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1800titz · 8 months ago

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The vacay piece I teased ages ago. One night stand :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: p-in-v, oral, brief size kink (if you squint), praise kink, this one’s p vanilla.

WC: 2.5K

It starts like this:

A bohemian beach with a high riding tide, where ripples surge and flood the shore. Sand tears from its home, coasting the verge in the breeze like a fog under the overcast, and when the clouds split open, the rays hug her skin.

She’s sprawled over a chaise lounge in a little red thing that’s all skimp and no cover besides the intimates. When she rolls onto her side and tips to her tummy, he eyes the flash of skin behind dark tint. His arms brace over the porcelain border of the pool that overlooks the beach up ahead — he’s watchful from a distance. Someone swims up to the bar behind him. Chlorine laps at his back, teeming over the grout between the tiles as he wraps his lips over a straw and nurses something cobalt and strong.

By the time he culls a second one, she’s up, all glistening skin in the sunshine, hips swaying as her toes make doughy prints in the sand. She trails to the sea, and the ocean eats her until she’s just a little silhouette in front of his sunglasses with water-slicked hair and lines that cinch and swell in all the right places.

He sees her like that, outlying his bubble, in brief pieces like the flashes of skin. Fragments in the horizon, like the border of a stranger’s leg in the background of a photograph. He sees her in slivers where eyes interlock from across the room and linger. This bohemian summer is painted in teal, and it’s waves swathing the coast, warm skin coated in cocoa butter.

It ends on a night where the teal metamorphose indigo, and then nearly denim, with orange on cords, glinting like miniaturized, splintered orbs of the sun have been caught to glare forever on strings in the night. Harry sees her through that indigo, this stranger’s bare leg waltzing in the depths of his touristy snapshot, mingling in the dancing horde. He trails closer, shouldering through the throng and squeezing through in polite gaps, and she twists like it’s fate — just enough to smuggle a glimpse in her peripherals.

Eventually, Harry leans in to murmur, “What are you drinking?”

The plush of his mouth ghosts over the cartilage there, and his cadence smooths over like honey, low and deep over the pounding bass of the music. Waned tobacco and spice; a warm, pleasant musk in the flurry of scents.

She doesn’t immediately respond, observant like she’s weighing whether the invitation is worth entertaining. It only takes a second. Then, there’s a hand over his pec, like she’s already made friends with the filth of his intentions. His red-lycra-skimp mystique rolls up on her toes.

Harry twists his head just enough for her to respond, “It’s a Blue Lagoon.”

Saccharine — rich and lux and smooth, something that has her skin glowy and sweeps up her throat, tucks behind her ear, enough so that the scent billows off with the motion of her hair as she flips it over her shoulder.

Harry casts his gaze to the drink. A red straw is tucked into the ice, and the only remnants of the beverage mingle at the bottom. The ice shimmers in faded teal, much like water sloshing over the flat tides. Her fingers cradle over the cup, and that’s where soft, thin lines of gold coil. Despite the broad array, there’s no wedding band.

“Can I grab you another?”

That’s when she does the thing; this patently flirtatious, brazenly get-under-my-crocheted-midi-skirt sort of thing, lashes coy in their sweep and eyes innocuous as the tips of her manicured fingers pinch at the straw and siphon it to her mouth. There’s an elegant presentation to the polish — neat, short lines with a nude base and a white tip.

The remnants of the beverage vanish until all that’s left is crushed ice painted with blue curaçao. Harry watches the straw. He watches her lips, the way they unlatch and the way the pink tip of her tongue offers a glimpse before it hides away behind her front teeth.

When she pulls the drink away, she tips her head — an inclination for his ear again — and when he ducks his chin for her answer, she tells him, “Can you make it worth my time?”

A tongue swipes — his — like it’s already hungry and yearning. Dimples form beside the curling edges of a mouth after the pink muscle retreats. Home in its hungry cavern; limitlessly craving. He doesn’t bother going for her ear again, instead opting to fix eyes that have wandered, all week, onto her face. Definitive, close. Mesh of saccharine and spice.

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Harry assures.

His eyes are virid, even in the indigo, under all the miniature suns as the lanterns throw them back into a roll of blue — it climbs over the crowd and seeps with the music. They’re virid and intent. They’re virid, and there’s something lewd that dances in the mottled talc.

She watches him. A set of eyes flits to his mouth and stays, brief like a fragment. She nudges the cup — the fragment splinters and fades — extending it against his chest until he raises his hand and his ring clad digits curl over it slowly, wet with condensation.

“Blue Lagoon,” sweet mystique reminds him, a little curl to her mouth.

Harry heads to the bar. He orders a Blue Lagoon and refreshes his tequila. Double. He winds through the half-clad crowd, prodding and slipping through sweat-slicked bodies until he finds her again.

He makes it worth her while when they’re dancing, when her arms are slung over his shoulders and the tips of her fingers graze at the little curls at his nape, like an intimacy beyond a summer fling, or maybe like a restless hunger — its touches only test the waters with dips of toes under lapping ripples. He makes it worth her while when his hand cups the meat of her hip, and she tips her head up for their mouths to meet, when their dancing slows and the kiss turns feverish, cushiony mouths teasing at the seams until they split.

He makes it worth her time when they make the stroll back to his room, heels clicking over tile and bouncing off from lofty wall to lofty wall, a good bit of distance between them strictly for the sake of avoiding shagging in the middle of a hallway. He makes it worth her while when he braces his wrist band to the lock over the door, when she’s leant against the wall with her irises lingering on him and her lashes batting coyly. She’s well-behaved, hands tucked behind her back like a combat to handsy temptation.

It’s a different story behind the door.

He makes it worth her while when her fingers toy at her crocheted halter, index perusing at the fabric below cleavage and brushing over chalky yarn. He makes it worth her time when he steps into her space all slow-like, face tipped down and the pink below his cupid’s bow worked into a soft curve, lengthy, deft digits working over the buttons of his shirt. An untamed tendril teases over one of his brows. Her hands meander from fondling at her own tits, at rogue pieces of yarn in the stitches, to straying up his ink-etched forearms. That’s when he lets her take over the work, when his arms snake over the vale of her waist. When his colossal hands cup lower, when he nudges forward and their mouths brush again. He licks into her mouth and rolls into the gap between her teeth.

Filthy kisses are shrouded behind closed doors, even in the easy ambience of a resort. Furlough on the greedy pursuit of pleasure, on some secluded island with crystalline waters, plus tequila — that’s practically a petri dish for hook up culture. But filthy kisses are saved for the bedroom, and there it’s taste buds doused in citrus limon and gray goose, a tip of a tongue swiping along a row of teeth, basking in the ridges.

“What do you like, little minx?” Harry murmurs. He climbs the column of her throat with the ruddy border of a hungry cavern, and her pulse murmurs back under his mouth. “Hm?”

The blunt tip of his forefinger traces her collarbone, follows a line of cleavage, toys at the cinch in her top; unravels her. It splits down the center, and the straps follow limply down her shoulders. Harry pinches a nipple and scrapes his teeth over her neck, humming again.

Behind closed doors, his red-lycra-mystique (bare, her tits are bare now, in the backdrop of his picture) gets denuded to flesh when she shimmies the dress down her hips. He helps her and then tears his own shirt over his head. It’s hasty, like disrobing takes too much time from a place where time moves slower, riding the water in leisure. Harry still doesn’t know her name, and she slips to her knees, batting her lashes, and takes his buckle apart like unslotting puts the last of the puzzle pieces together.

When her tongue rides under the ridge of his tip, delving and dragging over the prominent vein jutting on the underside of his shaft, he cranes his neck back and makes a sound like she’s torn into his chest with the tips of her french-polished manicure. He punctuates every pornographic, wet sound with dialogue.

“Christ, you’re a dream.”

“Fuck, you’re pretty with cock in your mouth.”

“Yeah, that’s it, just like that, sweetheart.”

“—Y/N,” red-lycra-mystique supplies, gaze bouncing from the twist of her wrists at his base to his face, and then sweeps his bubbling head over her bottom lip and swallows him down halfway.

“Y/N,” Harry mirrors, tone bathed in the same sweetness she radiates at his feet.

And then she trails the very tips of her blunt nails up his sac, and the shiver that rolls up his spine short-circuits every feasible attempt of formulating something in english. Just… gone. Something splinters.

Harry doesn’t cum all over her tongue, despite the pretty mental image he’d cherish of Y/N on her knees with ribbons of silky white coating the insides of her mouth. He thinks about the way he’d dip the pad of his thumb against her tongue, the way he’d stir and scrub it in. He thinks about her lips latching and her cheeks hollowing.

He’s got immense willpower, particularly when she takes him all the way down until her nose nearly brushes the neatly-trimmed tuft of hair the tributary of his happy trail pools into. Because then, she pulls off, chin sloppy with saliva, mouth wide, and stares up at him with this wickedly indelicate curl to the corners of her mouth as she gasps in breaths. Like she wants him to.

Instead, they make it to the bed. He splits her thighs with his palms and spits where she’s puffy and warm, leaky with longing, toying at the seam of her hole with his digits. Smooths the wetness with his thumb when he tucks two fingers in and laves his tongue at the crease between her inner thigh and her cunt. He bumps her clit with the tip and rolls, and her spine arches like the highest point of her torso peaks at the clouds of nirvana.

“You’re a good girl,” Harry tells her, and his voice is so soft, like he’s reassuring an animal that’s backed itself into a corner, “Want you to drench my face.”

And she does, because when he holds a placid, unwavering hand out and talks her so sweetly, lips suckling in a vacuumed ‘o’ between her thighs, what can she do besides roll her hips against his mouth in little, desperate juts, face creased before bliss spumes through every major artery.

When Harry sits back, his chin is sticky, glinting in the buttery cast of the lanterns drilled into the ceiling. He kisses her again until her jaw is stained with her own slick, and despite the entire basis of a one night stand, his tongue meddles into her mouth with the same passion of a man carving a piece of her open. A cozy lacuna just for him in the depths of her chest, something that’ll linger and yearn. A hungry chasm that’ll grumble when her cunt pulses — when he’s not there to fill it. She’ll think of him; a stranger’s leg flitting like a passing speck in the background of her photograph.

Y/N’s cunt hugs him like it can’t get enough.

Eventually.

Because at first, it’s: too big, won’t fit, pleated brows when he’d split her spongy walls apart on the latex-coated tip, stretching to tuck in and hovering to imbibe in miniature ticks of her expression. A twitch in her lashes, a shift in the line of her mouth, a little swallow bobbing down the column of her throat.

“You’re a good girl,” he’d crooned, smoothing a thumb over a rib and then her clit, just to see her squirm more over his cock.

Eventually, she clambers over his lap, planting her palms back over inky, firm muscle. It’s leverage as she bounces to fill that starving cavity — the one he’d drilled with his tongue, like the shape of him can fill every square inch of space before they never see each other again. Hungry, hungry, hungry.

“Come on, baby, come on,” Harry coaxes, a low groan mottled with breathy pants, “—Shit.”

Momentarily, he pauses the guiding grasp he’s got over her hips to drag the pad of his thumb over his tongue lewdly, smearing spit over the digit and swiping circles over her clit, instead. In response, the rolling pace Y/N has set stutters, knees jolting, and her mussed hair spills off her shoulder as she cranes her neck back.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yes, yes, yes—“

His eyes flit from her cunt to the ethereal line of her neck, the borders of her shoulders, the shape of her tits bouncing.

Ultimately, of course, his gaze winds back down to ogle where they connect, because that’s the view — that’s where she swallows his cock, thighs splayed and trembling, gliding from the tip until about midway before rising and repeating the cycle. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. He draws his thumb lower, lets it meddle where they merge, where her hole flutters and rolls over him, gleaning the sticky arousal that coats his shaft and bringing the pad of it back to her clit. His eyes linger. Flicker up. Return to watch her ride and nearly roll back into his head.

He’s carved the void, and later, when she tips forward and her nails scrape over his pecs, feral, she whittles her own. Later, the space between his thighs aches and heats. Something pulses on the underside of his balls. It yearns for blue curaçao, pellucid, crashing waters, and a skimpy red bikini.

#harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles one shots #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader

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butmakeitgayblog · 9 days ago

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Hi yes hello help me I have a new fic idea for this picture

And it's giving me brainrot because I have too many wips and yet... I must write this ficlet. It's very soft. Friends to lovers.

Lexa owns a little holistic shop that always smells like incense and fresh herby plants. Fresh sprigs of flowers and dangley charms everywhere. Not quite "nature child/granola sister" vibes because it has too many sleek and modern details to it, but still very earthy and calming. Clean and fresh. It's tucked away in a sleepy little town along the coast that's just a short walk to a pier, so the fresh scent of the ocean's spray always mingles with all the perfumes of her shop.

Clarke moves there following the death of her father. Not running from anything, but more just trying to find herself in her new found peace. She's faced her own mortality and come out the other end understanding who she wants to be vs who she thought she should be. Exchanging her med school white coat for cable knit sweaters. Sneakers for deck shoes. Reading glasses for wayfarers.

Chaos for calm.

Which of course leads her right into Lexa's shop a few weeks into getting settled, deciding a new skin routine may be in order as well. Maybe a new lotion and a few handdipped candles to line her fancy new bath tub too, if the hand painted sign outside the shop is to be trusted.

Of course all chances at being the chill, solitary new girl in town who lives quietly and keeps to herself kind of fly right out the window when she hears the little ding of the bell overhead and looks up to see brilliant, soft green eyes already crinkled at the edges in a welcoming smile. Seeing all that sun kissed brown hair pulled back in a delicate crown of braids, the waterfall length of untamed curls falling over strong but slender shouders. Hearing that lyrical voice that's not at all chipper like she'd expect from someone peddling holistic wares. Instead it's soft and vibrant, more like too-warm honey that's been left out in the afternoon sun. Feminine but sure of itself as she merely bids a simple, "Hello, can I help you find anything in particular?"

All that chill is also nowhere to be seen when this freaking angel made of droplets of sunshine and chamomile takes it upon herself to squeeze a dollop of the lotion she'd been eyeing into Clarke's palm and start massaging it in with hands that are so fucking soft Clarke forgets how to breathe. Her intense eye contact as she gently explains the ingredients and why they're so good doesn't help either. Not that Clarke could be PAID to recite any of it, not having taken in a single damn syllable.

She could easily tell you the exact slope of the woman's eyelashes though. Could probably draw the freckle on her upper lip from memory too.

Of course Clarke would leave 2 bags and the shopowner's business card heavier, $70 lighter, and with absolutely no qualms about trading in at least part of her medical knowledge for giving this holistic stuff a try.

And that's it! That's all! Just a pretty girl who is maybe slightly nuts but beautiful and sweet who runs a little holistic beauty shop.

Nothing life altering or anything for Clarke, obviously.

Clarke being new and so in her head about everything and all the changes? It's just A Lot already on her plate. She doesn't have the space for anything else.

But... then there's just Lexa. So unassuming and mild and calming in her presence. Undemanding of Clarke's attention despite always seeming to have it. That slow fall into each other over too prolonged eye contact and friendly waves as Lexa glances at her through the arching windows of her shop, Clarke seeing those plump lips tug up into a grin that mouths an amused but unheard "Hi" as Clarke walks past for the third time that day.

Total coincidence.

But the friendship blooms just like the little plants and sprigs around Lexa's shop. Taking shape and growing as the season changes.

Passing glances and friendly waves turning to chance meetings and slipping away to sit on the bench at the end of the pier, splitting batches of seasoned fries and garlic aioli that Clarke has no idea where Lexa manages to put considering all her halter tops and sundresses that, whew, just leave not much to the imagination.

Walking through a local garden/woodsy path and talking aimlessly for hours as she watches Lexa collect little wildflowers and clovers along the way, stowing them in a satchel she keeps in her long flowy pants, only to drop by the shop the next afternoon and find that the tiny wood nymph-turned shopkeeper has braided her treasures from their outing into her hair that day.

Walks along the rocky beachside and lunches sat huddled together in the park. Lexa sharing how she got into her business and Clarke relaying her past in the medical world just to falter, only to breathe a sigh of relief at Lexa's lazy grin, "Don't worry, Dr. Griffin. I still believe in the power of penicillin."

Lexa showing Clarke where she makes her wares while standing far too close than what's necessary as she lets Clarke peruse everything. Always catching Clarke's gaze in her excitement at Lexa's creations, holding them with that soul-quieting smile of hers.

Clarke noticing how Lexa's scent changes slightly with the seasons because of course Lexa only works with fresh product. Noting how as the months get colder, she goes from airy, delicate lilac scents to heavier sage and sandlewood notes. Fresh pine, peppermint, and holly. Noticing how cute little painted toes trade in their freer sandles for more sensible uggs and the occasional snow boot, seeing how dresses and spaghetti straps get exchanged for cardigans and knitted sweaters big enough to juuust effortlessly slip off her shoulder...

(Still no bra)

(Not that she's... keeping track...)

Lexa is just so unexpected and so... not at all anything Clarke would've ever thought she'd be attracted to. Beyond just her stunning face that is, obviously. It's her personality. She's not someone Clarke can easily "put in a box". She's not quite a hippie, she's not exactly new agey, she's certainly not weak, but she's not overbearing. She's maybe a liiiittle bit nuts, but also so fuckin smart and not cocky about it at all. But absolutely is cocky about the silliest things, like being good at Scrabble and knowing how to fold a fitted sheet. (Again, liiiittle bit nuts.) She's kind, but not a pushover. Soft in ways Clarke can't even begin to fathom or calm her heart over, but so deceptively strong, both in body and spirit.

And she's quiet. Quiet and reserved in her perfectly Lexa way. Yet, when she does open up, there's so much there. So many layers to her, and every time Clarke thinks she's gotten to the bottom of the question mark that is "Lexa", there's a whole new labyrinth to uncover.

The connection between them expands and blooms and becomes something entirely its own. And it kind of just gradually dawns on her that Clarke has somehow managed to find her best friend in the entire world... and has promptly fallen in love with her.

Now.

If I wrote this obviously very short ficlet (😤), would anyone read it?

#clexa #clexa fanfic #flower child au

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cailinsblog · 7 months ago

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Sunshine and Laughter on the Beach

Lando Norris x reader

The sun was high in the sky, casting a golden glow over a secluded, private beach somewhere along the Mediterranean coast. The gentle sound of waves lapping against the shore created a serene backdrop for a day of relaxation and fun. Among the group of friends enjoying the idyllic setting were Lando Norris, his girlfriend Y/N, and their adorable little girl, Lilly.

Lando had organized the beach day as a break from the intense world of Formula 1. He wanted to spend some quality time with his family and friends, away from the hustle and bustle of the racing circuit. Alongside them were Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo, and several other F1 drivers, all eager to unwind and enjoy the beautiful weather.

Y/N spread out a large beach blanket under the shade of a palm tree while Lando played with Lilly near the water's edge. The little girl, just two years old, was a bundle of energy and curiosity, her laughter ringing out as she toddled after the waves.

"Lando, be careful with her near the water!" Y/N called out, her voice filled with both love and a hint of worry.

Lando turned and flashed her a reassuring smile. "I've got her, love. Don't worry!"

He scooped Lilly up in his arms and spun her around, her giggles blending with the sound of the sea. Charles, Carlos, and the others watched from their spot on the sand, amusement and affection evident in their expressions.

"Look at those two," Charles said with a chuckle. "Lando's a natural with kids."

Carlos nodded, grinning. "Who would've thought our fierce competitor would be such a softie?"

As Lando and Lilly made their way back to the group, he gently set her down on the blanket next to Y/N. "How about a snack, little one?" he asked, reaching into the cooler for some fruit.

Lilly clapped her hands excitedly. "Yes, Daddy! Apples, please!"

Y/N handed Lilly a slice of apple, and she munched on it happily. Lando lay down beside them, his head propped up on one arm as he watched his daughter with adoration.

"She's growing up so fast," Y/N said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Lilly's face.

Lando nodded, his gaze never leaving Lilly. "I know. I want to cherish every moment."

The other drivers joined them on the blanket, forming a relaxed circle. Daniel, ever the joker, started building a sandcastle with Lilly, making exaggerated gestures and funny faces to keep her entertained.

"Uncle Daniel is so silly!" Lilly exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight.

"That's right," Daniel said, grinning. "And this sandcastle is going to be the best one on the beach!"

Lando watched the scene with a smile, feeling a profound sense of happiness. These moments, away from the pressures of racing, were what he treasured most. He leaned over and kissed Y/N on the cheek. "Thank you for always being here, for making these moments possible."

Y/N smiled, squeezing his hand. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

As the day wore on, the group enjoyed swimming in the crystal-clear water, playing beach volleyball, and simply basking in the sun. At one point, Lilly, tired from all the excitement, curled up in Lando's lap and fell asleep.

"Looks like someone's had enough fun for one day," Charles remarked, his eyes softening at the sight.

Lando gently stroked Lilly's hair, his expression tender. "She'll wake up soon, ready for round two."

Carlos snapped a picture on his phone, capturing the sweet moment. "This is going in the album. It's not every day we see Lando being such a doting dad."

The group laughed, the camaraderie and warmth of their friendship palpable. As the sun began to set, casting a golden hue over the beach, Lando carefully stood up, still holding the sleeping Lilly, and walked to the water's edge with Y/N.

They stood there in silence, watching the sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Lando looked at Y/N, his eyes reflecting the colors of the sunset. "I love you," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion.

Y/N leaned in and kissed him softly. "I love you too, Lando. More than anything."

They turned back to the group, where the laughter and chatter continued, the bond of friendship stronger than ever. With Lilly still nestled in Lando's arms, they joined their friends, ready to savor the remaining moments of a perfect day.

In that fleeting time, surrounded by love, laughter, and the beauty of the beach, they knew they were creating memories that would last a lifetime. And for Lando, the happiness he felt being with Y/N and Lilly was worth more than any trophy or victory on the track. It was the true victory of his heart.

#formula 1 #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #classic f1 #mclaren f1 #f1 #lando norizz #lando x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris #lando imagine #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x oc

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sykesandskittles · 4 months ago

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CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER ONE

Harlow

Sometimes I feel cursed.

Okay, well, not cursed exactly. But I’ve had my share of challenges in the nineteen years I’ve been on this planet. Well-meaning people—usually adults—have always told me to be thankful for my hardships. It makes you stronger. More capable. Independent.

I wish all that were true. Really, the events that have shaped my life just settle like silt inside me, tainting every thought, every action. Until I’m convinced misfortune has been braided into my DNA.

Generational trauma, isn’t that what they call it?

I dig my toes into the wet sand and look out at the Pacific Ocean. It’s hard to feel cursed here, though. Malibu is a magical place, soaked in sunshine, with a surprising small-town feel. But its best quality is how far it is from Fresno. From home. From the events of last year.

The sharp wind whips through my hair and stings my cheeks. My best friend, Talia, and I wandered down to the beach hours ago after we’d unpacked our boxes and set up our dorm rooms.

Talia called me crazy when I waded into the frigid water, dunking my head under the salty waves like some kind of baptism. Maybe it was a type of cleansing. The ghosts of my past washing away with the tide.

If only forgetting were so easy.

“Hey, look what I found!”

I turn to see Talia walk up to me with something cradled in her palm. It’s a piece of green sea glass. “It was probably a beer bottle or something originally.”

Picking it up, I angle it toward the fading sunlight, looking at it from different angles, admiring its beauty. The power of the ocean is wild—transforming an ordinary beer bottle into something so beautiful. I wonder if it has the power to transform me, too. “What are you going to do with it?”

Talia shrugs. “Turn it into a necklace or something, maybe.”

Another gust of ocean Taliaze whips through me, and my teeth start chattering. “It’s almost sunset. We should head back to the residence hall.”

Exeter University West—one of the West Coast's most prestigious colleges—is right on the beach. When Talia and I applied last year, it was a long shot. A pipe dream. We both have decent grades, but nothing spectacular. So, months later, when we were both accepted, it felt like a miracle. Then when I scored a full scholarship, I finally started to believe my luck was changing.

Exeter is the escape I’ve been desperate for. A fresh start.

I look down the length of the beach and see a huge Victorian mansion perched on a cliff, overlooking the ocean. I noticed it when we first got to campus a couple of days ago. It’s hard to miss. The giant Gothic structure is painted a dark, crimson red with navy blue trim, and ornate woodwork that makes it look out of place on a modern college campus. I was probably here first, though, and the university just encroached gradually until the house and grounds were consumed by the sprawling campus.

It’s a creepy-looking house, though. No lie.

“Our residence hall is right on the other side of that weird house,” I say.

“Okay, let’s go,” Talia says, her bottom lip quivering. “I’m turning into a brine-flavored popsicle.”

The sharp wind continues to cut through us as we walk along the sand, getting dark quickly, and we’re two girls walking alone, so I’m on full alert—glancing behind us, my hand resting on the small stun gun tucked into my front pocket.

But the beach is empty—which is surprising, considering the amount of students on campus. It rained a little earlier, and it’s freezing, so maybe that’s why no one is here. But cold or not, there would still be a couple of people out here, at least, right?

“Slow down,” Talia pouts. “Your legs are longer than mine.”

I pause so she can catch up. “Have you noticed there’s no one else out here? That’s weird, right? I mean, it’s cold, but it’s not that cold.”

“There are people out here,” she says, pointing ahead. I squint, and sure enough, there’s a fire burning about half a mile in the distance, on the beach directly below the creepy house. I don’t know how I missed that, but to be fair, the beach isn’t straight—there’s a shrub-capped berm in the way, and the fire is partially hidden behind that.

“Oh, yeah, huh.”

Talia shakes her head and continues walking. “You are so blind. I keep telling you to go to the eye doctor.”

“I’m not blind.”

“Oh, really?” she says. “So when you walked up to that girl back in high school and started telling her off because you thought she was Veronica?”

I frown, trudging after Talia in the sand. Now it’s me trying to keep up with her. “Okay, but in my defense, they could be twins. I’d like to see the DNA report on those two.”

Talia stops and rolls her eyes at me. “The girl you accosted was three inches shorter than Veronica, and has glasses—which you also need.”

I blow out a breath. “Details. Whatever.”

With a scoff, Talia turns back around and we both keep walking. The beach narrows as we approach the fire, so we have to climb over the berm to get to the other side. It’s rough, and the shrubs are spiny, but we manage to make it down the other side.

“I’m remembering why we didn’t come this way originally,” Talia says. “The sidewalk was a lot easier.”

The sidewalk also dips between several university buildings, and in the dark, there’s no way I’m taking that route. I don’t want to say that, though, so I just shrug. “This way is shorter.”

Talia just pushes out a frustrated breath.

The closer we get to the fire, though, it becomes clear that something is sketchy. There are several people, all wearing robes with hoods, gathered in a half-circle around the fire, facing the ocean, chanting something.

Chanting.

What the…?

I reach out and grab Talia, pulling her back into a crouching position. We had to walk up and over, so we’re somewhat concealed by the random tufts of brush, but not entirely. And we’re only about thirty feet away, but thankfully, I don’t think we’ve been seen.

“Holy shit,” Talia whispers.

I blink rapidly to try and see through the murky twilight. There’s one guy, drenched, and completely naked, cupping his family jewels, shivering in front of the cloaked group.

“What are they doing?” I ask my tone low.

“It could be a frat, but the robes are weird. I think this is the Society of the Burning Crown,” Talia says with a note of awe in her voice.

I swallow. “What is that? Please tell me it’s a chess club or something.”

“Does this look like a chess club?” Talia hisses. She grabs my hand and pulls me forward, but I dig my heels into the sand. “Come on, we need to get closer.”

Closer? Is she insane? “Oh, fuck, no. Whatever this is, I don’t want anything to do with it.”

She manages to drag me several feet forward, but only because fighting her could draw attention to us. So far, we’ve managed to go unnoticed, and I’d like to keep it that way.

We crouch down again, and I try to quiet my breathing. It’s not likely they can hear anything over the roaring ocean, or their weird chanting, but I’m not taking any chances. If I could stop breathing altogether, I would.

Someone from the half-circle approaches the fire. I can’t see their faces, but I’m guessing by the person’s size, and broad shoulders, it’s a guy—and he’s probably the leader. He has a long, metal-looking rod in his hand that he shoves into the fire.

“Okay, we’ve seen enough,” I whisper. “Let’s go.”

Talia just waves me off, her gaze fixed on the odd ritual in front of us. Whatever this is, I get the distinct idea that Talia and I aren’t supposed to be witnessing it. And I would love to honor that.

The chanting continues for a couple of minutes, then Lead Guy approaches Naked Guy and says something to him that I can’t hear. Whatever he says is swallowed by the sound of the roaring ocean.

In response to what was said, Naked Guy nods once, then turns to face the ocean, and falls to his knees. His shoulders curl forward, exposing the length of his spine, and I watch as his thin frame vibrates violently against the cold.

Lead Guy takes another step forward, his hand jutting out like a surgeon silently requesting his scalpel. Someone from the circle removes the rod from the fire and places it in Lead Guy’s outstretched hand.

My breath is held, my gaze cemented to the scene as I watch Lead Guy pull his arm back—almost like he’s doing it in slow motion. Is he going to hit the other guy with that rod? Is this actually happening right in front of me?

As Lead Guy’s arm juts forward, and the tip of the rod makes contact, Naked Guy screams out in pain, the sound echoing off the cliffs surrounding us. He’s being branded. The barbaric act is so shocking and so unexpected, that a scream is ripped from my own throat, and I lurch forward.

“Shit, Harlow!” Talia hisses, pulling me back.

I shove my hand over my mouth to silence the whimper that bubbles up from my throat. It’s too late. They see us. Every hooded figure is turned toward Talia and me, and their leader—God help us—is already crossing the sand, closing the distance between us…

HIS EYES ARE A COLD, Dark Brown. That’s the first thing I notice as the leader of this group stalks toward us, shadows from the moon playing across his masked face, half-hidden under the hood of his robe.

Intensity radiates off this guy, his large body moving with confidence across the sand. When he stops right in front of us, I gulp. He looks like a bouncer, ready to toss us out of a club.

Talia and I are standing side-by-side, but when he speaks, he looks directly at me. “Leave. Now.” His voice is muffled by the mask, but it's deep and harsh, and sends a shiver of fear down my spine. “Go back the way you came.”

I’m already half-turned, opening my mouth to tell him, “Yup, no problem, we’re already gone,” when Talia grabs my wrist, stopping me.

“Hold on,” Talia says, looking over his shoulder at the other robed figures. “What are you guys doing out here?”

The guy’s jaw clenches tightly as he drags his gaze away from me and settles on Talia. Behind the mask, his eyes narrow, and if we needed evidence that we don’t belong here, there it is. Right there. That deadly stare.

“Talia,” I say, practically pleading. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t hear me, or she’s deliberately ignoring me. Either way, she steps up to Lead Guy. “If you don’t want people watching you, then you shouldn’t be doing this—” She waves wildly at the scene in front of us. “–out in public.”

“This is a private beach,” he answers through gritted teeth. “And you aren’t welcome here.”

I grab Talia's elbow firmly and dare a glance at Lead Guy. “We’re leaving.”

I don’t love the idea of taking the sidewalk all the way back to our residence hall, but it’s either that or walk straight through this creepy-ass ritual. Mmm, no thanks. Hard pass.

Talia struggles against me, but I manage to keep my grip. “You can’t tell us what to do!” she practically yells at the guy. “We’re just walking along the beach. You’re the ones doing sketchy shit.”

Oh, damn. He inadvertently triggered Talia's defiance. I’ve known her since middle school, and she’s always been strong-willed, even to her own detriment. Tell her not to jump off the bridge, and she’s going to do it just to prove she can.

Right now, though, my job is to make sure we don’t end up as the topic of a true crime episode.

“Talia,” I say firmly, yanking her in the direction we just came. She digs her heels in, but I manage to move her a little—enough to encourage me to keep pulling. “Let’s leave the nice Jedis alone.”

I hear the stranger grunt as we walk away, and I feel the weight of his gaze pressing on me until Talia and I reach the top of the berm. I release Talia and quickly make my way down the other side of the small hill, then head up the beach, toward the sidewalk. It’s a steep climb, but I make it in record time, Talia trailing behind me.

“Slow down,” she says, annoyed.

I shake my head and pick up my pace. “We shouldn’t have seen that,” I say.

“Oh, who cares, Harlow? They shouldn’t have been out in the open if whatever they’re doing is such a secret.”

I stop abruptly and turn to face her. “The beach is empty.”

I’d noticed that earlier, but I’d assumed it had something to do with the rain. Now, I wonder if people had gotten the memo that something was going down tonight, and had deliberately stayed off the beach.

Lord.

We stumbled onto something we weren’t supposed to see, and I can't help but wonder what the repercussions of that might be. None, I hope. We left, and hopefully, that’s the end of it.

But ever since the incident last year, my mind has been stuck in survival mode. It feels like everything and everyone is a potential threat. So I doubt I’ll stop worrying about this whole thing anytime soon.

It’s taken a mountain of therapy just to get me to this point–willing to leave my hometown and start over somewhere new. And, honestly, if it weren’t for Talia, that never would have happened. In my darkest moments, she was there, guiding me and encouraging me. She’s the one person in my life I can rely on.

But her impulsivity can get her into trouble, and I feel like I’m always trying to rein her in. Even when we were kids, I was saving her from herself. Trying to get her to think before she tumbled right off that proverbial bridge.

“You have to admit, that was amazing!” Talia says, clapping her hands excitedly. “Shit. I never thought we’d get to see something like that.”

I keep walking. The faster we get to the residence hall and off this dark sidewalk, the better. “A guy was getting branded. What’s amazing about that?”

“I’m pretty sure we just witnessed the initiation ceremony for the Society of the Burning Crown.” She’s walking behind me, and I don’t need to see her face to know she has a smile stretched across her face. I can hear it in her voice. “No one gets to see that. Unless you’re a member, obviously.”

I stop and turn around to face her. “That—what we just saw—was super shady. Branding, violence, anything like that is strictly against the university’s policy.”

She looks lost. “Okay, and? What does that have to do with us?”

“Are they going to be worried we’ll tell someone about it?”

Talia snorts. “You’re afraid they’re going to come after us? They aren’t the mafia, Harlow. They don’t give a shit about us.”

Secret societies are like cults in my mind—and cults can do some pretty crazy shit to keep their secrets hidden. I should know—my mom has been in a cult for the last eight years. She joined when I was eleven—just skipped right over to Florida, leaving me to live with my grandmother. That’s the kind of power these types of groups wield.

Talia grabs me. “Harlow, you’ve got to stop worrying so much.” I sigh. “I’m trying, but it’s not easy.”

Her expression softens. “I know, but everything is going to be fine. How were we supposed to know, right? We were just—” She motions casually “–walking along the beach.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

But as we walk back to the residence hall, an uneasy feeling gathers in my stomach. The whole idea behind coming to ExU was to blend in. Start over. Stay away from drama. Classes haven’t even started yet, and trouble has already rooted me out.

We get to the building fine—thank God—and I swipe my key card. I’m on the second floor, and Talia is on the third, so we part ways on the second-floor landing.

“See you tomorrow!” Talia calls out, walking up that last set of stairs to her floor. “And stop worrying!”

I just roll my eyes and open the door that leads to my floor. It’s going to be tough to fall asleep tonight—but not because I’m worrying. I know the second I lay my head down to sleep, all I’m going to see in my mind’s eye are a pair of electric brown eyes…

The next morning, I’m barely awake when my roommate, Emily, taps me on the shoulder. “Um, Harlow. Are you awake?”

My eyes are practically sealed shut—how could I be awake? Moaning, I roll over onto my side and face the wall. “No,” I say, pushing my voice through the gravel in my throat.

Last night, just as I predicted, I got zero sleep. As I lay in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, last night’s events were on repeat inside my head.

Was there something I could have done differently? Inside the safety of my thoughts, I’m always braver than I was out there on the sand—and I say something snarky and clever back to Lead Guy. It’s different every time, but he’s always taken aback by my clever response.

I finally fell asleep around five, just as sunlight started bleeding into the night sky.

But my roomie is an early riser—or so she told me yesterday. And that obviously still holds, even though classes don’t officially start for another two days.

“Okay, well, there’s a note or something here for you. I’ll just put it on your nightstand.”

A note?

I wonder if it’s from Talia. Usually, she’d just text me, but if I’m not answering then she might resort to a handwritten note.

The door clicks shut as Emily leaves, and I flip over onto my back, stretching until I feel a pleasant sting spread across my shoulders. Then I blink and pick up my phone. It’s only eight in the morning. My God. Where on earth could Emily possibly be going this early?

Sitting up, I yawn and glance at the note she left on my nightstand. It’s a black envelope with my name scrawled on the back in all caps—not Talia’s swoopy cursive. I open the envelope and pull out a piece of black cardstock. There’s a symbol on the front. It’s a crown, embossed in gold, flames erupting from the tips

Oh, shit.

Didn’t Talia say the society we encountered last night was called the Society of the Burning Crown?

I flip the card over.

Preference Ceremony

Ten O’Clock

Rush House

Uh.

I immediately text Talia with a photo of the invite, followed by a full screen of question marks.

Talia is in my room within fifteen minutes, sitting on my bed, cross-legged, looking at the invite from every possible angle. “Well, it looks legit,” she says, scratching the gold embossing.

“What’s a Preference Ceremony?” I ask.

Before arriving on campus, Talia did a ton of research about the university—history, culture, clubs, party scene…any information she could get her hands on. Maybe she ran across a website that mentioned it.

“Never heard of it,” she says, tossing the invite onto the bed next to her. She picks up her phone, types something in, then starts scrolling. “There might be something online about it.”

I do my own search on my laptop, but there’s nothing. All I can find on the Burning Crown is general information that’s been posted on a random forum dedicated to secret societies.

“Listen to this,” I say. “The Society of the Burning Crown is a secret society, founded in 1890, on the campus that is known today as Exeter University West. Rush House is the society’s headquarters and sits on the edge of the university’s 124 acres.” I turn my computer, so she can see the photo that’s been inserted between the paragraphs. It’s that creepy Victorian house on the cliff. I pull my computer back and continue reading out loud, “Little is known about the inner workings of the society, but the rumored structure is a larger membership known as the Circle, and a smaller, ruling class, known as the Omen boys. The Omens are the direct descendants of the four founding members.”

Talia scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip, thinking. “Hm. Does it say anything about what a Preference Ceremony is?”

“Nope.”

She lifts her hands, slapping them back down on her knees. “Welp, I suppose we’ll just have to find out then!”

I shake my head. “No way.”

Talia frowns at me, her delicate features scrunched up and contorted. She never really looks ugly, though. She has a pert little nose, high cheekbones, and long, dark eyelashes that are 1000% real. The girls in high school always hated her for that.

She shoves her bottom lip out in a pout. “Oh, come on, why not? It’ll be an adventure.”

“Yesterday, that guy was pissed that we’d stumbled on their…whatever that was. Then this morning, they slid an invite under my door?” I press my lips together. “If that’s not weird, then I don’t know what is.”

“Maybe they just want to make amends,” Talia offers. “You said yourself that they might be afraid we’ll tell someone. So maybe this is their way of, I don’t know, smoothing things over.”

I pick up the envelope that the note came in, reading my name over and over, almost as if I stare at it long enough, it’ll give up its author’s secrets. It just makes me more uneasy, though, if anything.

“How do they even know my name? And why just give me an invite?”

My tone is rising, and Talia must sense how tense I’m getting. She knows the year I’ve had, and how desperately I just want to have a normal freshman experience. Quiet. Boring. No drama.

She reaches over and places a hand on my arm. “Harlow, it’s okay. Societies like this have their hand in everything, and if someone steps foot on their campus, they usually know about it. It’s not personal to you.” She shrugs. “And you probably got the invite because you’re closer to the building entrance. Why bother sending two invites when they know we’re together?”

It’s a paper-thin theory and doesn’t even make sense, but I cling to it because believing there’s a deeper meaning would seriously threaten my mental health. And the whole idea behind starting over is not over-analyzing every little thing. Or so my therapist, Dr. Cunningham, says.

I take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay. Doesn’t matter anyway, because we’re not going.” I snatch the invite up off the bed and rip it in two.

Talia lunges at me, her green eyes wide with horror. “Harlow, what the fuck?” She grabs the two pieces from my hands and tries to fit them back together. “We have to go. No one gets invited to these things. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

I lean back against my pillows. “You know how I feel about cults, Talia. Don’t ask me to do this.”

“It’s not a cult. It’s a secret society. There’s a big difference.”

I push out a sigh. “That’s disputable.”

I know her, though. If Talia wants to do something, she’ll do it, no matter what I say. And I can’t let her go to something like that alone—it’s way too sketchy.

“Maybe they want to apologize for last night? And if we don’t go, then they might see that as an insult.”

I make a face. “Apologize? The guy from last night didn’t look sorry. He looked pissed.”

“Okay, let’s compromise. We’ll go, see what they want, and if there’s anything shady happening, then we’ll leave. Easy. No stress.”

No stress. I practically snort at that. I’m already stressed.

I think about it for a second, then take the invite from her hands, shoving both pieces into the black envelope. “Fine, we’ll go under two conditions.”

“Okay, shoot,” she says, and I can already see she wants to squeal with excitement.

“One: we find out what they want, then leave.” I hold a finger in the air before she can respond. “Two: if they even hint at trying to recruit us, we bail right then and there.” Talia opens her mouth to argue, but I stop her. “Ah! We leave immediately.”

She deflates a little, but I think she knows this is the only way I’ll do it. And the envelope has my name on it, which gives me a little leverage. She could try to go without me, but there’s a chance they’d turn her away at the door.

Talia leans back. “Fine. Deal.”

I nod, satisfied. But deep down, I have a sinking feeling there’s more to all of this than a simple apology. Something much darker…

#bad omens #noah sebastian #noah sebastian smut #jolly karlsson #nick ruffilo #noah x reader #bad omens smut #nick folio #nick folio smut

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wemmcorp · 1 year ago

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sunflowervoltwentyeight · 8 months ago

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Happy 28th! Here is my March 2024 fic rec, organized by word count, from longest to shortest. You can view my other fic recs here. Enjoy!

Sunshine, Baby! by staybeautiful / @harruandlou (106k)

Louis was the first one down the row for their group. If he hadn’t been they would have never met.

He was turned around, walking backwards and saying to Liam, “No, I’ll get you to a real footie match next,” when he bumped into someone.

“Oops,” Louis laughed, tripping over his own feet. A hand curled around his upper arm as he nearly fell over the seat in front of him. “Sorry about that, mate.”

He turned around, still teetering in his vans, to apologize again, but the words dried in his throat. Another hand gripped his other elbow, steadying him, but all Louis could see were green eyes and dimples.

“Hi,” the man laughed, a bright, bubbling sound. “Are you okay?”

Or Louis is in his first year of law school, Harry is a junior on the swim team dreaming of the Olympics, and they both agree that they don't have time for anything more than friends with benefits... right?

Follow Your Arrow by Anonymous (78k)

Harry was the golden child, blessed in every way; Niall was the charming miscreant, a bad boy; Liam was the future-son-in-law parents of daughters dreamt of, and Zayn was the kid parents wished was their son. But Louis, Harry thought, Louis was the special one.

It's senior year and everything is about to change.

Where We Landed by blueskiesrry / @blueskiesrry (70k)

The leaves were green the last time Harry stepped foot in Holmes Chapel, a stark contrast to the candy apple, butterscotch painting them now, years later. Harry first notices them on the train, gazing out the window with a downturned mouth. A warm something floods his stomach–memories, Harry imagines, of him as a boy, longing for the days when he’d live elsewhere and have to take this very train home for the holidays. He wonders how it’s possible to have once felt eager and euphoric at the sight of changing leaves yet now to feel nothing but tired. He sighs softly, turning away from the trees to look at his daughter, half-curled in his lap, asleep.

or: harry returns to his hometown with his sick daughter and more reminders than he bargained for of the boy he once loved when he left a handful of years ago

You'll Always Find Your Way Back Home by styleandsin / @styleandsin (43k)

Now, as he’s standing in the doorway, he’s trying not to get choked up. He hadn’t realized how much he missed this: the smell of his mother’s baking, the sounds of each of his family members, the sight of some of his old toys scattered about the foyer where his littlest siblings had presumably left them. All these things scream home, and he hadn’t felt at home since he left this house eight years ago.

Louis needs a break from everything, from acting and the constant pressure of life in LA. He decides to move back home for a bit, some time with his family is exactly what can lift his spirits. What he doesn't expect is to fall in love. Both with the town he hated so much so that he couldn't wait to leave it years ago and with a curly haired florist that was the complete opposite of the guys he'd often meet in LA.

Something About Liminal Spaces by kingsofeverything / @kingsofeverything (34k)

Searching for inspiration for his latest book, and hoping distance will help heal his broken heart, Louis Tomlinson heads to the village of Piha on the west coast of New Zealand’s north island.

There he meets Harry Styles.

Fifteen years older than Harry, Louis tries to keep his distance, but Harry is impossible to avoid and harder to ignore.

At Risk, I Fold by clare328 / @bearmustard (15k)

2015 is a stream of hotel rooms and whisky on the rocks, tired glances and touching hands under tables. It’s the bears and the bees under a rainbow sky, and Harry and Louis have to figure out how to grow up together, instead of apart.

Wedding Bells Will Never Ring For Me by lousmoonshine / @lousmoonshine (14k)

After a failed proposal a few years back, Louis gets an unexpected invitation to his ex - Harry’s – wedding

Some Kind of Night Into Your Darkness (Colors Your Eyes With What's Not There) by larryismylifesource (5k)

Harry’s body buzzes with heat, like a current underneath his skin, because it’s been too long and his husband is right here and for once they have no obligations other than each other and he just wants.

“Lou.”

And Louis must sense it, the way the atmosphere shifts against him, the way Harry’s eyes get all big and dark with need, because he meets Harry’s gaze and then yanks him down for another kiss.

or, the boys get a day off in the middle of tour and harry and louis use it to their advantage

#28th appreciation #larry fic rec #march fic rec #monthly fic rec #fic rec #hlcreators #read

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