#she wants everything wrapped in a neat box and given to her

[stormyrainyday]

lumping in the horny side of booktok into this too sorry you missed your wattpad phase you don't need to have it at 25

i mean this in the kindest way possible bc i too am a fanfic reader (and writer!) but some of yall need to read real books

[quartzhearted]

Knowing your King's, even if formerly, birthday was an easy enough task. Even out in Lapis's middle of nowhere type village had it been something just about anybody could tell you, and so as the days tick down, getting closer and closer, the date echoes fiercely in her mind.

Giving something to Diamant had been enough of an event to work up to, but given the rocky start Lapis had had with Morion since reuniting in Fódlan? It's even more nerve-wracking to be honest. But when she thinks of Alcryst making it abundantly clear that he wanted to meet her family and be proper to them...

...Well, to be honest, Lapis wanted to do the same for his. And so she vows to herself to push everything before aside and try and do this birthday right!

“ Your Majesty! ”  Lapis greets him, ramrod straight.  “ Um, happy birthday! I gotcha a gift. Hope it works for you. ”

She holds out the modestly wrapped present for him. As a measure of precaution, she explains it:

“ I made you a bunch of different remedies and fit them into a container that should be easy to carry no matter where you go. ”  The box is compact enough to fit into any bag, and inside the box were different compartments to keep its contents divided up cleanly.  “ 'Course, you can use the container for more than just remedies so long as it's small enough, like snacks or coins, but... ”

Though Lapis was known for being crafty, the box wasn't meant to be the star of the gift. 

“ Now that you're back, I'm sure your sons worry the world for you, ”  she admits her motive.  “ And, um, that includes me too now! But a warrior's always gonna go out and fight to protect what they love. No getting around that. So I won't stop you. But I thought if you had different medicines and poultices ready on hand, that'd help make sure you get back home. ”

If she could ease the concerns of her two princes, then all would be well. She knows a warrior's heart as she does a child's, and so she put her all into making sure she made the most effective remedies she could with what herbs and flowers she could find.

“ If you need a guide for what each one does, I'm more than happy to help! I've used them all before myself, so I can vouch for how well they work, mmhm. Shouldn't be any problems there. ”

as if morion's birthday couldn't get any better, lapis comes to him with her own gift---stiff as a board, sure, but she's here! ( he really needs to find a way to get her to relax around him... )

" good to see ya, lapis! " morion smiles, patting her shoulder. " though, really, you can just call me ' morion ' now. ' mister morion ' if you just can't live without the titles, but c'mon! we battled together! " anyone who can hold their own in a chain of battles that intense ( nevermind the absolute WALLOPING she'd given that shade back in the gold round, PHEW! ) is someone morion would gladly be equals with. " but we'll talk about that some other time. what's this, now? "

as lapis explains the purpose of her gift, morion can't help his expression going soft. sure, she's a worrier---make that three that he knows---but she knows a thing or two about morion's heart. acknowledging that he's not just gonna sit around and twiddle his thumbs is encouraging enough, but that she made something to assuage all the worry... goodness. now THERE'S a present.

morion feels warm. " well, now, lapis, that's very kind of you. " he pops open the box for a quick look. sure enough, remedies and poultices of all kinds sit in neat little sections, awaiting their use. " hardheaded as i am, i do get all sorts of nicks and scrapes. lots of times i don't have an elixir handy, and it drives the boys nuts---this is perfect. not just for me, but for them, too. you really do think five steps ahead. "

sigh. he sure is glad his sons have such dependable retainers.

...

...

wait a minute.

" ...whatd'ya mean, ' includes you now too '?? "

[jadedrrose]

Not Just Another Day

Mandatory Levi birthday fic, because I’m very in love with him rn :)

Warnings: none, sfw! Reader can be gender neutral, but they do wear a dress in this.

Christmas had always just had one meaning to you, up until you met your lover. But now it had two meanings, making it even more special in your heart.

Despite his indifference toward both occasions, you always wanted to do something special for Levi. It was a bit difficult to do elaborate things, being in the Scouts and all, but you always managed. This year, you settled on making dinner for the both of you, and taking it up to your quarters to privately eat together.

Luckily for you, Levi didn’t often stop by your shared room during the day. He mostly stayed holed up in his office or doing anything to keep himself busy. So you were able to have a table and chairs dragged up with the help of a few others, and you set out candles to light later.

This was all after your shared quiet moment in the morning. On the other hand, Levi knew the holidays were important to you. He always got you something special, and would try his best to be a little nicer to everyone. You found it rather endearing. But every year, without fail, he’d give you the present right after the two of you woke up. He never even gave you time to get dressed.

This year, you’d given him a “fake” present this morning. You’d given him tea that was more on the expensive side, one he hadn’t had in quite some time.

But tonight, your real gift was a tea cup you had made, with gold and green designs to outline it. And, a matching tea plate of course. You’d honestly struggled for a bit, trying to learn how to make them. But you were rather proud of how it all turned out.

The box which your work was wrapped in sat on the table, which you were now setting up in preparation for dinner. You placed plates and silverware in their correct spots, making sure everything looked neat and orderly. You placed two glasses beside each plate, just for some water. The idea was that Levi would ask why you hadn’t put out tea cups, and you’d then present the gift to him. Once everything looked good, you headed down to the kitchen to grab the food you’d prepared before setting the table. Hopefully someone hadn’t touched it…

To nobody’s surprise, a younger scout, Sasha, was eyeing the food with an odd face… one that was like a suppressed grin, of sorts? But you knew how this girl was. She loved food. And you knew she would most likely be the only person to steal it.

“Sasha, what are you lookin’ at there?” You asked, approaching her with your arms crossed over your chest.

She jumped, snapping her head to look at you. “I… haha, I was just… um, looking… heh.”

“…right,” you replied, suspicion written on your face. “Well, I need to get the food, so, if you could move?”

“It just… looks so yummy,” she said, the grin breaking. She was now drooling.

“If there’s leftovers I’ll bring you some,” you offered.

That seemed to get her off your back. With a small chuckle and roll of your eyes, you picked up the tray of food and headed out.

It seemed everybody was getting ready for the usual Christmas party. A lot of the younger scouts were in the dining hall, helping set up the buffet of food and getting presents for each other all lined up under the already falling apart, sparsely decorated tree. It was too bad you couldn’t afford even a mini Christmas tree for your quarters, you thought.

A few moments later, you had the dinner set up and ready. You just needed to change now. You opened up the wardrobe in your bedroom to find a nicer dress. Nicer than what you could afford, as a Scout.

The top was a pristine white, with some lacing around the neckline and sleeve cuffs. The skirt that went with it had the same lacing, only it was an off-black color. To feel a little fancy, you decided to add the only belt-corset you owned. Another thing that was hard to come by for a good price.

You quickly brushed through your hair and made it look nice, putting on a pair of gold earrings with a matching necklace. You were eyeing yourself in the mirror when you realized you hadn’t changed out of your uniform boots. You could hear soft footsteps coming closer to the room. Panicking, you yanked the boots off and threw them in the closet, quickly pulling out a nice lace up heeled pair, trying to pull the strings up as fast as humanly possible.

You were halfway up the second boot when the door opened. You shot up from your spot leaning against the wall with your foot raised on the vanity stool, leaving the laces dangling, trying to cover it with your skirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” Were the first words he said to you.

“I set up a dinner for us,” you stated, your awkward panicked face changing to a small smile.

“Yeah. But why the hell were you bent over on the wall with your foot up?” Levi kept questioning.

It wasn’t the most embarrassing thing ever, especially considering you were married to him. So why did you feel embarrassed?

“I uh… was putting on my nice boots, but I wanted to look nice when you walked in, so I stopped,” you awkwardly explained yourself.

“Uh-huh,” was all he said as he walked in your direction. You expected him to place a short kiss onto your cheek as he always did, but instead he grabbed your skirt to reveal your untied boot, pulling your leg up so he could finish tying it.

Your face turned red at the gesture. But why? It was so in character of him to do something like that. Maybe it was that you didn’t want to mess up his night?

“There. Now… what the hell is all this?” Levi asked again, nodding his head to the table and food.

“I made us dinner. And I wanted it to be more private this year, so…”

“But why?”

You looked at him funny. “Why? It’s your birthday, did you forget?”

“No. But I’ve told you before I could care less,” he stated. “It’s just another day.”

“But I care,” you argued, “and it’s not ‘just another day’! I wanted to do something especially nice for you. Especially with how the kids tortured you last year.”

You thought back to that. Stupidly, you’d decided that you could save time and just have dinner with everyone at the Christmas party. But then the younger scouts had chased Levi (and you) around all evening with a mistletoe. It made you wonder when they got so bold.

He simply hummed, looking over the table and changing the subject. “The food at least looks better than the shit down there,” he noted.

“I tried my best with what we had in the pantry… hope it at least looks edible,” you shrugged.

“I’d take anything you make over that shit any day.”

You giggled at his comment. “Well, we should go ahead and eat before it gets cold and then turns to shit.”

—

The two of you ate in a comfortable silence, but the dinner portion of tonight didn’t really take that long given the fact neither of you were trying to talk with food in your mouths.

Then, like clockwork, the big question came up.

“Why didn't you make any tea?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

You couldn’t help but to let out a girlish giggle, face warming up again. It was exactly how you envisioned it.

“Well, I have a reason,” you started.

“It better not be a stupid one.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing the gift gently toward him with your fingertips.

Curiously, he opened the box carefully without ripping the paper to shreds.

You didn’t expect him to grin, or get excited, or anything that would be ridiculously unlike him. But he could’ve smirked, at the very least.

“Another tea set?” He asked, looking up at you. His gaze at least seemed softer.

“Mhm. But it’s not just another one,” you smiled. “I made it,” you proudly informed him.

Then Levi’s face changed. You could tell he was trying to hide a smile. It was so endearing and cute that you could cry.

“You… made it?” He repeated your words, eyeing the details along the glass.

“Mhm, I practiced a lot while you were busy. I think I did a pretty good job. But you’re the expert here, right?”

He nodded, not taking his eyes off your gift. “It’s… nice,” he commented. “Thank you.”

You smiled warmly, “you’re welcome. Do you want to go make some tea to put in it?”

He seemed to think about it, before shaking his head no.

“No?” You questioned, looking rather shocked at the answer.

“No. I’d rather not have to go down there where the brats are throwing another lame party,” he explained. “And… I think I’d much rather stay up here with you. Just us.”

“Just us…” you repeated, blushing all over again. “You’re so cute, I love you.”

Then it was his turn to blush, though it was much less noticeable than yours. If anyone else had called him cute, they’d be dead within the minute.

But you just had that special privilege.

He paused for a moment, clearly flustered by your comment. But then he looked up and smiled, a real smile, at you. “I love you too,” he muttered.

You’d say that this year’s celebration was a success, then.

[justalonelyslytherin]

The Competition never ends - Baby Seresin

Pairing: Jake Hangman Seresin x Reader, Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x wife (the missus)

Summary: Jake gets the best surprise his wife could give him before both of them get surprised with the gender of their little one. In true Hangman fashion, he organized something grand.

Warnings: pregnancy, friendly banter (Rooster and Hangman together is a warning itself), fluff

Wordcount: 3.8K

A/N: Before I say anything I have to thank @princessmisery666 who has been the best champ, helping me along the way and even beta-ing a part of this story. Without her, I would have given up on this halfway through but her input and persistence helped me finish this. Thank you so much for this dear! <3 This is inspired by my headcanon, also called 'The Competition never ends'. Hopefully, I'll be able to write a second (following Rooster and his wife) and a third part too!

I don't allow for my content to be copied, translated, or reposted on other websites/apps. Please don't steal my work.

Dividers by the talented @/firefly-graphics

He still remembered the day he met his future wife. The woman who he would fall head over heels in love with and that would be his utmost priority for the rest of his life. There was a time in his life in which he had never expected to find love. A rather long part of his life in which he could have never pictured marriage to be something for him. 

Jake Seresin had been a ladies man. He had enjoyed being a bachelor and living his life freely. One woman after another he had in his bed, but never the same woman twice, during his time as a Cadet at Top Gun. Even later on when he returned for a mission that would change his life and gave him a group of friends and colleagues for just as long. 

Just like the first gift of found family, life had given him this second gift. A woman to love, who was worth settling for.

Their wedding day would be one he would never forget. The moment she walked down the aisle in that beautiful dress, eyes sparkling with tears full of happiness and the brightest smile. 

He had promised her everything that day. To make every day the best she had, better than the day before, for her to never be sad and always smile. He had promised to give her everything that she could need or want, and that he would make her happy.

And then, in the end, she was the one that gave him the greatest gift. 

He was so tired that day. Work had been long and draining, he had lost hours of training to do maintenance on his plane to correct a mistake an engineer had made. One little mistake that cost him not just time but also lots of nerves.

Seeing his wife had made him smile. The smile she gave him in return was almost enough to melt away the exhaustion of his work day.

And then she gave him a small box, a present she told him, even though his birthday was still months away and there was no anniversary of theirs any time soon. 

“What’s in it, Sugar?” he had asked her, curious and impatient to wait for the reveal until he untied the wrapping. She smiled and chuckled at him, not giving in. Then he pouted at her, to which she rolled her eyes and scooted closer to him.

“Fine. One little hint,” she told him and pointed her finger up. Confused why she pointed her finger towards their ceiling he looked up. Hanging from the top of the room were two miniature airplanes. Replica’s of the F-18 he flew on a day-to-day basis. On their sides were written in neat and ornate font ‘Mr. Seresin’ and ‘Mrs. Seresin’. He had gotten the planes as a wedding gift for her. 

“Sweetheart, that's a horrible hint,” he told her and laughed at her playfully scandalized look.

“Just open it and you’ll see,” she urged and he complied, finally done with untying the ribbon. It was a horrible habit of his to never rip wrapping paper or cut wrapping bands.

Opening the box the first thing he saw was more wrapping paper. Raising one eyebrow he looked up at her again. 

“Jakeee,” she whined, annoyed at his teasing and dragging this out. She felt as if she were sitting on very hot coals and very nervous about his reaction.

“Ok, ok,” he muttered with a smirk and started to shove the white wrapping to the side. 

His movements halted once he saw what was safely nestled in the wrapping. A plane. A tiny plane. He recognized that it was another F-18, even smaller than the miniatures he had gotten them. When he carefully took it out of the box he noticed the font on the other side. Turning it around he thought his heart might stop only to burst out of his chest the next moment.

‘Baby Seresin’

All of a sudden his throat felt dry and his heart was beating so fast and hard in his chest as if it might jump out at any moment. Looking up from the tiny miniature to his beautiful wife he swallowed.

Tears were glistening in the corners of her eyes as she was watching him, her lip between her teeth.

“Is this…” he started, entirely lost for words and struggling to complete a sentence. “Are you?”

The soft nod was all he needed. Placing the small plane onto the table he pulled her into his arms, burying his head on her shoulder as she quietly started sobbing. He would be lying if he said there weren't tears glistening in his eyes too.

“Are you ready?” Turning her head in the direction of her husband's voice she had to squint her eyes. Even with the strong sunglasses, the sun was blinding as it bleared down onto the landing strip.

That’s where they were. Standing in the middle of the tarmac on base. Not for work, not for welcoming someone back from a mission or sending someone off. No, it was much more private than that. 

“If I knew for what exactly,” she tried to poke again. Jake hadn’t told her anything. He had refused to give her even the smallest hint. All she knew was that whatever he had planned for their gender reveal, it was big, even grand, and fitting. That’s what he had said, no, what he had boasted. Because Hangman had to be the best at everything if he could. And their darling little one deserved all the best as well. 

Even now, instead of giving her a hint he just gave her his blinding smile. The same one she fell hopelessly in love with the first time she saw it.

One of his arms snaked around her waist and pulled her to him. With a kiss on her head he looked at her and even if his eyes were obscured behind his sunglasses, she knew he was looking at her with adoration and pure love.

“Ready?” he asked her once again. Her breath hitched as he leaned closer, his other hand resting gently on her ever-growing belly. Since she had started showing he couldn’t keep his hands off the bump. Stroking and caressing it every chance he got. Now his fingers were once again gliding over the soft fabric of her dress. 

A single nod was all he needed. Jake grinned down at her before he turned back to the rest of the daggers and their partners.

“Everyone ready?”

On cue, the sound of a plane engine echoed over the open space. They all turned their heads towards the sound. In the distance, there was a small spot in the air that got bigger and bigger.

Quickly getting closer was a jet. The wind started to pick up with it. Sand got blown over the landing strip. As the jet neared even further the wind started to pull on their clothes as well. She could feel the air tug at the skirt of her dress, her hair starting to whip around her. Jake pulled her even closer so she was pressed against his side, shielding her from the harsh blow of the sand.  

The moment the jet soared over their heads a gush of color shot out behind it. It formed a thick pink band through the air following the trajectory. Some of it bled out to the sides and there was even so much as a slight shower of colorful particles raining down on them.

Another gasp left her lips. One of absolute surprise. The pink was a stark contrast to the clear blue sky. Even then it took her some moments to realize the meaning. Turning towards her husband he looked as surprised as her. Both of them looked at each other until Jake spluttered a laugh. There was another one of his blinding grins forming. 

“A girl,” she mumbled softly, as a grin of her own erupted on her lips. Before she could act Jake had raised her into his arms and spun her around. Her squeal quickly turned into laughter, mixing with his.

“A girl!”, he repeated, full of joy. At last, he put her down again, keeping his hands on her hips as she stumbled a bit. She was beaming up at him. “One as pretty as her mom.”

He looked so proud at that moment, it made her heart jump. From the moment she met him, the confident pilot had surprised her in many ways. With his hands still on her hips, he leaned in for a kiss. One she granted him happily. He surprised her at that moment too, dipping her down low towards the ground, their lips continually locked.

Wolf whistles and whoops reminded them that they weren’t alone. Carefully Jake put her on her feet - again. The daggers all grinned and beamed at them, happy for their friends and equally excited for the first baby of the friend group to arrive. They all seemed eager to flock to them with hugs and congratulations, Jake however didn't show any sign of wanting to let her go just yet.

Once more he pulled her to his side, one arm snaked around her as he softly pressed himself to her. 

“I love you Sugar,” he told her, grinning down at her. “You make me the proudest man there is.” 

Her heart soared. How much she loved him. He was everything she could have dreamed about, everything she could have ever wanted and so much more. She had never imagined finding someone that could make her this happy. Being able to give some of this back and seeing him so excited and proud of their soon-to-be-born baby was everything to her.

“I love you too Jake,” she told him softly. The moment between them could have extended into eternity. They could have stood there and lovingly stared into each other's eyes forever. 

“Quit hogging her Hangman!”, came the joking jab of their friends as they had a much different idea. Laughter erupted through the group. Chuckling, the blond aviator lifted an eyebrow before he turned towards them.

“That’s still my wife and not yours!”, he quipped back at them but ultimately let her go. In no time both of them were surrounded by friends and their partners, receiving hugs and congratulations from all sides.

It was almost too much as they excitedly talked over each other. Seeing the shared joy was amazing. Their little girl would be loved by all of them. Her uncles and aunts already adored her to no end.

Unsurprisingly in all the joyful chaos Jake and she ended up separated. Her husband stood together with Coyote, Payback, and Fanboy as well as their partners at one end of the group, while Y/N had ended up with Phoenix and Bob. 

Jake vehemently denied it but the long and strenuous weeks of training followed by the very dangerous mission had brought him especially close to these two. Not only because they had flown together the most. She could see why he liked them so much. Both of them were lovely wonderful people, good friends and funny too. Phoenix was a top contender for the title of godmother as well.

But there were still two people unaccounted for. She knew they had come but now she couldn’t see Rooster and his wife anywhere.

“Surprise.” A gasp left her mouth as she turned around to the hand that had landed on her arm. There they were. The missus was smiling at her, pulling the hand back that had startled Y/N so much.

“Don’t scare me like that!” She scolded her jokingly. Both women looked at each other before they laughed and hugged. 

To both Rooster and Hangman's misery, their wives had hit it off straight from the beginning. Something had just clicked and they had become best friends. Quite ironic. The two aviators weren’t rivals anymore. After the uranium mission, they had buried whatever feud they had that went over friendly banter. Admitting their friendship, however, was as difficult as it had seemed for them to ever get along. Feigning squabbles and bickering was still their favored way of communicating. They loved to pout and whine around whenever their women wanted to meet up. It was like handling five-year-olds that didn’t want to go on a playdate.

“Congratulations! A little girl, how wonderful.” She couldn’t agree more. 

“Thank you. I’m so glad everyone was able to come.” She knew they didn’t have the shortest way. In fact, most of the group was divided into the two coasts between Lemoore and Oceana. It was hard to meet up and see everyone. They had made it their goal to come back to San Diego and meet up at the Hard Deck at least once or twice each year. It was a huge thing for them all to have been able to come to the reveal. It was a miracle everyone had worked out how to make it.

“Of course! I wouldn’t want to miss this.” Rooster and his wife hadn’t been able to make it to the last meet-up of the group, coincidentally the one where Jake and she had announced the pregnancy. Y/N knew that the missus had been bummed out about missing it and she herself had been bummed out too. So she was happy to get to share this day with her friend. In Person!

“Look at you! You are glowing. And that bump is so cute. I’m so happy to see you!” Feeling the heat creep up on her neck to the tips of her ears, Y/N waved and shook her head.

“Stop it!” she said with a laugh, waving off the compliments. She was glad when Phoenix decided to join in and change the topic.

“A little birdie told me you were considering moving closer to here? Does that mean we can expect you to join us in Lemoore?” Phoenix was grinning smugly at the inside info she revealed. That was news to Y/N. Very exciting news.

“Is that true?” she wanted to know immediately, already feeling the excitement about this prospect bubbling up in her.

“It’s in the talks,” the missus confessed shyly, “Rooster still has a favor left from the big mission and is currently working on getting something organized.” That made her raise a brow. It sounded like there was another possibility too. San Diego maybe? 

Before they could continue to chat about this Rooster joined their trio, greeting Phoenix and Y/N with a hug each and a congratulation, before he asked,

“Did I hear correctly that you haven’t started with the nursery yet?” The way he raised one eyebrow and grinned made her snort. Why did it feel like he was enjoying this fact? Ready to use it to annoy his former rival?

“Yeah, it isn’t more than a glorified storage room with a new paint job at the moment. We got some furniture but it still needs to be built and there aren’t any decorations yet.”, she told them. “Why? Do you want to offer your help?”

Rooster snorted loudly before he gave a sharp yelp and mumbled an “Ouch!” towards his wife who had pinched him in the side.

“I’m not sure Hangman would be happy about that.” 

She had to agree with that. “No, he wouldn’t be. You should have seen the scowl on his face when Coyote offered to help and insinuated Jake wouldn’t be able to build a crib on his own.” 

The face the blond aviator had pulled was amusing to her even now. He had looked truly offended and later on mumbled something about flying fighter jets on a daily basis and being able to very well build a crib, how hard could that even be. 

She didn’t have the heart to remind him that the assembly of their bookshelf in the living room had nearly made him cry. To be fair the construction manual had been absolute garbage. She would never tell anyone else of this tale, even if it was tempting when Jake made her mad.

“Oh!” She yelped. In an instant, three pairs of eyes were on her with varying degrees of concern.

“Are you alright?”, both Phoenix and the missus wanted to know, one hand reaching out to but not entirely touching her. It took Y/N a moment to collect herself before she smiled at them and nodded.

"Yeah. Just got surprised by a kick.” 

It was still a rather new sensation for her. While she had started feeling small flutters weeks ago, they had increased in power over the last couple of days. Their little one had gained a strength she wasn’t used to yet and so it sometimes startled her. Especially when the baby girl had been quiet and calm before.

The concern vanished and was replaced by wonder and curiosity. She could see it in their eyes, both of them were dying to ask but too polite to speak up.

“Wanna feel?”, she offered them instead. The enthusiastic nodding she received as an answer made her chuckle. 

She grabbed Phoenix's hand first and placed it where the last kick had hit. The little girl was an active one once she started going. It was something Jake loved. He couldn’t get enough of it.

She still remembered the first time he had been able to feel it. They had been laying on the couch, watching a random movie to wind down after a long and stressful day. He had slotted himself between her legs, with his arms around her middle and his head softly resting against her rounded stomach. While she had lazily stroked his hair the blonde had started to doze off.

Y/N had felt the small but steadily stronger growing flutters for a while already when Jake had suddenly startled and ripped his head in the air. He had scared her with the sudden reaction too. She had been concerned, thinking something was wrong until she realized what had startled him that much. He hadn’t understood at first and thus had even accused her of teasing and poking him. 

Phoenix gasped as she felt the little foot pushing against her palm and looked up at her with big, round eyes.

“Wow… that’s such a weird feeling.” Y/N laughed and nodded in agreement.

Then it was the missus' turn. When she felt the kick Y/N feared for a moment her friend would start crying. She was looking at her with glossy eyes and a quivering lip but also with the biggest smile she had seen on her.

“This is so magical!”, she said and turned towards Rooster who had been quiet the entire time. He stood awkwardly beside the three women, looking around as if he didn’t dare to look towards them.

“Brad, you have to feel this!” The missus urged her husband. Rooster looked slightly panicked at the suggestion, shaking his head and scratching at his neck in uncertainty.

“No, it’s alright.”, he tried to wave off, looking around again to try and find a way out. Y/N smiled at him. She could sense he was nervous and unsure about this even if she couldn’t tell why. Maybe he found it too intimate and didn’t want to overstep or he was scared to hurt her in some way.

“It’s okay,” she told him softly, taking his hand in hers after his wife had pulled him forward. She wasn’t going to let him go, so Y/N wanted to ease his nerves as best as she could. 

“You won’t hurt me, I promise.” He still looked unsure but ultimately swallowed and gave her a small nod. Only after he had given her this sign of ok she placed his hand on her bump, continuously smiling at him.

He had drawn his eyebrows together as they waited for the next sensation, with which the little girl waited a long time. But when she finally did the change in Rooster’s expression was immediate. His face relaxed, his eyebrows shot up in surprise and his mouth opened slightly in wonder.

“Oh, wow…”, he mumbled, stunned, which prompted the ladies around him to snicker. There was a redness spreading over his neck that was definitely not sunburn.

Jake on the other end of their friend group had been in a very interesting conversation with Coyote, his fiance, Payback, and his girlfriend when they all heard the laughter and giggling and turned towards it. He smiled softly, enjoying that his wife had found good friends in the people he valued so much.

There was one thing however that he had to look at twice and when he did he raised his eyebrows.

“Excuse me, fellas,” he told them, extracting himself from the conversation and weaving his way towards the group of four.

Y/N turned her head to the side when two hands landed on her hips and a body pressed itself to her back. She smiled up at her husband who kissed her on the head, before he acknowledged the others in the small circle, smiling and nodding at all of them. Then it was Rooster that got his full attention, as he narrowed his eyes and examined the other man carefully. Y/N noticed it. Even over her shoulder, she could see how Jake looked from Rooster’s face to the hand still resting on her bump. The blonde's fingers faintly tightened on her hips. 

There was an unidentifiable look on her husband's face, gone as fast as it had arrived before he started to grin. It wasn’t one of his happy, relaxed grins. This one reminded her of the beginning time when she hadn’t known him for long. The wolfish, wicked grin that everyone had called the ‘Hangman grin’.

“Impressive isn’t it?”, he said in a casual tone, yet one that underneath the surface oozed proudness. Rooster retracted his hand, she had felt his hand jerk before but the brunette forced himself to retract slowly and calmly. He didn't want to give Hangman any room for teasing.

“You felt how strong our little girl already is?” It made her heart flutter to hear him call their baby like that, with so much affection. Even if he sounded smug and a little cocky. Y/N put her hand on top of Jake’s on her side, softly squeezing his fingers. She knew it was only friendly banter. These two could not not bicker, it wouldn’t be Hangman and Rooster if they didn’t.

The brunette scoffed slightly but there was a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he raised one eyebrow.

“Keep grinning. I want to see what face you make when your kid’s old enough to date.” What a jab. Y/n had to press her hand onto her mouth to keep from giggling as she felt Jake stiffen behind her. 

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging. Stay tuned for part 2 (focusing on Rooster & his wife) and part 3

[lamentingwclf]

His relief when she concedes is palpable, but it does not ease the ache in his chest as she settles against him and he wraps his arms protectively around her. He absorbs all the comfort of the embrace, but is suddenly not tired at all. To fall asleep is to end an era of his life that he's not ready to say goodbye to. But he feels when she does - her breathing evening out as she goes slack against him. He stays like this as long as he can before he eases her off and away from him so he can slip from the bed.

It is a very selfish thing he is doing, but he'd told her in not so many words that he wanted to leave on his own terms - it does not help the guilt, especially when she wakes and finds him missing. He knows exactly how used she is going to feel, but it is too late to correct his course now.

Bucky moves silently, aided by the plush carpet, collecting his pieces of clothing and putting them on. His jacket is left unbuttoned, the tie loose around his collar, and his boots in hand. He creeps back over to stand at the edge of the bed and watch Gwen as she sleeps. A smile tugs at his lips as he wonders what she must be dreaming about, hoping it's not something as mundane as taking care of him the next day. He hopes she is dreaming of the bright future she will have - with or without him - and though it is a risk, and she might wake, he reaches out and traces the shape of her cheek with the tip of his finger.

He remembers when they were full, and apple-like with baby fat. He remembers when they began to lose that roundness and became defined. He remembers the exact day his world tilted and he slid, feet first, in love with her. Maybe one day he will tell her, but today, he will devastate her.

His undershirt is discarded, and when he goes to collect his hat, it's the black box next to it that gives him true pause. Bucky sets his boots on the ground, and his hat back on the counter as he takes the velvet container in his hands and opens it. The ring is still nestled inside. He won't wear it, not in the way she wants, but it doesn't mean he won't take it. Reaching for the chain around his neck, he undoes it, and slides the ring around so that it sinks and falls around to the center of his chest. It clinks against his tags and is tucked back beneath his shirt.

The box is left with a note in his neat scrawl. A note he tried and failed to write several times.

I lied to you when I said I would be okay with one night. One night will never be enough for me. If it were up to me, I'd stay. I would marry you tomorrow. I'd stay so we could try and start the life that we should have had. You can be mad right now, Gwen. You can be furious. You can even hate me if it helps, but I'm not going to diminish what I feel for you with a half-assed goodbye. That's not how I want to remember you, and it's not how I want you to remember me. You know I don't make promises I can't keep, so know this, I'm going to come back for you, and I'm going to fight for you. Lord help whoever stands in my way.

As Bucky slips out of her apartment, he makes eye contact with her neighbor. There is a split second of recognition before the man darts back behind his closed door. Maybe he should have contemplated that harder, or felt more guilt, but as is, he is running late. He only has just enough time to get back to his own place, grab his bag, and make it to the docks.

His whole life has been spent taking care of others, and putting them first. It did not mean he was immune from small acts of self-centeredness. Just that in the bigger picture of their lives, he'd always given them everything he could. As he steps onto the ship due to set sail two hours earlier than the one he'd told the others he'd be on, he recognizes what he has stolen from the people he loves, at least the ones that would show. He also recognizes how incredibly shitty it makes him, but in the moment finds it hard to feel regret for what he's given himself - the ability to remember each person in his own way, not marred by uncharacteristic goodbyes.

The laugh that escapes her is pure- far from what has occurred here tonight. It's normal in the face of what was tot come. Bucky's absence and fight to survive, her navigating a world without him on her own while living in the secret of what they'd just done, and having to come to grasps with what this meant. What this could and would mean, not only for her and Bucky, but Harry as well. But right now, it's just them- as if they both weren't laying naked with the other. "I don't understand what is so wrong about asking if there's a difference in feeling or preference. Especially when there is not many people I can ask about the subject."

A slow sigh is given as her humor fades, ready for the tasks she needs to do to prepare him. Her mind is already on making her checklist of what she needed to do in the morning, how to lay out his clothes, what to prepare him tomorrow for breakfast, when to draw his bath, and wake him up early enough so that he has time to go home and be with his family for the final remaining moments before they see him off.

But her intentions are cut short as Bucky snatches her, gasping as suddenly her hands are pinned and she's looking up at him. Her heart picks up it's pace, as it should, as her breath hitches- not quite sure of his next intentions, but his lips slowly help calm her back down. How can she deny his want? Especially when continuing to stay in this bed with him sounded so heavenly.

"Okay," Gwen whispers, a small smile coming to her lips. "Okay...but don't get angry with me if I wake you up earlier than intended." Slowly Gwen rolls to her side, her heart and body content as she slides to press herself against him, her arm draping over his body as begins to feel her adrenaline wear off. "But in the meantime....sleep Bucky....." A sleepy hum leaves her lips, nuzzling once more as close as she can to him. "...I'll see you in the morning.."

[roscgcld]

RYOMEN SUKUNA || my little flower

anime: jujutsu kaisen

characters: ryomen sukuna

pronouns: she/her 

notes: historical!sukuna x reader, slightly sexual (no smexy time involved lol - maybe another day ;)), quite fluffy towards the end

also - I’ve been reading so many sukuna hcs and imagines of him when he’s in his prime or during the historical era - so like excuse me as I politely simp for the man that is ryomen sukuna >< thank you 

references: https://www.japanese-wiki-corpus.org/literature/Ryomen-sukuna.html 

Sukuna leans back into the futon with a tired sigh, two of his arms folded behind his head while the other two held you against him securely. His ruby red eyes glanced away from the ceiling to look down at the woman curled up in his embrace, sleeping peacefully against him whilst her own soft arms were wrapped around his muscular torso. He admired your peaceful features at first, but soon his eyes started to travel down your delicate neck and cleavage, your soft skin marked by dark splotches where he had marked you up for the world to see.

Just the sight of the hickeys and bite marks caused Sukuna to smirk once more, the feeling of pride traveling through him at the sight of the hickeys, both new and old, marring your skin. It was a sight he would never get bored of seeing, since it was a constant reminder to you that you were his and no one else’s. 

Many would question just how did this happen - how did a simple human manage to ‘tame’ the infamous Sukuna - the King of Curses, who spreads chaos and bloodshed in his wake? How did you, a mere human woman who looked far too kind hearted and warm, ended up with such a fearsome man? 

Well, how this came to be was actually a cute story.

You grew up in a small village in Hida province, where many cities treated Sukuna as their patron deity. He was what people would call quite a cold ruler - one who would not hesitate to bring terror and bloodshed down on a town that had angered him. But at the same time, he was quite the generous man as well. He protects the people of the Hida and Mino Provinces, and many towns had florish and grow under his careful guidance.

Your town was one of the may towns that worshipped the Cursed Spirit, preparing offerings on special celebrations and always paying your respects whenever you go up to the ichinomiya on the weekends with your parents. It was because of one of these special celebrations that drew Sukusa to you.

It was one of the many days where offerings were given to him by townspeople, in hopes that they will still continue to get some form of protection from the unknown. He was their patron deity, after all. Even though many times he does all the things he does for his own benefit, it was nice to know that there are some who are gullible enough to think he does it for them. But he it’s one to complain - many of the offerings are things he does not mind indulging in. The best crops from the harvest, women for his ever growing harem, beautifully crafted weapons and clothes are the few he can keep in mind

Many times, he does not care to go through the offerings himself - Uraume goes through all of them and then gives him a general overview of everything. However, as he was walking past one of the neat piles of offerings, a particular garment box caught his eye; causing him to pause before he unwraps it curiously. 

Sitting inside the carefully wrapped package was a beautiful dark blue kinomo made of the finest silk, the fabric so smooth that it almost felt like water slipping through his fingers. Packed along with the kinomo was a beautifully crafted haori, a simple yet beautiful crane woven into the haori in white, the details done so carefully that when worn, the crane moves with the shifting of the fabric. The packet also came with a matching hakama made from the luxurious fabric, and a beautiful kaku obi made from navy blue, white and silver carefully weaved together into in a beautiful talent.

It was because of the level of craftsman ship that had Sukuna curious - who was the mastermind of something so beautiful?

He had went to the town where the garment was from and after some digging about, discovered about you. A daughter to a family of tailors, you were quite well known for your talents in embroidery and your mastery of the loom. Having gotten such talents, you crafted many beautiful pieces, and one of them was gifted to Sukuna himself recently. 

When he first saw you, he was struck by your beauty; how you had such a warm smile no matter who you were referring to. How your movements were graceful yet swift, your needle and threat embroidering the most beautiful depections of animals and flowers without a single mistake. How your voice was so sweet and calming that he can physically feel the tension from his body starting to unwind ever so slightly. If he could, he’d love to listen to your voice forever - which was what he intended to do. 

The first time you two met was actually in the dead of the night; you had stayed up later then usual, carefully embroidering a water lily onto a long fabric for a personal tapestry you wanted to hang in your room. A candle was burning by your work table, casting the engawa of your home in a soft but comforting glow; enough for you to do your work without straining too much. You were so fucsed on your work that you didn’t notice how the flames of your candle started to flicker in the glass holder; even though there was the air was still. Your eyes didn’t trail up from your tapestry even as a large figure quietly entered the hallway you were in; only pausing when you felt a huge presence looming over you.

Your bright eyes flickered upwards and met with four pairs of ruby red ones staring right back at you; all four of them shining in amusement. “You are quite oblivious, little one.” Sukuna hummed out with a soft grin, to which you just gave him a confused look as you tilted your head ever so slightly. “How did you get into my house?” You asked quietly, not even acknowledging how the man before you looked very different from what you’re used to; from the four muscular arms sprouting out from underneath the dark blue haori, the very same one that you had made for him. to the extra pair of eyes he sported on his face. Or how the top of his head was clearly brushing against the simple weed roofing of your family home.

“Is that really the first thing you’re going to ask, little one?”

From that day onwards, things definitely went a lot smoother then Sukuna could have imagined. At first the lack of reaction from you confused him, but he found it quite amusing nonetheless. Even after finding out that he was the same deity that you had heard stories of since you were in diapers, you acted no differently around him. You still talked and laughed with him like he was any other human. which for some reason made his heart feel warm and fuzzy. It makes him want to gather you up in his arms, protecting you from the horrors of the world.

The two of you will continue to meet up in the night like secret lovers; many nights he’d just lean against one of the pillars of your family home, with you perched in his lap as you work on different projects every night; talking about things that happen that day, or the funny stories that the townsfolk would share with you whenever they drop by to mend and purchase clothes, or when they dropped off freshly dyed fabrics. During a few of these nights Sukuna had suggested if you can help him mend a few of his kimonos, which you agreed to without hesitation. Some days you’d ever create new kimonos for him as well, which he would wear quite proudly. 

Soon these innocent nights of talking and laughter, him watching you do your work under the moonlight, to having you gasping and crying out for him as he took you over and over again in his grand bedroom; watching quite gleefully as he corrupted your innocence, ruining you for any other man. Ever since the first night you two shared in his bed, he knew that there was no turning back - there was no one else for him but you. 

And there was no way he was going to let some puny human even try to get in between the both of you.

With that he whisked you away from the somewhat mundane and boring life in your town, making you his entire world. He showered you with the finest gifts and opened the more human side of him to you; one that he thought he had lost the moment he had decided to go down the path he did. But you pulled these emotions out from him with ease, making him realise that he can chase all the power he want till the end of time and that will never satisfy him completely. 

All he needed was you, and everything feels right in the world.

“I’ve lost you again, haven’t I?”

Sukuna’s eyes snapped towards the direction of your sleepy voice, watching how you gave him the most beautiful yet sleepy smile as you carefully shifted your body so it was pressed against his. He marveled how your naked bodies clicked together seamlessly, even with the clear size difference between the two of you. “You will always have my attention, flower.”

The sound of the simple nickname cause a small smile tug against the corner of your lips, remembering how that nickname came about. You have always love studying flowers, since you enjoyed embroidering different sorts of flora and fauna onto different tapestries that now adorned the walls of the home you two share. You had once told him about your love of flowers, and because of that, you had came home one day to the courtyard in your shared home turned into your private garden; with flowers from all across the country planted at every nook and cranny. 

When you had asked Sukuna about it, he just shrugs and gave you an indulge smile - as if asking were you really shocked by his gift to you. When he realised just how deep your love for nature was, he had started to call you ‘his flower’, and the name has stuck since then. “What a sweet talker.”

A chuckle rumbled deep within his chest as one of his hands found purchase along your back, starting to massage what he was sure were your sore muscles; watching in satisfaction as you melted more into his chest. “Only for you.” He admitted quietly, to which you just gave him a loving smile as you rest your cheek against his chest once more; a soft finger started to trace along the tattoos on his skin. This action caused him to relax further into the futon, sighing softly in content. “Sukuna? Can we take a bath?”

“I’m lazy.” Sukuna stated with a soft groan as he glanced down at you once more, only to be met by the soft pout that you just know gets him to give in. This caused him to scowl as he cupped your face in one of his hands, gently squishing your cheeks between his fingers as he pushes himself up into a seated position. “You little minx.” He growls playfully whilst you just gave him a teasing smile, straddling his lap with your legs on either side of his whilst one of your hands wrapped around his wrist; causing him to loosen his grip on you whilst letting out a loud sigh. “How annoying.”

His arms suddenly wrapped around you before he got up from the comfort of the warm futon, causing you to giggle as you wrap your arms around his neck. “Let’s go, flower.” He sighs dramatically before he walked you both to the bathroom, causing you to perk up before you lean over to press a loving kiss against his cheek; ignoring his soft eyeroll at your act of affection. As if he didn’t enjoy it whenever you do so. “I love you.”

“Of course you do.” He teases before he started to walk you two towards the bathroom, one of his hands skimming down to the small of your pack where a beautiful black tattoo rested against your soft skin; a tattoo that looks similar to the black lines that adorned his own skin. “You’re mine, after all.” He stated simply, causing you to roll your eyes at him playfully as he carefully sat you down on the wooden steps leading to the opening of the ofuro; watching as Sukuna started to prepare the bath for the both of you. “Wouldn’t it kill for you to just be a little nicer to me?”

Your teasing tone clearly didn’t win any points with him, who narrowed his eyes at you and before you know it you were suddenly pinned down against the wooden steps. A soft giggle left your lips at the narrowed eyes that stared back at you, causing Sukuna to scowl softly at your reaction. “Now you’re just asking for it, flower.” He growled before diving down to meet your lips in a passionate kiss; not being able to mask his smile at the sound of your soft laughter just as you wrapped your arms around him once more.

"My little flower..”

© roscgcld — all rights reserved to me, rose, the author and creator of these works. do not repost/translate/claim my work as yours on any platform

[turtle-steverogers]

i was thinking but do you know the unsent project? it is this website where you can write a message to your first love that you never sent to them. now imagine steve writing one (or multiple) to bucky after he came out of the ice after nat told him about it... yeah

hello hi anon this broke me and it was too perfect not to turn into a ficlet klafjldskjfalskf thank you

-

Unsent Letters

To:

Steve’s fingers freeze over the keyboard, the cursor blinking at him. It feels like it’s taunting him-- teasing him with the burden of choking out a name. What should he even say? The sender is anonymous, but how many people are named Bucky out there? Would anyone even care?

To: Bu

Steve huffs and backspaces, his hands trembling as he curls them into fists. He isn’t sure what provoked Natasha to tell him about this website. It’s a cruel tease to everything he wishes he could say-- wished he could say before Bucky slipped through his fingers. And now his only option is yelling into an abyss. The text box is black and daunting. He turns it yellow. No, too happy. Green. Yes, that’s fine. Bucky’s favorite color was always green.

His gaze wanders away from the screen of his hefty Dell laptop and out the window of his apartment. DC’s low rising buildings span out in front of him. His gut aches; he misses New York already. But he knows being there would only mangle his soul further, seeing his already alien home torn to shreds by literal space whales. He huffs, thinking of Bucky’s comics. His stories came to life after all. Bucky would have probably vibrated out of his skin if he knew there was other life out there.

To: My astronaut

How’s space treating you? It’s treating me pretty badly, if I’m being honest. If only you could see what it’s done to Brooklyn. I think you’d be pretty mad at it if you knew…

Steve hesitates, reading back over what he’s typed. It’s stupid as hell, and he cringes, but he doesn’t backspace. His fingers find the keys again.

I miss you something awful. I don’t think that even encompasses how much I’m hurting without you. I feel so lost right now-- space is much bigger and scarier than you’d think. I know you’d love it. I wish you could see bits of it, but god, I just want to go home. I want you to come home.

Steve freezes again and finds the screen blurry where tears have welled in his eyes. His jaw clenches as he pictures the way Bucky would laugh at him-- teasing him for his dramatics and ruffling his hair. He wishes he could be there now, rolling his eyes and nudging Steve’s shoulder.

“What’re you upsetting yourself for?” He’d say, gently closing the laptop and coaxing Steve into his arms. “I’m right here, pal.”

And if Steve closes his eyes, he can almost feel Bucky’s warmth enveloping him. But he’s not there. He’s dead, and Steve’s a goddamn ghost, drifting through a future that doesn’t know him.

He opens his eyes and stares at the text box, then clicks submit.

The screen loads, and his message is gone, his pain forever documented in the abyss.

-

For someone who fought aliens two weeks after waking up from his impromptu seventy year sleep, Steve’s life is pretty monotonous. He contemplates this unfortunate fact as he stands in front of his toaster, hair sticking up on the back of his head as he nurses a mug of coffee and waits for his toast to pop.

It’s 5:45 in the morning and he tries to remember a time when he didn’t rise this early. Before the war, perhaps. Though, he’s always been a bit of an early bird. His home life was sporadic to put it lightly and he’d learned from an early age that the sooner he was awake, the better it was for everyone. Vigilance is not a new concept for Steve.

He hasn’t always stayed up late, though. That’s certainly new, and he feels this fact viscerally as he catches sight of his reflection in the microwave. There are bags under his eyes that will be gone by mid-morning thanks to the serum. Dermatologists hate him, Natasha says. Steve thinks he’s pretty lucky that the serum more or less equipped him with a built-in anti-aging agent. His father had started balding by thirty.

His toast pops and he starts a little, blinking blearily at the slightly burnt bread as he pulls it out of the toaster with his thumb and forefinger. He spreads on the same raspberry jam and butter that he uses every morning and tries not to think of how bland it tastes in his mouth as he eats it standing at the counter. Another routine.

He tries not to look at last night’s dishes in the sink as he stacks his plate and silverware on top and doesn’t bother sorting out his hair before pulling on his sneakers and slipping out of his apartment. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, only the beginning tendrils of light sneaking over the low tops of the DC buildings, and Steve vaguely regrets not grabbing a sweatshirt before he left. It’s not quite Summer yet and the mornings could still get pretty cool.

He’s about to take off down the street when he freezes. Natasha is sitting on the steps of his complex, wearing a pair of pink tinted sunglasses and tossing up and down the keys to her car. Steve blinks, rubs his eyes, then blinks again. Nope. She’s still there.

“Nat?”

Natasha looks up at him and smiles. “Hello.”

Steve shifts, uncomfortable. “Hi. You need something? Is there a mission?”

“No,” Natasha says lightly, standing. “You’re not running this morning, though. Come on, I’m taking you to Starbucks.”

“What?”

“Starbucks. You’re going to try it.”

“I don’t want--”

“Steve, you do the same thing every day. Step out of your comfort zone a little.”

Steve frowns, but Natasha’s right-- he really doesn’t ever stray from his routine.

“Fine,” he says, and twenty minutes later, they’re strolling into the nearest Starbucks.

He’s only been in one before, and that was to use the restroom while on a run. He’d bought a water bottle in an attempt to not be rude and use their facilities without giving them any business, but he hadn’t even considered the expansive menu. All the fancy names were too daunting.

They’re just as daunting now as he stares up at the board, heart hammering out of his chest as he’s faced with indecision. Natasha takes one look at his face, and reaches out to squeeze his arm.

“I’ll order something for you,” she says. “What kind of coffee do you like?”

Steve gives her a pained look. “Um… just coffee?”

Natasha quirks a smile and orders him something called a caramel macchiato. He’ll take it, he guesses.

The drink is too damn sweet and sugary and he almost gags. Still, he was always told to finish what he was given, so he drinks the whole thing.

-

To: Mr. Sweet Tooth

You’d fucking love it here. Everything is packed with sugar and sweetness-- enough to make even my teeth rot. I had something called a caramel macchiato today and it tasted like someone took your ma’s caramels and condensed them into a cup. I couldn’t stand it, but I know if you were here, you’d want at least twelve. I hope you’re enjoying all the sweets you can up in space.

Love, Mr. Boring

-

Steve’s fingers are stiff and frozen as he works at the straps of his stealth suit. The tangy taste of saltwater still sits heavy on his tongue, and he clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering too harshly as he finally peels off his suit. It’s not much better, being naked, but at least the wet fabric isn’t clinging to him anymore.

The mission had been pretty straightforward until some alien tech managed to blast the quinjet to kingdom come, and they all free-fell straight into the freezing Atlantic.

Steve had managed to keep it together as they took down the goddamn mad scientist that fucked them over, but now that he’s home and alone, he can feel the adrenaline crashing.

He’s shaking from more than just the cold as he draws himself a warm bath, and he pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to breathe through the panic that wants to engulf his entire being.

He loses time for a bit, and comes back to himself lying in his bed, burrowed under several thick layers. He feels so cold, down to his very soul-- a chill that he can never seem to truly shake, even when he’s warm.

Not for the first time, he wishes Bucky were there to hold him. He slips off to sleep thinking old, comforting thoughts of Bucky rubbing his hands between his own, coaxing his head under his chin to engulf him in that natural warmth of his. He always was a fucking furnace.

But when Steve wakes an hour later, shaking hard enough to move the bed with the force of the nightmare he’d dropped into, Bucky is not there to soothe away the ice.

-

To: JB

im so cold and i cant breathe ever and nothing feels right. I dont know what to do, u were always the problem solver between us and i cant think straight right now and i just want you here please. I cant do this anymore, im so tired please come back. I need you please

-

The Winter Soldier file sits in front of Steve-- a horrifying nightmare wrapped up in a neat brown folder. Residual nausea swirls around in his gut as he comes down from the horrible high of reading through the contents. His hands shake where they grasp the thick paper. His heart clenches hard in his chest.

Bucky is alive. Bucky is alive, and he’s been unmade.

Steve doesn’t know where he is-- if he’s escaped, or if Hydra found him again. It’s been three weeks now since the helicarriers, and he’s only just gotten the courage to sit down and wade through the shit that is Bucky’s reality.

He just hopes he’s safe. God, he hopes.

Sam says he’ll help him look, and Steve needs to know he’s at least out of danger, but he barely knows where to start.

And he’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry.

Blinking out of his reverie, Steve looks at his laptop. He feels strange and detached as he reaches for it and logs in.

To: Bucky

And yes, that feels right. He should use his name, since he suspects no one has for a long, long time.

I’m so sorry for what happened to you. I’m sorry that you’ve been hurting so quietly for so long. I understand if you’re not ready to come home-- I understand if you never are. I just hope that you know that there will always be a place with me that is safe. I love you so much and I’m here, forever and always.

Love, Steve.

He’s not naive. He knows it would be dangerous to submit that particular message, so he doesn’t. But that’s okay. That one’s just for him-- for them.

-

“Steve? What is the… Unsent Project?”

Steve frowns and pokes his head out of the kitchen. Bucky is sitting on the couch in the living room, using his laptop, because his own is having storage issues.

Bucky looks at him. “It’s one of your saved tabs. What is it?”

And oh, fuck. Steve had forgotten to remove that from his homepage-- it really wasn’t needed anymore. He blushes all the way to his ears.

“Oh, it’s-- nothing. Not anything important--”

But Bucky has already clicked on the tab.

“The Unsent Project,” he reads aloud. “A collection of unsent text messages to… first… loves…”

He trails off as he processes what he’s looking at, and Steve can’t quite read his expression when he looks at him again. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he’s looking at Steve like he’s some sort of kicked puppy. Steve shifts, uncomfortable.

“Were you sending me… messages? While I was dead?”

Steve swallows. “Um…” and now that Bucky says it out loud, it really does sound quite sad. He shrugs. “It’s Natasha’s fault?”

Bucky shakes his head, clicking on the search bar. He starts to type his name, but Steve shakes his head.

“I didn’t use your name.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, then frowns at him again. “What did you use?”

Steve blushes harder, sitting next to Bucky and taking the laptop from him.

“Um…” he hesitates, then types what he was sure he used as his first alias.

My astronaut

The screen buffers and loads, then fifty or so messages pop up. Steve scrolls down-- it doesn’t take long to find his.

They’re both quiet as they read, and Steve cringes. Jeez, he really had been pretty dramatic. Next to him, Bucky makes a hurt noise.

“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, taking the laptop back from Steve. He reads the message again, then once more, and reaches out for Steve. “Aw, I’m here now.”

Steve huffs, embarrassed. “I know,” he says. “That was way back, like, three weeks after I woke up.”

Bucky stills. “You fought aliens three weeks after you woke up?”

“... More like two.”

Bucky hums. “Are there others?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, reaching out to type on Bucky’s lap, because Bucky is holding him now and he’s quite reluctant to move. He thinks for a moment, then types in the next one he remembers.

Mr. Sweet Tooth

Bucky laughs, and Steve finds himself smiling.

“I find this funny,” Bucky says. “Because caramel macchiatos are definitely one of my favorites now.”

Steve laughs, too, and butts his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“If only I could tell that to myself back then-- he’d be thrilled.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky says. “Any more?”

Steve hesitates, thinking of the one he’d sent after that nightmare-- when he was low and hurting. Incoherent. He isn’t sure he wants Bucky to see that particular side of his soul, but Bucky has been more than generous in letting him in on his pains nowaday, and it’s not like Bucky hasn’t witnessed Steve’s own current nightmares.

He bites his lip and types in JB. That seems to yield a lot more results, and it takes a while for Steve to find the message.

He hides his face in Bucky’s neck as he reads. Bucky’s arms gradually tighten around him, and a moment later, he feels him kiss the top of his head.

“Honey, I hate that you were hurting so bad,” Bucky mutters against his hair.

Steve shrugs. “We both were,” he says, and it’s true. There’s something to be said about the guilt they both feel for not being able to save the other person at their lowest, but life hasn’t been kind to them. The vitriol, Steve thinks, should be directed at the goddamn universe for keeping them apart, not themselves for fucking dying. They’re working on it.

Bucky’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he says. “Is that it?”

Steve shakes his head. “But I never sent the last one.”

“Why not?”

“I wrote it after DC.”

He feels Bucky squeeze him again, and he squeezes back.

“Oh.”

“I just-- I wanted you to know that you didn’t have to come home. That I just wanted you to be safe; needed to know you were safe, but it was up to you. I just needed you to know I was here, if you needed me.”

Bucky pulls back then and cups his face, kissing him soundly. Steve’s surprised for only a moment before he’s kissing back.

“I did know that,” Bucky says against his lips. “I needed time-- I was lost-- but the first thing I knew when I remembered who you were was that you were a safe person, because you’d never force me anywhere.”

Steve kisses him again, then pulls him into a hug. “I’m glad you knew that.” It’s warm, where their chests meet, and Bucky is solid beneath him. Real. He isn’t speaking into an abyss anymore.

-

There’s a sticky note on Bucky’s pillow next to his head when he wakes up the next morning. Steve’s side of the bed is already vacant, and he can’t hear him downstairs. He must have already left for a run.

Propping himself on an elbow, Bucky plucks up the sticky note.

To: My Bucky

Thank you for choosing me to be your home, and thank you forever, for being mine.

I love you with everything I have.

Love, your Steve

Bucky smiles, heart light as he folds the notes. He’ll keep that one with him, he thinks. A little bit of home to bring wherever he goes.

-

anyway yeah fslkjflaskjfls i-- ouch. anything to do with letters w these two hurts me immensely

[seijorhi]

A Thousand Words

as promised, a Valentine’s Day fic 💕 

Oikawa Tooru x female reader, Iwaizumi Hajime x female reader

TW implied dub/non-con, cheating, minor choking/abuse, nsfw(ish)

You break up with Iwaizumi two weeks before Valentine’s Day, standing in the doorway of the apartment you share with him.

And you hate that it still hurts, still tugs at the wretched, broken strings of your heart to watch that rare, beautiful smile of his fracture like glass, confusion giving way to disbelief and then finally anguish.

Iwa’s never been the best with his words, but it seems that you’ve robbed him of those too as you tell him that your relationship’s over. He just stands there, wide eyed, agonised as you shove your phone – the proof – into his face, a hoarse, strangled whisper of ‘why’ leaves his lips. 

It seems that it’s all that he’s capable of.

There’s nothing for him to say anyway. You don’t want his apologies or his excuses. The pictures are evidence enough. 

A boys weekend, he’d told you, and you’d trusted him. You loved him. He wasn’t like your ex, Iwa would never deliberately do anything to hurt you. 

He knew what fidelity meant to you.

You’d thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with him, but those pictures are enough to show you what a fool’s dream that was. Iwa, naked in bed, wrapped around some other woman.

Sleeping so peacefully, curled up by her side, like he’d done with you a thousand times.

And it doesn’t matter whether he was drunk or not. It doesn’t matter if he knew her or paid for her or found her at some fancy fucking bar downtown. He cheated on you, he broke your heart and he doesn’t get to watch you fall apart in front of him.

You save your tears until the door swings shut, collapsing onto the floor with a heartbroken wail as the man you love walks away.

—

Iwaizumi doesn’t remember much of that night. He’s never been a lightweight, but the drinks they were knocking back would’ve been enough to take out the best of them. And Iwa didn’t have to worry, not when he was out with friends. 

God knows they’d gotten him into so much shit when they were younger and stupider, but between the four of them they’ll stop each other from doing anything too damaging. They have careers now (most of them, anyway) and reputations to protect. And Iwa had you.

Out of everything; his career, his reputation, his livelihood, you were the one thing Iwa wouldn’t risk fucking up.

The night itself is a hazy, incomprehensible blur, but he does remember the girl. Not her name or where she came from, but he remembers her. A pretty face with a sultry smile, wearing some short, tight, shimmering dress. He remembers her sitting on Oikawa’s lap, fingers carding through his hair, red lips kissing at his jaw.

And he remembers Oikawa lounging back in his seat, barely paying the poor girl an ounce of attention, even when her hand started to run teasingly up his thigh, those same sinful lips whispering into his ear.

How the girl managed to find her way from Oikawa’s lap to his hotel bedroom is beyond him, but the pictures don’t lie. It’s his arm wrapped around her waist, her skin littered with love bites and fingerprint shaped bruises.

It was her mouth he’d woken up to, trailing a slow, teasing path up along his chest. He’d shoved her aside, snapped and snarled until the pretty thing welled up with tears and all but fled, leaving him to fall back into the sheets full of self loathing and disgust, wondering how he could possibly have fucked up this badly.

And when he threw up later, hurling until there was nothing left in his stomach, he knew it had nothing to do with the alcohol he’d drunk.

Iwa hadn’t known that anybody knew, hadn’t thought that there was proof – not until you were shoving it in his face, your bottom lip trembling as you tried to keep your tears at bay. And what could he say? 

It was a mistake?

He was drunk?

Iwa doesn’t make excuses, you deserve more than that. You deserve more than him.

He should’ve fallen to his knees and begged – begged you through tears if he had to – for you to give him a second chance. But the words stuck in his throat, because the look of absolute, utter heartbreak on your face felt like a fist driving into his gut, and he wasn’t sure if he even deserved it.

You break up with him two weeks before Valentine’s Day, entirely unaware of the ring he’s been carrying around in his pocket for almost a month now, and Iwaizumi doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

So he does the only thing he can, and calls Oikawa.

—

Moving your things out of the apartment you’d spent the last year and a half sharing with your boyfriend – your ex-boyfriend – takes less time than you think. The life you’d started to build with him, packed up in nice neat little boxes in only a few hours.  

And you’re grateful that he’s not there. He’d messaged you to tell you that he wouldn’t be, the only contact you’d had with him since breaking up. 

It’s not the pictures on the nightstand, Iwa’s strong arms wrapped around you, a dopey little grin on his face that gets to you – it’s the World’s Best Boyfriend mug he’d bought you as a joke one day, the old hoodie of yours that was actually his, the one you’d worn half to death because it was warm and smelled like him. 

It’s hard enough to do this without him hovering over you, but stupidly you’d forgotten that while Iwa had promised not to be there, he wasn’t the only one with a key to your shared apartment.

The lock clicks and the door swings open just as you’re finishing up in the bedroom and for one single, split second, your heart jumps into your throat.

But the brunette that saunters in isn’t the one you’re still in love with, and you’re quick to brush away the tears on your face before he can see.

Before he can mock you for it.

Oikawa, ever the charmer, merely grins when he catches sight of you. 

“Did Iwa send you to supervise?” you say in lieu of a proper greeting, the words slightly more bitter than you intend – even for him. 

He isn’t bothered by it, his grin widening just a fraction as he turns and settles down on the bed, long legs stretched out, ankles casually crossed over. He looks entirely too comfortable there and it’s an effort not to bristle.

“Well hello to you too,” he says, his voice a teasing lilt. “Are you always this fun in the mornings?”

Your brows draw together in a frown, but just as you open your mouth to snap a retort, his palms come up in a gesture of mock surrender. “No, Iwa did not send me to supervise you. He doesn’t know I’m here, actually.”

“Then why are you here? To gloat?” you spit.

Oikawa’s eyes glitter, amusement tugging at his lips. You love Iwaizumi, and for his sake you’ve spent the past few years tolerating the constant, overbearing presence of his best and oldest friend. Oikawa, on the other hand has never made all that much of an effort to hide the fact that he doesn’t exactly approve of your relationship with his friend.

Oh, he’s never outwardly rude or hurtful. He doesn’t sit there and spew abuse at you, and as far as you know he hasn’t tried to sway Iwa into leaving you since the very early days of your relationship, but Oikawa doesn’t need to be overt to make his feelings clear.

He treats you like a one night stand that hasn’t quite gotten the hint that it’s time to fix your dress and move right along. 

You still haven’t forgotten the night you all went out to celebrate your boyfriend’s birthday, how he’d slid into Iwa’s empty seat the moment he’d slipped out to get another round of drinks and spoken so casually, as if it was nothing but a friendly conversation. Small talk. 

“You know it won’t last; you and Iwa.”

And you hadn’t said a word, not wanting to be baited into fighting – into ruining Iwa’s night. You hadn’t even scowled at him, just sat there, pretending that he didn’t exist as you waited for your boyfriend to come back to you. 

“You’re cute together, I’ll give you that much,” he’d mused, swallowing the last mouthful of his beer. He’d studied you from beneath long lashes for a moment; a sharp, lingering look entirely at odds with the easy, relaxed tone of his voice. “But you two aren’t a good match. You don’t belong with him.”

You never did figure out exactly what you’d done to make him dislike you so much, but you suppose it doesn’t matter now. 

Not when he’s finally proven himself to be right. 

“Please,” he says with a scoff, rolling those pretty eyes of his, “as if I’d be so immature. I’m just here to make sure you don’t steal the coffee machine – it’s so much better than the one I have at home.”

He spends the next half hour trailing you from room to room, looking entirely too delighted at your misery. It’s almost a relief when you slip into the bathroom just for a moment’s fucking peace, brushing angrily away at the tears that still haven’t left you.

You almost – almost – reach for your phone to message Iwa and tell him to call off his stupid, infuriating friend, except you’d left it lying on the kitchen bench.

—

His head hurts. An incessant pounding, throbbing ache that makes him want to hurl.

Rationally, he’d known that the cure for the monstrous hangover he’d given himself wasn’t going out for a run at five in the morning, but he didn’t know what else to do. It was either that or keep drinking, and considering it was the alcohol that had gotten him into this fucking mess in the first place…

“I need to fix this,” he groans, dropping his head into his hands, letting his fingers roughly run through the tangles of his hair. “I need to fucking fix this.”

He looks like shit, feels like shit, but he can’t bring himself to care, not even as a solid weight drops itself onto the couch beside him. 

“You need to give her space, Iwa,” Oikawa comments with a sigh, passing him a glass of water that he gratefully chugs. “Give her time to figure things out. She’s hurting, and you constantly harassing her won’t do you any favours in trying to win her back.”

He wants to see the truth in his friend’s wisdom. He knows he hurt you, he knows he fucked up, but–

You’d already moved your things out.

He’d known that, of course he had, but coming home to see every trace of you just gone was like a gut punch. He was gonna marry you, get down on one fucking knee in front of everybody and– and now you’re gone and he’s crashing in his best friend’s spare bedroom because the thought of going home without you there is too fucking painful for him to bare.

And he only has himself to blame for it. 

But you’re his future, the only one he really gives a damn about, and he’s not one to just give up and walk away. Iwa doesn’t care if it takes weeks or months, he doesn’t care if he has to spend the rest of his life making this up to you; he will. 

He can’t just let you go. 

Oikawa continues to try and talk sense beside him, but he’s barely paying attention, only offering a small grunt of acknowledgement when he feels the brunette’s eyes studying him. He knows that he’s only trying to help, but he can’t honestly remember the last time Oikawa bothered to introduce him to one of the girls hanging off his arm. He knew as well as his friend did that there wasn’t much point – they wouldn’t be sticking around for long. Fuck, he doesn’t think that Oikawa’s ever had a serious relationship in his life, so excuse him if he’s a little hesitant to take his advice as gospel.

And Oikawa doesn’t know you like Iwaizumi does. He doesn’t understand you, doesn’t see what Iwa does when he looks at you. You’re like… sunlight. There’s no other way he can describe it. It’s cheesy and stupidly sappy, he’d rather be shot than admit it out loud, but he’s never met another person so–so… radiant. You burn bright, and Iwaizumi can’t help but be drawn to you – your warmth and your softness and everything about you. You’re beautiful and caring and you’re home and he’s terrified that if he waits too long, somebody else is gonna see that and snatch you up for themselves and he won’t even be able to blame them for it.

He knows he fucked up, knows that you probably (rightfully) hate him, but he has to try. 

So he ignores the way that Oikawa huffs and rolls his eyes when he reaches for his phone, opening up your last conversation.

Please, can we talk? I know you don’t want anything to do with me right now but I’m begging you. Just ten minutes?

And his heart pounds against his ribcage so violently that he thinks he might be sick as he waits for it to send. Waits for the little ‘Read’ notification to pop up.

And waits.

And waits.

Error. Message failed to send.

He tries again, distinctly aware of the Oikawa’s watchful, curious gaze peering over his shoulder.

Error. Message failed to send.

There’s a sinking feeling in his gut and in his panic, he presses the call button, bringing the phone to his ear with a sick feeling in his stomach.

It doesn’t even ring, there’s just three beeps and the line disconnects.

You’ve blocked his number.

—

You second guess yourself with every step, but you don’t stop and you don’t turn around. 

The radio silence from your ex had been a little unexpected, but you’d been the one to tell him in no uncertain terms that the two of you were done.

You were the one to make a point of moving out, keeping the few messages you’d exchanged short and to the point. Were you expecting him to fight you on it? Blow up your phone with messages and voicemails begging you to come back? Maybe show up at your door demanding that you hear him out and give him another chance. 

Were you maybe just the tiniest bit disappointed that he hadn’t? 

It wasn’t remotely fair to expect that of him, you know that, but you couldn’t help the way your heart had leapt into your throat the moment his message had come through after days of nothing.

Can we talk face to face? I need to see you. 

Two sentences, that was it. And you’d spent the better part of an hour debating whether or not you should reply.

Because you love him still, despite it all. 

The last person you’d given a second chance to had used that chance to walk all over you. He’d broken your heart, your trust, and any semblance of self worth you’d had. Iwaizumi had been the one to build you back up afterwards. 

And now he’d done the same thing. Knowing what you’d gone through before, and it gutted you.

The date on the calendar hasn’t slipped your attention. It’s Valentine’s Day, and you’d spent all morning trying to forget that if things were different, you would have spent the day with Iwa. He’d been secretive about his plans, tight lipped for once in his life, and there’d been some part of you that had wondered, hoped even… but instead you’re sitting alone in a hotel room, feeling miserable for yourself. 

If you were stronger, maybe, and if today were any other day, you might have ignored the message, the way those two brief sentences made your pathetic heart ache, but–

But… perhaps you had been a little too hasty when you’d broken it off. Iwa hadn’t said a word to defend himself, but you hadn’t really given him the option, had you?

Agreeing to meet with him wasn’t agreeing to brush it all under the rug. It wasn’t a promise of forgiveness, or even really an olive branch. It just meant that you would go to hear him out, that’s all.

Just to hear him out.

Yet your stomach’s twisting into knots as you walk up the familiar steps, your heart beating out an unsteady rhythm. You love him, despite it all.

You love him, but that doesn’t stop your hand from trembling as you raise a fist to knock.

The smiling face that greets you when that door swings open, however, is not the one you’re expecting.

“Hey there, cutie. You’re early.”

Oikawa.

For one single, floundering heartbeat, confusion grips you. Why was he– was Iwaizumi not coming? Had you misunderstood the message, or… or had he changed his mind, backed down at the last second and sent his friend to hammer the final nail into the coffin of your failed relationship.

You didn’t think Iwaizumi would be the type, though. He’d never been cruel, he’d never been cowardly, either.

“I don’t… understand,” you breathe, wide eyes darting around as if you’re expecting your ex to suddenly pop up behind his shoulder and shove him aside with a growl, telling him to butt out of your relationship the way he had countless times before.

Yet Oikawa offers no explanation, that same stupid, infuriating grin widening as he steps back to let you in, and you, somewhat robotically, follow him inside. Your eyes flicker from his back to the apartment around you – it’s exactly how you left it last week, not a single thing out of place. 

“Iwa said–” but your voice falls silent as you realise that no, that’s not true. 

The door to your bedroom is ajar, soft, flickering light spilling out from the crack, but that’s not what catches your attention. It’s the rose petals on the floor, the dulcet music playing so quietly you’d missed it entirely. 

Your brow furrows, breath catching in your throat as you stare at the scene before you, utterly frozen. You don’t register Oikawa stepping closer, nor the dark hunger brewing in his eyes. None of this makes any sense, you don’t understand–

“Iwa’s not coming.” Long, delicate fingers grip your chin, tilting your face and before you can even draw breath his lips are pressing against yours. It only lasts a second, long enough for your lagging brain to register that Oikawa is kissing you, here, in the middle of the apartment you’d shared with his best friend.

Oikawa, who hates you. Who’s cupping your cheek, gazing at you with an expression so eager and wanting, so unnervingly wrong that it makes your heart clench in fear and your blood run cold.

His thumb brushes along the curve of your cheekbone,  “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

And then he’s grabbing at your hand, fingers entwining with yours as he tugs you towards the bedroom, and finally the shock wears off enough for reality to kick in.

“What the fu– Oikawa, get the hell off of me!” you snap, trying to wrench yourself free. But he’s stronger than he looks, and his grip merely tightens.

“Tooru,” he calls back, glancing over his shoulder with that impish, wicked little smirk. “I want you to moan it for me tonight. You can do that for me, right cutie?”

You’re not a violent person, you’ve never been the type to lash out with fists and blows, but something inside of you just snaps at his words, and before you can stop yourself, your open palm flies towards his face. 

Quick as lightning, Oikawa spins, catching at your wrist and slamming you up against the living room wall. A small burst of pain radiates through your skull from the impact, your breath forced from your lungs in a pathetic squeak as he boxes you in. There’s not a moment for you to catch your breath, though, not with his forearm pressing down on your throat just hard enough so that you can feel it. He’s always been taller than you, but you’d never considered him to be intimidating – not until he’s looming over you, teeth bared in that feral smirk.

“Oh, baby. If you’re not going to play nice, I won’t either.” His fingers tighten on your wrist, squeezing until a choked whimper slips out and he kisses you once more. Not soft or sweet, but bruising, teeth clacking, nipping and biting and harshly sucking at your bottom lip until you return it.

And when he pulls away, there’s blood on his lips – yours – and he licks it away with a satisfied little hum. “I put effort into this, you know,” he says, his tone almost conversational if not for the slight pant, the shivering undercurrent that laces every word. Oikawa leans closer, and you can feel the outline of his cock, hardening already as he presses it against you, rutting his hips ever so slightly. “Set the bedroom up nice and romantic for our first time together.”

He kisses you again, a sweet, tender peck, smiling when you part.

“But if you want me to fuck you here first, up against the wall, all you had to do was say so.”

—

The girl had been easy enough to convince to play along, which probably should have disgusted him. 

She looked like you; a cheap imitation, of course, but close enough. Oikawa could kid himself that it was for Iwaizumi’s sake, to sow the seeds of doubt in his head, but he knows as he forces her face down into the pillow, slamming his hips against her ass like a man possessed, that that’s not the whole truth.

But she served her purpose well enough, letting him fuck her, mark up that pristine skin with the same kind he’d seen littered across your neck and collarbones, your thighs–

And she’d still tried to kiss him the moment before slipping out of her robe and climbing into his best friend’s bed. Given him that playful wink, biting her bottom lip seductively as if she were anything but a means to an end for him. 

As if he hadn’t forgotten her name the moment he’d gotten those pictures.

Oikawa knows all about your ex and how that asshole treated you, out of all the possible scenarios he could have engineered, this would be the one that’d hurt you the most. He’d thought that you would fly off the handle, kick Iwa out for a few days and leave the door open just wide enough for him to weasel his way in, but you’d gone one step further. 

You’d left him.

Broken his heart completely, the way he’d broken yours. Oikawa couldn’t have planned it better himself, and oh what he would have killed to have been there to see it. 

And it’s not that he enjoys his best friend’s pain – truly, he wants Iwa to be happy, he does.

Just not with you. Not when you’re his.

It was easy enough to bully Iwa into revealing when you’d be coming over to pick up your things. Easy enough to rile you up to the point you’d run and hide just so he wouldn’t see you shed all those pretty tears.

Leaving your phone unattended. And really, it’s your own fault for choosing such an obvious passcode – how could he possibly resist?

You were none the wiser, his poor, unsuspecting little idiot. 

Yet for all your posturing and your badly concealed hurt, he’d known that you’d show up today. You’re a romantic at heart, and you’d let yourself be walked all over again if you thought it meant that somebody loved you, wouldn’t you?

You would’ve said yes when he’d gotten down on one knee, and when he’d come back to you with tears in his eyes, drowning in regret and you saw what a mess Iwaizumi was without you, you would have forgiven him – even if it meant giving him the power to break you all over again.

Oikawa honestly doesn’t know whether he should admire or pity you for it.

It hardly matters now, he supposes. Not when you’re so beautifully wrecked, lying nestled against his bare chest with those tears he adores spilling down your flushed cheeks. Every thump of your heart echoing his. 

He wonders if he should send Iwaizumi a picture. 

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: III

“You can have me tonight or never

I thought you understood

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

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

—Wrong, Zayn and Kehlani

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

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

word count: 24.2k

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

///

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

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

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

Harry still hates clubs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very satisfied, yeah. Your help was greatly appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that so?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The name’s Styles. Harry Styles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not going.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lock the door on your way out!” 

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is, until she met Harry seven days ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing he notices is the dress. 

Fuck, the dress. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nice to see you again, Disco Ball.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far from it, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like your dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been thinking about you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It felt really nice.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t mind it, either.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, y-yes.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We do make quite the team, don’t we?

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

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

Alright, Watson. What time will you be home?

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

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

I’ll see you there, then. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fan came in. Wanna come check it out?

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

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

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

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

Sounds good to me, Sherlock. 

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

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

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

“Shut up.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I— I can’t. I’m—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hands off.” 

“W-What?”

“Hands off.”

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

“Ask for permission.” 

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

“Please what?”

“Please—can I—can I cum?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

///

The third week is when things escalate for the better. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need interior design advice. 

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

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

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

Genuinely? 

Yup!

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

Alright, shoot. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Immature? 

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

Another message interrupts his spiraling negative conclusions.

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N ignores the bristling across her cheeks. 

Alright, go head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you watch your video before you sent it?

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, whoops. Sorry for the indecent exposure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touché.

Exactly. 

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

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

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

You did it on purpose, didn’t you?

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

Maybe.

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

Alright, l’ll bite. Tick for tack. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You read my mind.

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

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

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

She practically drops her phone when it vibrates.

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

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

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

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

Hours? You want me down your throat for hours?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m going to call you.

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

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

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

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

[theskywaslookingback]

[AO3]

“Why do you even have that?”

Sasha looks up from her laptop to give Jon a quizzical look. They’ve been deep in a research hole for hours now, Jon with his files spread out before him like a buffet and Sasha picking her way through line after line of code to access things that she really shouldn’t be able to access - although, the government should have better security if it didn’t want to get hacked so she tried not to feel too badly about it. Jon’s not looking at his files now though, his gaze appears to be drawn to her shoe-box sized kitchen.

“Why do I have what?” She asks, “A kitchen?”

“No, the--” He flicks his fingers in a vague gesture to the counter, and his eyebrows pull together in a fetching little wrinkle that Sasha desperately wants to smooth away with her thumb, “the absolutely massive thing you have taking up half your kitchen.”

“Oh!” Sasha says, and then starts to laugh.

The stand mixer is large, honestly, too big to store in the meagre storage space of her cabinets and taking up half the countertop next to the stove. It’s also a garish bright red, loud against the backdrop of beige walls and a white lino countertop. She wonders why on earth Jon’s bringing this up now, they’ve been working for hours now and this certainly isn’t the first time he’s visited her flat, and decides the answer to simply be that ‘it’s Jon, he’s probably just never noticed.’

He’s fully scowling at her now, in a way she knows is defensive. He probably thinks she’s making fun of him. He can be so sensitive. “Sorry,” She says when she stops laughing long enough to speak, “I think you just caught me off guard. It was cute.”

“Cute?” Jon starts to sputter, the tips of his ears darkening and his nose wrinkling.

He is cute, Sasha thinks.

She waves it off. “It was a wedding present. That’s one of the big ones, I think, for most people. First thing I added to the registry.”

Jon couldn’t look more blind-sided if he’d been hit by a lorry. He even drops his pen, staring at her with wide eyes. “You’re married?”

Sasha snorts. “Don’t be daft. Does it look like I’m living with someone?”

Jon looks around anyway like he’s looking for evidence. “Divorced?”

“Nope.” She says, popping the ‘p’ with extra emphasis and grinning at the helpless confusion radiating from her friend.

“Then--” Jon trails off. He looks at the stand mixer again, like maybe it holds the answers he’s seeking. He looks back at her, and then down at his files. Suddenly his head jerks up and he says, “Wait, have you ever even been engaged?” He says this so seriously it tugs at Sasha’s heart. His eyes narrow like he’s caught her in some kind of trap, as though that wasn’t what she was expecting.

Sasha grins. “No.”

Jon looks at her incredulously, like he’s fitting together a bunch of puzzle pieces in his mind. It’s fun. Jon is so fun. “Sasha, did you fake an engagement just to get a stand mixer?”

“Yes!” Sasha slams her laptop shut and points at Jon, “But do not tell my great aunt that, do you understand? It took me years of work to get that stand mixer, Jon!”

Jon stares at her silently for just a moment, absolutely bewildered, before he dissolves into laughter, curling in on himself and digging his fingers into his sides. It shakes his shoulders and Sasha swears there’s tears in his eyes and before she knows it she’s laughing too, hard enough it hurts her chest and blurs her vision. To an outside viewer they must look positively loony. It takes ages for them to stop and gather themselves back together. Jon takes off his glasses to wipe tears away from his eyes while Sasha rubs at her face and tries to stop the giggles that keep bubbling up when she looks at Jon.

“God,” Jon says at last, “I haven’t laughed like that in--” he clears his throat, “anyway.”

“Yes,” Sasha agrees, “anyway.”

She looks at the clock and is both shocked and completely unsurprised that it’s after midnight.

Jon must follow her gaze because she hears him utter a quiet, “good lord.”

She’s dangerously close to laughing again.

Jon starts to shuffle his files away back into their folders. “Later than I thought.” He says.

Sasha hums in agreement, putting her laptop away and sorting her notes into neat piles. “No use trying to get home this late, you might as well just stay the night.”

“Ah,” Jon’s nose does that cute wrinkle thing again, and Sasha’s lips twitch, “that’s quite alright. I’m sure I can just find a cab.”

“Could do,” Sasha agrees, “but it’d be easier if you stayed. I’ve got an extra toothbrush and everything. Plus, tomorrow is Saturday so it’s not like we have to rush back to work or anything.”

Jon’s got all his things put back in his messenger bag, a solid olive green canvas affair that Sasha privately thinks is dreadful looking. “Wouldn’t want to spoil your weekend. I’m sure you have plans.” He’s stalling, looking for a reason not to go. Sasha wishes he’d just tell her what he wants.

She smiles, because Jon isn’t easy but she knows him and she likes him anyway, “Well, I was going to put that stand mixer to work and make myself some bread. But other than that--” She shrugs.

Jon’s eyes go once more to that bright red piece of kitchen equipment. “You make your own bread?”

“Sure. It’s cheaper and it tastes better.”

Jon makes a thoughtful noise. “Well, I suppose… that is, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Lovely,” Sasha beams, and then adds slyly, “I’ve even got some of Tim’s things you can sleep in.”

Jon goes properly red at that and buries his face in his hands with a groan.

-

Sasha busies herself with getting her ingredients together while Jon wakes up. Before they’d become friends she’d always just kind of assumed he’d be a morning person. He had that air about him at work, sharp and alert even when she was still trying to get her head on. The truth is that while Jon has difficulties getting to sleep, he would happily sleep until mid-afternoon if she let him, so she makes sure to wake him at a decent hour and then goes back to check and make sure he hasn’t fallen back asleep. Since her flat is basically a glorified closet, and Jon sleeps on the sofa, this is not a hard task to keep an eye on.

It takes a good twenty minutes before Jon comes and sits himself down at what she generously calls a kitchen table. His hair hangs in curls around his shoulders and he impatiently pushes a hand through it where it covers his face. He’s still sleepy-eyed, the sleeves of Tim’s jumper she’d let him borrow pooling around his hands.

“Good morning.” She says with amusement.

He grunts, flopping into a rickety chair. “Coffee?” He asks.

“All out. Tea alright?”

He nods.

“Great. Kettle is over there.” She gestures vaguely to the area next to the fridge, “Tea is top cabinet.”

Jon sighs, like it’s a great effort for him to make his own tea, but offers no further complaint as he retrieves the kettle and fills it with water.

With Jon out of the way Sasha appropriates the table for more space to set out her scale and bowls. She won’t need anything too fancy today so it doesn’t take long to get set up. She hears the kettle and turns around just in time to see Jon half-way climbing onto the counter. “Jon!” She scolds, similar to the way she would her cat when she was a child.

He freezes and gives her a sheepish grin. “You said top cabinet.”

She did, and she hadn’t thought about the almost foot of height she had on Jon. She snorts and waves him down. “Grab the mugs, I’ll get the tea then.”

He grumbles something about doing it himself but obliges, plucking two mugs from the drying rack.

“Green tea alright?”

Jon makes a dismissive noise. “Black?”

“Out.”

“I’m taking you shopping after this, Sasha James, this is downright unacceptable.”

“Yeah, sure.”

She hands him the box of tea bags and he rolls his eyes at her, muttering as he fills their mugs with water.

“Do you at least have milk?”

“Yes.”

“Thank god.”

Sasha rolls her eyes and gets back to her scale, weighing out her dry ingredients.

“Why are you doing it like that?”

“By weight?”

Jon hums.

“It’s more accurate by weight than by volume, typically.”

“You can’t just, I don’t know, eye-ball it?”

“Jonathan Sims have you ever baked anything in your entire life?”

She takes the jerky shrug he gives in response as a no. She shakes her head and dumps her flour and yeast into the mixing bowl of her stand mixer. Jon hovers there at her shoulder, watching, so close she can almost feel his breath.

It gives her a wicked idea.

She reaches a hand up, like she’s checking something, and then flicks the mixer on high.

Flour explodes from the mixing bowl in a cloud of white, covering her and Jon and the countertop.

The little shriek Jon gives will stay with her for a very long time.

“Why?” He asks, mouth agape and positively covered in flour.

“Because I knew it would be funny.” Sasha says, laughing. There’s flour in her hair, and she’ll definitely need to wash her clothes, but the look in Jon’s wide eyes and the slowly blooming smile on his face is worth it.

It takes less time than she thinks to get everything clean again, and the second time she even allows Jon to help her measure ingredients and start the mixer. He’s very serious about the whole thing, watching the scale with a grim kind of determination like it would mean death if he added just a bit too much yeast to the dough, but it’s the most fun Sasha’s had in forever. By the end of the day she has enough bread to wrap a loaf up for Jon to take home, and he looks at her like she’s just given him the greatest gift he’s ever received.

“Same time next week?” She asks as she wraps his scarf around his neck.

“I suppose.” He says, ducking his head to avoid the kiss she tries to plant on his cheek. “If you’re amenable.”

“I’m amenable.” She says, and kisses the top of his head anyway.

Sasha watches him leave and Jon turns back at the end of the hallway to wave, before disappearing into the stairwell. She laughs, bright and happy, and closes the door.

[leejungchans]

— dance with me?

word count: 1.7k

pairing: dino (svt) x ateez oc (juliet)

warning(s): none!!

genre: an overwhelming amount of fluff bc i love lee chan

set on february 11, 2021

summary: during a late-night date on dino’s birthday, he asks juliet a special question.

juliet’s masterlist

minnie 🐭❤️ [22:16] i’m heading down now!! (◕‿◕) don’t drive off without me please ur so sexc 😩😩

From where he is, parked a street down from the building where ATEEZ’s dorm is in, Chan shakes his head fondly, looking out the window from the driver’s seat for any sign of his girlfriend.

Sure enough, just a few minutes later, Juliet emerges from the building’s entrance, glancing down the mostly empty street before spotting the familiar car.

Under the light of the street lamps, he can see that she’s wearing a huge puffer jacket with a scarf wrapped around her neck, purple hair stuffed under her beanie to avoid catching the attention of prying eyes. With all the layers she has on, she reminds him of a waddling penguin as she speed-walks towards the car.

Cute.

Chan unlocks the door as Juliet approaches, her eyes smiling while she settles into the passenger’s seat before leaning over the console to hug him. “Happy birthday, Channie,” she beams, taking off her mask to nuzzle the bottom half of her face into the thick material of her scarf.

“You already said that,” Chan teases, also smiling as he watches her fumble with the seatbelt for a bit.

“That was from almost twelve hours ago at 12 am! I think it’s illegal if I didn’t wish you a happy birthday again,” Juliet protests. “Sorry for being late, by the way. Have you been waiting long?”

“It’s only a few minutes, don’t sweat it.”

“Okay, but there’s actually a good reason! I was about to leave the building when Mingi-oppa called me because I left your present on the table, and I had to go back up to grab it! So you have him to thank that you have a birthday present.”

Juliet takes out a small gift bag, its handles tied together with ribbon so he can’t look into it, and hands it to him with a sweet grin. “Don’t open it now, though,” she warns half-jokingly.

“What? Why?” Chan whines. “I can’t even open my own present on my birthday?”

“No, because if you open it now then I’ll have to explain the meaning behind your gift, and if I do that I might actually cry. There’s a card inside explaining it.”

“What if I want to hear it from you?”

“Then you can call me when you get home,” she responds cheekily.

Chan relents. “Fine, you win. But you didn’t have to get me anything, I hope you know that,” he adds the last part seriously.

Juliet smiles reassuringly. “I know, but I wanted to. I hope you’ll like it, though.”

“I know I will.” It’s at that moment when he finally gets a good look at her face, the light from the street lamps hitting it just enough for him to note the dark circles under her eyes. “You look tired, baby. Don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful no matter what, but is everything okay?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” As though on cue, Juliet brings a hand up to cover her mouth as she yawns. “Just a little tired from comeback preparations and practising for Kingdom. I’ll be fine, though, don’t worry.”

“I’ll always worry about you,” Chan admits. “You shouldn’t have come so you can rest.”

Juliet frowns. “No, I wanted to see you. Plus, it’s your birthday.”

“Okay, but you have to promise that you’ll take care of yourself.”

“I always do!” A pause. “Okay, sometimes I don’t, but I’ll try,” she promises genuinely.

Chan smiles. “Good. Let’s go, then. Seatbelt on?”

“Mhm!”

“Um, where exactly are you taking me?” Juliet asks suspiciously, noting that they’re currently driving up a hill away from central Seoul.

“Patience, Minnie. You’ll find out soon,” Chan says with a mischievous smirk. “We’re almost there.”

She feigns an offended gasp. “I am always patient! I’m just asking because I’m too pretty to meet my end now.”

“If something happens, I’ll protect you.”

“Nice try, but don’t think I haven’t watched that episode of GOING SEVENTEEN with you guys in the haunted house,” Juliet teases with a raised brow. “If anything, we probably need to call Wonwoo-ssi or Minghao-ssi.”

Chan groans. “Can we not talk about my members when we’re on a date?”

This only earns a laugh from Juliet. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

“You’re going to tease me even on my birthday?”

“It’s how I show affection!” she defends while the car comes to a stop at the side of a dimly lit road. “Are we here?”

Upon his nod, she unbuckles her seatbelt to hop out the car, snow crunching under her boots. Immediately, harsh winds whip at her face and she shivers, the temperature even lower due to the higher elevation.

She hears a lighthearted tsk from behind her before feeling her jacket being draped over her shoulders. “You left it in the backseat, silly,” Chan says softly while he helps her into it, referring to when she took it off during the car ride. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

“No, I won’t. I have you to remind me,” Juliet says cheekily, earning herself a light flick on the forehead. She follows Chan to a clearing a few paces away from where they parked and immediately realises why he took her here.

Seoul, with its sparkling lights, is captivating at night when you’re in the heart of the city, but perhaps even more so when you’re looking at it from afar. She can’t help but admire the stark contrast between the tranquil hillside they’re at that compared to the vibrant city centre it overlooks.

“I sometimes come here with the members when we want to be away from... the loudness of it all,” Chan explains quietly as they move closer to the railing. “To think. Or just to take our mind off certain things.”

Juliet leans closer to his side to link their arms, her head coming to rest on his shoulder. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Don’t come to places like here often?”

She snorts. “I don’t just let anyone drive me to a dark hill in the middle of the night.”

Chan laughs, gently resting his head on hers. “You have a point. Does this mean I’m the only person allowed to take you here?”

“I’d like that. I also have a horrible sense of direction, so I don’t think I can remember the way here even if I tried.” Despite her quip, something in Juliet feels fuzzy and warm at the thought of this place being one only they know of.

It brings a sense of giddiness, the same one she felt when she was much, much younger; when she and her friends first decided on a secret hideout at their school back home in Sydney. Only this time, there’s more to it than just childhood innocence.

Juliet doesn’t know much about love. She’s had crushes here and there throughout her life, but none of them ever developed into something further. Of course, until she met Chan.

She doesn’t know much about love. But this feels like it.

And that’s more than enough for her.

His voice cuts through her thoughts. “I actually have something to ask you.”

At her hum, he continues.

“I was wondering if you’d want to be on Danceology. You know, like for a collaboration. We can choreograph and dance it together... anything you want, really.”

Juliet looks up at the boy with wide eyes, not knowing if she heard him correctly. “You’re sure?”

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Or you don’t have to decide now, I know you’re really busy these days. No pressure at all.”

“No, no,” she clarifies. “I meant if you’re sure you want to do one with me?”

The look in his eyes is so tender that she feels like crying. “I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

Something tells her he’s not only referring to Danceology.

Juliet leans her forehead on Chan’s shoulder to hide her face from him. “You’re going to make me cry on your own birthday,” she mutters.

“Is that a yes?”

She nods against him while blinking away the hot tears prickling at her eyes, feeling his lips press against her temple.

“That’s the best present you could’ve given me.”

“Yah, you can’t say that!” Juliet says, somehow finding it in her to crack a joke. What can she say? Humour is one of her many coping mechanisms. “You’re only supposed to say that if I didn’t give you anything! What does that make the gift I got you?”

“Best of the best?” At her laugh, Chan presses again, “am I still not allowed to open it?”

“No, you’re not.”

[00:05—Outside ATEEZ’s dorm]

“Okay, fine, you can open it.”

“What made you change your mind?” Chan grins, already reaching for the small bag in the backseat.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Juliet admits, smiling as she uses the dimmest setting of her phone’s flashlight to illuminate the dark interior, the overhead light being too risky to turn on at this hour lest they want to draw unwanted attention to themselves. “I guess I want to see your reaction.”

She stares quietly as he undos the ribbon tying the handles together before looking into the bag and taking out a small box. Despite her shyness and the sudden urge to jump out of the car and run back up to the dorm, Juliet continues to hold up her phone as he takes out the silver band within it.

It’s simple, minimalist, inconspicuous enough to wear during the day but at the same time uniquely his due to the custom engraving on the outside of the band. A snowflake.

She bites the inside of her cheek from nervousness as Chan silently reads the small card that came along in the bag, subconsciously tracing over her neat handwriting with his finger.

“Like a snowflake, I fell for you hahahaha (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) You asked me to be yours during the first snow of the year. I hope that is only the start of many more years to come. Happy Birthday, always be happy and healthy ❤️ And don’t forget to take care of yourself!! (♡`Д´) If you forget I’ll come over and nag you, but maybe you’d like that more than not ㅋㅋㅋ — 🐭❤️”

Chan’s eyes are glossy when he finally meets her curious and worried gaze, trying to gauge his reaction. He beams brightly.

“Told you I’d like it.”

find their collaboration here!! 😼

a/n: blessing you guys with this gif bc look at him go!! ;-; stream dino’s dancelogy to be sexcie 😼 pls don’t let juno flop </3 also i thought it’d be too mean if i didn’t tell you what the present was bc i definitely considered not saying anything about it 👀👀 anyways let me know what you think about this chapter 🥺 personally i am <///3 bc bwhehwhs i want what they have but also i’m not very good at writing fluff whjehdhw i cringe at myself sm when writing it 🤡

thank you so much for reading 💕 please do consider leaving feedback whether it’s a reblog, a reply or an ask, it would mean the absolute world to me as feedback really motivates and supports creators 🥺 and feel free to chat with me about juliet or anything else through my asks!! as always, take care and have a good day!!

[sweetpickolwarrior]

The Three Times You Didn’t Want Them To Hear You, The One Time You Did (Part 3)

Established fic

Small!Brown!Female!Reader

Not too apparent but just letting you know in case.

Fic summary: You have been travelling with geralt and Jaskier for quite some time, you had always been told that your voice would take you places before you had no choice but to abandon your previous life. You still loved it though. This fic explores the times you let go and let yourself sing. We also explore your backstory and the developing relationship with your older and protective companions :)

PART 1 HERE PART 2 HERE

Chapter summary: Bit of a filler chapter, the wait was more so to plan out the rest of the story clearly. Y/N wants to repay geralt for his kindness and show Jaskier that she does not hate him, but has trouble with words and such. Further apologies for the wait... enjoy!

The fact that you had not been sober enough to truly appreciate the room that Geralt had decided to treat you with left you with a pang of guilt, but a wavering reluctance to bring up anything about that night lest he unnecessarily recall the sound of your voice. You don’t suppose he cared much, as far as you could pick out from that night, it wasn't something that mattered very much to him… but then why the room? The situation slightly baffled you. You much preferred going from contract to contract, tavern to tavern, losing yourself in the endeavours of your companions. You roamed the streets of this new, unusually pleasant town, the bustle of the morning bubbling through. Your mind turned to the small sack you had swaddled at the very bottom of your pack buried beneath your myriad of gatherings from your travels. A small, worn leather sack with a drawstring through the top, wrapped in an old sock that had outlived its original duty a few winters ago sat almost full, the weight of the coin inside at most an apple or two. You had kept it for emergencies, a few loaves of bread and some meat if rations had become sparse, a promise payment for a healer or mage, should one or more of you fall incapacitated while coin was low, an emergency room should the cold threaten to settle in someones bones too cosily, and should you feel the need to express gratitude to a generous but stoic witcher, apparently.

You wandered past a bakers stall, sweet pastries dusted with sugar beckoned, small honey dipped loaves with specks of lavender peeking through the golden slopes glinted in the morning light, puffy buns that had been baked with a clever twist in the top to result in a soft swirl sat in a neat row identical to the sweet fresh bread Jaskier had pressed into your palm earlier. You cringed at the thought of leaving so abruptly and didn't like all this coaxing going on, and hoped he would drop the subject so you could shove the topic down your tunic and carry on your simple shenanigans with the bard.

You strolled through, eyes on the dry dirt of the worn path through the centre, ladies walking with shawls wrapped tight around their shoulders gave you curt, tight-lipped greeting smiles as you passed through looking thoroughly disheveled. You had given up on dresses, petticoats, stockings and other such extraneous garments when tripping up on hems or sweating through layers upon layers had become more trouble than your chagrin had been worth. A tunic and breeches were sported now, along with unkempt, thick jet black hair. You tended to forget what a sight you would be to normal folks, constantly surrounded by the bard in his gaudy and intricate clothing (you still didn't know how he survived on the path) and a burly witcher clad almost always in armour and under that, similar garments to yourself. you supposed the three of you stuck out like an arrow between the eyes. Your mind flashed to what your mother may have said should she see you like this. It confused you for a moment, these memories suddenly deciding they were welcome in your conscious thoughts over the past few days. you stuffed the sudden pang of guilt and shame back into oblivion as your hands moved to your tangled mop, carding roughly through so you may find some semblance of being put together.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You tried hard not to cast your eyes down to your fingers, out of practice as they were. You tried to feel the sections, pick up more as you went, comb through soft with your fingers lest the ends get tangled, keep hold of the ribbon. Roach was being very patient with you. The fire warmed your back as you sat on your knees, tending to a horse who had decided to sit for you. You didn't know much of equine tendencies, but had heard that horses do not sit save for when it was going to rain. Your mind moved to days where your little troop had no choice but to trudge through hail, rain and thunder. She did not object and kept on wonderfully through these times and was rewarded with kisses and slips of dried fruit from you later on.

She had decided to understand what coaxing her to the floor with a brushing, soft words and rubs on her neck had meant that night and folded her legs, coming down with an impressive and somehow graceful thud. You supposed you couldn't know everything about everything and the clearest answer was that she’s just a very good girl. You relaxed as your fingers fell into a rhythm - right strand, left strand, ribbon, taking care to adjust the material so the nicer side was showing. “Expensive.” Geralt stated simply from behind. He was checking through his own pack, counting off vials of witcher potions and such. “Yes, well - an extra room must have cost.. and the food I didn’t touch” you focused on your hands, knowing Geralt was probably trying to avoid eye contact, too. After hearing a somewhat soft “hmm”, your attention returned to your fingers, having now grown a mind of their own. Roach’s auburn mane turned a dark coal in your minds eye, her soft huffs to small complaints of tugging too hard “hush now, or it won’t look nice” you barely whispered as her head jerked, it was an impossible task to try tie the hair of any child into a neat row, your sisters no exception. Your breath slowed as your mothers lullaby sat in between your lips, you tried to grasp the first note of the soft song.

Sisters? Here?

Your knees were cold and sore, kneeling on the ground so long, knobs of grass settling aches into your muscles; your hair unkempt and hastily scraped back, with a small leather tie, bumps hilling over your scalp that you had no care of. Your hands were dirty, grubby from foraging scraps of dry wood to keep warm through the night. Calloused from the past few years of plucking the string of your bow with arrows that reminded you with every swift hit that death was something permanent, immediate, inescapable. These hands were not the same ones that softly put braids in your sisters’ hair. These calluses were not the same ones that came from making music.

The first note of that bloody lullaby froze on your toungue.Best to stop trying to live in the past. Not that you were, trying that is. You wanted nothing more than those memories to keep sitting in the little box in your mind where they were meant to be. Happy, silent, unbothering. Instead they kept feeling the need to rise up, to pester you and drag you away, remind you that those days would never come back, that your whole life had vanished.

Well, this was your life now and different as it was, you needed to live in it. You pushed away the offending memories for the second time that day, focusing on finishing Roach’s mane.

Impeccable timing as always, Jaskier came strolling through after having washed everyone’s clothes in a nearby stream, no doubt a vein of the river you had found yourself in those few days ago. “Honestly, why do I bother? They're bound by fate to stink of ash and dirt anyway- I know! I could write a shanty about the smoked Witcher’s shirt - a real pub sway! Sometimes he smells of heroics and adventure! The whiff of a lady’s perfume often, but will always return to the ash of a trusty campfire” he leaned to put the folded pile down neatly. You were in awe of how these thoughts came running from your musical friend, you were convinced that he could write a song about watching clothes dry and still make it magnificent.

Ah. Exactly.

A dramatic gasp came from the bard, no doubt with a soft hand upon his chest. Your fingers tensed as you pat roach and tried to seem as nonchalant as possible.

"Now! Which one of you has been able to tie a bow so pretty all this time?”

You had laced the ribbon, as careful as you could to not disturb the strings, behind where they were pulled taut to the tuning pegs of Jaskier's lute, taking care that the tails would not brush against the front or impair his hands while playing. The ribbon you had bought was a soft lavender colour, embroidered with a deep violet, floral and feathery motifs weaving through the sleek fabric. You turned to see Jaskier caressing the fine fabric “I shall have to have an outfit made to go with this! Oh what a look that could be for the bardic competition this autumn! Simply revolutionary, a great stride forward in musical fashion! Bows woven through lutes, gods-” a theatrical palm to the forehead “How had I not thought of this before- and Roach! Oh! Exquisite, Y/N,” it seemed he had finally clocked onto the fact that this was your doing, both you and Geralt huffing amusedly as he was practically flying with excitement “I daresay Roach could be a fine show horse! Beautifully healthy and muscular, a shining coat, those deep glistening eyes- “She’s not a show horse” Geralt grumbled "I said could or rather might've been, had the twines of fate been wound a little looser.." You chuckled softly as your trusty bard rambled on into the night about how he knew a thing or two about show horses (being one in a past life, most likely) and you prepared your bedroll, smoothed it out with your hands and checked how close your damp clothes were to drying. When you reflected on Jaskier's words, you thought about how the warm and bitter smell of ash and smoke and fire made from Witcher magic was comforting to you. As you settled, you tried to smell other things, maybe someday you could smell half as well as a witcher if you trained hard enough. Ash, smoke.. the small burnt remnants of a meagre fish dinner, the distinctly horsey smell of Roach, the faintest traces of lavender lingering in your hair. You supposed you could try to hone in your hearing, too. You got comfortable, wriggling a little further in, catching a glimpse of the fine ribbon you had bought before closing your eyes...it was nice to see the splashes of the bright colour woven through your little group. You could first hear Jaskier mumbling on, the scratch of his quill onto the notebook he carried, the pops and snaps of the fire, the wind breathing contentedly through the leaves above, the last clinks of Geralt's potion bottles, then the slight crunch of careful steps in leather boots, his hands patting roach and hushed, almost inaudible whispers of him calling Roach his "pretty girl".

A/N : Hello, dears! I hope you've all been well and taking care of yourselves - I know it has been a tremendous wait. i've been planning the rest of the story out (i'm rly annoyingly particular about it) and lots of things have been a bit crazy the past two months. I hope this chapter isnt dissapointing given the wait but get ready for big angst, hurt/comfort and further progression of the story and characters in the next two chapters. I feel this filler was needed to transition into the next part of the story. I might change the description some as this story is not only about the fact that Y/N can sing, but also focuses on the way that changes her relationship with the boys.

More on the interactions of this night for the boys' POV in the next chapter probably x

I'm hoping the story is well fleshed out and flowing, and that its clear that singing is a great comfort and big part of Y/N's character. I hope its easy to immerse yourself and such. Again, its such a pleasure to receive likes and comments, and i'm very grateful to anyone who has read so far... be ready for great developments! As always, constructive criticism is welcome xxx Thanks gang!

Also yall thank my lil sister for helping me write this, she doesnt have an tumblr account so I cant tag her or anything but she super cool and rambling to her rly helps me organise my writing.

stay blessed!

tagged people:

@ladylizzieofdarbyshire i cannot find @sihxm i did try xxx

[boop-le-snoot]

If life gives you melons...

Ship: Loki x F!alt! reader

Rating: Explicit / word count 5,5k

Summary: You've heard about meet-cute, how about meet-ugly? Reader has tattoos and a tongue split. There's this joke that "bisexual alt girls go looking for a girlfriend and end up with sad, tall and skinny white bois" and boy did that hit home. Inspired by this cringy video of Hiddles [youtube link].

During a panel at a comic con, Loki notices reader and they go on a date, reader gets railed: top!Loki, choking, rough sex, unprotected sex, all the good stuff. Open ending, with a bonus of reader and Loki pranking Clint.

x. I usually fancy they/them pronouns for Loki but seeing as it's a smut-shot, I decided to go along with he/him for the sake of simplicity. Loki's at least 6'4 tall and you can fight me on that. Also, I write like a Tony stan - I feel the need to apologize to Loki stans for that. I love you guys! 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

The long line of people appeared to be neverending. Loki was an enhanced, as the government recently had adopted a politically correct term for Earth's non-human inhabitants, but even his enhanced endurance had begun waning due to sheer amount of people wanting a piece of memorabilia signed by The God of Mischief. Loki had gained a considerable amount of fans after doing his part in killing the mad titan Thanos and by extension, saving the world. It turned out, humankind was a sucker for a good redemption arc.

Loki's hands ached where they wrapped around the pen that he'd been using for nearly 4 hours to neatly place his name, written in neat runescript, on various pieces of merchandise that his fans (and wasn't that a strange thing!) presented to him. He used to think that he would have actually succeeded conquering the earth if he had a grasp on how to use social media and his charm; now, he just wanted the torture to end. An involuntary sigh left his mouth when he saw another print of himself in full battle gear being placed in front of him by a reasonably attractive young woman.

"Um, thank you," She stammered, giggling softly, and Loki spared her a painstaking smile, scribbling his name once again. The woman briefly caught his eyes. "Um, you're the reason- the inspiration for me. I became a stripper."

Loki blanked, feeling his eyes widen and blink on their own accord a few times. He wasn't sure if he heard the woman correctly, as the unusual statement made his brain freeze.

Loud snickering from behind the blushing woman interrupted the system error that he was experiencing in his head. It wasn't often that somebody managed to render him speechless. It looked like whoever was in line behind the stripper woman had taken advantage of that. Loki's eyes snapped to the short-haired person, who looked torn between cringing and breaking into embarrassed laughter.

The stripper left without a word, and as Loki picked up the cursed writing instrument once again, the short-haired person smiled at him kindly. "That was a little weird," They snorted, "And thanks, have a nice day Mr. Loki."

"When life gives you melons, you might be dyslexic," Another woman, that appeared to be the short haired person's friend, deadpanned and gave a cynical side-eye to the departing stripper. Loki heard snickering coming from the short-haired person and quietly joined himself. The woman noticed it, winking at him as she collected the newly signed t-shirt. "Bye," She smiled kindly.

It was a split second decision, really. Something about the cheeky way she addressed the situation sparked Loki's interest. "Wait, you forgot something, darling," His baritone called out to the departing woman. She turned around, confused, and hastily grabbed the standard issue photo that he was holding out to her. With a final grateful nod, she smiled and left.

If Loki's smile had returned for the time being, none of his teammates made any remarks on it. Only his brother, Thor, gave a couple of knowing looks to the Asgardian sorcerer.

The woman in question didn't think twice about the photo that she stashed in her backpack along with the signed t-shirt. The Comic-Con had been full of people and the lines were unfairly long. The sheer exhaustion after attending a 3-day long convention had set in and she was eager to simply come home back to her apartment and crash on the nearest soft flat surface. Upon arrival, she did exactly that, flopping down gracelessly on the couch, her backpack landing next to her with a careless thud.

Unloading her trophies was a short time affair: a single white tee with a dozen signatures on it, written in what she hoped was waterproof Sharpie; one mug, shaped like an Iron Man helmet; one poster, showing Spider-Man on a picturesque NYC horizon and a signed photo of one Loki. Strangely enough, she did not remember requesting it - not that she was complaining. Free merch was free merch.

The front side wasn't signed whatsoever. Overcome by curiousity, she turned it around. A phone number was written on the back of it, the handwriting neat and the letters obviously being inked out by a thinner, more sophisticated pen than the one Loki had used for scribbling on the tee. The woman gaped silently, not believing her eyes. Did Loki himself had given her his phone number?

One margarita and a hefty helping of Chinese takeout later, the numbers persisted staring back at her mutely, the neat cursive being almost mocking in its quiet. The woman's smartphone had found a comfortable place right next to the photo, equally mum regarding the unusual situation.

An additional margarita was needed to gather the courage required to actually type out the number in the receiver box. Fruity alcoholic concoction in one hand and phone clutched in the other, the woman's eyes squeezed shut tightly as soon as the dreaded "Hey, got your number today! :)" read delivered. She'd typed and erased the message several times, groaning in embarrassment. How the hell does one approach an alien god?

"Hello! May I ask your name?" The response came after a brief moment - a moment the woman had suffered through by taking too haste sips of her drink, her common since screaming her to not overdo it and wait at least a full minute before replying. Everything felt awkward and misplaced.

In no time, she was sending the screenshots of the conversation to her girl-advice group chat that consisted of her closest friends. Chatting with Loki turned out to be surprisingly easy and he was great at upholding conversation, something that couldn't be said about all those Tinder matches she had had back in the day.

Even if using proper grammar during a text message conversation was something she had to reacquaint herself with, she was glad he wasn't just another boring, shalllow, condescending-ass white boy. Despite the cultural differences and his lack of knowledge of things like pop culture and music - something he said he was working on since New Asgard became a sovereign state on Earth - they bonded over music and tattoos and generally being rebellious against society's standarts.

The invitation to dinner didn't come as a surprise for the woman. She agreed happily, looking forward to continue their conversation outside of the internet - if Loki's part of the chat was anything to go by, not only was he charming, but also quite intelligent. And easy on the the eyes, too. They had traded selfies at some point and the Asgardian didn't look any worse in a hoodie and sweatpants than he did in his battle leathers. Loki had appeared to truly have had integrated into Earth's society.

The night of the date, the continuous text exchange did very little to calm her nerves. Loki texted as much as an overeager teenage boy: every now and then he would double-text and grossly overreact to her sending a simple meme. In fact, he smugly conveyed the fact he'd single-handedly started a meme war between the Avengers and even Steve was forced to participate; something that was, allegedly, out of character for the blonde man.

She didn't mind. Not like she had many friends to have so much fun with. Even if it took her twice the time to do her favourite eyeliner style, it was worth it. She hoped Loki would appreciate the bold, but classy make-up and the dress and shoes combo that accentuated her assets. Her date expressed curiousity about her tattoos and the difference between her preferred style and the humans he spent most time with. She guessed secret agents were not particularly fond of anything that made them memorable so she held out quite the hope for... Showing off some of her tattoos in a more private setting.

In other, simpler words, the woman came in prepared for both a friendly, leisurely stroll and a quality night. Either way, it would be a time well spent.

Loki's shiny, raven hair was impossible to miss as he towered over the rest of the people waiting by the restaurant's entrance. He wore tailored black trousers and a simple cashmere sweater, perfect for the evening's damp, cool air. Tall and lithe, Loki was mouthwateringly handsome.

"Come here often?" She wormed her way through the crowd, causing the man to smirk down at her. Her cheeks flared from the tiny gesture alone.

"Just waiting for a friend," Loki uttered lowly, extending an arm towards the woman, which she gracefully accepted as they made way towards the entrance. "Reservation for Loki," The Asgardian stated to the hostess, who, after a rapid doube-take, led them to a private, secluded area in the back of the restaurant.

Loki shouldered the slightly awkward interaction with grace, paying no mind to the girl. His focus was solely on his date and he was nothing but gallant as he took the woman's purse and held out the chair for her to comfortably sit down. As a prince, he was taught well, she mused.

"Usually I would ask 'what brings you to our little ball of water and dirt?' but I think we can skip that part," The woman stated with a sheepish grin, idly flicking through the menu and curiously eyeing the items that were unfamiliar. The desire to try something new fought with the possibility of accidentally ordering something too far out - like snails or other things that rich people fancied, for some reason.

Loki's greens briefly appeared over the top of his menu, grateful and sparkling. "I think it's best if we do just that," For a second, he looked away, before returning to the menu. "I can think of better things to discuss. I recall you didn't finish telling me about that college friend of yours, who was an anarchist... I'm dying to know..."

The waiter came and went, barely noticed by the pair, as they both poked at something that sounded the most familiar for both of them. Stoically, Loki admitted that Tony Stark did the booking for him and the woman reluctantly acquitted she wasn't very familiar with upscale establishments, being of middle-class background and working a middle-class job.

Interrupting the story she began telling hours ago, the woman took the time to point out the things she was familiar with on the menu and advised Loki to stay away from - like the aforementioned snails, and other things, slimy and salty things that she considered to be 'disgusting but rich people liked it for some reason'. The conversation slowly progressed into Loki telling her the mischief he got up to at the feasts Odin threw. The Asgardian shared the woman's disregard for influential people doing gross things to show off.

The food was good - it was really hard to miss with a traditional Italian lasagna - and seeing Loki shovel an obscene amount of food was an experience, but she didn't comment on it, tactful enough to consider his alien biology might have different dietary requirements that her human one. It was great, really, that she could order dessert and not feel guilty about it.

The gelato melted in her mouth like sweet ecstasy and she moaned with her next bite, only partly aware of how obscene really was the noise.

Loki's hand stuttered on it's way to his mouth. Wide-eyed, he stared at her lips, at her mouth, where her tongue lapped up the small drops of dessert from the spoon. "Why the split tongue?" The Asgardian finally gathered his wits, having had a good look of what he was sure was a trick of the eye at first.

She grinned, acutely aware of the effect that particular body modification had on men. "I like being different. I embrace the weird." She giggled, not at all ashamed, sticking out her tongue and wiggling both parts of it teasingly.

Loki's Adam's apple bobbed; "Weird?" He raised his eyebrow, fighting to maintain his previous cool composure.

She nodded. "Weird," She retorted coyly. "I usually don't divulge the details at least until the third date. Wouldn't want to scare my potential suitors off," The playful wink was the proverbial cherry on top. He was hooked, his eyes darkened, following the plump arch of her lips as she took another spoonful of the treat and savoured it, closing her eyes for a brief moment.

It was pornographic.

"Obviously, Midgardians don't know what's good for them," Loki scoffed in his usual bored monotone, fully aware of how fitful his attempt to conceal his excitement was. He sounded needy even to his own ears.

"And you do?" She pushed away the empty plate, chastely patting her mouth with a napkin. The raised eyebrow and the little smirk spoke volumes.

The grin he wore was hardly anything but feral; he asked for the waiter's assistance by flicking his wrist in an impatient fashion. Once the bill was paid and the woman's cardigan found its rightful place on her shoulders, Loki once again took hold of her arm, this time holding her smaller body against his larger one, taking care to slow down and keep his strides shorter.

She found the coolness of his presence refreshing in the moist, heavy air of the New York city.

"Where to, milady?" Loki asked her, looking down at the woman fondly.

"My place is a block away. Walk me, good sir?" She gave a delightfully easy smile in return.

He nodded, letting her lead the way, allowing himself to get a little bit lost in their shared presence, a little bubble of them in the middle of a busy city. It was as if someone had quickly turned down the volume of the honking cars and noisy pedestrians around them, leaving the soft breeze and the sun slowly descending below the skyscrapers. It felt far too short, partaking in the comfortable silence together, skin tingling under the thin layers of cloth where they were touching.

The sun was trapped in the strands of her hair as she smiled at him from her doorway, worrying her lip between her teeth. It was a bittersweet moment.

"A kiss good night for the good sir?" She asked hopefully, eyes darting between his face and his mouth.

Loki obliged, resting his palm flat on the door frame, towering over the woman as he gently slotted his thin, cool lips against her warm ones. The woman stood on her tippy toes, eager, placing a hand on his chest. The pair melted into the kiss - it had no business being this mind-blowing, brain-freezing for two people that have not met until that very day. The woman didn't refuse when Loki probed with his tongue, requesting entrance to her mouth; she licked into his own with fervor, fisting her hands in the soft fabric of his sweater.

With the hand that was free, Loki pulled the woman flush with himself, feeling the heat of her start a fire of its own inside of him. Her breathing rapid, the gesture only served to tighten her hold on his sweater, until a soft, barely audible moan slipped into his mouth, causing his brain to quickly reassess the situation.

Regretfully, Loki pulled away, clearing his throat. "Perhaps we should take this elsewhere," He meaningfully looked at the array of doors around them.

"I thought you'd never ask," She retorted with a fond eyeroll, tightening the grip on his sweater once more, to pull him inside her apartment and shut the door behind her. The awkward moments were few and in between; neither knew who reached for the other first, mashing their mouths with less grace than before, clutching at the other's arms and hips with hunger.

This time, Loki didn't hold back his own muted groans of satisfaction, shivering when the woman's hands snuck under his sweater and the simple tank top he wore underneath. Blunt nails scraped along his abs.

Step by step, she pushed him further inside her apartment, determined in her small quick strides. There was no mistake of their destination; no mistake in her desire: she was as hungry and as impatient as him. The crease between his eyebrows deepened, long arms extending to unzip the top of her dress to reveal a simple but tasteful black lacy bra covering her breasts. The woman barely noticed the action, stepping out of her dress as soon as it hit the floor.

He admired her. Inches of soft skin covered by intricate ink, some patterns bizarre and complicated, some beautiful in their simplicity. Loki couldn't wait to find out about the meaning behind every one of them, to trace the lines with his tongue and sink his teeth into the heated flesh.

The hands that were holding onto him for dear life tugged on his sweater and he chose to simply vanish it, too preoccupied with looking at the view in front of him. She gasped and her eyes met his: uncanny, magnetic emeralds shone with magic and power and desire.

"Fuck," She more mouthed than said, walking backwards in a trance until her shins hit the bed.

Loki grinned, advancing on the panting woman with the grace of a predator. "Darling?" His tone was innocent; his expression was anything but. His large hand encompassesed the side of her face, thumb running over her bottom lip in a possessive gesture that had her squirming in her place. He loved the way she just melted into his touch.

Their lips met again, slower this time. The kiss was once again graceful and unrushed, allowing them to explore the softness of each other's skin, mapping the arches and valleys with gentle strokes of their palms. The broad expanse of Loki's back was uneven, riddled with scars and blemishes, and she mapped every single one, blunt nails raking down it as she pressed into him, arching into his hands where he held her.

The soft flesh of her ass, barely covered by a scrap of black lace, was shamelessly grabbed - the woman didn't doubt there would be marks left - letting her feel his arousal pressed against her belly, hard and twitching. She didn't resist her desire to ge handsy and palmed it, taking note of the gasp and the twitch coming from the man occupied with the clasp of her bra. In no time, it flew away, forgotten somwhere the very moment Loki's palms took over her breasts, running a careful thumb over each nipple.

"Fuck," She parroted her previous statement, equally breathy and considerably more aroused.

"That's the plan," Loki's chuckle was hoarse.

She huffed, biting her bottom lip before reaching out to swiftly pop the button of his trousers, smirking at the hiss the friction of her palm produced against his cock. It shouldn't have surprised her that Loki was a commando kind of guy, but still, she gasped, partially from the ministrations of his clever fingers, partially from the mouthwatering sight in front of her. The thick, flushed length made saliva gather in the corners of her mouth.

He must've heard the audible swallow. "Not so haste, darling," He tutted, giving her relaxed body a gentle push, causing her to land on her back, heated skin against the soft duvet of her bed. "Let me taste you," A thud; Loki had dropped to his knees, using his large palms to spread her legs, opening her up to his eyes.

If his previous work hadn't made her so pliant, so aroused, she'd have been rendered speechless; instead, the woman arched her back, presenting herself and the desire that had pooled down below. The Asgardian chuckled, fingertips soft against the scratchy lace.

"Tease," The woman moaned, outstretching her arm to guide him but quite unable to reach him. She had to settle for squirming in her place, receiving a fraction of the desired traction against her swollen lips.

"Am I, love?" Loki asked her sweetly, caving enough to dip a single finger to run along the outside of her slit. It glided easily thanks to all the moisture gathered there, lips parting easily before his touch. The panties were vanished away promptly, another finger joining in immediately to rub slow, precise circles around her clit.

She keened low and long, fisting the fabric in her hand until her knuckles turned white. Loki knew what he was doing. It didn't take him very long to slide his long digits to the welcoming heat of her opening, dipping them inside until she began to make the noises he so craved. His mouth followed after that, long agile tongue drawing senseless shapes on the inside of her labia and dipping deeper, where her clit stood out engorged and slick.

He could smell the bittersweet of her arousal, mouthwatering and hot.

"Loki, fuck," She moaned, only half-coherent and partially aware of her own hips following his every stroke, every flick. He only advanced, hitting that sweet spot inside her with every stroke; the sparks traveling up her spine quickened with each time she changed his name like a prayer. "Loki, Loki, Loki..."

He growled, attaching his mouth firmly to her clit, and she arched for the final time, coming undone, squeezing around his fingers and gushing in his mouth, the obscene sounds covered by her own scream of delight and his impatient growling. The growling that sent shivers of aftershocks throughout her body.

"Darling, you taste so sweet," Loki groaned, still panting.

She took the time to open her eyes: Loki looked comically out of place in her bedroom, he dwarfed her bed and made her feel small, but it didn't matter at all at that very moment. His erection stood out hard and proud; despite the leg-shaking orgasm just moments ago, she wanted more, she wanted to taste him, she wanted to feel him inside-

With unsurprising agility, one swift motion was all it took for her to rest comfortably against the pillows, his throbbing member resting against the juncture of her thigh. She tasted her own release on his lips, however brief, whispering a weak, "Please," aching to feel the emptiness.

"As my lady wishes," Loki's cool breath ghosted over her cheek. She waited with baited breath until the tip of his manhood breached her, exhaling a moan into his neck and immediately wrapping her lips around a patch of skin as he stretched her so sweet.

Loki's arms shook slightly as he waited for her to adjust. He kissed her, soft and sweet; there was something vulnerable in him, something as sweet as the ache he'd taken away. Once he began to move, slow and fluid, all there was left was an all-consuming need to feel. As graceful as dancer and with a deadly precision, Loki pounded gasps, moans and screams out of the woman's slack mouth, kisses turning hungrier and sloppier by the second.

"So sweet," He cooed, relishing in the snug grip of her cunt around him.

She only keened in approval, too far gone and unused to the intensity of the feelings from a man with centuries of practice and the power of a god.

His thrusts slowed gradually until he was rutting into her, grinding his pelvic bone into her clit. The gasps and screams turned into drawn-out, longing moans; her hips followed his, meeting in a slow, sensual motion.

Loki was not a patient man. He withdrew - she gasped in protest - flipping the woman over on her fours with ease, taking but a split second to admire the curve of her body presented on display for him. Just for him.

With that thought burning in his mind, Loki sheathed his cock deeply inside her spasming cunt. It was nearly unbearably stimulating and only his own desire to prolong the bliss held back his own impending orgasm. That, and his own ego; he was naught if not a generous lover.

She slurred something, quiet and incorrigible, fucking back onto his cock as eagerly as he was plunging into her heat. The hand he'd placed on her shoulder promptly wrapped around her throat in hopes of lifting her close enough for him to hear the words but instead, it sent a full-bodied shiver throughout her. Loki grinned, tugging her that much closer.

The arch in her back looked quite uncomfortable yet she didn't mind; it was the exact opposite, in fact, her cunt tightened around him, drenching his shaft down to his balls. Her fingernails dug into the flesh of his thigh, the sting of pain going straight to his cock-

"Loki, I'm gonna, I'm gonna-" She slurred, gasping for air.

He weakened his hold on her throat enough to let her gulp the so-needed oxygen. It was her undoing: was it the rapid pace of oxygenated blood traveling to her brain or was it his cock, mercilessly pounding against her g-spot - she was violently spasming around his cock, much like she did around his fingers not too long ago.

It felt like ages, her crescendo coming in waves with no signs of stopping any time soon. Loki's continuous thrusts, his hips slamming into hers, her skin feeling like molten lava.

"Gonna fill your sweet cunt with my seed," Loki moaned lowly, holding her up by the throat, the other hand leaving fingertip-shaped bruises on the outside of her hips. "Mark you from the inside out," His voice had gone into primal territory, growling filling up the room.

"Please..." The woman rasped, oversensitive.

And he pleased, with a series of sharp thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt in her, the force of his release making her shudder and moan once against, going limp in his arms. Loki kept her in her place until every drop was inside of her cunt. Nothing was sweeter than that.

The Asgardian didn't bother with getting under the covers to hold her, conjuring a soft, comfortable throw in modest green, to cover their nudity. He didn't need the extra warmth but his companion was by far more fragile and sensitive to these things- Loki's fingertips traced the array of bruises he'd left in the wake of their passion, expression surprised as he found the woman smiling.

"Feels nice," She supplied meekly, eyes half-lidded, face trusting and open towards him.

He gave a small grin in return, placing a chaste kiss atop her head. "Yes, it does, darling."

Time after time, she didn't expect much out if their date. The sex was nice, nice enough for both of them to want seconds and thirds after their rushed first time - but it wasn't like she expected him to hand around. It was a pleasant change from the usual mutual ghosting she'd done with her previous partners, but Loki had texted again and they had resumed their conversation via text like nothing had happened.

No, that would be incorrect. Now, she had a wonderful friend who was a great conversationalist and an even better lover. There was no pressure to put a label on their relationship so the woman didn't bother with it; it didn't seem like Loki cared about the label, either, so she left the topic alone and enjoyed things the way they were. It wasn't like she had a line of suitors anyway.

She couldn't help the smile that creeped onto her face when she unlocked her phone and saw a video call request from other than Loki himself. She still had thirty minutes worth of lunch break to waste and this was a wonderful time to chat with a friend.

"Stark, hand it back or I swear to Norns-" Loki's voice sounded agitated and far away, accompanied by sounds of a struggle; the bearded, smug face on the screen was not who she expected at all. Only years of customer service and low bullshit tolerance combined stopped her from freaking out seeing none other than Tony Stark smirking at her from the screen of her phone.

"Yes?" She arched an eyebrow, taking note of the anger of Loki's tone.

"Hi, I don't think I need to introduce myself," Stark babbled, eyeing her - disheveled and with a wall full of sticky notes and miscellaneous items acting as the background to her video. "Reindeer games refused to show you to us so we decided to persuade him," Tony's grin grew wider, muted whispers being rapidly exchanged in the background all the while Loki screeched "BROTHER!" and various expletives at the top of his lungs.

"You could've, I dunno," She paused, unimpressed. "Asked me to dinner, like a normal person. Instead of stealing, you know, like a thief," The eyeroll that she performed had the team worried her eyes would fall out of their sockets.

"I merely borrowed his phone, don't be dramatic," Stark huffed, and for a moment, she could see various other people trying to look at the screen and by extension, at her. "So, what is it that you do? Because Smurf over there wouldn't..."

"Oops, bad signal. Sorry, can't hear you properly," Her side of the call suddenly shook and in a moment, she ended the call, not at all willing to deal with people that lacked boundaries. Sure, it might have been Iron Man, but if he was planning on being a snooping asshole, she wasn't gonna go down with that easily.

Exactly five minutes after she had clocked out, an incoming call from Loki had her equal parts excited and mortified. What if..? But he was apologetic. And very angry, swearing in his native language - something that he'd promised to teach her at some point.

"So, Clint did it?" She sipped her beverage, strolling home with the phone pressed snugly against her ear.

"Most of it was his fault, yes," Loki grouched on the other end of the call.

"I vote we get back at him. Invite me over, if he's so inclined to see me, and watch him get humiliated in front of everybody," It wasn't a secret she had her own mischievous tendencies.

"As much as I appreciate your vigour, darling, I doubt the Widow will appreciate you verbally castrating the Hawk in public," He replied sourly, his voice still betraying the faint notes of interest.

"I have a backup plan!" She stated without a hitch. "He'll embarrass himself and I'll be your alibi."

"I'm listening," Loki perked up immediately.

They decided to not to stall and schedule the 'family dinner', as Thor himself dubbed it, for the next available weekend. Loki had made sure Tony's AI had been made aware the trickster would be gone all day, and it took him very little magic and effort to pop in and out of the tower for the five minutes that were needed to execute their prank.

His friend barely managed to keep the snickering at bay as they ascended the elevator to the common floor where the dinner was being held. Not only that, but the woman spouted an area of dark purple love marks, barely obscured by the low turtleneck of her blouse.

She made her introductions and they made theirs. "This affair could use some background noise," She remarked off-handedly, casting a meaningful glance at the TV.

Tony Stark was known for being a great host so he entertained her wishes, flicking on the huge flat screen with a flick of his wrist.

The team froze.

"I... -" The woman stared at the screen, mouth hanging wide open at the scenes that played out. "... am not going to kinkshame, but please turn it off," She stated in a small voice, seemingly unable to tear her eyes away from the mass of tentacles commencing erotic assault on a woman's body.

Wordlessly, the TV shut down, immersing the room in stunned silence. Loki face-palmed, the slap of his palm against his face echoing in the eerily quiet room.

"Loki!" Captain America, red as a tomato, instantly accused the most obvious person.

Except, he had forgotten one thing. "Loki was with me all day," The woman replied, unkindly. "Do you need more proof?" She tugged on the hem of her turtleneck, exposing an inch of skin marked blue.

The good Captain's face changed the shade once again, venturing very well into beetroot territory. "Who was the last one to use the TV?" Rogers asked, now with a hint of anger, as he stared at a guffawing Bucky.

"I believe it was Mr. Barton," The AI piped up, mechanical voice sounding almost insinuating. Or, perhaps, it just appeared that way.

[askthekuvaqbrothers]

Seagull giving Rufus hell over wrecking sth. and the brothers (and Hermes) reacting to that. Your choice if you make it angsty, mischievous or hurt/comforty

(TW: Blood, Injury, Child Abuse (Seagull is a bad human))

“Now, this is going to the mayor-”

“I'll take it!!"

Rufus leapt from his seat, dashing and jumping for the box that was much too high to reach.

“Now Rufus, this is fragile, so I don't think-"

“Pleeaaaase! I promise to be careful! Promise promise!"

Cletus swung his legs, absently patting Poisonous, “Why do you really want to go?"

“I wanna go see the Mayor! He's a big important guy who found clean water and made all of Kuvaq! Dad says we should be thankful to him for giving us a home, and I bet he has all sorts of neat stuff in his house.”

“And there it is, stuff.” Cletus rolled his eyes at his brother’s kleptomaniac tendencies, but Rufus seemed undeterred.

“Pleeeeeeese!”

Hermes stared down into those pleading eyes and felt himself melt. He knew he’d gotten soft after building the prototypes, but playing the role of Father to these three had been swaying his objective views to subjective ones.

“Alright, but be careful.”

He rested the item in Rufus’ hands, not letting go until he was sure the boy had a secure hold on it. Rufus grinned up at him, and with a small skip in his step, hurried out the door. Neither Cletus nor Argus spared a look, but Hermes' gaze lingered after.

“…Could you two please follow after him? I worry-”

Cletus sighed, “That's all he brings-"

Argus snagged his brothers’ sleeve, fixing him with a ‘don’t start’ look.

“We'll go.”

With an audible groan, Cletus let himself be dragged out the door. The two didn’t have to travel far to catch up with Rufus, who had quickly given up on the more energetic movement, and was now slowly strolling across town, twisting his delivery in hand.

“If you break it, Dad won’t trust you with anything anymore.”

Startled, he almost dropped it, but managed to resecure his grasp and glare over his shoulder.

“Why are you here?”

“Dad sent us to keep an eye on you because, you know...” Cletus made a general gesture to his hazardous brother, though Rufus didn’t look to understand.

“He doesn’t trust you.”

Argus’ blunt words got through faster, and now Rufus chose to get upset.

“Why would he not trust me?! I’m SUPER trustworthy!”

There was an intake of air from Cletus, which was quickly stopped by an elbow to his ribs. Choosing the option of least argument, Argus pushed Rufus and dragged Cletus along, following the most direct path to the mayor’s private residence. It was a separate building behind the Town Hall, though almost equally large, apparently filled with belongings that didn’t fit in his office. A steep ramp angled up to the front door, where Rufus stopped their parade at the bottom. He turned to his brothers, and pointed to the ground.

“Wait here.”

“What? After coming all this way?!”

“Yes, Dad put me in charge of this, and I don’t want you messing things up.”

“Me-?!”

Cletus got a hand over his mouth, while Argus’ other hand waved Rufus on.

“Yeah yeah, hurry up.”

With a wide smile Rufus dashed up the ramp, knocking on the mayor’s front door. After a moment, it was opened by the mayor’s secretary Plovera.

“Delivery for Mr Mayor!”

The lean woman stared down, expression entirely blank, save for the eventual twitch in her eyebrow.

“Oh, please come in. The mayor won't be long.” She ushered the boy inside, “Please refrain from touching anything. You may wait on the chair over there.”

She pointed to a lone chair next to a statue of a large, furry beast. As Rufus wandered in, completely distracted by everything before him, Plovera closed the door behind them.

-------------------------------------

Time was passing slowly without their whirlwind of a brother around.

Argus kicked at the dust and Cletus plucked at a loose thread on Poisonous, neither particularly focused. Due to the heavy metal sheets that built up the walls, they hadn’t heard anything from inside, though normally not even the laws of nature could prevent the sound of Rufus’ destructive force. Cletus opened his mouth to suggest they wait in the comfort of their own home rather than the filthy outside-

There was a ground shaking THUD, ringing through the metal behind them. The two shared a look at finally hearing a typical Rufus caused noise, though the sound of someone else shouting was growing louder too.

As Argus and Cletus turned towards the mayor's dwelling, the door flew open, and the body of their brother came tumbling down the ramp, stopping as an unceremonious heap just past the end.

“YOU INFERNAL LITTER BUG!”

The booming voice of Mayor Seagull called out as he stormed down toward the boys, furry in his face and posture, and a sudden burst of flames licking at his heels from the building behind. Both Argus and Cletus recoiled at the unbridled rage he radiated, stepping back in time with his own steps forward. When their heels collided with Rufus’ twisted limbs, they both snapped out of their trance.

Argus turned enough to check his red-haired brother, carefully making out the shaky rise and fall of his chest. Alive- good, but hurt, the sight of blood and fast forming bruises triggering something in his mind. He glanced up to check on Cletus, but his green-haired brother was already gone, so his attention returned to Seagull. Something deeply ingrained in his core was telling him how to act, reminding him of the two things he’d always been aware of;

Directive One: Protect and Serve Elysium(?) Hermes.

Directive Two: Protect and Serve the Organon(?) his brothers.

At this moment, with his brother lying still, Directive Two was compromised, so counter action was called for. Argus knelt and plunged his hand off the side of the walkway, clenching a fist around the first thing it touched, wrenching a piece of metal free from the rest of the junk. It was rough edged and not very long, cutting into his own hand, but it classified him as armed and that was all he needed to run at Seagull. The man seemed to startle at the intended attack, but quickly recovered and stepped aside, easily avoiding the boy’s short reach.

They both turned back to face each other, and Argus charged again. The large man was ready for him this time, kicking as he came into reach, foot colliding with the boys’ upper arm and sending him flying.

“The INSOLENCE, the AUDACITY! Has no one taught you MANNERS, BOY?”

Argus picked himself up, adjusted his grip, and charged again. Seagull didn’t move this time, grabbing the arm with the weapon when it came in reach, holding it out to the side as he glowered down at the struggling child.

"Pay attention when your elders are talking, boy.” He twisted the limb enough to make him drop the improvised weapon, “I should have recognised from the start that your family was more trouble than it’s worth. Nothing but discarded scrap!”

He had nothing to say to the man, and his wriggling failed to loosen the grip, so instead Argus curled himself in on Seagull’s arm. He dug his free fingers into the soft joints of the trapping hand and wrapped his teeth around the largest soft space, earning him release and a shout of pain. In the free moment, Argus retrieved his weapon and swung it with all his strength into Seagull’s thigh, breaking through fabric and skin.

“YOU MONGREL!”

Seagull swung downwards, fist colliding with Argus’ brow. Skin split and flecks of blood flew, but Argus caught himself before he completely dropped, glaring up through the haze of red slipping into his eye. Seagull pulled back and moved to swing a kick, but found a weight around his ankle.

Looking down, Rufus was awkwardly wrapped around the mayors’ leg, uselessly biting into his pants. With a growl of frustration, Seagull added enough power to swing the boy along with his leg, colliding brother with brother to send them both tumbling away. When they came to a rest, Argus forced his clear eye to open, only to see the mayor swiftly approaching again. From his position sprawled over his chest, Rufus coughed, showering Argus’ arm in red flecks.

Seagull was towering over them again.

Metal piece still in hand, Argus threw it at the man’s head, hoping for the throat or an eye, but only managing to catch him in the cheek. In response, with a loud growl, the man drew a leg up and brought it down on the two of them, drawing out a strangled noise as the air was knocked from their lungs.

“What is going on here?!”

Hermes and Gizmo arrived on the scene, with Cletus closely trailing behind. Both men looked shocked at the sight before them, with Hermes paling when his eyes fell upon his bloodied sons. Gizmo hesitated in the moment, but when Seagull went to swing at the downed children again, he flicked to law enforcement mode and stepped in to restrain him.

“Stop! This is excessive force!”

Seagull writhed in the hold, pointing towards Rufus, “This is self-defence! That one almost killed me!”

Gizmo did spare a look between the child and the flames still flickering in the building, but he remained firm in his first choice.

“Hermes, take your boys to my clinic and do what you can while I secure the mayor.”

He snapped out of his shock, “R-right, of course.”

He quickly moved in, stooping down to pick up the worryingly still Rufus. Cletus moved with him and offered a hand to Argus with controlled reluctance, lifting his brother to his feet. Hermes spared one look up into the face of the man who had once offered shelter and work to a complete stranger, before the hateful glare became too much. He stood without further delay and headed directly to the ever-familiar clinic.

------------------------------------------------------

Hermes fumbled with a roll of bandages, muttering under his breath as he failed to untangle the length. There was a shake in his arms, and his old heart felt as though it would give out if it continued to beat at its current rate. He couldn’t get that angered face to leave his mind, and it was dredging up memories he’d longed to forget.

“Dad?”

He was doubting everything again, all his life choices he’d made to this point. He was trying to do better, trying to do what he could to better the lives of those around him, but still he couldn’t find a solution to make everyone happy. If he couldn’t even help this settlement, how could he find a new solution to save both Elysium and Deponia-?

“Dad…”

A small hand laid atop of his own. Hermes stopped fiddling, raising his gaze to Argus. He was sitting on the edge of the examination table, eye swollen closed with blood still dribbling down to stain his now torn shirt. Despite his injuries, his expression remained determined, and his posture was taught, ready for another fight.

“…I don’t believe it’s safe here.”

“What tipped you off?”

Cletus was seated on the floor by the clinic's entrance, similarly ridged with Poisonous in a death grip. His eyes flicked wildly anytime there was a noise.

“It’s okay now, Gizmo is handling the mayor. We’re fine.”

Neither of the boys relaxed. Seeing them like this truly reminded him what they were: children in form, but programmed soldiers, made to serve their purpose to the death. It had been wishful thinking they would break their instilled nature with a bit of civilian life. He rolled the ball of fabric in hand, and it unravelled.

“To remain would be too great of a risk.”

“And where do you suggest we go? Find a hole somewhere?”

They spoke around him. Standard Organon would follow procedure and upper command, but these three had more free thought that conflicted with each other, letting them discuss and plan. He carefully began wrapping Argus’ head, the boy ignoring the action.

“There are other settlements.”

“That are very, very far away. And could potentially be worse than here.”

“A potential threat is better than an imminent threat.”

“A hundred potential threats are MUCH worse than one manageable threat. Besides, you haven’t really proven yourself capable of even defending one little idiot from a threat.”

As Hermes tied off the bandage Argus dropped his head, glancing back at Rufus who was lying behind him. His external injuries were covered, but he was still breathing shallowly. They had to wait for Gizmo before they could find out what internal damage there really was.

“…”

After checking the damage to his boys, Hermes understood what they were talking about. He’d put trust in Seagull, and ignored the man’s shortcomings over the generosity of a home and job, but he knew deep down there would be no forgiveness from the mayor. He would now be a constant antagonist in their lives should the grudge hold, and they’d have to watch their step at every point in town. Perhaps it really was time for them to move on. The only settlements he knew were close to Ascension stations, and therefore Organon bases, but maybe this was a sign he should return and try to convince Ulysses and the Elders once more. The only problem would be what would become of the three-

Rufus groaned, which suddenly became coughing as he stirred. Argus spun to inch closer to his brother, putting his hands down to stop him from trying to sit up. Hermes did similar, though he chose to rest a hand on his head, avoiding the suspected broken bones and bruised organs.

“Shh, it’s okay. Just stay there, don’t move. We’re here.”

The coughing continued, and when he managed to turn his head a trail of spit and blood ran from the corner of his mouth. Hermes grabbed a rag to wipe it away, waiting as seconds ticked by before the coughing subsided into shaky breaths. Argus remained still watching closely, and to Hermes' surprise, Cletus was now standing by the bed too. Finally, Rufus managed to open an eye.

“… ‘s wr-ng ..ur face?”

Cletus snorted, though his shoulders relaxed a little, “Should I fetch a mirror?”

Argus made a shooing motion, but kept his eyes fixed on Rufus, “Can you tell us where you’re hurt?”

Lips twisting into a slight pout, Rufus subjected his family to an agonizingly slow blink, long enough that Hermes almost considered shaking him to check if he was still conscious. Once they were open again, his gaze fell somewhere in the distance.

“…’vrywher-?”

“Very helpful.”

Hermes allowed himself a small smile, glad to hear his son's banter again, but his nerves were still running his heart. They were made to be hardy, but internal injuries were still a potentially fatal thing, and Gizmo was taking longer than he’d hoped. He patted Argus on the shoulder.

“Don’t let him fall unconscious again, best to try to keep him talking. I’m going to find Gizmo.”

Before he could turn a hand grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, while another balled around his trouser leg. The looks of concern he got were both heart-warming and eerie, with even Rufus managing to swing his eyes over. They were probably worried about him coming across Seagull.

“Please, it’s okay to worry about yourselves, I’ll be fine.”

Their looks continued, tiny fists grounding him on the spot. The longer he looked, the more their wide eyes shimmered, flicking to each sibling briefly, and after a long moment it began to dawn that he was wrong.

They were worried about themselves, about each other.

And they were looking to him for guidance, for reassurance as a figure of authority- no, as their guardian.

He’d thought he’d gone soft and was playing the father role well, but it was now clear that wasn’t true. He’d still been Hermes the Engineer this whole time, trying to do his old work in a new environment, still hung up on his past failures, still seeing his creations as things when right now it was clear that they were children; hurt, scared, unsure and looking to the one person who had always been there for them.

He had to realise that he wasn't responsible for the world’s problems; he had his own little world right in front of him.

And he needed to make them his priority right now.

He needed to be their father, first and foremost.

[bourbonbees]

Suptober Day 6- Cemetery Boys

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34336042

Rating- G Jack POV

Jack has discovered there are a great deal of things that he loves about being human, he loves eating cake, taking his dog for walks, and swimming, but there’s nothing he loves more than his family. His family is not conventional, he’s got three dads, one of which is an angel, but all of them love him unconditionally. It’s rocky at first with Dean but after some quality time spent listening to Zep and going fishing together, the grumpy hunter warms up to him. It also doesn’t hurt that Jack’s first dad, Castiel, is also Dean’s partner and therefore holds a lot of sway over him, whether he likes it or not. Sam, his third dad was the best! He’s the one that establishes family movie night, Jack’s favorite night of the week!

Sam lets Jack pick the movies pretty much every week, much to Dean’s dismay. This week Jack chooses Ghostbusters as his pick. It’s great, he especially loves the jokes and the Stay Puffed Marshmallow man. He isn’t sure where the writers did their research for the movie though, his experiences with ghosts contain a lot less whimsy and a lot more salting and burning. The movie is just wrapping up when it hits him, they don’t have a name, every great team of heroes has a name.

“Hey, why don’t we have a name?” Jack poses the question, looking to Dean for a response.

“Kid, how much candy have you had? Are you sugar crashing? Remember, me Dean, you Jack, that annoying guy over there, Sam, this adorable ray of sunshine, Castiel.” Dean is concerned, he feels Jack’s forehead and looks him over, his parental instincts kicking in.

“No like a team name! Like there’s The Avengers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, uh The Fellowship of the Ring.” Jack lists off, Sam sending him a proud smile at the last one.

“Jack, hunters don’t really do teams. We’re kinda solitary, it’s our nature.” Sam explains, causing Jack even further confusion as he looks around at his family. They do everything together, live together, celebrate wins together, spend holidays together, work together, is that not a team?

“We’re not a team? Isn’t a family a team?” Jack frowns, worrying that he’s misread a long series of social cues. He is prone to that sometimes, his brain working a bit differently from his dads, neurodivergent, that’s what Sam had called it.

“Jack, oh, of course we’re a team. But more than that, we’re family.” Cas swoops in, reaching over and patting Jack on the shoulder. Cas is always the gentlest of his dads, he gives really good hugs, and is the one Jack goes to on the days where being a human is too much to deal with.

“Would it make you feel better if we had a team name?” Dean offers, following Cas’ lead. Jack doesn’t miss when Cas sends Dean a small nod of approval. Dean has a different parenting approach, sometimes he’s a bit harder on Jack. Jack doesn’t like that but he understands that Dean is trying.

“Yeah, I was thinking Cemetery Boys!” Jack says right away, looking around the room expectantly. Sam chokes slightly on his beer while Cas smiles approvingly, Dean laughs softly, shaking his head at Jack.

“Well we do spend a disproportionate amount of time in cemeteries, so it makes sense to me.” Jack defends, his cheeks feeling hot, blushing, that’s what Sam had told him it was. Sometimes Jack hates being human, blushing is embarrassing and makes him feel a bit like a baby.

“Shouldn’t we be cemetery men?” Dean questions, raising a quizzical brow at Jack.

“Technically speaking, Jack and myself are neither male nor female. So, no.” Cas supplies, shrugging his shoulders at Dean and earning an eye roll. Jack doesn’t understand why his dads enjoy teasing each other so much, maybe annoying someone was another human way to express love?

“So, you’re telling me, I came out as bisexual for nothing because, I’m not really dating a man?” Dean blanches, gently smacking Cas on the shoulder. Hitting people is another love language Jack has learned, but not too hard, he learned that after accidently punching Sam a little too enthusiastically on the shoulder. Play fighting is good, actual violence is bad, he had explained that to him.

“We’re non-binary! Claire taught me that.” Jack is happy to interrupt, always happy to share the latest things he’d learned. He loves Claire for that reason, she’s always full of new things to learn, she is an excellent big sister. “Claire, Me, Cas, and Dean, we’re all LGBLT? Or is it LGBTQ? Either way, Claire is a lesbian, she also taught me that. And Dean, you’re a bisexual! Cas, you’re gay, I think? So, you didn’t come out for nothing, you came out for your non-binary partner.” Ha! Jack is very proud, this is one area he feels confident he knows more about than Sam, Dean, or even Cas.

“You’re surprisingly well informed for a toddler.” Sam compliments, tipping his beer bottle at him.

“The toddler age range ends at 3, I assure you, Jack is 4. He is no longer a toddler. I read all the development books.” Cas corrects, earning a laugh from Dean and a groan from Sam.

“He did, trust me Sammy, made me read some of them as well. Babies are weird man. Glad you came out fully formed kid, it was a relief.” Dean chuckles. Jack is relieved he came out fully formed too, it’s a lot more fun hanging out with his family when he can talk to them like this.

“I’m a celestial being, age doesn’t exist for me. I am as old or as young as I want to be at any given minute. Isn’t that neat?” Jack prides himself on choosing this form, a teenage body, he likes it because he can help his family. He likes going hunting, driving cars, and helping Dean cook dinner, a baby couldn’t do any of that!

“He really is your son-uh I mean they really are your child?” Dean self corrects, Jack notices he does that a lot more lately, again he really is trying to be better. Jack admires that about Dean, it’s something he tries to emulate as best as he can, always working to be a better person and make his mistakes right.

“Oh, I’m comfortable with he/they, just like my dad! I do feel like a boy most of the time.” Jack looks to Cas who nods along with him. They’d talked about it once, Cas explained that Jack could change a number of things about himself if he wished, if it would better match his soul. But Jack is really and truly happy with who he is. So is Cas.

“Yeah that’s my son.” Cas says fondly, pulling Jack into a hug. This is a good hug, the kind that makes Jack feel safe and cared for. Cas always makes him feel like he belongs, that no matter what he has a place in his arms.

That night, Jack sets a plan into motion. He waits until everyone is asleep and gets to work on creating gifts for his family. He uses his powers to manifest a set of matching black crew neck sweatshirts with the words ‘Cemetery Boys’ embroidered on the front in white thread. He then designs a magnet, putting a little ghost and tombstone on it. Once he’s satisfied he goes through the recycling and finds a box to put the sweatshirts in.

The next part is the most dangerous. Jack, creeps down the hall to the door that leads into the garage attached to the bunker. His eyes glimmer when he finds his target, the black 67 Impala, sitting dead center in the garage. Dean had just waxed her the day before so she was extra shiny. Jack likes when Baby is shiny, it makes the sun reflect on his face, nice and warm. He takes the magnet and carefully places it on the bumper, making sure not to scuff or scratch the shiny metal. Then in a flash, he is back in his room, laying in his bed as if nothing has happened.

Dean doesn’t notice the magnet until they are packing for a hunt the next day, a simple salt and burn case in Wisconsin. The whole family is going! Dean has even promised Jack that he will take him to Wisconsin Dells if it goes well and they will go to a place called Deer Park where he could pet and feed a bunch of deer. Jack likes animals, sometimes more than people, they’re much less complicated.

“Oh my god! My Baby is a whore! You gave her a tramp stamp?” Dean gasps, pointing to the offending ‘Cemetery Boys’ magnet on the bumper.

“You like it? I made it myself!” Jack beams with pride, hoping Dean was speechless because he was blown away by his ability to create magnets.

“Also, the term you’re looking for is sex worker. You need to be more sex positive Dean, especially for someone, who from the sound I hear coming from your room at night, seems to enjoy sex a great deal.” Jack blurts out nervously when Dean doesn’t respond. Jack tends to do that, he wishes he could stop, another part of what makes him different from most people.

“Oh, for the love of Christ. Please Jack, no.” Sam is doing something Claire told Jack is a facepalm, meaning he was either embarrassed or frustrated, perhaps both?

“Do not be ashamed of our healthy sex life, Dean. But do but ashamed of your gendered slurs and generally overdramatic demeanor. The car is unharmed, it’s a magnet.” Cas steps in, doing the teasing thing again. Jack really doesn’t understand his dads, but he’s glad they seem happy together.

“I swear one day Baby and I will drive away and leave you all behind. Traitors.” Dean threatens, this is a joke, Jack measures. Dean does that a lot, uses sarcasm and empty threats, at first they used to confuse and frighten Jack but now he just accepts it’s part of his nature. Dean is grumpy. Loveable but grumpy.

“See your theatrics are quite comical. You couldn’t leave us if you tried. Who would open the pickle jars for you, darling?” Cas smirks, Jack remembers witnessing this scene, Dean saying all the “no words” at a jar of gherkins as he struggled for a good 5 minutes, until his dad took the jar and opened it within two seconds.

“It was one time! And I swear I loosened it!” Dean glowers, clearly ashamed by the great pickle debacle of last week.

“Dads, stop. I will remove the magnet.” Jack decides it’s his job to play peacemaker, he steps up and gently takes the magnet off baby’s bumper, Dean visibly sighs in relief. Jack tries to hide his disappointment, he’d meant the sticker as a gift.

Cas notices his mood shift and is by his side, pulling Jack into a side hug. “Hey, you can put it on my truck.” He offers, rubbing Jack’s back and making him instantly feel better, must be magic dad powers Jack figures.

“Thanks dad, this is why you’re my favorite.” He says without thinking, Sam and Dean giving him matching offended expressions.

“Uh-what about me, I’m the one that sneaks you candy when Cas isn’t looking.” Sam makes a good point, he is exceptionally good at sneaking. He and Jack have so much fun together, that’s how they ended up with Miracle the dog. Sam had helped Jack smuggle him into the bunker and once both Jack and Cas had bonded with the dog, Dean couldn’t kick him out. Though Jack knows that Dean loves the dog just as much, he’s caught him slipping Miracle some of the good bacon when he thinks no one is looking.

“No Dean is the one that gives me candy. You help me pull pranks!” Jack laughs as Dean, flinches, quickly busing himself with packing all their bags in the trunk along with the weapons they’d need.

“Dean!” Cas says in his low, ‘oh no you’re in trouble,’ voice. “We’ve dicussed this, Jack’s intake of high fructose corn syrup is frighteningly high. He needs to eat real food.” He adds. Nougat is a food, Jack thinks privately, nougat might be his favorite food in fact.

“He’s a kid, he’ll be fine. Dean and I lived on that shi-stuff as kids and we turned out alright.” Sam, usually the vegetable police, surprisingly comes to Jack and Dean’s rescue, earning a matching raised brow from them both.

“Did you though?” Cas challenges, hand on his hip, sometimes dad gets sassy. Jack likes when dad gets sassy because it’s funny, makes him laugh.

“Well damn, don’t sugar coat it or anything babe.” Dean says in disbelief, opening the passenger door for Cas, Sam climbing into Baby’s backseat before Dean motions for Jack to come sit behind him. “Do I even want to know?” He sighs as he spots the box Jack is carrying.

“Well you’ve all been distracting me, I almost forgot.” Jack pauses as he opens the box and holds up the Sam sized sweatshirt. “I made us all shirts! Team shirts, we’re the Cemetery Boys!” He says proudly, shoving the shirt at Sam, then two at Cas, one for him and one for Dean. Jack pulls on his own shirt right away, stretching his arms and modeling it for them all.

“Can you all wear them for me?” Jack pulls out his trump card for this one, using the ‘look’ that Sam had taught him. He made his eyes big and kept them open just long enough so they were watering slightly, then bit his lip.

“I really screwed myself when I taught you my secrets. Really, using my own puppy eyes on me. Really short sighted of me to teach you that.” Sam sighs as he pulls on the sweatshirt, Cas doing the same.

“Nope, still not doing it. I don’t do matching shirts.” Dean holds firm, shaking his head at Cas when he holds out the sweatshirt to him as they pull out of the garage.

“Dean, the couch in the library is awfully uncomfortable. It’d be a shame if you had to sleep there.” Cas is firmly on team Cemetery Boys, pulling out the big threats to get Jack his way.

“Ugh fine, but no one can ever find out about this!” Dean groans, waiting until he’s at a stop sign at the end of the road to pull it on. Jack lights up, his team is complete, all three dads are wearing his shirt!

“It’s funny how easily emasculated you are Dean. Life is a lot more fun when you stop caring about gender expectations.” Cas smirks, Dean rolling his eyes at Cas and mimicking his know it all expression.

“Dean is sensitive, dad, and he’s really good at making pies! I think he cares less than you think he does.” Jack pauses, pleased when Dean makes eye contact with him in the rearview mirror and smiles. “Besides, I saw the pink underwear he hides when I helped with that laundry that one time.” He adds, Dean’s smile quickly disappearing, his eyes wide as he tightly gripped the steering wheel.

“Jesus Christ, kid, stop selling out all my secrets.” Dean grits between his teeth, now he is blushing. Jack knows Dean hates blushing just as much as he does.

“Oh that’s good! Can’t wait to tell Claire that one!” Sam barks out a laugh, taking his phone out of his pocket.

“You wouldn’t!” Dean hangs his head in shame when they stop for a train.

“Already did!” Sam sing songs, holding up his phone. Jack is sometimes thankful that Claire doesn’t live with them, living with your sibling seems exhausting sometimes, if Sam and Dean are any indication.

“Alright that’s enough Jack, don’t spill all the coffee. Your dad is allowed to have his secrets.” Cas intervenes, gently patting Dean’s thigh.

“Tea, dad, its spill the tea!” Jack sometimes can’t handle how out of touch his dad is. Guess that’s what happens when you’re millions of years old.

“Oh right, what’s the difference?” Cas sighs, laying his head back against the headrest as if he’s exhausted, Jack knows it’s just for dramatic effect because Cas doesn’t sleep.

“Cas, there’s big difference! One is the nectar of the gods and the other is glorified leaf water.” Dean defends, holding Cas’ hand, it’s meant to be a private gesture, but Jack can see it and it makes his heart happy.

“Tea is good.” Sam tries.

“I rest my case.” Dean counterpoints.

The case is a rough one, it turns out to be a bit more than a simple salt and burn. The ghost, a family annihilator was coming from beyond the grave to try to kill his son who had survived his attack. They had split into two groups, Dean and Cas at the cemetery burning the bones and Jack and Sam with the victim, trying to keep him safe.

“Do you think maybe we can take a photo together in our shirts?” Jack asks offhandedly as he and Sam roam the house looking for any objects that might still tether the ghost to the house.

“Why do you care so much about these shirts and taking a photo together?” Sam asks curiously, making Jack pause to think for a moment.

“Because, I’ve been watching a bunch of shows and movies, and all the families in them, they have all these photos together. They make all these memories together and they display them in their houses for everyone to see. I want that. The fact that we don’t have that makes me kind of scared, like this isn’t real. Like you all are prepared to run at a moment’s notice if I go nuclear.” Jack explains, using air quotes around the word nuclear.

“Oh. Oh. Jack, hey, it’s not like that. I guess, well we’ve been so busy saving people and hunting things, we’ve lost track of normal family things. You’re family Jack. Promise.” Sam says right away, pulling Jack into a crushing hug. Sam is strong, Jack hopes to be that strong someday.

“Can we take a photo then, a family portrait?” Jack asks hopefully.

“Family portrait? Family portrait. Shit! Jack, the family portrait!” Sam gasps, letting Jack go and looking around the room with wild eyes.

“Huh?” Jack is trying to catch up before he spots the family portrait hanging above the fireplace, both the victim and his evil departed dad in the photo. He rushes to grab it off the wall and tosses it into the fireplace. Sam pulls out a container of salt and lighter fluid, coating the portrait, then Jack tosses a match, lighting it on fire.

“Good work kid.” Sam grins as the ghost appears and then bursts into flames. “I think you’ve earned that portrait.”

True to his word, the first thing in the morning, Sam helps Jack use the laptop to find the closest portrait studio. It happens to be a JC Penney portrait studio, making Dean groan and complain about cheesy backgrounds and awkward poses that they’d likely endure. With much coaxing and further threats from Cas to relegate Dean to sleeping with Miracle on the dog bed, he agrees to the photoshoot.

Jack gets several copies of the photos made. He hands out wallet sized copies to Mary and Eileen who both coo over how adorable they look. Cas gets it framed and hangs it in the library, Dean never admits he likes it, but Jack catches him stopping to look at it every day, a proud smile on his face.

This is Jack’s family. His team. His Cemetery Boys.

[whenihaveyouromione]

When I Have You - Chapter 78

Read on Fanfiction.net or ao3 if you'd prefer!

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Chapter 78

The wardrobe in their bedroom had become a dumping ground for them. Well, for Ron more so than Hermione, who was naturally a very neat person. Over the years of being in the house, he’d managed to accumulate a lot of things that he’d gradually thrown in there as it was somewhere to put them.

The important things sat on the table beside where he slept — his wand when he didn’t need it and the photo album Hermione had given him as an engagement gift many years ago — but everything else was unceremoniously thrown into the back of the wardrobe behind his clothes. 

He didn’t even know what was behind there anymore, but now after deciding — or, more accurately, Hermione insisting — that he sort through it and get rid of anything he no longer needed, he was finding things he’d forgotten all about. 

There was the old shoebox he’d charmed and used to keep Hermione’s engagement ring in. He’d kept the ring box, too, for some reason, and although his brain told him it was completely unnecessary to keep either, he couldn’t quite bring himself to part with the ring box. It was just a box, but it held a lot of value to him still. Not only had it contained the ring that he’d given to his now wife, it had been his first real purchase as an adult. Well, the first significant one. And the one that meant the most to him. 

He also discovered a whole bunch of actual shoe boxes, which he did dispose of. There were also parts of reports from work, training notes, clothes he had forgotten all about. He found the letters he’d written to Hermione while she completed her final year at Hogwarts and set them beside the ring box in the never to throw out pile he was accumulating. He wasn’t sure he’d ever read them again, but they were letters filled with I love yous and other things that were far too special to go in the garbage. 

Usually, he wasn’t a sentimental person, but with her, he always had been and had come to accept that about himself. She was the best part of his life and he wanted to remember every moment spent with her. Maybe one day, when he was old, he’d lose his memory and these things would be the only things he had to remember the life that he’d created with her. 

He was just about finished when he discovered amongst the remainder of junk, a tiny wrapped gift box.

At first, he had no idea what it was. Finding a wrapped gift at the back of his wardrobe was unusual to him — he opened everything he was ever given almost immediately. And he definitely hadn't forgotten to give Hermione a present… right?

When he touched it, a memory suddenly came back to him, and he sat back, staring at the box in his hand. The gift Hermione had given him when they lost the baby. He had had every intention of opening it at first. He’d kept it with the album and wand, but after a few days of constantly seeing it and knowing she’d bought it with the idea that they were going to have a baby, he’d put it away to deal with later.

And then he’d forgotten all about it. She had never even asked him if he’d opened it. 

But there it was, sitting in his hand, another reminder about what had happened. It seemed that every time he tried to move on, something always came back to prevent it. The topic of losing the baby had been fresh again, too, after their visit to the Burrow, and seeing this box felt like a kick while he was already down. 

They were trying again, and he was happy about that, but it didn’t feel like last time. Despite the months of disappointment, there had always been hope that one day it would happen. Always an element of excitement with each passing month to elevate the previous disappointment. But now, there was grief and dread mixed in. There was a fear that he’d not felt last time — a fear of what happened to their baby happening again. He didn't want to admit it, but sometimes, now, he was relieved when Hermione said the tests were negative.

He hated that feeling just as much as any other, because the desire within him to have a baby, to be a father, was still so strong it consumed him. He was more than ready for this step in their lives — he wanted to have a child or children, he wanted to love them, to do everything for them. He wanted to be that person who took them to King’s Cross when they turned eleven and wave to them until the train disappeared. He wanted to take them to Diagon Alley and get them their wand, an owl, to buy them ice-cream. He wanted this more than he’d ever wanted to become an Auror or win an Order of Merlin award. And for some reason, it seemed to be the hardest one for him to achieve. He was an Auror, he had the award, and in that moment, they felt so insignificant he would have gladly given both up if it meant they could get their baby back. 

He was still staring at the box when Hermione came in. 

“Did you get lost in everything you found?” she asked, smiling. “I thought you’d be done within minutes.” She sat down on the bed, and Ron turned to face her. 

“What’s that?” she asked, her eyes falling on the box. It took her only a moment to understand. Her smile vanished. 

“I never opened it,” he whispered. “I… couldn’t. And then… then I forgot about it.”

She sat there, not speaking, but her eyes were fixed on the gift she'd so lovingly put together months ago now. 

They really were doing well, but it was little reminders like this that still sometimes made it difficult. 

"Should I open it?" he asked after a moment. He looked up at her, searching her eyes for anything that would tell him what to do. He felt lost, confused. What if what was inside brought everything back again? What if he was taken back to that afternoon where he’d come home excited to tell her about his successful mission and found her crying in bed, still in the same clothes from when he’d left? He had no idea what was in there, but what if it was clothes, so small to fit a baby he’d never get to hold? 

At first, Hermione didn't answer. But then, she came over to him and knelt on the floor beside him and nodded. "I think you should.”

Ron wanted to ask why. Did he really need to? Was it that important that he needed to be reminded of what they would never have? Why had he even suggested opening it in the first place?

But there was a part of him that desperately wanted to know what was inside. There was a part of him that wanted to be reminded — so he'd never forget. 

Maybe, he thought, it could help process the grief he couldn't shake. Maybe. 

"Do you want to?" Hermione asked gently. She reached out and touched his hand and hers closed around it. 

Ron shook his head. "I don't know."

"It was as much your baby as it was mine," she said. "You need to deal with this, too, and I know you haven't. Not properly."

“What do you mean ‘not properly?’” Ron asked. “I’ve cried, I’ve been angry… I’ve been by your side the whole time.”

“And you being by my side has helped me in more ways than you could ever imagine, but it’s time to do that for yourself, too. To finally seek that closure.”

“I have closure,” Ron insisted.

Hermione’s expression was gentle. “Do you? Fully?”

Ron didn’t speak. He just stared down at the box in his hand. 

Yes, he told himself. I have accepted it. I have.

Maybe. 

"And this will help?" he asked after a moment. "Seeing this?"

She shrugged. "It's something you'll still be able to keep. Forever. No matter what happens."

"What is it?" he asked. 

"See for yourself." Her tone was soft and gentle. 

Ron looked at the box for another moment, wrapped in white with a yellow bow, debating over what to do. He hadn't expected to find it and it had thrown his morning. It had been a good morning, finding the ring box and all the happy memories. He realised now that he still wasn't fully ready to move on. 

Shaking his head, he set it down in the discard pile. "Maybe some things are better left unknown," he said, a lump forming in his throat.

Coward.

Hermione watched him do it without reacting. He wondered what she was thinking. 

After a moment, she kissed him, smiling. Her eyes then drifted to the much smaller pile of things he intended to keep. She picked up the empty ring box. "Are you planning on needing this again?" 

Ron laughed, glad for the sudden change of topic. He tried not to look at the gift and watched her instead. "I hope not. Seeing it just reminded me of our past, and everything we did to get to the point we are at now."

"I thought the real thing would be a better reminder," Hermione said, holding up her left hand. 

"Oh, it is," Ron assured her. "It's just… I'm fond of it. I'm fond of how it happened — on this very floor we are on now, to be precise. That's all. I want to keep it."

"You keep a box, but not all your Auror notes." She picked up a stack of parchment, her eyes scanning the discarded papers. 

"Ron! These are reports."

"Relax, would you?" Ron said, snatching the papers from her. "They're discarded ones. Ones I started over and rewrote. Don't worry, I'm not skiving on my workload. As for the Auror notes? Why do I need them anymore? I know how to be an Auror, I know all the spells, all the moves."

"And if you forget one day?" Hermione questioned.

"I ask the abundance of other Aurors I sit feet away from to remind me."

Hermione glared at him, but when she apparently couldn't find any fault in his logic, she allowed him to put the stack back in the pile that was going in the rubbish.

"That's what's hiding up the back on your side, isn't it?" Ron asked after a moment, biting back a laugh.

"What is?" Hermione questioned.

"All our school exams, everything you ever wrote down. I bet you kept it all, down to the notes you took in History of Magic."

Hermione refused to answer, which was enough answer for Ron. 

He chuckled, looking her in the eye and grinning. "I've never loved you more," he said, this time pulling her in for a kiss. 

"I have other things there, too," she said after a moment.

"Like?" Ron began to gather up the things he was keeping and put them back. 

"Like every letter you ever sent me. Even the ones you wrote when you were eleven, all the way to the ones you wrote me when I went back to Hogwarts. I kept them all, and they’re really special to me."

"Really?" Ron asked, surprised. He only had ones she’d written when they were together. 

“Yes.” She smiled. “Maybe even then I knew we’d get married one day, because I really don’t think I kept every letter Harry wrote me.”

“Well… that’s sweet,” Ron said. “I never knew.”

“Well, now you do.”

Ron was thoughtful for a moment, and then asked, “What else do you have?”

Her eyes widened, apparently under the impression that he’d be satisfied with her answer of his letters. But he wanted to know, mostly just to annoy her, but partly because he was curious.

"I don't know… just… important things, I guess. Things that mean something."

"You're not going to tell me?" Ron asked.

"They're personal." She turned faintly red and Ron smiled. 

"Alright. As long as they're all things from me, and not any other blokes who sent you love letters or anything like that."

"Who else is going to send me love letters?” Hermione asked vaguely. "I’ve kept things from you, and maybe a few things from my parents, and all the Hogwarts stuff. That’s basically it.”

Ron felt extremely curious to know what she'd kept from their relationship, but he also knew she'd never forgive him if he snooped. They kept their relationship pretty open, so if she didn't want to tell him then he knew it must have been something important to her. He just couldn't remember all the things he'd given her in the past for him to even begin to try and guess. 

A thought then occurred to him. “Did anyone else ever send you love letters?”

“What?”

“Did anyone else?” Ron pressed. “You know… like Krum? Did he ever do that?”

“No,” Hermione answered quickly, and Ron wasn’t sure whether to believe her.

“You’re lying,” he said. “You can tell me, you know. We’re married now, I don’t care anymore. I’m just curious… I know you wrote to him.”

For the longest moment, she didn’t respond, and then she shook her head. “Not really. He always liked me more than I liked him. And,” she said before Ron could respond, “he understood that and respected that. All he said was that he was interested in me, and I said while I thought he was nice, I didn’t return any feelings. That’s honestly it.”

“Is that when he stopped writing?” Ron asked.

“Our lives dictated that more than anything else,” Hermione confessed. “You don’t really have time for letter writing when you’re out searching for Horcruxes. And, we didn’t exactly have a lot in common.” She frowned, looking at Ron. “Why are you asking?”

He shrugged. “I’m just curious. You never really talked about him.”

“I was under the impression you didn’t want to talk about that.”

He shrugged again. “Well, as I said, I don’t care anymore. I know you love me.”

“Oh, really?” 

“Of course! I know you very well, and under no circumstances would you ever willingly choose to have a baby with someone you didn’t love and trust entirely.”

She gave a small laugh. “So, after all our time together, all the things we’ve done, that’s what finally convinced you?”

“Nah, I’ve known for a while. So, did you snog Krum?”

“Ron!”

“Did you?”

“I refuse to answer that question,” Hermione said, gathering everything in his discard pile into her arms. “Let me take these out for you.”

“I thought we told each other everything,” Ron called after her. “Your silence tells me that you did.” He watched her leave, smiling at the banter and thankful for the distraction. It was just what he’d needed in that moment to forget about the box. 

The box! She’d taken it with her. He felt a prickle of guilt now that it was gone, but he'd made up his mind. He didn't want to know. 

He finished packing everything away and then made his way back downstairs where Hermione was just coming back in from the bin outside. She smiled at him, which he returned. 

“So,” he began, wrapping his arms around her waist and thinking it wise to not continue their previous conversation, “are you glad I finally bothered to do some cleaning?”

“Of that? Yes. We were running out of room.”

“Yeah, but you do know that now that we have all that space, I’m just going to toss more junk in there, right?”

She reached up and kissed him. “I know,” she said. “But at least you no longer have a stack of half-finished reports sitting back there.”

“Among other things?” Ron guessed.

She didn’t answer, instead pulling away. “I’m going to have a shower. Can you start on dinner?”

Ron nodded and waited for her to leave before heading into the kitchen. He was just thinking about what he was going to cook tonight, when something stopped him. He spotted it from the corner of his eye, carefully placed by the fruit bowl.

The tiny little box stared back at him, this time accompanied by a small note from Hermione, which read: For closure.

She was sneaky. And so smart. She’d known that even on the short journey downstairs, a sliver of regret had crept into him about deciding not to keep it.  

He looked over his shoulder, half expecting her to be standing behind him, but he was alone. She’d left him alone to deal with this. 

He picked it up. Suddenly, he realised that it wasn't about what was inside. He didn't care what she'd actually given him. It was about accepting the fact that what they'd had, they'd lost. This was another reminder of that. Right now, he had the hope needed to try again, the hope that one day they might still get to have their own children. 

What if seeing the gift intended to celebrate fatherhood dampened that hope?. 

Yet, maybe Hermione was right. Maybe whatever was in there would finally help him to let go, to actually stop going through the motions of trying again and to want to do it. He wanted a baby more than anything, but he did not want to lose them. He didn't want to see Hermione lose herself, or to feel so helpless like he had been. He didn't want to feel such loss ever again, and yet he knew that neither of them had any control over it. 

So lost in thought was he, that he startled when Hermione appeared again beside him, already showered and cleaned up for the night. He'd promised to cook dinner, but he hadn't even started. 

She was beside him then, her hand covering his and the box. 

“We’ll do it together,” she whispered. 

He nodded, blinking away tears he hadn't realised were there. 

Then, together, they pulled at the yellow ribbon that had been neatly tied around it. It fell to the bench. 

His heart pounding in his chest, he lifted the lid, never feeling more frightened than he did right then. He couldn’t stop himself from knowing that whatever was inside the box, something Hermione had bought in her excitement. She’d bought something to give him when she thought she was sharing good news with him. 

“It’s okay,” she encouraged, helping him to completely remove the lid. 

Ron stared inside for a moment, and then he lifted out something the same size and shape as a Snitch.

But this wasn’t a Snitch. He turned it over in his hand, a small light glowing from within. And then he saw three letters come into focus.

D A D.

He closed his eyes, feeling the tears again, but this time it was Hermione who held him. He gripped the ball in his palm as her arms wrapped around him. Seeing it, feeling the weight of the gift, Ron finally felt relief mix into his grief. 

“One day,” Hermione said softly, “it’ll make sense.”

He clasped the ball in his hand even harder, letting the tears fall. He finally believed those words, though it still stung. “I just wish it made sense now,” he whispered. 

“Me too.” Hermione pulled away, reaching out to wipe the tears from his face. The palm of her hand rested on his cheek and she smiled sadly at him. “I love you,” she said. 

He nodded, but for the first time ever, he didn’t say it back. Not because he didn’t feel it, but because he knew he didn’t have to.