#please ignore the smudges at the top i picked it up with paint on my hands 😔

[leoneldsw9323]

enea bastianini 🙇

-

gouache on paper

[yellowkitkieran]

To Have and to Heal (Part 11)

Masterlist

Read part 1 here

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: Single working dad Martin Odegaard is navigating the ups and downs of parenthood all on his own, and he’s struggling. That’s not to mention football, life and... love?

TW: Descriptions of death, car crash and loss

Chicken parmesan is a staple in Martin's diet. With his homemade tomato sauce and a bit of fresh mozzarella, it's healthy enough to be a regular weeknight meal for him without having to classify it as a cheat meal. He's memorized his favorite recipe and always keeps the ingredients stocked in his fridge, which he's grateful for now.  It’s easy to make as well, meaning he can operate more or less on autopilot without needing to focus too much on what he was doing.

Kieran picked up Atla from school, for which Martin was eternally grateful. From the moment Arteta dismissed them from training, Martin had exactly two hours until you would arrive at his doorstep, and he wanted to have everything plated and ready to go when you got there. He should've had more time, but Mikel insisted on rerunning one particular drill multiple times until it was perfect. Martin had thought it flawless the first three times but apparently not; it had cost him an extra half hour to appease the gaffer. 

Now Martin flies around his kitchen, breading the butterflied chicken breast with practiced skill while his tomatoes sit uncut on the counter. He tackles those once the meat is in the oven, slicing and chopping until he's happy with the size. Into a simmering pot they go, combined with tomato paste and a blend of spices that he eyeballs rather than properly measures. In his mind, food turns out better when it's seasoned from the heart and not with a measuring spoon. 

Once Martin has a moment to breathe, he sets about tackling the scattered art supplies and clean laundry piled around the house. Between his recent shoddy mood and the overtime he's put in at training lately, he has had little time to keep up with Atla's clutter. Normally Martin wouldn't touch it. He likes his house to feel lived in, preferring a manageable amount of disarray to a clinically clean home. Tonight is a different story. He wants to impress you; everything needs to be perfect.

Martin is still fixing his stray hairs in the hallway mirror when the doorbell rings. He spots a smudge in the glass as he swears under his breath- not perfect, but as perfect as it’s going to get. 

"Hi."

"Hello." Martin can't take his eyes off you. He loves it when you dress comfortably like this, in well-loved sneakers, a pair of jeans and a red top that matches the bottle of wine in your hand. Martin gestures to it, "you didn't need to bring anything. I've not had that brand before, where's it from?"

"Oh um," you fidget on your feet, tucking the bottle in the crook of your arm and tugging the sleeves of your top over your hands. "It's from Norway? It's from some place that has a huge greenhouse, the person at the store was really excited about it. I'll be honest, I heard 'Norway' and was already sold on buying it."

God, you're adorable. Martin could kiss you, if it weren't for the fact that you're probably still cross with him. And that you deserve more than a rushed peck right now. And also, the fact that you're standing outside his house waiting to be invited in. 

"Oh, please come in. Sorry, I forgot my manners there." Martin steps aside to allow you in. He politely ignores the way your eyes widen as you take in his house, allowing you to judge him as you please. He's never had an eye for decorating and he fears that much is apparent. Suddenly Martin is all too aware that the curtains in the dining room clash horribly with the pattern on the seats at the table. He sighs internally at the dried paint pallet he forgot to grab off the coffee table by the sofa and the pair of tiny pink socks peeking out from under it. 

"Don't mind the mess," Martin says off hand as he takes the wine and pours two glasses. "I didn't have time to properly clean up. We got held late at training and of course I picked a dish that takes way too long to prepare, so I didn't have time for too much else."

Your slender fingers brush Martin's when you accept the glass he holds out. The sparks that sing up his arm nearly knock him off his feet. In that moment, Martin will do anything to have you forgive him. If you grant him the opportunity of a second chance, he won't squander it; he'll do everything in his power to treat you with the respect you deserve. Because that smile on your lips right now? Martin's craved like an addict, and now that he's seen it again he never wants to see any other expression from you. 

"Thank you, Mar. I don't mind the mess, really. I'm too busy trying to figure out what smells so delicious to look anywhere but your spotless kitchen- is it italian?"

Martin is so grateful that you've fallen into a normal conversation that he nearly forgets to reply. "Oh- it's just chicken parmesan, one of my favorites. I hope that's alright? I can make something else if not, or I could maybe order takeout quick… I'm sorry, I didn't even think to ask if you'd like it-" Martin cuts himself off, cheeks flaring. He's acutely aware of how his fingers itch to fidget with something. He keeps his hands tucked into his pockets, playing with a stray coin that somehow made it through the wash without falling out.

"It's alright," you laugh and Martin's anxiety ebbs with the sound. "Chicken parm sounds great, it smells amazing too." You reach out and touch the side of Martin's forearm, the contact as soft as butterfly feet on his skin but it's enough to have him sighing. "Thank you for cooking. I really appreciate it."

"It's not a problem, I needed to do something to show you how sorry I am. I was out of line-" Martin stops when you shake your head, that blissfully forgiving smile on your face. 

"Let's just have dinner first, okay? Then after, we can talk. Does that sound alright to you?"

Martin swears you're perfect. He's done denying it; he's enjoying this too much to pretend he doesn't feel pulled to you like waves to a shoreline. Martin would like to take you there actually- the beach. He'd love to see you building sandcastles with Atla, then splashing in the water when the blazing sun gets too warm. Maybe he could suggest it as a date this summer-

When you wave a hand in front of Martin's face, he realizes you've been speaking without him hearing a single word. At this point, you're causing enough distraction that Martin should be terrified… except he's not.

"I'm sorry I'm out of it- come sit and I'll get everything served up." Hearing his mum's content praise in his head, Martin pulls out a chair for you and pushes it in once you've sat down. Then he plates up a healthy portion of buttery green beans onto a plate for you, alongside a piece of chicken that, honestly, makes his mouth water. He hopes it's as good as it usually is. 

"Here you are," Martin murmurs, one hand braced on the back of your chair as he sets the meal in front of you. He takes a seat across from you, settling in and placing his napkin over his lap. He feels like somewhat of an imposter, pretending to be fancy when he feels anything but, though the shine in your eyes as you wait for him to speak makes his breath hitch. 

"Um, bon appétit? I hope you like it." Martin waits until your attention is on your food to carefully cut into his own meal. Yes, his hands are shaking; no he's never been this nervous over a dinner. Not even when he met with the big wigs at Arsenal to discuss a move from Madrid. 

Martin nearly chokes when you moan after the first bite. "God this is amazing Martin, I didn't expect you to be such a great cook!" Martin finally takes a bite himself, delighted when the perfectly melted cheese and crispy breading hits his tongue. Normally he isn’t one to brag, but this may be some of his best work to date. 

With his nerves eased, Martin falls into comfortable conversation for the remainder of the meal. You ask for seconds, so he delivers. You're happily surprised when he brings out a cheesecake for dessert- and he's rewarded with your beautiful laugh when he tells you how he had to fend off little fingers from snagging a bite this morning. 

Once your fork is down, however, Martin knows it's time for the serious bits. He's dreaded this all day, creating a script in his head of exactly what he wants to say. He's not ready, but he's as prepared as he'll ever be. 

"So," Martin starts, "first off I have to thank you for giving me a second chance. And for trusting me to make up to you for my actions last week."

Martin hates himself for the way your eyes fall to the ivy patterns on the tablecloth. He hates that he can see the fear that brims in you now at the reminder of how angry he'd been. All he wants to do is set it right. 

"I trust you because I know it was a one time thing, right?"

"Yes- yes absolutely," Martin murmurs quickly. "And I promised you that I'd explain- can I show you something actually?"

"Oh- yes, sure, you can." Martin stretches a hand out, heart pounding as you hold him on edge. It takes a few seconds for you to decide but eventually your soft palm slides against his, your fingers curling to wrap around his own. It's right. It's home. It's perfect. Martin can't hold back his smile, so he lets it unfurl as he leads you upstairs, going slow so you can take your time looking at the photos scattered on the wall. 

"All of these are just you and Atla," you note absently, turning to Martin like you expected more. You probably did, considering his closeness with the rest of the team. Martin's nod sends a lock of hair tumbling free to fall across his forehead and he doesn't bother fixing it. 

"That's a recent change," he explains in a voice full of gravel. "So is this room here. It was Maria's studio." Martin points to the white door at the end of the hall, the one he spent far too long avoiding. 

"Your wife," you murmur softly, squeezing Martin's hand when he nods, throat too tight to speak. "You've never told me her name before." 

"I uh, I don't talk about her too much. It still hurts, you know?" Martin's smile feels forced, but he's grateful for the steady support your hand provides him. "Come on, come with me." 

You don't speak as you let Martin lead you to the only closed door in his house. The brass knob is cold, but he was expecting that. He pushes it open, a million memories rushing in with the first step he takes. The wooden planks creak softly beneath his feet as he leads you to the center of the room, getting lost for a minute. 

Over the past week, Martin has channeled his extra energy into transforming this room from one filled with ghosts to a place where his daughter's creativity can run wild. Where towering stacks of cardboard boxes used to sit near the window, now sits a wooden toddler-sized easel. The half painted canvases that were haphazardly piled where he's standing now are neatly stacked on an art rack, waiting for Atla to complete them someday. And on the wall that the room shares with his own bedroom is the collection of paintings he loves most: Norwegian fields, family portraits, and the last painting his late wife ever created. 

"Oh, Martin, these are beautiful." You keep a respectful distance, admiring the artwork from afar. "Did Maria paint all these? They're wonderful… I see where Atla's talent stems from."

"This one is my favorite," Martin murmurs, pointing to the portrait of a smiling baby girl perched in his lap. "It's the last one Maria ever finished. It's the only one I have of Atla and I together."

Martin draws a deep breath, chest rattling with the effort of holding back tears. "I've not talked about this with anyone except the grief counselor- so please just bear with me."

The fingers of your free hand curl around Martin's bicep to provide five pinpricks of safety. Your touch, the pressure of your fingers on his tense muscles, grounding him, keeping him present, as if saying I'm here, I'm listening and I'll let you speak. A silent promise to stay by his side. I'm not going anywhere. Your closeness, the smell of your rosy shampoo mixed with generic laundry detergent, the quiet unsteady breaths, heavy with anticipation, the floor creaking under your weight as you shift from one leg to the other, most likely a byproduct of nerves. 

You, your proximity, feels like a single match in the otherwise pitch black darkness, the same darkness that always clouds the man's mind, serving as a guiding light, always promising to bring him back home. Home to Arsenal. Home to you. Home to safety, home to Atla. 

And somehow, in this otherwise dreadful moment- Martin has never been more grateful for you. 

"The reason I hate storms is because that's what killed her. Not directly, but it was the storm of the century that night, or at least that's what I was told afterward. She was coming home from her art lessons at the senior home across town… I told her to cancel, but Maria was always the woman who would never cancel a commitment once she made it. I loved that about her."

Martin has never spoken about loving Maria in past tense until tonight. 

"The uh… the stoplight down the street got knocked down with the winds. There was a ton of construction a little ways away, I guess they were just finishing up for the night. A- faen what is it… the big things with all the wheels- a truck? A truck- filled with sand or dirt or whatever it was had just left, headed towards the main road to get out and get home." 

Martin pauses. The night replays in his brain the same way it has thousands of times. It's haunted him, trying to imagine exactly what happened that night, his mind drawing a dozen different scenarios each more gruesome than the last.

Martin knows he couldn't have saved her, but he wishes he could've eased her pain. Been a loving face for her to see in her final moments.

"The truck driver didn't see her. And since there was no signal, he didn't think to look… He- he blew right through it. He slammed right into her car as she was going through. Not his fault- how would he have known? He was just trying to get home to his own family."

"Mar…"

Martin is aware of your arms wrapped around his middle, though he doesn't remember it happening. He can't take his eyes off that painting of him smiling down at Atla, happy as can be. His vision tilts and shifts as tears well in his eyes. Martin is dimly aware of the paths they streak on his cheeks. 

"There was pieces everywhere. Shattered glass like that stuff at parades- confetti? And broken plastic… blood, so much blood. The driver was crying- all I remember was this… numbness? I was cold, and wet- Kieran was there I think, or he was at the house with Atla… its all blurry."

"The doctors said it was almost instant, that she didn't feel much at all. I just hope that's true, I hope she didn't realize what was happening. That painting, the one I love so much? It was untouched in the crash- the car was mangled but that painting was perfect, not even a drop of rain on it when I pulled it out. Maria made it that night, from a photo reference she'd brought with her."

Your sniffle is what tears Martin out of his head. He wraps his arms firmly around your shoulders, holding you to him while you muffle your sobs in his chest. "That's why I hate storms, and that's why I freaked out. I know it's not an excuse for how I acted, but maybe it'll help you understand why I reacted how I did. And I'm working through it, I promise- I made an appointment with a woman who specializes in helping people overcome their fears, I'm seeing her later this month. I'm gonna work on it, because I want you to know I'm serious about this."

The only noise is Martin's breathing and your soft crying. He's not sure how long he stands there cradling you, but he'll do it for however long you need. Like he wishes someone had done for him years ago.

"Serious about what," you ask minutes later, pulling back just enough to wipe your eyes. Martin wants nothing more in that moment than to kiss away the tears on your cheeks, to erase the heartache you feel on his behalf. 

"About you, us, this relationship." Martin cradles your jaw in his hands, holding you with the softness one would use with a delicate flower. “No one has seen this room yet, not even Atla. I wanted it to be a surprise for her. But before I did that, I just… I needed to show you. So you would understand. I’m still healing- but I’m trying to heal quicker so I can be someone you can lean on.”

“Martin… Hey, look at me.” When Martin does as you ask, everything crashes over him at once. The crushing, soul splitting despair he felt on the night of the accident, the spark of affection that ignited a flame in his chest the first time he heard you laugh, the relief of finally sharing his story with someone. 

But finally, in the deepest part of him, he lets go. Martin allows the love he held for Maria to loosen it’s deathgrip on his heart and allows you to creep in. It’s worrisome, how easily you sneak in and nestle yourself into him, but he doesn’t care. He meant what he said; Martin is willing to try for you. He wants this to work.

“Thank you for trusting me with this.” Your thumbs rubbing along Martin’s jaw ground him. “I don’t want you to rush through recovery for my benefit. I hate seeing you struggle, of course I do, but I’ll wait as long as it takes, alright? Don’t feel like you need to put yourself on a timeline for me. I’ll wait, Mar, okay? Just keep trusting me.”

And Martin believes every word. He trusts you to be patient. You'll be at his side on the good days and the bad ones, when the residuals of his grief threaten to pull him under. It won't be an easy road, or a short one. Recovery will be barred by landslides and long stretches of obstacles. 

You are the light at the end of his tunnel. You are the goal he will work towards- you and Atla. Being a better man for the women in his life, both past and present. 

[poisonous-lemonade]

HEYY THERE!!! I really liked your billy fanfic but I was wondering if you could do a male reader one set in the modern day were billy didn’t go through his trauma and ended up kind and considered

ARIGATO!!!

Hope & Passion

Billy Hargrove x M!reader Modern AU A/N: Of course, I can Anon. Thank you for the compliment, although the reader's pronouns are not ever mentioned so you can read it however you like, please know this is intended for a more male audience. I hope you enjoy. Word Count: 2236 Cw: Mild Bullying - Mentions of drugs/drug use - Pyromanic tendencies - Cursing - Overall fluff however

"Billy?" A soft voice sings, causing Billy to stir in his sleep. "Billy, wake up." The feminine voice giggled. Billy's eyes flutter open, the warm light streaming through his window. His blankets spread across his floor and bed and his body was half off the bed. His blue eyes fell upon the ethereal sight of his mother. "Good morning Billy." Her smooth hand brushing Billy's dirty blonde hair out of his eyes, smiling down at him. "Good morning 'ma."

Billy sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Breakfast is downstairs, don't forget to put deodorant on." Billy chuckles, his voice rough and dry. "I will 'ma." She hums and walks out of his room, closing the door behind her. He looks up, running his hands through his hair. He rolls out of bed, his wooden floor cool and a gentle contrast from the warm sun.

It was coming to the end of summer in California. He lived with his mother after she ran away with him on a random night in the middle of winter when he was younger. He groans as he scams his open closet, fixing his hair in the mirror while doing so.

His room is small and cozy. His desked full of art supplies all organized and neat with his wall covered in paint. Books piled on his floor separated by genre. He picks out a white shirt smudged in paint and a simple pair of ripped jeans and changes into them.

He picks up his denim jacket and throws it on. Walking out to find his mother in the living room. "Hey 'ma," he greets sweetly, walking to the kitchen to see a prepared plate of bacon. "Hey, sweetie." She calls back. He quickly finished his plate, putting it in the empty sink.

He walks over to his mum and gives her a kiss on the top of her head. "Bye 'ma." He walks over to the front door, picking up his keys and bag that lay on the floor. He chuckles to himself before saying goodbye one last time and closing the door behind him.

====================================================

You hum thoughtfully, nodding along to the teacher when you thought they made good points, you were not paying attention, instead choosing to doodle in the book in front of you. You weren't a big fan of school nor were you a fan of most of your peers.

You sat in the middle of the class to be ignored by the teacher, the back was too loud and the teachers would always pick on the back and the front...nobody likes the people at the front. You surveyed the kids around you, watching as they waited anxiously for the bell to ring.

The class erupts with chatter with the sound of the bells and chairs scrapping across the tiled floors. You were one of the last to leave, being continuously pushed past, your bag slung across your shoulder carelessly as you wave to the teacher.

Your locker wasn't fair but you took notice of the lack of presence of your "locker buddy", as he put it. You played with the lock before it opened. I really need to remember my lock combo, you thought, shoving your bag in hastily when you hear the sound of hurried footsteps.

"Hey Y/N," the voice greeted cheerfully but laced with venom. You sigh but turn your head to see the familiar face, a familiar face with green eyes that you swore could pierce your soul if he tried hard enough. "Hello, oh great one." You deadpan, shutting your locker before turning to face him.

"What do I owe the pleasure this time?" The boy shrugs, a smile on his face as he eyes you up and down. "I just wanted to tell you, your special appearance in class was quite impressive." He compliments but in reality, there was a presentation in class, in which a whole slide talked about pigs.

You scoff, crossing your arms. "Is that so?" You ask, watching him nod enthusiastically. "Well, I must say, I really love what you are wearing today." You smirked, running your hand gently over his collar. "You look less like a druggie today." You didn't want to push your luck when you saw his smile twitch but you couldn't help it. "Tell me, do you get that from your father?" You say, fixing his collar as his eyes fill with rage. You step back, leaning against your locker, pretending to think for a moment. "Maybe you got it from your mother."

"Afternoon Y/N." You looked over your shoulder, smiling at your locker buddy. "Hey, Billy." You waved, Billy notices the tall figure in front of you but doesn't say anything. You let your shoulders drop, knowing that luck had just saved you again. You smirk at the boy in front of you. "Didn't you say you had somewhere to be?" You joke, watching him hold back a scowl before turning heel and walking the opposite way.

"Who was that?" Billy asks, turning to face you, you couldn't tell but his eyes were filled with worry and concern. Many people had come up to you in the past week, hence why he was always early. You huff out a chuckle. "Nobody important." Billy nods in acknowledgement as you walk away. "I'll see you, Billy." Billy lets a small smile creep across his face as you wave back at him. "Yeah, I know." He jokes to himself.

Billy was polite to you, if not a bit protective. At first, it creeped you out but you got used to it. Maybe that's just how he is? He wasn't your friend by any means and Billy was far from seeing you as a friend. If anything, you both saw each other every day, coming to a silent agreement that being "friends" to the public was the better choice.

====================================================

You sit outside, your jacket wrapped comfortably around you, playing with the lighter in your hands. You weren't a smoker, nor did you really need it but you still kept it on you. Just in case, you always told yourself.

The bell rang for school to end a bit ago and most kids hung around the school. You were waiting for your friends, and unlike you, they were in after-school activities. One of them doing track and field and the other doing computer science. Your other friends left a long time ago since you were their ride home.

You groan, watching as the tall boy from before came walking over to you. His name was Theo, and you truly had no idea what his problem was. Sure, sometimes you cause him a bit of trouble, but that's only because he starts it.

You don't bother to stand as Theo plops himself right next to you, lazily putting his arm around you, like how friends would. You put the lighter into your pocket and stare at him. "What do you want?" You judge silently. "Nothing, not this time." You hum, nodding your head along like he was still talking. "Right," you look up and let your shoulders fall, thinking to yourself.

"Ah, hello Y/N." This time you flinch, turning your head to see...Billy?Huh, maybe luck is really on my side. "Hello, Theo is it?." Theo snarled and pulled you closer to him. That definitely weirded you out. You chuckled nervously, looking up at Billy. "What's up, big guy?" You smile, trying to rationalise a plan in your head if things were to go south.

"Oh, nothing, I just wanted to show you something." You would never admit it, of course, but Billy was good-looking, and who didn't think that? He had dirty-blonde hair and blue eyes with a formidable body that you had praised him on, and he's a silent art kid.

You chuckle and bite the inside of your cheek. "As long I won't be gone for long, sure. Just let me finish up the conversation." You look over to Theo who was staring daggers at the man. "Are we finished here?" You ask smugly. Theo mudders under his breath, unable for you to hear him. "I'm sorry, what was that, Theo?" You tease with a chuckle.

Before you knew it you felt a sharp pain hit you. Almost like a burning sensation, right on your cheek. "You petty bitch." Theo said, standing up abruptly. Billy didn't react, only putting himself between the two of you. "And I'm not scared of you." Theo finishes. "You're like a dog protecting its master." Theo spits. You begin to see a crowd being attracted to the commotion like a moth to flames.

You stand up and groan, chuckling slightly. Maybe, just this once, I'll give in to my impulses. You don't plan to enact that thought anytime soon. Billy, annoyingly, was acting like a wall between the two of you. It was probably for the best, if he weren't, you'd be so fucked.

You play it off, however, walking to Billy's side and hitting him gently to look down at you. You swear one day you'll get taller. "You said you had something to show me?" You send a wink Theo's way when Billy relaxes and smiles down at you. "I did, didn't I?" He nods, looking up to stare down at Theo before walking off.

"Bye-bye, Theo!" You wave, giggling as you do so. "I'll see you later, 'kay?" You after Billy, laughing to yourself as you hear Theo stomp away. Catching up with Billy, he smiles down at you. "So, what do you want to show me?"

"I want to show you something I made." You nod along, smiling happily as he explained to you this watercolour painting he did and how it reminded him of you. "Huh, you're a weird one." You joke, laughing.

You both reach his car and you sit on his hood. He clearly didn't mind when he just walked past you to his trunk. You hear him sigh as he takes out a pile of small canvases, looking through them hastily until he only had two in his hand.

He walks towards you, his hand behind his back. Yeah, he really is a weird one. As weird as you thought Billy was, you couldn't help but feel safe, even if he asks like as oblivious as a himbo on game night.

"Pick a hand?" He questions, his shoulders tensing as he feels a sudden spike in his anxiety. He was never an anxious person but he still couldn't help but feel like one when he was near you. He tried to hide it by being polite and protective, even if he could tell you thought it was weird.

You hum, truly think about your options. "Which option do you think I'd like best?" Billy thinks for a second. "The right." He concluded. "I'll take the left." You smirk, putting your hand out expectantly. Billy would be stunned and if he was, he didn't seem it, handing you the one in his left hand.

It was a pretty picture of a bird, you could still see the sketch marks and how it was messily painted over with shades of blue which made the firey bird stand out. You tell it was a proud bird just by looking at it. You notice how a piece of it was missing. The branch it laid upon looked like it was one-half of a whole.

"Wow, this is..." you pause and look back at Billy who waited, nervously playing with the hem of his shirt. "...I love it." You conclude, nodding as you looked back down at it. "I love the colour choice, why a bird though?" You ask. Billy simply shrugs with a smile when you look back at him. "Well, it's beautiful Billy."

You go to hand it back to him but he refuses. "You keep it." You huff out a giggle but don't bother agreeing. "Alright." You take a pen out of your pocket and hand it to Billy. "Then, I want you to sign it." Billy shakes his head, his right hand still behind his back. "Can I see the other one?"

"No." Billy laughs. "If I show you the other one, what would be the point?" Now it was your turn to shake your head, your hand still outstretched towards him. "You gonna sign your work or what?" Billy takes your pen from your hands and writes his name into the corner of the painting.

He hands you back the pen and you slide off the car. "I have to go Billy, but I'll see you later." Billy hums and smiles happily. "Yeah, I know." It feels so weird to say that to somebody else other than him. You lean in and kiss his cheek. "We both know." You joke, laughing as you pat his shoulder before walking away leaving him a flushed mess.

You take this opportunity to look at the painting he hid behind his back. Maybe this was cheating but who were you to care. It was another bird, this time painting gracefully as colour flowed on the paper. The background was blue, just like the one you have, but the bird was a bright yellow colour, like the sun. You take note of how this time, the branch ended, and how the bird was looking back.

You smile. Hope. This bird was hope. And yours is passion.

[elysiadjarin]

Day 3: Dacryphilia

Jesse Cromeans may be a ruthless killer, but at home with you? You’re the one in charge. And especially those days when you’re annoyed at how long he’s been gone and he comes back so desperate for your attention… well. You did so like to see him cry.

Day 3 of Kinktober has arrived! I actually think I discovered some things about myself writing this one, so y’all enjoy. 😂 Find my Kinktober Masterlist here.

Warnings: Minors DNI, this is 18+ content only. This one is a slasher x reader fic, so please beware of mentions of murder and assault as part of the territory, though nothing is explicitly mentioned. PinV unprotected sex, dacryphilia, desperation, cumplay.

Tags: Jesse Cromeans (Chromeskull) x reader, slasher x reader, yandere!reader, soft femdom, sub/dom themes

Paint Splatters over Canvas

It was rather funny, really.

You scrolled through your phone, ignoring the giant man standing in the doorway of the room staring at you. Jesse had always made a point of never touching you without your permission. A way for him to separate the meaningless victims of his murderous hobby with you, his wife, his everything. And while of course your relationship stayed perfectly strong, you well aware of his hobby and he well aware of your own tendencies… it did sometimes backfire on him in the best worst ways.

Like now. When you were annoyed with him because he’d been gone an entire day later than he’d promised, extra dark web cash be damned. A promise was a promise, and it wasn’t as though he’d needed the money. He did have a perfectly legal and highly successful business, after all. So shouldn’t you have come first?

You liked revenge cold, playing the long game; something you had in common with Jesse. And today, you certainly had plans put in place for said revenge. Which, for the time being, meant ignoring Jesse. You had plenty to occupy you, from communications for the business to just working on your own projects. Still, you’d made sure to be just nonchalant enough to let him know that it was all so… deliberate.

Jesse shuffled in the doorway, clearly wanting your attention but knowing better than to think any sort of demanding would get him anywhere. He’d learned the hard way that at home, his power over subordinates decidedly did not apply to you. When you didn’t give him any response, he hovered for a moment, clearly trying to decide on what to do next.

You knew how he would get after a mission. Needy. Wanting. Starved for attention and affection from you. Pent up for days, probably thinking about you every spare moment between takes.

With a hum, you typed out a message on your phone before standing and heading for the doorway. You briefly looked up to see him as you brushed past in the doorway. “Oh, hi, Jesse,” you said, giving him a brief, distracted smile. “I’m off to get ready for a meeting with a client.” You headed for the bedroom, already thinking about your next steps.

You could hear him following behind you, could almost feel the mounting despair as he started to realized what was happening. Why you had used his name instead of the usual love, darling. His shoulders hunched, and you could see his face twist as he clearly tried to think of what to do. He already knew that you’d have your revenge however you wanted: apologies would be expected but certainly wouldn’t get him any closer to mercy.

Walking into the bedroom, you headed straight for the bathroom to start preparing. Jesse still trailed along behind you like a forlorn, helpless puppy, and you swore you could almost hear him let out a small whine. Pausing for a moment in front of your vanity, you dialed your friend’s number and set it to speaker, putting it down on the countertop and sitting in front of the mirror.

You tied your hair up and reached for your cosmetics, beginning the process as the phone dialed. Your friend picked up quickly, already in on your plan thanks to your texting. She always approved of your payback plans.

Bestie! I thought you said you had to prepare for the meeting? I mean, yknow, not that I don’t like hearing from you. She cheerfully teased over the phone.

You smiled. “Well yeah, I just sat down to do my makeup. But I mean, we did say we were going to talk about the party for little Jacen this weekend, and what better time than now? You can help me pick out an outfit once I’m done,” you cajoled, noticing how Jesse sat on the edge of the jacuzzi bathtub, unabashedly staring at you. He always had loved watching you get ready for an event. Not that you minded.

Fair enough. Your best friend admitted readily. But seriously, you didn’t have to go all out for Jacen like this. She half scolded. It’s so much!

You laughed lightly, the creamy foundation smoothing across your skin. “Oh c’mon, he’s my adorable little nephew in all but name. He deserves to get spoiled by his doting Aunt, let me have my fun,” you wheedled, knowing she would cave.

She sighed over the receiver. I swear, girl, you could convince anyone into anything.

“Or maybe I’m just your weakness, Miss Mara,” you teased back. The soft brush in your fingers blended the contour onto your face, and you smiled as you glanced at the phone. “But anyway, did you manage to figure out what he might want for a birthday present? Or are we going with my original idea to let him loose in a mall?”

Oh, no, you are so not buying him everything he points at. I’d never get him to not be a spoiled brat if I let you.Mara snorted. I’ll text you what I figured out, he seems to be pretty fixated on it right now.

“Ugh, fineeee,” you sighed, rolling your eyes. “But I’m going to at least get him that adorable motorized scooter I showed you before. He’s going to look so cute riding around in it.”

Fair enough I suppose. Better than the mall idea— wait, did you just get me to agree to something extravagant by threatening something so ridiculous—

“Anyway,” you interrupted blithely, “did you send out invitations to everyone?”

Yep, and I got back all the RSVPs. Speaking of which, I thought you said that you were meeting with the CEO of some business tonight? What’s that all about? I know you, you normally don’t like dealing with people.

You sighed. “Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag a little.” You pouted, reaching for the eyeshadow and liner. “Jesse was supposed to be back yesterday, but since he wasn’t I had to reschedule, and I promised to personally meet with the CEO in order to smooth over ruffled feathers. But besides that… I wanted to be there personally to see my best friend and her husband’s house finally paid off for their fifth anniversary.”

A pause. Then a screech that made you grin. You’re not serious! Babes, no, wait—

“No use protesting!” You said cheerfully, waving your brush. “It’s already been practically settled. Besides, you both need to start saving up for Jacen’s college funds. We did have the agreement that I’d open the doors to whatever college he wanted instead of just paying for it,” you reminded.

Ugh, I don’t know if I want to smack you or hug you, you sly little— Mara groaned. Wait till I tell Damien, he won’t know what hit him. She laughed. Thank you. You know how much it means to us. I won’t scold.

“Good.” You nodded. “And you know I’ll take care of you.”

She sighed. Never doubted it. So, how’s the process?

You hummed, pursing your lips as you finished the eyeshadow and grabbed the mascara. “About to do mascara, then all I have left is the lipstick. But shouldn’t I wait till we pick a dress before I actually pick a color?”

Probably. What’s the mood? You going for boss ass bitch, sultry Queen, or mysterious vampire lady? Amusement laced Mara’s voice.

“You’re not even in my house and yet you walked in and called me out to my face,” you said dryly, earning laughter. Jesse, you saw in the mirror, tilted his head with a small smile playing over his lips. He’d quietly observed the whole processes, eyes fixed on your face.

Only cause I love you. So, show me the closet, girl! Oh, show me your makeup first tho so we got reference.

You picked up the phone as you finished, turning on the camera so she could see your makeup sans the lipstick. She whistled, eyebrows wriggling teasingly as she grinned.

Oh, so mysterious vampire queen it is. She smirked. Closet. Though I do have the feeling that we’re going to be choosing a gorgeous red lipstick.

“Yes ma’am,” you answered, standing and heading for your closet. You heard Jesse stand and follow behind you, and stifled a smile. Flipping the camera, you started to flip through the racks of dresses. “Does that mean we’re leaning towards a black dress?”

Hmm, probably. Actually, how about one of your sleek black ones? The one with like, barely any frills and only a tiny bit of lace at the top. Off the shoulder. If you’re gonna try to assert dominance, probably drawing attention to your mouth and hands is the best way to go.

You tilted your head at the hangers, then nodded. “You’re right. Especially if I go for the red lipstick. I could also honestly use a glass of wine during that meeting,” you sighed.

Mara snickered. Blood in a wine glass? How stereotypical of you, madame.

“You hush, drama queen,” you said dryly, finding the dress she’d described and pulling it out.

Ooh, that’s the one! And I know you have that one crimson shade of lipstick that I always say looks vampiric.

You went back to the vanity and set the phone down, pretending to not notice that it showed Jesse standing in the doorway, clearly staring at you. You slid your shirt off, careful not to smudge any makeup, then slipped out of your pants and reached for the dress. Smoothing it over your front to get rid of any wrinkles, you sat back down and tilted the camera back to yourself, reaching for the lipstick.

“This one, right?” You waved it in front of your face.

Yep! That dress is stunning, by the way. Oh, and what are you doing with your hair?

“Ugh, I don’t really wanna bother too much with it, so I figured I’d go with the… messy, loose waves.” You shrugged, applying the lipstick.

Mara snorted. I think you mean, ‘sorry I’m late I was doing things’ while ignoring Jesse staggering behind you clearly radiating ‘I’m things’ energy.

You half-choked, laughing despite yourself. “Mara-! Seriously!”

She rolled her eyes at you. I’m just saying it like it is. But you go girlie, you look bomb. She laughed. Blow them all away. Be the boss bitch you are. A noise in the background interrupted her. Oop, that’s my cue. I gotta go, text me though okay?

“Will do, tell Damien and Jacen hi for me.” You smiled and hung up, finishing fluffing your hair. Standing, you grabbed the phone and headed for the door. “The meeting is in five minutes,” you remarked to Jesse as you passed him in the doorway. “If you want to join.”

You saw him type on his phone, the text to speech translator sounding a moment later. May I be there with you?

You flashed him a warm smile, as though you weren’t at all deliberately enacting revenge. “Of course! I’d love to have you there. Let’s go.” With a little hum, you headed towards the stairs.

Your phone pinged with a message. Girl, I swear he was drooling. You’re so mean sometimes. Not that he didn’t deserve it.

You suppressed a laugh, replying with one hand as your other slid down the bannister to guide you down the staircase. You know it. Mission so far successful. Wish me luck, I’m about to go into this meeting.

You looked up as you got to the bottom of the stairs, seeing an assistant waiting with the guest. The assistant bowed politely. “May I introduce Mr. Trace, CEO of Finley Bank.”

Giving the assistant a nod, you turned to Mr. Trace. “Greetings, Mr. Trace. Welcome! Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I do apologize for the delay,” you said, taking charge and sweeping towards the parlor.

He followed after automatically. “Of course, Mrs. Cromeans,” he answered, quickly recovering from his moment of bewilderment.

You motioned to a chair, sitting on the velvet couch across the coffee table. “Please, please, have a seat,” you said, keeping the easy smile on your face. “Can I get you a drink? Anything at all?”

He blinked, sitting down and setting his briefcase next to him. “Ah— thank you. I’d appreciate a scotch on the rocks if it’s available.”

“Of course,” you said easily, nodding to the maid standing nearby. “A red wine for me, please.” You smiled at Jesse as he sat next to you. “Your regular?” you asked sweetly. At his nod, you turned back to the maid. “And a glass of dry white.”

She bowed and went to go fetch the drinks.

“I’m sure you have plenty of other things to do, Mr. Trace,” you said smoothly, “so I’ll not take any more of your time than necessary. Of course, as I said, I’d like to discuss several things with you…”

Twenty minutes later found you leaning against the arm of the couch, feet propped up beside you as you swirled the last dregs of the red wine, tapping the glass with your fingernails. The CEO had long since emptied his scotch, and Jesse was on his second glass. His fingers kept clenching around the flute of his glass every time your feet brushed against his thigh.

“Of course,” Trace said with a nod, jotting down the final notes on the paperwork. “Easily managed. Are there any other details you would like to add or anything else to discuss?” He looked up at you.

Your tactics of firm politeness and the scotch seemed to have worked their charm, and you’d been able to rather easily dominate the flow of the interaction. Not to mention, Mara had been right about appearances clearly setting a tone. Trace seemed to be studiously avoiding eye contact with either you or Jesse.

“Not at all, Mr. Trace,” you said, a pleased note in your voice. “I’m rather pleased at how everything has turned out. We do so value your business, you know.” You tilted the glass in your fingers. “Shall I sign the papers?”

“At your leisure.” He slid them across the table toward you.

You slowly uncurled yourself like a lazy feline, straightening yourself and leaning over to set the glass down on the table. Grasping the pen, you slowly signed your name on the papers, eyes glancing over the print to ascertain that everything was in order. Shuffling through the papers, you finally set the pen down.

Trace took them back, glancing through them before nodding. “Everything seems to be in order.” He slid them back into his briefcase. “Thank you as always for your business, Mrs. Cromeans, Mr. Cromeans.”

You nodded, and Jesse stood, setting his glass down. You rose as well, sliding your arm into the crook of his elbow as he automatically adjusted for you. “And thank you for your help, Mr. Trace,” you answered easily. “I do hope you have a productive rest of the day. Do be safe out there.”

He nodded as the assistant returned to escort him out. “Same to you.”

With a hum, you absently patted Jesse’s arm and let yours slide out of his grasp, drifting towards the stairs again. “Oh, I need to go tell Mara it’s all confirmed. Besides, this dress is only comfortable for so long,” you remarked, pulling out your phone again.

Guess who completely owns their house now? You texted Mara, smiling. And your tactics worked, I think dominance was asserted.

You waltzed into the bedroom, headed straight for the closet. “Jesse, are you hungry? I think the food I ordered should have arrived by now, it should be in front of the TV. Maybe pick a movie? I still have a few messages to send.”

You changed into a comfortable black babydoll nightdress, sighing in relief as the silk slid over your skin. It was far more comfortable, and you could feel yourself finally starting to relax after the pent-up tension of the meeting. You really did hate dealing with people, especially ones like the CEO.

Your phone buzzed as you went to go pick it back up. You are literally the best. Now go finish seducing Jesse while I go figure out how to make this news sexy.

Stifling a snort, you went to go wipe your makeup off and wash your face. You could hear the sounds of the TV starting in the bedroom, so you took one more glance in the mirror before heading out into the room, still tapping at your phone. You still had to finish some arrangements for Jacen’s birthday, after all, and your revenge was still percolating.

Jesse’s head turned as soon as you approached the couch in front of the TV. You ignored the way he froze, sliding onto the couch and tucking your feet under a soft blanket. Sending off another message, you set it beside you and reached forward to grab a tray, pulling it into your lap.

“I figured you might not want anything too heavy since you just got back, so I kinda just made a guess and ended up ordering too much…” You frowned at the myriad of food laid out over the table. “Sorry, Jesse… I don’t even know if this is what you want—“

The text to speech cut you off. The food is fine, thank you. I’m sorry for being late. I know I can only make excuses, but I am sorry. Can I make it up to you?

A frown touched your lips as you picked up your spoon, still not looking at him. Your fingernails tapped against the screen of your phone. “Jacen asked the other day if Uncle Jesse would be at his party. I told him I didn’t know, but I’d ask.”

He quickly typed. Of course, if he asked for me, I’ll be sure to be there. His fingers paused, then he slowly typed again, as though hesitating. I got you a present while I was gone.

You hummed, swallowing your food and picking your phone back up. “He’ll be happy to hear it. And thank you for the present.” You sent a message to tell Mara that Jacen’s wish had been granted.

Jesse practically fidgeted as he ate, the movie playing in the background. You could feel his eyes slide from the screen to you, could almost hear the wheels in his head frantically turning. The tension in every line of his body was obvious, his movements stilted and jerky. He practically twitched every time you so much as moved.

Finally, you set down the tray, grabbing a mint to refresh your mouth. Shifting to get more comfortable, you angled yourself towards him a little more. You snitched a piece of food from his plate, letting out a hum as you smiled down at Mara’s message. If possible, Jesse stiffened even more, his fingers clenching so hard around his spoon that it even bent a little in his grasp.

A crumb fell from your fingers onto the lace edge of your nightgown, and you let out a quiet noise of protest as you looked down. Your fingers brushed against the top of your breast, brushing off the crumb. Sticking your finger in your mouth, you typed out a message in response to another conversation. With a sigh, you looked up and glanced over Jesse’s shoulder to see the lamp on the table next to him. Night had fallen, and shadows fell over the room.

Stirring yourself, you sat up, setting your phone down for a moment. “Can I turn on the lamp? I don’t wanna get up for the lights,” you said, starting to lean across him. Almost thoughtlessly, you placed your hand on his thigh and put your weight on it, reaching over his body on your hands and knees to pull at the cord on the lamp. The light clicked on, just as a low keening sound came from Jesse.

Your head tilted at the sound, and you turned to look up at his face. It was your turn to freeze.

Jesse’s face had crumpled, his soft green eyes literally awash with tears. His hands were clenched at his sides, his chest heaving with hitching breaths as he struggled to control his expression. The tears welled in his eyes, and faint color had splashed across his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Slowly, a smile crossed your lips as you stared up at his face. Leaning back, you tilted your head, licking your lips. “Oh, look at you,” you breathed. “You made all the little piggies cry, Jesse. But maybe it’s your turn, hmm?” Your eyes flickered down to the way his entire body trembled, every muscle taut and strained.

You moved, sliding your entire body into his lap to straddle his waist and face him. Crossing your arms under your chest, you stared into his face. “I don’t know… you broke your promise, though.” Your eyebrow raised at him, and he let out another hoarse whimper. Tears slid down his cheeks, his mouth opening for shuddering breaths.

He shook his head, lips trembling as he lifted one hand and signed. Sorry. Please. Sorry. His fingers spelled out your name.

Reaching up, you cupped his face in your hands. You leaned up, face drawing closer to his. “But I already accepted your apology, love,” you cooed, smiling. “You know what I think?” You slowly dragged your tongue across his tear tracks, your body flushing with heat at the taste of the bitter salt. “I think,” you murmured against his jaw, “that I like seeing you cry.”

Jesse’s breath hitched on a sob, more tears spilling down his cheeks. It was fairly intoxicating, seeing the giant man completely fall apart under you, trapped between his desperation and his personal standards. When you slid forward, your body pressing flush against him, another sob wrenched from his gritted teeth.

You decided for the moment to have a bit of mercy. Reaching down, you grasped his wrists and lifted his hands to your waist. His fingers instantly clenched in the silk babydoll dress, shaking as he grabbed at your waist. His entire body lurched forwards towards you, eyes fixed on your face.

You hummed softly, brushing a kiss to his jaw. “Your eyes are so pretty when they’re filled with tears, Jesse,” you purred, drawing his face closer to you. Still, you refused to kiss him, instead trailing your lips down his jaw, down to his throat. You opened your mouth against his neck, savoring the taste of his skin and the soft scent of his cologne.

Jesse’s trembling fingers jerked against your waist, and he slumped into you. His hands slid over your waist to your lower back, his touch practically reverent as he squeezed. His breaths came quick and fast, breaking occasionally on a sob. Every time you suckled or moved your lips, every time your hands slid down his shoulders, he gasped and shuddered, more tears dripping down his cheeks.

You slid your hands down, starting to unbutton his shirt. Your tongue dragged across his neck, and you felt the bulge in his pants throb against your thigh. “Isn’t this punishment fair, darling?” you cooed. “I only ask for a few tears, hmm? A front row seat to your pretty eyes?”

His head jerked, even though it wrenched another tortured sob from him. Despite the contact, you could feel his frustration mounting.

You pulled back, looking up at him as you finished unbuttoning his shirt. “Oh, you don’t think so?” Your fingers slid across his bared chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. “But isn’t this what you wanted? Me, paying attention to you?”

His gasps had turned ragged. His hips jerked, rutting up against your thigh. A strangled noise left his throat, his eyes squeezing shut. His grip on your waist threatened to leave fingerprints against your skin.

“No?” You bit your lip, raking your nails lightly against his chest. “Then what is it you want, hmm?”

His eyes flickered down to your lips, unconsciously licking his own. His fingers clenching, he pulled you down to grind against his cock, straining in his trousers. Pants fell from his mouth, and he kept glancing from your eyes to your lips.

You reached down, teasingly trailing your fingers down his chest and stomach. Unzipping his trousers, you looked up at his face and smiled as you traced one fingertip down the bulge in his underwear. His eyes fairly rolled back in his head, more tears streaming down his face afresh.

“Look at you, already such a mess,” you murmured, sliding your fingers into his underwear. The moment you wrapped a hand around his cock and slid up, you were rewarded with a guttural groan. He gritted his teeth, clearly struggling to stay still. With a soft laugh, you leaned up and brushed a kiss to his ear.

You tugged at his collar. “Why don’t you lie down for me?” you murmured.

He immediately complied, his hands still clamped around your waist as he turned and shifted up, lying down on the couch. He stared up at you, face still twisted in agony and desperation.

Lifting yourself a little, you tilted your head at him. “Take your pants off for me?”

He practically kicked his pants and underwear off in his haste. You guided one of his hands to the latch on the side of your own panties, giving him an amused smile and nod. His trembling fingers unlatched them, his chest heaving as he watched the black silk slide away from your skin. The moment you lowered back down onto him, his cock throbbed against you and his back arched.

Leaning forward, you hummed a pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Jesse, love,” you murmured. “Cry for me a little more?” You cupped his face in your hands, feeling your wetness coat his own length as you ground against his tip. But you deliberately kept shifting, not giving him any steady pressure.

Another broken whine came from him, and a few more tears slipped down his cheeks. Frustration scrunched his face, his neck mottled with red and flushing down to his shoulders and chest, making your white nail marks stand out. His hips jerked, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment.

“Is this what you want?” You pressed down against him again, feeling his cock slip against your wet folds teasingly.

His head jerked in a nod, almost violently. Tremors kept running through his arms, his body occasionally shuddering under you.

You leaned down and sucked his lower lip between yours. Your teeth nipped at his lip, and you finally slanted your mouth over his. Tears poured afresh down his cheeks as he desperately pulled at you, trying to get closer, kiss you more. You relented and let him, thumbs brushing against his jaw as you hummed softly into his frantic, pleading kisses. Without warning, you slipped your tongue between his lips, feeling his mouth part with alacrity. When you finally parted, his green eyes were glazed over with tears, hazily staring at you.

Then you smiled at him slyly. “I think you’ve deserved a little bit more,” you decided.

The moment you slid his tip into you, he choked. Saliva dribbled from the corners of his mouth as he squeezed his eyes shut, struggling for breath. His entire body froze, humming taut under you and his eyes sightlessly staring up at the ceiling.

You observed his wrecked expression, licking your lips with satisfaction. Rarely did Jesse ever fully submit to you like this, usually a brat. But tonight, you had absolute and utter control, and you intended to milk every last ounce of satisfaction out of it. The memories would fuel you for years of his utterly ruined expression, tears slipping down his cheeks as he drooled uncontrollably.

“So pretty, darling,” you purred, licking the tears from his cheek. You gave him another kiss, letting his hands wander over your waist and up your front. “So good for me. Do you think you can handle more?”

His eyes widened, breath quickening. He glanced down, then shook his head jerkily. Then nodded. Then shook his head.

You tilted your head. “Hmmm.” A wicked grin crossed your lips. “No? Oh, but I think you can,” your said, just as you lifted yourself and fully sheathed him inside you.

Jesse sobbed. His mouth opened, tongue lolling as he gasped. Tears poured down his cheeks from the mingled pleasurable pain and relief. His cock throbbed inside you, and his hands grasped desperately at your thighs. His entire body started to shake, arching.

You barely gave him time to adjust before you were already bouncing on him, hands braced against the back of the couch. Laughter spilled from your lips, delighted and cruel, as his hands scrabbled against your thighs, raking across your skin. Moans kept being torn from his throat, your name framed on his lips.

As soon as you angled your hips and brought your fingers down to ring tight circles on your clit, you hissed in pleasure. You pulsed around his cock, earning another helpless sob and wave of tears. He just hit that one spot inside you perfectly, again and again, until you bit your lip and moaned his name as you came around him. Your body clenched down on him, even as you kept fucking yourself through your orgasm.

More laughter spilled from your lips. “Are you gonna cum for me, Jesse, my pretty darling?” you asked breathlessly, purposely moaning his name. “Gonna cum inside me?”

The only warning you got from Jesse was another sob and the gritting of his teeth. His hands flew to your hips, slamming you down on him one more time before holding you there with an iron grip. Gasps tore from his mouth, his eyes trying to blink away tears as he stared up at you.

You hummed, caressing his hands and arms as you bit your lip in satisfaction. He kept pouring into you, his hips jerking once in a while and wringing a whimper from him. Finally, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. His lips parted under yours weakly, chest heaving under your hands.

“Thank you, Jesse,” you cooed sweetly between kisses. “You’re so good to me, make me feel so good.” Your mind fuzzed with the pleasure of both your high and the sight of his tears.

He pushed up against you, kissing you fervently. Though he didn’t say a word, you could feel his thoughts through his drugged, sloppy kiss.

You giggled, teasingly clenching down on him one more time and earning a jerk and grunt. “And I forgive you. But don’t do it again, okay?”

Jesse’s calculating look as he clearly weighed the consequences made you roll your eyes but laugh. Maybe this one would turn out to backfire against you, next time.

You decided it was worth it.

[anyoneseenadam]

That fenrys fic was divine 😭🔥 can I request something for him having a nightmare for the first time since he found his mate and she comforts him and reassure him ?a tiny bit of angst maybe 💔🤧

pairing: Fenrys x reader (throne of glass)

warnings: blood, violence, nightmares, character death (kinda), mainly fluff with a lil bit of angst

a/n: I completely stole the first half of this from a short story I wrote about Achilles lmao, also THANK YOU FENRYS IS AN ICON AND DESERVES ALL THE LOVE WHICH I AM HAPPY TO GIVE, hope u enjoy <3

(I did not proof read this because I am tired :))

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Fenrys hands shook as they refrained from touching her, from pulling her in and wrapping himself around her, drowning in her hair, her skin, her clothes, her laugh, eyes, smile. She turned with a smirk and a cheeky eyebrow raise, beckoning him in. He lunged, grabbing her, ready to make true on his wish, staring in wonder as her solid form turned to mist in his hands as she moved further away. Her laugh drawing him in. And of course, he followed like the lost puppy he was, begging, and whining to return to comfort, home, safety. She was his home, and he would follow her to the ends of the world if it meant she stayed that way.

 She had moved again, this time into a series of winding corridors, the maze he called his heart, a maze she owned. He chased after her, but she was quick, twisting and turning through corridors and secret doors, the map laid bare for her to see as he stumbled blinding, led only be the light she left in her path and her infectious laughter. Finally, she reached a dead end, casually bracing herself against the cold walls, releasing an exhale of laughter through her nose. He slowed his pace to a walk as she smiled up at him through curling lashes, nothing but the faint smudge of rouge high on her cheeks concealing her natural face to him, which he proceeded to wipe with his thumb when he reached her, his build towering over hers.

 “Finished running, are you?” he mused quietly,

 “I knew you wouldn’t let me get too far,” she whispered back, lips tracing his jaw.

 “That’s because you hold my leash,” he allowed himself to concede, “always have, always will my darling.”

 She let out a sigh of agreement, before leaning to his ear, their bodies pressed so tightly together he could feel her heart beating in his own chest, as if they had swapped hearts giving the other all they were, all they could be.

 “There is no me without you.” She uttered the vows they had made that beautiful day, where she dressed as the angel he was sure she was. He leaned down to express his love, but she did not allow him to rest in her arms for long, pulling away with a giggle.

 “What?” he asked with a smirk, but she was already gone giggling behind him, the chase beginning again.

 But as he turned, blessed by the smile she gave him, all pearly white teeth and rosy cheeks, the warning shout he cried was not quick enough as a wash of deep red replaced the once pure and untainted white of her smile. Her mouth filling with blood, the sword protruding from her stomach like a handle. She stared at him questions not asked soon enough as she splutters up blood onto her previously fresh clothes, eyes full of fear, splitting his heart in half, the ground crumbling beneath his feet.

 He tried to run to her, hands grasping at air as he fell through the cracks in his own heart, a scream tearing from his throat as she was pulled from him, skin draining of colour and eyes turning black, full of hatred and contempt as she stared him down.

 His own scream woke him up, sweat and tears blending on his face like paint on a pallet, as he gripped her pillow and sobbed on their bed. He herded himself into the far corner of the bed, afraid when he realised she was not lying next to him, comforting words, and gentle hands ready to lull him back to sleep. Fear and sadness battled in his heart, the heart he had given her during the war, the heart she had held safely as she cut her way through armies to reach him again. The heart she had put back together with soft kisses and words of undying love. The heart she had tied to her own the day they wed and had kept pressed safely in her chest since.

 He looked now, tears blurring the image he was presented with, bookshelves filled with stories you promised you would read eventually, tubes of lipstick on the floor next to the frame of their mirror, tea left to go cold in mugs dotted around the room, sketches left to be forgotten on desks and ribbons tied haphazardly around bed posts.

 He saw all these signs of you, the clues you left him as he navigated your shared life. His eyes darted around the room, breath picking up when he couldn’t see you, pressing a hand to your side of the bed and finding it warm, his breathing only slowing a little.

 He stood, pulling on a pair of boxers, and grabbing two daggers he kept next to the bed as his mind filled with the worst possible scenarios. He slowly padded out the room, moving silently through the house and thinking of a million different ways to torture whoever had dared to touch you. The tears on his face had dried uncomfortably but it was the least of his worries as he stalked through his own home, fear clouding his judgement that argued you were probably safe.

 He heard movement in the kitchen and walked that way, footsteps light as he rounded to corner to a beautiful sight. His arms dropped as he took in the sight of you in nothing but his shirt, sipping from a glass of water, illuminated by the moons glow. You turned when he walked in, smiling at his but furrowing your eyebrows when you saw his facial expression and the knives in his hands.

 “Fenrys, what happened?” you asked, moving over to him as he threw his daggers down, arms encircling your waist as he breathed in your scent. “Fenrys please, you’re scaring me.”

 He pulled away from you and you reached up, stroking a hand down his face and looking up at him with nothing but concern in your eyes, eyes that were searching his for any clues of why he was acting this way.

“I though you were- I thought someone had,” he struggled to get the words out, pulling you even closer, one hand tangling itself in your hair as you furrowed your eyebrows at him, kissing his sharp jaw.

 “Slow down love, tell me what happened,” your soothing voice calmed him, his breath coming easier as you moved a hand to his shoulder, your loving grip grounding him.

 “I had a dream, then I woke up and you weren’t hear and I- I thought someone had taken you,” he whispered, eyes filling with tears as he pictured your lifeless eyes and limp body.

 “Oh my love, I’m sorry,” you pulled away from him, clasping his large hand in your smaller one and pulling him to your shared bedroom, “But you know I’m not easy to kidnap, I make too much noise.”  You joked, holding his hand to your mouth, and kissing it lightly as you walked over to your bed.

 He sat down first, and you stood between his legs, his arms wrapping tightly around you again. “Don’t joke about that,” he muttered into your stomach, but he couldn’t resist the smile forming.

 You pushed his head back and climbed into his lap, arms resting on his shoulders. “I mean honestly, if I ever got taken hostage I’m pretty sure I’d annoy them into letting me go, I’d just start explaining my top three reasons why every Jane Austen novel contains gay subtext.”

 “Or you could explain to them the tier list you and Aelin made of all the men you know.” Fenrys laughed as your eyes lit up.

 “I forgot about that!” you exclaimed and Fenrys laughed, lying down, and pulling you with him as he tickled your sides, revelling in your squeals as you batted your hands at him.

 When you calmed down, breathing quickly you rolled off Fenrys as he nestled himself between your breasts, holding you close.

 “Please never leave me,” he whispered into your chest as he listened to the steady beat of your heart as it created a song just for him. The vulnerability in his voice broke you and you moved a hand to his head, stroking lightly.

“Never.” You spoke with such surety that Fenrys let out the exhale he had been holding in. “I am never going to leave you, I’m always going to be by your side.”

“I love you so much, so much when I thought you were gone, I felt sick. I can’t do this without you.” He whispered into your skin. “Sometimes I’m scared that one day I’ll wake up and all this will have been a dream. And I’ll have to lie with Maeve again and kill for her and watch her hurt Conall and it will be so much worse, because I’ll remember this softness, I’ll remember you and maybe one day I’d find you and you wouldn’t recognise me, and for the rest of my life I’d think of you, of the woman I never got to love.”

“This is real.” You whispered, kissing his head, and ignoring the tears welling in your eyes, “I’m real, you’re real. We’re real Fenrys.”

He didn’t reply, just buried his face deeper into your chest, addicted to the feel of your heartbeat. The constant reminder that you were here, you were alive. After he lost his brother you noticed Fenrys had become clingier, you initially presumed it was just because he was in mourning and needed comfort but one night he had drunkenly confessed his biggest fear to you. The nightmares he would have where you left him, told him you hated him, and the worst of all, the nightmares in which he watched your life be cruelly ripped from you. He could live with you hating him and leaving him, knowing that somewhere in the world you were safe and breathing, but everyday he feared your death.

The mornings he would wake up and find you wincing, a hot water bottle pressed into your lower stomach, the thought of you in any form of pain ripping into him, making his heartbeat faster and his palms sweat. The powerful warrior brought to his knees for you, but you were always quick to reassure him with kisses and promises of staying in bed all day.

As he breathed in your scent now and listened to your heartbeat, happily surrounded by you and only you, he allowed himself to relax under you soft touch, his own heart slowing to beat with yours as the fear slowly melted from him.

He needn’t fear your death, as he knew that he would never let you die. No, instead he would always fall before you, sacrifice his own life, any life if it meant you survived. You were a Goddess sent to bless him and he would fall to worship before you, always.

[sunflowervolvimp3]

you’re someone i just want around: VI

“I think I’m catching feelings

And I don’t know if this is empathy I feel

Just hold on

Remember when you said this was the last time?”

Sex, Eden

A/N: okay this chapter has probably been my favourite to write so far because we are finally. finally!!!!!! getting to a lil smidgen of softness!!!!! and the softness will only continue like originally I had a different lyric in mind for this chapter (a hozier lyric to stay on brand) and decided that it was too soft so I stocked it away to use in the future when things get even sweeter and harry gets even dumber 😌 we really hope you guys enjoy this chapter!!! and please remember that feedback is truly, madly, deeply™ appreciated!!!! not just by us but by all content creators!!!!! and if you enjoy it, please reblog it!!!! spreading content keeps creators motivated!!!!! and so do messages about what you liked!!!! it lets us know what sort of vibe to add in later!!!! okay now that that’s out of the way!!!! let’s dive in 😼  

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

word count: 29.1k

content/warnings: a good healthy dose of denial and justification to deny feelings, the defamation of gherkin pickles, pet names (literally), a strong independent woman who don’t need no man, a (not quite) man who definitely needs a strong independent woman, brunch served with a side of emotional trauma, breaking promises, nsfw social distancing, and Harry once again ignoring the phrase “bros before hoes”

///

Harry knows he’s good at a lot of things.

He’s good at picking up on fashion trends and turning them into timeless styles, molding each piece to fit his own persona with ease.  He’s good at identifying the locational origins of wines within five seconds of the sweet liquid crossing over his tongue.  He’s good at mixing his own drinks as well, always managing to craft the perfect concoction that suits each drinker’s needs.  He’s good at creating gallery walls in his apartment, at charming anyone into giving him what he wants with a slip of his mouth, and at pissing off his friends until they’re threatening to stake him just to get a little peace and quiet.  Harry is good at chess, at reciting poetry from memory, and at painting his non-dominant hand’s fingernails without smudging any nail polish onto his icy skin.  Harry is fucking excellent at coaxing orgasms out from his lovers.  He knows that he’s good at a lot of things.

The issue, he realizes the day after he asks Y/N out on a real date, is that planning a real date is not one of those things.

This, Harry rationalizes to himself, is not his fault.  After all, the last time he’d been on a real date was during the Victorian era, and Harry is fairly certain that taking a chaperoned stroll around his beloved’s estate garden isn’t in fashion anymore.  And when the way all of those dates ended is taken into account, Harry doesn’t think his past experiences should be the marker for a good date, anyways.  

It’s this frustrating lack of knowledge that leads Harry to do what he always does when he doesn’t know the answer to something: he Googles it.

With the top of the line Macbook Harry had purchased a few months back with the money from a CEO of some candle company perched on his lap, Harry relaxes back onto his leather couch, kicking his brown boots up onto the matching footrest as he does so.  Once the search engine is open and the cursor is blinking in front of his face, however, the vampire pauses, his manicured fingernails perched over the keys.  What question could he possibly Google for his situation?

Harry twists his lion head ring around his cool finger as he thinks, his tongue tucked between his lips in concentration while potential queries run through his head.  Ideas for a first date with a girl you’ve been fucking for a month.  Things to do in L.A. with a mortal when you’re a two hundred year old vampire.  Places to take someone after drinking their blood.  A snort echoes from Harry’s throat as the last idea pops into his head.  Somehow, Harry isn’t confident in what results those questions will show him.

Tapping his black lacquered nails against the keys, Harry purses his lips as he loses himself in thought.  How had he even gotten himself into this position?  The reason he hasn’t planned a date in centuries is because he doesn’t date, and for good reason.  What use does a soulless vampire have for dating?  Mortals use romantic outings to open their hearts to one another, and Harry, in contrast, can’t open what he doesn’t have. 

Despite his wondering, however, he knows exactly how he got himself into this situation: he let himself get jealous of a fake-tanned, shaggy-haired idiot named Jacob, a name that Harry despises on principle alone.  It had been a perfectly fine name until that awful Meyer woman decided to make it one of the banes of Harry’s existence.  And while Harry doesn’t have a particularly forgiving nature, he had just finally begun to get over the association, but thanks to that hallway confrontation at the end of Y/N’s date with the obtusely orange fool, Harry is now reminded that he will forever hate the name with a burning passion.  And shaggy hair.  And fake tans. And while the irony of him, a vampire—with a middle name of Edward, for Christ’s sake—hating an insignificant mortal named Jacob, simply because he dared to make a pass at the object of Harry’s fascination, is not lost on him, all of that was pushed aside the moment Harry smelled the perfume his fascination wore for the mortal boy. 

Y/N never wears perfume for him. And though she had assured him that her dressing up had been for him, he can’t shake the fact that Jacob had gotten to experience it first. 

It’s not that Y/N needs to wear perfume for him.  In fact, if Harry’s being honest with himself, he likes that she doesn’t spritz artificial scents all over her body before letting him into her home and between her legs.  She has one of the sweetest natural scents Harry’s ever had the pleasure of inhaling, all lavender and honey and utterly intoxicating.  Of course, as all mortals are, Y/N is unaware of the mouth watering fragrance that drips from her skin, while Harry is all too aware of it at all times, but her obliviousness to her natural scent doesn’t change the fact that Harry would bathe in it if he could.  If it were possible, Harry would pump an entire room full of her personal cloud of lavender and honey, lay back on the floor, turn down the lights, spark a joint, and let himself get lost in the very thought of her.  That would be Harry’s personal definition of Nirvana.

But Y/N isn’t aware of her natural, skin sweetening aroma like Harry is, which means two things.  Firstly, that Y/N doesn’t feel the need to smear anything unnatural on her body to attract Harry; she knows she doesn’t need to go through all that trouble.  And that was fine with Harry, until he realized the second thing, which is that there potentially could be someone that Y/N would go to all that trouble for if he doesn’t keep her entertained and occupied.  She had told him her date with Jacob hadn’t been on her terms, and that she’d done it just to be courteous towards a co-worker, but that doesn��t sedate the truth: There will always be a maddening possibility that occasions could come into play in which Y/N will spray a choking cloud of gardenia and freesia over herself, all in the hopes of appealing a suitor.  The issue is that in those hypothetical cases, the suitor Y/N would be trying to impress wouldn’t be Harry.

Actually, that’s only the first issue. The second issue is that it could be another fraternity moron with an equally stupid name. 

After the vampire had come upon Y/N ending her date in front of her door, just minutes before their own rendezvous was scheduled, Harry had felt an initial burst of blind rage, and everything after is a blur.  He vaguely remembers trying to make Jacob uncomfortable and delighting in how he succeeded, until he saw the anger on Y/N’s sweet face.  He remembers a brief discussion about limits and honesty, and about how she was only interested in him, and that he shouldn’t waste his time stressing about her supposedly dormant dating life.  And, most importantly, he remembers asking Y/N to accompany him on a real date, one that would blow her date with the VeggieTales carrot out of the water.

Now, of course, he’s beginning to regret his impulsive decision, purely for the fact that he now has to figure out how to woo a mortal girl just enough to keep her away from creeps with horribly coiffed hair.

And yet, despite this regret…there’s something new curling inside his belly as he types the phrase date ideas for L.A. into the search bar, the blinking cursor reflecting in his eyes before he presses the enter key and millions of results pop up.  Ah, the joys of the internet, he thinks as he scours the results with inhuman speed.  It’ll take Harry a few different clicks to find the perfect activity for himself and Y/N, and his hyperfocus on the topic will stop him from over analyzing that new feeling twisting inside him.

It’s a win-win situation, if he can say so himself.

Harry’s halfway through the first disappointing article (somehow, he doesn’t think taking Y/N on a hike is very romantic) when the door to his condo opens and reveals Mitch in the frame, dressed in his usual casual attire, this time of blue jeans and a plaid shirt.  Harry has spent the last century trying to refine the older vampire’s taste in clothing, even going so far as to once donate the entirety of Mitch’s closet to a homeless shelter, but all his efforts have been in vain, as his friend still insists on wearing the standard (and boring) style for every decade they’ve lived through together.

“Hey,” Mitch greets from the end of the corridor with a nonchalant nod, shutting the door behind himself before sauntering further into the living room. “Thought we were meeting at the bar at eight?”

It takes Harry a moment to remember the agreement Mitch refers to, his brow creasing as his eyes flicker to the corner of his computer screen.  By the time he registers the numbers 8:41 shining back at him, the memory of agreeing to get drinks with Mitch after his evening gig has resurfaced. “Fuck, I’m sorry.  I lost track of time.”

“I thought so.” Mitch moves the decorative pillow next to Harry on the couch, taking a seat in his usual spot. His voice is slightly sarcastic as he gives Harry a knowing look. “That’s been happening a lot lately.  Lapses in your memory and such.”

“It's old age, I suppose.” Harry’s lips quirk up in amusement, although he knows that Mitch’s comment is pointed towards a subject they’re both acquainted with, courtesy of Harry’s absence on their annual Vegas trip about a week prior. “It’s finally getting to me.”

The long-haired immortal makes a vague sound of humorous acknowledgement, but offers no other response as he turns his gaze to the younger vampire. 

Harry watches as his friend’s expert eyes appraise his appearance, examining how the older vampire takes note of the messy state of Harry’s hair that indicates he’s been tugging on it in frustration, the redness of his lips, the way he’s curled over his open laptop.  Although he makes no further comment on Harry’s newfound tendencies, his brows furrow in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“I, uh—” The amusement is replaced by an unfamiliar feeling of nervousness that sweeps through Harry’s entire body. “I’m doing research.”

When he’s given no other explanation, Mitch prompts his younger friend. “On?”

“I...asked that girl from the club out on a date— Y/N. Like, I invited her on a proper one.” Harry elaborates, twisting his lionhead ring around his finger as he speaks. “But I don’t really know, like, what to do with her.  I’m a little out of touch with what a typical twenty-something woman wants to do on a real date.”

And this is another thing Harry is usually good at— being confident and sure of himself.  Normally, he speaks with ease and a nonchalant cadence to his words, lacking any worry about how he’ll be perceived.  Harry knows what he wants, and knows how to articulate it.  Right now, however, he feels the complete opposite.  There’s a tension aching its way through his muscles and settling into the pit of his stomach, curling around those organs that haven’t been truly needed in years, and the utterly bemused expression weaving its way onto Mitch’s face doesn’t help.

The quiet vampire cocks his head to the side upon receiving this news, propping one foot up onto Harry’s coffee table and addressing him with a mocking air. “Why are you taking her on an actual date? From what you’ve told me— which isn’t much, and that strains our best friend reputation, if I’m being honest— I thought you two had an...understanding?”

“We did.  We do.” Harry stumbles over his words as he half shuts the laptop, setting it down on the coffee table and giving Mitch’s foot a quick playful shove off the lacquered surface as he repositions himself. “But she went on a date with someone else, so I have to—”

“Are you jealous?” His friend cuts over him with an incredulous tone, and the disbelief sends a flare of something akin to shame through Harry’s body. “Because she had a date?”

“I’m not jealous.” With a firm voice, Harry manages to scoff at the very notion. “I may be a monster, but my eyes are red, not green. It’s just—”

“Well, technically, they are.”

The immortal ignores the shit-eating correction. “—occurred to me that our arrangement will end if Y/N starts seeing some mortal bloke. So, if she wants a relationship, then I can fabricate one for her.”

Although the excuse slips off his tongue easily enough, Harry refuses to meet Mitch’s eyes as he picks up his laptop and opens it again, clicking his way onto another article in the search results.  The older vampire’s stare feels as if it’s scorching his icy skin, and Harry can’t exactly say he enjoys the sensation, but it’s better than the alternative of admitting to Mitch—and to himself—that he may harbour the smallest trace of feelings for the human girl.

However, Mitch seems to buy the rushed explanation. “Fabricate a relationship?” He repeats, scratching the base of his chin slowly. “Doesn’t that seem a little...cruel?”

“It’s not.  It’s only for a bit, and once I’m done with her, I’ll probably just…” The words lodge in his throat for some unknown reason, but he forces them out. “I’ll probably just wipe myself from her mind, and she…” Harry’s sharp teeth tug on his plump bottom lip. “She won’t remember me.  It’ll be fine.”

Yes, Harry repeats to himself as he scrolls through all the results Google has to offer.  It’ll be fine.  It has to be fine, really, because what’s the alternative?  Harry’s kind aren’t exactly built for a long term commitment to anyone that’s less than immortal.  The kindest thing for him to do would be to let Y/N go now, without having to use compulsion at all.  It would be so simple, he thinks.  One small text, a few words along the lines of “it’s not working out, and we probably shouldn’t see each other again, I’m sorry. H.” would probably suffice.  And surely she’d be a little upset, but she’s mortal, and a mortal’s feelings never stay the same for long.  It would take her a few weeks, or maybe a month at most to get over the creature she’d begun a casual sexual relationship with.  Within a year, Harry and their short-lived friendship would be nothing but a small blip in her memory, and she’d be moved on to someone else.

Harry can see her future so clearly that he almost believes it’s shining through his laptop screen like an old film.  Y/N, going back out for the first time after Harry breaks things off.  Y/N, bumping into a handsome stranger with a bright smile and dull eyes.  Y/N, slumped over her kitchen table and fighting a hangover as the stranger hands her a cup of coffee.  Y/N and the stranger going for dinner.  Walking hand in hand.  Kissing goodnight at the door.  

Harry’s mind spins through scenarios faster and faster, racing through every possible future for Y/N before he can even take another breath.  Although some scenarios have different paths, different breakups, different faces, they always end at the very same place: Y/N in a white dress, walking down a flower strewn aisle, and taking the warm hand of someone who is not Harry.

If Harry needed to breathe, the wind would’ve been knocked out of him the moment he pictured those warm hands with blood pulsing beneath the skin lifting Y/N’s veil, cupping her flushed cheek, and sealing their lips to hers.  It’s a perfectly normal image.  A human pledging themselves to another human.  It’s natural, by human standards, as they seem to value monogamy over everything else.  The path Harry is seeing is the path Y/N was always meant to take.  So why does it make his icy blood curdle?

Mitch, who seems to be completely unaware of the wild road map his friend’s mind has just drawn, speaks out his concerns in a quiet but careful voice. “Are you sure you’re not getting too attached?” He asks, gauging Harry’s reaction to his question as if it’s a catastrophic statement. “You’ve been spending more and more time with her, you blew off the Vegas trip for the first time…” The older vampire gives a soft shrug of his shoulders. “If it were just for sex and blood, that would be one thing, but it’s almost like you’re getting…addicted to her.” 

Although the statement first brings a laugh to Harry's strawberry lips, the initial chuckle quickly fades away as the gravity of Mitch’s statement hits its recipient.  Certainly, he feels an indescribable draw to Y/N, but he knows, deep down, that any addiction he has to her is more so to her blood than anything else.  After all, what else could he possibly indulge?  The last time Harry let himself be addicted to a person, he ended up with a broken neck and newfound bloodlust.  He’s learned since then.  He’s not so naïve, or so foolish, as to let his emotions wander like that again. He knows better.

“There’s no addiction—I just like her blood more than others, that’s all.” Harry assures his friend, tapping his thumb against the band of his mother’s opal ring. “I know I’ve been a bit of a flake lately, but it’s just while I have her around.  I’ll get tired of her eventually; I always do.” He deliberately flashes his crimson eyes at his friend with a knowing smirk. “And then all it’ll take is a few choice words to take care of whatever lingering marks—metaphorical or otherwise— I’ve left on her, and it’ll all be done, and in the past. You know me, mate. Sometimes I like playing with my food.”

That last sentence makes his mouth go sour, almost as if his body is punishing him for uttering something so indifferently ruthless. Especially because deep down, there’s the smallest seed of doubt in his speech— the tiniest hint of uncertainty, telling him that the detachment he is playing up is not true. 

Harry forces it to be true. It has to be. Both for his sake, and Y/N’s. 

Mitch spends a long few minutes gazing into the blood red irises marching his stare, determined to find a crack in their façade. However, Harry’s good at hiding his feelings, given that he’s had decades of practice on how to keep a thick curtain draped over his innermost thoughts. He won’t let anyone see his weaknesses anymore, no matter how microscopic they might be. 

When the older monster’s search turns up empty, he repents with a long sigh, waving his hands free of the whole affair. “Whatever, Harry.  You seem to know what you’re doing.  Just be careful, alright?”

“I do know what I’m doing, thank you.” Harry elects to ignore the last statement Mitch tacked on, and instead flips his laptop around to show his friend his findings with a triumphant—albeit, forced—grin. “I’m doing brunch.  Google says girls Y/N’s age like brunch, and that the Persimmon Pantry in downtown L.A. has authentic crepes that are to die for.”

“Too bad you’re already dead.” The older vampire deadpans, pushing the laptop closed and raising himself from the couch into a standing position, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. “If you’re going to be dating a mortal, do we get to meet her?  Because I think Niall may need a bit of a heads up after the accidental run in that happened last time—”

“Do you usually meet my meals?” Harry counters easily as he sets his laptop aside, standing to escort Mitch to the door. “Don’t be sentimental, Mitch.  I’m certainly not.”

When Mitch’s eyes meet his own once again, there’s a degree of clarity running through them that nearly stops Harry in his tracks. “Aren’t you?” Mitch asks, voice neutral by careful control. 

Harry sucks in a quick breath out of habit, pasting a bright expression over his face in lieu of actually revealing his swirling insides. “Not since I learned my lesson.” He says easily, tapping two fingers over his dormant carotid artery with a sly smile. 

The casual act does the trick, and Mitch’s eyes roll in a familiar jesting fashion as he steps towards the door. “Right.  You’ve got it under control, then.”

“All under control.” The words slip off Harry’s dry tongue like honey, his sweet cadence filling the space between them. “Not to worry.”

///

Y/N thinks this may be the most out of control she’s ever felt her entire life.

A few weeks ago, she would’ve said that taking Harry home from the club was the most out of control she’s ever been.  And three months ago, dropping her whole life and moving to L.A. might have been the answer to that question.  And another three months from now, Y/N might get herself into the middle of a new entirely stupid act— which is completely probable, given her track record— and that’ll become the new marker for the most out of control thing she’s done.  But right now, at this moment, the most out of control thing she’s done is say yes to Harry asking her out to brunch.

When compared to everything else she’s done with Harry—and let Harry do to her—brunch may seem entirely harmless, but it’s the connotation behind it that scares her.  Harry is taking her on a date.  A real date.  A date to a brunch restaurant, at 11 A.M. on a Sunday, when it’ll be completely bright outside, and people will see them together.  A date with both of them in presentable situations, rather than being coated in sweat and completely dressed.  A date where Harry refrains from whispering the filthiest fucking shit Y/N has ever heard into her ear, although she wouldn’t put it past him trying to do that over a plate of avocado toast.

Harry is taking her on a date.  And last time Y/N checked, she wasn’t exactly good at those.

Her ex hadn’t really been the romantic type, to say the least.  Their dates typically revolved around their high school’s dance and athletic schedules.  Bradley took her to homecoming and to prom, and football games on Friday nights, where all her friends would meet them at a diner after their school— more often than not— lost.  He would take her on long drives where they got nowhere fast, with the two of them sitting in silence, and his music playing through the speakers.  She went over to his house once a week for dinner.  He’d take her to a movie every second Saturday.  And while it was all fine, none of it was very romantic. ‘Robotic’ is a more appropriate term.

And even with the fear of actual romance aside, Y/N has no idea what to discuss on a first date with someone.  She had already known a lot about her ex when they began going out, so there wasn’t a period of “getting to know you” that needed to happen.  The few first dates she’d had after him hadn’t been stellar, or even noteworthy.  If anything, they had been guides for what not to do on a first date.  And the funniest thing is that, while she’s fairly sure her last first date had been the catalyst for Harry asking her out, the actual date itself had been awful.  But if she’s right, and that was the factor that set Harry off, then maybe she should be grateful for all those awful dates from her past, because Harry, in contrast to all those horrible dates, is different in every conceivable way.

Harry is just different.  When she speaks, he listens.  When he looks at her, he really looks at her, and he sees her in a way she’s not sure she’s ever been seen before.  And, honestly, he has seen her in ways she’s never been seen before, and that’s exactly what Y/N is worried about.  How do you sip a mimosa with someone at the Persimmon Pantry after they’ve throat fucked you on your couch, or bent you over the kitchen counter, or handcuffed you to their bed?  How do you ask someone about their favourite movie when they’ve coaxed multiple orgasms from you over the phone as Sinister played from the TV screen?  How do you listen as someone tells you about their childhood dog when the last dog you were concerned about was the position they bent you into as they spread your—

Y/N clears her throat and shakes her head of the thought, reevaluating her heated complexion in the mirror that hangs on the back of her bedroom door. “Stop it.” She mutters to herself, attempting to give her reflection a stern look. “You’re not going to be able to make it through this if you’ve thrown the towel in before Harry’s even picked you up.”

And that’s another thing, Y/N thinks, as she opens her bedroom closet and begins searching through it for something acceptable to wear.  Harry insisted on picking her up, even though the restaurant he chose was a fifteen minute walk from her apartment.  She’d brought this up to him when he asked her to brunch over the phone (which is a whole other thing in and of itself— he only called her when he had his hand wrapped around his cock and needed her voice to finish himself off; wouldn’t a text have been sufficient?), but Harry had blown off her concern without a second thought.

“Part of taking you on a date is picking you up, Y/N.”

“Yeah, but the Persimmon Pantry is between our apartments.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to meet there?  Then you wouldn’t waste your time driving past it to get me.”

“I don’t consider anything involving you to be a waste of time.” Harry had answered immediately, his voice stern, but still allowing a vein of tenderness to run underneath it. “Is that your only concern, then?  Me picking you up?”

No, Y/N had thought.  It’s not my only concern, but how the fuck do I explain everything else?

“Yeah.” Y/N had answered tightly, her voice weak. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, it’s not a concern of mine, so don’t worry.  I’ll pick you up at 10:45 Sunday morning.” And then there had been a pause, full of baited breath and nerves, before Harry’s thick accent rang through her phone again. “I can’t wait to see you.”

Those parting words had sat in her stomach since, warm and cozy and inviting, keeping a soft, constant glow filtering in her veins until the end of the week came. 

Y/N glances at the blinking clock beside her bed.  It’s 10:17 now, a couple days after that conversation, which means she has less than half an hour to pick something to wear, style her hair that’s currently dripping wet from her shower, and throw on enough makeup to cover up the bags under her eyes that have been developing over the last few nights.  After becoming so used to sleeping with Harry next to her every weekend, Y/N is now finding that not having him in her bed, smoothing her hair and rubbing her cheek as she cuddles into his cool chest is prohibiting her from getting a good night’s sleep.

Another concern, certainly, but not one she can deal with at this moment.  The best she can do is smear on some concealer and hope for the best, and with that in mind, Y/N turns her full attention to her evaluation of her closet.

“Brunch,” She murmurs to herself, slowly pushing her clothing apart to examine each article. “We’re going to brunch.  What do you wear to brunch?”

Brunch, she decides after a moment of consideration, is casual, but not sloppy casual, so jeans and a t-shirt are off the table.  It’s Sunday casual, like the outfits her mother would pick out for her to wear to Sunday afternoon teas with the other church women once she turned 15 and had to “start acting like a lady.”  Sunday casual, Y/N thinks, but maybe not those outfits.  The raised necklines and starched collars had made her neck itch the entire time, and she had picked at the hemlines of her dresses under tables until the seams began to unravel.  Sunday casual, but more of her actual style.  Sunday casual, but sluttier, maybe?  Could one describe Sunday casual as slutty?

Y/N groans as she takes a step back from her closet, clutching her towel to her chest with a tense hand.  Maybe she’s going about this the wrong way.  Maybe she should try to match Harry…? 

A sharp snort falls from Y/N’s mouth.  Yeah, like she could ever match Harry.  Harry, who is so obsessed with labels that even his handcuffs are embossed with the Gucci logo.  Harry, who is so attractive that it’s almost otherworldly.  Harry, who can make her tiny apartment look like a New York Fashion Week runway by simply walking down the corridor of her entrance.  Matching Harry is almost impossible.  She could show up in a full length gown, and Harry would still outshine her in a graphic t-shirt and flared jeans.

“Hey.” Y/N chastises herself lightly, catching her judgemental eye in her mirror once again. “Stop it.  Don’t be mean to yourself, just...just pick something to wear.  It shouldn’t be this hard.”

After returning to her closet search and trying on a few different combinations, Y/N finally settles on an outfit consisting of a pale yellow sundress with a sweetheart neckline and tea length skirt, but dresses it down with a denim jacket and a pair of cotton candy coloured vans.  It’s bright and fun, but still casual enough that it looks like she just threw it on.  

“Oh, this old thing?”  Y/N raises her eyebrows in mock surprise as she moves to her bathroom to begin to tackle her hair.  She keeps practicing the imaginary conversation in the mirror with herself, and while she knows she sounds insane, it oddly keeps her nerves in check. “Oh, I just pulled it out of my closet a few minutes before you got here.  Haven’t worn it in years.  Do you like it?” The mortal pauses as she reaches for her makeup, deciding to keep herself to a more natural look for the day. “Thank you, Harry, that’s so sweet.  You look nice, as well.”

She lightly fills her brows before sweeping some neutral eyeshadow over her lids, pausing her muttering to herself to concentrate on drawing her eyeliner as neatly as she likes.  Once she’s satisfied with that, she moves to mascara, adding a thin coat to her lashes and blotting off the makeup she smudges underneath her eye by mistake.  When that’s finished, the young woman takes a step back from the mirror, appraising her appearance.

It’s not awful, honestly.  She could do worse.  In fact, if it weren’t for the ball of anxiety currently twisting its way through Y/N’s stomach, she might even praise herself for the cute and casual look she’s managed to pull off.

“You look good.” She murmurs to her reflection as she reaches for her small silver hoops, slipping them through her lobes with a quick and practiced motion. “Good job.” With her eyes locked on her reflection, Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Today is going to be fine.  Better than fine, actually.  And it would probably go better if you stopped talking to yourself, so maybe let’s get that in check before Harry gets here—?”

As if on cue, a now familiar knock on her front door causes the mortal’s mouth to snap shut, clamping off the rest of her third person monologue.  When she makes a quick pause to straighten her jacket and fetch her over-the-shoulder woven bag, Y/N impulsively decides to grab her favourite perfume bottle, giving her body a quick spritz before making her way to the door and opening it with breathless anticipation.

Harry, of course, looks fucking incredible.  Although his casual outfit consists of a black short sleeved button up shirt tucked into white slacks, Harry manages to work the whole number like a model.  His usual cross necklace, unique rings, and stately single cross earring adorn his body, drawing Y/N’s eyes to the glint of the metals as a pair of black sunglasses sit atop the man’s defined nose.  He meets Y/N’s eyes behind them, a grin beginning to paint itself over his cherry lips as his jeweled hand pushes the sunglasses from his face and into his chestnut locks, revealing his bright jade gaze full of genuine kindness. 

“Well, look at you. Proper model now, aren’t you, Miss Urban Outfitters?” Harry’s voice takes on a casual tone, but the flirty phrase sends a shiver of pleasure down Y/N’s spine. “You look so fucking good in yellow, love.  Why have I never seen you in yellow before?”

The shiver of pleasure reverberates throughout Y/N’s entire body. “Maybe because I’m usually naked when I’m around you?” She retorts quickly, reaching to the little hook next to her door to grab her keys. 

“Hm.  That’s true.” The pleased cadence in Harry’s voice catches Y/N’s ear over the click of the door lock. “Guess you go for the Victoria’s Secret look more often, hm? Though I’m not complaining. You look just as good in lace.” 

“Thanks. But not today, I guess.” Y/N says quietly as she pushes down the heat boiling her face, unable to bite her tongue before the words slip out. “We’re on a real date today.”

“Right you are, Watson.” Harry grins cheekily as he motions for the girl to walk past him, following closely with a guiding hand on the small of her back. “We’re on a real date.  It’s probably a little overdue, but you know what they say...better late than never, right?”

The moment she takes a step past him, it hits Harry.  Although her delectable signature scent of lavender and honey is still there, it’s faintly hidden behind the nearly overpowering scent of gardenia and freesia he smelled last time he was in her hallway, when that oafish buffoon had the audacity to try and seduce her.  And despite the fact that Harry prefers Y/N’s natural fragrance to any other scent on the planet, knowing that she took the time to spritz herself with perfume before greeting him brings a dimpled smile to his face.  Harry considers making a comment about it, but bites it back at the last moment.  The last thing he needs is to have to explain why he pays such particular attention to Y/N’s scent.

When the pair exit the apartment building, Harry takes the lead in front of Y/N, unlocking his flashy car with a click of the remote and opening the passenger door with ease.  He extends a hand, grasping the mortal girl’s hand in his own with care as he helps her into the car.  The click of the car door shutting comes a moment later than expected as Harry pauses to fix the hem of Y/N’s dress, making sure it’s free of the doorway before closing the door without clamping the light fabric.

Harry doesn’t even think twice before readjusting Y/N’s skirt, with the move coming as naturally to him as breathing once did, and merely notes the stuttering of Y/N’s heartbeat with a half hidden smug smile.  It’s not until he’s in the driver’s seat and stopped at a red light that he realizes what that stuttering rhythm is indicating.

Y/N is tense.  Even without his supernatural abilities that allow him to hear her heart, register her strained breathing, and feel the energy radiating from her body, Harry would be able to tell that some part of her feels...uncomfortable.  Nervous, even.  But for what?  What about Harry—aside from the obvious that the human is unaware of—could make her nervous?  After the countless hours in bed together, the lazy Saturday afternoons, the kitchen singalongs, Harry would think that Y/N would be as comfortable with him as he is with her.  After all she’d shown him when they have sex—

Huh.  Maybe that’s it, Harry thinks, giving the mortal a quick look from the corner of his eye.  The light ahead of them turns green, and Harry continues to ponder his realization as he presses on the gas.  If sex has become the norm for them, then maybe a date is outside of her comfort zone.  Or maybe, now that her brain isn’t fogged by the endorphins that roll through her veins whenever Harry coaxes an orgasm from her trembling body, Y/N is realizing how unnatural it feels to be around Harry.  

As much as Harry likes to pretend otherwise, humans aren’t dumb.  If they get too close to someone of Harry’s kind, some sharp-sighted mortals begin to sense that there’s something different about them.  Aside from the easy targets and quick decisions, part of the reason that picking up meals in clubs works so well for Harry and his friends is that a mortal’s senses are dulled in the flashing lights and inebriated atmosphere of a club.  If Y/N is beginning to sense that there’s something different about Harry, or if she’s beginning to feel uneasy about being around him, then she must be wondering why.  In Harry’s experience, mortals will relate their uncomfortable feelings about the supernatural into something they have more experience with to make sense of it all, and if that’s what Y/N is doing, then she’s probably attributing her newfound discomfort towards Harry trying to take advantage of her.  If he could read her mind, he might see a horrific scene playing out like an old movie: Harry buying her a meal, soaking her rational thinking in mimosas and other drinks spiked with God knows what, and then helping her back to his car, where he drives her back to his apartment, practically carrying her inebriated body through the door towards his bedroom…

The car takes a sharp right turn into the restaurant parking lot, and Harry guides it to a spot with his hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.  The idea of Y/N thinking him capable of that, capable of hurting her like that...it takes Harry a moment to extract his clenched hands from the wheel.  If that was really what Y/N was thinking, then he could fix it.  All it would take to set her at ease would be a quick request, a repeated statement, and the girl’s breathing would even out, and everything could continue like he had planned.

“Y/N?” He begins, keeping his voice as smooth as silk as he sets the car into park and turns it off. “Look at me, please.”

And then she does.  And Harry forgets his plan within a moment.

There’s nervousness apparent in her eyes, yes, but no fear.  Although her lips are chewed red, they don’t tremble when she answers him with a quiet “yes?” Despite their close proximity, she keeps leaning closer to him, and whether she’s aware of the action or not, the constant inch of her hand closer to Harry’s softens the immortal more than he thought possible.  He can’t compel her to let down her guard when she already trusts him.

“I know that this is different for us.  Doing something like this.” Harry begins, keeping his eyes as sincere as possible without compelling the young woman in front of him, who is keeping her eyes on his emerald irises with steadfast attention. “But I want this to be a proper date, like...like what I should’ve probably taken you on a month ago.”

Warmth rises to Y/N’s cheeks at the confession. “So do I.  I like being around you, Harry.  A lot.  I’m just a little...nervous, I guess.”

Harry bites back a smile at how she sounds like she’s confessing something, as if her body language hasn’t been telling him that from the moment she got into his car. “I know.  So I think it would be best, just to prove that this is a real date, if we don’t have sex after we finish brunch.”

A choked sound falls from Y/N’s mouth, and Harry delights in watching her scramble for words before she manages to form a half indignant reply. “I didn’t say I was going to sleep with you!”

“You don’t have to say it, pet, because we both know you can’t keep your hands off me.  Exhibit A,” Harry nods at her hand, which is mere millimeters away from his thigh. “Being how you kept trying to grab onto me through the entire drive.”

Another gasp of indignation fills the car, and the emphasized outrage sets Harry at ease.  He’d rather Y/N be equal parts annoyed and—if the soft look hidden behind her eyes is any clue—endeared than have her equal parts nervous and anxious.  He’d take any anger directed at his expense if it meant she was at ease. 

“I wasn’t trying to grab you.” The mortal mutters under her breath, her eyes falling from his as the increase of her heart pricks Harry’s ears. “That’s just where my hand fell naturally.”

“Right.” Harry answers in a disbelieving voice, his smirk growing as Y/N rolls her eyes in response. “Well, either way…” He extends a jeweled hand and grips her chin between his thumb and forefinger, enjoying how her breath stutters as he turns her head to look at him. “What do you say?  No sex after our date?  Think we can behave ourselves?”

“I can.” Y/N answers, irritation laced through her voice to hide the desire settling between her words. “You, on the other hand...I doubt you’ll be able to keep it in your pants.”

A wry smile works it’s way over Harry’s lips, and the vampire wets them with his tongue as he uses his gentle grip on Y/N’s jaw to tilt her head forward. “I have wonderful self-control, darling.” He breathes the words, letting the scent of mint roll over Y/N’s face, and delights in the way it intoxicates her with every syllable.  Harry ghosts his lips over the curve of her jaw, smudging his kisses down her neck until he can feel her pulse thumping unevenly beneath his lips.  His mouth opens just slightly as he leaves a lingering kiss on the area, his tongue gliding carefully over her sweet-scented skin. 

Despite every instinct in his body telling him to sink his teeth into the beating pulse he feels and quench the thirst that burns in the back of his throat like a roaring fire, Harry manages to pull away. “See?” He murmurs softly, his cool breath still clouding Y/N’s every inhale. “Self control.”

While Harry is a master at withholding his desires, the effect his actions have on Y/N is apparent in her reply. “Good.” The mortal swallows thickly, her pulse fluttering again as Harry releases her chin and drags his fingers down her neck. “That’s good to know.  So no sex, then.”

“Right.” Harry grins triumphantly as Y/N attempts to collect herself.  The smug expression on Harry’s face lets her know that he’s completely aware of the impact he has on her, and it drives her insane to no end.  Although her conscience is urging her to play his game, and do her best to fluster him as he flusters her, the more rational part of her stops that thought in its tracks.  This is what she wanted, wasn’t it?  To open herself up again, to open herself up to Harry in a way she hasn’t before?  To prove that she can let someone know her without burrowing themselves between her thighs?

The latch of her car door brings her from her thoughts, and her head jerks to the right to see Harry with one hand on the door handle as he extends the other to her to help her from the car.  Y/N, still fumbling with her seatbelt, takes a moment to grasp his hand in return, too swept up in the fact that Harry remembers to open her door to ponder how he always reaches her side of the car so quickly. 

However, there are some new developments that don’t slip from her attention, like how Harry keeps her hand grasped firmly in his icy grip even after she’s out of the car, pausing only to click the lock on his keyring before walking with her towards the door.  Or how, despite his long legs, he never falls out of step with Y/N, making sure to keep his strides measured and even so as not to yank on her hand.  Or how, even though her hand is already half extended out of habit, Harry reaches the door of the restaurant first, opening it smoothly and stepping back, gently laying his hand on the small of Y/N’s back to guide her inside the restaurant.

“Uh, thanks.” The young woman murmurs to him, a tone of perplexity running beneath her words.  She’s not quite sure why all of this surprises her; hadn’t Harry already proved that, despite his harsh and suggestive exterior, there’s an undercurrent of manners instilled into him?  

Maybe, she thinks as she watches Harry step forward to the restaurant host, the surprise and confusion is due to the lack of manners she received from her ex.  Despite the “small town charm,” as her mother had called it, Bradley had lacked the ability to successfully perform any gallantry, and any attempts he made to do so had only annoyed Y/N.  Whenever he tried to do something that may fall into that category, like insisting on driving everywhere they went, or choosing where they’d go for dinner, Y/N never felt that the actions came from a place of protection or chivalry; on the contrary, Y/N felt like each action was taken on the basis that she herself was incapable of doing the same things Bradley did.  On the one occasion she’d brought it up to him, he had scoffed, and argued that he was just trying to be a nice guy, and why would she have a problem with him trying to help her, and if she was going to complain, then he wouldn’t—

An icy touch to the dip of her back jerks Y/N from her thoughts, both metaphorically and literally as her body spasms away from the touch.  Upon hearing the alarmed gasp that falls from her lips, Harry turns his head to the side, a look of concern painted over his face.

“Everything alright, darling?” He asks in a quiet voice, his hand retracting from her back with uncertainty. 

“Yeah, sorry, just—caught up in thought, I guess.” Y/N covers quickly, giving him an apologetic smile. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

If the way the mortal shivers is any suggestion, Harry can guess what exactly about his touch took her by surprise. “I’m sorry.” He says sincerely, his fingers hovering a few millimeters above the fabric of her dress. “The, uh, the table I reserved is just on the patio around the corner.” Although he lays his hand on Y/N once again to guide her, Harry is careful to place his palm further up her spine, where the sensitive skin of her back is covered by her jean jacket in addition to the thin yellow sundress.  As much as he usually adores making her shiver, there’s something different about the action when he knows it’s because of his inhumanly cold touch, instead of his inhuman ability to pleasure her. 

The pair move in a line, following the hostess in a beeline through the busy restaurant and out onto the sunlit patio, where there are fewer occupied tables.  Stopping in front of a table partly shaded under an umbrella that’s away from the other diners, the hostess turns to the two of them, her eyes flickering over Harry once again.

“Is this table to your liking, Mr. Styles?” She asks, her voice sweet as sugar.  The stickiness of it grates against Y/N’s skin, but Harry gives no indication of finding it irritating.  In fact, he seems to give hardly any notice to the hostess at all, only half glancing at her before nodding his head. 

“Yes, it is, thank you.” He steps out to the side, grasping the back of the chair facing away from the sun and pulling it out.  It takes Y/N a moment and a half step already taken towards the opposite chair for her to realize that he’s pulling it out for her.

“Oh—” Face flushing with realization, Y/N steps back around Harry, settling down into the offered seat as he carefully pushes it in. “Uh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry replies, pausing to be sure she’s comfortable before taking his own seat across from her.  The hostess, who had been watching his actions with a keen eye, gives another smile to the vampire.

“Alright, Paige will be your server today, but before I leave,” The hostess spares a short glimpse at Y/N before turning her full attention back to Harry. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

The creature is aware of the effect he has on mortals, and has been since he was first turned.  While he normally plays that to his advantage (and while that was, to be frank, part of the reason he was able to take Y/N home from the club the night he met her), the attention is beginning to grind against his nerves.  It’s easy enough for him to ignore a human, especially one he has no interest in whatsoever, but he can see the way Y/N notices the hostess’ preference for addressing Harry.  More specifically, Harry can see the way it bothers her, and it would be amusing if his jealousy over Y/N going on a date with someone else hadn’t been the catalyst to their date today.

“No, that’s alright.” Harry finally responds to the waitress, glancing at her just enough so as not to be rude. “Thank you.”

The hostess smiles at him again before nodding to Y/N and turning on her heel, marching back towards the kitchen, and it takes just a soft snort falling from Y/N’s lips to pull Harry’s attention completely back to her.

“What?” He quirks an eyebrow up at the noise, reaching for the menu in front of him and flipping it open slowly. “Something funny?”

Y/N gives a small shake of her head as she mimics Harry’s action, casting her eyes downwards towards the now revealed menu. “No, not at all.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” The vampire reaches across the table to touch his date’s hand, flipping her arm carefully so he can lay two ringed fingers against the thin skin of her wrist, the fragile hummingbird flutter of her heart thumping beneath it. “And I’m too excellent at reading people to let it go.”

“Too stubborn, you mean?” Y/N corrects him as she raises her own brow, but much to Harry’s delight, she doesn’t pull back from his icy touch as she did earlier. 

Harry shrugs lightly, an unconcerned air tinting his attitude. “If that’s what you’d like to call it.  Either way, I’d like to know why you’re laughing at me.”

The mortal chews on the inside of her cheek, the action of her weighing her next words clearly written all over her face. “You seriously can’t tell me you don’t notice it.”

Cocking his head to the side, Harry gently yet consistently continues to stroke two fingers over Y/N’s velvety skin, the heat of her veins burning beneath his touch. “Notice what?”

Although she opens her mouth, Y/N’s reply is cut off by the clicking of high heels approaching their secluded corner, and it’s only a moment before a waitress (whom she assumes is Paige) is standing in front of their table.  Like her coworker before her, Paige gives a brief hello to Y/N before turning all of her attention to Harry, smiling brightly at him as she gives her opening spiel.

“Hi!  My name is Paige, and I’ll be your server today.  Can I get some drinks started for you?” She asks, her hands clasped tightly in front of her (Y/N always hates when servers don’t write down orders; she knows it looks impressive, but the attention it takes to remember exact specifications gives her secondhand anxiety) as she addresses Harry.  

The order is right at the tip of Harry’s tongue. “We’ll have two mimosas, please.  And two ice waters, as well.” He replies, smiling briefly at her as his fingers continue to glide over Y/N’s wrist.  The girl catches the way Paige’s eyes flicker to the movement, her (just barely) professional smile shifting for a fraction of a second before fixing itself, and while Y/N knows that it’s irrational, a small part of her can’t help but be pleased.

“Sounds good.  I’ll be right back with those.” She chimes giddily, her heels clicking against the ground once more as she walks away.

The moment she’s left, Harry has his full attention turned back to Y/N. “You didn’t answer my question.” He murmurs, his emerald eyes alight with curiosity. “Notice what?”

An exasperated sigh sounds from Y/N as she makes a face. “The way they stare at you.” She answers, jerking her head over her shoulder towards the restaurant door. “The hostess, the server—they were both practically undressing you with their eyes.  Are you telling me you didn’t notice that?”

Harry’s curious expression drops as he begins to shift in his seat, the stroking of his fingers over her wrist pausing for just one moment.  Ah, Y/N thinks.  Here it is.  A confession that, yes, Harry did notice it, and Harry (and his ego) loved the attention, and he—

“I noticed it, yeah.” He begins, a reluctant look painting itself onto his statuesque features as a finger on his free hand rubs over his lion head ring.

A glum feeling of satisfaction settles into Y/N’s stomach, and she pulls her hand back a few inches, completely removing it from Harry’s grasp. “I thought so—”

“But I didn’t see the point in mentioning it.” Harry continues, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m here with you.  Why would a spare look from a hostess or a server be anything but inconsequential to me?”

Huh.

“I…” For once, Y/N is stunned into silence. “Well, I just thought—”

“Y/N.” Her name sounds like a melody when it falls from Harry’s mouth, and the sincerity layered in his voice makes her snap her eyes to his. “Do you truly think I would flirt with a waitress on a date I asked you on?  Does that sound like me?”

“Well, honestly…” Harry’s stare bores into hers, prickling Y/N’s skin with the new and nearly uncomfortable sensation of being seen. “I don’t want to think so, but considering how we met…”

“Ah.” Harry’s lips turn down into a small grimace, but quickly right themselves as he once again grasps her hand in his two large palms. “I won’t pretend that I’m not a bit of a—”

“Whore?”

Harry’s lip twitches in amusement again at the blatant tone of the girl’s voice. “Didn’t we just have a conversation about you slut-shaming me?”

The flush that overtakes Y/N’s face indicates that she remembers. “Yes, we did.  But I seem to recall you agreeing.  After you teased me for it, of course.”

“Of course.  We both know how much you love teasing.” Harry digs his nails ever so slightly into her wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to pull a small gasp from her mouth as his grip begins to mimic the handcuffs that she had begged him to use on her. “But all that aside...I couldn’t give less of a fuck about what they think of me.  I’m here with you.  Despite most of my flaws, my mother raised me right.  I wouldn’t do that to you.”

The thunderous thumping of Y/N’s heart rings through Harry’s ears, a constant reminder of why he’s here.  Beneath her soft skin, beneath every telltale mark and scar, beneath her glittering eyes and silky lips, there’s the thing that keeps Harry alive.  Rushing through this girl’s arteries is the sustenance that Harry needs to survive, the sweetest liquid he’s ever consumed, and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it at his beck and call.  If being the gentleman of Y/N’s dreams is what will keep her available for him, then that’s what he’ll do.  The pounding of her heart is the beat that keeps him in time with the tune of his life.  It’s nothing more and nothing less. 

Still, Harry chooses his next words attentively, to bring back a joking manner to the conversation. “Someone must have done a number on you, huh?  Was everything not so charming in Smalltown, USA?  Did your parents split when you were a kid?”

And although Harry asks the questions with a smirk on his face, laughter in his voice, and mirth in his eyes, he doesn’t miss the way Y/N’s breath hitches in her chest, how her hand tenses beneath his, and how her eyes drop for a fraction of a second.  He’s touched a nerve, one that is obviously frayed and hurting, and the regret that instantly washes over him is tinged with the confusion of how he’s capable of feeling such an emotion so intensely. 

“Um—” While Y/N knew that she had to tell Harry about her disastrous dating history sooner or later, she had really hoped it would be later rather than sooner.  Is a discussion about one’s scumbag ex appropriate first date talk?  Can she bring it up now, or should she wait until they’ve finished their appetizers? 

“Alright, so I have two mimosas and two waters for you…” Paige’s return distracts Y/N from her dilemma for just a moment as the server sets down the four glasses in front of the respective recipients.  With her attention turned back to Harry, she takes a step back from the table. “Are you ready to order?”

Y/N’s eyes snap to the open menu in front of her, which had become the least of her concerns over the last few minutes. “Oh, I haven’t—”

“We’ll get two orders of the chorizo and goat cheese crepes, please.” Harry closes his menu before reaching for Y/N’s and repeating the motion, handing them back to Paige with a charming yet neutral smile. “And a side of hashbrowns, please, to share.”

Brow furrowing as the server scurries away without giving her a second glance, Y/N gapes at Harry, her voice wrought with confusion. “Why did you order for me?”

Harry raises his mimosa to his lips and takes a long sip, setting the condensation-covered glass back down on the table before replying. “You didn’t know what you wanted, and the crepes are delicious.  Did you want something else?” With a lick of his red lips, he glances over his shoulder. “I can call her back if—”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Y/N wraps her hand around the alcoholic drink, swirling her finger over the cold glass. “I can order for myself.  I’m a grown woman.  Do you think I’m not capable or something?”

Harry cocks his head to the side, appraising how the mortal’s expression is closing off with every passing moment.  This bothers her, he realizes.  The idea of him not thinking she’s capable of something bothers her, enough that she’s clenching her glass, and her normally clear eyes are swirling with anger more and more with every passing moment.

“I know you’re capable, Y/N.  I just thought that…” Shifting in his seat, Harry clears his throat as he gathers his words in his mind.  Wasn’t he supposed to be the one asking the questions? “It’s supposed to be polite.”

“In what century?” She replies, her mouth falling agape in surprise as her eyes widen. “Men used to order for women because women weren’t allowed to, right?  Because men made the decisions?  Holding open a door is one thing, but choosing for me—”

“Okay, maybe choosing for you was impolite.  I thought you were unsure on what to order, but I should’ve asked first.  I’m sorry.” Harry half mumbles the apology as an uncomfortable feeling of shame begins to buzz in his stomach. “But the ordering thing, that— men did that as a sign of respect, so women wouldn’t have to talk to someone they didn’t know.  I really didn’t mean anything by it, I swear.  My mum just taught me that it was polite, so I...it’s a habit.  I’m sorry.  I won’t do it again.”

He watches as Y/N chews her bottom lip, seemingly contemplating the authenticness of his apology.  Everything he had said was true, of course.  His mother did teach him that it was polite to order something for a date so she wouldn’t have to speak to someone she doesn’t know.  Of course, it was also true that the practice had died out a century ago, and most women now preferred to speak for themselves.  Harry can’t begrudge Y/N if she dislikes what he did; she’s proved time and time again that she can be rather independent.  However, Harry’s surprised at the disappointment he feels about her reaction.  If this is going to be a proper date, he’d like to hold it up to his standards of proper.

“Alright.” The mortal says after a moment, releasing her lip from her teeth and finally raising her mimosa to her mouth. “You’re forgiven.  But I think I’ve earned the right to compensation for your assumptions.”

“Compensation could be arranged, I suppose.” Harry leans forward with a sly grin, his fingers finding the delicate skin of Y/N’s wrist once more. “I feel like I’ve been fairly firm on the no sex thing, but I could pencil you in for some compensation tomorrow evening, if that works for you.”

Y/N swirls the liquid in her glass as she bites back a smirk. “I was thinking of something a little different than an orgasm, actually.”

“What could possibly be better than an orgasm given by me?” Harry questions, his free hand fingering the cross around his neck. “Didn’t you once compare them to a gift from God?”

“I don’t recall ever saying that, actually.” The mortal girl replies in a dry voice, setting her glass down with a decisive thunk. “I don’t want an orgasm—”

“Oh, that’s a bloody lie—”

“I want information.” Tapping her fingers against the table, Y/N stares Harry down with firm eyes. “Like where did you grow up that your mother taught you it was appropriate to speak for a woman?  Or why have you avoided any personal questions I’ve tried to ask over the last month?”

Harry retracts his hand from Y/N’s wrist as she voices her inquisition, settling his fingers on the rim of his mimosa to begin tracing the smooth glass. “To be fair, pet, you haven’t asked many personal questions.  You’ve been too busy bouncing on my cock, haven’t you?”

“Maybe, but I won’t be today, as per our agreement.” Y/N steeps her fingers together as she leans towards him, the comical sight of her posture forcing Harry to repress a snort. “And you brought up personal questions first, Holmes.  So you kind of screwed yourself, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did.  I’ve gotten so used to you doing the screwing, Watson.  Guess I’m getting sloppy— although you seem to like that.” Harry can’t help but get in one last dig before conceding, taking a long gulp of his beverage before smacking his lips. “I’ll tell you what.” He says, pointing a jeweled finger at his date with his glass still wrapped tightly in his hand. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Pursing her lips, Y/N quirks up an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Let’s play a little question game.” Harry sets down his glass as he elaborates, his signature smirk growing over his cherry lips. “We alternate questions back and forth, asking whatever we’ve wanted to know.  And the other person has to answer it honestly.”

Or as honestly as possible, Harry amends in his head.  For obvious reasons, he’ll have to fabricate the majority of his answers, but that’s nothing new to him.  Over the years, he’s had to create multiple spiels about his childhood, taking tiny pieces of truths and weaving them together with updated lies.  Spitting out a few standard stories about where he grew up and why he left London is small change compared to his burning desire to know more about Y/N’s past.  

The mortal chews on the inside of her cheek again, weighing her options in her head as she holds Harry’s questioning stare.  As much as she hates to discuss her life story, and as much as she’d been hoping to hide it from Harry, she knows that she has to be honest with him if she wants him to be honest with her.  As awkward as it may be, she’ll have to tell the stories sometime.

“Alright.” She relents after a moment, blowing out a harsh breath and lifting her mimosa to her lips. “But I get to ask the first question.  Ladies first, and all that.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Harry flashes a cheeky grin at her, his left eye dropping into a quick wink. “Start your inquisition, Watson.”

Harry’s been in this position millions of times, so he knows the types of questions that are about to tumble from Y/N’s pretty lips.  She’ll start off by asking where he grew up, and where he went to school, and how many siblings he has, before moving to things like why he moved to L.A., and how he made friends, and—

“What else did your mother teach you, besides manners?” Y/N asks suddenly, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth to catch a stray drop of liquid on her bottom lip as she lowers her glass. “And what was the most important thing?” 

The nature of the question catches Harry so off guard that he doesn’t remember to quell the throb in his chest where his heart used to beat at the mention of his mother, and the old half healed wound flares with pain.  What had his mother taught him?  Harry ponders the question as Y/N’s curious eyes ponder him.  What hadn’t she taught him? 

“My mother taught me…many things.  Many good things.  She was a wonderful woman.” Harry begins honestly, albeit carefully, speaking in a measured voice as his eyes fall to her opal ring that sits upon his pinky. “She taught me how to read as a child, before I began school.  She taught me...she taught me how to cook a bit.  I’m not nearly as good as she was, but I’m passable.  And yes, she did teach me how to behave around women, how to be respectful.  But the most important thing…”

Y/N watches as Harry’s eyes bore into the ring on his finger, as if he’s staring into a crystal ball of the past to search for an answer.  Perhaps, in a way, he is. 

“The most important thing,” Harry repeats again, his eyes finally snapping away from the entrapment of the ring. “Was how to let someone know you appreciate them.  It’s easy, I think, to go about your day without telling someone you care for them.” Stroking his thumb over the band of the ring, Harry thinks back to the countless ways his mother had wordlessly shown Harry and his sister how much she adored them. “Little touches, or little favours, things like that— those go a long way.  They help someone feel less alone.  They can be the difference between a good day and a bad day.  She used to, um,” A lump suddenly develops in his throat, and Harry struggles to swallow it down as he voices a memory he hasn’t spoken aloud in over a century. “She used to comb her fingers through my hair when I was a little boy, whenever I was upset.  I’d come home from—“ Harry cuts himself off before he mentions his father’s blacksmith forge, where he was an apprentice. “—from school, and she would take one look at me and be able to see I was frustrated.  She always sat in this big chair in front of the fireplace, and she’d pat her lap, and I’d sit in front of her knees and lay my head on her leg, and she’d card her fingers through my hair as I told her every bad thing that happened that day.” Unconsciously, Harry raises his own hand to his chestnut curls, raking his fingers through them.  The motion doesn’t bring nearly as much comfort as it once did. “She always listened.  She never made me feel like my problems were silly.  She just listened.  It made me feel better.  Made me feel…” The vampire’s hand drifts from his hair to his lips, rubbing over them pensively. “Loved.”

The mortal girl’s eyes soften as she listens to the memories of the man in front of her, who begins to look younger and younger with every word that falls from his lips.  Although she’s surprised by the candor of his answer, it pleases her; she thought pulling truths from Harry would be like pulling teeth.  One note of his story, however, catches her attention with an ache. 

“You said...you said she was a wonderful woman.” Y/N murmurs, carefully gauging Harry’s reaction to the question. “Is she...not anymore?”

“I’m sure she would be, but she passed away a…a while ago.” Harry’s eyes shift to the ring again, the dainty band with its opal stone standing out from the rest of his chunky jewelry.  Y/N wonders if that’s because it once belonged to someone else. “She got sick, and couldn’t get better.”

With a careful but tender motion, Y/N slides her hand across the table and settles it on top of Harry’s, cupping his larger hand in her smaller grasp. “I’m so sorry.” The sincerity in her voice snags Harry’s attention, and the vampire looks up to find the mortal staring at him with understanding eyes. “I can’t imagine how awful that must have been for you.  You must miss her very much.”

It takes Harry a moment to clear the lump from his throat enough that he can choke out a response. “I-I do, yeah.  Every day.” He’s not sure if it’s his icy skin or the burn of Y/N’s touch, but he slowly pulls his hand from beneath her grasp, reaching for his glass of ice water instead.  He gulps down half the liquid, setting the cup down with a decisive thunk before pasting a strained smile onto his face. “But that’s enough of my sob story, don’t you think?  It’s my turn to ask a question.”

A small frown works its way over Y/N’s face as Harry pulls away, and she clasps her now empty hands together around the stem of her mimosa glass. “Fine.  What do you want to know?”

“The answer to my previous inquiry.” Harry’s emerald irises sweep over her figure, his tongue poking between his teeth as his simper becomes more genuine. “Someone must’ve really done a number on you if opening a door for you is a shock.  What’s the story there?”

Although she knew that this would be Harry’s first question, Y/N still bides her time by knocking back the rest of her mimosa in one swift gulp, wrinkling her nose at the lingering taste that catches in the back of her throat. “His name was Bradley.” She begins, tapping a fingernail against the delicate glass. “And he—”

“So sorry to cut you off, darling, but,” Harry raises a finger to pause her speech, his rings glinting in the L.A. sun. “Bradley?  You fucked someone named Bradley?”

“It was a small town!  It’s not like I had many options!” Y/N argues hotly, her eyes rolling harder than they ever have before. “Now are you going to be quiet and listen politely, or are you going to keep interrupting me before I can even begin?”

Harry laughs once, shaking his head with an amused air. “Sorry.  Continue.” Despite the teasing smirk still tugging at his lips, Harry raises a hand to the corner of his mouth, pretending to lock it shut with an imaginary key.  He even takes care to slide the invisible key into his shirt pocket, patting it with satisfaction once the deed is done. 

Y/N takes one more moment to glare at him, but Harry’s newfound silence continues, and so she does, as well. “His name was Bradley.  I met him through a mutual friend in our freshman year of high school.  I’d seen him around before, but we’d never talked, really.  And after he asked me to Homecoming, he just kind of…stuck.” The girl shrugs in a way of explanation. “Like, he started coming around more to my house, taking me out to movies.  And it was nice.  The attention, I mean.  There was no one else I was really interested in at school, and Bradley was cute, and he was friendly, and our families really liked each other.  It made sense.”

As she speaks, a crease works its way between Harry’s perfectly sculpted brows.  Most mortal romances, he’s come to find, are rather dull, but this one seems more boring than others, and he can’t stop himself from raising his jeweled hand in the air as if he were in one of the classes Y/N mentioned, waiting for the teacher to call on him for an answer. 

When Y/N notices the hand, an exasperated sigh falls from her mouth, but she leans across the table and retrieves the imaginary key from Harry’s shirt pocket, her warm fingers leaving pinpricks of fire across his chest.  A small smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips as those warm fingers touch the lifted spot, mimicking an unlocking motion before she sits back in her seat. “Yes?”

Harry rests a bent elbow on the table, propping his chin up on his fist as he leans forward. “I have a question.” He begins innocently, watching as Y/N narrows her eyes at his sudden polite intrigue.

“Yes?” She repeats again, wariness written into her tone as she evaluated the suspicious air of Harry’s behaviour. 

“I was just wondering how big Bradley’s dick is.” Harry’s grin grows to wicked proportions as Y/N’s mouth falls open in shock. “Because, honestly, he doesn’t seem to have that much going for him, and I’ve been wracking my brain to figure out why you dated him, and the only answer I can come up with is—“

“That his dick must be huge?”

“That he’s well endowed, yes.” Harry finishes smugly, tapping a finger against his chin. “I’m curious.  Are we talking about a carrot?  A cucumber?  A zucchini?” Lip twitching again, Harry stifles a laugh as Y/N’s face hardens with exasperation. “A stalk of celery?  I suppose the length could be a selling point, but if there’s not enough girth to fill you—”

“His dick wasn’t the reason I dated him.” Y/N replies flatly, a deadpan stare meeting Harry’s mirth filled eyes. “Although, since you’re curious…it was the size of a cucumber, but not an English cucumber.  More of a garden variety.  Not incredibly girthy, but good for a beginner.”

“A beginner?” Intrigue sparks at the pit of Harry’s belly (along with what he thinks is jealousy, but he’ll wait to dissect that at a later date) as the vampire leans forward more. “This bloke was your first?”

“We were together for years, so—” Y/N cuts herself off with a shake of her head, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger nervously. “No, wait, that’s another question!  You don’t get another question if I didn’t!”

“But you haven’t finished answering my first question—”

“I would if you’d stop interrupting!” Silencing Harry with a stern look, Y/N holds up her left hand, pinching two of her fingers together. “Do I need to pretend to lock your mouth again like I would a seven year old, or can you sit and listen like an adult for five minutes?  What happened to that old fashioned chivalry from earlier?”

Harry lets out a defeated sigh, sitting back in his chair with proper posture.  He takes a moment to adjust himself, straightening his back, fixing the fall of his shirt, adjusting his cross, planting his feet on the ground of the patio, and finishing off the show by rolling out his shoulders before squaring them. “Alright, I’m sorry.  I’m ready to listen.  Please continue.”

The young woman inhales deeply, testing Harry’s rapt attention as she takes her time sipping her ice water.  When she sets the glass down and finds that Harry has stayed perfectly still, his irises glued to her, she continues. 

“So Bradley and I got together our freshman year, and stayed together for the rest of high school.  It was comfortable.  His mom liked me, and my parents liked him.  He came to church with us—” Y/N notes that Harry’s eyebrow lifts a quarter of an inch, but only for a moment before dropping back down into its neutral state. “—and he and I went out once or twice a week.  He was…nice.  But he didn’t do the stuff that you do, the…etiquette stuff.” She taps an index finger against the table, thinking back to all the movie and diner dates that have blurred together in her mind. “Well, he’d try, I suppose, but not in the way you do.  Whenever he did something that was supposed to be chivalrous or gallant, it felt like he was doing it because he thought I was incapable.  And when I brought it up, he got mad.” Y/N lifts one shoulder in a shy shrug as she smiles apologetically at Harry. “That’s why I didn’t understand you ordering for me.  I know you didn’t mean it in the way he did, I can tell that, but it just kind of…reminded me of him.  It left a bad taste in my mouth; he left a bad taste in my mouth, I guess.”

A beat of silence falls between them, and the intense way that Harry is looking at her is prickling the hair on the back of Y/N’s neck. 

“I get that.” The brunette speaks after a moment, voice low and accent thick. “Being haunted by someone.  Even after they’re gone, even after time passes…something can remind you of them, and it can be enough to bring you to your knees.”

Although Harry’s eyes are locked on hers, Y/N has the distinct feeling that he’s seeing someone else in her place.  Before she can ask what he means, however, he’s blinked himself out of the self-imposed trance. 

“So what was the final straw?” Harry clears his throat quietly as his mind comes back to the present. “Between you and Cucumber Dick?”

A tiny giggle escapes Y/N’s mouth despite her far from humorous answer. “Well—”

The telltale clicking of heels interrupts the unspoken thought, and within a moment, Paige is standing next to their table once again, a tray balanced on her hand with precision as she offers another one of her smiles to Harry. “Here you go—two orders of the chorizo and goat cheese crepes, and a side of hash browns.” The server sets the first plate down in front of Harry, but he quickly lifts it again and sets it down carefully in front of Y/N before accepting the second dish.  He repeats the motions with the hash browns, sliding them to the middle of the table and within Y/N’s reach. 

“Thank you.” Harry speaks with a kind tone, but offers no other comment to the girl, who’s allowed her eyes to slide to the dark ink that decorates Harry’s arms. 

“Of course.” Paige stutters, giving no pretense of paying attention to Y/N. “Could I get you anything else?”

Harry glances at Y/N’s empty mimosa glass, raising an eyebrow in question. “Would you like another drink?” He asks her slowly, his voice unsure.  Normally, he’d just order a second one for her without a thought, but now that he knows how she feels about him ordering for her, he’ll have to work on beating back that particular bit of Victorian etiquette. 

“I would, yes.” Y/N replies with a smile as she touches the stem of her empty glass. “Thank you.”

A strained smile flickers over Paige’s lips. “No problem.  I’ll be right back.”

Harry nods in satisfaction as he watches the server retreat. “There.  We have a few more minutes.  Keep talking.”

“Ah ah ah.” Y/N picks up her fork and sticks it into the hash browns, pulling away a crispy bite for herself. “I think I get to ask a question now, especially since you’ve crammed a few different inquiries into your last turn.”

“And here I was, thinking you loved when I crammed things into—”

“Harry.”

A teasing smile breaks across the vampire’s face, more genuine than Harry thought possible. “Fine.” He relents, cutting the corner off his crepes and popping the savory bite into his mouth. “What else would you like to know?”

Where to begin?  Y/N considers his question pensively as she takes a bite of her own crepe, her expression raising in surprise when she finds that she enjoys Harry’s entrée choice.  The smokiness and spice of the chorizo is undercut by the tangy saltiness of the cheese, all wrapped together with a few garnishes in the perfectly cooked crepe.  Savoring the bite as she chews, Y/N begins to run through the list of questions in her head. 

She could ask more about his family, but if the aching sadness that had radiated off of him at the mention of his mother was any hint, any answers Harry could give on that topic may be off tone for a first date.  And while inquiring about what he said before, about being haunted by someone seems promising, it may also be a bit too much.  As much as she dislikes talking about her personal life, she gets the feeling that Harry absolutely abhors it, and while she was surprised about him asking her on a date, she’s been even more surprised to find herself enjoying it.  The last thing she needs is to fuck that all up by interrogating him about an ex. 

With those two possibilities pushed aside, only one burning question is left on the tip of Y/N’s tongue, and she hurriedly swallows her mouthful of crepe before letting it fall. “Alright, I’ve got it.” Cocking her head to the side, Y/N points her fork at the man in an accusatory manner. “Did you ask me out on this date just because you were jealous I was out with Jacob?  Was that the only reason?  Because you saw me with him, and you didn’t like it?”

Harry wraps his ringed hand around his water glass, the metal of his jewelry clinking against the surface as he pulls a face.  Even if he wanted to be honest with Y/N about this, Harry isn’t quite sure what the honest answer would be.

“I’ll admit, I was a little…bothered by it.” Reluctance is threaded through every word that Harry manages to spit out. “Moreso by your taste in men than anything else— Jacob wasn’t exactly up to par.”

“It wasn’t like I chose him myself.” Y/N retorts, pulling a grape from the bunch of side fruit on her plate and popping it into her mouth. “Was that really all that bothered you?  That he wasn’t up to par?”

Tapping his fingers against the wooden table, Harry takes a moment to ponder the question. “No.” He says finally, deciding to continue his honesty streak. “No, that wasn’t all that bothered me.  You’re right, I didn’t like seeing you with him, but it wasn’t because of him.  Not entirely, anyways.  I can’t imagine I would’ve liked seeing you with anyone.”

A light flush works its way over the mortal’s cheeks, and Harry can hear the stuttered thumping of her heart. “Why?” She asks in a half whisper, her teeth worrying her bottom lip unconsciously. “Why is that?”

Harry muses the various answers he could give as Paige brings them refills on their mimosas.  It’s not like he can tell her that he wants to keep her available for snacking whenever he gets a little thirsty.  Well, he could, but then he’d have to wipe her mind, and he’s not particularly inclined to do that at the moment.  And, if he’s being honest with himself…he’s not entirely sure that’s the truth anymore.  Is sheer convenience the reason behind his terrible reaction to Y/N seeing someone else?  Or is that reaction linked to the way he felt when she opened her door to him that morning, and the sight of her all dolled up for him hit him like a truck?

Either way, none of those answers are suitable to confess in the moment, so Harry merely gives a dimpled grin. “That’s another question, darling.  We’re not very good at limiting ourselves, are we?”

“I suppose not, no.” Y/N smiles sheepishly as she takes a sip of her fresh mimosa, her eyes watching Harry over the rim of the glass. “Your turn, then.  What else do you want to know?”

What else would he like to know?  Harry thinks, taking another bite of chorizo as he mulls over the question.  Now that the floodgates have opened, now that he has the opportunity, now that he has the ability to ask, Harry wants to know everything.  He wants to know what makes Y/N tick, what her pet peeves are, and if she prefers mornings or nights.  He wants to know what her favourite school subject was, if she was ever in her school’s plays, or on any of the sports teams.  He wants to know her favourite flavour of ice cream, what TV shows she binge watches when she wants to distract herself, and if she’s really read all those books that line the floor to ceiling shelf in her room.  He wants to know her, he realizes.  She’s more fascinating than he ever thought possible, and her blood is more addicting than he knew.  He wants to know every aspect that molded her into the person sitting before him.  And one of those aspects is—

“Why did things end between you and Bradley?” He finally asks, his voice low and cautious. “Was it mutual, or...?”

Despite the time Harry took to think of his question, Y/N knew exactly what it was going to be, and she has her answer ready to go the moment the words roll from Harry’s pillowy lips. “He was cheating on me.” She admits with a sigh, her eyes glued to her mimosa glass as she swirls the orange liquid within it. “He went away for university, and I stayed home.  I guess he met someone at school.” Allowing her eyes to flick up to Harry for a moment, Y/N finds the man staring at her blankly with a harsh crease between his brows. “I kind of thought it was going to end, honestly.  He began to get more and more distant...we’d talk less over Skype or the phone...but I didn’t think he’d…” She trails off for a moment, thinking back to the day she found out. “Well.  He did.  I found out from his roommate, and the next day, he and I were through.  And almost five years of memories, time together, shared moments...all of that was just gone.”

Although it’s been years since things ended, and Y/N has moved on in tenfold, she can’t help the way her voice aches at the end of her explanation, which acts as proof of how the raw wound had healed in a way that wasn’t quite right.  No matter how much time passes, no matter how many people she’s been with, no matter how little she cares for Bradley now...nothing will change the fact that he hurt her.  Nothing will mend the jagged scar he created.  Sure, it may fade with time, but it’ll never disappear completely.  And as much as Y/N hates that Bradley still has an effect on her after all this time, she can’t change it.  She’s tried.

“That…” Harry’s cool hand wrapping around her own drags her back to the present, and she lifts her eyes to find the man staring at her with the most tender expression she’s ever seen his sculpted face wear. “That’s awful, Y/N.  I’m so sorry you went through that.”

“It’s—it’s fine.  Really.” Y/N half mumbles the words, distracted by the small circles Harry’s thumb is rubbing against the bone of her wrist.

Chestnut curls swaying, Harry adamantly shakes his head, the crease between his brows deepening with each passing moment. “Don’t.  It’s not fine.  You don’t have to make excuses for someone who hurt you.”

“I’m not making an excuse, I just—”

“Did he hurt you?” Harry’s jade irises fixate on her own with determination. “Yes or no?”

Once Y/N locks her eyes with Harry, she can’t look away.  His gaze nears hypnotic the more she looks. “Yes.  He hurt me.”

“Then he doesn’t deserve you making excuses for him.” The vampire squeezes her hand to emphasize his answer.  Although he’s not compelling her to understand him, Harry looks at her with an unfamiliar sincerity that he hopes makes the depth of his words resonate within her. “You may be fine now, or you may not be, but the situation itself wasn’t fine.  Don’t use your healing as an excuse for his behaviour.  You shouldn’t have had to heal yourself in the first place.”

The gravity of his words rings in Y/N’s ears, and the girl gapes at him for a moment, her mouth half open in shock, before the realization of what he’s saying hits her.  The way he’s staring at her…it’s nearly uncomfortable, the way he sees her.  She almost can’t bear it.  How does he know to say exactly what she needs to hear, even if she doesn’t know she needs to hear it?  Since the first night they slept together, when he reassured her that she could relax and let loose, Harry has been honest and reassuring.  And although Y/N has greatly appreciated that trait in the bedroom, when she’s been at her most vulnerable in a physical aspect…her eyes lock with Harry’s once more, finding them still as steadfast as ever.  This may be the most vulnerable she’s been emotionally in a long time.  And the idea of that, for once, doesn’t completely terrify her. 

The questions get more and more personal from there.  Although there’s a few lighthearted inquiries sprinkled in to ease the tension (“What was the name of your first pet?” “It was a cat named Mr. Snuffleupagus.  I named him after the Sesame Street character.  What’s your earliest childhood memory?” “My sister nearly drowning me in a lake.  She thought I would float.”), the majority of questions asked are things that neither person ever thought they would admit to someone else.  

Those questions range from vaguely prying (“How old were you when you lost your virginity?” “Seventeen.  It was with—” “Bradley and his beginner penis, right.” “Alright, smart ass, who did you lose yours to?” “My first girlfriend.”) to diving deep into memories, stories, and opinions that neither have so much as breathed to themselves in the dark of the night, let alone someone else.

Despite the plan having been to leave after brunch, the pair find themselves engrossed in their conversation, drinking mimosa after mimosa as the late morning bleeds into early afternoon, and they continue to discover each other. 

As Y/N takes a sip of her fourth beverage, Harry regards her with curious eyes, which are focused on picking apart every moment of her body to dissect and devour in his head when he’s alone that night. “So you said pretty much everyone from your hometown marries their high school sweetheart.” He asks slowly, rubbing a jeweled finger over his ice-swollen lips. “But you didn’t, obviously.”

“No, I did not.” Y/N says in agreement, a tipsy snort sounding from the back of her throat as she raises her fluted glass in a toast. “Thank fuck, honestly.  Could you imagine me as a wife right now?  And a mother?  With children?”

Finger tapping against his lip, a cheeky grin tugs at the very corner of his mouth. “No, I couldn’t, frankly.” Harry’s dimples wink at her as he answers. “But what I’d like to know is…do you believe in it?  Marriage, I mean?  Because you said your parents had rough patches, and you thought they mostly stayed together just to stay together, and you and Gherkin Pickle didn’t last—”

“I’m sorry, Gherkin Pickle—?”

“So what I want to know is…” With his thumb and knuckle still grazing his chin, Harry points his finger at the girl across the table. “Marriage.  Do you think there’s value in it?  Do you think someone can be monogamous for their entire life?  Do you want to get married someday?”

The alcohol is beginning to soak into Y/N’s brain, making her bolder with every thump of her heart in her chest.  She leans across the table to ghost her fingers over Harry’s knuckles, continuing to glide them over his cool skin until she reaches his statement rings. “Why?” She asks, a smirk twinkling its way onto her face. “Are you asking?”

“Not quite yet, no.” Harry can feel the alcohol beginning to buzz through his stagnant veins, and he’ll later blame his flirtatious response on the pleasant feeling. “Although you in that dress has me half considering it.”

“Only half considering it?” Y/N clicks her tongue in feigned disappointment, swirling the tip of her index finger over the opal ring that sits upon Harry’s pinkie. “That’s a bit disheartening.  I’ll have to up my game, huh?”

The sight of Y/N’s lithe finger tracing his mother’s ring sends a shock through Harry’s buzzing body.  He can’t quite tell if it’s the witty banter that she matches perfectly and with ease, the lighthearted smile that lifts her soft lips, the gentle pulse he can feel reverberating through her fingertip, or the cleavage that’s just barely slipping out of her dress as she leans over, but Harry can’t tear his eyes away from the mortal girl, not for one second.  He doesn’t want to miss a single moment of her like this.  How it’s all for him. 

“You know, I’m starting to regret my earlier proposal.” He murmurs quietly, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue as he watches the mortal take a long sip of her mimosa. “How much begging would it take to convince you to follow me to the bathroom right now for a little fun?”

Despite the warmth pooling between her thighs at the offer, Y/N shakes her head. “Too much begging.” She replies, setting her glass back down on the table with a soft clink.  She can already tell there’s a good chance that she’ll go back on the agreement they made, but she wants to make him sweat first.  As much as it tortures her, she knows it tortures him more.  And he’s certainly done his fair share of torturing.  Now it’s her turn. “But speaking of proposals…”

To his credit, Harry doesn’t push the subject of bathroom quickies again. “Right.” He pauses with his glass half raised to his lips. “Marriage.  Thoughts?”

Harry’s attention is rapt as his eyes drift to the mortal’s lips, which pucker slightly as her lightly inebriated mind thinks through the question.  Not for the first time, he wishes he had the ability to take a look inside her head and see how her thoughts form before she voices them. 

“I think…” She fixes her fork against her plate with a clink, her voice light but thoughtful as she forms her response. “I do think there’s value in marriage, but not inherently.  It’s not valuable just because it exists; I think it becomes valuable based on the work you put into it.  My parents, for example…” Her finger begins to circle Harry’s icy knuckle absentmindedly. “My parents didn’t put much work in, so I don’t think their marriage has that much value in comparison to what it could have if they tried.  But if two people put effort in, and strive to be the best partner they can be…I think there’s tremendous value in that.”

Harry responds with a low hum in the back of his throat. “That stands to reason.” He wishes he could take her hand in his own, but the sensation of her warm fingers tracing his skin is too wonderful to pull away. “What about monogamy?  Do you think it’s realistic?”

“I suppose my answer is the same.” Y/N shrugs lightly as her soft skin catches on the corner of Harry’s H ring. “It’s different for everyone, but I do think it can be realistic.  What’s not realistic is the idea that it’s easy.  People change over time, right?  Sometimes someone can change into someone completely different.  You have to expect that, and be flexible with it.”

For the first time since the beginning of their date, an uncomfortably negative feeling buzzes in the pit of Harry’s belly.  Of course Y/N thinks people change—she’s mortal.  But Harry, on the other hand… Harry is forever frozen at twenty-six.  Harry is static.  Harry is stagnant.  However Y/N will change, Harry cannot match it.  Ever. 

That realization helps him identify the uncomfortable feeling as his eyes fall on the girl’s finger tracing his rings.  It’s longing, he discovers, unable to look away from the way her fingernail scratches his immortal skin without so much as leaving a pinkening mark.  Harry will never change again, while Y/N has a whole life of it ahead of her.  Millions of possibilities that lead to millions of more possibilities, always shifting, never staying the same from one moment to the next. 

“As for your last question…” Y/N’s familiar cadence pulls Harry from his thoughts. “I’m not sure.  I wouldn’t completely rule out marriage, but it’s not an active goal of mine.  It all depends on finding someone I think I could grow with and still love at the end of every day.  And despite how simple that sounds,” The short laugh that leaves her mouth is wistful, but hides a tinge of bitterness. “It’s surprisingly hard to find.”

“It is, yeah.” Harry agrees, finishing the remnants of his mimosa with one fell swoop. “Incredibly hard.” His gaze sweeps to Y/N’s glass, which has about one more gulp of liquid left in it.  With the hand not within her grasp, he reaches across the table, picking up the glass and lifting it to her lips. “May I, pet?”

He can hear the way her heartbeat stutters in her chest, and feel the heat radiating off her cheeks as she nods slowly.  Harry places the glass between her lips, carefully tilting it back until the drink runs out of the crystal and into her awaiting mouth.  A small droplet streaks from the corner of Y/N’s mouth, and Harry is sure to catch it on his finger after setting the glass down. 

Y/N knows that Harry is doing his best to fluster her, and while it’s working, she knows that she can play the game just as well as he can.  Keeping her eyes on his like a challenge, she grasps the hand touching the corner of her mouth, guiding his finger beyond her lips with a firm grip.  The sweetness of the orange juice and champagne concoction swells across her tongue, but that’s nothing compared to the sweetness of watching Harry’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly. 

Pulling his finger from her mouth with a quiet pop, Y/N sets his hand back down on the table, squeezing it once before releasing both of his hands and resting her elbows on the table.  She steeples her fingers together, setting her chin on the makeshift rest as she regards Harry’s darkening eyes. 

“Thanks.” She murmurs, tilting her head to the side lazily as Harry shifts in his chair. “Didn’t realize I missed a drop.  That was a sharp catch, Holmes.”

Harry can’t help but flex his finger as his gaze drops to the digit, catching how a light sheen of saliva covers his skin.  Heat floods between his thighs, making him regret his choice of fashionable linen pants over standard jeans.  “Thank you, Watson.” He matches her banter, albeit with a slightly strained voice. “Shall we order another drink, now that we’ve both finished?”

The question hangs in the air between them like an invitation, open ended and carefully calculated.  Y/N leans forward again, unlocking one of her hands to run a finger over the dark ink staining Harry’s exposed forearm. “I think we should grab the check, actually.” She wets her lips with a swipe of her tongue as she feels Harry’s muscle tense under her touch. “I think I’ve had enough to drink.  Have you?”

All the moisture in Harry’s mouth disappears, his throat burning as the mortal girl’s scent envelops him with every move.  His eyes flicker to her neck, where the thumping of her heart is practically visible underneath her fragile skin.  With his inhuman eyes, he can just make out the ghost of a bruise he sucked into her neck a few nights before.  

Has he had enough to drink?  No.  He’ll never get enough.  But that’s not what Y/N means by the innocuous question. 

“I’ve had my fill, yeah.” Jerking his head in agreement, Harry motions towards the window, where he knows Paige has been analyzing every move between them.  Her displeasure at the close interactions between Harry and Y/N is nearly palpable as she makes her way back to their table, and Harry wonders if Y/N can also sense it, as she seems to be more perceptive than the average human.  When he turns his attention back to her, however, his brow creases in confusion. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, watching as Y/N shifts through her woven bag and extracts her wallet. 

“Grabbing my wallet?” Her expression is just as confused as his own when she replies. “To pay?”

“To—?  No.  Put that away.” Harry says sternly, using the same dominant tone he adopts in the bedroom (only half on purpose). “This is a date.  I’m paying.”

“This isn’t the 18th century, H.  We can split the bill.” Y/N begins to roll her eyes as she opens her wallet, reaching for the debit card stamped neatly with her name.

“I’m well aware it’s not the 18th century, love.” Lip twitching from the wry irony, Harry gently places his hand on her own and closes her wallet. “But it’s a date— our first one, at that— and I’d like to pay for you.  It’s just manners.” 

Although he can feel the grip on her wallet loosening, there’s still a degree of hesitancy apparent in Y/N’s eyes. “Harry—”

“And I don’t mean that in a chauvinistic way, and I don’t mean to imply that you’re incapable of paying.” He swipes his thumb over her knuckle once, letting his physical touch reinforce his words. “I asked you out, yeah?  So I think it’s only fair that I pay.”

Harry’s eyes flicker to Y/N’s pillowy lips as she worries them between her teeth, her resolve getting weaker and weaker with every passing moment.  It only takes three more beats of her heart for her to give a small nod, and Harry, satisfied that she’s agreed, reaches for his wallet to pay the bill.

Despite the temptation to short change Paige on the tip for her disregard for his date, Harry still leaves a sizable tip, saying goodbye to the server with a polite— and only polite— smile.  Once she has her back turned, however, Harry flashes his most genuine grin at Y/N as he scoots his chair away from the table to stand.

Y/N’s hands grip the sides of her chair to match Harry’s motion, but she freezes once she sees the man step towards her.  Within a moment, his jeweled hands are wrapped around the back of her chair, carefully pulling it out before offering her a hand to help her stand.

“Is this going to be a thing now?” Y/N asks, nodding to their clasped hands as she pulls her bag over her shoulder. “Pulling out chairs, opening doors—”

Placing his hand on the small of her back once again, Harry scoffs. “It’s always been a thing,” He argues, guiding her to the patio door and through the restaurant. “You’ve just been dating pricks, apparently.”

Despite his answer, however, even Harry can’t deny that the urge to resurrect his Victorian etiquette is as strange as it is sudden.  And, truth be told, there is something deeply pleasing in the light flush of blood he can hear work its way over Y/N’s cheeks when he opens the door of the restaurant for her, opens the car door, takes her hand to help her in, and shuts the door carefully before making his way to the driver’s side.  

It’s easy to spend the short drive back to her building with his hand entwined with hers, their fingers woven together as Harry’s thumb moves over her knuckles.  Y/N’s skin, like usual, is so warm, almost as if she’s made from sunshine herself.  At this point, Harry wouldn’t be surprised to learn that; her blood could certainly pass for being made from stardust. 

It’s all too soon that Harry is pulling into a parking spot in front of Y/N’s building and turning the key in the ignition, his favourite car smoothly powering down in one fell swoop.  Once the sound of the engine dies down, his eyes refocus on the girl next to him. 

Y/N, in comparison, is just as focused on Harry as Harry is on her.  She knows that it’s time to let go of his hand, time to climb out of the car, time to return to her apartment alone.  Time to fall out of the fantasy that has been this afternoon.  Despite knowing all of this, however, she stays glued to the seat, her eyes locked with Harry’s emerald irises in a soft battle. 

Harry is well aware of the predicament he’s found himself in.  While he was the one to establish the no sex rule in an attempt to keep Y/N comfortable, it’s becoming harder and harder to stick to it with every passing moment.  If he was smart, he’d bid the girl goodbye here, allow her to walk herself into her building, thereby erasing any possibility of him charming her into allowing him inside her apartment.  Then, once he was safely back home, he could draw himself a hot bath, scent it with lavender epsom salts, close his eyes to picture the way Y/N looks with laughter in her eyes, the sun spilling across her cheeks, her dress’ neckline falling dangerously low, and tug himself to a tension-relieving climax. 

However, Harry has never been known for his intelligence. Not as much as he’s been known for his recklessness.

Before he can second guess his most likely terrible decisions, Harry is out of the car and opening Y/N’s door.  He’s helping her out.  He’s guiding her into her building, and climbing up the stairs of her fifth floor walk up with her hand locked in his.  And now he’s standing in front of her apartment door, with Y/N shyly looking at him as she bites her fucking lip, completely unaware of the rampage raging inside the vampire before her. 

And the most infuriating, frustrating thing about the entire situation is the way Y/N is looking at him, like she can barely hold his gaze, but can’t force herself to look away.  Harry can feel the waves of need and uncertainty radiating from her, hear the thumping of her heart in her chest.  The last time she looked at him like this, like she’s unsure of where they stand, was the first night they met.  Harry remembers how she fumbled with her keys, nervously invited him in, and then let him use her in a way that literally drove him to his most primal state.  He remembers the euphoria of sinking his teeth into her neck, tasting her ridiculously sweet blood for the first time as his orgasm rolled over him, wave after wave of intense pleasure blurring together as his eyes burned crimson, the lewd sounds of their bodies moving together, the desperate whines that echoed from her throat...

“Thank you for lunch.” Y/N’s sweet voice interrupts his walk down memory lane, and with good timing— five more seconds, and Harry would have been pushing her against her front door to rut her dress up and slip inside her. “And the drinks.  I had a really nice time.”

Clearing his throat, Harry pushes the indecent thoughts from his head as best he can.  He can take care of this later, he tells himself.  He just has to be a gentleman for a few more minutes, and then he can go home, and be as depraved as he needs to be. “I did, as well.” The vampire squeezes her hand in preparation of letting go of it. “A really lovely time, actually.  I’d like to do it again.”

The way Y/N’s eyes widen ever so slightly as her breath just barely hitches, both of which would be imperceivable to human senses, makes Harry bite back a laugh. “I would too.” A more reassured smile rolls over her face as she leads his hand to her waist, setting it just over her hip and squeezing his fingers around her love handles. 

Even after everything Harry has done to her, all the ways he’s seen her, felt her, made her feel— even after all that— his hand on her hip over her dress still sends a shiver down her spine. “I don’t want you to go…” She confesses in a quiet voice, rubbing her thumb over his icy knuckles. “It feels strange, not having you come inside…”

“I know.” A sigh escapes Harry’s lips as he leans down, brushing his forehead over hers as he murmurs his response, his voice dangerously low. “But if I come inside, I know what I’ll do.  And I promised that I would behave myself today.”

“I don’t mind breaking promises.” Y/N wisps, closing her eyes as Harry’s breath, tinged with orange from the mimosa and mint from the candy the restaurant gave them with the bill, rolls over her in a delicious wave. 

Nudging his nose against her own, Harry shakes his head with the smallest of motions, his fingertips digging further into Y/N’s love handles. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” His lips ghost over hers, barely even brushing before he pulls away again. “One of us needs to have some self control.”

Y/N wedges her free hand between their bodies, resting it over Harry’s chest with her fingers curled along the unbuttoned edge of his shirt. “If you insist.” Her fingernails dig just the slightest bit into Harry’s sturdy chest, savouring the way she feels his body tense beneath her. “If you want to be boring, then that’s fine.”

Harry laughs quietly at the small attempt to tease his ego, and although his instinct tells him to prove her wrong, he just nods his head. “Am I too boring to receive a goodbye kiss?” He brushes a loose hair back from her forehead before cradling her warm cheek, guiding his thumb over her cheekbone in a repeated action. “Haven’t kissed you in hours.  Feels wrong.”

Butterflies burst into flight in Y/N’s stomach at the innocent request coupled with the sweet explanation.  They’ve done everything in the wrong order, she thinks, as she allows Harry to smudge small pecks along her chin and cheeks.  The very first night they met, she allowed him to use her in any way he wanted, and he allowed her the same luxury.  They’ve spent the last month exploring each other’s bodies, getting to know every nook and cranny, every preference.  They’ve grown accustomed to how the other moves in their sleep, how they wake up in the morning, if they shower at sunrise or sunset.  And now, after all that, they’ve finally had what has probably been the best first date in the history of first dates, and this man, who has already coaxed countless orgasms from her shivering body, who has learned all of her likes and dislikes, is asking for a goodbye kiss like a nervous teenager walking his crush home from biology class.

How could she refuse him?

The answer is simple: she can’t.  In fact, she’s not sure she could refuse Harry anything he asked of her.  And maybe that would be worrisome— it probably should be worrisome— if the idea of giving Harry whatever he wanted didn’t bring a wave of warmth to Y/N’s belly that travels from her center to the very tips of her fingers.

“No,” She wraps the loose fabric of his shirt around her fingers, clutching him as close as she possibly can. “You’re not too boring, H.  You’re never boring.” Y/N sucks in a breath as she feels Harry’s teeth graze over her jaw, marking her ever so slightly as her lover makes his way back to her lips fervently. 

He smudges a kiss at the corner of her lips, pulling a strained whimper from her as she waits for him to kiss her properly. 

“Ask me.” He whispers, grazing his fingers over her cheekbone again and again. “Ask me to kiss you.  I want to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

The request is so innocent compared to everything else Harry has ever asked her to do, and his voice lacks the dominant command it usually carries over her, but Y/N feels just as weak as she would if he ordered her to get on her knees. “Harry…” Her voice floats through the miniscule space between them, so quiet that it’s barely audible over their laboured breathing, but Harry still thinks it sounds like a song. “Please kiss me.  Kiss me goodbye.”

A groan reverberates in the back of Harry’s throat, and the tiny molecule of composure that he has left in him slips away as he glides his lips over her own silky pair, his fingers threading into her hair on instinct.  Although he does his best to restrain himself, it becomes more difficult with every passing moment, and becomes damn near impossible when he hears the way Y/N whines at the sensation of their lips brushing together with more and more force.

Despite his best efforts, Harry soon finds his hands moving of their own accord as his palm travels from Y/N’s hip towards her ass, ruffling her dress as he grips her and thrusts a leg between her own.  He backs the mortal up into her door, her back hitting the wood with a delicate thud, and the groan she releases worries him for a split second before he feels her grind against his thigh situated between her legs.

Harry knows that the pretense of this just being a goodbye kiss went out the window the moment he touched her, and although she’s responding in kind, he has to live up to his word.  He has to.  He swore that he wouldn’t fuck her today, and as much as he wants to, as much as it seems that she wants to— and if the red hot heat burning his thigh is any hint, she very much wants to— he has to regain some self control.  Despite all his shortcomings, or how his thirst for her blood outweighs any other desire he has for her, he has to remain a gentleman.  Even if it means peeling himself away from the beautiful girl who is scratching at his chest, moaning into his mouth, grinding against his thigh, and speaking between ragged gasps—

“Fuck the promise.” She groans into his ear, her teeth grazing over his lobe with more pressure than Harry thought her capable. “Please, H.  I know what we said, but I need you.” 

Harry curses under his breath at the sensation, his eyes rolling back into his head for a split second, and he knows that if he doesn’t distance himself, he’ll succumb to her begging. “I can’t, darling.  I can’t.” He chokes out the words between pants, bumping his forehead against Y/N’s as he struggles to catch a breath that he’s forgotten he doesn’t need.  It’s funny, he manages to think, how he teased Y/N for not keeping her hands off him earlier, when he’s the one who can’t bear to be away from her touch now. “I want to— Christ, I want to— but I’m trying to behave.”

“Behaving is stupid.” Y/N mutters, smudging her lips across Harry’s stubbled jaw and down his neck, leaving small marks in her wake. “What happened to giving into desires?”

Good fucking question.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut tightly, a choked laugh escaping his heaving chest. “That was when we were just fucking.  Now we’re…”

Y/N regards the man with hooded eyes, a flutter of hope shining through the desire that’s settled in her chest.  What exactly are they?  They’re not dating, she knows that for certain.  But they’re not exactly just fuck buddies anymore. “We’re what?” She prompts after Harry trails off. 

“We’re…” Harry struggles to form a coherent thought, too entranced by the feeling of Y/N in his arms to think straight.  Sucking in a deep breath, the fragrant scent of the girl’s arousal burning his throat, Harry forces himself to take the smallest step back from her, although his hands stay locked around her hip and her cheek. “We’re saying goodbye.”

A defeated sigh falls from Y/N’s swollen lips, but she nods gently at the man before her, brushing her thumb over his exposed collar bones with great care. “Alright.” She mumbles, disappointment laced through her voice. “Goodbye.”

The glum tone brings a small smile to Harry’s cherry lips. “It’s just for a little while, love.  Not forever.” Harry teases her as he swipes his thumb over her flushed cheek. “Couldn’t stay away from you that long.” 

The breathless flush turns into a pleased warmth as Y/N struggles to hide the smile threatening to break across her expression.  Taking the change in mood as a hint, Harry ducks his head, pressing his lips against hers with an earnest softness for just a moment before stepping back and releasing the mortal girl from his grasp.

“Goodbye.” He murmurs again, his belly aching at the thought of leaving Y/N alone for the rest of the day.  It really does feel unnatural, he’s surprised to find.  Has he really gotten that used to being around her?

It’s a strange process, leaving Harry at the door.  After she finally says goodbye again, shuts the door, locks it tightly, and slips on the chain, Y/N finds herself touching the wood, her palm pressed flat against the surface as if she can feel Harry on the other side.  It takes her a moment to walk away from it, the buzz of the mimosas and their first date streaming through her veins.

Checking her phone for the first time, Y/N is surprised to find that it’s nearly 4pm— had they really been in the restaurant for almost five hours?  No wonder the server had been giving her a dirty look; they’d spent so long just talking and sipping drinks, ordering no other food, and not giving up their table.  She’d probably be glaring too.

Admittedly, there is a slight rumble in Y/N’s stomach, as they ate over four hours ago, but she ignores it as she takes a seat on the couch to untie her pink vans, tossing them into the corner before slipping off her jean jacket.  She tosses that over the couch too, running her hands through her mussed hair.  She’s not quite sure what she’ll do with the rest of her day now that she’s alone.  She could indulge some reading, or answer some messages from relatives, or maybe even—

A pounding on the door disrupts her thoughts, jerking her eyes from the book on her coffee table to her front door.  With her brow furrowed in confusion, Y/N rises from the couch and walks to the door, gliding the chain free and turning the lock before swinging the door open.

Braced in the doorway with shining eyes, ruddy cheeks, and a heaving chest as if he’s run all the way back up to her apartment, is Harry.  He takes a moment to compose himself, swiping his tongue over his lips as she takes in her more relaxed appearance.

“I couldn’t go.” He confesses, answering the question on the tip of Y/N’s tongue before she even has the chance to speak it. “I made it down to my car, and then—”

Y/N grabs him by the front of his shirt and yanks him into her apartment, slamming the door behind them before reaching for Harry again.  His hands are already outstretched to receive her, having grown used to their intimacy routine, and she’s pleased when he automatically rests his palms on her lower back and her neck as she wedges her lips between his once again.

“I don’t want you to go.” Y/N gasps the words against his mouth, barely peeling herself back from him to utter the sentence. “I need you so fucking bad, H, please—”

With great difficulty, Harry attempts to think straight, but it gets harder when Y/N bucks her hips and— well, it gets harder. “I meant what I said, Y/N.  I did, I—I made a promise, and I have to—”

“What do I have to do?” Y/N demands, tangling her fingers in Harry’s chestnut curls and forcing him to look her in the eye. “I fucking need something, Harry, and you’re the only one who can fix it.”

Christ.  Harry’s had his suspicions, but now he’s convinced that this girl has some direct line to all his weaknesses, because she knows exactly how to stroke his ego like no one else has before.  She presses every one of his buttons every time.  She’s allowed him to handcuff her, take her in every position, manhandle her, slap her around, and she still begs him for more.  Is there anything that she hasn’t done better than anyone else?

And that’s when it hits him.  The perfect loophole.

Harry is so excited at the possibility of relief that he nearly whimpers, just barely managing to bite back the sound at the last second as he smooths his fingers over his lover’s wild hair. “What about when I’m not here, pet?” He goads her softly, a glint shining in the corner of his darkening eyes. “What do you do then?”

“I…” Although confusion is present in Y/N’s voice, she answers him promptly— she’s gotten used to obeying his sexual requests over the course of the month. “I call you.  And you...you tell me what to do, usually.”

“Tell you what?” Harry hungrily prompts her again, tugging on her hair with the lightest of touches.  Like before, he wants to hear her say it. “What do I tell you to do?”

“You tell me how to—how to touch myself.” The mortal girl stammers, shyness creeping into her tone despite having begged for Harry mere moments earlier. “And then I do.”

“You do.  You behave so well for me.” Keeping his voice as smooth and sensual as possible— which isn’t hard for him, if he’s honest— Harry twirls a lock of Y/N’s hair around his finger, wrapping it around the length as his fingertip brushes over her lip. “I tell you what to do, and you do it.  And you moan for me, and send me the prettiest pictures.” He presses harder against her lip, dragging her mouth open as a whimper escapes. “And I always think: what would it be like to see that in person?”

Although the effect of the mimosas has faded by now, Y/N’s head is swimming in a cloud of Harry’s cologne and her own lust, and she struggles to understand the double meaning in his words. “What—what do you mean?  You’ve seen me in bed—”

The innocent confusion in her voice tantalizes Harry in the best way. “When I’m touching you.  But that’s not what I want.” He murmurs, grinding his hips back into her own. “I know how to get around my promise.”

He watches as the realization dawns on Y/N’s face, her heart stuttering as warmth floods through her body. “Y-you mean—?  You want to see me…?”

“I want to see you touch yourself.” Harry finishes her thought as his eyes darken, and he licks his lips at the image of Y/N laid out on her bed, legs spread wide, showing off just for him.  Only for him. “Will you let me?”

And there it is.  That wave of warmth and desire spreads through Y/N’s tummy, begging her to say yes to any request that falls from Harry’s mouth.  The urge is so strong that she nearly begins to strip, her fingers edging to the hem of her dress, before she manages to form a clear thought of pause. “Are you sure you want to see me…?” She dances around the word for a second time. “Like, I—I don’t know if it’s very sexy, or—”

“Is that a fucking joke?” Harry laughs incredulously, his thumb swiping over the edge of Y/N’s jaw.  He could leave so many pretty marks… “Of course it’ll be sexy.  Christ, love, it’s fucking you.”

The statement that Harry makes is so sure, so confident, that it nearly sends Y/N reeling.  The human’s eyelids flutter as he begins to pepper kisses along her cheekbones and down her jaw, his tongue swiping over her sensitive skin every few moments. 

“Anything you do is sexy.” He whispers the words against her skin, his voice low and accent thick enough that it seems to fill the entire hallway. “Literally anything… How you lick your lips after taking a drink, how you get in and out of my car so delicately… It’s all so fucking erotic.” Y/N shivers when a breath of cool air hits the damp skin of her neck as Harry laughs lightly. “I’ve got a bloody hard-on nearly every moment of the day.”

Hearing the confession that tumbled from Harry’s cool lips, Y/N thinks, is the verbal equivalent of doing three shots of tequila and chasing with a vodka soda.  The words wash over her as easily as Harry’s cologne does whenever she gets close to him, and her fingers tug on his brunette locks with need. “Really?  Even today?”

“Are you kidding?  Especially today.  Look at what you’re wearing…” His icy fingers skim down her neck before tracing over the cleavage that the neckline of her yellow dress leaves exposed. “Every time you leaned over to take a bite of food, I nearly came in my trousers.”

Despite the desire curling itself around Y/N’s core, she can’t help but giggle at the mental image. “That would’ve been a sight.” She scratches her nails lightly against Harry’s scalp, the motion surprisingly tender for their topic of conversation. “Would’ve had to ask Paige for another napkin.”

“It would’ve been properly humiliating, yeah.” Harry agrees easily, unconcerned with the thought as his lips follow the path led by his fingers. “But it would’ve been worth it.”

While the pair’s position is rather incriminating— Y/N’s hands in Harry’s hair, Harry clutching her as close as possible, his lips travelling over any exposed skin he can find— there’s an air of careful consideration floating around them.  As much as Harry wants to see the girl in his arms pleasure herself, he wants it to be her decision.  Anything less wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying. 

“Y’don’t have to do it just for me, Y/N.” The vampire takes the slightest step back to give her some room to breathe without his close proximity to cloud her judgement. “But if it’s my reaction you’re worried about…” Harry untangles one of her hands from his hair, ghosting it down his body before cautiously laying it over his white linen trousers, where his bulge is growing more prominent by the second. “You have nothing to be worried about.”

A desperate whine nearly escapes Y/N’s mouth, but she manages to bite it back at the last moment.  She wants him.  As nervous as she is to have him watch her touch herself, she’s more turned on than anything.  When she sends Harry explicit texts and photos that are most certainly not safe for work, part of the thrill is the reaction she gets from him.  A dirty photo is only as sexy as the other person’s reception of it.  To see Harry’s reactions in person… it would be a lie to say she’s not into the idea. 

But it would also be a lie to say that she doesn’t want something in return. 

“Alright.  You can watch me.” Y/N relents with a sigh, and she takes a moment to enjoy the triumphant look in Harry’s eyes before tacking on her addendum. “On one condition.”

“Anything.” 

Y/N squeezes her hand over his bulge, making the slightest stroking motion upwards towards his belly as a low groan rolls from Harry’s mouth. “I get to watch you touch yourself, too.”

There’s not even a moment of hesitation. “Done.” Harry seals his lips over hers firmly the moment the word exits his mouth, grinding against her hand as he backs her into the wall.  Her back hits the panel with a quiet thud, but Y/N is too busy twisting her fingers around the button of Harry’s pants to notice. 

“Ah ah ah.” Harry tuts as his jeweled hand grabs her wrist, pulling it away from his hardening cock while making sure not to use too much strength on her fragile joint. “You don’t get to do that, pet.  You’ll only be undressing yourself tonight.  It’s only fair.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to talk about fair.” Y/N huffs her reply, but doesn’t pull her wrist from her lover’s grip. “You’re the one who made the stupid rule in the first place!”

Clicking his tongue, Harry takes another step back from the young woman while keeping his other hand floating over her hip. “And you agreed.” He reminds her as the corner of his lip tugs up. “So I think it’s best you behave, don’t you?”

Although the statement turns her legs to jelly, Y/N doesn’t let it show, and instead steels her resolve as best she can. “I’m behaving.” She mutters, crossing her free hand underneath the arm in Harry’s grip. 

“That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” Harry swipes his thumb over the delicate bones of her wrist, feeling her pulse stutter beneath his touch.  The vampire swallows the venom that spills into his mouth at the thumping rhythm.  He’ll have time for that later. 

Chest heaving, Y/N wets her dry lips as best she can despite the lack of moisture in her mouth. “So where are we…?” She trails off as she glances down the hallway of her apartment. “The living room is probably best, position wise…one of us can be on the couch, and the other on a chair.”

“That’s true…” Harry nods his head, but a frown settles over his pillowy lips. “But it’s not very comfortable for you.  You usually lie down when you get off, don’t you?” Like every other technically intimate question Harry has ever asked her, it’s spoken with a tone of efficiency and casual observance, simply to find the best approach for any situation. 

And, like every other technically intimate question Harry has ever asked her, it sends a shock of warmth into her panties. 

“I-I do, yeah.” Y/N stutters her response, clearing her throat before adding onto the short statement. “I’m usually in bed.”

Harry nods expectantly, like her reply is just a confirmation for him. “We’ll go to your bedroom, then.” He says decisively, his grip on her wrist loosening. “You can lie down, get comfortable.  I’ll stand.”

Leading the mortal to her bedroom, Harry slides open the door, guiding her inside before shutting it with a firm click.  When he turns back around to look at her, she’s looking at him expectantly, her fingers twisting around each other as she stares at him with wide eyes.  She trusts him, he realizes, not for the first time.  She really does trust him. 

Although the anticipation is written clearly across her pretty features, Harry knows she needs a small prompt to begin. “How are you usually dressed when you do this alone?” He asks quietly, his own fingers working over the buttons on his shirt smoothly. “Completely bare?  Fully clothed?  Underwear only?” One of his dimples makes an appearance as he smiles with half his mouth. “Wearing only that sweater of mine that you’ve pretty much stolen?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that sweater’s too warm.” Y/N replies with an eye roll, tugging off the jean jacket covering her smooth shoulders. “I, um…it depends.  If it’s just quick, then usually I’m clothed, but if I’m taking my time, then I’ll just, um, I’ll be in my underwear.  Sometimes just my bra.”

Harry’s fingers finish with his last button, and he leaves his open shirt draped over his tall frame. “We’ll be taking our time, angel.  So just get as comfortable as you usually would.”

Y/N nods her head in a jerking manner, sucking in a deep breath through her parted lips in an attempt to calm the heave that threatens her chest.  The erotic tension in the air could be cut with a knife as she tosses her jacket to the side and works her fingers over the zipper of her dress, which catches for a moment and puts up a struggle as she fights to undo it.  Once she wins the battle, she tugs the yellow dress down her shoulders, letting it pool around her ankles before stepping out of it and tossing it to the side.  Her bra and panties aren’t matching, with the former being a delicate baby pink lace, while the latter are lavender cotton, but she doesn’t let herself focus on that detail.  Instead, her fingers hover for a moment at the waist of her panties, hooking in the elastic before she changes her mind at the last minute and decides to keep them on.  For now, at least. 

Harry watches the entire ritual with starved eyes.  He wants Y/N to start before he does, so she can get into a natural rhythm herself, but he can’t resist palming himself over his trousers like she did a moment ago, despite his icy touch not being nearly as satisfying as hers. 

Y/N, however, has different plans, regarding him with heavy lashes as she takes a step back towards her bed. “Your turn.” She murmurs, sitting on the edge of the bed and curling her fingers around her ruffled comforter. 

“All in due time.” Harry assures her with a wry smile, ghosting his fingers along his inked abdomen. “Get comfortable, baby.  Pretend I’m not here.”

“Like that’s possible.” The mortal girl mutters under her breath, unaware that Harry’s supernatural hearing can pick it up as if she were shouting in his ear.  Nevertheless, she does as he says, scooting back on the bed until her shoulders reach her pillows.  She lays back on the soft cushions, shifting around until the padding feels comfortable beneath her back.  She lays there for a moment, her arms folded neatly over her bare stomach as she licks her lips expectantly. “Now?”

“Now…” Harry flicks open the button of his trousers. “Do whatever you like to do.  Whatever feels good.”

It takes Y/N another moment to work up the courage to actually do something.  The trick, she realizes, is closing her eyes.  If she so much as catches a glimpse of Harry watching her, her entire body tenses, and she can’t even manage to move a finger over her stomach.  With her eyes closed, however, she can imagine that Harry isn’t there, and she’s just in her room, with his only influence being in her mind as she touches herself.  It may not make much sense, when she could just use the real image of him to fuel her thoughts, but Harry’s presence is so dominating that pretending he’s not there seems to be the only solution.

And so, when her eyes are shut tightly enough that she can’t see the man, but loose enough that she’s comfortable, Y/N begins to touch herself lightly, her fingers tracing over the dips of her stomach with the smallest amount of contact she can manage.

Her touch moves over her skin like a flutter, its only purpose to warm herself up and ease herself into being watched, and while the small brushes against her own skin would normally have no effect on her, in this moment, with Harry standing by her bed, the action feels more erotic than she ever would’ve thought possible.  She slowly glides her hands up to the pink lace of her bra, tracing her finger along the edge of the cup before sliding over the lace to the hardening peaks of her nipples.  She’s more sensitive than she thought, and Y/N’s breath hitches for a moment as she brushes against one nub, tweaking it once more with her finger before repeating the motion on her other breast.  When a quiet but harsh exhale sounds from Harry’s direction, the human girl amuses the idea of removing her bra to give more visual stimulus, but quickly decides against it.  Harry said he wanted to see what she does to herself, she thinks, keeping her eyes closed as she massages her breasts once more.  He didn’t ask her to perform a strip tease for him.

And, in truth, a strip tease is the farthest thing that Harry wants in this moment.  Any girl can take off her clothes and touch herself to put on a show for a voyeur.  If Harry really wanted to watch that, he could easily find countless porn videos depicting the real thing.  But the sight of Y/N gliding her fingers over the soft lace of her bra, tracing unseen roadmaps over the mountains and valleys of her chest and abdomen, parting her lips just slightly as she twists her nipple once more… that’s what Harry wants.  Despite the countless erotic activities Harry has engaged with Y/N, this may be the most intimate, even without touching her.  Maybe that’s why, he muses, only half in the thought as he slowly tugs down the zipper on his trousers, doing his best to make no noise so as not to startle the girl in front of him.  She’s letting him see what she does to herself when no one is around, when she just wants to make herself feel good.  It’s a selfish act, in the best way.  And it’s making Harry’s cock throb like never before.

Y/N’s hands have reached the edge of her panties now, and with her legs spread wide open, Harry can see the dampened spot staining the lavender cotton a shade darker.  Her scent wafts over him as she moves, slipping her hand beneath the fabric, and Harry’s own eyelids flutter as she fills every one of his senses.  There’s a small part of his more instinctual mind cursing him for thinking of this— for establishing an activity where he can see her, smell her, but not touch her.  However, there’s a larger part of his mind thanking him for this.  For the opportunity to bask in Y/N’s own sensuality and pleasure.

The dampness that greets Y/N’s fingers as she slides into her panties isn’t a surprise, but still provides relief.  For a brief moment, the girl had been worried that she’d be too nervous about the situation to let herself enjoy it, but as she teasingly circles her index finger around her clit, she knows that enjoying it won’t be a problem.  Although she misses Harry’s cool touch, the feeling of his rings sliding over her clammy skin, and although it may seem untrue when Harry is in bed with her, no one knows Y/N’s body like she does.  No one can instantly know what feels good and what doesn’t, what needs to be touched with more force, what needs to be gently caressed with a feather light pressure.  Y/N alone is the keeper of those secrets, and although she’s begun to whisper those unspoken tokens to Harry in the dead of the night as he lays between her thighs, she alone knows the real truths.

She continues to circle her clit for a few moments, gradually applying more and more pressure as her free hand clutches her bare thigh, her fingertips digging into her squishy flesh.  It doesn’t take long, however, for Y/N to need more, and she allows her fingers to run over her entrance a few times before dipping her index finger into her hot core. 

While the sound that leaves her mouth is quiet and could potentially go unnoticed, it’s the loud groan from Harry that snaps the human’s eyes open, and the sight in front of her that stops her movements in their tracks.  With her index finger still half inside her, and her grip on her thigh tightening, Y/N gapes at him unabashedly, because Harry looks like a fucking god. 

Her eyes sweep over him methodically, committing every inch of his appearance to memory so as not to ever forget what he looks like when pleasuring himself.  His chestnut curls are tinged with sweat, just beginning to plaster to his damp forehead and neck.  His jade eyes are darkening by the second, while his strawberry lips are parted and dry, despite him swiping his tongue over them every minute or so.  His toned chest is bare, displaying his dark ink for Y/N’s viewing, heaving with every movement of his tattooed arm.  And lower… Y/N moans again as she clutches her leg tighter, nearly enough to bruise.  Harry hasn’t completely removed his pants, but he’s pushed them down low enough that he’s freed his cock, which stands tall and proud and angrily red at the tip that pokes through the tight fist he has wrapped around the length.  Despite the tension in his body, however, Harry flicks his wrist lazily, teasing himself as much as Y/N did earlier, and she wonders if he does it for the same reason she did.  To give their lover something to look at. 

With her eyes locked with Harry’s, Y/N pushed her middle finger inside herself, whimpering at how the extra digit stretches her out.  She curves her fingers as they move in and out of her at a leisurely pace, focused more on reaching deeper than reaching a quick speed.  While her hand busies itself inside her panties, she slides the other from her thigh back up to her breast, gripping and massaging it as her lashes flicker. 

“Look at you.” Harry utters with a groan, breaking the silence between them as he thumbs over the leaking head of his cock. “Christ, you look so fucking filthy.” His eyes shift from hers for just a moment, glueing themselves to the shadows of motion he can see beneath her underwear. “Does that feel good, angel?”

A high pitched whine falls from Y/N’s mouth as she presses the pads of her fingers against the spongy spot inside her, setting off a wave of bliss inside her belly. “Yeah.  Feels—feels really good, Harry.” His name leaves her lips in a breathy mewl as she tweaks her nipple over her bra, throwing her head back against her pillow. 

The newly exposed skin of her neck beckons Harry.  It’s completely covered with a thin veil of sweat, with the heat radiating from her throbbing pulse seemingly reaching towards him at the end of the bed.  He takes a half step forward without realizing it, only catching his action when his knees bump the edge of the mattress. “Fuck—” He closes his reddening eyes to collect himself as his hand quickens its pace around his prick, only opening them again when he’s sure he’s under control. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I think I have a bit of an idea.” She mutters in reply, stroking small circles over her clit with her thumb. “It’s not like you can hide it.”

“But you’re hiding.” The vampire replies in a strained voice, tightening his fist around his cock as he nods to the girl’s covered core. “Take those off for me, pet.  Please.”

Y/N withdraws her fingers from her dripping center, her skin shining in the light of her bedroom as she hooks her fingers into the waistband of the panties. “Wait—” she says suddenly, pausing her obedient motion. “Wait, I—”

The moment his foggy mind registers the word, Harry’s palm stills over his length, and although he doesn’t let go completely, he forces his body to calm down as he appraises the human. “What?” He questions, concern laced into his thick accent. “What’s wrong?”

Sitting up on her elbows, Y/N raises her head from her pillow as she scoots closer to her bedroom wall, stopping once her heated skin grazes the tapestry. “I want you next to me.” Her eyes are pleading as the words fall from her mouth, quiet and desperate. “I promise I’ll stick to the rule— I won’t touch you. I just want you to be comfortable, too, and… and I like it when you’re close.  Please?”

The idea of refusing her doesn��t even enter Harry’s mind.  Within seconds, faster than a mortal ever would, Harry has stripped off his trousers, leaving himself in just his dark blue boxers that are still half rugged down.  He crawls onto the bed quickly, only letting his knee brush against Y/N’s leg before situating himself six inches away from her.  Even with the distance between them, he can still feel an electric energy radiating off of her as her fragrance becomes thicker and all encompassing, making his head swim in the intoxicating honey and lavender perfume. 

“M’here.” Harry murmurs the assurance softly, his fingers aching to reach out and touch her.  Surely that’s not against the rules?  After all, caressing someone’s cheek, and only for a moment, isn’t necessarily sexual.  With that rationalization in his mind, his jeweled fingers brush against the young woman’s flushed cheek, grazing upwards to push a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Y/N whispers back to him, her hands now resting on her tummy as she stares longingly at the figure next to her in bed.  She wonders if the comforting touch is allowed, but decides not to question it.  Questioning it may make it stop, and that’s the last thing she wants.  Instead, Y/N simply places her hand over Harry’s, interlocking their fingers together and bringing his hand to her mouth to smudge a soft kiss over the back of his icy knuckles. 

Harry can feel the pulsing of her heart through her lips, and it takes all of his inhuman strength to pull his hand from hers as carefully as he can. “I think you made me a deal, didn’t you?” He asks, disguising the want in his voice behind a teasing tone. “You said that if I got up here next to you, you’d…” Harry clicks his tongue as he nods at her cotton panties. “Hm?”

Despite the small laugh that escapes her, Y/N rolls her eyes. “You’ve got a one track mind, I swear.” She hooks her fingers into the edge of her panties, lifting her bum off the bed to tug them down her legs and toss to the side. “Happy?”

Harry licks his lips as he watches the girl’s hands drift back to her bare thighs, gliding over the silky skin with small strokes. “Very much so, yeah.” He replies, pushing his own hair back from his face before trailing his fingers back down his stomach.  He wraps his right hand back around his leaking cock, stroking it once as he glances at Y/N again. “Keep going, dove.  Don’t stop on my account.”

It’s like they’re back at the beginning,Y/N thinks, as she dips her index and middle fingers back into her wetness before she circles them around her clit.  With Harry next to her, his presence so very there, Y/N has to close her eyes again to compel herself to relax.  It takes a few moments of massaging her clit and focusing on keeping her breathing steady before she can open her eyes again and allow her gaze to slide back onto Harry. 

The vampire, as expected, looks like an erotic renaissance painting.  His hand is moving faster over his cock now, which is bubbling precum with every few strokes.  His hips buck into his hand every so often, searching for more and more friction as he chases his high.  Like herself, Harry has his eyes closed for much of his movements, but when he does open them, they’re pinned to her form and how she touches herself, like she’s his own personal show.  And, in a way, she is.  And she likes that.

It’s not long before Y/N needs more stimulation, and she thrusts her two fingers back inside herself as her other hand begins to rub over her clit.  The dual sensation sends a hoarse moan falling from her lips, her tummy contracting with the wave of ecstasy that she knows is getting closer, but it’s the feeling of Harry’s lips on her temple that has her breath stuttering. 

His slightly chapped lips move over her skin in slow and sensual movements, opening and closing as he speaks against her. “That’s it, darling.  You’re so close, I can tell.” He sucks in a long breath while bucking his hips into his fist, a whining moan echoing from his throat and into her ear. “Fuck, you’ve got me wrecked…”

Curling her fingers inside, Y/N prods against her G-spot with fervent desire, leaning her head closer and closer to Harry’s mouth as she does so. “I’m gonna cum, Harry, I—” Her words cut off with a broken whine as her spongy walls clench around her fingers. 

“Wish I could touch you.” Harry mutters the dirty confession in her ear, his lips still meeting every inch of skin they can find. “Wish I could make my pretty girl cum…” His brow furrows at the whimper that escapes Y/N at those words. “But at least I know you can—Christ—” He swipes his thumb over his tip again as his other hand moves to his balls, massaging over them with a gentle touch. “—can take care of yourself when I’m not here.”

When Harry’s lips find her neck, suckling at the sensitive spot where it meets her jaw, Y/N moans again, louder than before as she bucks her hips into her hand. “Fuck, Harry—” The way she sobs his name is music to his ears. “Can—can I cum?  Please?” The question rolls off her tongue without prompt, sounding as natural as breathing to the girl. Harry’s not even sure she registers that she’s asked, but the question for permission goes straight to his throbbing cock. 

“Yeah, baby. Cum for me.” He drags his teeth over her fragile skin, aching to bite down but restraining himself from giving in.  Instead, he redirects his reaction to his hand, speeding up his strokes until he feels his balls tighten. “Cum for Daddy.” The way he feels her heart stutter at his words feeds his ego like nothing else, and he brings one hand up from his abdomen to rest on her throat, stretching his fingers to grip her chin and direct her face towards his. “Show Daddy how good you’re making yourself feel.” He demands, his lips ghosting over her own as they both work themselves towards the edge.  His voice sounds less himself and more like a growl with every passing moment. “Cum.”

It’s the final harsh demand that pushes Y/N to thrust her fingers into herself faster, matching her motions over her clit to the new speed.  It only takes a few more moments for the tight ball of pleasure inside her belly to burst, the waves of her orgasm washing over her repeatedly as her walls pulse around her fingers. “Daddy—” The name falls from her mouth and into Harry’s freely.  Her only thoughts are of him as her climax consumes her; only his emerald eyes and cherry lips, only his brunette curls and inked skin, only his calloused hands and thick cock.  He’s all she can think about.  Has there ever been anyone else? “Please, Daddy…”

Harry watches with hungry eyes as the human’s body spasms through her release, the movements of her hands shuddering as the pleasure becomes too great to move. “That’s it, sweetheart.  Good girl.” He grunts the praise through clenched teeth as his own orgasm nears, his hand twisting around his cock more and more. “Prettiest little slut in the world, y’know that?”

Y/N releases a whine of acknowledgement, her chest heaving as she comes down from her high and withdraws her fingers from her core.  Resting her hands on her clenching belly, she turns her heavy lidded gaze towards Harry, watching him eagerly as he works himself. “Your turn.” She murmurs, her lips finding the edge of his sharp jaw and giving it a teasing bit. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you?  All over your stomach?”

“If—fuck—if that’s where you want it, baby.” Harry groans loudly as his stomach clenches, the butterfly flexing beneath his strained movements. “You want to watch me cum?  Hm?”

“Mhmm.” Y/N hums the agreement against his skin, clasping her hands together to stop herself from reaching for Harry’s cock. “You’re usually inside me when you cum, so I’ve never seen it.  I want to see it.”

“God, I—” Harry reaches over with his free hand and grasps Y/N’s warm palm, dragging it up to his hair and tangling her fingers in his dark locks.  It’s a poor substitute for the craving he has to feel her touch over his cock, but the sensation of her tugging on his hair and scratching her nails against his scalp manages to provide the contact relief he desires. “Fuck, right there—” Harry’s abdomen contracts once more as he works himself over the edge and begins to shoot thick ropes of cum all over his tattooed tummy. 

Y/N continues to work her lips over his jaw, whispering anything and everything into his ear to continue to stimulate him through his orgasm. “Looks so pretty, H.” She utters once his cock has finally stopped spurting and he releases it from his grip. “You’re so pretty…”

A breathless laugh leaves Harry’s mouth as he shifts in the bed, wiping his damp hand against his indigo boxers before pulling them back over his shaking hips and exposed cock. “You’re one to talk.” He murmurs, twisting his head to the side to press a kiss to Y/N’s sweaty forehead. “You don’t happen to have a wash cloth handy, do you?”

“I have tissues in my bedside table.” Y/N points to the object in question, and Harry reaches over and tugs open the drawer to retrieve the box of Kleenex.  Pulling a few squares from the box, he makes quick work of the cleanup, doing just enough to save him from the trouble of a sticky stomach. 

“I could’ve done that, you know.  Cleaned you up.” Y/N watches as the vampire stands to dispose of the used tissues, and reaches for her discarded panties to tug them back over her still shaky legs. “You know I like it.”

“I know, but if you did, then I would’ve broken the no sex rule right then and there.” Harry chuckles lightly as he climbs back onto the bed, wanting to reclaim his close proximity to Y/N as soon as possible. “And we’d already come so far.” 

When he opens his arms, Y/N doesn’t hesitate to nuzzle into his cool chest, resting her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder with a sigh. “I suppose that’s true.”

Harry lets his jeweled fingers trace down her back, drawing random shapes on the damp skin as her breathing begins to even out. “Did you like it?” He asks curiously, a seed of worry planted within the words. “Having someone watch you?”

“I liked having you watch me.” Y/N clarifies her answer as if it were the most natural and easily explainable thing in the world. “Did you like watching?”

Harry giggles again, almost incredulous as he nods his head at the damp spot on his boxers, a symptom of the copious amounts of precum that had leaked from him. “I think the answer to that is pretty obvious, Watson.  I’m surprised someone as distinguished as yourself has to ask.” 

“Asking questions is never a bad thing, Holmes.  I’m surprised someone as distinguished as yourself doesn’t know that.” The girl counters, delighting in the small laugh that shakes Harry’s shoulders.  A laugh falls from her lips as well, followed quickly by a yawn that she unsuccessfully tries to stifle. 

“Tired?” Harry murmurs, his fingers still keeping a steady pace against her back. “It’s only the late afternoon— not exactly late enough for bedtime, is it?”

Y/N sighs into his musky skin, relaxing completely against Harry’s body. “Not exactly, no.  But I think a little post-orgasm nap may be in order.” She raises her head from the crook of Harry’s neck, looking at him with soft eyes. “Will you stay?”

If Harry’s heart could beat, the tender question would make his rhythm irregular, and the knowledge of that fact dries out the venom that had been flowing freely through Harry’s mouth. “Wow.” He tries to disguise the reaction with a laugh. “Our first date, and you’re already asking me to sleep over?  What kind of man do you think I am?”

“Shut up.” The mortal nudges her forehead against his shoulder in a playful manner. “I’m serious.  Will you?  I sleep a lot better when you’re here.” 

The confession falls from her lips as easily as a sigh, but her words lock Harry’s chest in a tight chain, restricting his every breath.  And yet… the pressure is comforting, like a hug from someone you haven’t seen in years and you’ve sorely missed. 

“Alright, yeah.” He whispers gently, caressing Y/N’s mussed hair without tugging on any tangles. “I’ll stay.  We can order some dinner later, if you want.”

Y/N’s voice is already far away when she replies. “That sounds nice.” She whispers, her eyes fluttering closed as her full weight falls against Harry.  Within a few minutes, her breathing has leveled completely in time with her steady heart beat, which thunders against Harry’s own silent chest. 

The vampire sighs as he shifts on the bed, keeping Y/N locked in place against his body as he does so.  How did he end up here, in her bed, staring at that fucking tapestry again?  How did he end up agreeing to stay over, to grab dinner with her after she sleeps?  How does he know that, if she asks again, he’ll stay over tonight as well, even if it means lying still in bed and counting her heart beats until the sun rises through her curtains? 

And why does that sound so appealing?

Carefully, so as not to wake her, Harry shifts Y/N onto her own pillow, removing her from his chest with gentle movements.  Once he’s arranged her in a comfortable position and made sure that she’s still asleep, he cages himself over her, brushing her hair back from her face and inhaling deeply.  This is why, he thinks.  This is why he’s agreed to all of these dates, to holding her as she sleeps, to spending night after night in this tiny human apartment.  Her blood. 

Harry nudges his nose along the length of her throat, breathing in her fragrance as if it were the bouquet of a fine wine.  Her signature honey and lavender scent is as prominent as ever, only amplified by the orgasm-triggered endorphins that are still swimming through her veins.  Letting his lips drag over her fragile skin, Harry smudges kisses along the base of her throat with a light touch, searching for the most tender part that he’s come to adore.  When he reaches the mark just above her carotid artery, he presses a firmer kiss to the skin, admiring how the mortal’s breath floats from her lips in her sleep.  Still, he pauses for a moment to make sure that the sound is just that, a symptom of sleep, and once his suspicions are confirmed, Harry sinks his teeth into Y/N’s satin skin. 

As usual, the relief is instantaneous.  The warm blood that flows into his mouth quells the dry, burning ache in the back of his throat like nothing else, and Harry clutches the girl closer to him as he drinks more and more.  She’s just as sweet as she smells, and there’s that familiar depth of flavour to her that Harry can never quite place a finger on.  Perhaps he could if he spent more time analyzing it, but it’s never too long before he loses himself in her taste, and all rational thought goes out the window completely.  In the reflection of her mirror, Harry can see that his eyes are blood red and black-veined, and that he looks every bit the monster that he actually is.  If Y/N were to wake up right now and see him like this—pale skin, black veins, mouth stained red with her blood—she’d probably scream in horror, and do her best to shove the supernatural creature away.  She would be thoroughly repulsed, Harry is sure.  And, honestly, he couldn’t blame her.  He remembers the first time he saw the red of a vampire’s eyes, and the terror that had seized his entire body like an icy dip in the English Channel.  It would only be a natural response. 

Harry had come to terms with what he is a very long time ago, and though it took a lot of trial and error, a lot of sleepless nights doused with self-loathing and denial, and a plethora of blurry memories full of strangers’ veins bulging under soft skin and glassy eyes dulled by compulsion, he is in a place in his eternal life where his identity doesn’t phase his peace of mind anymore. He hadn’t become a monster willingly, and he certainly doesn’t enjoy having to do the unspeakable acts required for his survival— not consciously, anyways. 

From an instinct-driven perspective, he does enjoy the taste of blood, but it’s only because his supernatural carnal impulses demand it. Ethically, he isn’t proud of his affinity, but it’s not like he has any say in the matter. This isn’t his fault— he was forced to become what he is— and that moral claim is what has kept him tethered to his last few shreds of humanity for the past twenty decades. He’s not doing this to Y/N out of malicious intent, he’s doing it because he has no other choice. Therefore, he assures himself that the traces of guilt tightening his chest at the moment are completely misled and invalid. He hasn’t felt guilt much before— not for years— and he refuses to let it plague him once again. This is just the way things are. This is just the way things have to be. 

So why does he feel so fucking shitty right now?

Pushing the discomforting dwellings to the back of his mind, Harry continues to drink from Y/N, using his final remaining strains of functioning thought to monitor the human’s heart beat and breaths.  When his thirst is satiated enough, and before either one of those human traits begins to falter, Harry releases his bite on Y/N’s neck, licking over the wound with relish to temporarily seal it.  He turns to check his reflection in the mirror again, and finds that, yes, his suspicions are confirmed.  Although he’s managed to keep himself halfway presentable, there’s still a trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth, and his lips are stained a dark merlot colour from the sweet substance.  Harry swipes his tongue along his mouth, cleaning up any evidence of his late afternoon snack, before bringing his index finger to his mouth and pricking the tip on one of his fangs.  Then, while carefully holding the girl’s jaw open with his other hand, Harry slips his finger into her mouth. It’s practically a ritual by now. 

It takes only a few seconds for the bite mark on her neck to heal completely, leaving behind only a faint purple bruise in its place.  If Y/N were to see it tomorrow, she’d assume it was a half-healed hickey, and wouldn’t bat an eye at it.  She’d have no idea that the real cause of it was—

“Harry…” His name falls from her lips with a quiet stutter, her brow furrowing as if troubled by something the vampire can’t see. “Harry…”

“Y/N?” He whispers in reply, his limbs sealing over with ice as he freezes in place as if he were a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Everything alright, love?”

“Harry…” The human utters his name once more as a frown begins to tug at her pillowy lips, and it takes another moment of her shifting in the bed for Harry to realize that she’s still asleep, and the murmuring of his name is merely a symptom of her dreaming of him. 

Oh.  She’s dreaming of him. 

There’s a spark of something in his chest—happiness?  Excitement?— but it’s quickly extinguished by the realization that, if Y/N is dreaming of him, her body language is making it clear that the dream isn’t a pleasant one. 

Harry releases a frustrated sigh as he sinks back down into the sheets.  That’s to be expected, really.  After all, he did just feed from her; if she’s having a bad dream about him, it would only be logical. 

Still, the sight of her shifting in bed with a distressed look on her face pulls an equally distressed look from the immortal, and he only hesitates for a moment before carefully maneuvering the girl back onto his chest, positioning her so that he can easily rub her warm back with his cool hands.  

“You’re alright.” He murmurs softly into her ear, his voice low and melodic despite no one being around to hear it. “You’re fine, sweetheart. I’m here, hm? Go back to sleep.”

It takes a few more minutes of back rubbing, whispering, and a handful of strategically placed forehead kisses, but Y/N’s face finally relaxes as she falls back into a deep, untroubled slumber against Harry’s chest.  As her breathing evens out again, Harry breathes a gentle exhale of relief.  That was a close call.  The next time he feeds, he’ll have to make sure she’s truly unconscious, and has been so for a while.  Her bad dream, whatever it was, had probably been caused by him digging into her prematurely.  Next time, he’ll wait until the dead of night, when she’s deep in REM sleep.  She’ll be more comfortable then. 

Which reminds him— he has plans he has to cancel tonight, and the sleeping girl on his chest mixed with his phone being in his trouser pocket on the floor make a difficult combo to surpass. 

Despite the testing task, Harry manages to retrieve his phone from his discarded linen pants after a few minutes of awkward stretching, some light grunting, and a few curse words, but he manages to do it without waking Y/N up (she moves a couple of times, but a few soft words and tender hushing Harry’s behalf sends her right back into her dreams).  With one hand still wrapped around her back, Harry manages to type out a quick message to Niall. 

Won’t be able to make it tonight— something came up with Y/N.  Have fun at the bar. 

Harry references her by name, knowing that Mitch had probably already blabbed to their entire friend group about the date he’d had, and about how a human girl had recently become the target of his fascination. Juicy gossip is indisputably one of the aspects that keeps eternity from growing stale, and the vampire’s crew believe that to be so more than anyone. There’s not a single doubt in his mind they’d eaten every word up, and that he’d probably get drilled on it later.

He keeps his phone clutched in his hand, waiting for a (sure to be ridiculing) reply from Niall that comes a few minutes later. 

The girl from last time? Jesus, again?  Weren’t you meeting her for brunch?

A small smirk tugs at the corner of Harry’s lip. I did meet her for brunch.  And then I met her back at her apartment, and I’ll probably be meeting her again later after we get some dinner.  Don’t wait up.

After that text, Harry drops his phone on the bedside table, expecting Niall to just leave him on read in a fit of annoyance.  He’s surprised, however, to hear the quiet vibration of his phone a moment later, and picks it up to skim the message with pressing curiosity. 

You’re a fucking incubus, you know that?

The smirk on Harry’s swollen lips suddenly drops.  

While it’s not the first time he’s been called an incubus, it is the first time the label has ever bothered him. Why is that?  It’s not like it’s untrue; he frequently seduces various people, many of them being women, in order to sleep with them and drink their blood. That’s what an incubus does.  The label shouldn’t pester him.  In fact, it should boost his ego. 

But the title being applied to his relationship with Y/N… that gives him pause. It reminds him of a certain person— a certain disgrace, if he’s being pettily honest— who he had sworn never to think about again, out of respect for his sanity and emotional stability. It reminds him of how when he himself was mortal, he was under similar circumstances to what Y/N is under right now— he was a human blood bag to a vampire who took pleasure in his body. 

This is different, Harry tells himself.  I’m not going to ruin her life. She’s not going to end up like me. And we have an understanding, which I never got to have. This isn’t the same. I’m...I’m not the same.

In his steadfast opinion, the immortal isn’t an incubus when it comes to Y/N and it’s that simple, point blank. Saying he is… that sets the implication that he could be doing this with anyone, and that’s just not true.  Even though he’s keeping Y/N around as a convenient fuck with delicious blood, he wouldn’t go to this much trouble for anyone else; no one else is worth it.  No one else has her honey and lavender scent, or contagious laugh, or can match him so easily in banter without flinching or blinking an eye.  And though he’s too attached to his own pride— to the inherent coldness and indifference he’d worked so hard to build over the last two centuries— to let her know, he’ll admit that there’s no one else like her. There’s no one who’s company he enjoys quite the same. 

Harry doesn’t indulge Niall with a response, simply closing his phone and setting it back on the bedside table.  His friend can think what he wants, Harry decides, returning his attention to tracing figures on Y/N’s back.  Harry knows what this really is.  He knows, and it’s not some evil plan to permanently damage her. It’s just a simple loose relationship between two people who float an inch above the friendzone. That’s all. 

Friends, just slightly more. 

[asmobabe]

400 followers celebratory smut!

Mirror

Warning: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERRACT

Word count: 1906 words

Content warning: Smut, dubious consent, alcohol consumption, slight exhibitionism, mirror fucking, semi-public sex.

Pairing: Female!MC x Asmodeus (Obey Me!)

They move to the dance floor, Asmodeus's hand on Ophelia's back. Her head is wrapped in a haze, equal parts of booze and beat coursing through her veins like liquid gold. It's dizzying, and it's exciting, and it burns. It's the best she's ever felt. Asmodeus pulls her closer so that when her hips swing it grinds against his, and she lets him, the usual shyness diluted by the neon lights. 

- I love this song! - she yells over the noise.

- I know, I do too! That's why I requested it!

Ophelia throws her head back with a smile, resting it on Asmo's shoulder. He can peek at the hem of her bra when she moves, and the Avatar of Lust relishes the thought that others might be seeing it too. The way her strapless dress threatens to give in, the mounts of her breasts already exposed. Asmodeus can sense the entire club watching them like vultures. Unfortunately, she soon notices and pushes the dress up, earning a whine from the demon. 

- Hey, not fair! I was enjoying the view!

- Sorry, dear. - she chuckles, turning to face him - We're in public, you know?

- And why is that a bad thing?

At the moment, Ophelia can't think of an answer. Maybe staring into the eyes of the Avatar of Lust while drunk wasn't the most exceptional idea. He couldn't charm her with magic, but those eyes worked an effect similar enough. 

- Like, we're not going to see anyone here ever again. What's the big deal? You're not afraid of a little crowd, are you? - his hands snake up her waist - They want to see. It's just a little skin anyway.

- Yeah, I guess... 

His gaze is heated, almost glowing under the neon lights. Ophelia meant to say something more, she's sure, but, little by little, all her thoughts turn into mud. Head empty, and at last, she relents. The words are breathed inches away from her lips, boiling with anticipation: 

- You'll put on a show, won't you, pet?

There's nothing left for the human to do but to melt into the kiss, throwing both arms over his shoulder to bring him closer. Asmodeus's touch leaves scalding wounds all over her body while his tongue licks away her last bit of caution as soon as access is granted. The feeling is intoxicating, dizzying, even, and it burns. He smells so good and tastes even better. It's strange, knowing they have an audience, and still, she doesn't feel uncomfortable. It's actually kind of thrilling! The moment the demon grabs a handful of her ass, Ophelia knows she's done for. 

- Asmo...! - she breaks the kiss, gasping for air. 

- I adore it when you say my name like that... You're so cute!

Asmo's grin is hectic as he starts to nuzzle her neck, tasting the sweat on her skin. He's playing dirty, and he knows it. Without even realizing it, the girl tilts her head to give him better access.

- Let's just... Let's just leave, ok? 

- Oh, I'm so sorry, dollface... The party's only getting started, and I don't want to go yet. But...  I did see that the bathroom is free right now... We could have some fun and come back later. 

His tone, warm and coaxing, makes it evident that he's enjoying the situation way too much. The truth is that he'd take the girl right there if she wanted him to. 

- What do you think? Do you want me to fuck you against the mirror? I have to say, the thought of dancing with you in my arms, cum dripping down your thighs... That really turns me on. You'd like that too, wouldn't you, pet?

Ophelia nods, unable to ignore the warm feeling deep inside her stomach. She lets him take her hand in his, guiding the exchange student through the crowd to the handicapped toilet. Asmodeus closes the door behind their back, and seconds later, the girl finds herself sat on top of the sink with her arms around him, way too dizzy to remember if he put her up there or if she climbed on her own. 

Their kisses have something desperate in them. Ophelia's fingers thread through Asmo's now messy curls, pulling him as close as she possibly can. Every bit of his mouth tastes like expensive liquor. The demon squeezes her waist so tightly it almost hurts, clearly as frantic as the human to have his wants satisfied. Hands cupping her breasts, his mouth travels south, pressing wet kisses on her neck and nibbling at her collarbone, sending shivers through her spine. Later she'd be sporting the most beautiful love bites, and there wouldn't be any doubts left over who she belonged to. He hoped she'd mark him too - it'd be lovely if they matched. He pushes her bra up and the dress down. The music blasting from the other side of the door is still audible, and Asmodeus meets the feverish tempo with the griding of his hips, meeting Ophelia's core. Flustered, she begins to work on undoing his belt. 

- You're so cute when you're impatient. 

The demon giggles, stopping her mid-action. He grabs both of her wrists, lifting her arms on top of her head with one hand, the other moving to move her underwear to the side. "Let's get this out of the way, shall we?", he whispers lightly to her ear. The girl can feel her blood boiling with want and, desperate, throws herself on his neck, taking advantage of their short distance and attacking the skin with needy lips. Asmodeus was granted his wish and reveled, groaning at the open-mouthed kisses pressed onto his throat. He spreads her legs further, caressing her thighs as if they have all the time in the world until finally cold air and cold fingers meet the wetness of her core as he teases her entrance. 

- Please, just fuck me already! - the girl whimpers. 

He inserts a finger and circles her clit with the heel of his palm. 

- You're making it hard to resist, doll... So wet, and I barely did anything.

Asmodeus goes back to ravaging her mouth, his kisses hungry like he means to consume her soul. Ophelia is lightheaded enough to consider letting him had he proposed it. He pumps in and out of her, soon adding a second finger to the equation as the girl struggles to free herself from the hand holding her arms up. She whines into his mouth, frustrated. 

- Asmo, please... Please, please, please!

- I gotta say, dollface, I love it when you beg. Do you think you're ready for me, baby?

Ophelia nods, so eager that it is almost pathetic. But it doesn't matter; nothing matters. The demon seems content at last and lets go of her arms, setting her free to continue what she'd previously started. She undoes his pants in record time, pushing the fabric down with a feverish craving in her eyes. All the teasing was worth it for that moment, for that look in her face, the Avatar of Lust thought. He feeds on it, on her hungry hands pumping him once, twice, before guiding him towards her aching cunt. They both grunt as he begins to enter her. 

His length drags through her velvet walls at a slow pace that soon picks up speed at the girl's request. Holding on to him for dear life, Ophelia rests her forehead on the demon's shoulder as he pounds into her with a wilder and wilder rhythm, making the sink shake. Without warning, Asmodeus pushes her off the washbasin, only to bend her over it. 

- Asmo! - she yelps.

He grabs her by the neck, a devilish grin on his lips. 

- Sorry, pet, I just couldn't handle depriving you of the view any longer.

Now grabbing onto the sink, she looks up to see herself in the mirror. Her face is a flushed mess of mascara running and lipstick smudged, and the hairstyle that took so long to perfect is nothing more than disordered curls. Her breasts are lolling out of the dress, and her bra is undone, resting somewhere on the bathroom floor. She's too focused on the mist covering her eyes to care about it. It's such an erotic image. Asmodeus pounds into her from behind, and she can do nothing but watch. He feeds on it, the demon himself the vision of lust. 

Ophelia bites her lip, trying to hold back a scream of pleasure as he hits her sweet spot. Asmodeus grabs on her waist, strong enough to leave fingerprints, utterly lost in the moment. The exchange student might paint a pretty picture as she watches herself get fucked, but nothing like the demon. He grunts and moans with reckless abandon, citrine eyes glued on his own reflection, sparing the girl a glance or two every once in a while. Contrasting with Ophelia, his appearance is still fairly in order. 

- Yes! Yes! Just like that! - she pleads. 

He keeps on, just like that. The girl's knuckles turn white as she holds on to the sink. The words fall out of her mouth like a jumble on the floor, a mantra of spilled words.

- I love you. I love you so much. Please, just like that.

- You're doing so good, doll. I love you too, so, so much! You're such a good pet. Now, focus on the mirror. See how pretty you look? You've never looked more beautiful.

Her cheeks flush more if that's possible. The heat on the bottom of her stomach is about to explode in a ball of fire. 

- I'm so close! - she cries.

That's music to Asmo's ears. He doesn't change a thing, even as he gets close himself and the usual stammered pace should come. Only when he can feel her walls clenching around him and see her eyes close with satisfaction that he allows himself to change speed. His hips stutter once, two, three times, and with a final moan, he empties himself inside of her. 

- You're such a pretty little whore, do you know that? - he asks, taking his cock out of her, watching the white cum spill. 

Ophelia can only nod. A frown reaches Asmodeus's face as he inquires:

- Are you tired? Do you wanna go home and sleep?

- What about the party? - she looks up.

- I don't care about the party, if you're not okay to dance, then I don't want to dance.

The exchange student thinks for a second. Her mind feels so soggy... A nap wouldn't hurt... 

- Yeah, let's go home.

She puts on her bra and gets her panties right, trying to ignore the feeling of Asmodeus' cum drenching the fabric. Her hair is such a mess. 

- I'll fix that for you. - says the demon, taking out a plastic comb from his back pocket. 

He sits on top of the toilet and starts running the comb through her hair, peppering her head with kisses every two seconds. She fixes her dress. 

- You did, so, so good, doll. Really. 

- Really? - she looks up at him, puppy-eyed.

- Really. I love you so much.

She smiles through the smudged makeup. 

- I love you most. 

[joyfulhopelox]

Rosy Carnation

Pairing: painter!Min Yoongi x skater!reader (non-idol! au)

Genre: fluff, tiny bit of angst

Warnings: some talk about social anxiety, Yoongi is a bit harsh in the beginning but rest is just pure fluff

Word count: 6k

rating: pg

Summary: There was nothing in this world that Yoongi hated more than busybodies. Unfortunately for him one particular ditzy skater decides to break the peace by crashing into his life and offering him a rosy carnation

Copyrights @joyfulhopelox for both the work and the banner (thank you @mochi-molala for giving me the artistic approval for this think you didn’t realise how much it helped)

This is part 3 of my Love Blossom series and quite unedited, i tried but some mistakes may have escaped my notice

As always please leave feedback and/or talk to me as i love to hear from you! Enjoy <3

There was nothing more peaceful than being able to sit by the river in the early hours of the morning. Every day without fail, Yoongi would take advantage of the sleeping city and set camp by the riverside situated just on the outskirts.

The place was far from being secluded, its location sign-posted by the popular park that housed it. But he knew that during those hours no one bothered to visit, everyone was busy with their office jobs. It wasn’t that he was unemployed, it just so happened that his job allowed him to work from wherever and at whatever time. In fact, the more scenic the location the better for him. As a painter he had the freedom to choose his office, and his most prefered location happened to be by the riverside. The stillness of the morning, the sun just about to peek out from under the city skyline and the sound of the birds conversing amongst each other relaxed him. And if there was one thing that permitted Yoongi to paint without restrictions, was the tranquility of everything around him.

His normal spot, under a beech tree, was rarely used, the pathway that passed by it not being used by the general population. Sometimes he would spot the occasional cyclist passing by on their way to work, sometimes he would hear the scraping of the skateboards doing tricks in the skate park located behind the wall of trees that surrounded him. But no one ever bothered him, or was bothered by him. And it suited him and his needs just fine.

Yoongi disliked it when his flow was interrupted. Luckily for him, it rarely happened. No one threw him more than a glance as no one found the scene to be out of place. Sometimes he would be pulled out of his thoughts by the yap of a dog that got too excited at the prospect of a new human. Other times he would be questioned by the curious child that has never seen a painter at work. Those did not inconvenience him, the innocence and sincerity of the interference was enough to not disturb him.

However, what he miscalculated that day was the early start of the fishing season. One bad trait of being a painter working under your own schedule was losing track of time. And so when that one morning he trudged along with his canvas and his tools to his sacred spot only to find it occupied by fishermen he almost had a panic attack. He forgot all about that, and so unprepared, he did not know what to do or where to relocate. Pausing for a couple of minutes, his eyes scrutinising the men sitting on the riverbank in complete stillness, he contemplated on setting up his stool next to them. But when one of them yelled in glee at having caught a fish, he decided he’d rather not. Fishermen needed to be still because of the nature of their activity, that did not mean they were quiet people overall.

Disappointed and a bit frazzled, Yoongi picked up his canvas from where he set it next to his foot and left the area to scout for a substitute.

After what felt like a good few minutes of walking in circles, he found himself passing by a small public garden right in the middle of the greenery encompassing the riverside. He inspected it quietly, his eyes taking in the flower arrangements and the neatly cut grass. Has that always been there? Probably, it is not like he ventured out of his safe spot. But now, when forced to he realised that maybe there were other places where he could sit and paint in peace. Determinately, he walked into the small gated garden familiarising himself with the layout. There were some benches strewn across the space, all of them framed by vibrant rose bushes, some young oak trees judging by their height but what caught his eye most importantly was the small gazebo tucked away at the back of the garden gated by rows of variously coloured carnations. He decided that it would be the perfect spot, it would have to do for now. Not like he had any other choice. The morning was almost gone, the heat of the midday sun bleeding its way into the breeze. Soon the park will get busier and busier.

Dumping his belongings on the ground he sets off to unpack everything so he could get started. He felt strangely excited about this new spot he had found. Somehow, the novelty of the environment has given him the inspiration that he needed for today’s session. He normally shied away from new experiences, new people and most importantly unexpected circumstances, but this circumstance was more than welcome.

As he sat on his stool, paint brush in hand, the blank canvas staring at him, daring him to fill it with his vision he bit his lip. Suddenly so many ideas zoomed through his mind that he had a hard time deciphering which one sounded the best.

However, none of them made it on the actual canvas.

A skateboard zoomed straight past his feet,out of control, knocking into his carefully placed tools; acrylics and brushes scattered all over the ground in various corners of the gazebo. An exasperated yell and some harsh pants followed said abomination. Yoongi, who was too stunned to even form a sentence or comprehend what was happening around him, stared as you ran towards him at full speed.

“I’m so sorry, sorry sorry sorry” you repeated zooming towards him at breakneck speed. Still in shock Yoongi still couldn’t process what was happening around him. You were going to barrel straight into him but all he could do was blink, his brain still trying to catch up with the situation. One moment you were running towards the skateboard and the next moment found you laying sprawled at his feet.

“Ouch” Yoongi blinked once, twice, three times, and reality finally caught up with him.

He stared at the mess around him. His canvas was lying on the ground a few good feet away from him, its white clean surface now completely smudged with dirt and his acrylics and brushes were all scattered at his feet. The sight of his paints not only disorganised in such a fashion but also crushed and spilled all over the ground caused his stomach to drop. They were not the cheapest and they were also the only ones he had left. It was clear there was nothing to salvage, he had to go once more to the art store and buy more.

“Ohmygod i am so sorry!” The frantic voice was loud enough to make Yoongi wince.

You were not having a good day, and it showed. You started the morning by burning your toast. Then you forgot to grab your keys, which resulted in you having to beg your landlord for the spare in the early hours of the morning. To say they were not pleased was an understatement. You spilled coffee on your white top on your way to the park. And to top it all off you ended up hurtling towards an extremely handsome man.

You decided in the morning that you would try to learn that late kickflip your friends have been trying to teach you, but as a new skater you decided to practice in the garden just off the side of the skate park. One foot placement went wrong and your skate ran from under your feet flying towards the unsuspecting victim.

Luckily it did not hit him, however it scattered all of his belongings all over the dirty ground. It felt as if you were watching all of that happen in slow motion, when in reality it probably only took you a second to react. Trying to help and get a hold of your skate, you rushed to catch it in time before it disappeared into the row of carnations. But you miscalculated entirely the distance between you and the stranger, his foot halting your run.

And that is how you ended up there, on the floor, at his feet, covered in his paints.

You sprung up as fast as you could ignoring the tingling in your leg and started apologising profusely. However, the harshness at which you crashed on the floor combined with the speed at which you got up were a fatal combination. The blood rushed to your feet quicker than you could process and your knees gave out from under you. In an attempt to not crash onto the floor again you grabbed onto the closest stable object you could. Only, it happened to not be an object but a person. So with a clammy hand you latched onto the man in front of you.

Yoongi did not know what to do. You had grabbed onto him with such conviction that his brain malfunctioned. He hated to be touched, especially by strangers. And so when the fight or flight instinct kicked in he shrugged you off violently causing you to crumple on the floor once again.

“Ouch.” Your butt hurt and you wanted to be annoyed at him, but when you looked up to let your feelings known and your eyes locked onto his panicked ones, you paused. He looked ready to run off on you. “I- uh, am sorry” You tried once more to get up, this time as slowly as you could. You knew there would be a bruise later but it was not something you were unfamiliar with.

Yoongi did not respond to you. He couldn’t, his brain was still ready to shut down. He normally ran away from any human interaction, the nature of his job enough to facilitate such behaviour. Being faced with it and in such an unexpected way caused his anxiety to be at an all time high. And so he did what he normally does best; he retreated within himself completely ignoring your apology.

Silently he stepped away from you and crouched down to start picking up his belongings. With an anguished sigh he took in the mess that his acrylics had become. It was going to cost him a lot to be able to replace them but what other choice did he have?

Taking his silence as a sign of anger, you panicked. If there was one thing you could not stand was to see someone angry. Especially when it was directed at you. In an attempt to amend yourself to him you crouched down next to him and started picking up his stuff. “I am really sorry. I didn't mean to. It was just a new trick that i wanted to learn, and i am a newbie at all this and so i was scared to go to the skate park and try them. And I am a clutz and I knew this was going to happen at some point! The day has already started on such a bad note-”

You knew you were rambling, you were nervous. But Yoongi did not care about that. He just wanted you gone. He wanted his peace back, he wanted to get his work done and retreat back to his home and most importantly, he wanted you to get your hands off of his possessions.

Without looking at you, he harshly grabbed for the brushes that you had gathered in your hand. “Leave” he surprised himself at how resolute he managed to sound despite the slight waver in his voice.

“Are you angry? Oh my god you are! I am so sorry again, let me make it up to you! I really did not mean to destroy your work!” you get up once more rushing towards the canvas that lay a few feet away from the two of you. Picking it up you stare at the blank piece of material.

“Oh, are you an artist?” you turn to him, your eyes sparkling with excitement. Completely forgetting the incident from earlier you giddily walk over, the canvas extended towards him.

Yoongi could not believe his eyes, your brash behaviour in front of a complete stranger that has made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you was baffling to him. He contemplated for a second the thought of you being deaf, but then no because you had clearly heard him the first time. His anxiety quickly morphed into annoyance, if you weren’t going to leave he decided he would.

Taking a hold of the canvas you were handing over to him he pulled it out of your hands and stuffed it under his arm. Crouching down again he hurriedly stuffs his brushes and acrylics in his bag. He wanted to get out of there as quickly as he could before you had the chance to touch any of his belongings again.

“Hey, i-uh. Please don’t be angry. I really am sorry. Look you don’t have to leave, i will go” Yoongi paused, his hand hovering above his palette. Chancing a glance at you, his eyes widened a fraction. You looked completely frazzled. Not even looking at him, your eyes focused on your fretting hands. He could just about see a snippet of your face and the way your bottom lip was trembling slightly made his anger melt a little. Maybe he has been a bit too harsh on you.

“Yes” he offers offhandedly whilst placing his canvas back to where it was before.

At his change in tone your head snaps up and you gape at him. “What?” you breathe out in surprise. His soft but deep voice took you by surprise. It was extremely smooth and you had not expected it to come out of his mouth.

He did not offer you anything else, leaving you gawking at him, watching as he set up his canvas onto the easel. You were silent for a couple of minutes trying to understand what he had meant when it finally hit you.

“Ah! You are an artist! That is amazing, what type of paintings do you do? Is it nature?” you clapped your hands excitedly. “Of course it is nature Y/N, he is in the middle of the gazebo how dumb can you be” you muttered to yourself whilst shaking your head.

Yoongi glanced at you from his periphery. He wasn’t feeling as threatened by your presence as he had before, but that did not mean he was comfortable with you being there. He observed you for a couple of seconds watching as you muttered to yourself for the time being. He took it as a chance to set his palette down and tried to squeeze whatever was left of his acrylics onto it.

You realised a bit too late that you had started daydreaming whilst muttering to yourself and so with rosy cheeks you mutter another apology.

“You apologise too much.” Yoongi did not know where his courage had come from but he couldn’t stop the words spilling from his mouth. “I asked you to leave.” His harsh words caused you to flinch, but your eagerness to see him paint rooted you on the spot.

“Is-uh,” you took a deep breath in trying to calm your beating heart, “is it ok if i stay here and watch you?” You cringed at how voyeuristic that sounded. But you had to admit to yourself, the honey haired guy, with soft plump cheeks and pouty lips has caught your interest and you were not ready to part with him just yet.

Yoongi didn’t respond, he’s made it clear he wanted you gone, but he finally understood that the clumsy human that managed to wreck his set up was a stubborn one. He chose instead to ignore your presence and settle on his painting, giving you unspoken permission to do as you pleased.

Catching onto the meaning of his silence you beamed and sat yourself down.

Trying your hardest to be silent you bit your lip. You knew he wouldn’t appreciate you disturbing him any longer. Soon enough, you slipped into a daydream your eyes focused on the flowers behind the hunched form of the intriguing artist.

Yoongi sighed in satisfaction, his painting was finally finished. He had opted to use greens this time, the nature around him inspiring the concept behind this. However, he could not help but add the dots of red here and there, its fiery tumultuous colour breaking the tranquility of the greens. Just like you had thundered into his life just earlier.

“Woah” broken out of the daydream by the sound of his sigh, your eyes focused on the painting before you. You knew you were easily impressed but this painting was stunning. “That is so cool” you whispered in awe.

Yoongi blushed, he had been complimented a lot on his work, but there was something about the sincerity shining through your statement that frazzled him. He nodded in acknowledgment. He had enough knowledge to be aware that he needed to thank you for the compliment.

“Oh!” you sprung up suddenly the transition making him jump. “I am late!” You quickly picked up your skateboard. “Ah,” stopping mid run you turn back. Rushing to the bushes of carnations you pick one up. With confident stride you head back.

Yoongi watched you, once again his mind completely discombobulated by your abruptness. When you halt in front of him and push the flower into his hands he doesn’t know how to react. Instead he just sits there waiting for your next move, his mind once again preparing him to flee.

“It was nice meeting you….uh?” You realised you did not ask for his name, so as you urge the flower into his grasp you wait patiently for him to offer it to you. When after a minute of silence he doesn’t you try again. “What is your name?”

“So can you like...teach me how to paint?” you eyes brightened at the thought.

“What?” Yoongi sputtered. A week has passed since the first time you decided to literally crash into his life. A week of your mindless chatter. Even so, he had tried his best to ignore you and your childish view of the world. He was ignoring you, but it was not like he couldn’t hear you.

He was not expecting that request, and yet, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him. Your randomness and innocence has been taking his breath away from the moment he saw you. You were all over the place, clumsy and random. He did not want to sit and ponder at that thought, feeling the shiver of anxiety creep back in. Schooling his expression to a neutral one he shook his head and went back to his canvas.

���No” the harsh tone of his voice made you flinch.

Not noticing the effect his words had on you he carried on, “You’d do a very poor job of it, and it hurts to think you’d waste all this material for some doodles.” Not giving you a chance to respond he sighed and put his brush down. “Finally finished.” He sat and observed his work for a couple of moments. He was satisfied, it was not his best work but he liked the outcome. The blue colour scheme gave him a sense of peace.

Realising the silence had gone on too long he turned around to face you. You were unnaturally quiet, your face scrunched up as if in deep thought. He would have thought you’d gone into one of your daydreams if not for the shiny gloss in your eyes. He could not understand why his heart did that flip, or why his mouth formed into a frown mirroring your own. Had he said something wrong? Mulling over his words he decided that maybe his tone was too harsh but you spoke up before he could try to remedy it.

“Ah, i see, you are right” you sniffed trying to mask the tears in your voice. “I am quite clumsy, there is no way i can make something as beautiful as this.” You gesture to his work, the canvas a swirl of blues, it reminded you of the ocean. You did not know why his words stung, it’s not like he didn’t have a point. You were probably incapable of creating something like that. Stick figures were all you could draw, and even those tended to be lopsided.

Yoongi’s heart clenched. “Uhh-” he did not know what to say, it wasn’t as if he could take it back. He did not want to take it back, he wasn’t a liar. But maybe he could have turned you down a bit softer than he has. He may have been awkward in social situations and missed a lot of cues, but the tears gathered in your eyes were hard to miss. Even he could sense the sadness that overpowered the atmosphere.

“It’s ok, i need to, uh go. I’ll see you next time. Here” you quickly drop something next to his brushes and without a second thought you turn away from him and leave as quickly as you’d arrived.

With your back turned towards him, your feet taking you further and further away you could finally release the sob that has been threatening to surface.His words hurt. But you were well aware it was not the words that caused the tear in your heart. It was the unfeeling and harsh way he threw them at you. You contemplated whether or not you should chance a glance behind you, but decided against it. You did not think you could stand the sight of him stepping on the last bit of dignity you had. A rosy carnation.

Yoongi knew he usually missed a lot of social cues. For example when the curator asked him out for a coffee and he told them he stopped drinking caffeine because it caused insomnia. Or when the gallery director had wanted to shake his hand in greeting and he simply just stared at it. It wasn’t as if he was unfamiliar with them, it was just that it took him a lot longer to process these cues than the average human being.

When you’d left him the carnation he simply threw a glance at it but did not give it a second thought as he carried on painting. He almost left it there when he packed up his tools- almost stepping on it. He saw it just in time, the rosy colour attracting his attention. He bent down and picked it up gently; the flower was almost wilted from the heat. Prepared to throw it away he thought of you and stopped. The sight of your flushed cheeks, your distressed eyes and the gleam of your tears weighing heavily on his mind. With a sigh he cradled the flower in his palm, he would put it in between the pages of a book and press it dry.

Yoongi had no clue why he kept visiting the gazebo to work on his paintings. His previous spot so rarely visited that he’s almost forgotten where it was. He tried to convince himself it was because fishing season has not ended and so he would have been bothered by the men setting up around him. He tried not to think of the fact that the thought of not having your voice there, or the noises of the skateboard you practiced with caused him distress. He told himself it was because after a month of having you there with him, you became part of his routine. Like the background noise of a radio in the morning.

He could not pinpoint when your mindless chatter and pleas to ask him to teach you how to paint had become comforting to him. Even at home when he would try to read, he would pick up a book and open it only to come across a rosy carnation drying in between its pages.

You had made it a habit to leave him a flower every time you came to see him. He did not ponder too long as to why, but he’s kept them all. He did not want to ponder too long on that thought either. So he ignored it, but deep down he knew why.

Your eagerness, your clumsiness, your childish view of the world were enough to melt the wall he has built around himself. Somehow, you chipped at that wall with determination just like you did on the first day you met. Ungraceful and uncoordinated.

He knew you’d wormed your way into his soul and just like the flowers he kept pressing for safekeeping, he’s ingrained the memory of you into his brain.

When you’d started to ask more personal questions he found himself answering without a second thought.

“So, uh, have you always wanted to be a painter?” You were sat next to him tinkering with the wheels of your skateboard, from time to time getting distracted at the way his long fingers were clutching the brush. You blushed, thankful he was distracted by his work.

“No,” Yoongi paused to bend down and pick his palette and you thought that was the extent of the information he was willing to provide. “My parents wanted me to be a lawyer.” With a new colour on his brush he squinted focusing on getting the lines just right, the tip of his tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

The silence that ensued settled heavily around the two of you. “Oh,” your voice did not sound too surprised. Yoongi glanced at you, you were gazing at him with such understanding that he found it hard to tear his gaze away. “Are they happy you chose to do what you love instead?” You carried on, trying out your luck.

Yoongi looked away from you, he couldn’t say what he wanted to say whilst your eyes were digging deep into his soul. “I wouldn’t know.” He shrugged as if to make a point. “I left home to move here and haven’t spoken to them since.”

The words, heavy as lead, echoed in your brain. But they were not unfamiliar. “I am sure they would want to talk to you. My parents died when i was young and i was raised by my grandparents.” Your voice sounded casual, but the slight change of tone made Yoongi raise his eyes to look at you. You were smiling at him, your face not giving away any of the pain you were feeling inside.

Yoongi may have been socially anxious, but he was observant, he couldn’t help it, it was the nature of his job. His eyes picked up on the way your chin trembled and his ears caught the slight waver in your voice. He didn’t know how it happened until he felt the corners of his mouth raising up. And with an uncertain smile in your direction, he managed to erase the sadness that clouded over your face.

“Pick up that brush” his tone softer than you have ever heard it.

“Huh?” You didn’t know where the change in tone had come from, but it managed to take you by surprise.

“Pick up the brush,” he repeated his head nodding in the direction of said tools. “And come here.” He stood up from his stool gently grabbing your wrist and pulling you up. The contact of his cold hands on your warm ones made you shiver, but in the heat of the summer it felt comforting. You savoured the way his gentle hands pulled you into the chair and handed you the brush he had been holding. Softly he guided your hand onto the canvas and your breath stopped.

His hands, the hands you had been observing ever since you met him, were smooth. His long slender fingers imprinting themselves onto the back of your hand. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from the way the pale skin of his slender wrist peeked from under the long sleeve he was wearing. The skin on the inside of his wrist almost translucent enough to allow his veins to show.

“Like this” he steered the brush onto the canvas, his voice so close to your ear it made you your heart skip a beat. When the bristles made contact with the material of the canvas leaving the mark of the acrylic on it, you knew. Just like the doodle he’s made, his mark on your heart would be permanent.

Yoongi didn’t know when he started craving your touch. It just happened. He carried on giving you lessons, finding it ironic how adamant he was at the beginning to refuse you. Little by little he started looking forward to his morning ritual of setting up in the garden, your clumsy self stumbling in the gazebo just as he was about to set his easel down. He would not even sit himself first, he would grab your hand allowing himself to revel in the way your smaller rough hand would fit into his larger one and sit you on the stool. Handing you the brushes he would sit next to your skateboard and watch as you tried to create something on the canvas, your brows furrowed in concentration.

How ironic that you would switch places. He would sit for a couple of hours watching your uncertain movements and listen to the small sounds of glee when you’d manage to get the brush to do what you wanted it to. His heart would pound in his chest when your tongue would flit across your lips subconsciously and the small smile gracing his lips would be a permanent fixture on his face. He did not care that he hasn’t painted in a few weeks. He was more than satisfied watching you.

When your painting session would end you’d end up talking for hours under the shade of the gazebo, the smell of flowers wafting all around you.

And you would always leave with lighter hears and the crinkle of a smile indented in the corner of your eyes and him with a rosy carnation cradled to his chest waiting to join the rest of the others.

When one morning you didn’t arrive at your usual time under the gazebo Yoongi noticed. He decided to wait for you for hours, but when the sun bled under the city skyline and the night settled in he decided it was time to go home. With a heavy heart and an empty hand he returned home hoping that the next day you would arrive and tell him about your day.

But one day turned into two, which turned into a week, which then turned into two- and before he knew it a whole month had passed.

In the beginning Yoongi would wait for you patiently, hoping that he would hear your yelps or even your greeting from afar. When that did not happen, he decided he would use that time to continue painting, maybe you’d arrive halfway through and ask him about it. When that didn’t happen either he noticed that instead of a smile on his face he now wore a frown.

After a whole month of not seeing you he became numb to the feeling. He decided that he would not let his mind ponder too much on your absence. But he could not completely block the way his thoughts would return back to you, and he could not help the wistful gaze he would throw the carnations around the gazebo.

As the months of summer wilted into the chill of autumn, the day he decided to stop waiting for you was the day you once again stumbled into him.

Running as fast as your leg permitted you halted a meter away from him, your breath coming out in harsh pants. Yoongi faltered, the grasp he had on his brush slackening, the tool clattering to the ground. He didn’t say anything, he couldn’t. Instead his eyes took in the way your form trembled with exhaustion, stopping at the wrapped up parcel you had under your arm.

“I am so so so sorry” you rasped, the effort causing you to cough. Looking up at him, your gaze met his dark one. He did not look upset, or even disinterested. He looked concerned, then you realised the state you came to see him in.

Yoongi took notice immediately at the lack of skateboard, this time replaced by a crutch. The way you were favouring one leg over the other concerned him. Had you been in an accident?

“I am so sorry,” you repeated, taking him back to the first moment he’s met you. Your clumsy self apologising incessantly and rambling in nervousness. “I fell one day whilst on the way here, and i broke my leg. I did not mean to stop showing up i promise! I had wanted to come see you as soon as i left the doctor’s office but the injury was worse than i could have suspected and- and” your voice wavered, trembling in exhaustion, still not having caught your breath.

Yoongi got up without a word, his silent form approaching yours. When only a few inches were left between the two of you he places both of his hands on your shoulders halting your apology. Looking up at him your gaze softens, his eyes were glossy but his mouth curled up in a smile.

“You’re ok” he repeated over and over as if to reassure himself. Your eyes now mirroring his own watery ones you nod.

In a flash he hugs you tightly, your crutch clattering to the ground and the parcel under the other arm making a dull thud as it hit the dirty floor. You gasped in surprise, your arms not knowing where to settle themselves. After a couple of seconds your brain catches up and relaxes and you melt into his hug. Despite his hands being always cold, his hug is warm and inviting.

You think back to the first time you met, how his cold words told you to leave him be. The drastic change in his attitude and demeanour make you smile softly. You burrowed your head in his shoulder inhaling his scent. He smelt of oils and acetone with an undertone of something floral, and you gasp. Carnations.

As if remembering something important you pulled yourself away from his touch, the cold autumn air making you shiver at the loss of contact.

Yoongi is confused for a moment, his eyes widening in panic. Has he made the wrong move? Has he read your intentions wrong? His heart clenches at the thought of you not returning the feelings that bloomed in his chest. But when you offer him a reassuring smile and bend down, grabbing onto his arm for support his emotions settle.

“This is for you” your hands were shaking. Handing over the mysterious parcel, you waited patiently for him to take it.

He glances at it uncertainly, but when you push it towards him his hand wraps around it. With as much skill as he could he opened it with one hand. Tearing the paper away he gasped. The corner of a canvas is sticking through the whole.

Looking at you in surprise your nervous eyes urge him to carry on. So he does.

The paper now completely teared open, his eyes settle onto a familiar flower painted onto the canvas. A carnation.

You watched him open your gift. You had tried your hardest during the time you were stuck at home with a cast on to practice and after weeks of painful frustrated tears, you’d finally managed to get it right. You had wanted to convey your feelings in a way that he would understand without feeling the pressure to conform to societal norms. To show him how much his effort to accommodate you and include you in his secluded life meant to you.

“Did you know,” you were whispering, “that rosy carnations mean admiration?”

Yoongi finally got it, realisation dawning over his features. He looked up at you, overwhelmed by the emotions flooding his chest. You were still smiling at him a tear now running down your cheek. “I wanted to convey my admiration for you in a way that would be permanent.” The hand on his arm tightened as if you make a point. “So i tried my best to do that.”

Yoongi smiled, not the uncertain smile you were used to, a full smile, the gums of his teeth showing, his features softening.

“A painting is not eternal, but with the artist the painting it over and over again it can be.” His free hand cups your cheek gently. “So stay with me.”

Main Masterlist

[futurewriter2000]

Pink & Orange

A/N: Hihi. I had to do this. I felt it was such a cute idea, plus I haven’t written in so long. 

PAIRING: I mean whichever twin you choose. It can be George Weasley x reader or Fred Weasley x reader. I love them both and you can choose with whichever. 

XX

He found extremely adorable right now. 

The whole common was filed with groupies, studying together for an exam. You were in one too thought you had not paid attention since the moment you sat down on the sofa. Everybody was talking, trying to memorise the definitions for the O.W.L.s, meanwhile you? You were picking out a nail polish to paint your nails. 

You were stuck between red violet and cantaloupe. 

He was on the other side of the common room, stealing glances of you and eventually succumbing to your surpassing beauty. You were soley focused on the nail polish and conflicted on which one to choose. Nobody paid you any attention when you asked them which one to choose. They all ignored you and eventually left without inviting you with them. They left a frown on your lips as they gathered their stuff and went away. You looked at them with wide eyes but shrugged and went back to your nail polish. 

You were alone on the sofa, still choosing between the two colours. 

It didn’t take him long to gather his courage and make his way to you. As soon as they left, the opportunity revealed itself. He wasn’t intending anything with you, he was just curious of your personality because up until now, he hadn’t had a clue of who you were when nobody was around. 

He knew you were quiet. Pretty. Puberty really did its number on you, outlined your face features but your eyes? Your eyes were always the same. 

“I’d go with pink.” he was leaning on the arm rest next to you. 

You jumped at the sight of him. You didn’t even see him coming your way, let alone stand next to you. He kept his forearms turned towards you, his veins and muscles defining both of his arms and up to his shoulders where his shirt started to cover the rest. It made sense to you his arms were so nicely defined. He was a Beater after all. 

He was looking at you differently than he ever did. The way boys do when they like something. 

“Really? Why is that?” you smiled, taking the pink nail polish into your hands and observing the colour. 

He felt pleased to get a smile from you. He never knew that your face could do such a thing, always looking like you want to murder somebody when you come early to class. Though he found your smile quite light when he saw it around your friends, yet up close was a completely different story. He sat right next to you, placing his elbows on the back of the sofa. 

“You already wore orange, didn’t you?” 

“I did, yes.” you eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know that?” 

“When Flitwick told you to demonstrate in front of the whole class and you failed to do so, he scolded you that instead of painting your nails, you should be studying.” he grinned and you felt a blush creep on your cheeks.

“Oh.” you turned away, clearly embarrassed. “I didn’t know people remember that.” 

He found your flustered cheeks quite adorable, just like the rest of you, though he also realised he had made you quite uncomfortable by saying what he did. “People don’t remember. I do.” he tried to fix it, watching you shake the nail polish before unscrewing the top. 

“Oh, have you now?” you laughed, turning your head to the side and smirking at him. “Why only you?” 

“Oh, well darling-” he took a deep breath, fixing his sitting position so his elbow was pointing directly on the back of the sofa, and his hand leaning against his cheek. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m special... and observing.” he kept watching you paint your nails, slowly and carefully. 

You scoffed and turned back to the side, catching him sending you a wink before he leaned over and grabbed the orange nail polish. 

“You mind?” he asked, shaking it and unscrewing the top just as you did before. 

“What are you intending to do?” you quirked an eyebrow.

“Same as you. Paint my nails.” he quirked his eyebrow as well, waiting for your reaction and blushing slightly. 

You didn’t give him any reaction, only turned back to paint your nails. “I have a fiery shade of orange. I think it would go well with your hair.” you smiled amusingly and he leaned forward, scrunching his freckly nose. 

You turned your head to the side, finding him extremely close. “Are you mocking me?” he spoke low and seductive. 

You kept your eyes on his dark ones, glancing at his amazingly sharp cupid’s bow before reaching your hand into a bag and pulling out a fiery orange nail polish. “I wouldn’t dare. I’d actually love to see it on you.”

He was surprised by your reaction. “Don’t you think it’s not weird a guy having-”

“-his nails painted?” you quirked an eyebrow before taking his large hands into yours and prepared to pain. Your eyes looked up at his and you asked. “Do you want me to paint your nails?” 

He would say no but if he was honest, he really wanted to see his nails painted at least once in his life. “Knock yourself out.” he kept his hands steady as you did the same, carefully and perfectly painting his nails. You tried extremely hard not to smudge him around the edges. He couldn’t help himself but to watch you do such a thing. His nails were being painted and he loved it. It made his stomach bubble a bit and the fact that you were painting them, biting your lower lip in the process caused him to feel more than bubbles in his stomach. 

The front strands kept slowly falling down and dummy you were, you kept blowing them back up. He took his right, unpainted hand and helped you with it, brushing all the strands behind your ear. You looked up with your confused, glimmering eyes and smiled. “Thank you.” another blush crept on your cheeks and he could feel one on his cheeks as well. 

“Yeah, no problem.” he smiled shyly. He watched you move from one hand onto the other.

“Don’t try to smudge it.” you scolded him a bit and he laughed. “That’s my blood, sweat and tears in there.”

“Wouldn’t dare to.” he laughed, looking at his painted hand before looking on the other in work. “Leave the pinky.” 

“Why?” you looked up at him confused. 

“Becauseee...” he grabbed the pink polish and pushed it into your hands. His eyebrows wiggled at you and again, he was close- too close even. “I want to match you.” he grinned, kissing your nose and backing away. 

Surprised by his action, you couldn’t find words to reply with. You blushed- again and with that blush spread all over your cheeks and ears, you grabbed the nail polish from his hands and painted his pinky with red violet colour, just like the rest of nails. 

“I like you when you blush.” he added. “It brings a lot of colour to your gorgeous face.” 

“You’re really something, Weasley.” you smiled as you finished the pinky and blew on it gently. 

He grabbed the orange nail polish from the table and gestured his hand to you. “I know- now may I?” he moved his hand closer to your left one.

“What? Why?” you asked but still put your hand on his. 

“Well, I match you but surely you don’t match me.” he smiled, dipping the brush into the polish and painting your pinky fingernail slowly and carfully, even biting his lower lip in the process. 

“Don’t you think people will think it’s weird?” you asked, feeling a bit more shy than usual. 

“I don’t care what people think.” he said, looking up to you and letting his gaze stay there. “I think it’s pretty cool.” he put the nail polish away, placing his hands on his thighs and looking at them. “How long before they dry?” 

“Not long- I guess. Depends on the nail polish.” you shrugged, mirroring his position and smiling at him. 

“Oh.” he looked away for a second, then turned his head back to you. “I thought I’d have to wait longer.” 

“Why? In a hurry to create some other prank explosives?” you raised an eyebrow at him, seeing him wiggle his eyebrows.

“No but in a hurry to do this.” he glanced down at your hands and reached his right hand to your left, intertwining your fingers together and matching perfectly. 

He didn’t look up. He didn’t dare to after doing what he had done but he felt a sudden burst of nervousness and shyness in him. “I’ve always wanted to see how your hands looked with mine.” he finally dared to look up, finding you blushing and smiling extensively. 

“And?” you asked.

“Well, it’s a sight to see, alright but the feeling?” he brought himself closer. “That’s something completely else.” he was close to you, inch? No, less. Your eyes watched his above the redness of your cheeks and his below the redness of his hair. 

He couldn’t stop watching you. You were just so beautiful to look at. 

“Your game is something completely off the charts, Weasley.” you smiled, backing away a bit- backing away to breathe. 

He pulled up your locked hands and turned it around a bit.  “I’d say I’m doing quite marvelous as well.” he shot you a cocky grin, causing you to roll your eyes. 

“And what are your intentions, if I may ask?” you started to pull your hand away from his but he caught your pinky with his just enough to pull you closer to him. His eyes, melting you like butter, gazed deep into you as his smile fell into a serious frown. 

“With you? Maybe marriage, maybe a happy future but we can start with a date and see how that goes?” his frown turned upwards but you could see his confidence swinging up and down. 

You watched him for a moment- a stranger, if you were frank with yourself, asking you on a date yet thinking on marriage. Your head said no but your heart said to go for it. “A date then and see how that goes.” 

[rhaenyratargeryn]

Title: Continuously, Without Interruption Rating: 🍋 Pairing: Takemura x female!V Summary: AU pwp fic where Takemura and V stick together after the events of the main story mission “Search and Destroy”. 

The motel was barely more than four walls and a dirty mattress, paint peeling off in stained chips and carpet reeking of cigarettes and booze and the faintest hint of mildew. It wasn’t preem, but when had anything in her life been?

Luxury it was not, but safe? She would take safe, especially with her arms half full with a teetering, bleeding former Arasaka bodyguard. She went for the light switch, forgetting herself, but his hand caught hers and through labored breaths he said, “No lights.”

Takemura’s voice was always low, a rumble of thunder… but in pain, it was harsher, like gravel and sandpaper. V nodded in the dim light and helped him to lean against a far wall as she fumbled around in the darkroom. She found three half melted candles and a nearly empty lighter, but it would serve well enough to give them some kind of light in the motel bathroom. What first aid supplies she’d managed to scrounge from the hotel staff were in a box that looked older than her, but last she knew, bandages didn’t expire, and even if they did, they needed them. And most importantly, V had bought a half empty bottle of vodka from a drifter hanging outside room 102.. A true medical necessity.

Takemura had been grazed by at least a bullet, that much V was certain. The older man tilted his head back against the wall he leaned against while V hurried throughout the room, bracing himself as he took in shallow, but even breaths. 

“C’mon, gotta see what we’re dealing with…”

“You ripperdoc now?” Takemura asked, repressing a dry chuckle that surely caused him pain by the way his shoulders flinched.

“Yep, step right into my office.” V said, letting him lean on her as they stumbled into the small bathroom. She shut the door, running a finger along the seam to make sure it would stay light tight. V picked up one candle and after a few flicks, managed to get a light from the lighter. The room was soon lit in a soft glow, completely unfitting for the task at hand.

Takemura’s eyes moved around the room as he sat on the edge of the tub.

“Your medical facilities are not to code.”

It was a joke, but he said it with such damn seriousness that V felt the laugh punch out of her, sharp and breathy.

“Well, ya know how it is. Cut backs.”

“Ah, I see.”

Carefully, Takemura unfurled his arm from where he clutched at his side. The bleeding had slowed, oozing sluggishly now only when he moved too much. Takemura’s fingers curled around the bottom of his shirt, tugging it free from where it tucked into his trousers. The white material was stained with dark spots, nearly black in the candlelight. 

“Let me help.” V said, automatic, thoughtless. She came to stand between his knees, fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt. Her hands still trembled slightly, the rush from the firefight and the pain of a couple dozen bruises doing their work. She had seen the chrome work at his throat and was unsurprised to see it continue on, flaring out over his shoulders like veins. The rest of him though was ganic, smooth skin over hard, toned muscle. 

Takemura only winced once when she peeled the fabric, tacky with blood, away from where it stuck to his left side. She knelt down, noting the blood had seeped out from the back of his shirt too.

“Fuck.”

“Indeed.”

“Well… you are gonna have one hell of a scar. How the hell were you even walkin’?”

“Had one injector. Used it after that shot.”

“Good thinkin’.”

V set the kit on Takemura’s thigh, using him as a makeshift table as she picked through the contents. There was no MaxDoc or Bounce Back, but it helped Takemura already had one dose. It would boost his own body's healing process for a good enough while… the graze looked nasty, but the bleeding had stopped. The only thing threatening to kill the old koger now was a staph infection— and given their surroundings, it was probably best to wrap him up.

With a gruff sound, he tugged his shoulder free of his sleeve, removing the soot and blood streaked shirt and discarding it on the floor. No doubt this room had seen worse.

V unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle off with one finger and then casually flicked it off, the metal clanging across the tile. She offered it to Takemura, “Anesthetic?”

He wrinkled his nose. V shrugged, took a drink herself and then, without warning, spilled a generous amount over his wound.

Takemura swore, loudly.

“Shoulda taken the anesthesia.” 

“...わるガキ.”

V’s cyberware helpfully provided a translation: Brat.

There was almost a hint of fondness in the word even, V thought for a moment. Just a little. And judging by the way he hid a smirk that was threatening to overcome the tightness of his expression, maybe she was right.

Maybe it was the blood loss, or the near death experience, or failing to convince his last chance at finding revenge for his employer— but Takemura took the bottle from her then and drank deeply.

“Wow. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“You going to be doctor or comedian?” he said, taking another shorter drink as V fished through the first aid kit and pulled out a few large gauze pads. She tore the wrappers free, packing two against the wound just in case.

“Hold please, nurse.”

Takemura growled, but did as directed, setting down the bottle to help hold the bandage in place as V used the gauze roll to wrap it tightly against him. Half way done, V realized… she had never been this close to Takemura before. His body was like a furnace, overstimulated and heightened from pain and the lingering effects of adrenaline. Beneath the smell of smoke and copper V almost thought she caught the scent of cedar… of faint pepper and incense.

V finished tacking the wrappings on, using her palm to smooth over the gauze to make sure it wouldn’t come off easy. Her fingertips ghosted against his skin and she felt the muscles of his abdomen clench, a tiny, nearly undetectable shudder going out across his skin.

Her eyes lifted to his, a smirk already spreading across her lips. Takemura was doing his best not to notice, picking up the vodka bottle and swishing the contents around.

“Takemura Goro. Elite Arasaka soldier, top of the class… and ticklish.”

“Should have separated. It is not safe for us to be together.” Takemura grumbled, pointedly ignoring the statement.

“Didn’t leave you then, not gonna start now.” V said, voice a murmur as she moved to flip the first aid kit closed, sliding back away from his space. A firm hand stopped her.

“You are bleeding.”

V looked up as Takemura let go, gesturing to his own temple. V touched the same spot on her forehead and pulled her hand back to see the smudge of sticky thickened blood. The swipe of her touch had been enough to break the clot back open, a droplet of fresh warm blood pooling up and dropping down her face.

“Didn’t even notice…” V said with a hiss, the sharp pain now registering. Takemura nodded and offered her the bottle.

“Anesthesia.” 

V huffed a laugh, taking him up on the offer as she knew well enough what Takemura was going to do next. She took one quick shot and held the burning liquid in her mouth, swallowing the moment Takemura splashed the alcohol unto her temple.

“Hold please, nurse.” he said, handing her the bottle and trying to ignore the positively shit eating grin of approval she wore at her own barb returned. V handed off a large adhesive bandage to him, the kind a kid might put on a scraped knee. She was surprised how gentle his hands were, brushing aside her hair as he meticulously checked where to best place the bandage before he ripped off the thin paper on the back and settled it in place.

V’s fingers twitched, itching to hold a smoke between them. The impulse born, like most weird shit in her life recently, from Johnny. She settled on rubbing her thumb across the inside of her forefinger and middle finger, staring at nothing as silence settled over the pair of them.

It wasn’t a tense silence. It wasn’t even grave, though given their current situation such a silence would be warranted. It was… comfortable. Or just plain tired.

When he was finished, Takemura rested his right arm on his thigh, taking care not to bend too far on his injured side. He let his head bow forward, his shoulders going lax.

“... I had thought tonight... I was to face my death.” his words were slow, cautious— no. Careful.

“You had no reason to come back for me.”

“Bullshit.” V said, the word falling like an exhale. 

He tilted his head up, eyes half lidded as he met hers, looking up at him now from where she knelt. Something in V’s chest ached. A pang, sharp and sweet and good. It arched it’s way from her heart to her stomach just from the way he looked at her.

She sat up a little taller, movements going still again when his hand came up to rest against the side of her neck, holding her steady. His thumb traced a circle against the space behind her ear and V felt as if the very blood in her body had paused, her breath shorting out on an inhale. The smell of him, the heat of him… it all came crashing back into V’s perception until she all but heard Johnny groaning with exasperation in her head.

Takemura didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything and that silence gave V the boldness she needed to close the hairbreadth of distance between them and touch her lips to his. It was soft, chaste in it’s hesitance and briefness. Takemura did not kiss her back.

V pulled back, eyes fixed over his shoulder on the far wall, anything not to see his face right then. The silence stretched on until V felt she would be crushed beneath it, words forming in the back of her throat, but dying before they could reach the tip of her tongue.

Then Takemura’s other hand came up and he held her face in both his hands, firmly directing her to face him. She looked at his lips, at his jaw, anything but his eyes.

“Look at me.”

His words translated in her mind from Japanese, the change in language startling her enough into obeying him. V didn’t have to look long, because within a moment his mouth was on hers, urgent and demanding. It took a moment for V to take control of the spinning in her head, but when she did she carefully settled her hands on top of his thighs, fingers curling slightly as she slid her palms up over the fabric of his trousers until she could wrap her arms high around his middle, above the bandages. She was content to let him cradle her jaw in his hands, holding her fast as if he feared she would spring away, vanishing into smoke.

V made a small sound, soft and needy, her mouth opening at the same time as Takemura. A shudder coursed its way up and down her arms when he made a sound, rumbled and deep in his throat and then caught her bottom lip, letting his teeth press against it.

She let her nails run a slow path across his shoulder blades, tension dropping from her arms as she sunk against him. They were both ravenous for touch unmarred by violence. By pain. When was the last time she had embraced someone other than to silently subdue them? When had he? In the grand scheme of things, Takemura had been starving for longer.

Her legs were unsteady, even with him helping to set her up on her feet. They stood together, breaking their contact only when absolutely required. If his mouth was not on hers, it was on her throat, her shoulder— bared now as he pulled and tugged her shirt collar aside, desperate to feel the soft warmth of her against his skin.

V shucked off her jacket, walking backwards as Takemura pressed forward, stalking her as surely as he did his prey with eyes darkened with artificial pupils blown wide. It was his hands that pulled off her tank top, throwing it away carelessly. V gave a nervous chuckle when those same hands gripped against her lower back and forced her up hard against his chest.

The soft swell of her breast pressed firmly against his skin, the shared heat positively searing as they stumbled out of the bathroom and unto the creaking worn motel mattress.

This was stupid. Irrational. Dangerous. They needed to be on guard, to be vigilant. Arasaka was still hunting them and yet V was certain Yorniubu himself could bust through that door and Takemura would not untangle himself to kill him until he had had his fill of her.

V fumbled with his belt, Takemura’s hand coming between them to catch her wrist, stopping the movement.

“You are sure?” he managed, his voice breathless and ragged. Falling into his mother tongue was something he did when he was overwhelmed, it would seem.

V’s answer was to settle her weight back onto her shoulders and press her hips up against him in a slow, enticing roll.

“はい.” 

Takemura needed no further convincing. 

He kissed her again, thoroughly and practiced, taking her other wrist in his hand and holding them down above her head. V’s last coherent thought was to wonder where he had found time to learn, but those thoughts scattered apart like a bullet through glass when he drew his mouth down her jaw and she felt the rough scrape of his beard between her breasts.

He pace was so slow. So agonizingly slow. Placing open mouth kisses against her breastbone as if he were a man with all the time in the world. 

“Oh— so suddenly that graze doesn’t bother you? Made me drag you halfway—“

V’s voice broke off with a surprised yelp as Takemura bit her nipple, a gruff sound of disapproval in his throat at her monologuing. The slight painful tug was all but forgotten when he rolled the same tightened peak with his tongue. 

V was quiet then, except for a soft panting as he went back to his own easy pace. 

“Goro…” his name came out unbidden when he switched to her other breast, a soft laugh sending hot breath over her skin.

“Better.” 

Smug bastard. V wiggled beneath him, one hand coming free of Takemura’s grip because he let her. That fact only made her tangle her fingers even more roughly at the nape of his neck, drawing strands loose as she tugged him demanding upwards.

She could feel the smirk against his lips when she kissed him, fiercely and sharply as she bit him back.

“Why hurry?” Takemura said, in English this time, his voice a low murmur.

“Cause when Arasaka busts that door in, I’d rather die having been well fucked.”

“You will.”

God, if a voice alone could make her cum those two words would have done it. That sharp pang hit right to her core again, making her want to press her thighs together and spread them open at the same time. 

“‘Fast is slow, but continuously, without interruption.’”

For once his quoting made some goddamn sense to her. It also helped he was using his now unoccupied hand to unfasten her jeans, sitting up to pull them off her legs.

He seemed to consider for a moment, the pause making V groan in impatience and then protest when Takemura pulled back and slipped off the foot of the bed. He took off his belt and the rest of his clothes before he kneeled onto the floor.

V was rising up on her forearms to get a better look at just what the hell he was doing— that was, until his hands slipped beneath her calves and pulled her to the edge of the mattress. He guided her legs over his shoulders and without warning, licked that same trail he had over her breast up the length of her slit.

V’s hips bucked, but Takemura was ready for that too, folding his arms across her middle and keeping her held in place as he bowed his head between her thighs and utterly devoured her.

There was a joke to be made here, V was certain, given Takemura’s picky “tastes'”— but every time his tongue traced a new pattern over her labia the joke short circuited.

Even Johnny, tucked away inside her head, was silent now. 

Takemura alternated at a whim, but his pace stayed slow… deliberate. Savoring. His beard tickled against the inside of V’s thighs. She fisted the motel sheets so tightly in her hand the damn thing pulled off the corners.

He only stopped once, forgetting himself and trying to force her thigh up higher and wider and managing to pull at his wound as he raised his arm. V reached down to touch him, to brush her hand through his hair and draw her thumb over his cheek.

“You okay?”

Takemura sat up, the dazed look that had settled in his eyes since they began clearing. He pressed a kiss against her knee as he let her legs slide off his shoulders, climbing back into the bed and moved to hover over her.

“Goro? Are you okay?” She asked again, worriedly touching the gauze tape and making sure he wasn’t bleeding through.

“... I am fine.” he said at last, the words soft and almost.. awed? As if he had never said them before. V searched his expression, holding his face between her hands and feeling something in her heart strain when he shut his eyes and leaned into the touch.

“Come here.” He said, though it was him who snaked his arms beneath her lower back and brought her core up flushing against his hips. 

She could feel him. Feel the length of him rested against her mound, feel the slight movement of his hips as he rubbed faintly against her.

She laid back, her hips elevated and secure in his arms. Takemura was back in his head again, eyes heavy and meditative for a lingering moment before he shifted his hips back enough to slip his head up against her and then slowly began to press into the silky wetness between her legs.

A deep deliberate breath exhaled from his lungs as V barely managed to keep herself from rolling and bucking beneath him.

No matter how many times she did it, that initial slow stretch brought with it the most intense feelings of fullness. Takemura was so poised, so controlled… V envied him in that moment and hated him for it in the best possible way. She wanted it fast and rough— pleasure easy and quick. Takemura though, clearly was more inclined to relish each and every motion.

The act felt… intimate. Too intimate. Takemura’s focus was pinpointed, every touch, every dragged out pull of his shaft inside her and then the gentle push back within her heat was done with such steady intent.

V felt almost god damn shy. The attention. The intensity. It was good, it was amazing,  but at the same time some part of her felt like it was on the verge of shattering… and the last thing she was going to fuckin’ do was cry during sex.

But fuck— when was the last time she felt safe? When was the last time she felt held? Takemura gently stroked his hand up across her stomach, over the valley of her breasts and back again, his eyes fixed on not just her but himself touching her.

V made sure not to wrap her leg around his injured waist, but squeezed at him hard with her other, trying to pull him in. To edge him on.

“Faster…?” She breathed, adding a raised lift at the end of her words. Questioning. Asking.

Takemura only nodded, returning his grip around her lower back. The position made it nearly impossible to give anything but deep, shallow thrusts, but V was not complaining. The quickened pace was giving her the friction she needed, the press of his pelvis against her clit, the edge of his head sometimes finding that spot deeper in that sent sparks through her body.

It gave her more than her own pleasure too. It was giving her his. He had been so quiet, purposeful and diligent.. and now his brow furrowed and his breath came sharper. His skin flushed hot and red where he was organic and untouched by chrome or cyberware. V bore down around him, clutching at his shaft when he pulled back and grinned when his hips suddenly snapped back forward. A rough groan slipped from his lips, a curse following when she rolled her hips forward and began to rather enthusiastically fuck him back.

He wasn’t shocked, but pleasantly surprised would have been an accurate term. As a man who lived to serve, it only made sense he wouldn't expect to receive.

“Pull me up.” 

V demanded, rising up on her forearms and then her hands until Takemura had no choice but to slip his hold up higher along her back and pull her up, sitting into his lap.

V grinned wickedly and saw the exact moment Takemura realized his mistake.

She rose her hips and thrust down, hands running from his chest up his neck and then back down to grip hard to his shoulders as she rode him.

“Oh... fuck—“

And that was the only word V managed to make sense of before Takemura slurred into half incomprehensible Japanese. She didn’t need her cyberware to translate that.

One solid push was all it took to have him flat on his back, her hands running up and down his chest as she took control.

He hissed once, grabbing hard at her thigh to move it away from his wound, but after that? The only word she understood from him beneath the rest was yes.

When she came, it tightened in her core, holding steady and constant and lingering right at the edge for long enough that when her body finally burst into spasms, she cried out half in shock of it.

The sound keened to a low whine as V rode out the waves, rocking her hips gently as the initial exhilaration faded to pleasant fading throbs. Takemura’s hands had slid down to her hips, squeezing and rubbing for the sheer pleasure of touching. He was far away again, but somehow, V knew that it was less to do with her and more to do with the fact he remained hard inside her.

“... you didn’t—?” V started to say, hips slowing, but Takemura’s grip tightened and he urged her on.

“Keep doing that.” 

So she did. Slowly moving and becoming intensely aware of how he felt wrapped up and pressing inside her walls. His eyes shut, his lips parting and V couldn’t resist the urge to lean down and kiss him, the movement as languid and lazy as her hips.

Takemura did not tense like she did, but instead every muscle went soft and lax beneath her. A quiet moan, half gasped out was her only warning before she carefully slipped off of him and he came, slow spurts spilling across his skin.

It was less like he had lost control rather than he’d allowed it to slip, but V had dismissed the thoughts, trying not to overthink it. Right now, she was busy making work of cleaning him up, licking a trail along his pelvis and enjoying the way the muscles played beneath her touch.

Ticklish, her thoughts reminded. Takemura rubbed a hand over his eyes, as if waking, alertness coming back into his expression, but… something still softened its edges. Made him more of himself but also less— or maybe it was just the side of him V had not yet seen.

She stretched, rolling off to lay alongside him like a cat, one leg still thrown over his as she propped up her chin on the heel of her hand.

“So… I don’t know if maybe there was some kinda life debt you mighta been thinkin’ bout giving me for saving your ass but uh— consider it paid.”

Takemura, to his credit, laughed.

“You realize, that is like saying my life is worth—“

“Oh, I know what I’m saying.”

“I do not know whether to be insulted or flattered.”

“Just be both and cover all the bases.” V said, leaning down to press several kisses along his jaw, indulgent and very appreciative.

She expected him to disparage the attention now that their purpose was completed, but while he did turn and shy away from the kisses, he also drew his arm up to wrap around her and hold her in a loose grip.

“Someone needs to keep watch.” Takemura said, his voice begrudging the very words.

“I’ll do it. Arasaka didn’t fuck me up near as bad as ya.”

He scoffed.

“You fell three floors, V.”

“First of all, it was two.”

“And second?”

She kissed him, thoroughly obliterating any desire he might have had to protest as he turned to bare her down into the mattress.

“Very persuasive.” He said against her lips, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. Despite that he let her go, grimacing when he noticed they would need to redo his bandages after the mess he made.

V got up from bed, finding her discarded jeans and tank top and tugging them on, delighting in the way her body ached just slightly still.

Spontaneous we-might-not-live-through-the-night sex clearly was the pick-me up she needed. Takemura was the opposite though, seeming sluggish and sated, laying still upon his back, his chest rising and falling with lingering speed.

Something like concern warmed through her and V returned to sit on the edge of the bed, carefully stroking the back of her knuckles over his cheek and feeling the scrape of his beard against her skin. He silently looked up at her.

“You really doin’ okay?”

“Three times in one day…” Takemura said with a short mirthless laugh.

“Three?”

“You’ve asked me three times if I am okay. I ...can not recall the last time anyone has asked me such a thing.”

Takemura gingerly rose only to pull his trousers back on, getting back into bed without bothering with the fastens or his belt. 

V didn’t even know what to say to that revelation, feeling her heart clench as she sat, waiting as Takemura settled back against a stack of pillows and closed his eyes.

“If someone arrives to kill us, wake me.”

“You got it, Goro.” V said, forcing humor into her voice as she stood only to retrieve her shotgun and then sat again at the edge of bed, muzzle poised towards the door.

Yeah she’d wake him alright, by killing whatever fucker dared come through the door for him.

Christ, V.

Johnny. His voice tinged with disapproval in her mind, the emotion almost acidic on her tongue.

Worry about us first. Though if you do manage to somehow live through this night, that’s gonna be a conversation I’d rather you take a blocker and sign me the fuck out for.

V responded with confusion, a mental indication of Whaddya mean?

The shit that Corpo just laid on you? That wasn’t just some casual fuck. As the minstrels say, he was makin’ love to you.

V audibly choked.

“V?” Takemura asked, a unspoken question lingering over her name. She shook her head without turning around.

“S’fine. Cough.”

And you were to him. Hormones all over the fuckin’ place. Nauseating.

I was not.

Don’t bullshit me, V. I can feel your emotions get all mushy every time you look at him. Now it’s just gonna get worse.

V tried to ignore him, making a pointed effort of blocking out his words with a stream of thoughts. Song lyrics, scenes from an old Bushido flick, the way Takemura looked at her with such open desire and sheer wanting when he had settled inside of her, warped up in the heat of her and her in him—

Fuck.

Yep. Told ya.

Headlights cut through the dark, shining between the blinds of the motel room as a car slowly edged across the parking lot. V’s grip tightened on her weapon.

There were more pressing dangers to worry about now, but somehow they felt smaller… when her thoughts would scatter into panic, rapid and heated, inevitably every single one landed back on the one thing that gave her comfort— Takemura was here with her. He was alive and here with her.

But that was some shit to sort out another day.

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Meeting and Dating Specs

(Please ignore how awful my gif is)(Requested via message)

(I’m so sorry I haven’t posted in a while!)

- You met Specs while walking to work in the morning. He was out selling his papers when you and a few of the other girls you worked with passed him.

- He quickly snatched the hat from his head as you walked by, eyes seemingly locking onto you even though you were in the middle of a small crowd.

- The two of you met each other’s gaze and without meaning to, your steps began to slow. A small smile found its way onto your face before you hurriedly made your way back to your group. As you reached your friends sides, you spared one last glance at the boy over your shoulder. You were secretly pleased to see that he was still watching.

- Normally Specs wouldn't linger in a selling spot for too long unless it was raking in a good profit. But let’s just say that he had a bit of an ulterior motive when returning to the area.

- Day after day, you would continue to see him while making your way to work. Your friends began to tease you about it, grabbing your arm and giggling in your ear as you passed him. You felt flattered by the attention but you still wondered if he was actually attracted to you and if so, was he ever going to approach you?

- It was after about two weeks that he finally did. You passed his usual selling spot in the morning and found that he wasn’t there. So, with a little dash of disappointment settling in your stomach, you headed off to work and went about your day.

- You walked out the doors of your work at the end of your shift, wiping your hands on your dress and pulling the hair from your face. It was then that you saw him, his body leaned casually against the wall of the building besides yours.

- He kicked himself off of the wall once he noticed you, pulling the hat off his head as he made his way over.

- He tries his hand at a polite, gentlemanly introduction, fiddling with the hat in his hands as he spoke. He “confessed” that he’d been watching you “for a little while now” and explained that he wanted to get to know you more.

- You smiled and agreed, glad that he had finally decided to try his luck with you.

- Your first date was that same day. The two of you walked around town together, getting to know each other and sweetly flirting. By the time you had to return home, you had already promised to see him again the next day.

- The two of you shared your first kiss on your fourth date. You’d been sitting together in one of the many alleyways of the city, recounting different stories from your day when you started to notice him looking closely at your face.

- You ignored it for a while, figuring that he was probably distracted by a smudge of dust or paint, something that often found its way onto your face after a long day. It wasn’t until you began to walk home together that you finally learned that there wasn’t anything on your face.

- The two of you were just about to say goodbye when he hesitated for a minute, glancing down at what you finally comprehended was your lips and asking if he could kiss you. Now, how could you say no to that?

- Pda wasn’t exactly very common back then so the two of you keep your affection to yourselves for the most part. Although the newsies are far less worried about public decency and reputations, Specs in particular is trying very hard to be a gentleman for you; at least in public.

- Forehead kisses as he wraps his arms loosely around you, keeping you close to him.

- Never ending pecks on the lips. He’ll keep moving in for another one unless you push him away.

- He’s sort of a geek compared to his fellow newsies; he doesn't do nearly as many crazy stunts as them. Maybe he’s more mature, …or maybe he’s just less coordinated than everyone else.

- Even though he’s a geek, he still does crazy/ridiculous stuff; he just doesn’t do acrobatics while doing so. Locked yourself out of your house? He somehow knows how to pick a lock. Forgot something somewhere? He’ll run all the way back there to get it for you!

- He’s kinda slow in the reflex department; you’ve been his savior more than a few times. You’re probably one of the only reasons his glasses are still intact.

- Specs is generally pretty polite but he is not a morning person at all. Be careful when attempting to wake him up, you may end up snatched and cuddled against your will or aggressively grumbled at.

- All the newsies would absolutely love cuddling with their girls and you cannot convince me otherwise. Some may be more shy than others but they all secretly love it. Specs typically sleeps/rests on his back so he’s pretty fond of the sweetheart cradle.

- He’s not ashamed of the fact that he likes when you baby him but he’ll get extremely embarrassed if anyone somewhat comes close to guessing that he does.

- He may be a little rough around the edges but he always tries to treat you like a lady; at least when he can help it.

- Getting visits while or after he sells his papers.

- He would genuinely wait around for hours just to be able to spend a little time with you. Get off work at seven? Well he gets off at five but he can stand to wait a little. Its worth it, right?

- People are just used to seeing him sitting on a crate outside your workplace, fiddling with whatever he can find to pass the time.

- He has a habit of holding/playing with things when he’s stationary so expect to have your hand occupied quite often.

- Piggyback rides. It may not be proper for a lady such as yourself but frankly, you don't give a damn and neither does he if you don’t.

- Likes bothering you in that playful boyfriend sort of way. You get teased, poked and prodded, especially when the two of you are alone together.

- He’s always got something to say. The two of you could have a full conversation about literally nothing at all.

- He’s happy to let you lean on him. What’s the difference when it’s a cute girl doing it? He’s used to having the other newsies use him as an arm rest so having his adorable girlfriend resting against him is a welcome change.

- I don’t know if it’s just me; but he looks so much better without his ridiculous top hat on?? Thank god he takes it off around you.

- He doesn’t have much; if any, pocket money so you’re not going to have any expensive dates. That being said, he tries to do something nice with what he has.

- Little love letters filled with misspellings and awful grammar. They may not be the most poetic things in the world but you adore them all the same.

- Walking around town together. You may have seen it all a hundred times before but it seems entirely new when you’re with him.

- Cozying up in secluded corners.

- Refers to you as ‘me old lady’ when talking about you to other people. He doesn’t use too many nicknames when talking with you though. He isn’t a big charmer so he isn’t used to the concept. He probably calls you “missy” jokingly but that doesn’t exactly count as a nickname, does it?

- He both follows your orders and disobeys you like you’re his mother. He’s constantly on that line of I will blindly follow you and I will make you make me.

- He may give you a little shit now and again but he’s a ride or die and thats a fact. When it really comes down to it, he has your back no matter what.

- The newsies may not seem like the most sensitive people in the world but Specs is a bit more empathetic than most. He hates seeing people; especially you, all sad or distressed.

- He may not be the greatest at it but he always tries to comfort or cheer you up in any way he can.

- He’s not used to people really caring about him and his wellbeing so it’s always a shock to him when you worry about his safety or try to take care of him.

- You once brought him some food because you were worried he wasn’t eating enough and he nearly cried. You should have seen his face when you handed it to him; it was like you were giving him a hundred bucks.

- Occasionally you’ll sneak him into your house when your parents aren’t home so he can take a warm bath in a tub that he actually fits in and eat a full meal.

- Sometimes the two of you will walk around town together, pretending that you’re both a wealthy couple. You put on posh accents and look through the windows of shops you could never buy from, boasting about how you’ll get this or that and talking about other “rich person” things.

- He saves up money for an entire year just to be able to buy you a Christmas/birthday gift. Either that or he’ll attempt to make you something, usually some kind of newspaper flower.

- How jealous he gets really depends on who it is that he’s meant to be jealous of. If it’s another newsie flirting then he’ll just tell them to get lost but if its someone with more class than him then he feels more threatened. Why would you chose him over some upper class fellow?

- He may act aggressive with the guy but he’s more reserved and feels like he has to take more shit if the fella decides to get smart. He doesn’t want to be put in the refuge for soaking him if his parents take it up with the law.

- Nearly all of the newsies would be protective of their girls and this trait isn’t lost on Specs. He’ll stare down people he doesn't like, keeping you behind him and puffing out his chest whenever they turn up.

- He’s always keeping an eye out for you and lingering around. He usually isn’t too far from your side when he can help it.

- He always stands behind you as you’re sitting down, holding the back of your chair and keeping a close eye on everything that’s going on.

 - He’s surprisingly fast on his feet and is an arguably good bullshitter/liar which he used for both good and; occasionally, bad causes. He can’t lie to you very well though; you can always see right through him.

- Most of your fights are pretty trivial so it isn't hard for the two of you to makeup. A lot of the time he’ll just forget that you were fighting or what you were fighting about and continue on like nothing happened or admit that he doesn’t even know what you’re supposed to be bickering about.

- You get a ‘love ya’ every time you’re saying goodbye or whenever he just feels the need to say it.

- The two of you will undoubtedly be pretty nervous when introducing him to your parents. The look on his face when you and your father first laid eyes on each other should be framed.

- He’s genuinely ready to spend the rest of his life with you. He’s one of the older newsies too so marriage might be just around the corner; if your folks will allow it.

[paintdface]

moths to a flame: one

“i know you don’t like to think of it as a celebration, but i couldn’t help myself.” he shrugs his stocky shoulders. calloused hands reach for the crystal and holds it in the air. “because if anything, we can celebrate that night bringing us together. i’m happy you’re in my life.”

reader x din djarin horror/thriller modern au.

tw: blood, kidnap, hospital mention, some mentions of nsfw content. 

word count: 3.4k.

A/N: i hope you enjoy this story as much as i enjoy writing it. i would love to hear what you think of it! a pinterest board for this story is here. the preface to this part is here. the header is by @/packsparadise. 

… twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two.

your eyes fly open beneath the surface of the water. everything above is obscured by the bath water. you can barely make out the tiles on the walls or the color of your shower curtain. you wait a few more seconds to see how long you can stay underwater before you spring to life. bath water sloshes over the sides with a quiet splash. you gasp for air like the way you did years ago on that godforsaken road. this time you don’t feel the icy air fill your lungs and you’re grateful. gripping the sides of the tub, you fix your gaze on the dripping faucet, feeling your heart race in your chest. your ex-therapist told you to focus on something when you felt this way— when you felt like your heart was going to leap out of your chest. 

that was the only good thing they ever taught you.

sinking back into the water, you let the bath water sit at your chin. it’s cold now. cold and still. you’ve been in the bath so long your fingers are pruny. a foot peeks out of the water, painted toes curl around the shower valve to turn on the hot water. you welcome the feeling of warmth again. 

your gaze drifts from the faucet to the phone resting on top of the bathroom counter. although it was turned off, you kept it close just in case. you dreaded the inevitable moment you’d turn it back on. you would be greeted with missed calls, texts and emails. some from the few friends you have left, some from reporters, some from family and one from him. from the man who saved you on the worst night of your life. 

you said he didn’t have to keep in contact with him even though you wanted him to. you understood that he had a life of his own; one that didn’t involve sticking around for you when you needed comfort. but, he insisted. he said he wanted to keep track of you. he wanted to make sure you were safe. after all this time he cared.

once the water runs cold again, you finally rise from the basin. water drips off your skin, the droplets echoing in the empty bathroom. you grab the towel from the rack and wrap it around your body before stepping out. the bathroom mirror is foggy making your face look distorted. your features are no longer visible. you only see a silhouette and hair—  not the slope of your nose, not the mascara smudged around your sleepless eyes, not the scars littering your skin. reaching forward, you wipe at the mirror until familiar pieces of you are revealed.

you’re grateful you recognize yourself today.

reluctantly, you grab your phone before exiting the bathroom. instead of getting dressed you collapse on to the unmade bed. your finger holds down the on button of your phone and you place it face down on your chest. it only takes a few seconds for it to begin buzzing. notifications light up the screen. 

“shit.” 

you could turn it off. you could ignore the prying questions and condolences. you could run away. yet, you turn it back on and look.

the date lights up the screen. the anniversary of the day you were saved. it should be a day for celebration. after all, you survived. but the way exhaustion clings to your limbs and sleep is heavy on your eyes puts you in no mood to celebrate. 

combing through the endless messages, you skim the sentences and delete almost half. emails from curious journalists make you roll your eyes.

sent at 8:03: hi my name is amy daniels from the new york times and i was wondering if i could get a comment about the anniversary…

delete.

sent at 10:36: good morning, i am the producer of a nightly news talk show at cnn and i wanted to know if you would be interested…

delete. 

sent at 11:17: this is jose ramos from realtruecrimefans.com messaging you again about your thoughts on your kidnapper, riley williams, current whereabouts… 

your heart clenches in your chest at the sight of his name. you try to avoid thinking about him. you avoid saying his name. the last time you said his name is when you wrote about him in your memoir. his name wasn’t worth the energy it took to say his name.

riley williams was dead. at least to you he’s dead. no one has seen or heard from him since you ran away. the police searched for weeks to no avail. search parties went out at night combing through the woods to search for him. it didn’t take long for the media to pick up a story of a beautiful girl gone missing and found in the woods after breaking free. for weeks after your escape, his picture was everywhere. it was a nation wide manhunt. it continued once you wrote your memoir titled “forty-seven days in hell: my personal journey” and everyone wanted to be the one to put him in jail. 

yet, no one found him. he was gone. 

a few deep breaths later and you’re continuing to weed out messages. everything felt like bullshit. even the texts from the few friends you had left lacked genuineness. you sent back half-assed replies and listened to the voicemails, but never called anyone back. there was only one person you wanted to hear from today. 

din. 

you scroll until you see his name. he texted you early this morning. he texted you when he knew you would be asleep. 

din: hey, darling. hope you slept well. call me if you need anything.

you smile. something you loved about din is he never pushed your boundaries. he gave you your space, but knew if you needed him, he’d be there. even though he didn’t live in the city, he always came. he was always there when you wanted him. 

you hit the call button and listen. it only takes a few rings before you hear the low, steady tone of his soothing voice.

“hey, you’re up.”

“i am… are you surprised?” 

the sound of his muffled laughter chimes on the other end. “maybe a little,” he pauses for a moment. “how are you holding up?” you can tell he’s nervous to ask because he’s not sure what the answer will be.

you sigh. rolling over on to your stomach, you shrug like he can see you. “i’m okay.” you’re not sure what to say. deep down you’re not fine, but you crave normalcy. you want to feel normal. “it just feels… weird. today should be like any other day, but it’s not.” your confession surprises you.

“we can make it normal.” the sound of ‘we’ makes your heart flutter. “i was planning on coming to the city for business. we can meet for dinner?”

you know he’s probably not coming to the city for work, but he’s coming for you. every year since he saved you he came into the city on the anniversary. he’d meet you for dinner at the same restaurant, at the same table and you two would act normal when you really weren’t. 

“i’d love that. same place?”

“same place at seven.” you can hear movement on the other end. the sound of grogu barking in the background makes you happy. you miss him. “hey, darling?”

“yes?”

“if you need me to come earlier, i will. just say the word and i’m there.”

your eyes flutter shut. god, he was the only one you ever wanted. the only one who treated you like a person. “i will.” but you know you won’t. “i’ll see you then.”

“i’ll see you then. take care of yourself, darling.” and then the line goes cold and the familiar beep tells you he hung up. 

—

shaky hands reach for the heat pouring out of the vents. your hugging the heat and the door; both for warmth and for a quick escape in case your hero turns out to be a villain. you’ve already learned your lesson about trusting people. the only sound filling the truck’s cabin is the engine revving as the driver tears through the roads, your teeth chattering and the dog at your neck happily panting. 

it’s only until he finally says something. “what’s your name?”

“d-darling.”

he quickly glances away from the road and in your direction. “what kind of name is darling?”

“my name. that’s my name.”  you hate how bitter you sound. you should be grateful. 

“okay…” he clears his throat and continues driving for awhile before finally breaking the silence again. “what happened to you? who took you? who did this to you?” he sounded concerned and calm, yet there was a hint of anger lacing his words. 

you’re reluctant to say anything, but you knew you should get used to telling your tale. you’d have to say it a hundred more times: to police, to journalists, to your family. “he said his name was riley,” you shudder at the name. hopefully, you’ll never have to say his name again. “we met at a bar and i thought he was nice, but he— he—” you can’t get the words out. the sound of sobs cut through your words. everything was catching up to you. the gravity of the situation weighed you down, tying you to earth. tethering you to this smelly truck with a big eyed dog and a pair of mysterious brown eyes. “please just get me out of here!”

you can hear him swallow hard. “it’s okay. just stay calm. we’re almost at the main roads.” he glances over at you. you can barely make out his face in the dark, but you still see those beautiful brown eyes. something to cling to— another beacon of hope. “there’s a police station a few miles out. i know the captain. he’ll help you.” 

shaking, your arms wrap around you, like you’re protecting yourself. no matter how tight you hug yourself you can’t stop trembling. your feet are numb, your eyes are heavy, your head hurts and the emptiness in your stomach catches up with you. weakly you utter, “wh-what’s your name?” “din. my name is din.”

despite your better judgement your eyes begin to flutter and your body goes numb. it gets harder to breathe, but you’re too tired to care. it’s easier to give in to the darkness. you’ve done enough; there’s no more fight left. 

“din.” it’s the last thing you say before your eyes flutter shut and pass out. you don’t wake again until you’re in a hospital bed. you scream his name until a nurse runs in and you demand to see the man that saved you. you pull at the i.v. needle in your arm, thrash in the scratchy sheets and rip at the oxygen at your nose until they sedate you.

hours later you’re awake and he’s at your bedside. he doesn’t leave until visiting hours are over. he’ll keep coming back until you ask him not to— which is never.

—

it takes you a long time to peel yourself off of the bed. your silhouette is imprinted on the bed from lying there in a wet towel for so long. the white cotton towel falls at your feet. it takes you forever to file through your closet to find the right outfit. you’re looking for something in between fancy and not trying too hard. you wanted to look good; you’re not sure if it’s for din or yourself. 

you settle on a dress and boots. the dress had been worn a million times and the boots had walked miles through new york, but they’re your favorite. it’s like wearing a safety blanket. you take your time getting ready considering it’s hours until seven. you drift around your apartment with a glass of red wine in hand. your biggest vice is cheap red wine. it was something to make you forget. a glass of hope, you lovingly told your concerened best friend. 

the more you drink the more you feel like you’re floating. you have plenty of room to roam considering how spacious your apartment is— it’s far too big for a single person in new york. you were only able to afford it from the royalties you made off your book. turns out writing a book about your trauma and exposing your open wounds to the world had its perks. who knew? 

—

you ended up dancing barefoot in your apartment with a glass of red wine spilling from your glass as you moved. you didn’t care about the stains on the overly priced rug in your living room, you were just happy to feel something good again. the future of seeing din again and the warm feeling the wine gave you was your miniature escape. when you glance at your phone you realize you’re almost late. curse words are shouted out into your apartment as you stumble your way towards the front door, balancing your bag and putting on your shoes as you went. 

despite your late start, you make it to the restaurant on time. the minute you walk in your eyes are settled on the table in the corner. it’s the same table he always got for you. din’s back is turned to you, but you notice the familiar mop on his head and the broad shoulders enclosed by the only suit he owned. same old din, you think. sighing, your chest rises and falls as you watch him. you watch as he talks to the waiter and sip at his glass, occasionally looking down at his watch, wondering if this time you’ll be late. smiling, you walk to the back of the restaurant.

“hi,” you greet him. it doesn’t take long for him to stand up and pull you into his arms. you collide with his strong torso and your arms circle around his middle. you bury your face into his chest and his chin is tucked in to the top of your head. his cologne lingers on his collar— warm spice and must. your favorite. it feels perfect. it was what you longed for all day. you wished the embrace lasted longer, but he pulls away and gestures towards the seat across from him. 

“hey, darling.” he finally says. “glad you could make it.”

you almost roll your eyes. he knows you have nothing else going on. you don’t have a traditional 9-5, you keep to yourself and you never miss a meeting with din. but, he’s nice for saying so. he’s always so nice— a lot nicer and more trusting than you’ve ever been.

“how’s my boy?” you eagerly ask, shedding yourself of your coat. 

“grogu?” his brows raise, asking as if there isn’t another floppy eared boy you’d refer to. “he’s good. even though he’s an old man, he still acts like a puppy. it’s like it’s the first day i rescued him from the shelter.” his eyes light up as he talks about grogu. the well trained dog was din’s life. you fell in love with him, too. he made you feel safe the same way din did. 

“i miss him…” your words trail off. your eyes peer up from the menu at the other. “i missed you.” 

din wets his lips. his eyes are soft as he gazes at you, trying to see if you’ve changed at all since the last time you got together. “i missed you too. it’s been too long.”

“it has.”

you two catch up and go through the pleasantries. you ask about grogu and work and the shitty truck he refuses to give up. he asks you about your writing and if you’re still going to therapy and you lie and say both are going well.

you haven’t written in weeks and stopped going to therapy three months ago.

it doesn’t take long until two champagne flutes are placed in front of you and you can’t help but scoff. of course he would. 

“i know you don’t like to think of it as a celebration, but i couldn’t help myself.” he shrugs his stocky shoulders. calloused hands reach for the crystal and holds it in the air. “because if anything, we can celebrate that night bringing us together. i’m happy you’re in my life.”

even though you didn’t feel like tonight was a night for bubbles and toasts, you grab your glass and mimic him anyway. you don’t do much for other people, but you’ll do this for him. 

“to us.” your glass collides with his and you empty its contents.

—

dinner was lovely. you two reminisced on all your memories together, drank too much wine and ate too much food. he watched you devour chocolate cake and cheesecake. you laughed about how you only live once and he was less than pleased with your joke. 

afterwards, he insisted on walking you home. you wanted to say that you were fine walking alone, but you’re too selfish and you wanted him around a little longer before he had to go home. you walked in silence, shoulders brushing against one another. occasionally his hand would rest on your lower back to guide you across streets or to pull you closer when strange men got too close. his touch was something you craved. 

sometimes, late at night when you were alone and couldn’t sleep, you thought about his touch in other ways. your mind drifted when it skimmed down your stomach and under the covers to travel in between parted thighs. you thought about the sweat on his brow, his worn hands on your hips and his breath hot on your neck. his usual calm, sturdy voice turned more needy and soft— longing for you the way you longed for him. your name falling from parted lips to say, “darling, darling, darling.” just like the flames did. it felt wrong to think of din that way, but you couldn’t help it.

some nights you wondered if he was thinking the same thing, too. 

your walk together ended all too soon. his hand removed from the small of your back and were stuffed into his slack pockets. he let out a long sigh before breaking the silence, “guess this is where i go.”

you frown. “din, you can stay the night. i have a couch you can crash on and in the morning you can go home.” you hated how you sounded like you were pleading. 

his head dropped. “i gotta get home to grogu and i have work in the morning.” he sounded like he was trying to convince himself not to stay the night.

“can you at least walk me to my door?” 

he silently nods and you’re happy for the small victory. the elevator ride up to your apartment is silent just like the walk home and for a moment you feel a tension. it was palpable. you swore you could touch the energy between you two. 

or were you making it up? 

he walks you to your door and you stop short. there’s an envelope lying on your doorstep. carefully, you approach it, nearly tip toeing it like you’re afraid there’s landmines. like the parchment would blow up in your face. 

bending down, you reach for the paper and examine the outside. there’s no address, no postage stamp, nothing. it said: to my darling. 

your heart sinks and you can feel din at your side. his hand curls around your forearm. “are you sure you want to open that? could be a stupid prank.” but you don’t say a word. you only proceed to open it with shaky hands. the envelope falls at your feet and you read the contents of the page. a single sentence written in blood:

i’m always watching you, my love. - r.w.

your hands shake and your crumble the paper into a ball and sink to your feet, din is there to catch you, slowly lowering your body to the ground. 

all of that work you did in therapy, all the glasses of wine, all the dinners with din went out the window. you felt as small as you did that night. riley williams was alive and he knew exactly where you were. you were no longer safe. you never really were.

one thing was for sure, din was not going home tonight.

[a-detraque-barista]

Our Haunted House

Title: Our Haunted House

Rating: M

Word Count: 5.4k

Genre: yandere, horror, smut

Warnings: cursing, yandere behaviors, mention of blood, tentacle fucking, buckets of cum, biting, marking, possessiveness, unprotected sex

Summary: On your first trip back to the Halloween Fest you ran into a quiet but attractive man. Once you get separated from your friends he can’t keep himself from touching you.

A/N: HAPPY SPOOKS DAY EVERYONE!!!! A perfect rainy day (not for trick or treaters) for Halloween and to stay home and have a  Halloween Movie Marathon while eating candy and other junk food. Anyway, this is my very first smut and I hope you all like it. I also entered this in @bang-tan-bitches​ writing challenge, Monster Mash. So go check out all the other amazing stories posted in the challenge and show them some love and now on with tentacley Jimin  💜 💜 💜

    The music box played alone on the stage. It reminded you of carnival music but there was a dark undertone to it. You were only twelve and your father decided to bring you to the annual Halloween Fest. You never got scared when someone jumped out in front of you. For some reason, you have never felt fear. Nothing ever frightened you like other people. 

Your mother had voiced her concerns on more than one occasion. Calling you a freak, a monster, even going as far as a demon. She doesn’t speak to you anymore. Ignoring your existence and spending her time drinking wine and watching trash television. 

The stage you sat a few rows away from had gone completely dark before a clown was in the spotlight. His makeup was done terribly. His lips were painted black which was peeling and the white paint on his face was cracking. As he smiled widely you could clearly see black smudges on his yellow teeth.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!! I am your host for this evening! And tonight I welcome you to The Clowning. I did not come up with the name by the way,” he spat as he spoke with a fake speech impediment. “And now I present to you, Stabby the Prankster.”

Your father’s eyebrow raised, just as many other parents at the name. Then a clown wearing all red and black popped out from behind the curtain. A laugh similar to Woody the Woodpecker reached your ears. And just as his name entailed, he had knives in both hands. His makeup was just as terrible as the first. Instead, his eyes had red circles and his cheeks had red spots on top of the cracking white paint. 

He jumped down from the stage and in front of the first row viewers. His bulging eyes looked from left to right before lunging straight ahead and swiftly slit the young boy’s throat.

Screaming followed as people began to rush towards the exit. Your father picked you up and began to run with you tightly in his arms. Pushing his way through, he got to just outside the door before stopping dead in his tracks. Everyone around the two of you gasped as they saw the dagger sticking out of his back. 

Your father looked down at you and smiled weakly before dropping to his knees and before he could fall forward onto you, a family friend hoisted you onto her hip. She ran with you as you looked back to your now-dead father lying on the floor. 

The clown that had thrown the knife had made his way to your dad’s body and locked gazes with you. His smile was gone and he was no longer slashing townspeople one by one. He seemed as if he was worried about something.

The clown that had claimed to be the host grabbed Stabby by the neck and threw him back into the auditorium before disappearing behind the doors himself. 

“It’s going to be okay sweetie. They can’t hurt you. There’s nothing you have to worry about,” the woman carrying you said softly as you began to cry. Your father was the only one that cared about you. And you were old enough to know that.

It’s been around a decade since then. You moved out of your mother’s house into your own. You finally had your own space. Your mother didn’t talk to you much after what happened. Only a few words every couple of weeks.

As you grew older, nobody realized your dad was one of the victims. Which led you to make friends. Your best friends were Jennie and Mark, they even wanted to be your roommates. You may not live alone but you still consider this your own space, compared to your mom’s house. 

You laid in your bed as you played on your phone. It was already four in the morning, but you couldn’t sleep. Nothing worked. Listening to classical music, drinking some of Jennie’s chamomile tea, tossing and turning. Now you stared at your white ceiling thinking of other ways to fall asleep. 

Halloween is coming up and you had to think of ways to decorate the house. No wonder why you can’t sleep, your mind always wanders off. Still, you think about all the decorations you have in storage in the attic and think of new ones you could buy. 

As you zone out you see something in the corner of your eye. Quickly looking to the side, you see nothing but your closed closet door and look back up at the ceiling to see swirling patterns begin to slither across. They were navy blue mixed with graphite grey. They were like vines twisting and curling around each other. Your eyebrows furrowed as the vine-like tendrils became bigger like they were getting closer. You feel the smooth tip of the reaching blue vine graze your nose. You attempt to sink further into the bed but as you run out of space the tendril still follows and moves to the side to comfortingly caress the side of your face. It was gentle and you could feel your eyelids becoming heavier. 

Trying to fight it, you struggle to keep your eyes open. Even attempting to hit it away with your hand but another tendril grabbed your wrist, with the utmost care. It laid your hand back down softly as if it didn’t want to cause you any pain, even a little. 

Your eyes were closed by the time the most soothing voice you’ve ever heard say, “You have all the power over me.”

Mark jumping onto your bed while Jennie made an alarm go off on her phone was what woke you up. Mark began to shake you violently as he laughed, “It’s one in the afternoon, lazy ass. Get up.”

You weren’t able to say anything until he finished shaking you. Even then you didn’t say anything and just groaned. Mark and Jennie both started to jump on the bed and stopped abruptly to hear what you had to say.

“Fuck you,” you swiped your leg into theirs to make them fall. Jennie landed on her back on the bed and Mark landed on the floor. 

“So mean,” Mark grumbled from the floor. You sat up and leaned on your elbow to give him a blank look when he popped his head up. 

“So annoying.”

Mark laid back down on the floor to sulk while Jennie turned to you, “Wanna go to the Halloween Fest with us? I know you never go but it’ll be fun.” 

You got up and walked to your bathroom connected to your room, closing the door behind you. You never told them about your father being one of the victims during what they called, Hallow’s Eve Massacre. You had always thought it was a dull name. Created by none other than the group of moms that have nothing better to do than to drink overcomplicated coffee that was too expensive for their small sizes and get into other people’s business like it’s their own.

Standing at the sink you thought about the pros and cons of going. Pros. Delicious seasonal foods, haunted houses, everything scary you love, and getting out of the house with your two best friends.

Cons. Paranoia, especially of clowns and stages, people you don’t like to even be within a ten-mile radius, and going outside.

You supposed the pros outweigh the cons. Who knows, it could be fun.

You regret your decision the moment you walked through the admission stands. Looking around you saw many clowns. Or were they your former classmates? It was hard to tell. None of these-

“Ow!” Landing on your ass you ended up dropping your coffee.

“I’m so sorry! Are you alright?” The man who bumped into you kneeled down to make sure you were okay. You felt like you've seen his face before but couldn't really pinpoint where you've seen him.

"Yeah-yeah. I'm fine," you felt him begin to pull you up by your arms to stand up directly in front of him. “Are you okay? I mean I ran into you-”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good,” you stood there awkwardly and watched as his hand soothingly rubbed your forearms. It felt comforting. His hands were warm and it seeped through your jacket and into your skin. 

“Jennie, I think we’re interrupting something,” Mark joked as he leaned into Jennie’s side like he was whispering to her but spoke in a normal, almost loud voice.

Your face gained a red hue as you stepped away from the man who tried to look into your very soul, “Sorry again. I’ll try to pay more attention.” You stared at the ground and began to quickly walk away from the man.

“Please don’t. I’d love to run into you again sometime,” he called out before turning the other way and continued his path to wherever he was going. You kept walking with Jennie and Mark until you arrived at the part of the fairgrounds where they had all the rides. 

First, you rode the Twirling Tangerines, inside the large oranges there was a wheel you could all turn. Then, you rode the Spider, where you sat in a cart-like box that spun as the arms lifted you up and down.

You were on your way to the haunted house when you turned to Mark, “I think I just saw-” Noticing he’s not with you, you look around the crowd to try and spot him. “Jennie, where’d Mark go?”

She turned to you and looked around as well, “How the hell could we lose him?” She took out her phone from her pocket and clicked on his contact to call him. He didn’t answer.

“We’ll have to split up and look for him,” you shrugged as you headed toward back the way you came and Jennie veering left from the way you were going.

It took almost half an hour before you get a call from Jennie, telling you she found him. She failed to mention the man that Mark had crossed paths with on his adventure. 

You met them at one of the tents where they had a rigged game for people to play as stuffed animals hung from the top. You may or may not have stopped at the apple cider stand on your way to the game tent.

“Woooooow. You didn’t get us any?” Mark was obviously hurt but you didn’t really care. “You shouldn’t have wandered off like you did cause then we’d both have apple cider right now,” you took a sip of your hot drink while looking at him.

Your eyes shift to the man who you had bumped into earlier. You began to cough up the warm beverage that was trying to intrude into your lungs from your sharp intake of breath. Coughing into your sleeve, you tried to breathe again before asking, “What are you doing here?”

“Mark ran into me while I was heading toward the Baker’s Street and he was looking somewhere else,” his smile was so big it made his eyes turned into crescent moons. It almost made you want to smile. He walked closer to you before reaching out his hand to you, “My name’s Jimin. What’s yours?”

You stood there wide-eyed and shocked before snapping out of it and taking his hand. Maybe a bit too eagerly, “Y/n.” You took your hand back and turned to Mark and Jennie, “Ready for the haunted house?”

Mark groaned and Jennie gave an unconvincing “yeah” as she kind of curled into herself. You lead the way and never turned to look if Jimin had ended up following you or went ventured off somewhere else. 

You didn’t really know what to do with guys. Keeping to yourself you never really talked to people. Especially guys so it was kind of new and weird for you to speak with such an attractive guy that wasn’t a close friend like Mark. 

Walking up to the house you showed the wristband you got at the admissions booth to allow you to go in. 

"I'm sorry sir. If you don't have a wristband then I can't let you in," the woman at the entrance practically spat the person she was talking to.

You turned around to see her speaking to Jimin and felt kind of annoyed by how she spoke to him. She didn’t really have any reason to be so rude, that you knew of. “He did have one, I saw it on his wrist a few minutes ago,” you don't know why you were vouching for this guy. You just felt like it, you guessed.

The lady reluctantly nodded him through with a sneer. He smiled politely towards her before joining your group into the dark foyer.

As a dressed up ghoul jumped out in front of you and Jimin, you did nothing but stare blankly at the man while Mark yelped and Jennie gasped. How Jimin ended up next to you, you didn't know. 

Jimin noticed how the jump scare didn't frighten you. He found it intriguing, in fact. You didn’t even bat an eyelid. 

“Where’s Mark?” Jimin’s head snapped to you as you looked around for your not-so-bright friend once again. Jimin began to look around with you.

“You must be fucking kidding me,” Jennie sighed before saying, “I’ll go look for him so he doesn’t make any weird friends in here.”

Leaving you and Jimin alone, you kept walking through the hallways and up the staircase. Many people attempted to scare you but none of them succeeded. And Jimin tried not to laugh at your reaction to their attempts. It’s not that he was making fun of you. He was just amused how much effort the actors put into being frightening and all they get is your eyebrow raised at most. 

You felt Jimin take your hand gently and slowly tighten his grip into a comfortable hold, “I’m scared.” 

Immediately, you could tell he wasn’t scared at all. He just wanted a reason to hold your hand like he was smooth. But you didn’t really have the heart to take your hand away. And you didn’t really want to. You felt him come closer to you bit by bit until your shoulders were rubbing against each other.

“You wouldn’t mind if I held you would you?” Jimin broke the eerie silence that sat between you two.

“Why do you want to?” you found the question odd but weren’t completely opposed to it. You weren’t a hoe but he just made you feel comfortable. 

“Cause I want to get closer to you.”

“But you’re already close to me,” you smiled. “I suppose.”

He reciprocated your smile and let go of your hand to wrap around your shoulders. He tugged you closer so you were tucked into his side. The warmth from his body kept you from shivering because of the freezing temperatures inside the building. 

Seeing a door crack open not far down the hallway, you expected someone to jump out of the room. Getting close enough to look into the bedroom, no one jumped out. Jimin noticed your interest in the room and peeked inside with you. The only thing in the room was a wardrobe, a desk, a king-sized bed, and a mirror hanging in front of the desk. All were caked with dust. 

“Must be an extra room they decided not to use,” you concluded before you took a glance at Jimin, only to meet his eyes. You quickly looked away and awkwardly scanned the room.

All you heard were his footsteps before feeling his grip your arm to turn you towards him, “Keep your eyes on me.” 

Your cheeks felt like the sun had been shining on them for hours. And as he demanded, you kept your eyes on him. The thumb on the hand that rested on the side of your face came up to slightly pull down your bottom lip.

“You wouldn’t mind, right?” he said quietly then bit his lip while looking at yours.

Shaking your head gently, Jimin kissed you without a second thought. It was rough and hungry. He didn’t hold back for a second. Licking your lips, practically begging for access. You parted your lips slightly and that’s all he needed to slip his tongue into your mouth. No inch was left untouched. He started to walk forward making you walk back until the back of your knees hit the bed. 

After falling back on the bed, Jimin practically ripped off his thick black hoodie, showing the loose white shirt beneath. It was thin and the neckline hung well below his collarbones. The hoodie landed somewhere by the door as he got down on the floor on his knees. He gently took hold of the waistband on your pants before pulling them down slowly. As they pooled around your ankles, he came back up to start peppering kisses along your inner thighs. 

“I’m sorry baby girl, I would take my time with you but I can’t wait anymore,” his voice was thick with arousal as he tore off your shoes, socks, and pants. “I need to have you.”

Jimin ripped your panties from your waist and fell to the floor in shreds, “I’ll get you new ones.” 

Trailing more kisses down your thighs he got closer and closer to your core. His fingers began to skim over your folds and dip between them to land right on your clit. Rubbing small circles around it, his soft lips were at the apex of your thigh. 

He was so gentle with you, you weren’t sure how to feel. Adored, impatient, excited. Personally, you were never the vanilla type.

    Jimin was so close to your core, so close. But he pulled away at the last second. You whined, at which Jimin laughed at, as he pulled his shirt off from over his head. Tossing his shirt away he climbed back up your body.

    “There’s something I need to show you,” Jimin’s eyes were dark with excitement as he hovered over you.

    Your puzzled look was all he needed to continue to show what he meant. He was groaning as his head hung and his expression made it seem like he was in pain. You didn’t understand what was happening until you saw the tendrils coming out from his back. They were cobalt blue. Two were thinner than the other two. They grew and grew towards the ceiling but stopped just short of it. Once they were straight, as if they were stretching, they curled back down towards you and Jimin. They floated in the air and you stared at them. You weren’t appalled. No, you were...curious. You would’ve never thought he was anything other than human. 

    It’s not like you believed in aliens and werewolves it’s just you the type of person that thought, maybe they do exist, maybe they don’t. It looks like they do.

    “Are you gonna fuck me with those or not?” you said half-joking.

    “You’re not disgusted? Horrified?” Jimin could not believe what he was hearing. You wanted him to fuck you with his tentacles. You wanted him.

    “No, why would I be? I’m surprised and I have some questions but those can wait till later. Don’t you think?” you answered honestly and looked Jimin in the eyes while you said it. And after you said it, the tendrils behind Jimin visibly relaxed. 

    Jimin’s eyes lit up for only a second before he attacks your neck with his pillowy lips. One of the smaller tentacles reaches down between your legs causing you to get surprised and you try to close them. Jimin sucks on your neck harder as he held your legs open with his right hand, “It’s okay, jagi. I’ll make you feel good.”

    As Jimin nibbles on a particularly sensitive spot, you moaned. He almost came right then and there. Your voice was already music to his ears. But your moans? Absolutely heavenly. He tried his best to keep his body from shaking from the numerous shivers. Part of him couldn’t even believe that this was happening. He was touching you, breathing in your scent, pleasuring you. It was his dreams coming true and he was intoxicated with everything you.

    The tentacle between your legs began to rub your clit faster than what Jimin did. More moans started to escape you and your head tilted back into the pillows. Jimin was still making his way all-around your neck, making sure he was marking your neck thoroughly. 

You felt the other small tendril circling your entrance. Becoming coated with your arousal. It slowly began to enter, inch by inch. It was about the same thickness as your trusty vibrator at home so you stretched to its girth with ease. Its smooth texture slipped past your walls effortlessly. 

Jimin was starting to groan the deeper the tendril went. His breath became heavy as he nuzzled his face into your neck, “Jagi~ you’re so tight around him. I can’t wait until my cock is inside your hot cunt. Can I, jagiya?”

“Yes, please. I want you to fuck me,” you said brokenly in between moans.

Jimin sat up and quickly unbuttoned his pants and took them off swiftly. The two larger tentacles reached down to you and took off your coat and shirt. You arched from the building pressure in your abdomen just in time for them to take your bra off. 

The tentacle fucking you took up a hastened pace. It was starting to go deeper and deeper with every thrust. The knot in your lower stomach grew tauter. Jimin kissed you feverishly and swallowed your moans as you got closer to the peak. The very last thrust of the tendril made you come the hardest you’ve ever came before. You felt the tendril in your stomach as it spurted. As did every other tentacle and even Jimin’s cock was spewing out cum.

Jimin’s moan was getting you excited again. It was deep and guttural. You were panting as you felt full of his cum and felt more cum on your chest and stomach. 

“I didn’t know all of them had cum,” you chuckled as you regained your breath. 

Jimin laughs with you, “Now you know how I felt the first time I jerked off.”

His statement made you laugh harder as both of you came down from your highs. The appendage slowly began to pull out of your cum-filled cunt. You whimpered from the sensitivity. Jimin’s cum flowed out of your entrance before Jimin plugged you up with the tip of his cock.

Feeling the head, you realized just how big Jimin was. Being too distracted to notice earlier. Jimin could tell your realization by your expression.

“What’s the matter, jagi? Never had anyone this big before?” Jimin knows he was being a tease. Even though he doesn’t want to even think about the others who’ve touched you. Only he can touch you like this. He’s the only one who can pleasure you.

You knew what he was doing. He was getting smug. But you didn’t really have the patience to play games with him.

“Who knows.”

Jimin’s smirk fell as yours grew. Jimin stared into your eyes as he slammed his entire length into you in one thrust.

“You know I’ve stuffed you full. I don’t think there’s even any room for one of my tentacles. I can feel how I���m stretching you,” Jimin wasn’t going to let you win this one. 

He wrapped his arms around your waist to bring you with him as he sat back on his heels. Your chest heaved from his massive girth inside you. One small tendril wrapped around your wrists and held them above your head, the other small one began to circle at your puckered hole while a larger one spread your right cheek to give it room. And lastly, the last, larger tentacle curled around one of your breasts. 

Jimin slowly pulled out his thick cock before slamming back into your hot cunt. His moans mixed with yours as his pace became faster. Soon he was slamming in and out of you at a bruising pace. The appendage at your tight hole caught some of yours and Jimin’s combined cum and lubed you up. 

At first, it only dipped in its tip. After a few thrusts, it started to go further. Still taking on a slow pace, it steadily enlarged your hole. 

Jimin’s right arm let go of your waist to support himself above you as he leaned forward. He was still pistoning in and out of you with no intention of slowing down. Hair stuck to his forehead as did yours. Moans left you uncontrollably as both of your holes were being fucked and your tit was being gripped.

You felt the pressure on your breast vanish before feeling the said tendril slither up your neck. You hear Jimin breathe out a laugh as he saw his appendage shyly touch you.

“I think he wants to know if you could suck him,” Jimin smirked, knowing that’s exactly what it wanted. 

Opening your mouth, the tendril appeared to become a light blue as it took the invitation. You felt the tentacle practically purr from the wetness and warmth from your mouth. It thrusted into you languidly. Not going very deep so it wouldn’t hurt you. 

“Look at you. Being a slut for me. All your holes are filled with parts of me.”

His thrusts were becoming sloppy. And the tendril in your mouth was going down into your throat until you were gagging with every plunge. Your ass was so stretched out you knew that there was going to be a gap now. Maybe not a large one but there will be one. And Jimin was still pounding your swollen cunt with his massive girth. 

The tendril around your wrists let go to reach down to rub your clit in quick, small circles. You’re loud, almost screaming moans were muffled by the deep throating appendage.

You could feel you were getting so close to your release. You felt the familiar knot in your stomach building. By Jimin’s groans growing louder and his sloppy pace, you tell he was close too. 

He opened his eyes to see your body being completely surrounded by him. He let his arm fall around your waist again but he laid his head between your tits and put the rest of his energy into the last few hard pumps and stilled as he felt your walls flutter around him. 

Your eyes rolled into your skull and Jimin squeezed his eyes closed tightly. Your walls milked Jimin’s cock as it pulsed and shot cum inside you. You felt all the tentacles pulse out cum into your throat, ass, and onto your clit and mound. 

Reaching up to Jimin’s hair, you carded your fingers through the strands. Both of you were trying to calm your breathing down. Jimin was still coming but the tendril down your throat pulled out so you could breathe more easily. 

Jimin began to kiss your sternum after he came down from his high. You glanced down and back up, only to glance down again to notice a visible bulge in your stomach, that's still growing. 

"How much cum do you have?!" you exclaimed as you watched it grow bit by bit. 

"Don't pretend you don't like it," Jimin's smug attitude was still there as he knew he was right by your silence.

Jimin reluctantly pulled out of you and he didn’t mind how much cum was pouring out of your cunt. He knew there were going to be many more times like this. And that’s when he’ll worry about keeping you plugged up but for now, he just wanted to fall asleep next to you.

He pulled your exhausted body back up to the pillows with using the help from his now sky blue tentacles before they slowly retracted back into the slits in his back. 

“We should probably go, Mark and Jennie might be worried about us,” trying to sit up Jimin pulled you back down.

“No need to be in a hurry, jagi. You’re too exhausted to go out looking for him-them right?” Jimin brushed the hair from your forehead so he could see your eyes more clearly.

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s just hope none of the employees find us,” you huffed out a laugh as you snuggled further into the covers. 

Jimin wrapped his arms around you and entangled his legs with yours. He wasn’t able to even doze off until you were sound asleep. He tried not to think about what just happened so he wouldn’t become hard and wake you up. He needed the whole night to transform this place back to the original with how worn out he is.

“Goodnight jagi. Tomorrow you’ll start your new life here with me. In our own haunted house.”

You woke up to Jimin hugging you tightly beneath the warm blanket that you had dirtied just a few hours ago. Your muscles didn’t want to make any effort to move so you had to lay there until you had the energy to get up and get dressed. Stretching out your legs a bit you felt a crack somewhere in your spine. You’re puzzled about how that would affect your back but you don’t worry about it. Nuzzling back into Jimin’s neck, you finally remembered Jennie and Mark being in the house with you. They must have gone home without you given how long it’s been.

They were adults, no reason to really worry about them. You tucked the blanket over your shoulder to hide from the cold draft. Jimin felt you moving around so he got impossibly closer to you and pulled the blanket up to his neck so it covered most of your head.

You groaned and tilted your head up causing your chin to rest on his chest making your lips pout. He cracked an eye open to see what you were doing. Seeing your sleepy, pouty face made him let out a breathy chuckle.

Jimin leaned down to kiss your forehead, “Did you sleep well?” He continued his kisses all over your face, moving down to reach your nose.

“Mm-hm,” your eyes were still closed when you thought about what it was. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No,” he kept smothering your face in kisses.

“I have to go home soon.”

“No.”

“No? I kinda do. I need clean clothes, I need a shower, and I need to check up on Jennie and Mark,” you began to untangle yourself from Jimin’s arms and legs only to have him roll you over to lay on you. “Jimin~ I have to get up,” laughing you tried to roll back over Jimin had you completely pinned. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said quietly into your ear before he kissed right below your lobe. “My marks are fading already, stay still.”

You huffed as he darkened the already almost purple hickeys on your neck, “After this, you have to get off me so I can go home.” 

“But you can’t go home. You live here now, with me,” he pushed himself up with his forearms on the mattress. His eyes were stone. But they were warm as they bore into yours. “You’re not leaving me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you whispered as you maintained eye contact. “How can either of us live here when it’s just a stage for townspeople to dress up and scare people?”

“It seems, you haven’t noticed the change in the room,” Jimin smirked as his eyes left yours to scan the room, causing you to follow his actions. 

The room was no longer a dirty beige with dust-covered furniture. It’s the same exact room except, it was gray. Everything in the room was gray beside you two. The window that had light from the fair shining through was completely blacked out. And the mirror above the desk was completely shattered. Little to no pieces remained in the frame. 

“Besides, your friends tried to find us but they kind of got trapped,” He laid back down next to you and rested his head on his hand. “So there’s no need to worry about them, sweetheart.”

You pushed his arm off and swung your legs onto the floor but you felt the familiar wetness from one of Jimin’s tentacles wrap around your abdomen. It made you sit back down and pulled you back to Jimin.

“It’s true that you have all the power over me. However, that doesn’t mean I’ll let you go.”

Your heart undoubtedly fluttered.

[evil-slytherin-queen]

Must've Been the Wind

warning: physical abuse, abuse, violence, Vernon Dursley is an asshole

Draco lugged the last two boxes into his new flat. One pushed through the door by his foot and the other in his arms. He settled them both on the ground and sighed with content. Finally, he had all of the boxes out of his car, even if it had taken all day.

This was going to be brilliant. A new start. Far away from his family, their dirty money and nothing stopping him from pursuing whatever and whoever he bloody well pleased. All he had to do was unpack.

Draco scanned the floor of his newly bought flat and suppressed a groan at all the boxes laid about. He'd definitely have to ring up Pansy, and the boys to help him unpack and organize everything. Speaking of, Draco grinned at the thought and swiped to answer his ringing cell.

"I was just thinking of you," Draco hummed, as he walked into the kitchen, hoping to put on some tea. 

"Lovely, I wanted to see how you were, darling. How's the flat? Not too common I hope?" 

Draco snorted at that, of course Pansy would be worried about it being 'too common'. He glanced around the flat once more and realized how common Pansy would certainly find it. It wasn't overly cheap, or run down but it was nothing compared to either of their childhood homes. The flat had only three rooms: a bedroom and bath, the living and dining area, and the kitchen. She would be mortified. 

"You do realize, I bought this on my salary, Pans?" He said, rummaging through one of the boxes labeled kitchen to find his kettle, mugs, and some tea.

"Yes, yes, I suppose I'll simply have to get used to it then." 

Draco finally managed to pull out what he was looking for and smiled at his success as he filled the kettle with tap water and turned the gas stove on.

"Poor, Princess Pansy, having to visit her dearest friend in squalor, so terribly close to peasants, however will she survive?" Draco cried dramatically, leaning his hip against the counter as he waited, a snooty smirk plastered on his face.

"Oi! Watch yourself, Draco, darling. Wouldn't want me to do anything unsavoury next time I see you, now would we? And it's queen not princess, thank you very much."

Draco resisted the urge to snort again as he carded a hand through his mused hair. He and Pansy both really did have quite a flare for the dramatics. It was a wonder how the world survived with the pair of them as friends.

"Speaking of seeing one another, would you like to help-"

A loud crash, one that sounded an awful lot like glass shattering, cut Draco off from finishing his statement. The sound had come from the flat above his and he drew his eyebrows up in confusion, then shrugged. Someone had most likely just dropped something, it was fine.

"Draco?"

"Right, sorry, thin w-"

-walls. Apparently, there were very thin walls between Draco's flat and the one above him seeing as he was interrupted once again, this time by two different voices. It sounded like a man shouting angrily and someone...whining or crying perhaps?

"Draco?"

Worry spiked in his chest as he turned the stove top off again. He quickly grabbed his keys and found himself locking the door and walking down the hall. Even if he was acting a bit paranoid, he couldn't ignore what sounded like a domestic gone bad, especially not when it sounded so violent.

"Hello? Draco?"

"Er, yes, sorry Pansy. I think I'm going to have to call you back." Draco sighed, as he pressed the button next to the lift. 

"Alright, have a goodnight, darling. Be safe!" 

"Always am, goodnight, love." And with that Draco hung up the phone. 

The lift arrived and he walked in letting it take him to the second floor. He hoped he was wrong, he didn't need this sort of thing taking over his mind just as he started settling into his new life. He was far too protective over his friends as it was, he didn't need another person to worry and fret over like a nervous mother. Besides, he was supposed to be a wild and reckless nineteen-year-old, not a parent.

"Please, let this be a misunderstanding." He whispered to himself as he exited the lift and walked towards the flat that would be directly above his and knocked. A moment or so passed and Draco genuinely considered leaving before anyone answered the door. He really wasn't fond of conflict and this could definitely be a recipe for disaster. He had to learn to keep his nose out of others business but...

In that moment a young man, looking more than a bit skittish, opened the door. He was a head shorter than Draco with startlingly green eyes framed by round, crooked glasses and messy black hair.

"Yes?" The man asked, his eyes flickering over Draco for a second then landing back on the space off to the side of him. He looked so small, skin and bones. His tanned skin looked pale and he had a sweater zipped all the way up, purple and yellow smudges peaking out of the collar on his neck.

The sight unsettled Draco to say the least. 

"I-ahem-sorry. I heard shouting and it sounded like someone had gotten hurt. I wanted to make sure everything was alright. I recently moved into the flat just beneath you." Draco explained with an awkward smile. He desperately resisted the urge to ask about the markings on his neck. People never seemed to appreciate his overly observant tendencies.

The man froze a little and opened his mouth and closed it a couple of time's before responding. "I broke a glass. As for the shouting, I wouldn't know anything about that." His voice shook a little and he sounded like he didn't believe himself either.

"Are you sure? You're alright?" Draco asked the doubt evident on his face as he laced his fingers together hoping to distract himself from the worry filling his stomach.

"Where're you at boy!" 

A loud voice called from inside the flat and Draco saw the young man visibly flinch. This was not good. This was terrible, actually. The man swallowed and looked back at Draco.

"Thank you, for caring, sir, that's kind of you, but I've got to go back in. Wish I could explain the noise, but I didn't hear anything. It must've been the wind, it can get particularly loud around here, especially at night." The man said, with a tone that Draco could only assume was an attempt to reassure him that nothing was amiss. It wasn't working. Draco itched to press the subject further but pushed it aside and nodded. It wasn't his place. He didn't have any real clue what was going on and they were strangers.

"Right, I'm sorry to disturb you so late then. I'm Draco, by the way, and the 'sir' isn't necessary." Draco said, taking a deep breath, as he tried to calm himself down. No use getting worked up over the few signs of abuse this stranger was harboring. He couldn't do anything about it despite his need to fix things. And he didn't even know for sure if there was an 'it' to do anything about as it was.

"Harry. Sorry, for being so loud. I really have to-"

"Boy!"

"Coming Uncle Vernon! I have to go, sorry again." Harry replied, turning to go back in and closing the door in a rush. Draco shook his head and sighed. He could be imaging all of this. Maybe Harry was just shy and maybe nothing had truly happened. He didn't know all of the facts. He could just be over assuming and seeing something that wasn't there. Draco shook his head once more and headed back towards his flat.

•••

"Wait, wait, wait! Hold it right there, boys! Do not move." Pansy ordered throwing her hand up in a 'stop' gesture. Blaise and Theo froze holding the painting at an awkward and uncomfortable angle as she picked apart whether or not she approved of hanging it there. This was the fifth time she had done this.

"What do you think, darling?" She asked tossing her head to the side and glancing at Draco with her perfectly winged eyeliner.

Draco grinned at the irritated scowls Theo and Blaise carried and Pansy's utter obliviousness to it. He really appreciated his friends for helping him get settled into his new home and the entertainment they brought with them, too.

"Hmmm." Draco hummed quirking a mischievous eyebrow at the boys who sent him ice cold glares in response.

"Draco, if you don't like it here then I'm going to toss this out of the bloody window." Blaise snapped, looking rather bitter. How very Zabini of him, his mother would approve.

"Yeah, come on. My arms are tired, hurry it up. There's only so many places in this tiny flat to hang this!" Theo groaned, a pout settling on his face. Draco laughed loudly and waved his hands at them in a dismissive manner.

"Alright, alright, it's fine right there. Set it down and we'll have some tea and biscuits." Draco said, smiling as they put it down with grumbles and Pansy walked over swatting at both of them.

"We are trying to make Draco's home pleasant to look at and be in! Don't. You. Two. Care?!" She hissed, scowling as she finished smacking the two up a bit. The boys dodged her on the last few smacks and came back full force to tickle her. One didn't simply tickle Pansy unless they had a death wish and were prepared for violent retaliation.

Draco found himself being used as a shield on both ends as Blaise and Theo antagonized Pansy and she continued to slap at them. He shook his head fondly at his silly friends.

"Only God knows when I became the mature one of us." He mused with a wry smile, when the three of them exchanged a look. That was dangerous and he knew it.

"What makes you think you're not a part of this?" Blaise asked, stalking towards him a dangerous glint in his eye. Oh, fuck.

"Now, wait a minute. Blaise."

"Yeah, Draco, who said you got a free pass?" Theo continued from behind him. This was not going to end well. Draco suppressed the urge to try and run and turned to face his most loyal and trusted friend for help.

"Pansy?" He asked, a hopeful lilt to his voice and when she only shook her head in response he knew he was doomed. The traitor. In a flash, all three of them were on him, tickling him mercilessly. He squealed at them and tried to wriggle out of Blaise's grip but to no avail. 

Laughter swirled in the room and they all ended up sprawled all along the floor, their heads resting together, making a circle. They stared at Draco's ceiling, a happy feeling floating in the air after the impromptu tickle assault. 

"You are happy here. Right mate?" Theo asked quietly, after a beat or two of silence, his and Blaise's hands tangled together. Draco smiled at them out of the corner of his eye. He knew, as much as they liked to say they were casual, that they were end game for sure. Him and Pansy had even gone as far as to discuss what their future wedding might look like.

"Yes, I am. I just... I couldn't listen to their disappointment any longer." He replied softly, and he felt Pansy reach out to him, intertwining their fingers to comfort him.

"Sorry they didn't take it well. Mother barely came around to the idea and, well, you've seen her around Theo and I," Blaise hummed lightly, even if the conversation hadn't taken a light turn, "It's bloody awkward."

"Whereas, I still have the disgusting privilege of coming out to look forward to. Whoever came up with this was a right bastard." Pansy glared at the ceiling with her words and Draco gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. He knew the feeling, he'd hardly been able to get the words out last year when he had finally decided to tell his parent he was gay.

This is why they all worked so well as friends. They all had posh, homophobic traditional, filthy-rich, old-English families. And they were all massive homos, despite how much Draco's parents tried to deny it.

"Don't worry, if worst comes to worse, we can always be roommates." Draco suggested, holding in a giggle at the idea of seeing Pansy with bed head. He couldn't imagine it, her looking anything but pristine.

"Or you could move into my house. You know my mother adores you." Blaise said as Theo nodded along.

"Or mine, Mother and Father wish you were their daughter, Pansy. I think they'd try to adopt you if they could." Theo added with a snort.

She let out an indignant huff and drew herself up off of the floor, leaving the rest of them to sit up and lean against one another, looking at her with curious expressions.

"You boys need to quit with this or I might have feelings about it." She said, with an appalled shake of her head. And they all grinned at her. 

"Awe, we love you too, Ice Queen." Draco sang, jumping to his feet and pressing a wet kiss to her cheek which she promptly wiped off. Theo and Blaise chuckled behind him and shuffled to their feet.

"Now, didn't you say something about biscuits, Draco?" Theo asked waggling his eyebrows at him. His notorious sweet tooth making Draco shake his head in fond exasperation. 

"Yes, I'll get started on tea, while you three finish hanging that painting." Draco said, wandering into his kitchen. A satisfied smile gracing his lips.

•••

Around two weeks after he had moved in, Draco found himself making his way up to Harry's flat for the second time. He had almost forgotten about the whole incident, seeing as things had been rather quiet ever since, but he'd still had that nagging feeling in the back of his head that something bad was going to happen.

Blaise, Theo, and Pansy were over this time. All four of them huddled together on the couch with dozens of snacks, pillows, and blankets surrounding them as they watched some convoluted French horror film Pansy had brought with her. A loud thud made Theo and Pansy jump. Theo threw himself into Blaise's lap and hid his face in his neck while Blaise laughed, seemingly immune to the movie, and Pansy clung onto Draco fiercely.

Shouting came next, followed by a door slamming loudly, another thud and then what sounded like crying. The fact that all of these sounds were filtering through Draco's ceiling made it finally click for him. It was Harry's flat again. Bloody hell.

Blaise paused the movie and glanced at Draco with a look. 

"What was that?" He asked, running a hand through Theo's hair. Draco nudged Pansy off of him, who went with a grumble, and stood up, looking for his slippers.

"Neighbor's. I'm not positive, but I think Harry's being abused by his uncle, at least that's what it seems like." Draco replied, successfully finding his shoes and slipping them on. He'd had time to mull over what he'd seen that night and decided he was probably correct about the domestic violence occurring above him.

"Hold on, sorry, back up a second. Who's Harry?" Pansy asked snuggling a pillow to her chest. 

"And why do you think he's being abused? You can't always stick yourself into people's lives, Draco." Theo sighed, turning around to join in the conversation. Draco fought off a scowl, he wasn't sticking himself into anything if this Vernon was going to be so bloody loud about it.

"I've gone up to check before. Harry lives up there with his uncle, I suppose. He looks about our age, maybe a little younger. And he had bruises on his neck, Theo, like hands-choking-you-out sort of bruises, I doubt they were consensual." Draco said, feeling his anger simmer at the reminder of it. Blaise hushed Theo from continuing his disapproval and nodded at Draco. 

"Go, on. We'll be here." 

"And don't be daft about it, don't get yourself hurt!" Pansy added quickly as he slipped out the door and headed for the lift once again. 

When he made it to their door, dread filled his body as he saw a fist sized dent in the wall next to it. Red staining it from whoever's bloody knuckles had met the wall. And he could hear faint whimpers coming from inside the flat. He heaved in a deep breath and knocked on the door lightly. The sound of crying stopped abruptly and he could hear scrambling just before the door opened.

Harry answered it, crooked glasses, pretty green eyes, messy hair and all. He looked distressed, his eyes red rimmed and his hands were shaking. The skin around one of his eyes was a harsh red, like he'd just taken a punch to the face and his lips quivered a little. Draco frowned.

"I-I'm sorry, Uncle-" He paused and took a step back when he finally looked up to meet Draco's eyes, "Oh, it's you." 

Draco nodded minutely and studied Harry for another minute before responding.

"Yeah, I heard yelling. I wanted to check up on you. Did your...um, what happened to the wall?" Draco asked softly, trying for a comforting smile, but he only managed to lessen his frown a little. He couldn't find it in himself to smile at this. 

Harry looked away from him and seemed to shrink in on himself at the question. He said nothing and Draco took that as his answer. He stifled a sigh and put his hands in his pockets, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He couldn't imagine how Harry must be feeling. It must be awful and he must be terrified.

"I-" Draco stopped himself and thought a little. He didn't just want to leave it at that. As much as he didn't want to intrude, he felt worse, leaving without offering any sort of lifeline. Then he'd be like every other occupant in this building who hadn't done anything about this.

"I won't pretend to know what you're going through," He said, carefully.

Harry glanced up at him when he spoke and bit his lip like he was stopping himself from responding. So, Draco continued,

"I simply want you to know that, you're always welcome to come over. You can stay for a couple of hours if you need to get out of here for a while. You can come over if you need a friend or you want to talk about this, or anything, really."

Harry eyed him suspiciously, like Draco might take back his words or break out into cruel laughter over what he'd just suggested. Draco reached up and ran a hand though his hair and licked his lips, trying to find the right words to say.

"I won't ask you about anything you don't want to talk about and I promise I'm not playing some cruel trick on you. You're welcome, anytime, day or night. And I mean that, Harry." Draco said firmly, putting as much sincerity in his words as he could. He truly did mean it, but he couldn't force Harry to seek out help or come to him, even if he wanted to. If anything, Draco thought that might actually make the situation worse.

Draco was met with more silence and Harry kept staring at him with those impossibly green eyes full of an emotion he couldn't place. He nodded once and finished off his little speech.

"Until you tell me otherwise, I'm sure it was just the wind. And I'm in flat 1C, in case you needed it. Have a goodnight, Harry."

With those words and one last meaningful look Draco turned to leave. There wasn't anything else he could do. He heard the man clear his throat just as he was going to step away, so he turned towards Harry quickly as to not miss his words.

"Thank you, Draco." Harry whispered softly, a small smile settling on his face. Draco grinned back and nodded again.

"Of course."

•••

A few more weeks past and Harry had shown up to Draco's flat many times for tea. The first time it had been awkward and the air felt heavy with the unspoken words, but soon enough they settled into a tentative friendship. 

Draco learned that Harry was eighteen. He liked football and he could've been a star player if he hadn't gotten hurt in his 4th year playing. He had an intense passion for animals, owls specifically, and he loved the idea of starting a sanctuary. He'd just graduated the summer before, and he loved the stars, Draco being one of his favorite constellations (a fact that Draco reveled in). His favorite color was gold and his favorite dessert was treacle tarts (which Draco now had a habit of keeping on hand at all times).

Draco also had a a large suspicion that Harry wasn't straight, as he had been particularly interested in the pride flag Draco had pinned to one of his walls that read "Love Is Love". When he had asked about it Harry turned into a blushing, stuttering mess and excused himself, saying he had somewhere to be.

They never mentioned Harry's home situation. Draco never asked and Harry never offered an explanation. Although, the bruises that would appear all over Harry's body, at least the visible one's, made Draco itch to swoop in and play hero. Every time he noticed a new one he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking. Either way he enjoyed Harry's company and he wasn't about to ruin that with his compulsive need to fix everything and help people. At the very least Draco knew that Harry felt safe the few hours he spent at his flat. And for now, that was enough.

•••

The third time Draco made his way up to Harry's flat he had never dreaded it more. Whatever had happened, it had been loud. Louder than any sort of yelling he'd ever heard before. He knocked on the door and for the first time, Harry wasn't the one to answer it. 

Instead, a fat, red faced, man opened the door. He had more hair on his upper lip than on his head and the moustache only served to make him look even angrier than he already did.

"You!" The man growled, his beady eyes narrowing so much that they were only slits. So that was how this was going to go.

"Sorry?" Draco replied, recognizing the voice as this so called 'Uncle Vernon' and only mildly shocked by the amount of aggression expressed in one word.

"You stay the bloody hell away from me and my family, fucking faggot!" Vernon spat, his face turning a darker shade of red as he went. Draco stared at him for a moment, wide eyed and speechless. 

It wasn't like he hadn't had the slur thrown at him before, but he wasn't expecting it here. Although, he wouldn't put it passed this man to throw out slurs so casually.

"I'm only here to check on Harry, then I'll leave." Draco said, a stony expression settling on his face. He was furious with how rude this man was being but he had to play nice if he wanted to make sure Harry was alright. He said nothing else, however his glare could've burned holes into the ignorant gits face. And he'd deserve it too.

"I think not! He won't be seeing the likes of you anymore, not while he lives under my roof. You've filled that boys head with enough nonsense and I won't stand for it!" Vernon yelled, then promptly slammed the door in his face. Draco was fuming.

He stomped his way back to his flat and threw himself into angry cleaning every room. Draco hated how useless he was in this situation. He couldn't go knocking down Vernon's door and he couldn't call the police, Harry would no doubt deny it all and feel utterly betrayed, which would amount to nothing other than a broken friendship. He could do virtually nothing and it burned. 

By the time he finished scrubbing every inch of his kitchen his rage had given way to worry. What had happened? How many new bruises had Harry received from this last round of beatings? Gods, Draco felt sick. He needed to tell someone before the worry ate him alive.

He dragged his way from the kitchen to his bedroom and grabbed his cell to message- he didn't know who. Pansy? No, she would go into a full rage and actually try and hurt someone. Even if the idea of hurting Vernon gave Draco great satisfaction it wouldn't help the situation. Theo would only go on about how Draco shouldn't put his nose where it wasn't wanted and leave it be. He always made it a point to tell Draco that he couldn't save everyone and trying to do so only hurt him in the end. Bloody hell, he didn't want to deal with that.

He settled on Blaise. He would listen to Draco rant and if he came over he wouldn't try anything like Pansy would. And he'd always been the best with advice, every since they were younger. He sent him a quick message asking him to come over and set the kettle on the stove. 

A short fifteen minutes later, Draco had Blaise sitting at his dining table scrutinizing him with his dark eyes as he stirred his tea. He had just finished explaining the situation and Blaise's silence was killing him.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

Blaise fixed him with a look and raised an eyebrow. Draco hated this. Maybe he should have let Pansy come and attack the man upstairs, instead.

"What would you like me to say, Draco?" Blaise asked, his eyes scanning over him in that calculating way that only a Zabini could pull off. 

Draco deflated at that. He didn't know. He supposed he'd had some sort of childish hope that Blaise would have a magical solution even if he knew that was unrealistic.

"Lord above, I don't know, Blaise. This is all such a mess!" He groaned, dropping his head in his hands as he went. Draco heard Blaise sigh as he tugged Draco's hands off of his face. 

"Draco, I know this is difficult. I can tell you care about this, about Harry, but it sounds like you've already realized that you can't do anything." Blaise said softly, as he held one of Draco's hands, rubbing his thumb over the back of it in a comforting manner. He hated when Blaise pointed things like that out, especially when he was right.

"I hate this." Draco whispered, leaning back in his chair and shutting his eyes. "I wish I didn't care so much." 

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, look at me." Blaise said firmly and Draco found himself listening to his command. He knew better than to not respond when Blaise used his full name. 

"Don't ever regret caring about others the way you do. Not ever," Blaise held his gaze fiercely,"You've saved all of us from ourselves countless times and you make us better people because of who you are. Never wish to be apathetic."

Draco nodded dumbly and he hated himself a little for the tears pressing against his eyes. Why did he have to have so many bloody feelings all of the time.

"Blaise," was all he could managed to choke out before tears made their way down his face and he was swept into strong arms. They stood like that for a while, Blaise running a comforting hand up and down his back as he cried from all of the worry and the frustration he had about Harry. Sometimes he felt so bloody useless.

•••

It has been a week and three days since Draco had last seen Harry and he had counted every second of it. The last time he'd been this stressed out and high strung was when some prick at school had threatened to out him to his parents. And his friends had noticed, which is why they were all piled around his coffee table sitting on the floor in front of the sofa and playing board games.

"You can't just do that!" Theo said, slamming his hands on the table at Pansy's invasion of his part of the map. She let out a cackle and knocked more of his pieces off of the board.

"Yes, dear, Theo, I can. That is how you conquer, boys." She grinned, sitting back with a satisfied look on her face. Draco and Blaise laughed as Theo let out a scandalized huff.

They'd been playing Risk for the better part of an hour and Pansy had wiped both Blaise and Draco off of the board, leaving Theo to handle her assault. The distraction of it all was making Draco feel marginally better, not to mention the shots they'd taken earlier.

"This was a brilliant idea, Pans, my queen, thank you," Draco said, pulling her into a hug as Theo grumbled about Pansy always winning and why did they even play anymore which Blaise quickly silenced by smothering him in kisses.

"Ew! Get a room," Pansy gagged tossing throw pillows at them until they broke apart laughing, childishly sticking their tongues out at her. And all Draco could do was smile. He couldn't ask for better friends. He didn't know how he managed to grow up with the least judgmental and most kind hearted people he'd ever met, especially since they all had such horrid parents to deal with, but he was grateful.

His pleasant reverie came to an abrupt stop when someone began pounding on his front door.

"It's nearly midnight, who in their right mind," Pansy scoffed, as she stood up too more than likely yell at whoever it was. 

"Hey, it's alright, Pans. It's probably nothing, why don't you pick another game," Draco said, standing up and making his way over towards the door where the knocking continued in an almost frantic way. It was probably Mrs. Figg looking for her cat again.

"Hey, what can-Harry? W-what happened?" Draco asked, his stomach dropping, suddenly, he felt stressed and anxious and sick all over again. 

Harry looked terrified. He had tears running down his face, which was littered with cuts and he had a split lip that was bleeding. His chest was heaving and he kept glancing behind him like he was waiting for something or someone. His hair was more of a mess than usual and his glasses were nearly hanging off of his face.

"Draco, I didn't- I didn't know where else to," Harry gasped, "He said he was going to...he h-had a knife. I don't-I don't want to d-die."

"Oh my god, come here." Draco breathed out, pulling the trembling man into his arms and rubbing his back. He felt Harry freeze, then melt into the touch and cry harder, wrapping his arms around him in return. And Draco couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since someone had touched him without hurting him. The thought made him hold Harry tighter.

"I won't let him touch you, never again. You're safe now, Harry, I promise." Draco soothed, stroking his hair and pulling him further into the flat.

"What's happening?" Theo asked as he and Blaise stood up and Pansy walked back into the room holding a bottle of Firewiskey, scanned the room and then set it down with a questioning look.

"Where are you, boy!" A voice howled from the corridor and Draco's eyes snapped toward the still open door as Harry whimpered and burrowed himself further in his arms.

"Blaise, Theo, make sure that man doesn't get in here and lock the door. Pansy, call the police, tell them there's a man trying to break in with the means to hurt us and that he's already commited assault." Draco ordered, fire burning behind his eyes. This would be the last time Vernon ever put his hands on Harry, Draco would make sure of that. 

Pansy immediately began dialing and the boys went to the door where a flash of the angry man could be seen. Draco nodded once before he brought Harry towards his bedroom and away from the yelling.

"It's going to be okay. Come now, love, let me clean you up a little, please?" Draco softy asked, when Harry refused to let go of him when he tried to pull him off. God, everything about this broke Draco's heart.

When Draco managed to get Harry off of him, he settled him on the bed and went to get his first aid kit. Before he could get more than a few steps away, Harry snatched his sleeve and Draco turned to face him.

"Please, d-don't leave me alone." Harry whispered, looking at him with those brilliant green eyes, shiny with tears. Draco's heart ached at the sight.

"Okay, I'm sorry. I'll stay here, love." Draco sighed heavily, sitting next to Harry and wrapping an arm around him. He really wished Harry would let him fix the little cuts on his face and his bleeding lip but if this is what he wanted, Draco wouldn't take that from him. He couldn't bear the thought of Harry feeling more unsafe than he already did.

"I'm s-sorry," Harry hiccuped, leaning against Draco, "I n-never meant to drag you into this. It's all-all m-my fault."

"No, Harry, love. This isn't your fault. I should've helped you sooner and you did your best, sometimes surviving is all we can do," Draco said, tucking Harry's head under his chin and running a hand up and down his arm, "And it's okay to ask for help when we need it."

Harry sank further into Draco's side at those words and took in a shaky breath just as Pansy came into the room.

"Draco, the police are one their way and the arsehole is locked out. Blaise sent me in to tell you that we need pictures, if his mother is going to be able to convict the fucker banging on your door," She said as she shut the door on the sound of yelling and loud thuds, "He thought Harry would be more comfortable with me than another man in the room."

Draco nodded in response and he appreciated his friends more than ever in that moment. He loved that they all adopted the same vendetta against the man outside without so much as a word. 

"Harry, darling, I'm Pansy. Would it be alright if I took a few photos of you?" Pansy asked, as she crouched down in front of him and he nodded, "Alright, I'll need you to sit up for a quick minute, then you can go back to leaning on Draco, hmm?" 

Harry nodded again and pulled himself off of Draco, but holding onto his hands tightly. Pansy snap some photos on her phone and asked before she touched him to maneuver his face and take off his glasses, to see all of the damage and he let her without a fuss. 

"There we are, darling. All done." She hummed with a small smile, patting his knee as she stood up.

"Thank you, Pansy. Would you mind grabbing the first aid kit, it's in the bathroom, under the sink?" Draco said, while Harry fell against him once more, wrapping his arms around his torso. She nodded and went off to get it taking Harry's unsalvageable glasses with her.

"What am I going to do? What if he-what if he comes back and tries to...where-where am I going to live?" Harry asked quietly and Draco found himself answering before he could think.

"I promise, we will make sure that man stays very far away from you, for a very long time. Once the police arrest him, we'll go up to the flat and take all of your things and bring them down here. And we'll figure everything else out once things have settled." 

Harry nodded mutely and let Draco clean him up once Pansy came back with the supplies, although convincing him he had to let go of Draco before he could do so had been a struggle.

By the time the police arrived and had arrested Vernon Dursley, which Draco had learned was his full name from the officers and landlords conversation, Harry's face was all cleaned up, save for the busted lip and he'd finally stopped shaking. And Draco couldn't remember him ever looking so young, without his glasses, his eyes seemed ten times bigger and greener than before. It made the awful situation hurt so much more.

Theo and Blaise were left to clean up all of the games and snacks they'd had out earlier while Pansy, Draco, and Harry went to collect his things from his flat. Draco was appalled to find that Harry had been crammed into nothing more than a closet and Pansy went about taking photos before they moved anything. Draco had never felt more disgusted by another human being in his life than when Harry asked quietly if Pansy needed photos of his other injuries. He'd pulled off his shirt to reveal scars all along his chest and his back with bruises in different stages of healing and Draco felt sick to his stomach. He'd kill that man if he ever had the chance.

Once everything was said and done, the five of them were crammed together in the living room, the telly playing in the background. Draco sat drinking the tea Theo had made, running a hand through Harry's curls, who had fallen asleep with his head in Draco's lap. Theo and Blaise weren't far from passing out themselves as they lay tangle together on the other side of the sofa. Pansy took up the recliner, mindlessly flipping through the channels, a pair of Draco's silk pajamas resting loosely on her petite frame.

"You know, Draco, that was very stupid of you. Going up to their flat like you did, several times apparently. Not telling anyone." Pansy said absently, not asking for an explanation, but simply stating a fact. Draco looked at her, her eyes still focused on the telly, not bothering to look at him as she spoke. He'd hurt her. He knew he had, she was his best friend and he'd gone to Blaise and hadn't even mentioned the topic to her other than the one time they'd all heard the commotion upstairs. 

He let out a heavy sigh and carded his fingers through Harry's hair once again.

"I know."

"Most people would have called the police sooner, or complained to the landlord first but you've never been most people have you, darling." Pansy said, but the question was rhetorical and they both knew the answer. Draco liked to play hero and he liked to fix people which entailed him nosing his way into others business and having no regards for himself. He said nothing.

"I'm going to give you money to help pay the rent, put Harry into therapy, whatever it is you need."

"Pansy, you don't have to-"

"I know, but I want to. You're my best friend and you are clearly head over heels for that boy. And even if you weren't, he deserves to feel happy and safe."

Draco's face flushed at the words as he stared at her wide eyed. 

"I-no, I'm not...I don't..."

"Whatever you say, darling." Pansy hummed, sounding like she didn't believe him in the slightest and far too amused for his liking. He watched her flip off the screen and make herself comfortable, pulling a blanket over herself. 

"I'd take Harry with you to your bed or you'll both be kicked off of the sofa by Theo in the middle of the night. Either way, goodnight, Draco."

"Goodnight, Pans."

In the end, Draco followed her advice, carrying a sleeping Harry to his bedroom and falling asleep next to him.

•••

[6 months later]

"My love, my light, my stars!" Harry sang from his spot on their bed, one of the only things they'd managed to unpack and put together properly since they'd moved into their new flat. Moving was something Harry's therapist had suggested they do, so they had, and now it truly felt like their flat.

"Yes, love?" Draco asked as he finished buttoning up his shirt and turned to face his boyfriend of three months. Harry gave him a coy smile, his pretty green eyes, something Draco could never get enough of, full of mischief. He grabbed Draco's hand tugging him down till their faces were mere inches from each other. 

"What if," Harry murmured, lacing his fingers around Draco's collar and pulling him closer, "what if we stayed in, instead of going for lunch with everyone, hmm?" 

Harry kissed him deeply, nipping at his bottom lip and Draco's knees went weak. Lord, this man would be the death of him. It took all of Draco's will power and strength to untangle Harry's hands from his shirt and pull away from the kiss. Harry pouted up at him and Draco almost gave in to his request until he remembered the surprise he'd arranged with Pansy.

"Devious today, aren't we? Sorry, love, we still have to go." Draco said with a smile, landing a quick peck on his still pouting lips. "Please get dressed, I'll make you your favorite tea if you do." 

Harry grinned at him and pulled him into another hot kiss. 

"You'd make it for me anyway," Harry said smugly, then he stood up and went to rifle through his drawers for something to wear. 

"The things you do to me, Harry James Potter." Draco sighed over dramatically pulling a laugh from Harry as he went to make tea.

•••

"Ready?" Draco asked pulling open the door of the restaurant they were meeting everyone at, including two special guests that Pansy and Draco had invited.

"What aren't you telling me, Draco?" Harry asked looking up at him, a curious smile tugging at his lips as they walked in holding hands. 

"You'll see." Draco hummed happily, pulling Harry against his side as they walked towards their reserved table.

Draco and Pansy had arranged for two of Harry's old school mates to meet them there. Harry had shown Draco a photo of all three of them in his 4th year just before they'd graduated and he'd told him about how he regretted losing touch with them once school had ended. So, being the amazing boyfriend he was, Draco snapped a photo of the picture and sent it to Pansy with their names asking her to help find them. Pansy then hired a private investigator, a little over the top if you asked Draco, and made quick work of finding Hermione Jean Granger and Ronald Billius Weasley. 

"Surprise, darling!" Pansy nearly shouted, pulling Harry away from Draco the second they made it to the table and planting a kiss on his cheek. "Draco and I managed to track these two lovely people down for you." 

She then pushed him towards a beautiful woman with wild curls and a tall ginger haired man covered in freckles. At first it took him a moment to process, Hermione and Ronald both giving him fond smiles and a little wave.

"It's been a while, Harry." Hermione said lightly, she looked like she wanted to pull him into a hug but she didn't. Draco assumed Pansy had let them know how Harry could be about touching sometimes. Something Harry had finally gotten past with Draco and Pansy a few months ago.

"We've missed you, mate." Ronald added rubbing his neck awkwardly as Harry kept staring at them open mouthed and wide eyed.

Draco walked up next to Harry, wrapping an arm around his waist. He shook hands with Ronald and Hermione with a smile, hoping to break him out of his trance.

"It's nice to meet you both, Harry told me all about how wonderful you are. Isn't that right, love?" Draco asked, stroking his thumb also Harry's side and glancing at him. Harry seemed to come back to the present and kept glancing between Draco and his old school mates before pulling him into a fierce kiss. 

"Thank you." Harry whispered against a stunned Draco's lips before he pulled away. Bloody hell, his lips were intoxicating. Then he walked straight up to Hermione and Ronald engulfing them in a hug.

By the time Blaise and Theo had joined them Harry, Ronald and Hermione were talking like they'd never stopped and Draco couldn't help but silently watch how happy his boyfriend looked.

Nothing would ever look as gorgeous as Harry, completely unguarded and smiling in this moment.

a/n I feel like this is a bit all over the place but whatever. Also it was inspired by Alec Benjamin's song Must Have Been the Wind.

[mischiefandi]

A Shitty Love Song (Part 2) - Stiles Stilinski

Altered State Of Mind

A/N: hi guys!! im super happy im posting part 2 of this series :)) I really hope you like it and once again, huge thank u to @duskholland​ for all your help <33

Summary: Y/N is a 17 year old girl who struggles in an epic battle against herself. Whether it is amor’s icy grasp or life’s unexpected course that forces her to finally open up, only one thing is certain. The truth cannot be long hidden.

Warnings: panic attack, mentions of underage drinking, swearing

Word Count: 5,2K

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski x Reader (Y/N)

Series Masterlist

(picture is not mine -> credits to @ elevantarts on unsplash)

A blaring sound resonated in Y/N’s ears and she groaned, her fingers curling around the blanket she lay beneath. A throbbing sensation in her head forced her to pry her eyes open, sunlight seeping through the gaps in her eyelids.

Reaching up to rub her eyes, Y/N tried to sit up, the throbs against her forehead staggeringly more painful. When her eyes finally accustomed themselves to the light, Y/N glanced around, looking for the source of the insufferable noise. The blaring seemed to come from far away and nearby at the same time; Y/N was simply too tired to make any sense.

“Oh my god, my head,” she moaned, falling back against the soft pillow with a grunt.

“Would someone please shut that off,” a voice mumbled from underneath a heap of pillows and messed up sheets.

“Y/N, it’s your phone,” another voice groaned.

Passing a shaking hand over her face, Y/N forced herself to fully open her eyes and focused on the sound of the alarm, still shrieking in sync with her god awful headache. Reaching over her head, she grabbed her phone and put it on silent, thanking the universe for the sudden alleviating silence.

“Well last night was-“

“-crazy.”

Y/N shot a glance at Lydia’s bed where the strawberry blonde was propped up against her pillows, wiping off the smudged mascara beneath her big green eyes.

“I can’t even focus right now. What happened last night?” she asked, rubbing her forehead.

“You don’t remember?”

“I mean, bits and pieces, why?”

Allison and Lydia exchanged a look.

“Uh, Y/N you went wild yesterday.”

“I did?” asked Y/N, worry seeping through her oily pores.

“We had to get a cab home cause neither one of us was fit to drive, and…you definitely threw up in the cab.”

Y/N groaned, a hand flying up to her forehead. “That explains the taste in my mouth.” She thought to herself.

“Yea, you got pretty drunk. Thank god, Stiles and Scott were there or you’d have passed out right on the dancefloor.”

“Wait, they were there?”

Allison sent Y/N a confused look, biting her lip.

“Well yeah, they got there about thirty minutes after we did. Did you not hang out with them at all?” she asked.

A sudden flash of colour appeared in Y/N’s head, the feeling of skin against skin, lips hungrily claiming each other, the smell of sweat and leather. She gasped, a hand reaching up to cover her mouth. Jumping up to her feet in a burst, ignoring the violent throb in her head, she rushed over to the mirror and turned her neck towards the right, her eyes widening at her sorry reflection.

“Are those-“

“Hickeys?” exclaimed Allison, leaping off of her mattress and onto the floor.

“Oh my god…”

“No way! Who are those from?” inquired Lydia, shock painted across her face.

“I’m not sure…” answered Y/N, her voice but a quiet murmur, her eyes still fixated on the deep purple marks scattered across her neckline.

In the back of her head, amber eyes bored into hers, and she couldn’t help but notice the dark pit forming in her stomach.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Y/N stepped out of her bath, all of the dried up paint and sweat cleansed from her body. Stepping up to her bathroom mirror, she wiped the hot steam off the glass, the purple stains on her neck still very visible. She sighed, her fingers lightly tracing the mark by her collarbone, her mind elsewhere. She was at a loss.

Had it been him? Had it been Stiles? Maybe she had him confused with someone else, maybe she really had shared this moment with Jeremy. Maybe.

Y/N’s frown deepened. All that was left from that moment on the dancefloor was these purple love bites and blurriness. So much blurriness. Hundreds of questions and voices overlapped in Y/N’s head.

“What does this mean? Was it really him? What’s next?” She shook her head anxiously, quietly tapping against the steam covered sink.

Grabbing her phone with shaking fingers, Y/N typed in a message and sent it to the person she had had stuck in her brain all day long.

Y/N: did u ever show up at the rave?

Y/N: cause my drunk ass can’t remember a thing :/

Minutes seemed to last longer than hours as she waited by her phone. She sat impatiently on her bed, furiously tearing off the tips of her fingernails, occasionally drawing out a tiny spot of blood accompanied by a soft hiss. Finally, the buzzing sound of her phone snapped her back to reality and she unlocked it in a flash.

Stiles: yea I stopped by

Y/N stared down at her phone screen, puzzled.

Y/N: did you have fun?

A few minutes passed before his short answer came.

Stiles: yea it was alright

Stiles: I was just glad to get out of the rain

Y/N: the rain?

Stiles: yea it was raining when Scott and I got there

Y/N’s fingers trembled as she started typing in a new message, her hands abruptly pausing when her phone buzzed again.

(Y/N: did we hang out at all last night?)

Stiles: my dad’s asking me to help him out with dinner

Stiles: gotta go

Deleting her previous and thankfully unsent text, Y/N quickly typed in something else, her heart almost leaping out of her chest.

Y/N: oh okay, np

Y/N’s wet hair cascaded down her shoulder as she removed the towel from her head, letting her body gently plop down onto her bed.

Had she truly imagined it all? Something was off, but somehow, she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The girl braided her damp hair and slipped under her toasty covers. Exhaustion soon took over her body and pushed her into a deep slumber, her dreamless sleep a tranquil break from her precipitating thoughts.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Amor loves to have one’s undivided attention. It slips through the thinnest of cracks and likes to hide behind your thoughts, carefully creeping around your mind, giggling at your confusion. Without even knowing it, you consume amor, you breathe it in, you bathe in it.

Amor is sneaky. Which is precisely how Y/N went about her day, ate, showered, studied, breathed without ever discerning her bewitchment.

Monday’s sunrays broke over the horizon, the song of gleeful robins piercing through the cool morning air. Lazily, Y/N slipped her clothes on and decided to walk to school, enjoying the crisp breeze. Autumn trees coasted along the route as she slowly carried herself to school, her tired eyes carefully observing the orange and brown leaves twirl down in timeless waltzes onto the cold concrete ground.

When she finally got to school, Y/N walked over to her locker, unlocking the padlock with her designated combination. As she placed the contents of her bag on top of the metal shelves and retrieved her chem notes, Y/N readjusted the wine-red turtleneck she had meticulously picked out from her wardrobe the day before.

“Uncomfortable but necessary.” She thought to herself as she turned around.

Her heart suddenly leapt into her chest, her eyes landing on Stiles’ dark blue flannel shirt. Taking a step forward, she was about to call out his name, when his eyes met hers. Time paused yet again, Stiles’ furtive gaze avoiding hers, his amber irises quickly looking down at his feet as he resumed his conversation with Scott.

A brief glimpse of the undeniable tension between the pair, a sight covered by amor’s thick layer of fog.

A wave of hurt washed over Y/N’s entire body, but she bit her lip and hurried off to class, choosing to ignore the feeling rather than dwell on it.

Class seemed to last even longer than usual, the constant tick-tick-tick of the clock rocking Y/N into a state of pure passiveness. The words spoken by her teacher floated around her head, seeping out through her ears almost as rapidly as they had penetrated her mind.

When the lunch bell rang, Y/N couldn’t help but exhale softly, releasing some of the tension stacked atop her weary shoulders since earlier that day. No matter how much she tried to focus on her notes, a chaotic whirlwind slowly formed inside of her, preventing her from following the teacher’s train of thought.

Her fingers furiously tapping against her thigh, Y/N stood up hurriedly and grabbed her bag, sliding its handles onto her shoulder. Pushing her way through the crowd of students, she walked out of the building and onto the school field, making her way towards the walnut tree.

“Hey, Y/N!” shouted Allison, waving her over with her gentle hands.

Y/N rushed over and plopped down by the brunette, breathing in the cool air.

“Where are the others?” she asked, noticing how empty the table was.

“Why are you so impatient? The bell only just rang,” Allison said, her light laughter filling the atmosphere surrounding them.

Y/N watched as the group slowly reunited, Scott and Kira walking over nonchalantly, arms linked together, followed by Isaac, unmistakingly blushing at the sight of Allison. Finally, Lydia joined the table and sat across from Y/N, her beautiful hair wrapped into a low bun.

“I am so hungry,” said Scott as he hurriedly took out his sandwich, eagerly taking a large bite out of it with a moan.

“I thought I was gonna pass out in calculus. I am so tired!” exclaimed Allison, burying her face in her delicate hands.

“Yeah, I still haven’t recovered from Friday,” agreed Lydia.

Y/N’s mind flashed right back to the sweaty dance floor, bursts of colour flooding her memory, and she bit down on her lip, shutting her eyes.

“Y/N, you okay?” asked Isaac. The group looked over at her, puzzled faces staring at her own.

“Yeah, everything’s fine!” she replied, her fingers dramatically twisting around the fabric of her coat.

“So, uh, where’s Stiles?” she asked, quickly but not subtly changing the subject.

Scott’s head slightly tilted to the right, a confused expression on his face.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Didn’t tell me what?”

Scott nonchalantly pointed at a table a few feet away from the walnut tree where the gang was seated, Y/N’s eyes following his lead. Her puzzled gaze landed on the dark blue flannel shirt from that morning, wrapped around a boy sitting across from a tall brown-haired girl, their heads buried in books, but their eyes fixated on each other.

“There’s this new girl, Malia Tate. He offered to help her with her math,” explained Scott, unaware of the pit deepening in Y/N’s gut.

As Y/N observed the pair sitting far away from the group’s table, the pumping muscle lodged between her lungs tightened with affliction, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.

The voices surrounding her melted into each other, the sound of her friends’ chatter fading into the background as she kept on staring, the ache in her abdomen persisting.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Several interminable weeks had passed since this particular lunch break. November was slowly coming to an end, along with Y/N’s withering patience. The air had become cooler, and not just the one blowing through the leafless trees.

Stiles and Y/N’s friendship had started to abate, its previous progression suddenly coming to a strange halt, much to Y/N’s dismay. Her phone occasionally buzzed, the screen revealing only a brief answer on his part, or a funny picture or joke every once in a while. However, the long phone calls and texts until 2 am had seemingly come to an end.

Y/N couldn’t exactly pinpoint how it made her feel, but it didn’t feel good, that much was clear. Stiles hadn’t disappeared from the face of the earth, but his texts were spread much further apart, and when he was around, at lunch or in class, he wasn’t truly there, always focused on something else.

She couldn’t help but feel as though there was a void in her day, a gap only replenishable by the mole-speckled boy. She tried to distract herself from the looming feeling of loneliness by hanging out with Allison and Lydia, their light hearted conversations usually effective. Only, her attempts fell short as soon as she was alone again. It had come to a point where Y/N would count the hours between each message, trying to come up with reasons why he wouldn’t just text her back sooner. None of this helped of course.

Constantly thinking about the source of your pain can only do one thing: vivify it.

One rainy Tuesday, Y/N sat down at a table in the school cafeteria, dropping her lunch tray onto the cool surface with a soft thud. Squeezing in between Lydia and Allison, across from Scott and Isaac, she reached for her apple and bit into it with a satisfying crunch as the chatter surrounding her slowly increased.

The girls chatted as the boys focused on Scott’s phone, their eyes glued to the screen.

Y/N raised an eyebrow at them and leaned forward, snapping her fingers just a few inches away from their faces. Scott’s head snapped upwards and Isaac startled, the pair releasing a breath as she chuckled.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” she asked.

Isaac handed her the phone before grabbing his turkey sandwich.

“Our English teacher showed us this website with a bunch of riddles and we’re trying to figure some of them out,” Scott replied, pointing at the screen as Y/N slowly scrolled down.

“You guys are studying riddles?” Allison gasped. “Why do we always get stuck with the boring English teacher?”

“The more you take, the more you leave behind.” Y/N read one of the riddles aloud.

“Footsteps,” replied Lydia with ease, nibbling on her carrot sticks.

“Okay genius, what about this. What is easy to get into but harder to get out of?” Allison asked, peering over Y/N’s shoulder.

Lydia paused, reflecting quietly as the group observed her furrowed brow with amusement.

“Can I give it a go?” asked Isaac, hand raised.

“Go ahead.”

“Trouble?”

“That’s it!” replied Allison.

“Of course you’d get that one right,” Y/N joked, shaking her head.

“Oh okay, try this one. Who has married hundreds but still stays single?”

Suddenly, Stiles’ voice resonated in Y/N’s ears as he sat down next to Scott, his lips curled into a grin.

“A priest,” he said, accompanied by a soft click of his tongue.

“Correct,” replied Y/N, pointedly staring down at her apple.

“Speaking of weddings…when’s yours Stiles? We’re all invited right? And is it an open bar or have you not yet discussed your opti-“

“That’s funny, Isaac, that’s very funny,” answered Stiles. “Yeah, I’ll make sure your invitation gets lost in the mail.”

“Seriously though...Malia?” asked Scott, a sly smile drawn on his lips, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards.

Stiles blushed a little, avoiding everyone’s gazes as he watched his fingers repeatedly tap against the table, his lips pursing together.

“Malia, the girl from your math class?” inquired Lydia.

“Yep, and they’ve been talking…a lot…” Scott teased, his voice higher than usual. Stiles shot him a glare and shook his head in disbelief.

“You can’t keep a thing to yourself can you?” he laughed.

“Wait, so are you guys…?” Allison asked, her chin resting in the palm of her hand.

Y/N shot a glance at Stiles, her heart picking up its pace as she waited for a response.

Was something going on between them? Were they just friends? Was Malia the reason why Stiles and her weren’t talking as much?

“We’re talking. She’s fun. It’s fun. Talking, is- fun,” Stiles said, fumbling his words in embarrassment, his cheeks flooding with red.

“Wow, you’re smitten aren’t you?”

“Okay! Guys, let’s give him a break from the interrogation. He looks like he’s about to explode,” exclaimed Y/N, desperately trying to change the subject, for both their sakes.

Stiles sent her a grateful look and chuckled, the group moving onto another topic, enjoying their lunch together before classes started anew.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Later, after the busy day had winded down and the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, Y/N lay on her bed, the tiny fairy lights hanging on her wall catching her eye as she quietly hummed along to Peach Pit. As the leader singer gave way to the guitarist’s blissful riff, her phone buzzed, and her quiet bubble burst.

She sighed as she reached for it, her fingers connecting with the cool screen. Her tired eyes adjusting to the sudden blue light, she focused on the screen, her lips curling into a soft smile as she read the words she had just received.

Stiles: what comes in hard but comes out soft?

Stiles: tip: you can blow it

Y/N: you’re disgusting

Stiles: excuse me

Stiles: I don’t know what you’re talking about

Y/N: what is it?

Stiles: it’s gum

Y/N shook her head, rolling her eyes at the pervy connotation.

Y/N: ha ha ha

Stiles: it’s not my fault you have a dirty mind

Y/N: yea yea, I was completely innocent before meeting you guys

Stiles: please

Stiles: there’s nothing innocent about you

She stopped, rereading the words carefully, her memories from the Halloween rave flooding back. Those god awful colours just couldn’t stop dancing in the back of her mind.

Hesitantly, she typed in her answer.

Y/N: so what’s up?

She patiently waited, her hands still holding onto her phone, the soft music in the background rocking her peacefully.

Stiles: well

Stiles: I’ve been talking to Malia a lot

Y/N: how’s it going with her?

Stiles: actually we’re hanging out tomorrow

Stiles: in the woods

Y/N felt a pang of hurt in her abdomen but she swiftly ignored it.

Y/N: wow

Y/N: is this a date?

Time stopped for a few seconds before his painful answer showed up on the screen.

Stiles: I think so yea

Y/N: damn

Y/N: so you really like her huh?

Stiles: yea she’s great

Stiles: she’s kind of dominant too?

Stiles: very assertive

Stiles: it’s

Stiles: interesting

Y/N: you like that?

Stiles: it’s definitely not something I’m used to

Stiles: but yea it’s nice

Stiles: I haven’t really talked to anyone about this besides Scott so don’t tell anyone please

Y/N: ofc not

Stiles: thanks

Stiles: quick question

Stiles: might sound weird so don’t judge me

Y/N: go ahead lmao

Stiles: what do you do before you kiss a girl

Stiles: do you ask for permission or do you just do it?

Y/N’s heart momentarily stopped beating and she gulped, her eyes fixated on the surprisingly hurtful words. Her mind completely blank, she paused the music from her computer and passed a hand through her hair, trying to think of an answer. Finally, she drew a deep breath and replied, her hands steady as stone.

Y/N: there’s no answer to that haha

Y/N: you have to do what feels natural

Stiles: yea, you’re probably right

Stiles: just don’t want to mess it up

Y/N: you won’t

Stiles: thanks

Y/N: tell me how it goes!

Stiles: will do

Stiles: and thanks again

Y/N: npp

Y/N shut her phone off and plugged her charger in, placing it on her bedside table. Turning off all of the lights, and drawing her bedroom curtains to a close, she settled beneath her comforter, spreading her limbs with a wide stretch. As she shifted onto her side, placing her hands underneath her cool pillow, she let her eyes roam around her bedroom, thoughts churning in her head.

He had feelings for this girl. Stiles actually liked Malia. And not only was he going on a date with her, but he had talked to Y/N about it. Had she really just imagined it was Stiles on that dance floor? Had she really just mistaken the person kissing her, sliding his lips up and down her neck as she held onto him? And if so, if all of this was purely just her mind playing tricks on her, what did that mean? Did she want it to have been Stiles?

Amor was lingering around her head but she couldn’t see it. All of these questions bustling in her mind soon blended into silence as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

The next day flew by in a blur of classes and scribbles on sheets of paper, a bland and monotone school day. Only one event stood out.

Stiles: well it’s official

Stiles: Stiles Stilinski is a bachelor no more

She congratulated him and heard all of the details surrounding Stiles’ date with Malia. The brunette had laughed at his jokes, she’d held his hand, they’d walked down the stream in the woods, talking endlessly, and then he had leaned in and kissed her.

And she had kissed him back.

What the group had originally thought to be a fling had turned into something more, it had become a real serious relationship.

More absent than ever, Stiles spent most of his time with his new girlfriend, enjoying the feeling of her lips against his own when they kissed each other and the complicity between them. Everyone could tell he was beyond excited about the thrilling sensations that came with young love, though no one other than Y/N knew just how much.

Every day, her phone buzzed, the notifications reminding her that her friend loved making Malia laugh, or that Malia liked the same band he did. Reminding her that he was happy.

And Y/N was unbelievably happy for him as well. She tried to focus on the positives, mainly the fact that the pair had started talking again. Things had gone back to normal, their inside jokes rekindled and their conversations more frequent. But still, something just didn’t sit right.

Y/N pushed this feeling away, diving into new hobbies and hanging out with her friends. As a child, she had always loved drawing and painting. As a matter of fact, she had even followed lessons in an atelier not far from her house, in her hometown. She’d always loved painting but as she had grown older, her extra time had become much slimmer and with life getting in the way, she had had to let it go.

Then one fateful December afternoon, Lydia forced the girls to paint with her in the art room at school. Much to Y/N’s surprise, the tranquility she had felt as a child while holding a brush came back unbelievably naturally.

It was like the brush had never left the palm of her hand. So she started painting again.

When she wasn’t studying or spending time with the pack, creating timeless memories with them, she was hidden away in her room by the window, her fingers curling around her paintbrush, her hair wrapped into a loose bun.

The simple act of turning thin stripes of colour into shapes and scenes was so beautifully appeasing to her. With every flick of her hand, with every twist and turn of blues and yellows onto the white canvas, she felt herself come alive again. Every worry, every disappointment, and every doubt poured out of her hands and blended into the mythical paradises she painted.

Sometimes we live without something, and we don’t realize just how much we miss it until we let it back in. She had missed this terribly.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

As the early mornings became darker and darker with every passing day, Y/N spent hours watching the sky and the leafless trees, observing time and its slow and tantalizing movement. She memorized the scenes before her as she got dressed for school, her eyes lingering on the dark blue sky outside and the yellow halos of light emitted from the streetlamps.

Sometimes simple things like the way your eye catches the light can be astoundingly beautiful. Y/N paid attention to details in order to paint them later. Every trace, every shadow, every speck of light was equally important.

One morning, finally ready for school, Y/N walked out of her home, adjusting the red beanie on her head, her bag swung over her shoulder. The frosty morning air greeted her and she thanked herself for having decided to wear her dark grey wool sweater. Turning on the ignition (and the heat) of her dad’s car, Y/N left the driveway, and made her way to the high school, the sun slowly but surely peaking above the horizon.

Y/N’s fingers furiously tapped against the steering wheel of the car, the school coming into eyeshot. Classes were becoming more and more exhausting with winter exams right around the corner. The air was tense inside the school, students talking about their exam schedules and fears about their upcoming performances.

Y/N was nervous too. She was a good student, but quite often, she would get lost in her thoughts, ignoring her teachers rant about equations and The Scarlet Letter. She studied and she handed in her essays on time, however doubt clouded her mind, and maybe her hard work wouldn’t be enough.

These thoughts played on a loop in her head as Y/N attended her first two classes, time ticking by slowly.

When Y/N entered her classroom for the third period, students shoved past her, quickly exiting the room and heading on to their next lesson. She slumped into her seat, her bag landing on the surface of her desk with a thud. As she waited for her history professor to get to class, her eyes scanned the room.

She watched her fellow classmates enter the room, chatting loudly, groups forming around students seated on their desks or lingering by the windows. She glanced to her right and noticed Stiles, always recognizable due to his colourful flannels, seated a few desks away from her, close to the blackboard.

“Stiles!” she called out his name, puzzled. He didn’t have history class with her. Her eyes lingered on his arched back and she repeated herself. “Stiles?”

His back still turned to her flinched at the sound of her voice and she frowned before standing up and walking over to him. As she inched closer, she glanced down at his fingers, curled around the edge of his desk, the tips white from the pressure of his grip. His knee burst up and down at a furious pace as she placed her hand on his shoulder, the color draining from her face when her gaze fell upon Stiles’ contorted expression.

“Stiles, what’s going on? Are you okay?” she asked with a whisper as she bent down next to him.

He emitted a small whine, his breathing suddenly more audible.

“Sti, talk to me,” she murmured, rubbing his back slowly.

His breathing became more unsteady with every movement of her hand and he gasped, making Y/N’s heart leap in her chest. The room had started to quiet down, and she turned, quickly realizing the scene was starting to draw a lot of attention. Putting her arm around her friend, she stood up and dragged him out of his chair, his legs staggering as he followed her out of the room.

As soon as the pair had gotten out of the classroom and into the hallway, Stiles’ breathing tripled in velocity, his breaths short and intense. Y/N held onto him, treading as quickly as possible through the hall, trying desperately to get to the boy’s locker room, where they’d be alone.

Pushing past the crowd of bustling students, Y/N’s eyes lit up as they approached the blue door she had been looking for. The pair burst into the dim locker room, Stiles rushing over to the back of the room, his legs giving in under the weight of his shaking body. His breathing was erratic and fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he punched the floor, the pain in his knuckles incomparable to the burning sensation in his gut. Y/N ran over to him, her knees hitting the floor with a painful thud, but she didn’t care, instead focusing on Stiles’ pale and tormented face.

“Breathe. Come on, breathe with me,” she said, an undeniable hint of worry in her voice she had difficulty hiding.

“I-I…can’t,” he gasped, a choked sob escaping his throat.

Y/N grabbed his quaking hands and held them in her sweaty palms, her eyes fixated on his.

“Sti, look at me. Look at me,” she insisted and he squinted at her through the thick tears spilling over the barrier of his eyelids. Soothingly caressing his shaking hands, her eyes piercing through his, she spoke, her voice a gentle anchor grounding him into reality.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything’s gonna be fine. I’m here. You’re okay,” she repeated, her voice slightly trembling.

She had never seen him like this. He was a shaking mess, his face wet and twisted in pain, his breathing still highly unsteady.

Stiles held onto her hands with difficulty, his chest heaving as he struggled not to give in to the never-ending waves of panic washing over his quaking body.

Y/N inhaled and exhaled slowly, her eyes never leaving his. Her exaggerated breaths were soon followed by his own weak attempts at controlling his lungs, groans of pain slipping through his gritted teeth.

“Here do this. Press your finger against one of your nostrils and inhale for 5 seconds with the other. You can do this,” she said, acting out her words as carefully as possible.

Stiles struggled to follow her lead but slowly, he pushed the tip of his shaking finger into his skin, blocking the path for oxygen through his left nostril.

“Okay, good. Inhale. 1…2…3…” she counted, and he inhaled with her, his breath occasionally bursting through his mouth.

“Keep going, come on. 4…5…Hold it in!” she cried, her eyes welling up at the sight of Stiles’ pained expression, his chest obviously about to burst.

“Okay, breathe out, with me. 1…2…3…4…5…” Y/N murmured, her gentle fingers caressing his hand. The boy exhaled with her and shook his head, almost as if he couldn’t believe the method was starting to work.

“You’re doing great. Switch nostrils now. There you go. 1…2…3…”

The pair breathed in and out in sync, Y/N’s hands still holding Stiles’. After a few minutes, each breath of his was accompanied by a slightly deeper one, Y/N’s shoulders loosening with relief as a wave of calm washed over her.

As the chaos in the room started to subside, she felt Stiles’ fingers tighten in her palm, his sweaty skin pressed against hers. She looked into his red-rimmed eyes and gave it a reassuring squeeze, her unoccupied hand reaching up to wipe the tears off of his weary face as her body shifted upwards.

Before she could touch his skin, Stiles caught her hand and pulled her into an embrace, his lips quivering tremendously as he broke down, warm tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Don’t leave, please. I need you. I need you,” he repeated like a mantra, his entire body going limp in Y/N’s arms, strangled sobs escaping from his sore throat. The girl closed her eyes as the felt Stiles’ heart thunder furiously against her chest, small tears threatening to spill over her eyelids.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered in his ear, tightening her embrace.

“I need you. I need you.”

A/N: hope u liked this part!! please reblog if u did :) feedback is also always appreciated <3

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Rian helping Alex to dye his hair!! And complain how it'll fall out and stuff just to mask how pretty he thinks it's gonna look

alright anon here it is! my rilex debut. i hope it does not disappoint. also full disclosure i have had my hair dyed Once for me and my friends did it and i do not remember most of what happened so while i did do some light google searches please suspend disbelief if and when you must

read it here on ao3

-

Rian should know more about dyeing hair. It seems impossible for him to have been in a band with Jack and Alex for this long and not pick up on the basics, at least. Standing in a CVS, Rian feels confident that he should know this.

"Should" being the operative word.

Finally he calls Alex. 

"I forgot which brand you said," he tells Alex when he gets yeah?

"I texted it to you, you moron," Alex replies. He sounds very fond. It's always fun to hear Alex try and be bitchy when he's really just being fond.

Sighing, Rian pulls his phone away from his ear and checks his texts. "No you didn't."

"I definitely did." Pause. "Oh, it didn't go through. Whoops."

"Who's a moron now?"

"Still you. I told you the name like fifty times. Okay, it sent. If you get the wrong color, no offense but our friendship is over."

"Gotcha," says Rian. "So was it bright orange or more of a burnt umber that you wanted?"

Alex hangs up on him. A minute later he calls back.

"Love you," he says.

Rian rolls his eyes and grins. "Love you."

-

"Isn't it kind of disrespectful to do this in a hotel room bathroom?"

Alex doesn't stop setting up the hair dye supplies on the sink, but he does shoot a dry look towards Rian. "Yeah, duh. But it's just hair dye. Worst case scenario it stains the tub or something."

"Or the floor," Rian puts in. "Or your hair all burns off from the bleach and you sue and then there's a whole court case. That'd be pretty bad for them."

"But dope for me," Alex says. "So wins all around."

Not wins for the hotel, Rian doesn't say. He's not sure why he's bothering to try and convince Alex that they shouldn't do this. Not only is Alex thoroughly unable to be convinced, Rian doesn't even think he believes himself. 

It's just, Alex is dyeing his hair blue.

Rian tries not to form opinions, like, about Alex in specific, because in general his opinion is wow and good-looking and would love to kiss him and AHHHHH, and those opinions don't really change with Alex's look. Even in the most emo of Alex's hair days, Rian had been very much extremely attracted to him, and Alex has only gotten cuter since then. It will probably become a problem eventually. Rian suspects it might already be a problem that he's just ignoring very effectively.

It's not like he only likes Alex for his looks. Alex has lots of wonderful qualities, and Rian could easily wax poetic for hours. It's just that it would probably be easier not to fall in love with him if he was a little less what they in the music business called Fucking Gorgeous.

But no dice. Obviously.

All of which to say: helping Alex dye his hair blue cannot possibly end well for Rian. Alex has yet to do blue, but Rian is one hundred percent sure it's going to look as good as all the other colors have, and he's just going to find himself speechless for a couple minutes again. Which hadn't been a problem before, when Alex had gotten Jack to do it with him, but for some reason this time he's enlisted Rian, and Rian has yet to find within himself the capacity to refuse anything Alex requests, within (and sometimes without) reason.

Speaking of which: "Why isn't Jack helping you with this? Don't you think he'd be, like, a thousand times more competent? I mean, I wouldn't usually say that about Jack, but this is so not my area of expertise."

Alex huffs, opening the box of dye. "Well, for starters, Jack is busy with Zack, and they are probably banging and/or playing a board game and/or getting wasted and/or doing things that I can't even fathom because Jack and Zack are ineffable," which takes Rian a long moment to process but none of which is technically implausible or untrue, "and second, I wanted your help."

"Yeah, no, I got that when you told me you wanted my help," Rian says dryly. "What I'm wondering is why."

Alex frowns in judgement as he mixes the dye. "What's with all the questions? I just like hanging out with you, man. Do I need a better reason?"

Rian clears his throat. "Uh. I guess not."

"Damn right." Alex gives Rian a smile, and a small part of Rian melts, and he thinks about how much of a naive idiot he's been that he didn't realize how much of a problem this would be until right now. When it's too late. "Okay. Gloves on, Ri. It's gonna get messy up in here."

There's no way that innuendo is unintentional, and Rian is a sucker because he blushes anyway.

-

Apparently it's just a matter of painting. Which is much easier said than done. Not because painting dye onto hair is particularly challenging, but because Rian painting dye onto Alex's hair is, well.

"One of these days you're gonna lose all your hair," he says at one point, mostly to distract himself from the look on Alex's face as he works the dye through his hair with his crinkly-plastic-gloved fingers. That look is putting Rian's mind in places it should not be.

Fortunately, this comment alters it, and Alex opens his eyes. "I don't dye my hair that much."

Rian gives him a critical look. "Yeah, but still. This stuff can't be good for you. Even if you don't use it a lot."

"You know what else isn't good for me?" Alex says seriously. "Alcohol. Tattoos. Sex before marriage. Rebellion is hot. What kind of punk rocker are you?"

"I'm sorry it's not punk to be worried about your friends," Rian replies. "Doesn't it burn your head?"

"Nah," Alex says, closing his eyes again. "Feels nice."

"How the fuck does putting — I don't even know what's in this stuff — feel nice?"

"It's more about the experience," Alex says around a smile. "You putting the dye in my hair, it feels nice."

Awesome. Rian's fine.

"Oh," he mumbles, and then decides that not talking is in his best interest.

Rian is thorough with his task. If that means he goes twice through all of Alex's hair, it's because he's being extra careful.

(By the second time, Alex has begun humming along to the Motion City Soundtrack song playing from his phone on the sink top, and Rian is distracted for a little (long) while.)

-

With the shower cap on, Alex actually looks kind of dumb, which is a relief. The timer is nearly done ticking down from thirty minutes and Paramore is singing about how the camera's lying as Alex stares at himself in the mirror, using a washcloth to wipe off the smudges of rogue dye on his forehead.

Rian should stop watching, but there's something very captivating about the intensity of Alex's demeanor. It's not about what he's doing so much as the manner in which he's doing it, and God, Rian would give all the money in the world for Alex to look at him with that same attentiveness, even though he would probably just disintegrate if it ever did happen.

Rian was once a dignified man. He's not sure what happened but he's certain it's Alex's fault.

"Hey, Ri," Alex says. "Can you help me with this? I can't get this fucking dye off my face."

You're doing fine, Rian absolutely does not say, and instead says, "Yeah, sure. Although you might wanna think about just leaving it. I really think you could start a trend with this."

"Yeah?" Alex says, passing off the wet washcloth to Rian. "What, a trend of wearing hair dye on your face?"

"Dyed face is the new dyed hair," Rian says, grinning. He hesitates for a moment and then resigns himself to what he knows has to happen. "Don't move or talk or breathe or anything like that," he tells Alex, sliding a hand around Alex's neck to keep his head in place.

"Don't breathe?"

"What did I just say about talking and breathing?" Rian holds up the washcloth like a weapon. "Shut your mouth."

Alex presses his lips together and mimes locking them. He slips the imaginary key down the front of Rian's shirt. Rian snorts and begins his efforts to clean the dye off Alex's face. It's probably not going to go away for a little while, and they'll need to cover it with makeup, and Rian knows that, and surely Alex knows that too, so he's not sure why they're even bothering with this.

But. The position they've found themselves in is as compromising as it is tempting; Rian keeps his eyes firmly on the washcloth in his hands so they don't flit around Alex's face or land too often on his mouth. He could give himself away far too easily right now.

(He would like to. He would love to. If he kissed Alex right now, would Alex kiss him back? Would Alex have put them in this position as a joke? Is Alex a heartless monster or just a friend who thinks they're just friends? Are they just friends? Do they have to be? Could hair dye be mixed with glue to make colorful glue or does it only work on hair? All these questions and more crowd Rian's mind. It's a wonder he ever gets anything done.)

Eventually, though, Rian has to admit he's not going to get this dye off Alex's skin, and he doesn't want to hurt Alex. He sighs and drops his hand to his side, curling the washcloth in his fist. "Sorry, Al. You're gonna have to start that trend whether you like it or not."

Alex doesn't look even slightly disappointed. "That's cool," he says, smiling at Rian, smiling only for Rian, in a way that paralyzes Rian and renders him momentarily unable to respond. "It's kinda hot, in a subversive way. You know?"

Rian swallows. "Huh?"

"I mean, objectively being punk isn't hot compared to mainstream hot people, but there's something inherently hot about doing exactly what you're not supposed to. That's the whole point of punk." Rian's pretty sure punk has an additional, slightly larger point, but at the moment it's slipping his mind. "So like, this is hot in the sense that it's not what you'd expect to be hot. But I kind of make it work, don't you think?"

I think you kind of make this shower cap work, so I'm not exactly an unbiased authority on the matter, Rian keeps to himself. "Are you asking if I think you look hot with blue hair dye on your face?" he says, neutrally, trying not to give away that he does think Alex looks hot with blue hair dye on his face. 

But Alex just meets Rian's gaze and says, "Yeah, that's exactly what I'm asking."

A moment passes. Rian realizes he never reclaimed his hand and it is now just kind of cradling Alex's neck where it meets his shoulder. Another moment. Alex keeps his eyes steady on Rian's. Neither of them move. Rian starts to feel his heartbeat and wonders how he never notices when he's not feeling it. It's only startling to feel it because it's so quiet usually. People should be able to feel their own heartbeats, all the time. Then it wouldn't be such an inconvenient surprise any time it kicks to life with a thudding intensity that almost makes Rian flinch.

It's not like he can lie. Morality aside, because Rian doesn't like to lie, he also knows Alex will see through him like glass. 

Which leaves him with the truth as his only option, and unfortunately it's been too long since Alex asked for the truth to sound anything but incredibly guilty coming from Rian.

Well.

"If anyone is going to make it work," he says at last, "it's you."

Alex raises his eyebrows. "Way to not answer the question."

"I basically did."

"You completely didn't."

"Why do you care if I think it's hot? You don't need to impress me. I'm already in your shitty band."

"Maybe I'm trying to impress you for something that isn't the band," Alex says evenly, with an impressive degree of confidence, but Rian can feel his heart rate rise under his fingertips.

He has the presence of mind to think, what the fuck is going on? But instead of that, he says, "Like?"

Alex bites his lip. Rian thinks that if he's reading this right, it will flip everything upside down, but surely even he couldn't read a situation this wrong. There's nothing else Alex could possibly mean by this, right?

"I take it back," Rian says. "Dumb question."

"A little," Alex says, breathing a nervous laugh. There's a dangerously small amount of space between the two of them, the kind of small that Rian could bridge so easily, and with no reason not to, he figures there's not much more he can lose.

(He can't be misreading this. There's just no way. Alex isn't this cruel, and Rian isn't this stupid.)

Alex leans closer when Rian does, breath mingling in the air between them, so so so close, like insanely close, like Rian can practically taste it already, how impossible and incredible it's going to be to kiss Alex. The air catches in his throat, and he kind of smiles a little hesitantly, and Alex smells so much like hair dye that it is overpowering all of Rian's senses but he'd love to drown in that smell as long as it means drowning in Alex and their noses brush and Rian lets his eyes fall shut and then

The timer goes off, blaring an aggressive alarm throughout the bathroom, and Rian almost has a heart attack as he jerks backwards and he is going to fucking break his phone into many many pieces.

-

They're quiet as Rian rinses the dye out of Alex's hair. The worst part is Rian can't quite figure out what kind of silence this is, if it's awkward or anticipatory or what. But thinking for too long makes him want to scream or something, so he stops thinking and just focuses on washing out the dye. Alex is sitting in a chair they pulled in from the room, head tipped back under the sink, that same look on his face that — 

But Rian's not thinking about it.

The water starts out bright blue, and Rian almost panics before Alex says lightly, "You just have to rinse until the water runs clear. Don't freak out if it's blue, that's normal."

So Rian does not freak out when the water is blue, and true to Alex's word, it starts to grow clearer the more Rian lets it run. If it were Alex in his position he would probably have a thousand poetic things to say — it's like life, he'd say in a tone just shy of pretentious, it starts out looking like it's going wrong but then everything literally becomes clear — but Rian isn't Alex and to him it's just a Good Sign that he hasn't Fucked Up.

Well he hasn't fucked up the hair, at least. Probably. Yet.

At long last, the water starts running clear, and Rian breathes a sigh of relief and turns the tap off. "You're good," he says, wringing the worst of water out of Alex's hair. His hands are stained blue, he now notices; probably he should have put the gloves back on when he'd gone to rinse Alex's hair, but he hadn't thought to.

"Yeah?" Alex asks, experimentally lifting his head and stretching his neck. "Ah, that is not the most comfortable position, not gonna lie."

Rian grabs the hand towel and dries his hands off, then gives it to Alex so Alex can dry his neck, which Alex does, and then leaves the towel around his shoulders. They are definitely going to get dye on this towel and the hotel will not be pleased, but as Alex stands up and begins rearranging his hair to look like himself again, the comment dies in Rian's throat.

Predictably, he looks really fucking good.

Rian watches Alex like some kind of lovestruck idiot until Alex turns to him, tilting his head, and says, "So? Final thoughts? How do I look?"

"Can I kiss you now?" Rian says, surprising himself. "That's what was about to happen before, right? Like, I'm not insane?"

"Your sanity has nothing to do with whether or not we were gonna kiss," Alex says, grinning, eyes bright, "but we totally were and now we definitely are."

This time Rian wastes no time, and his dye-stained fingers blend into the blue oasis of Alex's new hair color as their lips meet. Briefly, Rian's mind is once again crowded with dumb pointless questions, but he pulls Alex closer and Alex curls a hand into the front of Rian's shirt and Rian decides that his mind can take a hike.

As they break apart, Alex laughs. "So you think it looks good?"

"It looks terrible," Rian deadpans. "Yes, of course it looks good. You could shave your head and it would look good." Alex gasps. "Well. Okay. That was an exaggeration to make a point but I'm not sure it's actually true. But honestly, Alex." The jig is up, so Rian just smiles at him. "I always fucking think you look good. This?" He tugs at Alex's hair. "Hot. No doubt."

"Well, that's the only vote of confidence I need," Alex breathes, and then they're kissing again.

(The hair dye leaves its mark on the towel and Rian's hands and the pillowcases they sleep on that night, but its impact, in Rian's opinion, is altogether immeasurable. It's not every day a box of blue hair dye gets him a boyfriend.)