feeling every vein and ridge of his thick length, the way it pulses when you say his name.

He's perfect for you, hits every spot like he's got you mapped out. His hands, big and warm come to grip your hips to help you fuck him, feeling your fatigue from the pleasure and lack of sleep alike.

"Cum for me baby, come on." He coos, kissing your neck so sweetly, in a way that makes your belly swarm with butterflies. Your clit rubbing against the area just below his navel as you grind on him combined with the warm plushness of his lips against your throat, has you meeting your end.

He holds you tightly, tighter than he has the whole night as you writhe in his inescapable arms, gasping out whines against the crook of his shoulder as you leak onto his cock. He feels the stickiness smeared on his thighs, and knows it's only gonna get messier.

He doesn't mind, not one bit, not when he can picture your expression so vividly in his head; eyebrows pulled together, eyes glossy and lips swollen. You're so beautiful, too beautiful, too overwhelming.

"O-Oh baby, you're so fucking-fuck, I'm close I'm so close." He's lost now, lost in the bliss just like you are. He's pumping into your sopping entrance, the glide effortless with the abundance of your release.

"M'gonna- oh shit I'm cumming I'm cumming."

His voice is cut off by a sound so sweet you feel your lower belly swirling with a fresh wave of arousal despite your fucked out state, panting against him while he throws his head back and groans your name.

You pepper kisses along his smooth skin as he twitches, the base of his throat, over his adams apple and just under his chin. He jerks lightly as he stills inside of you, cum surely to be coating his entire length by the time he pulls out.

You're spent, still you search for his lips, missing and accidentally kissing his soft cheek before he turns his head to meet you halfway.

Your heart soars in your chest, he smiles against you and rubs your thighs soothingly, as you find your rightful place under his chin and tucked against him, your safe place.

He smiles to himself, stroking your skin.

"I love you." He states is earnestly, steadily despite his heart beat that still thunders. You're vaguely aware of the rumble in his chest as he speaks, but you're not sure if you're dreaming or not.

He looks down, and you're already asleep.

"Alright, let's get you to bed."

[secondhand-trash]

If I Only Knew Your Name

A/N: so this was an idea I got while mindlessly picking songs to listen to on Spotify’s Indie rock playlist and came across this one song that just made me want to write something about it hehe accidentally put this aside for a whole month but I’m so glad that it’s here now lmao I had a lot of fun writing this

Pairing: Miya Atsumu x reader

Description: After a drunken night of passion, Atsumu had nothing he could find you with, not even your name. So he took the matter into his own hands and tried to search for you using the power of the internet.

Warning: drunken one night stand, suggestive descriptions, Atsumu is an embarrassment and I sure hope you cringe while you read it as much as I did when I was writing it

Word count: 9453

The song:

Young Love (feat. Laura Marling)//Mystery Jets, Laura Merling

-

One night of love

Nothing more nothing less

One night of love

Had left my heart in a mess

-

You woke up with a sharp pain spiking down your back, in a room you were sure you had never been to, on a bed that wasn’t yours.

Your head was heavy and every cell in your body screaming that you just wanted to fall asleep again when you stirred awake. You would have, had it not been the fact that you were not in your own room slowly started to settle in. There was a brief moment of blankness in your mind as you took in your surroundings. The room was still dim, the sun barely shining through the windows that were half covered by the shades. The domestic messiness crossed out the possibility that you were in a hotel room or some odd space behind the club you clearly remembered being at last night. 

You did not move as your eyes glanced around the space. Trophies and picture frames were lining up on the shelf at the corner, all of names and faces you couldn’t match up with any of the ones that you remembered. The linen covers you were sitting under was sturdy on your skin, a dark red on top of brown sheets that you would have never bought for your mattress. The scent of the fabric was foreign to you, making your morning state of mind more and more alarmed at the amount of information you were trying to take in. You had to admit that it was very soft on the skin, not the slightest bit uncomfortable as it rubbed against your bare arm when the duvet fell off of your body as you sat up.

You felt a moment of frantic terror at the registration of your own bareness, with your legs feeling terribly cramped, waking up on a bed that you did not remember getting into.

Everything clicked when you stiffly turned to your side, and found someone laying next to you.

The broad back facing your side had you clutching the sheets up to cover your torso that now felt chilly with the lack of layers. The man, whose name you did not think you know and what you had done with him last night you could not remember but was certainly able to guess, was still soundly in his sleep. Now that you were painstakingly unable to ignore his presence, you picked up on the soft snores that lingered in the air, making your legs that were rubbing against each other under what you could only assume to be his spreads tense up as the picture of what happened to get you right where you were slowly got clear. 

You would prefer not to think about it in detail, albeit the fact that it getting vivid in your mind sent a trail of heat from your core right onto your face and burning out the fuse in your head.

There was a slither of shame and guilt as you found yourself staring hazily at the man, his sculpted back spasming with each breath. Your hand gripping at the sheets in front of your chest only served to pull it further down his torso, revealing the dip at his waist and his arms that curled tighter against his body with a shiver. Blonde hair sprawled out messily on the pillow, and you felt chills creeping up your spine at the recoil of your fingers fisting those locks and brushing against the fuzzy patch of his undercut as he hovered above you.

Panting, grunting, moaning.

Your skin burnt up at the lingering feeling of a firm grip on your legs, the warm trail of his lips down your neck, and the unmistakable dullness between your thighs.

The heat settled into the pit of your stomach as a weight, twisting your guts until it resembled what felt like a bitter mix of shame and guilt.

Fuck, you slept with an absolute stranger last night.

You bite back a groan, slamming your hands against your face before letting them run down in a weak attempt to clear your head.

This was why you never go to clubs anymore.

The jolt of your body as you sat up straight pushed the sheets off of you and you winced at the soft whimper from the person next to you at the sudden movement. Your naked state was simply uncomfortable, not feeling like you were in your own skin at all as ironic as this was. You couldn’t help but hug your arms around your frame as you frantically looked around to see where your clothes and belongings were, letting out a relieved sigh when you saw the clothes you wore last night littering across the floor in all its messy glory. 

Your clothes were all wrinkled up from the careless placement, a clear display of the passion and impulse when they were being taken off. Your hands were the same kind of frantic as you rushed to put everything back on, not caring about tugging them in properly or the fact that you did not even look into a mirror at all to see if you were at least presentable. 

You did not hear the groan from the man that tossed over to his side on the bed as you slipped out of the bedroom, careful in softening your steps as you let the door clicked and darting your eyes around to see where the rest of your things were.

If you remembered correctly from the weak reconstruction of what happened last night, then your clutch should be somewhere near the door.

The giggle that slipped past your lips as he swung the door shut turned into a laugh when he latched onto you immediately. You could taste the hint of vodka lingering on his lips, bundling up your senses together with the warm breaths against your neck when he trailed down. It was like floating on a cloud, the way you latched yourself on this handsome man and he seemed to be unable to get enough of you. You barely heard the thump of what you were holding in your hand landing on the floor as your limbs went weak, swinging your arms around his broad shoulders when your mouth fell agape as he sucked down on the soft spot right on your neck.

It was right where you left it last night, the one and only clutch that you felt was suitable for you to bring to a club. There was a hint of hesitation as you rushed to pick it up, holding it in your hand when you thought of the person who you had left on the bed by himself.

What do people do after a one night stand? Talk? Have breakfast together? Or in your case, ask them for their name because you did not remember one thing that happened before you stepped into these doors?

Dear god, no.

So you did the only logical thing you could think of, and rushed out of the door without even looking back.

It wasn’t until you were far away from the apartment building you ran out of, the weight of your body shifting from leg to leg as you waited for the train to slowly drive into the station that something did not feel right to you. Your fingers fidgeted in reflex as you shoved yourself past the small gap between each person stuffed into the cart, a bad habit you had formed as a kid when you were nervous.

Your heart fell into the pit of your stomach when the lack of metal brushing against the tip of your finger finally clicked in your head.

You cussed under your breath, knowing exactly where the thin, gold band must be.

-

Miya Atsumu woke up with a pounding headache, in his own apartment that he forgot how he got back to, on his bed that somehow felt emptier than usual.

At first, all he could focus on was the clear hungover that he was suffering from. His tongue felt dry and he scrunched his face up at the bitterness as he tried to gulp. The half-drawn curtains were not doing it in shielding the sun that already came out, making him squeeze his eyes tight and blinked a few times before finally adjusting to the brightness. Stretching out on the bed, Atsumu whined at the soreness pulling at his muscles, feeling his joints pop as he arched his back and sprawled over to the other side of the bed.

He froze in place, arms still spread over his head and legs bundling up the sheets, before jolting up in one rapid movement only to wince at the horrible spinning in his head at the rush of blood up to his already heavy head.

Yet, dizziness and all that, Atsumu was sure that the feeling of someone being here with him last night definitely wasn’t just a drunkness induced illusion.

He groaned at the untimely pang of pain that pulsed at his temple, ruffling his hands through the locks of his hair that was tangled up from him tossing around the bed. The slight pull at his scalp at his impatient detangling method made him hiss, but it also served to get his wires just a little more sorted out than before. 

First things first, he was very naked and combining that with the certainty that he must have had someone over, it wasn’t very hard for him to connect the dots. He ran his palm over the ruffled sheets, smoothing out the wrinkles and searched if there was still any hint of warmth left on the fabric. He cursed under his breath when nothing else but coolness met his skin, scolding himself for acting like a fool over some one night stand that did not even wait until he woke up to leave.

There was a lump at the back of his throat as he stayed there, holding onto the hovering position he took on the bed without a single thought.

He snapped out of it when he realised that he was in his own space, just staying still and letting time passed without doing anything. Atsumu had a strong feeling that if he stayed in bed any longer then he would just be miserable for the rest of the day and he really couldn’t afford it if he couldn’t manage to get over himself soon enough. 

For all that it was, there was no bigger asset to his career than this very body that he felt like trash in right now, and god knows how much trouble he would get if people learnt that he let his performance slip because he couldn’t bounce back after a drunken hookup.

His steps were floaty as he climbed off his bed, stumbling into the bathroom and harshly gripping at the faucet. The water streamed out as a strong current and he splashed it against his face in a sadistic force. The coldness was stinging his skin, with no help from the way he rubbed his hands down his face and back up his chin.

He looked terrible, Atsumu thought to himself when he stared at the reflection in front of him. His eyelids were pulled taut with his hand, cheeks squished under his palm before he pulled away meanly. Bloodshot eyes made him wince and his face was so dropsy it looked like he had cried himself to sleep.

A loud slap echoed in the empty bathroom when he clasped his face a bit too hard in a desperate attempt to clear his head. He whined, rubbing the area that went numb and then heated up. There was a slight flush around the area he had slapped down, but he was feeling more in touch with reality afterwards.

Alright, so what happened last night?

It would be a lie if Miya Atsumu said he had never had one night stands. He would argue that he never go out with the intention for one, but sometimes one thing leads to another and it just happens. Some were good, some not really, some he hadn’t really think of until now when he was desperately thinking of what it was that led him to now. 

He hadn’t wakened up with a hungover this bad in a long while. Being in a profession that demands that much of your physiques meant that there was not much room for the more self-destructive type of letting loose. It was strange, Atsumu pinched the center of his brows as one hand on the kitchen counter held his body still, he didn’t quite remember the deeds of what was happened once the door to his room was closed last night.

Wow, he looked up with eyes widened and huffed at no one, that was such a douchebag thing to say.

He, however, remembered the person that stumbled through the door with him in shocking vividness to even his surprise.

He would have to pretend that the lack of follow up did not send a blow to his ego, reassuring himself that there was no way it was because he behaved terribly that the person had to run off before he even woke up. He was bitter about the fact that they had left without leaving even a note, something he had no idea he cared about at all until this very moment when the silence of his home became just short of irritating in his pounding head. 

Could have at least said ‘I had fun last night but I gotta go’.

Atsumu rubbed his temple, slowly rotating his arms backwards to get rid of that dull cramp.

Or maybe leave their number somewhere too.

He paused in his track, standing awkwardly in the middle of his tiny living room.

Did he want their number?

He shook his head violently to rid of the meaningless thought, an act he would immediately regret when he remembered that he was having a hungover as the dizziness made him stumble on his feet. 

A crisp clang after he took a fumbled step to steady himself quieted all of the voices in his head. That was not a sound that aligned with what his brain expected from his worn-out room slippers kicking against the wooden floor. Atsumu held his head as the rang of what sounded like something metallic registered itself in his mind, blinking at the empty space right in front of his feet.

His eyes darted around the floor, searching for whatever it was he must have stepped on to make that sound. Atsumu was ready to settle for the possibility that he was starting to hear things when a quick flash of light from the corner caught his attention. He walked towards where it was, and slowly crouched down.

It was a ring, a very tiny one. It looked rather ridiculous being held between his calloused fingers, the thin golden band arching off the afternoon light that had shined on it. A very simple design with no gems or carvings along the surface, something very much so the opposite to his taste. He knew it was not his, from the size to the tone to the lack of anything all over its rim.

And then he remembered the first time he saw the ring, on someone else’s finger, just last night.

-

Atsumu would not classify himself as a party animal, despite the common speculation shared by people who knew him but not well enough. He could deal with house parties just fine, but clubbing had never been much of his thing ever since he woke up outside the back of a night club once with the worst ring in his ear he had ever experienced. 

If it wasn’t part of his job, he would much rather be anywhere else than this overly opulent club that his team’s sponsor had booked up for their event. But business was business, and if he wanted to keep having his own room in away games then this was the price he had to pay.

Was it a nice club? He couldn’t say, but it sure was an expensive one if he was to make a guess based on the decor. So expensive that it was a bit tacky, if he dares to say. It was like the owner wanted to remind you that this was high-end and decadent. Imagine what you would see in a basic mansion on a real estate agent’s website, then dim it up and add many hi-fis, what you would result with was likely close if not identical to the space he was in. It was loud and hard to escape from, his ear pounding together with the baseline every time it blasted through He would never quite understand rich people, he thought to himself as he took a sip of his drink and scrunched his eyebrows together. He forced down the urge to poke his tongue out at the obvious taste of syrup, trying to pass it off with a cough into his fist as he plopped down on the barstool. 

“How’s your drink?”

The smooth voice reaching into his ear was mismatched to the booming club he was in. Atsumu turned his stool to the side with a push with the heel of his uncomfortable leather shoes and was met with an entertained gaze. You sat with both feet on the footrest of the stool, a posture that seemed rather childish for the night club bar you sat in front of. With your bare forearms lazily placed at the edge of the bar table, your finger tapped casually against the rim of your cocktail glass, the pink liquid inside looking like it was glowing under the neon lights. He could not map out your features too clearly but your head tilted as you looked at him through narrowed eyes, a glimmer behind your lashes from the many lights that hung above your head. 

Miya Atsumu was an adult now and in his adult mind, he knew that the proper answer he should give to a stranger asking about the sugary mixture he just poured down his throat was that it tasted decent, expensive even, like the club he was sitting in now.

“It’s kinda shit,” he felt a strange swell in his chest when you let out an unfiltered snort at his answer, leaning back with his arms folded in front of his chest as he licked his lips, “yours?”

You lifted up the glass and necked down the rest of the coloured water, smacking your lips as the sweetness spread in your mouth. “Like the type of stuff they mark up and sell to high schoolers who couldn’t buy real alcohol.”

The bartender at the side threw you two a sharp look and you two sat up straighter, before bursting into a fit of laughter. He supposed you had to be tipsy at the very least and probably so was he, what sober person giggled like a child over trash talking overpriced liquor at a bar? “Why are you here at this trashy place?” you asked, now resting your chin on your palm with your elbow propping you up.

You did not know him, Atsumu was almost delighted by the fact that you likely just struck a conversation with him because he was another bored person trying to escape to the sidelines of dancing bodies just like you with no other intentions. “Got an invite and couldn’t say no because of work reasons,” he wasn’t exactly lying, he just didn’t say that he was supposed to be one of the main guests of this function.

“Ooo...” you let out a soft whistle, tilting your upper body forward him, “are you a big shot?”

He smirked.

Yes. “Not entirely.”

“Hm...” you sat back, your smile pursed as you tapped your finger on the table, “not denying it, huh?”

The vibration of your hum sent shivers to his spine and he blamed it on the very spiked drink he just gulped down. Atsumu ran his hand through his hair, a move he discovered in his teenage years that could let him smoothly fixed his hair while also flexing his arm. “I try to stay humble,” he replied, earning him a playful eye roll from you.

The melting ice clinked in the glass when he held it up against his lips, still looking at you from the corner of his eyes as he tilted it and let the pungent liquid run down his throat. 

You nodded, returning to the laid back posture you kept before he sat down next to you at the dim corner of the bar table when you realised he wasn’t going to say more. “Fair enough,” you pretended to sound disappointed, holding your hand out in front of you to swiftly turn your attention away.

“You?”

“Got dragged here by a friend who works for the organiser,” you huffed, “don’t even know anyone here besides from them.”

Atsumu felt the warm buzz of the liquor spreading from his stomach to the rest of his body, settling onto his face as a tipsy fever. He did not look away from you and he was sure it was exactly what you wanted, mindlessly toying with your hand as you faced away from him. Your shoulders pulled back as you slid the thin ring off your index finger smoothly with your thumb, twisting it with the tips of your fingers before letting it fell down another one, all while pushing your hips back against the stool as you crossed your legs.

“Nice ring,” he tipped his chin slightly.

“Oh, this one,” you held your hand out to him, spreading your fingers apart to show him. You pulled back just slightly when he reached out, grinning teasingly at him when he quirked his brow up.

“my grandma gave it to me before she passed away,” you sighed, caressing the band that sat on your finger dreamily, “shoved it into my hand on her death bed and made me swore to never lose it, said it was given to her by her first love when she was a girl.”

“Oh,” Atsumu let out a soft gasp, “oh wow, I-”

He rolled his eyes when you broke out into laughter, the longing expression all gone from your face as you let out a hiccup through your giggling. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

He clicked his tongue, letting out a huff, “Lying isn’t good.”

“Neither is talking to a stranger at a club but I’m still here,” you wet your lips as you flashed a childish smirk, showing him your hand again. He was certain that he was drunk now, because there was no other way he could excuse the pounding in his chest when you didn’t pull away this time as he reached out to hold your hand for a better look.

“I got this as a pack of 5 for 800 yen online,” you said proudly, “quite the deal, if you ask me.”

He hummed in approval, letting out a shaky breath when you slowly pulled your hand out of his grip, the tip of your finger ticking the center of his palm before you lifted it away. It sent electricity trickling down his spine, the feeling of your touch lingering on his skin even as you were steps away from him again, once again staring at him with a smile tugging on your face like you were waiting for his move.

Was it a challenge or was it an invite? Either way, he was ready to take on whatever you were offering.

“You still owe me some sort of compensation for toying with my poor heart like that,” he mused, mimicking the way you leaned towards him from before.

You sniggered, “And what do you want from a poor stranger like me?”

The music playing through the speakers stopped temporarily and for a moment, the projected light illuminated his figure briefly before moving to another spot. You had not taken a good look at him until now, knowing full well that the attractiveness of anyone under the pink, dim glow of the bar was not to be trusted.

But he was really, really good-looking, even when you could actually see his face properly. 

The next song started playing and the party people on the dance floor cheered. The loudness that returned made your head ache and you scrunched your nose in annoyance as the dj yelled into the mic. Atsumu threw his head back as the music returned, tapping his finger against his jaw.

“How about,” he said, knowing that you and he were likely to be on the same page, “you make it up to me by letting me buy you a drink somewhere where the drinks aren’t shit?”

You chuckled at his unfiltered suggestion, your laughter slurring into a hum as you grabbed your clutch by the side of the bar. “I can make up to you,” you asked as you stood up, tilting your head to your side, “by letting you pay for me?” 

He nodded, smoothing out his shirt as he got up from his stool too. 

You shrugged, pressing your palm to your face to let the coldness of your hand calm down the heat on your face as you grinned.

“Take me somewhere nice then, big shot.”

Even through his tipsy haze, Atsumu was sure that this was the most irrational thing he had done in a while but as you took his arm while he pulled you through the crowd and out in the open after being stuck in the same space with many drunk and sweaty bodies afterwards, he was quite certain that he couldn’t care less whether this was stupid or not.

If he had any regrets about it, he would just blame it on the alcohol.

-

Now that he was staring at a fake gold ring you got as a pack of 5 for not even a thousand yen, Atsumu could only tear at his own hair in regret when he realised that he didn’t ask for your name or contact at any point during which you went from the first bar to one he actually liked, then to many other because there was no way he would get this drunk after just two drinks, and finally stumbled through the door of his own house, before you disappeared as if you had never been there at all.

It was all the alcohol’s fault, fuck alcohol.

It was not his first time taking a near-stranger home and even though he wouldn’t want to say it out loud to people, he also couldn’t guarantee that this was the last time either. He should just forget about it and move on with his day, maybe make some tea, maybe get some soup to cure this heaviness in his head so he wouldn’t make it too obvious that he hadn’t been taking care of himself the way he really should. After all, there was really nothing he could do about it since he didn’t know anything about you other than what you looked like and that you wore cheap jewelry. But it left a strange tightness in his chest when he toyed with the gold ring in his hand, knowing full well that drunk or not he did enjoy his time with you even before it really got to the fun fun part.

He really should have just asked for your name like a normal person instead of trying to look cool and mysterious the moment you talked to him at the bar.

Miya Atsumu let out a sigh no one was there to hear as he slowly accepted the fact that not only was he hungover, he was also hung up, and put the only evidence he had of you ever being there with him into the key tray by his door.

He would figure out what to do with it later but for now, he was starving. 

So Atsumu set off for the only one place he could think of that couldn’t kick him out no matter how annoying of a customer he was.

“Say, Samu...” 

Miya Osamu sighed, putting the plate he was drying at the side and let the damped towel fell from his hand onto the side of the sink. His twin had finished his food a long while ago yet he was refusing to leave, planting his face down at his counter like a pile of mush as he took up the precious space of Onigiri Miya’s bar seat. Osamu liked to think that he was a supportive brother , by all means. He fed Atsumu, listened to his childish whines and didn’t kick him out when he started getting so loud that the other patrons sent him a worried glance. Maybe he should have pretended that he was about to head out for errands when he saw his twin marching in, slumping down on the stool like he owned the place (Miya Atsumu claimed that he had unlimited access by relation, Miya Osamu denied it with his life and told all his employees to just kick his twin out if he said that bullshit to them).

He was so nice, Osamu thought to himself, he was far too nice.

“What is it?” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest when he heard Atsumu’s muffled voice.

“Do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone without knowing their name?”

Oh god, what was he up to again?

“Depends,” Osamu snorted, picking his towel again when he realised that it was nothing too serious that he should stop his work to listen to, “if it happens to someone else, then sure, maybe, everything is possible. But if you're telling me that you think you’re in love with someone you don’t know,” he paused, before breaking into a wide grin, “I think I might laugh.”

“Hey!” Atsumu yelled, his fist slamming on the counter as he snapped his head up. The bang caught the attention of several other customers at the shop and Osamu sent them an apologetic bow before glaring at Atsumu who was rubbing his aching hand for slapping it against the wooden surface. “I’m being serious,” he muttered.

“Alright then,” Osamu nodded absent-mindedly, "so what are you going to do about it?”

Atsumu’s raised hand froze in the air before he slowly, robotically put it down, down, down until it was back on the counter together with the rest of his upper body.

Osamu’s nodding got firmer now, letting out yet another snigger, “Thought so.”

Atsumu let out a groan, deflating onto the counter more and more with each whine. He looked sad and pathetic, even more so than he usually was and even Osamu who was born immune to whatever teary rent he put on was starting to get concerned.

“Was the sex really that good?”

“it is not about the sex,” Atsumu mumbled, leaning his chin on top of his folded arms as he sighed, “I just... think we had a connection.”

Osamu laughed, the ugly kind, and earned himself a sharp glare. “A connection, huh?” he giggled, “you’re down bad.”

“It’s not funny...”

Hiccuping as he tried to calm himself down, Osamu placed a hand onto the kitchen counter to steady himself as his body vibrated. 

“I still think you’re overreacting,” Osamu took in a deep breath, catching up after finally regaining his posture, “besides, you’re technically a public figure, right? If you can’t find them, why don’t you just try and get them to find you instead?”

Atsumu’s hiss about how he wasn’t overreacting stuck at the back of his throat when paused and thought of what Osamu had suggested.

“Huh,” he sat up a little straighter, eyes rolling inside of their sockets as he pondered, “that’s actually not a bad idea.”

"Of course it’s not,” Osamu huffed, “I’m the smart twin.”

“What did you just-”

Osamu ignored Atsumu’s glare, turning around to resume his work now that he seemed to have fulfilled his responsibility as a brilliant, amazing brother. He gave it a month, no, two weeks max before his brother forgot all about this person and moved on as if Atsumu had never shown up in front of his door with puffy eyes and a love-sick expression. 

Oh, he just couldn’t wait to hear all the excuses and denial when he brought it up again the next time they get into a petty argument.

-

It was a terrible idea.

The Inarizaki volleyball alumni group chat exploded when the first post of what would be many to come was published for the world to see. Suna Rintarou, always so quick with capturing his old teammates embarrassing moments, kicked Atsumu out before he sent out links, screenshots, and pinged every single member of the group who did not read his message immediately. Miya Osamu refused to speak up about it, keep denying that he knew anything about it.

“I do not know this person,” his fingers hurt from how fast he was typing, not even bothering to correct the typos in his message before hitting send to clear his name, “I have no idea what has gotten into him but I’m not responsible for it.”

He was, in fact, telling the truth. Osamu was just as shocked and wide-eyed as everyone else was when he came across his twin’s post on Instagram as he scrolled through his feed mindlessly after work. Let us just say that all his sleepiness was gone when he saw his twin’s pretentious selfie of him standing in front of a window (shirtless), his hand holding onto the frame as he looked out into the grey sky. The posture was optimal for him to flex his back, letting the light seeping out around his frame do the trick of accentuating his muscles. Atsumu’s face was not entirely in the frame but Osamu did not need to see to know that he had his eyebrows furrowed, his gaze lowered into a look that was supposed to convey the message of “wow look at me, I’m so sad, and I’m also hot”.

Miya Osamu felt a metallic ting in his mouth when he imagined Atsumu’s face, so heart-wrenchingly similar to his own, making that look.

He got spammed by the group chat as soon as he clicked out of the app in horror, refusing to look at that monstrosity any longer. Ginjima was losing his mind, Akagi sent out strings of just him keyboard smashing, Oomimi replied with a very concerned sticker and proceed to not show up again, Kita who was not actually on Instagram at all said it wasn’t very nice of them to make fun of their friend like that but also didn’t quit the group chat himself. Ojiro was the last one to reply, seeming to be rather irritated after Suna kept tagging him and tagging him until he finally went online. Unlike the others who were still comprehending what had possibly got into their friend, he sent out a screenshot but this time with the caption of the post highlighted.

“Is he ok? Did he got dumped or something?”

Osamu did not look at the caption before it was brought to his attention, already feeling the impact sufficiently enough from the visual itself. He felt chills running through his arms and spreading to his entire body when he glanced at the string of words, his face scrunching up in disgust at how any sane person could type it out with their own hands.

“My world had not seen light since the day you left it without saying goodbye.”

He silently switched his status to “do not disturb” when the group chat exploded once again, knowing exactly what this was and that he was fully responsible for the pain he was experiencing right now.

Osamu tried to convince Atsumu that if anyone saw these, the only thing it would persuade them to do was run away instead of reaching out to him but it was to no avail. He was convinced that this was romantic and if he kept it up, it would create enough buzz that would possibly lead the stranger he was hoping to stumble across one of these painfully awful posts and recognise him. The posts kept coming and every day, Osamu felt more and more of an impulse to just block him for good so he wouldn’t have to open his feed each day with the fear of seeing things he did not want to see. 

One day, on a beautiful weekend morning, when he finally had time to sit down and have a nice breakfast without rushing, Osamu opened his feed to see a glorious picture of his twin chest down (shirtless) on the bed, with the camera panning up to close up on his face from below. The blanket covered Atsumu’s torso loosely, showing just enough of his waist but not too much that he would get flagged. He had the lower half of his face behind his forearm, staring into the camera with such a sultry stare it made Osamu’s skin crawl.

“If I can start over, I’ll give up all I have just for another night with you.”

Osamu nearly didn’t manage to hold himself back from spitting out the water in his mouth.

The word slowly spread among the community. Suna, ever the enthusiastic teammate he was, shared his recently discovered source of joy with fellow EJP Raijin member Komori Motoya, who in turn spammed the latter’s cousin who had no choice but to acknowledge his teammate’s questionable online presence. Sakusa didn’t think he could ever have such a reaction to something that was not physically there to bother him and proceed to show it to the nearest person he could grab in the locker room, but not without reporting the post for containing unsettling images. 

If he had to suffer, then he must make sure that there was someone else suffering with him too. Sakusa had no intention of being the only person who had to see Miya’s pretentious bathroom selfie where he stared into the camera all while running his fingers through dampened hair along with a caption Sakusa did not even want to read in his head. The “someone”, captain Meian Shugo who was really not paid enough for this, sighed as he wondered if this was worth reporting to management as a potential pr crisis. Tomas, somewhat curious by the look on his captain’s face, asked if this was the current social media trend in Japan to which all the players present fought to clear that misconception from his head in order to defend their nation’s honour. 

Bokuto looked it up after hearing about the whispers and chats between breaks. “Why, this isn’t that bad!” he said cheerfully, “There are people complimenting him in the comments too! Look!” 

The rest of the team spent a good chunk of time convincing him that he should think more cautiously about it when he suggested that perhaps he should try to take on this dynamic posing style for his social media accounts too.

It sure did stir up quite the storm among his fellow athletes and the many fans that were wondering what exactly, or who exactly, it was that caused this sudden shift in his behaviour online. The few people who knew the reason for Atsumu’s melancholy, namely Osamu and some others who could not escape from a venting Atsumu, were almost certain that you would have to at least see his face somehow. If he was still hearing nothing, then it was probably about time he gives up and accepts that you just didn’t want anything to do with him.

One thing that these men who put their entire lives into volleyball failed to take into account, however, was that not every person in the world was particularly interested in the sport that lived and breathed. For people who only heard about the sport if the Olympics were coming up, whatever the players were up to in their private lives was probably not something they would care too much about.

Sadly, for Miya Atsumu, the exact person he was looking for was one of those people.

“The fans are starting to go crazy, no one has any idea what is going on with him,” you pulled your phone slightly further away from your poor ears as your friend let out an exasperated yell from the other end of the call. 

They lost you when they started talking about this athlete they had a celeb crush on and how they had been acting very strange in their posts lately, realising that this would become one of their ramblings about people with names you barely remember. They bombed your phone in the middle of the day when they found out that their company would be sponsoring a sports team they were obsessed with and did not stop until you threatened to block them until they had calmed down. You still hadn’t forgiven them completely for disappearing out of nowhere after begging you to attend a company function with them all with the reasoning that if they came across one of the players that would also be invited, you could be there to stop them from embarrassing themselves. That was not entirely useful, given that they were whisked away by their colleagues not even an hour into the event and leaving you all on your own.

If it wasn’t for them, then none of the events following that night would have ever happened.

But the past was past and as they called you again to talk about how they were heartbroken because their fav might be seeing someone, you did not stop them, obviously, since you were a great friend.

A sigh called your attention back and you silently closed your dash of animal videos to focus on what they were saying. “Are you even listening?”

“Uhm...” you hummed, “emo thirst traps, you were saying?”

“We tried to dig down all the accounts he was following but no one was posting anything that might match up to his posts,” they let out a whine.

“So,” you said, “are you still going to see him this weekend even if you are heartbroken or?”

They gasped before you suggested that if they didn’t want to go anymore, then you would do something else rather than sitting through a game you were not interested in. “Of course we’re still going!” they emphasised on the ‘we’, “who knows when I’ll get front row tickets again once the sponsorship ends and they aren’t giving the company tickets anymore!”

They paused. “You’re still going with me,” it sounded more like a threat and a statement than a question, and they asked again when you didn’t reply, “you’re going with me, aren’t you?”

You sighed. They were usually pretty laid back, except when it has something to do with volleyball. What was it with volleyball? It was like... football but with hands, tennis without a rack, basketball but with no basket. Ball sports, they were all the same in your eyes. But despite your lack of interest, the truth was that you wouldn’t have anything else to do if you didn’t go with them anyways and you did promise you would go as long as you didn’t have to pay a single dollar.

So you sighed again, earning you a displeased click of the tongue from the other end of the call.

-

Your lack of interest maintained when the day came. You didn’t think you had ever been to a stadium when there was a game going on before and the arena was already filling up with people waiting to get it by the time you were there. You were delightedly surprised when you learnt that there would be vendors selling food, silently deciding that the very nice yakionigiri you got from one of the stalls might just be the highlight of your day. 

The staff at the store looked vaguely familiar, but you had no idea where you would have possibly seen him before.

When the lights of the venue switched off out of nowhere and the crowd cheered, perhaps you could finally start to understand why your friend was such a fanatic for sports. There was something exciting and grand about the bright spotlights and the announcer’s voice pounding through your ears from the speakers. You peeked at your side to see your friend’s eyes glimmering in a way you had never seen before and chuckled to yourself, leaning back with your legs crossed to watch the game in a better position as the players’ names were called one by one.

You froze in place when you saw a very familiar face on every screen around the stadium. 

“Number 13, Miya Atsumu!”

What happened to not being a big shot?

Screams filled up the stadium, especially ear grating when the loudest person seemed to be the one right next to you but your mind was an utter state of blank. You were not expecting to see him again, ever again but here you were, with the next several hours of your life stuck watching the man you ditched after a drunken one night stand in the very front row. He looked more put together than your last image of him, the tussled hair replaced by a careful side swoop and the fitted jersey giving him a fresher look compared to the suit he met you in. He seemed to enjoy the attention, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he marched out and waved languidly around the stadium. 

You thanked the genius who separated the court and the seats into two floors, hiding you away with the distance even though you were sitting at the very front.

“Oh my god, he’s looking at this direction, he’s looking at this direction!” your friend’s vigorous tug at your sleeve brought your void gaze back to the court.

You were convinced that there was no way he could spot you from that far away. Hell, it was still up to question whether he could see any of the audience with all the lights shining onto his face. But for a moment, just a brief moment, you had a gut feeling that your eyes met in that split second when you looked down and his gaze stopped at right where you were.

“What are you looking at?” Hinata asked, turning his head to the direction Atsumu kept stealing glances at as they lined up in front of the net but saw nothing.

Atsumu shook his head, giving a laugh to pass off the moment when he lost his composure when he thought he saw the face he kept thinking of since that night in the crowd. It has got to be an illusion, he must have been blinded by the lights. Stupid lights, he cursed under his breath before turning to his teammate. “It was nothing,” he smiled, his gaze shifting to the corner he thought he saw you at before quickly snapping back to the court, “just... thought I saw someone I know.”

He did not look at you again throughout the game much to your relief. But this time, you found it hard to stop your eyes from following him around. You would like to argue that it was because you didn’t know any of the other players and the way your friend kept gushing whenever he did something made it hard for you to ignore him but the way he seemed to flourish on court. Something inside of you jumped whenever he scored a point and the live cameras panned up at his face again, showing the satisfied grin and slanted eyes plastered on him. He did what he does so well and with so much confidence and for some reason, that explained to you just why you decided to leave with him that night at the club in the strangest way possible. 

He was, still, very good-looking even under the lights and under your sober judgement, perhaps even more so than your blurry memory of how he looked like with a flushed face. But the true hit to your chest was when the entire stadium was watching him as he got to the serving position, taking strides forward before raising his hand to the air.

The world stopped when the entire ground fell to silence at his command, and you took a deep, shaky inhale when you thought of how this person had kissed you again and again on a drunken night until you were both out of breath.

-

Atsumu was almost 99.9% sure he truly did see you when the match ended.

That last 0.1% was deducted because it was a really good match ending with a win for the Black Jackals and as hot-headed as he could be, he knew better than to believe everything that his adrenaline-filled brain was trying to tell him. But with the spotlights of the stadium dimmed and his full attention no longer required on the court, Atsumu looked straight at where he was sure you had sat the moment the stadium doors opened and people started leaving. It was a blurry glance, just a quick in and out of his vision but he was sure he saw you slipping out of the front row before disappearing into the stairs. 

He knew he could still be wrong, but the sudden realisation that he might be the closest to you now than he would ever be again left him frozen in the middle of the court as he stared blankly at the exit. Reporters were starting to gather around the players and his presence was expected, but his legs started moving before the call of his name by the rest of his team could land on his ear. 

Pushing through the crowd, the gasps and shocked chatters of the guests who saw the player they just watched dashing out the stadium were none of his concern. All he cared about was to run faster, faster, past the hall and past the people of the stalls that were packing up. He might have just mistaken someone else for you and if it really was you, you might have already left before he could get to the front entrance of the stadium but that did not matter. The only thing that mattered to him right now was that you had been there and if he ran fast enough, there was still a chance that his search all along would not be in vain.

Miya Atsumu was not exactly a believer of fate or a divine destiny but as he stumbled with tired legs down the steps of the grand glass door, he silently made a bet with the beings he wasn’t sure were truly there that if he missed you this time, he would take the defeat that your paths were not meant to cross again and give up.

And the beings, who Atsumu believed was actually there for the first time ever, answered his calls.

“Wait!”

Your feet planted into the concrete when you heard a yell behind you. Your jaw dropped when you hesitantly turned around to see him, whose name you now know thanks to the match, stopping just a few steps away from you with his hands on his knees, seemingly out of breath with his arm reached out. His eyes widened when he looked up and saw that you had stopped there, and you were exactly who he thought you might be. He was heaving, sweat drenching his face but he still took a few stumbled steps towards you until he was right in front of you. 

A few words fell out of his mouth but were cut short by his panting. Your head was still not reacting when he finally managed to stand back up, looking right at you even as his breathing stayed erratic.

What does one say to a one night stand that they ditched right when the morning comes?

“So,” you blurted, trying to ignore the heat on your face and the anxiousness in your chest, “not a big shot, huh?”

He let out a snort, his voice cracking as he ran his hand down his face to wipe away the sweat that was starting to get into his eyes. He could finally take the time to look at you now, after confirming that you would not disappear if he did so little as blink.

You were gorgeous, and suddenly all the things he had wanted to say to you sounded ridiculously stupid.

I tried to look for you.

“You left your ring at my place,” he said, his voice still shaking from the sprint he took, growing softer and softer with each word that came out.

“Oh,” you replied, nodding stiffly to try and brush away your nerves.

“Yeah,” he nodded too, and opened his mouth again after taking a gulp to swallow down the knot at the back of his throat, “we should arrange a time to meet so you can take it back from me.”

“Oh,” you stood just a little straighter, “but-” 

But it was just one of the five I got in a pack so it really, really didn’t matter that much.

“You said,” he looked down, holding back a smile as he thought of what you had said to him, “you said your grandma made you swore to never lose it.”

He remembered.

“Yes,” you pressed your lips together to stop the chuckle from coming out, “yes I was.”

“So you should come and get it back from me,” he suggested, the last note of his sentence going up as if he wasn’t sure of himself either.

“Yeah,” he beamed when you smiled sheepishly, “I should.”

“Ok good, good,” he murmured in joyful disbelief, grinning ear to ear. The grin faded suddenly when he thought of one very important thing he had forgotten to do last time and must not forget this time.

“Can I have your name?”

You burst out into laughter. “You can have my number too, if that’s what you want,” you mused, “Miya.”

 A rush of heat washed through his face at the sound of his name out of your mouth. He would die if you call him by his first name later on, he was sure of it.

“Yes,” he said almost embarrassingly fast, “yes I would love that. I-” he groaned when he realised that he still had his phone in his jacket that was left in the locker room.

“Wait for me here,” he had already started walking backwards, snapping towards you with his hand out as he added in panic, “don’t go anywhere!”

You still hadn’t stopped laughing when he sprinted back into the stadium again like his life depended on it.

-

Bonus

Miya Atsumu deleted all of the posts he made during his search for you the moment he added your contacts into his phone, but what he did not count was that there were other people who would preserve those precious memories for him.

It was a few weeks after he caught up to you in front of the stadium and several days after your relationship went public. Your friend had nearly torn your eardrums apart when they learnt that you were the mysterious person they had been hunting after but overall, dating Atsumu had been great, even to the point where you thought it was so stupid of you to run away from him in the first place.

You got a notification that someone direct messaged you on instagram as you were getting ready for a date night.

It was not someone you know but there was a verification mark next to his username. Clicking into his profile, you assumed that it must be one of Atsumu’s friends in the volleyball circle when you saw the line saying “EJP Raijin middle blocker”.

“Hi, I’m Suna, I was on the same high school team as your boyfriend was. I don’t think we have met but I’m sure we will be very good friends.”

Before you could manage to type out a reply, he sent you multiple pictures and you paused as they loaded, wondering what Atsumu’s old high school teammate might send you.

You blinked when the pictures finally finished loading, and silently dialed your boyfriend’s number.

“Do you have something you forgot to tell me about what you have done in order to try and find me online?”

[softkuna]

Toji Fushiguro || Toy || Fic

The Sukuna one had me like ✨✨✨ Now I must ask, can you- a toji x fem reader and him seeing Gojo eyeing up what's his and her responding to it and then toji being like oh hell no and basically railing her as punishment (degrading kink please it makes me jello) you don't have to write it if your not comfortable btw take your time and stay safe.

Content   ║ Toji Fushiguro x Fem Insert. Toji’s shoulder pressed into the wall with such a force the damn thing could’ve dented. Arms crossed tensely against the broad puff of his chest. His teeth ground together, the sound of squeaking canines reverberating in his mind.  Toji was seething. For a man with the physical prowess of a god, his tolerance was about as thin as a wet napkin. A wet napkin this woman decided to poke a well-manicured finger into.

Count      ║ 1,311 words.

Consider ║ NSFW. Degradation Kink. Objectification. Female Insert (she/her). Alcohol. Grammar issues. Basic degeneracy.

Creator    ║ So this is the first NSFW thing I have done like this ;v;. I’m not sure if this hit the mark for ya Anon, but hopefully it’ll do until I can get some more practice. It took a little while since I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing. Honestly this just feels subpar gomen. Enjoy jealous Toji, though -finger guns-.

The club was barely lit with black light and neon strewn about the solid concrete walls in seemingly random intervals. A particularly bright hot pink one cast across her collarbone, dowsing the tops of her breasts deliciously in contrast to the black latex dress. As much as Toji would like to shove her against that very wall, she had a job to do. For him. And he regretted it.

  She was pushing her luck when she approached the table with a certain sway to her hips. Gojou peered around the tinted sunglasses, brow piqued in interest. She flashed a smile, smoothly setting a large bottle of some random high percentage alcohol onto the table. Sliding into the booth next to Satoru, the woman leaned a hand on his leg, the other moving to playfully snap the strap of a birthday hat under his chin, “I hear it’s someone’s birthday?”

  His head tilted up along with the corners of his lips, “Guilty as charged. Are you my present, doll? Always heard the hostesses here were the best,” His voice purred against the thrum of the bass. She tucked hair behind her ear, eyes flickering back to the ravenette with a dangerous composition. The corner of her mouth twitched up at the obvious frustration resonating in the man. He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t even dream of it if he wanted any semblance of information on this guy. It was the perfect opportunity to test a theory. Toji was the jealous type.

  Toji’s shoulder pressed into the wall with such a force the damn thing could’ve dented. Arms crossed tensely against the broad puff of his chest. His teeth ground together, the sound of squeaking canines reverberating in his mind.  Toji was seething. For a man with the physical prowess of a god, his tolerance was about as thin as a wet napkin. A wet napkin this woman decided to poke a well-manicured finger into.

  He slammed down a shot, the burn at the back of his throat accompanying the burn of his own gaze. She wasn’t anything to him aside from an in. Yet somehow, the not-so-shaman made it a point to speak with her at least once a week, which usually lead into fucking her like a play thing. The lay was just as good as the information she could pry out of loose mouths. Immaculate. This go around, he needed information on someone in particular. Someone who just so happened to be here with a group. Someone who decided it would be a good idea to get a little handsy with his toy.

  “Y’know,” Satoru murmured, “’s pretty sad to be alone in bed for my birthday.” Chilled pads of his fingers rested at the back of her neck. His gaze was hungry and she was a full course meal. Just his type. Perfect shape, perfect charm, perfect headrush. Her hand cupped his ear, whispering something his buzzing mind couldn’t fully piece together against the dense music.  

  She kept up the sweet act despite not getting a lick of information. The only dirt she dug up was that he could finish half a handle before getting buzzed. By the end of the night, Gojou’s hands squeezed at her thigh like he did her last string of patience.  

  The last thing Toji saw was the exchange of cards.

  -

  As the black-clad hostess passed by Toji, her hand trailed along the muscles of his chest, stiletto nails pressing just slightly into him. He followed close behind until they got to their regular spot. A private room tucked into the corner of the club. Commonly used for rich men thirsting to empty their wallets on a good lap dance. It was sound proofed, dimly lit, and somehow hot pink velvet was a prime design choice to set a steamy mood.

  She crossed her arms, gaze hard as the door shut, “So, I’ve got bad new. He didn’t let a word slip-“ The sentence stopped as soon as it began.

  “So doll’s got a sense of humor, huh?” His voice held an edge to match the snide smirk flashing over pointed canines. She knew exactly what was up and oh was it a dangerously delectable sight. One that made her cunt throb on nothing but adrenaline. The crease of his brow, the way his lips set into that hairpin curl, the tensing of each thick muscle along his arm – all of it leaving a sense of satisfaction in the pit of her stomach. Theory confirmed. He took a step closer; she didn’t shrink away. A lost challenge if he’d say so himself.

  A large calloused hand shoved her onto cushions of the booth, catching her open mouth in his own with a bruising force. The man wasted no time with his prodding tongue, tasting the sweetness of peppermint and lapping it up while fending off her own slick muscle.  A hand snaked into the roots of her perfectly done hair, white-knuckling just at the base of the skull. With a sharp yank, her head was yanked back, allowing break for air. Smug and breathless, she chimed, “Jealous?”

  Toji blew air out in a single blackened laugh, “I’m not one to share my toys.” Teeth connected to her lips, rolling the flesh then moving to her throat. Purple marked his territory trailing down. The heat of his breath tickled the space directly next to her ear, “Now, you’re going to beg for me to forgive you. Make myself clear, slut?” Toji’s grip on her tightened, “Or is doll better for something getting used?” A rough tug to the back of her hair triggered a low moan from her heaving chest. After so many sessions, she knew he didn’t really want an answer. He wanted a reason go harder.  

  The hand once in her hair now gripped her jaw, keeping her gaze on him, “Answer me, toy. Or do I need to pull a string to make that cock-obsessed mouth move?” On que, free digits wrapped around the gusset of her thong, second knuckle just grazing the entrance of her heat before he pulled the sodden fabric taught, letting it snap back to place. The impact triggered another empty clench and gasp. Her hips writhed, a sappy pout puffing the bitten lips. More.

  Toji maintained her heavy-lidded stare as he brought the knuckle to his lips. He watched as her own parted when his tongue swept up the sweetness collected at the joint. The way her hips rose to match the zipper’s height, the lock of her teeth on her finger, the desperation in her eyes – all of it made his stiffened cock twitch against her adorably hopeless grinding, “Looks like my toy is broken. Guess I’ll just fuck the apology out of it then.”

  A wicked grin whipped onto his handsome face. Her mouth opened in rebuttal, only to get interrupted, “This is to teach a lesson, toy. What did you do to deserve the prep?” The gravel in his tone grew slightly dark, “Couldn’t even get the dirt I paid for.” His long digits did work past the gusset, slipping over her entrance, gathering the arousal, “Look how wet you already are for me.” A heated coil pressed in her at the words. She knew what was coming now and every inch of her craved it.

  In what seemed to be a single motion, jeans and boxers were torn down. Her dress was hiked up with a satisfying peel, thong quite literally ripped off and thrown to the ground before she was flipped so that her back was pressed against his chest. Sturdy, veined arms wrapped at the backs of her thighs and under her knees. Truly, she was a doll for him to pleasure himself on and he made it a point to do so.

  Toji lowered her so that the thick tip of his length pressed against her heart-beating heart. Her walls fluttered around him as he slid in. “For a broken toy, you’re pretty damn tight for me - ready to be played with. Get used- fuck.” Amusement broke through as she bit back a breathless sigh. His cock filled her easily, slick sliding down his shaft and pooling at the base. As he fully sheathed himself, he craned his neck forward, lips pressing at the shell of her ear, “Now, I want to hear you beg, bitch.” With that, the man snaked back and up, setting a relentless pace from the beginning. The sound of skin slamming into wettened skin filling the room along with the aroma of arousal.

  She was stubborn. He was tireless. They’d both cum before the apology even had a chance to.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

///

Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

[rocorambles]

Redemption

Pairing: Ushijima x Reader

Genre: NSFW, Fluff and Smut

Warnings: Slight Size Kink

Summary: When you find out Ushijima is a virgin, you offer to be his first and help him out. But in reality, you might be the one who needs some help.

Requested by Anon

There’s a comfortable quiet atmosphere between the two of you as Ushijima hands you a clean towel while you pant for breath. Technically speaking, there’s no reason why the two of you need to be together today on one of the few days the Schweiden Adlers had off, but you had a soft spot for the pro-athlete, so when he had asked if you wanted to go workout together at the team training gym, you agreed. You couldn’t deny you needed some exercise. Being a team manager didn’t mean you worked out much yourself, so you looked forward to sweating some extra calories. But you really should have known better than to expect just a normal workout with Ushijima sternly overseeing your routine. 

“Ushijima, you do realize I’m not a pro-athlete like you, right? You can’t expect me to keep up with you.” 

“Anyone can do anything if they set their minds on it and work hard enough.” 

You roll your eyes before fondly looking at the tall man beside you. Was he a little dense and a little too blunt? Sure. But you saw the heart of gold and genuineness within him. You’d always wondered why the man was still single. You know he’s sometimes an idiot when it comes to social cues and can’t hold small talk to save his life, but you’d seen far worse and less deserving men end up tricking some poor damsel into their spider webs. Surely you’re not the only one who sees the diamond in the rough that Ushijima really is? 

You don’t realize you’re intensely staring at him until he uncomfortably shifts. “It’s rude to stare.” You blush and quickly turn away from him, opting to chug your water as a distraction. Checking your phone, you gasp when you realize how late it is. “Shit, sorry, I really need to run…” You trail off and Ushijima narrows his eyes at you as a mischievous grin spreads across your face. He’s all too aware that the look doesn’t mean anything good for him. 

“What are you doing tonight?”

There’s a long pause before he grunts out “nothing” and you suddenly seem more intimidating than any opponent he’s faced across the net when your eyes light up and your head moves until it’s only inches away from his own. 

“Cool! So you’re going to a party with me then.” 

He blinks once at you before completely shutting you down with a resounding no. But really, after knowing you and working in such close proximity with you almost every day, he should realize how relentless you are once your mind is made up. 

“When’s the last time you talked to anyone outside of the team, coaches, trainers, and managers? And Tendou doesn’t count since he’s still technically volleyball related.” 

Ok, so maybe you had a point there. 

“We don’t even have practice for the next few days! So you’ll have time to rest up and recover and be totally back to 100% for the next practice.” 

You smile when you see his determined look slip a bit, but your jaw drops at his next words. “I’m not going to a party where you’re just going to ditch me to have sex with someone and then either complain or brag about it to me the next day.” 

You frantically cover his mouth with your hands as you nervously look around to make sure no one around had heard him. “USHIJIMA! I tell you these things because I expect you to keep quiet about them. Not just blabber it out for everyone to hear.” 

He impassively stares at you and you sigh as you remove your hands from his face before determinedly looking at him again. “But actually since you’ve already brought it up, I noticed you never have any spicy stories to tell me! It’s not fair if I’m the one who’s always sharing. When’s the last time you even had sex? It has to be stressful to not let off some steam in a more enjoyable way than volleyball.”  (Although you secretly wonder if Ushijima finds volleyball more pleasurable than sex. You wouldn’t doubt it.) But you squint as he suddenly seems less stoic than usual and...are his cheeks pink? 

“Ushijima, are you embarrassed? I literally tell you about all my sex exploits and you’re embarrassed by me just asking you when the last time you did it was?” Your voice trails off when a suspicion begins to form and your eyes soften as you more gently nudge him. “It’s okay if it’s been a long time. I know how busy you are. It’s not a reflection of you, I promise. But isn’t that more reason to come out with me tonight?” He mumbles something and you lean in, unable to make out the words, but when he repeats them, you freeze. 

A virgin? Ushijima was a virgin? 

You know you should say something instead of just staring at him like an idiot, but shock numbs you and only when he makes a move to get up and leave do you hastily grab his arm. Your mouth flounders as you try to come up with a response, but when you observe how vulnerable and sensitive the topic seems to be for him, your heart goes out to your friend and you shake the lingering surprise from you. 

“Hey, it’s not a big deal. I think it’s kind of sweet actually. Your first time should be special, with someone you really care about. You shouldn’t ever feel ashamed about the fact that you haven’t done it. Hell, I wish I hadn’t been so quick to lose my virginity to some asshole in college.” 

You smile when you see his shoulders straighten and maybe it’s the slight upturned twitch of his lips or maybe it’s the way dark olive eyes glow when they look at you, but you don’t even register the words that come tumbling from your lips until they hang heavy in the air. 

“I could be your first if you wanted.” 

You are a fucking idiot. You scramble to figure out a way to take back those words, already preparing for Ushijima to angrily end any friendship the two of you had, already dreading how you’re going to manage a team when one of the starters hates you. Your mind is reeling so hard from the dark future you’ve painted for yourself in your head that you almost miss what Ushijima says. 

“Okay.” 

Suffice to say, all plans to go to your party fly out the window and you send an apologetic text to your friend. Ushijima and you go to your respective locker rooms to wash up and freshen up before trekking back to your apartment. The walk isn’t uncomfortable per se, but there’s an electric energy radiating between the two of you as you walk silently next to each other. And shit, you’re not the virgin, but why is your heart beating so hard and so fast that you think it might literally explode from your chest? You scowl at yourself as your hands tremble when you unlock and open your front door and when Ushijima’s back is turned to you as he removes his shoes, you mentally slap yourself to get it together. 

With renewed confidence, you firmly grasp his larger wrist and tug him along to your bedroom where you gently push him onto the bed. You take a moment to revel in the power you feel from being in charge of the stronger, larger man underneath you and arousal stirs within you from Ushijima’s submission and willingness to let you have your way with him. It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him and your heart warms as you lean down to softly kiss him, smiling against his lips when you feel him tentatively reciprocate. Kissing Ushijima feels like what you imagine completing a satisfying day's work on the farm feels like. You can almost taste the sturdiness, the comforting warmth of a fireplace burning as you return from the fields, and the authentic, humble roots on his lips. There’s no frills, no pretenses. It’s purely Ushijima and you love it. 

You think you could spend all night just kissing him if you wanted to, but you remind yourself of tonight’s mission. You trail your fingers down his chest until you reach the hem of his shirt which you begin to roll up until it reaches the top of his torso and he helps you fully remove it. Sitting upright on his thighs, you can feel yourself salivate as you take in the broad expanse of his upper body on display for you. You’ve seen it before, but in the dim light of your bedroom and splayed across your bedsheets, it’s mesmerizing and you can’t help the way you unconsciously run your hands across every inch of taut muscle and kiss random lines across chiseled lines. You smirk when you feel Ushijima’s groin thrust up when you coyly flick a nipple with your tongue and you stare at him as you begin to suck on the hardening bud, drinking in the sight of the usually reserved man letting out breathy moans as you continue your ministrations.

You want to tease him more, coax more sounds out of him, but the feeling of something hard prodding your stomach keeps you moving on and you pointedly tug on the waistband of his pants until he gets the memo and raises his hips to allow you to remove everything until he’s completely bare before you. And any confidence you had built up shatters. 

If you’re entirely honest, you’d had your fair share of wet dreams imagining what Ushijima was hiding underneath his shorts, but when faced with reality that’s somehow even larger than anything you had even dreamt of, you bite your bottom nervously as your pussy clenches at the thought of trying to fit him inside of you. You’re not sure if it’s lust or nerves that has your stomach twisting as you wrap a hand around his impressive girth. Probably both, you think, as your throat goes dry and your thighs squeeze together when you see how your entire fist barely covers less than half of him. 

Your attention is brought back to the man underneath you when you hear a low groan as you stroke your fist up and down his shaft, giving some extra attention to the leaking slit at the tip. Your other hand reaches underneath your panties and circles your clit. You’ll need to be absolutely drenched before you can even think of trying to take him. But it’s not hard for your cunt to become a sopping mess when you stare in awe at the way Ushijima writhes underneath you, releasing low breathy pants and grunts that you can feel rumbling throughout his body. Already feeling a wet spot seeping through your clothes, you affectionately kiss him once more before briefly getting up to quickly strip down. His eyes hungrily devour the sight of your naked figure as you crawl back above him and adjust your position until you feel his tip nudging at your entrance. 

You close your eyes and moan as you slowly lower yourself onto him, but even as wet as you are, you can barely take half of him inside you as he stretches you far beyond any person or any toy has. Yet, despite the discomfort and borderline pain of the stretch, you feel even more of your arousal dripping down your thigh as you continuously lift and lower yourself, always pushing slightly harder, slightly further than where you’d been before. Your eyes roll back from the feeling of being so full and your nails dig into Ushijima’s shoulders as you desperately continue to work his entire length into you. But you reach your limit and you swear you can feel him inside of your womb even though there’s still about a quarter more of his cock waiting to penetrate you. You take a deep breath and exhale as you try to sink further down, but you let out a broken moan when fingers twist and tug your nipples. 

Ushijima intensely observes you as he kneads your fleshy mounds, playing with your hardened nubs until he sees the tiny furrow on your forehead smooth out. He sits up and bends his neck to soothingly kiss you. A primal instinct in him had been entranced at the sight of your much smaller figure struggling to take just a part of him and he had to use every bit of will power he had to not instantly cum at the feeling of your warm and wet walls squeezing around him. But when he saw the hints of pain you tried to push past written all over your face, a desire to make you feel only pleasure had overtaken him. 

He continues running his fingers across your chest as your tongues twist and turn against each other and you moan into his mouth as you reach a hand down to furiously rub against your clit until you feel another surge of arousal and more fluids run down your inner thigh. You guide his hands to your waist before continuing to rub your clit and you urge him to help you as you clash your lips against his once more. But you tear away from his mouth in a silent scream as he grabs you and forcefully pushes you down and down until your lower bodies press tightly against each other, any space between them removed. Ushijima’s eyes are glued to your face and he takes in the way your eyes widen and your jaw drops open as you claw at his arms, leaving angry red trails as your body tries to adjust to literally being stuffed full. He patiently waits until your nails stop their frantic clawing and he drops his forehead to your shoulder with a groan as you begin to rock your hips up and down. 

He can feel the sloppy mess you’re making as you continue to flood the sheets underneath with your seemingly never ending arousal, but he can’t bring himself to care as your pace speeds up until you’re practically bouncing in his lap as you desperately chase your end. You scream when he tightens his grip on your waist and assists you, slamming you down and easily picking you up before slamming you down again, perfectly matching your rhythm until everything blends together and you don’t even know who’s doing what anymore. All you know is the feeling of Ushijima’s cock sliding and pressing against every inch and every crevice of your pussy, filling you so well you wonder if you’ll ever be satisfied with anything else inside of you after this. 

You can’t even bring yourself to feel ashamed by the wanton wail you let out as you reach a higher peak than you’ve ever reached before and your entire body shakes with pleasure as Ushijima continues to lift and lower your body even without any support from you until he harshly pushes you down one last time and holds you still as he releases thick spurts deep inside of you, so deep that even in the haze of your orgasm you’re grateful you’re on birth control because you’re sure he’s coating your actual womb with how far inside he seems to reach. You slump into his chest and let yourself be maneuvered by him until the two of you are lying side by side, facing each other, your lower bodies still intimately connected. 

The two of you lay there for a while and you instinctively nuzzle your face into his chest as his arms tenderly wrap around you, pulling you even closer to him and you both take quiet comfort in the sounds of your heavy breaths filling the air. But when your heart beats slow and your breathing evens out, you cringe in embarrassment. 

“Ushijima, I’m so sorry. This was your first time. I should have been the one taking care of you, but you ended up needing to step in and take charge.” There’s a stretch of silence before you feel one of his arms move and a hand lightly nudges your head up to look at him. Your heart flutters when you see the most gentle smile you’ve ever seen on his face.  

“Wakatoshi. Call me Wakatoshi.”

You see a flash of uncertainty in his usually confident eyes as he hesitantly inches his face closer to yours, but you grin as you meet him halfway and your lips slot against each other like two puzzle pieces perfectly connecting. You close your eyes and relish the peaceful moment for a bit before using the element of surprise and pushing against him until he’s on his back underneath you once more. You playfully clench your pussy walls and smirk at the way he throws his head back and hisses at the feeling. You can feel him begin to harden once more inside of you and when he looks back at you, you shoot a wink his way. 

“Let me redeem myself, Wakatoshi.”  

[fandomn00blr]

OC Questionnaire

@cleverblackcat tagged me into this one a few days ago, and I started filling it out for Delilah Howe (not an OC...an adopted NPC!) and I am still working on it for her. But then @funkypoacher tagged me, and gave me specific permission to do it for *my* versions of Carver or Stroud...lol...

So anyway, here’s Stroud, everyone’s Warden Dad(...dy...? jk jk...unless?)

THE BASICS

Character’s name: Jean-Marc Stroud

Role in story: He’s your dad now...unless you’re Loghain and then he’s your infuriating boyfriend/husband whom you are absolutely smitten with...also, Warden-Commander of the Eastern Wardens after Dragon Age Awakening

Physical description: I feel a bit guilty constantly objectifying this poor man and his mustache, but he is just...*chef’s kiss* (Loghain’s POV, but also mine):

Stroud’s quite fit for a man his age, an unmistakably sturdy V-shaped torso atop well-muscled legs, with broad shoulders and strong, defined arms. He’s never quite realized just how chiseled and square his jaw is, either. And as his eyes rove over his face, he tries not to stare too longingly at his lips, which he’s already been acquainted with, though it feels like it’s been ages since that cave-in, and he certainly wouldn’t mind getting re-acquainted. With any part of him, really.

(LOGHAIN! STOP BEING SO HORNY FOR YOUR BOYFRIEND, YOU GRUMPY OLD BASTARD!)

MBTI/Enneagram Personality Type: IDK

INTERNAL LIFE

What is their greatest fear? Probably disappointing anyone who is depending on him for safety/protection/reassurance

Inner motivation: Is ‘just wants everyone to feel safe’ an inner motivation? No. Shoot. STROUD WHAT MOTIVATES YOU?! Oh, I know...the fact that he lost everyone and everything he cared about to the Game and instead of going on a fucking rampage, he internalized it and joined the Wardens so that their deaths wouldn’t have been a total waste. What’s that called?

Kryptonite: If one of his Warden ‘kids’ is hurting, it hurts him...doubly so if he can’t do anything about it.

What is their misbelief about the world? Ok, so this is a tough one. Dude has been through all of it, and still believes in the power of kindness and duty and compassion, but not in a naive way. He chooses it, right? So I wouldn’t call it a misbelief, but he genuinely believes everyone is capable of choosing good, or trying to do better, or whatever. Shut up. I’m not crying, I swear.

Lesson they need to learn: You can’t save ‘em all (he still has regrets about what happened with Anders and Justice).

What is the best thing in their life? His little Eastern Warden family...Vigil’s Keep comes to feel like home to him.

What is the worst thing in their life? The thought of ever having to deal with Orlesian politics again...which is why he’s so grumpy in Inquisition.

What do they most often look down on people for? He has very little patience for people who manipulate others for their own personal gain.

What makes his/her/their heart feel alive? Seeing his Wardens thrive/come into their own/embrace duty/grow/find love...I SAID I WASN’T CRYING!

What makes them feel loved, and who was the last person to make them feel that way? Stroud doesn’t need a lot of personal reassurance to know that people care about him and that he serves a purpose...but if someone goes out of their way to do something just for him, he absolutely falls apart. Loghain making an Orlesian-inspired dish for his birthday was the last thing I wrote of this variety, but I imagine that Loghain does a lot of stuff like that just to see Stroud’s cheerful stoicism obliterated...and also because he loves him.

Top three things they value most in life? Helping others/compassion, his found family, and his duty as a Warden (but not in, like, a stupid way...)

EXTERNAL LIFE

Is there an object they can’t bear to part with? He keeps a portrait of his family tucked away among his things...the only item he brought with him from his former life when Clarel recruited him to the Wardens.

Describe a typical outfit from top to bottom. Heavy silverite Warden armor while out on missions, over a dark blue quilted tunic with a silver embroidered griffon and leggings (?). All very official. Off-duty, he wears simple undyed cotton or wool tunics (they’re probably fitted well) and woolen breeches (also fitted...um...well...*fans self*). It’s hot. <- Loghain, again?! Yeesh...

What is their method of manipulation? He’s not big on manipulation (see above), but he knows how to get what he wants from Loghain by wiggling his mustache and just...staring at him...all twinkly-eyed. Maybe chuckling good-naturedly if he wants to bring out the big guns.

Describe their daily routine. (Whoops...I missed this one, I guess!) Wake up early. Breakfast and paperwork in his office. Meetings, etc later in the morning. Then lunch with Loghain somewhere outside, weather permitting. Meetings/more paperwork/drills and training in the afternoon. Dinner with everyone in the dining hall at the end of the day. Quiet evenings. Then bed!

Their go-to cure for a bad day? Feet up in front of a fire...some tea? Maybe with a bit of whiskey in it. And something sweet to munch on like cookies. Bonus if Loghain is there with his little shawl, reading or complaining to him, preferably both...

GOALS

How are they dissatisfied with their life? He still harbors a lot of anger and resentment toward the Game (I mean...), but he’s actually pretty satisfied with his life as a Warden.

What would bring them true happiness or contentment? This is the most selfless thing ever, but he would love to see Loghain and Anora reconciled.

What definitive step could they take to turn their dream into a reality? He would never, but he totally could invite Anora to dinner at Vigil’s Keep or something and pretend it was Loghain’s idea...lol. OMG...AU where Stroud is the meddling spouse...!!!

How has their fear kept them from taking this action already? Not so much fear as it is just respect for personal boundaries or whatever...

How do they feel they can accomplish their goal while still steering clear of the thing they are afraid of? He hopes Loghain will eventually reach out to his daughter himself, or Anora will force her way back into her father’s life. During Inquisition, Loghain and Alistair (who is King and married to Anora in this world state) have a bit of a scuffle, then manage to get over their shit (sort of), so Stroud has some hope that they’ll all figure it out eventually. He just won’t be there to see it cuz he stays in the Fade, the self-sacrificing bastard.

[valdomarx]

Geralt and Jaskier visit a brothel together, requested by me

It’s been a long few weeks in the wilderness, and for once it’s as much of a relief for Geralt as it is for Jaskier to arrive in a town with a comfortable inn. Nature may have its bounties, but the body has its needs. Alas, the contracts have been poor of late, and by the time the room and bath have been paid for, both of their purses are light.

There’s enough money for a decent meal or for a trip to a brothel, but not both. Geralt contemplates this dilemma.

“We could share,” Jaskier suggests.

Geralt snorts. “One portion of food barely feeds me at the best of times. I’m not going halves with you.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “I don’t mean dinner. We could share a girl.”

“Hmm.” Geralt considers. That would indeed be cheaper, and there would be enough coin left over for a basic meal for each of them as well. The thought of both satisfaction and food wins out over any qualms he has, and he nods.

Jaskier brightens, and hustles him off in the direction of the local brothel.

--

He lets Jaskier do the talking once they arrive. It seems easier that way. Jaskier explains what they want and arranges payment with the madam, who recommends to them a highly accommodating lady by the name of April who resides upstairs.

When they head to her room, they find April to be a sturdy brunette with lovely wide hips and a cute dimpled chin. Taking in the pair of them standing in the doorway, she raises an eyebrow. “Both at once?” she asks, not in the least bit shy.

“We come as a package deal,” Jaskier jokes, which sets Geralt’s teeth on edge.

“Two charming gentlemen,” she smiles beguilingly. “My lucky day.”

She leads them inside, to a bedroom filled with worn red velvet fabrics and the damp, musky smell of sex. They kick off their boots at the door, because it seems only polite, and while Geralt is wondering if there is some sort of etiquette to this sharing business she takes him by the hand and toys with the laces of his shirt.

“How about I start by getting this off you, handsome?” she asks, and he hums his assent. She pulls off his shirt and sucks in a quick breath when she sees his scars. She’s professional enough to cover it, but not fast enough to fool Geralt’s heightened senses. She touches each mark curiously.

“How did you get this one?” she asks, running her fingers over a jagged, red scar curving over his shoulder. Geralt is used to that question from bed partners. He doesn’t even mind it much.

“That one was from an ekhidna,” Jaskier butts in. “Caught him when he was out on a lake gathering buckthorn.”

Geralt glares at him. This situation would be much easier to deal with if Jaskier would keep his mouth shut for once.

The girl gives Jaskier a inquisitive look. “You know all his stories?” She walks over to Jaskier and runs a hand down his chest, catching on the buttons of his chemise and undoing them one by one to reveal a thatch of dark hair. Geralt averts his eyes.

Jaskier preens. “I should think so. I’m the one who made him famous.”

The girl giggles. “Maybe you can tell me what he likes then,” she says, looking back at Geralt from under her lashes. Her hands are still on Jaskier’s chest.

“I reckon I have an idea,” Jaskier says, and something about that sends a shiver up Geralt’s spine.

“Good,” the girl says, sliding the chemise off Jaskier’s shoulders. “It’s hard to tell with the strong and silent type.” She smiles at Geralt as she says it, though, so it doesn’t feel too much like a criticism.

“Do you think he’d like to go first, or would he prefer to watch?” She’s playing with the strings on Jaskier’s trousers now, teasing them around her fingers, the blue fabric bright against her rosy skin.

“Oh, he wants to watch,” Jaskier says, with absolute surety. Geralt’s eyes fly to his, because what the fuck, Jaskier, but he finds Jaskier grinning like this is all perfectly delightful and not gearing up to be the most mortifying thing that’s ever happened to either of them.

“That work for you, big boy?” she asks, and Geralt doesn’t really know what to do other than nod. She indicates a chair in the corner of the room. “Make yourself comfortable, if you like.”

Unsure why this situation has made him so meek, he settles in the chair as he’s told. From here he can’t really help but get a full view of the bed.

April pushes Jaskier on to the bed with some force and he goes willingly, laughing. She climbs onto him and buries her face into his neck, where Geralt knows from prior observations that Jaskier is sensitive. He squirms beneath her attentions, cheeks flushing, hands running up her sides and over her breasts which are spilling out from her top.

Geralt can see glimpses of her hands as well, first opening Jaskier’s trousers, then pushing them down and wrapping around his cock. Jaskier groans and Geralt can smell his arousal, sharp and spicy, making his own heart beat pick up in sympathy.

She sits back to remove Jaskier’s trousers completely, which he tries to help with a gets a playful smack for, and then she’s pushing him down again and bending to lick stripes up his now clearly hard cock. Geralt doesn’t know where to look.

When she swallows Jaskier’s cock down in one go, Jaskier arches his back and Geralt's attention is drawn to the long, elegant line of his neck, the tight cords of muscle running out to his shoulders. Geralt fidgets in the chair, his trousers uncomfortably tight.

It's because of the girl, obviously, that he's feeling so on edge. She really is very pretty, and watching a pretty girl sucking cock would get any man going, wouldn't it?

Geralt finds his fingers playing through his trousers without him meaning to, although April notices from the corner of her eye.

"You can take care of yourself while you watch," she says, pulling off with a wink. "We won't mind, will we?"

Jaskier looks at him with a smirk. "We won't mind at all."

Geralt scowls, feeling strangely put upon. But if that's what’s expected... He unlaces his trousers and sighs in relief when he wraps a hand around his aching cock.

As April gets back to work, Jaskier strokes a finger down her cheek, and Geralt is struck by how tender his is, even when he has no need to be. Most men couldn't be less interested in the comfort of a whore they're with, but Jaskier cares about everyone, it seems, even someone he'll only see for one night.

When she gets her hands involved, Jaskier throws his arms above his head and twines his fingers into the headboard. Geralt's mouth goes very dry, for some reason, at the sight of Jaskier stretched out and braced for pleasure. Geralt spits in his hand and works himself over, carefully not thinking too much about it.

What's somewhat disconcerting is the fact that Jaskier keeps looking over at him, his eyes darting back to Geralt while a woman sucks his cock. The first time it happens Geralt's breath hitches, and he thinks he should really tear his gaze away from Jaskier's face and focus at the action, so to speak. But something in the way Jaskier bites at his lip, head thrown back in gratification, has heat racing under Geralt’s skin. He works himself harder, faster, eyes on Jaskier and discomfort with the situation rapidly eclipsed by desire.

When Jaskier's breath becomes more irregular and more gasping, April pulls off again. "You want to finish in my mouth or inside my pussy, sweetheart?" she asks.

"Your mouth is a joy and a delight, which I would be honoured to continuing appreciating," Jaskier says, effusive as ever, and she gives him a sweet smile.

"As you like." She turns to Geralt. "Maybe now you'd like to join us, love?" She pushes her skirt up over her wide hips, showing off the curve of her arse. Looking at him, she reaches behind herself, sliding a finger over her wet lips and dipping it inside. "You wouldn't leave me so bereft, would you?"

Geralt is nothing if not chivalrous, and he does appreciate being given clear instructions. So he stands from the chair and walks over to the bed, hand still on his cock as he takes in the view.

Jaskier is lying on his back on the bed, with April on all fours over him. And she's in the perfect position for Geralt to stand behind her and line up his cock with the inviting slick of her lips, swollen and rosy.

As he enters her it's like warm, wet velvet enveloping his cock, and by gods, he's missed this.

He sets a slow, languid pace, not wanting to be too demanding. The only issue is that from this angle, he can see the curve of her hips and the soft lines of her back, leading up to her dark hair. But he can also see Jaskier, spread out beneath her, all long limbs and firm muscle, face slack with pleasure as she takes his cock into her mouth. It's... distracting, that's what it is.

There’s nowhere else he can reasonably look though, so he stares down at the pair of them as he fucks her, noting the little shivers that pass through her body and the way Jaskier twitches when she swirls her tongue.

When she pushes back to meet Geralt’s thrusts, urging him to go faster, he doesn’t fight it, letting himself be led. She takes Jaskier down with even more enthusiasm as well, and soon Jaskier’s pants become whines and his hands grip more tightly to the headboard. Geralt watches, fascinated, as Jaskier trembles and arches, making a series of filthy noises that spark something deep and primal inside him.

When Jaskier tenses and comes, Geralt can smell it, the salty tang of his seed flooding the air even as April swallows it down like the professional she is, and it’s overwhelming and intoxicating.

He thrusts into her harder, his control fraying, eyes drawn to Jaskier who sighs and stretches on the bed, soft and smiling, hair flopping in his eyes. She moans encouragements and Geralt allows himself to let go, to give in to what his body wants, drinking in the view of soft skin and a broad chest and long, dark hair and blue, blue eyes.

It really doesn’t take him long after that. His fingers flex against her hips and with a few final thrusts he’s coming inside her, shuddering as his release races through him, unwinding his tense muscles and flooding his body with a feeling of gasping satisfaction.

He lets himself luxuriate in the feeling for a few seconds, eyes scrunched shut, blood racing through his veins, limbs heavy.

When he opens his eyes he sees Jaskier looking right at him, studying his face intently. His heart is still racing and the warm, dozy sensation of orgasm makes him feel strangely vulnerable. He quickly looks away, something like guilt flicking through him, then pulls out and offers a polite hand to April. She thanks him with a saucy grin and stands to rearrange her skirt.

When Jaskier rolls off the bed and goes to fetch his clothes from the floor, April touches Geralt gently on the wrist. "Will you be staying long in town?"

"Leaving tomorrow. Duty calls."

She nods, understanding. "If you're ever back in the area, look me up," she says with what appears to be genuine enthusiasm. "I'm always happy to have repeat customers." She casts a glance at Jaskier and speaks in a low voice. "Though perhaps next time my presence won't be necessary, hmm?"

She looks at him like that's significant. Geralt has no idea what she could possibly mean.

[ficsnroses]

Weekend Away - John Wick x Reader

prompt  : “I think we were a little too loud last night...”

warnings : smut, fluff! x f! reader. 2.8k.

summary : john and you are away for the weekend with friends, and end up getting intimate one evening. however, the next morning, you fear someone may have heard you two getting freaky hehehaheha

notes : this is something I wrote a while ago, but didn’t think it would ever see the light of day. last night I pulled it out of my drafts and did a little editing, and here it is! please leave feedback if you enjoy. I really do miss being around here. hope everyone's doing well today xx 

I really wanted to post something for keke’s birthday<33:) happy birthday to the most excellent man I know, ilysm. I've been itching to post something, but haven't been able to bring myself to write anything new yet. I have a couple more stories like this that I wrote but never posted, I might release those while going through this writing/creative break. Thank you for sticking around, it means so so much :)

“You have no idea how hard it was to not rip your bikini bottoms to the side and fuck you right then and there, in the lake.” An aroused John whispers, deep baritoned voice rasped with thick need. Today, John and you had ventured out on a trip with some friends to a Cabin by your favourite lake; woody outdoors and crystal waters to bliss.

Soft, plump breasts and perfectly dewy skin, glistening under the moonlight. John sighs, remembering that this, you, in all your entirety, were his. All his, for the taking. Groaning into the silk of your pink stained lips, his tongue brushes delicately over yours, his lips leaving peppered kisses along your cheeks, your jaw, eliciting soft moans from you that only warmed him further.

In the woods, the breeze was different; beautifully élite; whisked winds laced with something that hungered John- the gorgeous views of you, his girl, enjoying yourself. Lately, John and you had been majorly occupied, busy schedules and endless work days leaving little to leisure.

This trip was with friends, yet more, for you and your John to be together; at last.

Now, in the midst of the midnight eve, John and you lay low in your shared bedroom for the stay; a beautifully wooden cabin room with expensive faux furred carpets, a breathtaking view of the pearly moon gazed out your window. John’s callous, sturdy palms worship each inch of your silky skin, kneading, massaging your feminine hips, meaty cock throbbed to a bulging poke; tender on your bare thigh.

Attributed to tiresome nights, complied with conflicting schedules; it’d been a while since John and you had sex.

Real, rough, pleasurable, critically needed sex.

And now, finally, he’s far too in love, far too intoxicated by your touch to stop, your own thoughts far too hazed to halt now. Underneath his nude body, you lay, completely wanton & exposed for his taking. Slow, tender, your petite hand strokes his rock hard cock, gently tugging him in preparation for what would come next. Synchronized, John’s breath sputters hot against your skin, full lips kissing delicately down the column of your neck. Mindlessly, he leaves faintly violet marks, marking your body as his own, personal paradise.

A place only he was allowed to pleasure.

“I’ve missed you so much.” You whisper, kissing a delicate bruise to his shoulder. Gentle, sensitive, your soft hand toys with his balls, massaging his cock. “I missed this,” Smirking, you smear tiny dew drops of his pre cum, bringing up a finger to lick clean, tasting the sap of his seed to your lips.

Salty, decadent; sinfully sweet. All yours.

“Yeah, kitten?” John softly, deeply whispers. “I missed your pretty pussy.” Sighing when you pull him closer, your eyes close to the feel of him kissing your neck, so mindlessly in love with all of you in this moment. “My pretty pussy.” He grins, a wet kiss stippling to your lips.

Slow, present, John’s stocky fingers move between your entwined bodies to rub soft circles to your slick entrance; your clit in order to ease himself in, preparing your cunt. With a sharp breath sucked in, and a glutteral moan enticed off his needy lips, John sighs heavily, your own gasp laced with anticipation when you feel him sink inside in one hard thrust. His thickness splits you inch by inch, your delicate walls barely able to accommodate him whole.

Being with John, has always been a treat. The way he loves you, offers your needs first; he fucks so good, makes love so well.

Arms loomed to his neck, you draw his body closer with a bite to your lip, his own bearded jaw tightening to the feel of your warm, deliciously wet haven swallowing him whole. The pace he sets proves imperative, rough, stumbling profanities and whispers of love fleeing both your lips. Your cunt burns deliciously to his thrusts, the feel of his thick, heavy balls slamming relentlessly to your seared core pushing you further over the edge. John’s chest is quick to heave, quick to daub a rosy hue with peppered pink patches from the heat; delectably satisfying relief, at last.

“Feel good, baby?” John moans, voice confident with sure; he was quite literally fucking you into oblivion. Eyes clasped shut to a tight hold, your mouth falls slightly a gape; genuine tears threatening to scorch when you feel the absolute bliss he’s channeling into you. Hard, fast, deep, so fucking deep he hits your end each time, your G spot grinding to his touch. Whimpering, you allow small, tiny gasps to plead out, hands placing to John’s ass to urge him in further, practically melting within his touch as he ventures to the valley of your breasts.

John adores your breasts, so full, so plump, so soft for his taking. Wet and warm, you groan to the feel of his mouth delighting your nipples, hands squeezing, kneading gently to the soft flesh of your modesty. To each jolt of his hips, your breasts bounce rhythmically, soft fingers of your hands pulling a tug to his coffee hued, lengthy strands. Massaging his scalp, you allow his head to take refuge in the soft curve of your neck, and he kisses the skin, sucking, nipping, appreciating the silk as his hips never falter; fingers moving to your cunt to rub, swirl, massaging two digits to your creamy released mixed together.

“It’s…it’s so good-” Yelped out your lips, a particularly loud moan shudders through the surround air, repetitive praises of his name reciting as if a prayer you so desperately needed to live by flows off your tongue; the syllables drenched with need. “So tight, sweetheart, you’re so fucking tight.” John moans, a feverish kiss to your mauve stained lips. “You look the most beautiful when you’re taking me the way you do, baby.” He whispers, wet marks doused into your skin. He pumps hastily, pounding your walls, and the slight curve of his massive length pulses; thick shafted veins and gorgeous bumps, ridges all felt deep, deep inside.

John’s cock is a piece of art. A masterpiece, you’d forever pride in.

Within a few particularly harsh thrusts, you yelp in pleasure as your orgasm washes over you, searing your nerves with blissful tingles as he fucks, pounding into your delicate, gently bruising skin, still chasing his own.

“Gonna cum,” John groans, and you clench your cunt tight for him, tight; just how he liked it. His hips roll selfishly almost, breathy moans appreciating your body immense. “You feel so good, honey, so fucking good.” He drills, and slams, and batters, into your sore pussy, your nails desperately digging bruises into his biceps as you encourage. “Cum for me John, inside, baby, let me feel you.” You soak, back arching, body jerking as you feel him burst inside; habitually pulling your body close as he cums. John’s cock stills deep, deep inside, spurts of his hot, delectably creamy seed slicking inside you as you sigh,

sigh in complete,

and utter, bliss. Bliss with your love close, nestled on top with your skin sticking together; your arms providing a safe haven for his sex gratified body to rest, coming down both your highs.

“I love you,” He barely manages, foreheads connecting as you hold each other close, lips twisting into warm smiles and tender giggles to the thought of being able to do exactly this, all over again, the next day.

Morning comes in warm, yellow waves of nothing, but beautiful warmth all around. You’d waken to the bed next to you empty, John’s vacant spot casting a gentle frown to your lips when you’d come to know of his absence. Sleep thickened eyes had barely fluttered open, tired arms searching, longing to nestle into his broad, beautifully comforting chest. Voices can be perceived downstairs, the bedside clock illuminating the time of 8:30 AM, aromas of floral dark and freshly watered pine exuding all around.

With a small yawn and a stretch of limbs, you’d climbed out a sea of rippling, silky duvet seams, opting to drape John’s long forgotten shirt from the night prior off the floor and onto your exposed breasts. In the heat of the moment, sleep had long pirouetted through your veins, and you’d only managed to slip back on a pair of lacy underwear before the bulk of John’s arms had drawn your body close, burying his bearded face into your neck with his own form tangling with yours, succumbing to a deep slumber, holding each other close.

The cabin was big, yet intimate. All of yours and John’s dearest friends had accompanied; you’d long know you’d be leaving this weekend with a suitcase full of memories and wishful remembrances, spent with people who meant to you.

Through a gentle smile and rub of drooping eyelids, you venture out your shared room, a bigger smile enveloping when the sight of your dream catches your glimpse from above the wooden stairs. John sits below, at the wooden dining table, a coffee in hand as his brown littered eyes gloss the morning paper. He looks beautiful this way, unbelievably handsome. You’d long come to appreciate morning John, ruffled hair a mess from the night’s sleep, with that special, raspy morning velvet voice that still sent butterflies rippling within you. Gently thudding down the steps, he smiles wide catching sight of you towards him, adorned in his white Henley shirt.

“Morning.” Smiling, your hands thread into the wisps of his chocolate hair, sinking into the depths of his lap as his arms come around your frame. His eyes seem warmer than normal, a glittering shine casting over each his features.

“Hi, baby.” John warmly grins, stippling a gentle kiss to your temple with the pads of his fingers grazing over your skin through a pull of your body closer. “Did you sleep okay?” He wonders, thumb smoothing over your cheek as a stray hair tucks behind your ear.

Still smiling a warm symphony, you sigh. “I did. Didn’t like waking up without you there, though.”

John’s lips frown, and a heaviness falls to his tone. “I’m sorry, I got a call earlier. Didn’t wanna wake you too early.” Explaining, his hand falls to cover yours that lays flat on his chest, softly grazing over the supple skin. “You haven’t been able to sleep in lately. I wanted you to have that this weekend.”

Moments like this with John prove to be your favourite; simple, mundane, enveloped in love. Moments where the laughter rolls up from his chest, and his smile shines a glow to each part of you that loves seeing him this way. Moments where you anticipate, dream of a future together, where you’d wake to him this way every day,

Smiling, and smiling, with perhaps your favourite book in hand and his head in your lap; full pots of earl grey brewing,

as you lounge on a Sunday morning. Smiling, and smiling,

        because of him.

Love drunk, you lean in closer, catching his lips in a warm kiss, smiling and smiling, into his lips. He tastes of espresso, light and mellow, and that something unique held on his tongue; something only he’d had, something sweet.

Lost in each other’s touch, you sigh as you pull away, moving to sit behind him on the chair adjacent, helping yourself to a sip of his ceramic mug. His hand plants to your thigh, gently soothing the skin while his eyes scan through the sea of words resumed on his morning paper read. You’d just gotten comfortable, sinking into the chair with John’s coffee coupled in your grip for another sip, as the voice of your best friend channels your ears.

“Morning, love birds.” She grins, walking through the wooden kitchen corridors. With a smirk daubed to her lips and a knowing simper your way, you’d immediately caught onto something shifty in her tone.

“Hey, Amy.” John greets, chuckling. With another sip of his coffee, that you’d devoured a good portion of, he kindly asks. “How was your night? Did you sleep okay?”

Amy’s lips curl with a knowing smirk, something you’d become immensely familier with over the course of your friendship. Knowing each other since the first grade, Amy and you were quite possibly as close as they come. John may have not been able to pick up on her alteration, but you’d been quick.

“I did.” Amy returns, shuffling through the cabinets for a glass mug of her own. “There was a little...commotion around midnight, but it wasn’t too bad.” She adds, eyes drifting to yours, a goofy smile on her lips. With your eyes narrowing and stare scrunching, your alertness raises, and you let go of John’s hand that had mindlessly been holding yours, removing it off your thigh. Peering up at your lips as you raise off the seat, John’s fingers tug your forearm, asking for a small kiss before you’d walk away. Embedding your lips to his briefly, you feel him let go of your skin as your eyes suspiciously cast over Amy, mindlessly shuffling through the kitchen space as she prepares herself a cup of coffee. You stay cautious, ambled up beside her as you check the fridge.

Something is off.

“We have cream, right?” She asks, offering you half her blueberry muffin, taking out a carton of eggs from the fridge.

“Should be in there.” You return, still thoughtful, attempting to study her whole. The longer you stare, the more normalcy returns, and you wonder if maybe your tired brain had merely thought there had been something off with her tenor. Easing yourself, you opt to give it the benefit of the doubt, opening the carton of eggs to aid her in making breakfast for all the others.

Still asleep, her husband James would probably be down soon; him and John got along pretty well, and double date nights were quite frequent between you all.

“How many should we do?” She squints her eyes your way, sighing. “Half the carton?”

“Sure.” You reply, relaxing into a more normal state of mind. “Make me a cup of coffee too please, I accidentally drank half of John’s when I got down.” You giggle, taking the carton from her hands. She chuckles an approval in response, gathering all the utensils and gadgets you’d need for preparation. Finally, as you lean over the cabin sink, washing your hands with the lavender scented soap, you hear Amy just behind your ear as she reaches beside you, pumping some soap into her own hand. 

“By the way, you totally have porn star moans.”

And your eyes widen. Shock and realization courses your veins, a horrified expression washes over your features as you allow her comment to absorb. Amy only giggles, chuckling, with her sarcastically suggestive voice teasing you further. “Sounds like Jonathan is real good in bed.” Just below a whisper, so only you’d hear, she titters, amused by your baffled expression.

“Oh my god, Amy!” You cease, slapping the back of your hand over her arm. “You should have texted me! Or knocked! What if someone else heard?” You whisper angrily, still slightly embarrassed. “Oh my gosh, did James hear?” You swallow thickly, rubbing a hand to your ached temple.

“Oh sweetheart, if he wasn’t snoring away I’m sure he would have heard too.” She laughs to your dismay. “Relax, our room was right beside yours. I’m sure no one else heard.” She assures, trying to provide some sort of comfort, but ultimately reverting to a deep, hearty fit of chuckles when she catches your nervous gaze once again. With a deep sigh, you escape her tease, leaving the kitchen with a few quick steps as you find your way back to John who sits by the window, still flipping through his newspaper. Slipping beside him, you sigh deep, before biting your lip.

“John,” You quietly alert, gazing around to make sure no one else would hear. His expression thickens, and his eyes fall heavier, sensing the unease to your features.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

Groaning, you bite your lip again, sighing with a timid realization. “John, I think…” With your eyes focused to the ground, you bask, contemplating, sighing. It wasn’t the end of the world; Amy is your best friend; you both know practically every secret there is to know about each other in the history of ever. Yet, there still was a lingering mortification, a blush that crept to your cheeks when she’d spoke of the night prior.

John’s heavier hand strokes over yours, comforting. “What’s wrong, babe?” And with a final bite to your lip, you whisper, grasping his arm.

“I think we were a little too loud last night.” 

John’s cheeks flush pink, and a goofy smile casts his darker features. He smiles a timid grin, eyes downcast as he lightly chuckles a couple huffs, thinking back to the night prior. “Amy heard.” You whisper, barely groaning.

John’s eyes scan the room, before he takes hold of your arms again, drawing your body in closer. With a sultry voice, and that beautifully deep, crisp gravel of his tone you’d come to adore, he whispers into your ear, smiling. “Well, guess we’ll have to be quieter tonight.” He channels, as you bury your head into his chest, embarrassed, yet smiling to the sheer wit of the situation. “I do love a challenge.” John quietly adds, bringing his muscled arms around your figure, whispering a few chuckles into your hair.

And as you gaze up, catching his silly grin and pink cheeks blushed to a peachy hue, you smile,

and smile,

feeling the warmth of his stocky hand slip into the seams of your shirt, gently soothing over your back, as his lips pepper a gentle kiss to your hair, still smiling. “Darling, it’s nearly impossible for me to be quiet, 

when I’m with you.”

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)

[19tozier]

wish you were sober (richie tozier)

warnings: underage drinking, mentions of sex, angst, pining, reader is an unreliable narrator at best

inspired by the song wish you were sober by conan gray

[losers + reader are 16+]

if someone were to ask you when you fell in love with richie, you don’t think you’d be able to answer them.

was it when you met him, thirteen and wild and so magnetic you couldn’t stay away from him? was it when you followed him into a sewer, endlessly terrified but trying to be as brave as he made you think you could be? was it when you looked at him and realized he had grown up right in front of you, and you hadn’t realized? or was it all the little moments in between, the mundane and the electric all in one?

you have no clue. all you know is this: you’re in love with richie tozier, and there’s nothing you can fucking do about it.

you bring your cup to your mouth, the edge of it pressing into your bottom lip. you don’t take a drink from it; you’re already a little buzzed, and you’re reluctant to get any drunker. you don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.

across the room from you, somehow perfectly visible despite the mass of dancing bodies separating you from him, richie leans against the wall, his arm around the waist of his girlfriend, who isn’t you.

you exhale as slowly as you can. inside of your chest, your heart feels like it is poised to shatter.

it shouldn’t shock you anymore. richie has a new girlfriend seemingly every month, a revolving-door of pretty girls that giggle when he kisses them and wear his jean jacket around school but ultimately never stay long. richie never offers explanation as to why they break up and you never ask. you’re afraid of whatever it is he might say. you’re afraid of knowing you’re not good enough for him if all of them weren’t.

you sigh. you’re such a fucking cliche. falling in love with your best friend, silently pining away as if it’ll make him notice you? you’d gag at the thought if it wasn’t your life.

a shoulder brushing against yours distracts you from your thoughts, and you glance over to see stan’s expectant face. he raises an eyebrow at you. “you alright?”

you want to scream. no, you’re not alright. you don’t think you’ve been alright since before you were officially a loser. but you can’t say that to stan, not without being perfectly honest, so you arrange your features into something resembling a smile. “what’s up, buttercup?”

stan scoffs. “you’ve been spending too much time with richie.”

will it ever stop hurting, the constant reminder of how close you are with richie but never close enough? “or he’s been spending too much time with me,” you say, sniffing arrogantly. the facade you put on sometimes is easier than breathing.

stan rolls his eyes. “sure, that’s it.” he pauses, squinting at you. “are you sure you’re okay? you look… upset, i guess.”

you snort, taking a sip of your drink as an excuse not to respond right away. your heart is in your throat at the idea of being caught. “you guess? gee, thanks stan.”

he narrows his eyes at you, his nostrils flaring slightly. behind him, bill is jumping onto mike’s back, laughing loudly. “shut up, you know what i meant. are you alright? seriously.”

you don’t give yourself time to hesitate. stan has a sixth sense for when he’s being lied to and won’t stop pestering you until you tell him the truth, and you’d like to not confess to him tonight. “yeah, stan,” you grin, feeling the lie like sawdust in your mouth. “i’m all good.”

he gives you a skeptical look, searching your face, but eventually he just sighs and nods. “alright, fine. if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

you nod back, glad you managed to escape that. “thanks, dude. hey, i’m gonna go grab a different drink, i’ll be right back.”

you don’t wait for him to say anything, or for anyone else to come with you. you just slip away, using the hordes of drunk teenagers to your advantage until you manage to get to the kitchen.

your shoulders slump, the smile you’d painted onto your face slipping away. slowly, you pour the rest of your shitty beer down the sink, opening the fridge and rifling around until you find a soda, stealing it before you can talk yourself out of it. whoever’s house this is won’t care, and besides, you think you need it.

when you leave the kitchen, your eyes fall to the spot where richie had been leaning. the wall is empty now.

pathetically, your eyes fill with tears. of course you know richie has a lot of sex, considering the self-satisfied smirk he’ll wear after getting fucked combined with the rumors that follow him like the perfume of whatever girl he’s seeing. the worst part is they aren’t even bad rumors; you’d lost count of the amount of times you had heard of how good a lover he is, or how his dick is as big as he’s often bragging, or how he does this thing with his mouth that feels like absolute heaven—

you’d heard enough. too much, probably. and it burrowed into your brain like the most insidious of weeds, sprouting thoughts you never should have let take root.

but of course richie was off fucking his girl. she was gorgeous, after all, easily one of the prettiest girls you’d ever seen, all smooth tanned skin and long blonde hair and hourglass figure. the kind of girl that richie deserved to have on his arm. the kind of girl that you would never be.

you knew this would happen. still, the pain of it takes your breath away.

you manage to stumble your way back over to the losers, greeting them with a smile that feels entirely too wooden. you play the part, laughing with bev and leaning into ben’s shoulder and gossiping quietly with eddie. you stick to your script, even when richie stumbles down the stairs sometime later with the girl tucked under his arm, both of their clothes in disarray and richie’s curls a wild mess. you’re such a seasoned professional that you barely miss a beat with eddie, even when your eyes find the hickey sucked under richie’s jaw and stay there.

for the rest of the night, you do your best to stay away from richie, always at least one loser between you two. you doubt he notices, too wrapped up in his girl. you think her name is sandy. she’s so beautiful it hurts.

eventually, you think it’s probably late enough that you can leave without raising much of a fuss. all of the other losers are still there, but bev’s already dozing against ben’s shoulder and bill is fighting a losing battle with his own drooping eyelids. you can probably slip out now, you figure, before you fall apart.

you manage to say your goodbyes as quickly as possible, waving as you turn to leave. you drove here with the others in stan’s car but it’s not too far of a walk. besides, the cold might do you some good—

a hand wraps around your wrist, jerking you back against a broad chest. when you turn, you come face to face with one richie tozier.

god, years later and he’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. his jawline is sharp and square, his shoulders broad and sturdy, a whisper of the strength he will carry as a man but no less impressive now. gone are the days of the dorky kid you first met; he’d long ago traded in his hawaiian shirts for jean jackets and ripped jeans, silver rings glinting around his fingers and a chain hanging into the open collar of his t-shirt. again, you are reminded of the rumors that constantly follow him. you’re just angry they didn’t think he was hot from the very beginning.

“where are you going?” he asks, his words slurred. he’d been downing the shitty spiked punch earlier like it was his job.

you sigh, tilting your head back to look at him. there’s another hickey just to the left of his adam’s apple. “home,” you say, simply. “i’m tired.”

he frowns, stepping closer to you. the heat radiates off of him. “but i haven’t gotten to talk to you all night,” he whines, pouting ridiculously. “i missed you.”

it shouldn’t affect you. richie flirts like breathing, with anyone who will entertain him. it’s just how close you two are that means his flirting is usually aimed at you. “sorry, rich,” you say, and you find that you mean it. “next time, okay?”

his fingers release your wrist, only to catch on the curve of your waist and pull you close. the heat of his hand burns through the flimsy material of your top. you’re so focused on trying to stay upright just from that simple touch that you almost miss what he says next.

“can i come with you?” his voice is low, rough, more of a growl than anything else.

you blink, stupefied. usually you’re quicker than this, able to keep up a banter with him that’s rivaled only by him and eddie. now, you’re left tongue-tied, the endless wanting inside of you threading around your throat and choking you. “what?”

“can i come with you?” he repeats, looking down at you with his pretty eyes. his glasses slide down his nose. you fight the urge to push them back up. “we can take my truck. this party’s kind of a bore, honestly.”

you swallow, feeling your heart stutter. “what about sandy?” your mouth is so dry your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth.

richie shrugs, casual as all hell and infuriatingly attractive. “she can last without me for a bit. i’d rather hang out with my favorite girl.” he grins at you, his dimples curving into his cheek.

it makes you want to scream. he says things like this all the time, calls you doll and baby and love like he has the fucking right, constantly says you’re the most important person in his life. and yet, he doesn’t feel the same way for you as you do for him. and he never will.

still, you’re a sucker for him. your lips curl into a weak smile. “sure, rich,” you whisper; any louder and your voice will crack. “let’s get out of here.”

he doesn’t even stop to say goodbye to anyone else, just crowding against your back and walking behind you the entire way out the front door. he’s so close that his chest brushes against your shoulder blades, his fingertips grazing over your hip. you focus on not tripping.

once you’re outside, you hold your hand out, not looking at him. “keys,” you command.

he laughs, full and bright as he digs his keys out of his pocket. “yes, nurse ratched,” he teases, dropping them into your hand. “right away, nurse ratched.”

you scowl at him, turning away to stomp your way down the block to where richie parked. it’s not a long walk but the late autumn night is chilly, especially through the thin material of your top and your skirt. you shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself.

before you can really react, richie’s shrugging off his jacket, settling the heavy denim over your shoulders. he’s just wearing a plain black t-shirt underneath, the cotton clinging to his biceps and chest, and you can’t tear your eyes away, even when he murmurs, “should’ve said you were cold, doll.”

the jacket smells like him: the apple of his shampoo, the warmth of his deodorant, the smoke from his cigarettes. it shouldn’t be a pleasant scent but it is, because it means comfort. it means home. it means your best friend and the love of your life.

your shoulders slump, your hand trembling when you finally reach his truck and reach for the driver’s side handle. “thanks, richie,” you breathe, climbing into the car before he can answer.

you don’t really know what he had in mind when he asked to leave with you, but you’re too overwhelmed to handle being alone with him for too long. already, having him this close is fogging your brain. you need to get away from him so you can fall apart in peace.

you decide to just take him home and walk from there. it proves to be the best choice, because not even a minute into your drive his chin is dropping down to his chest, his eyelids closing in longer and longer blinks until finally, he’s dozing in the front seat, big body curled in your direction. it fills you with so much warmth you think you are burning from the inside out.

it should be ridiculous, how much you love him. you should be at your limit for how much you have to give, capped out a long time ago, but everyday you fall for him a little bit more. whenever he does something particularly sweet, or funny, or attractive, you feel a little more of yourself crumble away to lay at his feet. at this point, you’re more fracture than glass, crushed into a fine powder under richie’s foot.

by the time you pull into richie’s driveway, he’s snoring lightly, his glasses knocked askew on his face. part of you wants to let him sleep, but the bigger part of you knows you need to get him into the house. you already slack on your best friend duties by secretly being in love with him, you don’t need to leave him out in the cold too.

sighing, you turn the key and shut the car off, getting out and walking around to the passenger side. you shake his shoulder, gently at first, then rougher when he doesn’t respond. he grumbles, swatting at you. you can’t help but laugh, shaking him again.

“rich,” you croon, shaking him with both hands. he groans, scrunching his face up. you snicker. “c’mon asshole, you’re too heavy for me to carry.”

he pries one eye open, glaring at you. “or you’re too small to even try,” he taunts back, sticking his tongue out.

you roll your eyes, tugging him out of the car. he goes easily enough, stumbling a little bit leaning into your side as you lock the car behind you.

you weren’t kidding when you said he was heavy. he’s just so much bigger than you, tall and broad and undeniably masculine. you try your best to take some of his weight with an arm curved around his waist, but you don’t think you’re really doing anything.

the lights are all off inside, richie’s parents gone for the weekend at some conference for his dad’s work. it makes you feel better about how you two stumble around in the dark, knocking into the walls and tripping over the stairs. finally, without much incident, you make it into richie’s room, depositing him on his bed before he can fall and brain himself on his table. his desk light is on, throwing the room into shadow but just light enough for you to see his face.

his curls spread around him on his pillow, his eyes already closed. he’s on top of his covers but there’s not much you can do about that. the only thing you can do is untie his boots and pluck his glasses from his face, letting him get as comfortable as he can with his clothes still on.

you stop, looking down at him. he’s almost angelic in his sleep, peaceful and quiet for probably the only time in his life. he’s so gorgeous like this, vulnerable, unguarded. it makes you feel like a creep to be looking at this without his knowledge. or his approval.

biting your lip, you turn to the door, only stopping when you realize you still have his jacket. carefully, you shrug it off, going to lay it on his bed when his voice stops you.

“keep it.”

you look up to see his eyes half-open, locked on you. the lamp throws his face into sharp angles and shadow, but the expression on his face is soft. his fingers stretch towards you.

“it looks good on you,” he continues, his voice barely more than a whisper. “you should wear it all the time.”

you don’t know what to say, frozen at the foot of his bed. it feels like everything you’ve ever wanted, before you remember that he’s drunk and out of his mind. he probably thinks you’re sandy. there’s no way he’d ever say that to you.

but he keeps going, his voice rough, smooth velvet over steel. “you look good all the time. makes me feel insane. just wanna touch you but i can’t.”

your heartbeat is pounding in your ears. through trembling lips, you manage to get out, “what about sandy?”

he shrugs, a tiny movement that feels unsure. you’ve never seen him shy like this. the fact that sandy’s likely the reason makes you burn inside. “she’s cool and all, but she’s not you. you’re my best friend, (y/n). i love you.”

you gasp softly, nowhere near loud enough for him to hear. your heart feels like it’s being pulled in two. “i love you too, rich. more than you could ever understand.”

but he shakes his head firmly. “no, you don’t get it. i love you. you’re my—you’re my other half. my partner in crime. i’d be lost without you.” before you can respond, he sighs and whispers, “wish you were my girlfriend. not sandy.”

his eyes slip closed the next instant. as you stand there, simultaneously turned to stone and burning alive, he gives a soft snore, his features relaxing in sleep.

you stare down at him for what feels like centuries, suddenly too old to move. you look down at the jacket in your arms, then back up to him. a loose curl lays against his forehead. your fingers itch to push it behind his ear.

“i wish you were sober,” you whisper. he doesn’t twitch.

you leave the jacket laid at the foot of his bed when you go.

(part two)

[sohin-ace]

Mista - By the Silvery Moon

Werewolf Mista and his vampire girlfriend.

I wanted some soft spice so I made my own food.

You laid peacefully upon your boyfriend on his bed, bodies pressing deliciously against each other with the odd feeling of your temperature difference.

Somehow, never was it unpleasant for you to snuggle on the overbearing warmth of your favourite wolf and neither was it for him to feel the ice of your skin, refreshing on his furry skin.

It was basically a routine by now. You both could only see each other at night time, and Mista was busy as ever. Loyal as he was to his team he always did his best to be present for them at all times, even though it meant not having as much quality time to spend with his lovely girlfriend as he would like.

Tonight was one of those rare nights. He laid lazily on his bed and you would always come lay on top of him, showering him with affection and his most favourite belly rubs and head pats.

You both stayed in comfortable silence. Sometimes, you'd strike some casual mindless conversations, and it was those small moments that made your nights together so precious. Just being close to each other, regardless of species.

In the mondane vampire society that you belonged in, you'd be damned to not marry a man of your rank and class, and Mista would be equally damned to not mate with a proper omega from his own pack. But both of you couldn't care less for these old out-dated traditions. Nobody hardly followed those strict rules anyways nowadays, except for the most conservative of people.

Who cared if a vampire girl and a werewolf boy had fallen in love? Who would even stop you? You found each other and nothing could ever change that.

You were laying your head on Mista's broad chest and caressed the bits of skin on his exposed stomach, making the male shudder delightfully as he held your small frame flush against him.

He never got tired of rubbing your cold back, wondering how you could live with such skin of ice. He also never got tired of touching your hair, the scent of you even more prominent in it, driving him absolutely crazy.

You carefully lifted yourself up to stare at your lover who looked blankly up into nothing in particular on the ceiling, but instantly shot you a lazy and handsome smile as your eyes met. Gosh, he was so cute.

"Hello beautiful." He playfully called out and you grinned at his uncalled spontaneous cheesiness.

"Hi sexy~" You giggled and you could feel his torso spasm under you with his deep chuckle.

You moved to climb up just enough to get impossibly closer to his face and he let you do as you pleased, spreading his legs wider to ease your access and loosening his strong grip around you.

You looked over him with a fondness that was reserved for him only, and he knew there was nothing else in this eternal world of yours that you looked at with the same adoration in your eyes.

"Woah..." He breathed out through a lopsided grin "Girl, your eyes always make me feel some kind of way, dang... Shooting fucking bullets with those red eyes, somebody arrest you before you kill someone!"

"Oh shush, pup." You teased at his dorkiness and booped his nose. He hated it when you treated him submissively, but he never stopped you either.

"Hey, don't call me that! You freaky bloodsucker." He glared at you.

Ignoring his thoughtless offense you made yourself more comfortable on him, your personal mattress for the night, and proceeded to smooth your hands over his 3-days beard, caressing his cheeks and admiring his chiseled face.

You did remember Bucciarati convincing him to shave more often because of how fast Mista's facial hair grew. Funny advice coming from a Mothman who was half covered in fluff himself.

You had to resist the urge to peck Mista's very inviting lips as you hovered over him, propping yourself on your elbows at each side of his head. As sweet as you looked and as cute as you were in his eyes, the poor werewolf could not be immune to your intimidating and pressuring natural vampiric aura.

It was always a blurry thing, the natural hierarchy of monsters and humans. People fought everyday to make this unfair discrimination and hierarchy disappear, but no one could deny the strong overpowering aura some species had over others without even controlling it. Vampires, demons, sirens, titans among many others. Species that could make anyone else falter underneath them with just one look, one word, one step.

He trusted you with absolution to never do him harm and he was confident in his physical strength and power to counter anything, but truly, the intoxicating anxiety your glowy red eyes could put him through sometimes, prompting him to sweat and tightening his throat...

That was hot as hell.

"Come on..." He murmured more to himself than to you, but seeing his hungry gaze on your blood red lips so close to his, it was more than obvious what he wanted from you.

And you obliged. First, pecking his lips in a million tiny blooming kisses, almost too cutely for his own likings. Your sugary little smooches way too innocent for his current needs.

Fortunately for him, you were quick to catch on, or maybe it was on purpose that you teased him, he couldn't guess. Your shy fluttering pecks soon turned much longer, slower and more languorous with time, much to Mista's appreciation.

He couldn't help his big clawed hands from roaming along your back, eager to having you pressed even harder against him if that was possible, never getting enough of you.

Mista was the vocal type. You knew it wouldn't be long until he started making noises that would either alert the neighbours, or alert the most sensitive bugfolks that would most likely come check the commotion and maybe try to bask in some nice lamp light too while they were at it.

So, before he could ask for more, which he was eagerly expecting, you moved your lips to kiss along the corner of his mouth, to his prickly cheeks, then traveled down to his jaw and neck.

He released a low and animalistic growl at your defiance and lack of cooperation.

"... What do you think you're doing?" He asked lowly, his voice deep and gruff as you showered his neck with some sweet loving.

"Nothing," you muffled against his skin and he shivered from your cold lips and breath on his sensitive skin as you sighed, "You smell so good..."

"You... You wanted blood?" He scoffed and clicked his tongue, "You could have just asked... You damn vampires..." Mista did not hide his disappointment, thinking you'd initiate in some hot make out session only to stop cruelly and feed on him.

That wasn't the case though. You didn't like to use your boyfriend for blood, and surely, it wasn't a procedure you took lightly either.

There were plenty of volunteers for that service anyways, and you preferred the person be both physically and mentally ready for you rather than just randomly partake in some unrequited violent neck biting. You wouldn't waste the short and precious moments with Mista on such trivial and unnecessary reasons.

"No, no, I don't want to draw blood from you. I don't need it, I'll just satisfy myself with your scent." You buried your face deeper into him, taking in the smell of his blood, coming strong, fresh and vibrant under his tan skin of musk. "Plus I wouldn't dare bite you with no preparations. That's unfair."

"You're too cute." Mista snorted and wrapped his long and sturdy arms around you, squeezing you hard and lovingly.

Godamnit, he wanted to be mad at you but you were so adorable and sweet, he couldn't help but feel so lucky and privileged to have you. Not everyone could brag about having such a kind-hearted, hot and brilliant vampire girlfriend.

But he could.

"I love you princess. But really, you can take from me anytime you want. We've talked about this already, cara."

You moved to look back up at him, your gaze soft. "No, it's fine. Not now. For now I want to make the most of the little time we have together before the sunrise."

He laid his head back in contemplation. That was right. You'd have to go back home at least 30 minutes before dawn to prepare for bed without being in danger. Nights were too short and Mista's weeks of work were too long.

"My poor little babe will be blood deprived..." He cooed half jokingly and caressed your soft hair, sympathizing with your struggles.

"It's fine. I get less and less hungry when I smell your delicious, sweet virgin blood."

"Vi-.... VIRGIN?!" He shot up, almost shaking you up, "Who said I was a virgin?!"

You laughed at his outburst and his eyes were horrified and wide as saucers on you as you tried to calm your fit of laughter.

"Hehehe hahaha! I can smell it! It's so obvious! Please keep it that way, it tastes great too. Very nutritious and easy to digest~" You commented, giggling behind your hands.

The poor male blushed, unable to counter attack truthful and straight facts. "Nooo...." he whined, his wolf ears flattening down against his head in defeat.

"Don't be down, amorino." You cooed and gently caressed his face, "You know I'm just teasing~. Let me make it up to you."

And as you said that, you snaked your finger in his curly hair, slowly massaging his scalp and eliciting a groany sigh from the male. That was his biggest weakness, besides you, of course. Gentle head scritches. No werewolf could ever stay indifferent.

Just having your long nails rake so pleasurably along his scalp and dancing around and behind his wolf ears sent him to a pure state of bliss.

"A-ah, Y-Y/N... Aah thanks... Feels g-great hehe..."

"So polite. What a good boy."

Subconsciously, Mista's tail bonked loudly the side of the bed repeatedly with excitement, like a natural response to the praise.

It was cute, you thought, how much he could act like a puppy sometimes. Even though he hated to hear it from you, and rathered appear strong, dominant and protective for you, because he could be just that for you, and keep you safe.

You kissed him again and he instantly caged you back in his arms, planting his claws on your back and shoulders possessively. He was so crazy in love for you and the realization that he'd be gone for another long mission without seeing you hit him suddenly, which prompted him to tighten his legs around your hips and effectively emprisoning you with his limbs.

With his mind filled with thoughts of you only, and feeling your body pressed so delighfully against him, he kissed you even harder, giving you all his passion as he was getting drunk off your ministrations and intoxicating scent, both fruity and metallic.

"Hmph Guido..." You moaned on his lips and he could swear you did it on purpose. "Slow down."

"You're testing my limits babe, I don't like that."

"Hmm... It's 5 A.M." You whined softly between his insistant kisses and love bites.

"So what? I don't see your point. Let me have you." He mumbled huskily and you had to push him down to let yourself speak without interruption.

"I have to go, the sun is about to rise."

He groaned in annoyance and went limp under you, defeated. You chuckled at his reaction and propped yourself back on your hands as he released you.

"Fuck... Already? We barely did anything..." He huffed, beaten by time itself which was stealing his girlfriend away from him.

"We did a lot actually. I fed you, we played games, gossiped a bit and cuddled for like... 2 hours."

"We had a tickle fight too. Can't forget about my victory..." He proudly added before smirking, "... And your cute little noises."

"Shut up!" You slapped his arm as you sat up. Oh no, he was going to rub it in again, you knew it.

"Kyaaaah~ stop it! Guido not there aaaah~! AAAAAHHH~" He obnoxiously wailed and moaned exaggeratedly with an awful girly voice.

"SHUT UP! I didn't even say that! I don't even sound like that! You're gross!"

After a few more, well-deserved slaps from you and a fit of laughter from him, you eventually got off of the boy and fixed your clothes, walking away from the bed as he joined you.

"Aww but really babe," He wrapped his long arms around your waist from behind and buried his nose in your hair "I'll miss you..."

"It's okay sweetheart," You craned your neck and reached behind you to hold his face, "5 days fly by fast. And Bruno is kind, he'll give you a vacation if you ask him nicely."

Mista sighed, nuzzling into your hand and relishing in your soft hold. He was probably being dramatic in your eyes, acting like each day was the last one, but he wasn't completely wrong. His work field was more dangerous than he'd ever let you know, and even if you did know, he was well aware that you weren't even close to being afraid of death as he was. Vampires were immortal, after all, werewolves were not.

"Guido..." You called out, voice careful and airy.

"Hmm?"

"Don't be scared."

The male pulled away from you and stared at you with wide eyes. Scared? Was your kind really that sensitive to other's emotions?

His heart raced and he stuttered. "Huh? What- How did you-"

"I can smell it Guido, your hormones are strong." You turned to face him and grabbed his huge clawed hands in your ice cold ones, looking tenderly into his eyes. "You know I would never let you die."

Mista gulped. You knew. Of course you'd have guessed, you were so perceptive. He was dense to believe he could hide anything from you. There was nothing he could say when you read him like an open book and pinned him into place with your confident stance and fierce eyes.

"I..." He huffed heavily, avoiding your gaze "I can never be sure, Y/N. I didn't tell you everything about my work...."

"I know." You brought his hands up to your face and pressed a gentle kiss on his knuckles, his fur soft against your lips. "But don't forget my abilities. I'll turn you into a vampire without hesitation if anything were to happen. If I'm not here, Giorno will do it, we've already established this."

Mista's eyes widened at this revelation. You talked with Giorno? Even though the blonde was only half-vampire, he did have strong healing abilities, but the werewolf wouldn't have expected the vampires would ever work together to actually revive any of the team members in worst case scenarios. Thinking about it, it may even have been Bruno's idea.

Mista scoffed, unbelieving. "You sly bastards... You guys know the implications of turning people into hybrids, right?"

"I don't care. I want you safe and to stop worrying." You smiled and pulled him closer to you. "We'll talk about this later. Now kiss me."

Pushing his worry and melancholy to the side, the male obeyed and bent down to capture your lips hungrily again, hugging you almost uncomfortably hard. Mista wasn't really one to hold back much, and only you could either handle him, or put him back to place.

"Get home safe babe. Call me when you arrive." He murmured, still craddling your face close and you matched his whispers.

"Will do. Sleep tight, cuore mio."

Not quite wanting to separate from each other, you hesitated to move and had to use all your willpower to actually start walking towards the window, Mista still holding your hand and following close behind.

He opened the window for you and helped you hop on the frame, the moonlight long gone to leave space for dawn.

You shot one last look to your lover and blew him a kiss, making him grin goofily, "Bye bye Guido."

"Love ya, Y/N."

And with those sweet words, you jumped out the window, only to transform into your bat form and flying off into the early morning sky, your presence and your scent still remaining in Mista's room, on his skin and on his clothes.

Certainly, he had nothing to worry about.

[prettyboy-parker]

favorite fics of 2020 (and a goodbye)

hi all!

first, i wanted to say this is inspired by one of my closest friends my bitch @honeybunstarker . thank u for that 

secondly, i wanted to say a final goodbye. i know that i nearly left a few months ago, but i was still on the fence about writing for marvel then. now, ive lost all interest. thank you all for fueling my love for writing, and making these past two (??? i actually don’t know) years full of excitement and encouragement! from the ups (the blocklist, secret santa) to the downs (my favorite blogs and friends deactivating without a word), ive had the greatest time in this fandom. 

in case you were worried, i am NOT deactivating. my fics will be available for you to read whenever you want.

but, i will not be writing for marvel anymore, nor will i be posting on this blog.

now that the sad part is done, i didn't want to leave you guys without anything to entertain yourselves with. so, here are my favorite fics, including some non-marvel, from this year! 

(all descriptions are from the work itself)

my top fic from this year, which is also one of my favorite fics of all time, is a dog named sunshine.

“Bucky Barnes has issues. Mental health issues, and a whole lot of them, to be precise. Bucky is fucked up, and he knows that. His apartment looks like a dumping ground on most days, he can’t sleep through the night, sometimes he doesn’t shower for six days and doesn’t leave the house except to see his therapist once a week. Mostly, Bucky has no idea how the whole “talking about your problems” thing is supposed to help him, but sometimes his therapist has some really great ideas. Like getting a dog. Which is how Bucky meets Steve. Steve has blond hair and shoulders as broad as Bucky’s future if he wouldn’t suffer from depression and multiple mental disorders, and a waist as small as Bucky’s self-esteem. Steve also has a yellowish dog with floppy ears called Sunshine. And sunshine makes its way into Bucky’s life with a bounce in its step.”

a modern stucky fic which portrays depression in the best way i have seen in a fic so far. unfortunately, it has been orphaned before being finished :(

starker:

hey baby, slip between my beta-pleats and get to know my alpha-helix? By @starkerforlife6969​ and @darker-soft-starker​

“Even though Tony can't tell the difference between Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo, Peter really has no other choice.

His heat is around the corner, so even though he loathes the party-going, booze drinking, smug playboy know-it-all that is Tony Stark-

He'll just have to do.”

if you asked me what my favorite starker fic of all time is, i’d tell you it’s this one

raising hybrid puppies by jaypendragon

“A non-powered Tony/Peter coffee shop AU with billionaire Tony and working-class, teenage Peter. Also, Toomes has a bakery and somehow Last Week Tonight is a genuine plot point.”

underage, slowburn, happy ending 

even though it’s one of the most notorious fics for the ship, i never read it until the summer. 

waiting for marriage by tuesday 

“In which Tony gets married and kidnapped in that order.

—

Tony Stark went to Vegas to cause a scandal.”

just super fun!

push you out (pull you back in) by @lovelystarker​

“So basically, Peter's kind of fucked. And not in the way that he wants to be-preferably by his mother's hot new boyfriend who has beautiful brown eyes and a disposition that's more than put-together. It wouldn't be so hard to ignore the crush, really it wouldn't, but Mr. Stark has practically moved in, so Peter can't avoid him if he wants to, and unlike his mom's past boyfriends, this one actually likes to spend time with him. So yeah, Peter's kind of fucked.”

just,,, wow. important to note that it is unfinished.

stucky:

you go to my head by alby_mangroves and brideofquiet

“Why would you do that for a man you don’t know?” Bucky asks.

Steve raises one slow eyebrow at him, then the other, till his expression turns from skepticism to disbelief. His forefinger and thumb reach into his shirt’s front pocket and draw out a wrinkled dollar bill.

Steve looks him in the eye when he says, very patiently, “For money, Bucky.”

40′s stucky is my favorite stucky

that boy is a problem by 2best friends

“In which a twinky little goth punk named Bucky puts a leash around Steve's dick and he's really into it.

(The leash is a metaphor. For now.)”

just porn

all the angels and the saints by speranza 

“In which Steve Rogers loses God and finds God and loses God, and also: Bucky.”

if it makes you cry, it’s probably good!

sugar sweet by colorcoated 

“College Student Bucky finds himself immediately attracted to Steve. He knows that Steve's a bit older than him, and that Steve himself is put off by the age difference. . . But that doesn't stop Bucky from wanting to climb him like a tree.”

the only slowburn i have tolerated 

my bucky by cleo4u2 and xantissa 

“Bucky finds a feral Alpha in the woods. Rather, the Alpha finds him. Bucky is sure it’s the end of his life as an independant Omega. It turns out to be the beginning of the strangest romance Bucky’s ever known.”

stony:

(i want you to see) the darkest side of me by ann2who

“In Monte Carlo, Steve meets the wealthy widower Anthony Stark. It’s love at first sight—at least for Steve—and he can’t believe his luck when Tony asks him to live at Stark Mansion, his large estate in Malibu. Never in his life had Steve thought something like this was possible… never had he been this happy. However, soon Steve realizes that Tony is still deeply troubled by the death of his first wife and haunted by the many ghosts she left behind. The longer Steve lives in her shadow, the more he understands that… He can never be what Tony’s wife had once been for him. And Tony might never truly love him.”

total mindfuck.

ironstrange:

let it be by lucifersfavoritechild

“While dealing with his son's car accident and a rapidly-dissolving marriage, Tony is drawn to Peter's surgeon, Dr. Stephen Strange.”

where severus snape is hot, not a stalker, and somehow gets the girl by utopiste

“Or: Peter Parker is sick and wants to cut his Neuroscience class. Tony just wants to help (and maybe date his son's hot teacher). Stephen Strange just wants to give his lecture in peace.”

miscellaneous:

geraskier: who needs plans anyways by NTK

“All witchers are alphas or betas by nature, since no omega has ever survived the Trial of the Grasses. Gerald has never had any problems with satisfying his needs on the occasional rut, for the whores from Poviss to Nilfgard were eager to be of service to a sturdy hunk like him. On the other hand, a certain omega/ bard/ occasional witcher tagalong has always made certain to acquire enough suppressants from local healers before setting out on a new adventure. That is, until the travels with his favourite White Wolf led the unlike pair into uncharted territory for longer than expected… life ensues”

philtriss: bound by sapphiresmoke

“Leashing involves a pupil being bound to their master in body, mind, and magic,” Philippa explained, folding her hands on the desk in front of her. “It is not something to undertake lightly, but if you accept, I will be able to share my magic with you, and instruct you in ways that would be otherwise be impossible if I were to only rely on verbal communication. It is intimate, it is at times invasive, but if you consent to this, Triss, it will make you vastlymore powerful, and from the look in your eyes, that seems to be exactly what you are looking for.”

vandermatthews: one more night like this would put me six feet under by jukeboxgraduate

“To be alongside the same person week after week, to share honesty and trust with someone day after day, is a rare treasure in a life that hinges on dishonesty. Hosea holds it close to his heart.”

din/cobb: every wave is a tidal if you hang around by wolfhalls 

“Din comes to Mos Pelgo, and finds a lot more than he was looking for.”

and finally, rough day by @no-droids​, because we all need to be a little indulgent sometimes.

[whosjunglejim4322]

Warnings: werewolf!au if u couldn’t tell, size kink, fingering, hints towards switch xuxi, big wolf boy in luv, reader is on the pill theoretically, mentions of yukhei being insecure, yall in love btw it’s sappy, he cums inside you

Werewolf Yukhei never thought that a person, a human of all creatures, could make him feel so delicate. Your hands are indescribably soft as they cup his warm face, your mouth concise and rythmic with each brush of your lips against his.

It's shockingly easy to be this way with you, the two of you lying together on his couch like a pair of tangled roots, his head just slightly lower than yours as he wraps his strong arms around you further.

He's always been too big, in height and stature. His lumbering limbs have always carried him with a sort of saunter, and though his face may be pretty, once people found out he was part wolf their adoration always fizzled into condemnation.

But you, you.

As someone who had coexisted with shapeshifters nearly all of your life, with close family friends ranging from Werewolves- like him - to Vampires, and even some Fae, he shouldn't have been surprised when you treated him as though he was no different than anyone else you'd ever interacted with.

He still remembers the first time he kissed you, in his car after the sun had already decided to rest and give the stars a chance to say hello to the onyx sky. He had wanted to do it all night, the need becoming an overwhelming knot in the pit of his abdomen.

He and his wolf alike were struck with the immediate sensation of buzzing all throughout his veins, and when he pulled away, he could see the reflection of his topaz orbs in your eyes, glowing.

He almost immediately covered his face, head in hands as he began to furiously rub at his sockets, willing the fire to go out behind his irises. He had almost seemed angry at himself, borderline disgusted and then your hands were gripping his wrists with a softness he had never experienced- you said his name as if it were something to be admired.

Something in him had felt defenseless, like he couldn't bear to pull away from you and see the sad pout that would surely form on your pretty lips.

"It's okay, hey," you brought one hand to his sullen face, soft fingers tilting his his chin towards you. "Open your eyes, it's okay Xuxi."

And he believed you, wholeheartedly. He didn't know why but he didn't care to argue, not when you used such a fond nickname without even a second thought, not when he felt so safe to be himself with you.

So he opened his eyes, not having to see them to know they were still illuminated in the darkness of his car. And your expression, fuck, it made his chest ache.

You inclined yourself towards him as if your body had no other choice, like it was second nature to want to be close to him, to be so enraptured. Your thumbs ever so gently had swept the area underneath his eyes, moving to the highpoints of his cheeks as you sat in awe.

"They're so...they're so pretty, like fireflies in the summer. They remind me of home."

He doesn't think he'll ever forget that. The safety he feels in your arms, like right now, it makes it easy for him to pretend like the world doesn't see him as this illusive predator shifter. Like he's just Yukhei.

You kiss him like he's the only person you've ever wanted, which isn't far from the truth considering the way he never ceases to take your breath away. There is a reverence between you two, and you find yourself kissing him with a bit more fervour as you relish in the fact that you get to hold him so close.

He picks up on the slight change in pace as quickly and as naturally as expected, one of his long legs lifting before he drapes it over your waist. He just needs you closer.

His plush mouth falters for a second, as he pulls away just enough to look up into your half lidded eyes. "Too heavy?" He asks, the rough timber of his voice sending more jolts of heat than necessary, through your abdomen.

"N-no." You hope he can sense that your shakiness is due to the flurry of emotions coursing through you, and not because of uncertainty. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards in amusement and fondess, silently answering your question.

Your lips find each other again as your hand grips the meat of his thigh, absentmindedly rubbing the area and reveling in the way his muscles twitch underneath the fabric of his basketball shorts. 

This small action has him accidentally groaning into your mouth, long fingers finding the softness of your hips as he pulls you as close as the space will allow.

You don't miss the feel of his stiff erection against your belly, or the way his wet tongue has become more curious as to how your mouth tastes. When your hands wander further up the expanse his lithe body and discover a searing hot patch of skin that has been exposed due to his shirt lifting, your fingers are quick to explore further.

It's not like you did it on purpose, ever so slightly raking the blunt of your nails up his side before exploring the firm, lean surface of his abdomen- it's just as much of a natural urge as it is for him to be rutting against you, like he is now.

You're sure you heard a growl rumble in his throat, and you're elated to see that he's just as worked up as you are- enough to not even notice and have time to scold himself.

For a second, your eyes meet, noses still touching and kiss bitten lips only a few inches apart as you catch your breath.

This time, a ruby set of irises stare back at you, and you know enough about his kind to recognize that this is either due to hunger, lust, or anger. And since you're almost certain he's not angry, and also know that werewolves rarely ever get hungry for prey while they're in human form, the last option is as clear as the obvious lust that is decorating his bronze features.

And so you kiss him again, hard.

He isn't as controlled as he was before, not scared to give in to his hormones or the desires that have him struggling to remain fully here. He's just so captivated by you, the sweet yet ambrosial scent that clings to your skin, the way your body perfectly curls against his.

He can smell your intoxicating arousal as it leaks into your panties, cock jerking in his shorts as you both explore eachothers skin underneath your clothing. He feels the thunderous beat of your heart against his own broad chest, along with the hardening bud of your nipples through your shirt.

"I want you...want you to be mine." He's breathless, which is hard to believe given his supernatural state, but he can't seem to speak in complete sentences. The energy between you two feels as if it's about to burst and ignite a flame. You feel it all over your body.

His raven hair is mussed by this point, skin hotter than a furnace damn near, eyes glossy. Something in you knows that he's not just talking about sex, the way he's looking at you.

His dick is pulsing against you, massive, inviting hands wandering your body as yours are his - but he speaks like he can't bear to let you go.

You quickly wrap your hands around the nape of his neck, soft hair tickling your fingertips as you bring him back in for another passionate kiss, his body shifting as he finds himself crawling on top of you.

The position switch makes it even harder for him, you're so soft, so beautiful as you gaze up at him and paw at his broad shoulders.

Your thighs are open and wrapped around his trim middle, the feeling of his dick against your center all the more tantalizing this way. It doesn't help when he does that thing where he ever so slightly- but purposefully- grinds his hips into yours as if he knows exactly where you need it. You almost forget you're both still clothed.

"You can have me, you know...I want you too." And it's the truth, you've never felt like this, he's so rare, so beautifully unaware and you want him in every way there is to want someone.

His eyes are back to his natural deep shade of chocolate brown, earnest in their surprise and incredulity.

"You really mean it?" You almost laugh in disbelief, wondering how someone like him can be so oblivious to your wide eyes of astonishment everytime you so much as glance at him.

But you know it's not because of his appearance, no, he's aware of how people look at him, how they naturally seem to gawk and wonder how a person can be unnaturally exquisite.

Still, you remind him. "Yes, of course you silly, silly boy."

And you're breathless again, his deft fingers moving down between your bodies to slip underneath the waistband of your leggings, swiftly pulling them off in an inhumanly fast motion.

Your compliance is immediate, a whine slipping past your lips as cool air breezes against your center, your hands clawing at his loose tee shirt in a haphazard attempt to remove it.

He reluctantly pulls his mouth away from yours to sit back on his haunches, lifting his lithe arms behind his back to pull the garment off of his body.

You're not prepared for the way your belly swirls with a new, overwhelming sense of lust at the sight of him so bare. He's warm, and firm yet smooth and inviting- you almost don't register the fact that he's too distracted to notice your reaction.

Not until you feel the warm pad of his thumb rub your swollen clit, both of you realizing, together, that you decided to forgo underwear.

He's got his free hand grasping the inside of your left thigh, holding it open as he practically salivates at the sight of you.

It's too much, for the both of you. There's so many sensations sending your nerves haywire, every inch of your skin tingling with warmth and desire. He can't believe you're so pretty, and his, and the awestruck, hungry expression that's on his face is what prompts you to reach out and grasp his sturdy hips.

"Please fuck me, Yukhei," he's pulled out from a trance into a new one, his eyes catching sight of the agonizing need inside of yours. "want you really bad."

It's unfair, the way he slips two of his long, delicate fingers inside of your aching heat as he leans down to kiss you like a man starved.

You moan properly, and loudly this time, the compelling sound sending him into overdrive as you find yourself suddenly being fucked by his fingers at a near bruising pace.

Even so, he knows what he's doing, and you have to grip onto his daunting shoulders for dear life while he curls the dexterous digits inside of you, touching your cervix and nudging your sweet spot.

He revels in it, the way you look like you're falling apart. His skin blazes to a new temperature and you're leaking onto him like a sweet dessert, soaking his palms. He can't help but to groan.

"Gotta get you ready if you're gonna take my dick."

The words alone leave you clutching after his thick forearm as he pumps into you, slowing his minisrations out of fear that his words might send you over the edge. He doesn't even mean to sound so filthy, at first. Until he realizes how quickly it almost made you lose it.

"Please, please give it to me now."

He sees how badly you need it, can feel it in the form of slick between his knuckles, and if he's honest he's not sure how he's lasted this long either- so he bashfully slips his fingers out of you and pulls his shorts past his knees, not patient enough to get them all the way down.

You see now why he needed to insert his fingers first. He's big. Long, a girth that would be painful if it were any more than what it is. But nonetheless, it's pretty, like the rest of him. The tip is the same, deep muave of his lips, and you reach out for it, needing to touch him as intimately as he has touched you.

He shudders, entire body twitching in pleasure as you wrap your hand around him. Your hand is so much softer than his, and he whines, a sound that has you clenching around nothing. His expression is one that you wish you could photograph just to relive the memory over and over on days when you two aren't together.

"Want me to fuck you now, baby?" You nod fervently, cheeks blazing at the nickname and the softness in which he speaks it. His eyes seem to light up as he leans down to kiss you, allowing himself to absorb every detail of the moment, not wanting to miss even a second.

As soon as his tip passes your entrance, you both know you're fucked. It feels too good, too fast, the stretch is intense but seems to add to the stimulation since your wetness makes the insert easy.

When he bottoms out, he forces himself to stay still for a moment as he holds himself up by his forearms, his face shoved in the crook of your shoulder, lips on your throat.

You feel him pulsing inside of you, and you purposely squeeze your walls around his thick length, whimpering in his ear.

"Please, please move Xuxi."

He doesn't make you wait another minute, sliding himself almost all the way out before pistoning himself back in, jolting you in the process.

He starts his pace, and you're not sure how long you're going to last with the way he's moving, like his hips are speaking to you in some other language all together. He's magnetic, curling his pelvis upwards each time he thrusts back into your sopping entrance.

"Fuuuuck, I'm all the way up there baby." He groans in astonishment, though it's like everytime he speaks your body reacts automatically.

You wrap your arms around his familiar shoulders and hike your thighs up further, prompting him to slip his hands underneath your knees and hold you like this, the position allowing him to fuck you with a new depth.

He refuses to move his mouth away from you still, his messy hair tickling your forehead as your mouths move with fervour.

The sounds in the room are lewd, the collision of your hips and his thick cock slipping in and out of your entrance, along with the smacking of your lips. It's hard to believe that it's all really happening.

"You feel-oh fuck you feel s-so good."

He falters only for a moment as he pants, losing focus as the sound of your voice sends chillbumps to rise across his skin. He hates that he's so close, trying his best to hold on, but you wrap around him so perfectly. He swears you are made for him.

"Gonna cum soon, I can't hold it." His voice trembles this time, and you cling onto him just as desperately as he clings to you, legs locked around his hips. His cock throbs with the need to release, and the sound of your voice as you whimper doesn't help.

"You're so big, Xuxi." The words tumble freely from your mouth, your tongue not able to be held as you look down in between your bodies to see him dissapearing inside of you.

It's like nothing he's ever felt, its all consuming, and even the wolf inside of him is wondering where in the hell you came from, to swoop him up and dazzle him like you did. He's never felt this type of pleasure before, it romances every nerve in his body, turns him into jelly.

It's when he thrusts at a particular angle and your face contorts into an image of pure bliss, tears of ectasy brimming in your glossy eyes, that he feels the coil in his belly finally unravel.

He stills as his lips part, the tip of his dick nudged against your cervix as he fills you to the brim, twitching as he lets out soft, sporatic moans through each sloppy thrust.

"F-fuck- mmm- oh fuck."

His seed is more abundant than the average human male, spilling from you generously and soaking your thighs. The feeling of being so stuffed along with the realization that he's whole and in your arms and you're both connected like this- it has you spiraling down after him.

You feel a warm tear fall down your cheek, the pleasure taking your breath- and your words- away for what seems like the hundredth time in just a short hour. It courses through your entire body and has your hips bucking slightly, skin sensitive to the touch.

He holds you through it, allows you to rock yourself against his half hard cock as you ride your high, his lips suckling any expanse of skin they can find.

He doesn't dare pull out yet, he's too content like this, and you haven't complained about his weight atop of you yet, so he selfishly allows himself to lie his head against your shoulder - button nose nudging your jaw- as your fingers run through his hair.

His arms wrap around your body like a cocoon, and you've never been so comfortable with somebody like this, the contact making you drunk.

"I always knew, you know." His voice is low and sleepy, his lilt genuine. Your breathing begins to syncronize, your fingertips tracing halfhearted patterns against his warm, soft back.

"What's that, hmm?" You reply, curious and with heavy eyes, heart nearly bursting with the adoration you feel fluttering in the pit of your belly.

He kisses your skin once more, gently, almost featherlight.

"That you'd be the one I fall in love with."

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Observation.

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairing: Mini!Yandere!OC/Mini!Reader. 

Synopsis: It’s like being the pet of a pet. Shrunken down, trapped, and isolated… There are worse things you could do than keep your head down and try to play happy-family.

TW: Shrinking, Violence, Imprisonment, Gaslighting and Mentions of Kidnapping. 

“It gets better, after a few days.”

His voice was calm, laced with an unidentifiable accent and heavy with a calm, complacent undertone, the kind you’d expect from someone talking to an old friend rather than another hostage. You’d only been awake for an hour or two, but if he was going to panic, he didn’t seem to have any intention of doing so in front of you. Rather, he’d just greeted you and offered an insincere apology before helping you to your feet, spurring you on with promises of tea and explanations, both of which he seemed in no particular rush to provide.

The strangeness of your current state seemed obvious, by now, even if it didn’t really make sense. Your host was normal, a man of few words and tan skin with the barest hints of a spiraling tattoo peeking out from just beneath his sleeves, but he was the only normal thing you’d seen so far. The kitchen table was too low, pushing against the tops of your knees, but your chair was too high, the soles of your feet barely able to touch the ground. The empty vase on the nearest counter was ornate, but plastic, the cheap, overly-decorated sort of thing you’d decorate a playroom with. Most of the cabinets were false, but the few that weren’t contained plates too thick and too wide, cups that were just too small to be held comfortably, silverware that didn’t feel right in your hands. They were tools for toys, faux-commodities for dolls that didn’t need to really use them.

Things for people like you, now.

You crossed your arms on the smooth tabletop, staring down at your hands. Trying to see if anything about you was different, as you spoke. “I don’t know how you can say that.”

“It does,” He assured, making no exceptional attempt to sound any more convincing than he cared to be. “The headache will start to fade with a little sleep, and you get used to making do. We have a lot, but there’s always something missing.” He paused, chucking under his breath, as if the minor inconvenience was his own, personal joke. “I think he does it on purpose. To ‘simulate the difficulties of real-life’, or whatever excuse he wants to use to explain why I’ve been doing laundry by-hand for the past year and a half.”

You stiffened at the mention of your kidnapper, the person who forced you into  their little fucked-up experiment. The details of your abduction were blurry, a nonlinear series of pricks to your arm and nonsensical threats you couldn’t quite remember, but you didn’t push yourself to recall much else. You had a feeling you wouldn’t like anything you managed to dredge up. If someone had the capability to make you into something so small, something so helpless, and the apathy to put you on display like a prized pet… You weren’t sure they’d be nice enough to make the transformation as painless as you’d hope.

“I don’t live here,” You mumbled, more to yourself than to him, although the stranger saw fit to hum in response to the admission. “In this town, I mean. I just moved here for a job - I didn’t even really want to, but I needed the money. They set me up with an apartment and everything.” A kettle whistled, and he nodded sympathetically. He didn’t turn to face you. “I didn’t even get to see it, not before I got… shrunk, or whatever.”

“New faces make the most convenient targets. If no one knows you, no one can look for you. Everyone you used to know is too far to do any good.” You sink into your seat. Somehow, his words of comfort did little to inspire much hope. “I think I was a tourist. I was passing through, stopping at a bar, and then--” He clicked his tongue, waving in some vague, dismissive gesture. “--this.”

You frowned, biting the side of your cheek. “Were you scared?”

At that, he glanced over his shoulder, sending you a loose, careless smile. You attempted to return it as he pulled a mug from the nearest drawer, preparing a still-boiling drink with the idle concentration of someone who’d done this a thousand times before. “At first, but as I said, it gets easier. You never get used to it, but the homesickness fades, and you find ways to keep yourself occupied. The only thing that’s changed is your size.” Your shoulders slumped, your attention quickly drifting back to your own self-pity, but a sturdy hand came to rest on your shoulder before you could start to spiral. “You’re not alone, either. You have me, and we will get you through this. In the meantime, drink.” A mug was delicately placed in front of you, the handle just a little too thick to hold comfortably. “It’ll help with the nausea. You’ll feel better once you clear your head.”

You only leaned back, letting him rub slow, soothing circles into your back as you lifted the mug to your lips and took a sip, if only to see the way his smile seemed to grow.

~

By the sixth day, you’d come to terms with the fact that you were, undoubtedly, in a dollhouse.

The layout was massive, but easy to navigate. The building was split down the middle by a spiraling staircase, the dizzying structure decorated with halls in either direction, all leading to bedrooms or bathrooms or spaces so sickeningly domestic, you’d come to think of the kitchen as a neutral zone. Most were unused. Leon’s (he’d introduced himself properly later on that night, once you were stable enough to ask) bedroom was tucked into a corner of the ground-floor, but there were signs of life everywhere. An empty cup left in an otherwise unoccupied parlor, a book abandoned halfway through, little things, but things Leon didn’t seem like the type to overlook.

The only aspects of the house that hadn’t been tampered with were the industrial-style security cameras, each protected by a metal box and a colorful array of warnings, and one of the spare rooms on the top floor, this one covered floor to ceiling with pastel colors and stuffed animals, things for someone much, much younger than you or the home’s only other occupant. You didn’t try to investigate further. There’d been a camera in that room, too, and if your captor saw you looking around, they might’ve assumed you were curious about...

You’d moved on quickly. That’s all that mattered.

None of the doors had locks, either. You’d only found two so far, a row of deadbolts on the symbolic front-door and a padlock on the basement, both of which seemed to be later additions. Currently, you were lingering near the latter, unsure if you should persist and risk the wrath of your all-seeing voyeur or leave it alone, live to dwell in paranoid anxiety for another day. A part of you was scared, honestly. Nothing else had to be locked away, hidden behind a bolted door, and if there was something you weren’t supposed to see, you weren’t sure you wanted to. If it was Leon’s secret, you couldn’t--

You never got to reach a conclusion. Without warning, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against a broad chest and pretending not to notice how quickly you went rigid. There was a laugh, a playful squeeze to your hip, and just as quickly as you were restrained, you were let go, forced to turn around and meet the dark eyes of your only companion. Leon was like he always was, cheerful and much too enthusiastic, despite neither emotion having an obvious motivation. Still, you fell into it quickly, attempting to mirror his joy. It was the least you could do, considering how kind he’d been, over the past few days. “I didn’t realize you were up,” He explained. “It’s still strange to have another person here. I wasn’t--”

Suddenly, he stopped, pursing his lips and scanning over you. His eyes never managed to rise above your neckline, though. “What do you think you’re wearing?”

It took you a moment to process the question. There was a closet full of clothes in the room you’d picked out, but you’d managed to avoid them, so far. Every piece was stiff, unyielding to shame or preferences, and the color scheme was akin to something you’d see in an ancient sitcom. It was a futile progression to dread, and yet, you planned on putting it off for as long as possible.

Judging by Leon’s expression, ‘as long as possible’ wasn’t for much longer.

“I didn’t want to change,” You admitted, a hand absentmindedly drifting to your wrinkled shirt, smoothing over the thin fabric. “It just feels… I didn’t want to, alright? Is something wrong with that?”

That earned a scowl. It took more self-restraint than it should’ve not to step back. “I left something out for you.”

You’d woken up to a pale-pink monstrosity laid out on the foot of your bed, still on a hanger. It’d been disregarded without a second thought. “I didn’t realize,” You mumbled, bowing your head just enough to seem apologetic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be a big deal… Does it matter?”

His scowl deepened, grew, but just as quickly as it’d come, Leon found a way so cover it up. It was there, but a second later, it wasn’t, an expression of disappointed sympathy sewing itself seamlessly into his features. With a gentle, patronizing sigh, he pulled you into another hug, choosing once again to ignore the gesture’s one-sided nature. “It does, angel, but we’ll make an exception this time, alright? When I do something thoughtful, you’re supposed to show me you appreciate it. That’s how this is supposed to work.”

You opened your mouth, thinking for a moment before closing it again. Suddenly, you were glad he couldn’t see your face. The concern slowly infecting it would’ve been… worrying, and you weren’t sure if you could think of an unimportant agitation to explain it away. “The basement,” You said, instead. “Do you have the key?”

“Don’t ask silly questions.” Leon pulled back, tapping the tip of your nose with his index finger. “Hopefully, that door will stay locked. I don’t see a reason either of us should have to go someplace so unpleasant.”

You nodded, and Leon took you by the hand, wordlessly guiding you back towards the center of the house, towards the spiraling staircase and towards your bedroom, where his selected outfit was still waiting, sprawled out over your comforter.

This time, you didn’t argue when he told you to put it on.

~

He waited three weeks to start sleeping in your bed.

It might’ve been an impulsive decision, on his part. It felt impulsive to you. One moment, you were huddled underneath thin sheets, just beginning to close your eyes and welcome the darkness, and the next you were wide awake, terrified and paralyzed as your mattress dipped, creaking as Leon moved onto it. If he cared that you were awake, he didn’t make an effort to show it, only sliding under your sheets and throwing an arm over your waist, holding you with a practiced intimacy, an undeserved intimacy. The kind of closeness you didn’t want any part in.

“Leon,” You mumbled, much too quietly to be taken seriously. As if there was anyone else you should be afraid of waking up. “Are you alright? Why--”

“Hush, now.” His voice was low, but not tired. Perfectly awake. Perfectly aware. More of a half-hearted threat and a command made out of fatigued necessity. “Sleep, sweetheart. Don’t ask questions.”

He closed his eyes, his forehead coming to rest against the nape of your neck. You didn’t.

~

“I see you're fond of your new companion”

Elias didn’t make an effort to pose the sentiment gently. He seemed bored, if anything, his chin resting on his fist as he stared down at you and Leon, seemingly numb to the oddity of talking to two people that barely measured up to his thumb. He’d been generous enough to let out of the dollhouse for - as Leon affectionately put it -  the ‘monthly check-in’, or… onto the table it rested on, at least.

It was disorienting, seeing the space that surrounded your world, all bare walls and scientific instruments you couldn’t identify, sterile but cluttered, like an unused room in a very lived-in home. Elias was nothing special, either, not the ominous, foreboding figure you’d imagined. He seemed average, if anything, a pair of black glasses and a head of unruly hair making for a rather unimposing figure. A captor, but not an intimidating one. A man with a hobby that just so happened to need a few unwilling volunteers.

Of course, that didn’t stop you from shrinking into Leon’s side when his gaze shifted towards you.

“They’re good company,” Leon answered, his composure never wavering. Why would it? He’d done this a thousand times before, and as far as you knew, he and Elias got along. As well as a captor and their captive could, anyway. “To tell the truth, I’m starting to think I’ve been here too long. I was almost glad this one wasn’t so stubborn, after last time.”

You felt your throat go dry. “Last time?”

“I don’t want to have to deal with another incident,” Elias warned, brushing off your question as if it’d never been asked. “You got along with your other roommates too, at first. Everything’s wonderful and terrific and perfect, until I come to check on you and find one less participant than I should.” He pursed his lips, shaking his head as he let out a noise of frustration. “I can move (Y/n) to another enclosure if this isn’t going to work. I don’t want to lose resources because you don’t get along with them.”

Leon gasped, pressing a palm to his heart in a show of betrayal. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to make a joke or distract you from the topic at hand. “I’ve never done anything that wasn’t necessary. You told me to take care of my home, and I am. I shouldn’t have to suffer because you have poor taste.” Elias rolled his eyes, and Leon laughed, slumping against you, intertwining his fingers with yours mindlessly. “You picked a timid one, and they’re coming along nicely. I don’t plan to waste such a rare opportunity.”

“Are you sure?” Elias asked, leaning back in his chair and fishing for something on the floor at his feet. A notepad, but you couldn’t make out what was written on it. “I’d hate to disagree, but your track-record says otherwise. I’m patient, but I do have my limits, Leon.” 

He glanced towards you for the first time since the start of their conversation, keeping you in the corner of his eye. “(Y/n)’s going to behave.”

You didn’t know whether or not you should correct him.

~

You should’ve corrected him.

“No,” You spat, not bothering to hide your disgust. It was a terrible feeling, a vile sense of wrong, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to be surprised. Everything about Leon was telling, from the grimace pressed into his lips to the anger in his eyes, bright and fiery and terrible. Unconsciously, you pressed yourself against the tiled wall, gripping your towel a little tighter. It was the only barrier between him and you, and by god, you weren’t going to give it up. “Get away from me. Don’t touch me.”

“You’re being irrational,” He said, crossing his arms and taking a step closer. You considered making a run for the bathroom door, but you doubted you’d be able to reach it before he reacted, catching you and doing something worse than staring you down. “Couples bathe together. It’s normal, you’re just--”

“We’re not a couple!” It was the first time you’d yelled at him, the first time you raised your voice, and Leon didn’t try to hide his offense. He edged closer, but you were quick to press yourself against the wall, to bare your teeth and try to make it clear he couldn’t intimidate you just by existing. Not again. “We’re captives. We were kidnapped, I was kidnapped, you were kidnapped. You can’t keep acting like this is normal, and you can’t expect me to. I’m not just going to sit back and play nice while you--”

“I don’t think I like your tone,” He warned, his eyes narrowing. The shower was still running, hot steam beginning to fill the room, but Leon didn’t seem to feel the need to turn it off. You’d barely had time to cover yourself before he came in, your hair and your skin still dripping, but you were glad you had. If only to protect the few traces of dignity you had left. “Stop,” He ordered, grimly. “You’re going to say something you regret.”

That was your sign to back down. That you should give him what he wanted, or at the very least, do your damnedest to make sure you weren’t the reason he didn’t get it. When he stopped trying to patronize you, it meant he was mad. And when he was mad…

You tried not to think about what happened when Leon got mad.

You should’ve backed down, but you didn’t. You didn’t want to let him have his way. “You don’t even want to get out of here, do you?”

Grit teeth. A locked jaw. Your second warning. “You shouldn’t--”

“I shouldn’t ask questions?” You cut him off without hesitation. “What do you not want me to ask? What are you so scared of my finding out? That you like feeling powerful? That you want to be in control? You can’t lie to me, I’m the one that has to deal with you. All your rules and your comfort and your fucking clothes.” You forced yourself to stop, to take a breath and seek out the same composure Leon was so good at maintaining. He took the chance to make his argument.

“You’ve been here for a month, I’ve been here for nineteen. You don’t know what it’s like when Elias doesn’t get his way. You haven’t had to deal with that because I’m helping you.” Another step. He was practically breathing down your throat, now. “You should be grateful.”

But, you didn’t want to be grateful. You wanted Leon to stop acting like you should be.

You swallowed, letting the silence grow tense before you broke it. “Someone was here before me.” He made no move to interrupt. You persisted. “What happened last time?”

He flinched, and made no attempt to hide it. You didn’t need another warning.

You lunged to the side, aiming blindly for the door, a weapon, anything that could help you escape or fight or act. Leon was faster than you, though, and much more practiced. A fist closed around your shoulder, blunt nails tearing into your skin, and just as swiftly, a heel found its way to the back of your knee, sending you crashing to the ground, something in your ankle cracking as you collapsed. You were slammed into the unforgiving floor, your cheek soon pressed against the cool surface and Leon’s body bent around yours, his weight and his strength keeping you pinned down. Weakly, you tried to push yourself up, but Leon only growled, his resolve strengthened and his grip iron-clad. There was nothing you could do to squirm away, not unless he had a sudden change of heart

“Bitch,” He spat, letting out a string of less specific profanities under his breath. “I took care of you. I kept you safe. All you had to do was let me.”

You didn’t respond. Leon sighed, but his hold on you never loosened.

“You still want to know what happened, don’t you?” He sounded defeated, exhausted, but that didn’t stop him from kissing your shoulder as you struggled to nod, the gesture both fleeting and far too prolonged, at the same time. He pulled back, but didn’t let you go, only scanning over you with the same tight, loving smile he always wore when he was about to do something awful.

You’d never thought that smile would make you feel so sick.

“You’re about to find out, angel.”  

[fallinnflower]

lucky one(s)

jackson x reader (soulmate!au)

a/n: omg what’s this? me finally filling a request?

Your soulmate’s name is Jackson. 

He speaks at least five languages fluently, has a body you thought could only exist in magazines, and is simultaneously the most and least intimidating person you’ve ever known. 

You’ve only met him in your dreams, but that’s how everybody does. 

Most people start dreaming of their soulmate around the time puberty hits. Early dreams tend to get interrupted fairly often, usually cutting soulmate meetings short — over time they find some regularity, but that could mean months or years of faulty connections. Some people like to construe that the quickness with which a bond stabilizes serves as a forewarning to the stability of the relationship in the long run. If that’s true, and you’re not sure you believe it is, then you and Jackson must have one of the most stable soulmate bonds in the world. 

Jackson is a stable person, to be sure — he’s been your rock since you met, always ready to provide whatever you need the moment you enter your shared dreamscape — but as for yourself, you’re less sure. 

The thing about Jackson is that he’s so wonderful you can’t imagine him being anything but a dream. 

You and Jackson don’t live in the same place. 

The bond doesn’t keep you from sharing personal information, perhaps because human inhibition is enough to keep most people from blurting out a street address and most pre-teens can’t just buy a plane ticket to their soulmate. If anything the bond being the way it is pushes the meeting date further out for most people, as it’s so convenient. 

You and Jackson have always spoken about meeting, the abstract when forever a topic of conversation. He’s ambitious, hyperactive and optimistic while never overstepping your boundaries, but it’s his patience that always makes you feel the most guilty. Jackson is the ever-present Sun at the center of your universe, waiting for you to orbit close enough to him to satiate his thirst for more. 

He’s eager as ever tonight when you approach him, practically vibrating in his seat. 

“So?” He asks, dark eyes blown wide in anticipation. You bite down in your lip to try and keep yourself from giving away the news so soon — you have to admit it’s a little fun to keep Jackson in suspense at times like these. 

“Well...” you start, tugging at the sleeves of your sweater as though you’re nervous. Jackson leans off his chosen seat towards you, craning his neck, and you can’t hold your smile back any longer. 

“I got in! I’ll be going to Korea next semester—” Before you can continue, your breath is knocked out of you by the force that is Jackson, sweeping you off your feet and into his arms. 

“I knew it!” He says, spinning you excitedly. You think he’s even more pumped than you were when you read the email mere hours ago. He sets you down but his hands stay on you, reaching up to cup your face in his hands. His dark eyes are curved like his smile, and for a moment as his thumbs brush gently along your cheekbones you think he just might kiss you—

Instead, he draws you into his arms again, clutching tightly at you. 

“I knew you could do it. They’d be stupid not to accept you.” You giggle against his chest, nuzzling your face into his shirt. 

“Thanks.” You allow yourself to bask in his presence, memorizing as you do almost every night his scent and the shape of his body as it fits against yours. You’re so focused on this that if it weren’t for the rumble in his chest, you may not have noticed he was speaking again. 

“You know what that means, right?” He asks, lowly. You furrow your brows but remain in his arms, content. 

“What?” You ask. Jackson gently cards his fingers through your hair, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. 

“We’ll both be in Korea,” he states, simply. Suddenly, you feel choked up again for an entirely different reason. Jackson’s body makes it too warm, too hard to breathe, and you wrench yourself out of his grasp until the only connection is his hands on your shoulders, gazed locked. His gaze is too intense to hold, and so you look away, fidgeting nervously. 

“Jackson...”

“I know it’s scary, Y/N, but—”

“I don’t know,” you interrupt, still unable to look up at him. He gives your shoulders a squeeze, imploring, and you press your trembling lips into a thin line. 

“What are you afraid of?” He asks. When you don’t reply, he lowers his voice and his body, coaxing you, making it easy like he always does. 

“Talk to me, Y/N.” There’s an unspoken please hanging in the air, and you can’t hold the tears back any longer. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, and the moment you feel Jackson’s fingers brush against your cheeks you open them again — this time to the ceiling of your bedroom. You turn your face into your pillow, trying in vain to stop the tears. 

“I’m afraid,” you breathe shakily, sheets rustling as you curl in on yourself. “I’m afraid of disappointing you.”

Who’s to say when you orbit closer that Jackson’s light it won’t simply illuminate your flaws and leave you burned?

Only the silence follows in reply. 

You put off going to sleep for the next few days, stalling the inevitable meetings with Jackson. He’s not pushy, never pushy, but you can’t bear to see the look in his eyes. Jackson wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s not the type to say it, but you know you’ve let him down, and it breaks your heart even as you think it’s the best way. 

You always dreamt of meeting your soulmate when you were your best self. Even if Jackson is meant to see you through everything, you want to be what he deserves, someone as shining as he is seemingly without even trying. 

You should apologize. You think about it all the time, but the words get lodged in your throat so that all that escapes your lips are pleasantries and trivial bits of conversation, parading yourself around the elephant in the room like a carousel horse. 

Most nights he just stares at you intently, letting you blather on about whatever you want. Sometimes you wonder what he sees in you, who and what you look like to him. Jackson is a beacon of light for you, a soft place to land and a sturdy supporter — and what are you? Especially now that you’ve shown him your weakness, you wonder what he thinks, wonder if he’s not pressing the issue because seeing your childishness has changed his perspective so drastically he no longer wants to meet you. 

Things are so easy in your dreams. You can be any type of yourself you want to. He doesn’t have to see you at your lowest if you don’t want him to, you don’t have to be totally honest — and have you been? 

You’ve been lying by omission. For all the years you’ve known him you’ve tried to prove yourself capable, independent, worthy of his love, and yet the moment that you should have taken initiative you backed down in an instant. A shrinking violet beneath the sun’s warm, welcoming rays. 

You wake up every morning more exhausted than the last, more disgusted with yourself each time. The words to explain yourself won’t come, because even as you know Jackson to be open and loving and wonderful you can’t help but fear the repercussions of saying “I’m afraid I won’t be what you want me to be. What you deserve.”

So you stick to your silence and Jackson does the same, falling further and further out of sync with one another until some nights are spent purely in silence. 

“My flight is tomorrow.”

“Be safe,” he says. All the lines of his body speak to his desire, and his eyes especially implore you in the same way a child’s might. And yet he remains respectful of you as ever, even to his own detriment. You swallow thickly, nodding. 

“I will.” The silence is heavy. You think you might just be crushed under the weight of it, buried alive in your sleep. 

“Do you—” Jackson cuts himself off, shaking his head. He looks back at you with a sad attempt at a smile. “Never mind. Just, enjoy yourself, okay?”

“Thank you.”

You go to Korea. You rush to settle yourself in at Yonsei, to learn the ropes so that you don’t get swept away by the tides of classes, and yet you’re never as prepared as you want to be. 

It’s only his back that you see and you know that it’s him. You’re not ready, you tell yourself, and yet you can’t bring yourself to walk away. Instead, you stand dumbly on the edge of the sidewalk as the sun rises above the horizon, lingering near the door of the cafe you were about to enter. 

You will yourself to run. You will him to turn to you. 

He’s walking amongst friends, most of whom you’ve probably heard of over the years of spending every night with Jackson. He turns his head to look at one of them and you catch him in profile, the slope of his nose and the curve of his cheekbones, the smile lines at the corners of his eyes you know all too well. He’s more beautiful in person, somehow, and you feel tears springing to your eyes, your heart swelling so you think it will burst and then the shell of you will float away on the wind. You can taste his name on your tongue but can’t seem to open your mouth. 

And then he looks back. 

Someone bumped into him, and it’s as his eyes leave their face after assuring them everything is alright that his eyes catch on yours. 

You swear, the world stops. 

Suddenly he’s pushing back through the crowd towards you, his expression unreadable, and you begin to worry about your hair and your clothes and the stupid look on your face—

Jackson comes to a stop right in front of you, not touching but certainly close enough to. You feel frozen, soaking him all in desperately and trying to get some kind of grip on reality. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. Your heart sinks, gaze dropping as your knees go weak; you were right to be worried—

“Oh my god, you’re here. You’re really here.” You whip your head back up and see that his own eyes are brimming with tears, in contrast to the broad smile on his face. If you’d thought you were emotional before, oh no. 

“Don’t cry,” he implores gently, reaching towards you with trembling hands before hesitating, and that’s all it takes for you to step forward and wrap your arms around him. You can hear his heart pounding just as fast as yours where you press your ear. 

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, muffled by his shirt. His arms quickly tighten around you, and you can feel him shaking his head. 

“What for?” He asks, laughing. 

“For being stupid,” you reply. Jackson pulls away, wiping at your tears and only making you cry even harder as his tenderness. He looks so happy to see you that you can’t seem to do anything but cry at the emotional high of it. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. You’re not stupid, you shouldn’t talk about yourself or your feelings that way.” You shake your head, sniffling loudly. 

“I just— I thought— I don’t know, I thought you wouldn’t like me in real life—”

“I’d love you no matter what, Y/N,” he reassures you, tilting your face up to look at him. “But I understand. I was scared, too.”

“You were?” Jackson nods, laughing. 

“Of course.” You take in every inch of his face as he gently tucks some errant strands of your hair behind your ears. The dark brown of his irises seem to be aglow with fondness, and although you think your heart should be skipping beats instead you find yourself enveloped in a calm like you’ve never known — although you still feel giddy as you gaze up at him. 

“I’m so lucky,” he murmurs, as though his thoughts are your own, his eyes finally making their way back up from tracing the contours of your face to meet your own. 

“Can I kiss you?” You can’t keep yourself from smiling, your response coming out on an excited breath as you’re already leaning in to meet him halfway,

“Absolutely.” 

As his lips press softly against your own, bodies molding together, you can’t help but think that you’re the lucky one. (And maybe people are onto something with that whole stability of soulmate bonds thing.)