#Watson is gonna Snap just you wait

[legitimatesatanspawn]

This is probably the weirdest thing I've seen but also pretty cool considering the devs' previous games were magitek AI Firewall CYOAs.

Who decides to make a Sherlock Holmes Life Sim where you're Watson and having to fight between comfy soft stuff, helping Sherlock get some damn rest because the idiot went and breathed chemical fumes overnight like a dipshit, your own PTSD from being a medical doctor in a warzone, and also solve mysteries? Apparently this dev.

[specialagentlokitty]

John x reader - do I make you nervous?

A/N: so I decided on John for this fic because there’s not enough of my little hedgehog man!💜

Slamming the door to your car, you walked over to the crime scene only to be stopped by your least favourite detective who held his hand up, stopping you in your tracks.

“Absolutely not, not dressed like that. Get away from my crime scene.”

Rolling your eyes, you leant back a little, crossing your arms over your chest as you titled your head up a little, keeping eye contact with him.

“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed Bitcherson?”

“It’s Anderson! Jesus Christ how can a police officer be so childish?” He hissed.

You smirked just a little.

“Uhm.. Lestrade… who’s that?” John asked softly.

Lestrade turned to where John was pointed and cursed under his breath.

“Sally get them away from each other!”

“Why, lest them put Anderson in his place, he’s hardly worth the air he breaths.” Sherlock said.

They all began to make their way over, hoping the scene wouldn’t escalate any further than it already was.

“Why call you that? You are the embodiment of a bitch, so I’m not really lying am I?”

“Get out of my crime scene.” He warned.

“Or what? What’re you gonna do? Lay a hand on me I dare you, I’m just itching to punch your stupid little face.”

Before Anderson could reply he was pulled away by Donovan, and Lestrade pushed you back a few steps by your shoulder.

“Come on, I was just play!” You smirked.

“No you weren’t, last you said that you sent him to the hospital!”

You shrugged a little.

“Not my fault he’s got a punchable face Greg.”

“(Y/N)!” Lestrade snapped.

You smirked and raised your hands as you took a few steps back towards the tape.

“Seriously, he looks like a rat. Sherlock back me up, doesn’t he look like a rat?”

“They’re right.” Sherlock nodded.

“Sherlock!” John scolded.

You laughed a little, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your jeans as you rocked back and forth on your feet.

Humming a little you looked up at the street sign before pointing at it.

“Hey moron, what does that street sign say?” You called.

Anderson looked over at it.

“Oh no, you’re not.. you can’t be serious! Lestrade!”

Lestrade also look at the sign and so did John looked a little confused.

“I don’t understand, what’s wrong with this street?” He asked.

“(Y/N) and Anderson don’t work well together, so since (Y/N) is a good detective.. though their methods are… questionable… they get point on anything they want on this part of the city.” Lestrade sighed.

You turned to John, a little smirk on your face as you offered him a knock bow before holding your hand out.

“Detective inspector (Y/N) (L/N), pleasure to meet you.”

“Uhm.. j..John Watson…”

He nervously shook your hand and you smiled a little at him before you pulled your hand away from him and held your hand in the air, gesturing for a small group of officers behind you to move forward.

“Lestrade get the rat and his girlfriend out of my crime scene thanks.”

You heard the two protesting but they couldn’t argue and they just stormed away.

“So does this mean case over?” John asked.

“No, (Y/N) couldn’t care less we’re here. Actually they involve me in all of their cases, keeps me busy and gives them time to get on everyone’s nerves.”

“Yup!” You grinned.

Sherlock went back to what he was doing and you waited for him to finish before you began working on the investigation.

John wasn’t sure what to do, so he just stood back and out of the way, slightly scared of you.

After the first meeting he saw you a lot, and he realised how different you really were compared to everyone.

Even after knowing you for a few months he was still scared of you, and it was something everyone could easily pick up on.

While they were at the station talking to Lestrade John watched as you walked past, swinging something between your fingers.

“Hey Watson.”

“Oh.. Uhm.. hi…” he mumbled nervously.

Donovan smirked at that and walked over, standing next to him.

“You’re really scared of them? You, the big, bad soldier?”

“What? No!”

“Oh you so are, you’re really scared of them!” Donovan laughed.

She began to make fun of John for being scared of you. Saying how he shouldn’t be scared since he was a soldier and had faced much worth.

Anderson started to join in and Sherlock looked over.

“Oh shut up you two.” Sherlock snapped.

“Or what freak? What’ll you do?” Donovan said.

“Guys enough!”

Everyone started bickered and you walked over, standing next to john as you carried on twirling whatever it was you had in your hands.

He looked at you then at what you were messing with and it clicked.

“Is that a knife?!” He shouted.

“Pocket knife, for cases and emergencies.”

You turned to the other bickering.

“Oi idiots.”

They all stopped.

“Who the hell keeps giving them the knife back?!” Donovan yelled.

You smirked and took a daring step forward and Lestrade quickly stepped in front of you, but you didn’t even look at him, your eyes were glued to Donovan and Anderson.

“How have you not been fired your unstable freak?!”Anderson yelled.

“Because I’m hot obviously. Now, what were you lot saying about Watson? Huh?”

The two shared a look and you narrowed your eyes.

“You think it’s funny to mock a soldier? A man who risked his life of this people? Huh? You think that’s funny? C’mere and let’s see how funny it is.”

Anderson scoffed.

“You won’t do anything. Especially not here, especially not with that.”

“Wanna find out?”

Anderson quickly hid behind Donovan and you laughed loudly, step away from Lestrade and he held his hand out to you so you handed over the little knife.

He put it in his pocket.

“We’re talking about this, my office in an hour.” He said sternly.

“Bitch you’re not my boss.”

“(Y/N)!”

You raised your hands and backed away with a smile on your face and turned to John who was grinning a little.

“You’re the embodiment of trouble (Y/N) they’re going to fire you one day.” Sherlock said.

“Would they Sherlock? Would they really? Lestrade is my handler and I’m yours so in a way they really can’t otherwise nothing would get done here.”

“That’s true.” He shrugged.

He went back to finish his conversation and you turned back to John.

“Did they bother you? I can punch Anderson if you want?”

“By the looks of it you don’t need a reason to punch him.” John chuckled.

“You’re right, I don’t.”

You spun around and started to walk away and John realised where you were going.

“(Y/N) don’t!” He yelled.

Lestrade whipped his head up and watched as you jumped over a desk, tapping Anderson on shoulder, you waited for him to turn around before taking a swing.

You hit him in the face, watching as he went stumbling to the ground.

“(Y/N)!” Lestrade yelled.

He went to run after you but you easily dodged him.

“Fuck around and find out bitch! Don’t fuck with soldiers!” You yelled.

You grabbed your jacket and bag and walked back over to John, patting him on the cheek.

“I’m not that scary.” You smirked.

With that you waltzed away and John just watched your form leave.

John didn’t see or hear anything about you for a few days until there was a knock on the flat door, and when he opened it you were stood there.

You had a split lip, the remains of a bloodied nose and a small cut on your cheek.

“Bloody hell what did you do?”

John took your arm and led you in, sitting you in his chair he went to grab everything he needed and brought it over.

He grabbed a table over and sat on it as he started to clean up your face.

“I had to have a meeting this morning about punching that idiot in the face.”

“And you punched yourself in the face?” He asked.

You laughed a little and shook your head, looking around the flat.

“(Y/N) keep your head still.”

John tried to carry on cleaning your wounds but you wouldn’t sit still, so he reached out and grasped your jaw between his fingers forcing you to look at him.

“No, he kept running his mouth, so I punched him. He punched me back. Jokes on him, he has a broken nose.”

“You can’t just go around punching people.” He sighed.

He cleaned the cut on your cheek and set everything down and looked at you.

Then he realised that he was still holding your jaw between his fingers and quickly let go.

“Do I scare you Watson?” You mused.

“N…no…”

He quickly got up and started to clean everything and you titled your head back to look at him as he tossed everything in the bin and put the small medical kit away.

“Are you sure?” You hummed.

“I.. i.. I’m sure…” he stuttered.

You stood up, and he walked over, quickly walking past you to stand in the doorway to the hallway and you looked at him.

He did anything to looked at you and you walked over, standing in front of him and he moved away pressing his back to the wall.

You placed your arm on the wall, resting your head on it as you smirked to yourself.

You loved pissing off Anderson sure.

But making John all flustered and Embarrassed? That was a whole fun new game for you.

You loved flirting with him, watching as he got all embarrassed and refused to look at you and stuttered, you found it cute.

“I don’t bite Watson.”

“Maybe not, but you punch, and apparently you’re willing to stab?”

“Nah that’s more for fun, but I do punch. But… I wouldn’t punch you.”

“Have you punched Sherlock?”

“Yeah, but it’s Sherlock. Everyone’s punched him at least once.”

John laughed and turned around, leaning against the wall as he looked at you, a shy smile on his face and you smiled back.

“Still scared of me?” You said softly.

“I.. I wasn’t scared of you…” he whispered.

“Then what are you?”

He shrugged a little and you walked over, placing your finger under his chin, you made him look at you and he swallowed nervously.

“Okay… maybe a little scared…” he whispered.

“Do I make you nervous John…?”

John nodded his head and you hummed, leaning in, you softly kissed his cheek and pulled away as the door opened and you looked at him.

“You’re cute John, if you want a different kind of kind then the boring bar or dinner dates let me know.”

You let him go and walked away, saying hit to Sherlock before you left the flat and John stood there for s minute before walking over to his chair and slowly sitting down.

“So they finally asked you out?” Sherlock said.

“W.. what…?”

“(Y/N) finally asked you out. What did you say?”

“I Uhm.. I didn’t have a chance to reply.”

“They slipped their number in your pocket, they’ve been hitting in your for weeks John seriously how did you not notice?”

“I.. what..?”

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as he turned to his friend.

“Seriously? Are you that blind you couldn’t tell they were hitting on you? Just agree to the date I know you want to.”

“I hardly know anything about them!”

“Isn’t that what dates are for? Getting to know people?”

John rolled his eyes this time.

“They said they punched you before.”

“They’re a little unhinged, absolutely unpredictable, everything about them and what they do and how they work is unorthodox. It’s what makes them so entertaining to work with, it’s never a straight line when you’re with them, they’ll leave you second guessing everything.”

John nodded along as Sherlock told him some more about you.

“Just call them already, I know you’re going to do it. May as well do it now.”

“I need to think about it.”

John got up and walked it his room, closing the door he rummaged through his pockets to find the little slip of paper that you slipped in there and he stared at your number.

You made him nervous, and in a way scared him, but yet when he looked at you he felt a rush of adrenaline go through his body, like he was about to risk his life for a stunt.

You were so different from all the people he had dated before, he was used to calm, predictable.

Maybe a new thing was good for him? Maybe that’s what he needed in his life?

Sure, he had Sherlock and that was an adventure enough, but John was just drawn to you.

He thought for a moment before nodding to himself.

He wanted something new, he wanted to experience something new, add a little bit of fun to his life and he felt like you could help him with that.

So he dialled your number and held the phone to his ear waiting anxiously as it rang

[ao3feed-crimeboys]

Midnight Visitor

by SilverWing15

“But why, Phil, why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you answer me!?” Despite how scary the growl had been, the voice is almost plaintive. Phil sighs, and Tommy can hear him moving, pacing. “I just--I can’t go back Techno. I’m needed here.” “To what? Tend a farm? Hire someone! You are the Angel of fucking Death, Philza, not a farmer. What can you do here that someone else can’t?” The voice rises in volume, until even Wilbur is flinching back. “Keep your voice down!” Phil snaps. “Why? Who’s gonna hear me? We’re in the middle of nowhere! I’ve killed everyone who could be a threat to you!” Wilbur clutches Tommy’s shoulder, his claws digging into the skin but Tommy hardly feels it. The stranger--he’d--he’d killed people?

Words: 3680, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 52 of Wait That's Illegal

Fandoms: Dream SMP

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot, Phil Watson | Philza, Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF)

Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson | Philza, Tommyinnit & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson | Philza

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Mob, why is that tag always so hard to find, Avian Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Avian TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Avian Wilbur Soot, Piglin Hybrid Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Phil's sister was a bad peson, But also, phil is in the mafia, so like, maybe not a shining beacon of morality himself, but he doesn't hit kids, He's also skrunkly, as a treat, Protective Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Phil Watson is Not Tommyinnit's Parent (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson is Not Wilbur Soot's Parent

[daisychainez]

Fic: Where am I at? pt.4 (pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.5)

I guess I gotta start somewhere

Peter Parker x Michelle Jones Watson (post-NWH) wish a dashing of Ned Leeds being a bro

[AO3]

It takes a minute or two for his brain to absorb Michelle’s departure, his hand ghosting over the necklace she laid on the table. For a second he considered climbing out his window and webbing down to the ground in order to catch up to her before she left the general vicinity of the building, but what would he even say? What could he say?

She’d heard him think she was Felicia, heard him thank Felicia for saving him, heard him say he owed Felicia in what could be misconstrued in a sexual way. Felicia had become a close acquaintance, and yes, there was something simmering there in the background, but her general grey-ness stemmed any desire for Peter to explore whatever tension they held. Her being the only one who knew his secret identity was honestly 95% of the reason he entertained her presence, that being a problem of his own making.

Maybe this was a good thing, maybe this way Michelle would stay out of his life. Stay out of Spider-Man’s destructive wake, have a chance to be safe, to thrive, and most importantly stay alive. Everything Peter touches eventually withers and dies; a broken heart she could get over, her dead in his arms? He might as well put the gun to her temple himself.

Which begged the question of what to do with Ned who seemingly had not moved an inch in the few minutes since Michelle’s departure.

‘Dude, if she’s no one important, you gotta let MJ know. You can’t just let her leave like that!’

Peter picks up the necklace and moves over to stand behind the small desk near his bed. He toyed with the chain before setting it down near that ever present little blue coffee cup.

‘I’m not gonna go after her Ned. Like I said, I don’t need you or her in my life, and you sure as hell don’t need me.’ He stared out the window, his back to Ned.

‘Bull.’ Ned snaps. ‘That’s an absolute load of crap and you know it. Yes, I’m so pissed at you, literally seething, but I’m not going anywhere. There’s nothing that you can say that will get me to leave - I’m your best friend, I’ve known you since we were in kindergarten, I’m staying and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.’

He turns to face Ned, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

‘Ned, please, don’t make this harder than it has to be.’ He bows his head, curling his right hand into a fist. ‘I’m a ticking time bomb. One day it’s gonna go off and everyone around me will either be hurt or die. I’ve already lost so much, I can’t in good conscience lose you and Em too.’ He’s sincere, hoping Ned can finally understand why he needs them to stay away from him.

‘Enough with the self sacrificial bullshit Pete. You may think your protecting us but your not, you really really are not. You don’t know what the last two years have been like for MJ or me, you don’t know what we’ve been through.’ He walks over to Peter, an arm tentatively wrapping around his uninjured shoulder. ‘Give me back my agency Pete because I’m not going anywhere.’

—————

She didn’t know what she was thinking, all these fantasies she’d concocted in her head. Remnants of dreams she’d been having the past few months, growing more intense as she had spent the past three days cradling his fever laden head after his close brush with death.

She’d ran her fingers through his hair as he lay unconscious, desperately waiting for him to open his eyes so she could gaze into those brown orbs that had been haunting her dreams.

It took a little while for her to remember, or at least figure out her vivid dreams were not a product of her overactive imagination but echoes of a different life.

She’d remembered his promise, the unspoken three words she didn’t let him say. Even though he never vocalised it, she remembered it written all over his face. At least up until 15 minutes ago, that’s how she had recollected that moment. Now though, she second guessed herself. Was he even going to say them back to her that fateful morning before they parted? She knew he liked her but had he ever felt the same way, felt the same depth of emotion and adoration as she had for him?

She kept thinking about that broken promise; these past two years of him choosing to stay away. He didn’t want them… He didn’t want her.

She stopped on the corner five blocks away from Peter’s apartment building, her eyes welling up with fresh tears. She’d been so foolish to ever think he loved her in the same way she had him, to think he’d want her in the same way she wanted him. All her daydreams as she gently caressed his forehead these past few days, thinking, dreaming, of all the ways he would wake up and make it all right. The way he would tell her he needed her as desperately as she needed him.

God, what was she thinking? He didn’t need her; his words echoing around her head.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: IV

“I had a few, got drunk on you

And now I’m wasted

And when I sleep, I’m gonna dream of 

How you tasted.”

— Medicine, Harry Styles

A/N: if i said i’m apologizing for the way i left off ch3, yes i did ❤️ no i didn’t ❤️ it was fun ❤️ as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!! and if you enjoy the piece, please reblog it!!! it keeps content creators motivated!! without further delay, hope you enjoy what’s in store for Sherlock and Watson this chapter cause it’s uhhhh quite a bit of uhhhh ~stuff~ 😌

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

word count: 26.4k

content/warnings: a mild addiction to sexting, some pretty sparkly lingerie, a very interesting photo, a strange but satisfying gift, rough sex and degradation, pillow talk about the validity of the men in Twilight, the satisfying gift being put to even more good use, Y/N going over to Harry’s apartment for the first time, mild mentions of blood, and an impromptu Hamilton re-enactment amidst more lemon blueberry pancakes

///

For the next three days, the sexting grows more frequent. 

Harry feels somewhat humiliated by it, really. He’s an adult— a full-grown, two hundred and nine year old man— and trading nudes with a simple girl shouldn’t be getting him as worked up as it does. He should know how to handle his hormones better, and the thing is, he usually does. But no one in the last few centuries has made him feel as desperate as Y/N does; he hasn’t felt this helpless for someone since he was alive. The vampire just wasn’t prepared to handle the needy responses she so easily yields from his body and he’s horribly rusty on how to skate this thin sheet of metaphorical ice. It’s like he can feel it cracking and crunching beneath his feet, but he has absolutely no power over how to stop it. Any minute, it’s bound to take him under, and he has no choice but to allow himself to drown in it. 

The following seventy two hours are full of so many dirty promises and explicit images, his phone might as well be a porno hard drive.

After coaxing Y/N into a few orgasms through the phone and receiving just as many in return, a dangerous game is set into motion that Harry knows is probably unhealthy not only for his self-worth, but for the sensitivity of his anatomy. He can only get off so many times before his joints are begging for a break. 

He wakes up Wednesday morning with a stiff ache running along his inner thighs and ebbing across the underside of his balls, but there’s an undeniable contentment stewing behind it. He doesn’t truly mind the throb, comforted by the fact that Y/N is probably facing similar issues at the moment. He finds himself smiling coyly as he flips an omelette onto one of his marble-print platters, recalling the events from the night before. 

According to what he’d heard on the other end of the phone, present throughout the array of shaky gasps, cracked whimpers, and wet sounds of pleasure that had echoed from the speaker, Harry had made Y/N squirt. 

That was a tremendous stroke to his already huge ego. The idea that he’d been able to make her cum so hard that she’d soiled her brand new sheets had been circling around his head for the last couple of hours, fluffing his confidence. It’s a milestone achievement, to be honest. He’d done something that very few men have the skill to achieve in person, meanwhile he’d done it just by using his voice and extensive imagination. The arrogance he’s sporting right now is more than justified. His cheeks are starting to ache from how hard he’s grinning.

The vampire is so lost in his recollections that he nearly misses the chime of his phone, the unique ringtone that beeps out being as welcomed as ever. 

Harry scoops up his device while spooning a piece of his green pepper and mushroom egg dish into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he swipes into Y/N’s text conversation. He smoothers the giddiness fluttering in his stomach; he’s not a child. 

As it turns out, he’d killed those butterflies for no solid reason because the instant her message pops up, they come right back to life. 

Morning! Thought I’d show you what I’m planning on wearing to work today. 

Harry roughly swallows down his breakfast at the attachment following the caption, a shiver coiling down his spine. “Fucking hell.”

The photo is a mirror shot, taken in her tiny bathroom. It’s a full body image where she’s clad in a matching set of bra and panties, the material sparkly bright red lace. The bottoms are high-waisted, hugging her tummy and hips in a way he deems perfect, the lace decorating her skin beautifully. The bra is see-through, so he has an unrestrained view of her chest and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks he might love the way her breasts look in lingerie more than without it. Make no mistake, he’ll willingly drool over her no matter what, but there’s just such a refined beauty in seeing her figure in such an elegant piece. She’s like a present set out for him to unwrap, preferably with his teeth. 

Then he notices the garters and the next forkful of food lodges in his throat. They hug around her legs deliciously, the bands settled midway down her thighs as the straps run up the sides and clip onto the hem of her panties. Yeah, he would definitely use his teeth. 

After gawking at the artwork for a minute, Harry finally gathers himself enough to type back a decent reaction.

I’m pretty sure that outfit doesn’t apply to the workspace dress code. 

Y/N shakes her head in amusement at his response, giggling softly as she finishes shimmying into her black skinny jeans, buttoning them over the skimpy lace. 

I’ll cover up for the sake of the customers. But it’s just such a nice set, I figured someone else should get to appreciate it with me.  

Harry sets his utensil down on top of his plate, omelet only half eaten. His appetite has molded into a very different type of hunger. He pads out of the kitchen, feeling the ten AM sunlight filter through the glass wall of his living room and warm his bare chest and back. He heads for the bathroom that branches out of the entrance corridor, coming to a stop right in front of its mirror. He begins to clean up his appearance, combing his bed head into a presentable state (he hadn’t slept, per usual, but rolling around his pillows last night while he indulged fantasies about Y/N had done his curls in something fierce), fixing his royal blue briefs along his hips and dragging the waistband down to show off the dip of his prominent pelvic bones.

Once the immortal is done, he taps back with eager strokes of his thumbs. 

I can’t believe you’ve never worn that for me. That’s a criminal offense. Literally worth capital punishment. 

Oh, really? Capital punishment? And who are you to decide my verdict?

I’m the executioner, obviously. I’m in charge of dispensing the verdict and I promise you, I’ll see to it that you get what you deserve. It’s my civic duty.

Y/N scoffs at his quip, tugging her navy polo shirt over her torso and quickly running a brush through her hair. She puts it up into a neat ponytail, sighing lightly as she stares at her tired reflection. She wishes she could ditch work for the day and entertain more conversation with Harry, but she literally can’t afford to.

Well, you’re gonna have to wait while I go perform my own type of civic duty. Making the world a better place, one grilled panini at a time. 

Harry’s lips jolt. She’s so clever and witty, he doesn’t know how she could possibly be from such a dull, monochrome town. 

I understand. Justice calls. But before you go, can I send you a picture of what I’M wearing today? Could use a few style tips. 

That’s pretty ironic coming from someone whose last name is literally ‘Styles.’

I know, I know. But even fashion icons have their insecurities sometimes. 

Fair point, nobody’s perfect. Lemme see your OOTD, then.

The outfit of the day appears to be no outfit at all, according to Harry’s picture. It’s taken on a mirror, like her own, and it depicts him standing with one hand holding his phone in front of his face while the other seems to be doing jazz hands down his body playfully. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of deep blue briefs (probably because he’d completely ruined the maroon pair he was wearing last night, if his broken moans and heavy panting had been any indication) and they hug his frame flawlessly. The fabric is bunched around his lean thighs, tiger head tattoo peeking out to accompany the rest of the collection, which includes all the inkings running the length of his left arm as well as the butterfly and swallows across his torso. His v-line is evident as ever, dipping below the elastic band teasingly. His chest is broad and his biceps are taut, despite the fact that he’s not even flexing. He looks like a Greek statue and Y/N is positive the higher powers designed Harry with that specific thought in mind.

Y/N doesn’t realize drool is gathering in her mouth until it tickles the inside of her bottom lip. She snaps her jaw closed, clearing her throat sheepishly. Over a minute has passed of her just ogling and she can feel heat layering across her cheeks. She knows Harry probably has the cockiest expression on his face at the moment, obvious in the tone of the next comment he delivers. 

Damn, it’s that bad, huh? Guess I’ll have to change. 

No, it’s perfect. Simple, but effective. Very professional. 

Why, thank you! 

My pleasure.

Here, take this as a token of my appreciation. Hopefully it can help get you through the day. 

This specific photo is taken from an above point of view, as if Y/N were looking down at Harry’s body along with him. His pectorals and stomach muscles appear more defined, tattoos darker and skin more evidently sunkissed. Lower down, there’s the obvious outline of what lies within his boxers, snuggled up against his thick thigh and tempting her to let out a soft whine. Then, resting casually against his abdomen is his free hand, sporting a thumbs-up that gives a purposefully goofy vibe to the risky image. He’s such an idiot. 

The mortal’s answer is just as silly and lighthearted as his gesture. 

Thank you, I’ll keep it locked in my heart forever. 

I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

That’s the first interaction of many that further opens the door to their virtual sex life. Things hardly stay that innocent. 

That night when Y/N gets home from work, they undergo another round of phone sex. It starts off the same: cheeky banter that leads to cheeky pictures that eventually leads to utter filth. 

And that’s how they spend the next few days— taking care of each other’s needs digitally until Friday rolls around. There’s plenty of those encounters, but there’s definitely favorites. 

A session during one of Harry’s self-care baths, when he puts her on speaker and she talks him through tugging one out while the scent of lavender salts— which he’d chosen because they smell like her— leave his heated skin feeling soft and supple. Another instance where he makes her orgasm while she has gotten bored watching a scary movie marathon on her couch, the screams of the horror film mere background noise compared to all the sweet nothings Harry huskily mumbles into her ear, his dominant voice filtering through her headphone and instructing her on how to make herself feel good.

Harry messages her at three A.M. at one point, wide awake as ever, all of his thoughts occupied by the concept of Y/N laying on her tummy between his thighs and sucking him off at a slow pace. He can practically see her small hands wrapped around his girth, stroking up to meet her pretty lips, her tongue lapping at his tip eagerly as she whines around a full mouth. She’s always just so eager. Even at the crack of dawn, she’s awake by some miracle, and happily willing to delve into that fantasy with him. Her soft, timid tone drifts across the shells of his ears, explicitly sketching out how she’d take him all the way down her throat until she gags, and how she’d kiss all over the head of his prick just to smear his precum over her lips to then lick it off, and how she’d rock against his lap fast and hard while he takes her nipples between his teeth. How she wouldn’t stop until he’s dripping down her thighs and groaning into her throat. How she’d let him fuck her as many times as it takes to tire himself out. 

Harry obviously repays her, and it comes in the form of him painting out a scenario where she’s gotten home from a long day at the café. He tells her about how he’d be there waiting for her in nothing but his underwear, sitting back on his elbows in her bed, touching himself over his briefs just at the thought of pleasuring her. About how he’d lay her out and taste every inch of her body with his tongue, and how he’d run his teeth across her inner thighs tenderly while his fingers play with her clit, and how he’d have her ride his face deep and sloppy until she’s shaking and sensitive. How he’d tie her to the bed and toss her legs over his shoulders while he pounds her into the mattress, marking bruises across her neck as she sucks on his fingers and tightens around his cock like “the snug little thing you are.”

They even take their fun out of the confines of their houses and into public settings, just to give it an adrenaline high. Those situations are foreplay; it’s how they prep each other throughout the day for when they’re both finally alone and can truly help one another to the fullest. 

It happens Thursday on two occasions. 

First, to Y/N, who is sitting in the backroom on her lunch break, though she’s barely touched her food. She’s much more interested in what Harry has to say. Much more interested in how he says he wishes he could be there with her right now. That she could sneak him in through the back door of the restaurant and they could lock themselves in that tiny supply room, making sure no one would disturb what he’s about to do to her. That he would drop to his knees and drag her jeans down her legs, pressing damp kisses in the denim’s wake, biting hickies in the areas he knows she loves to receive them. He would mount her knees over his shoulders and bury his face between her thighs, looking up at her through heavy lashes as he licks into her desperately. He would have her grab onto his curls and guide his tongue just the way she likes it, and she’d have to bite into her cheek to keep from getting caught. 

He talks about how he’d take her against the supply shelves, one hand clamped over her mouth while he pants praise into her ear, her body jolting roughly upwards against the surface as she clings to his back. How he’d hold her up with the other arm and slam her down onto his cock, cooing things like, “Gotta keep quiet for me, sweetheart. Can’t make you cum if we get caught.” and “Such a filthy girl, sneaking me in here just to fuck you. Baby just wants to walk around the rest of the day full of me, doesn’t she?” 

That fantasy leaves her in a bothered haze the rest of the work day. It’s bad enough that she almost drops her tray three different times and has to ask multiple customers to repeat their orders. 

Y/N gets back at Harry, though. That revenge is the second occasion. 

The vampire had mentioned that he would be going out with his friends that evening to a bar and she takes full advantage of that. When the picture comes through, Harry nearly spits out his Manhattan drink. 

He’s sitting in a booth surrounded by his entire group and he’d been talking shit with Niall about golf. The vampire doesn’t care for the sport, but Niall loves it, and Harry loves getting on Niall’s nerves, therefore it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Mitch and Adam join in, with Mitch obviously supporting Harry, when he randomly decides to check his notifications. Even in the shrunken little banner, Harry can immediately tell the photo is graphic. Xander asks if he’s alright, telling him he looks freakishly pale and to get his eyes under control because they're in public. Harry blinks the red from his irises, hurriedly excusing himself and clambering up from his seat, jetting across the restaurant towards the restrooms. It’s occupied, much to his luck, so he settles for simply pressing his back against the wall of the corridor, leaning his head against the bricks and taking deep breaths to calm the raging in his stomach. He gingerly opens the message and his knees nearly give out. 

The image is taken from the back, probably using a timer. Y/N is wearing one of her big tees and another pair of cheeky lace panties, but this time around, they’re pastel peach and crotchless. She’s bent over with her ass up and spine arched, knees parted for balance, her shirt bunching downwards due to the angle. Her arms are pulled behind her back and her chest is flushed to the bed, wrists crossed submissively as she gazes at the camera over her shoulder. There’s an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes and he can tell she had sent this now on purpose just to fuck with him, knowing good and well that he was out and occupied.

The shot is more than he can handle and he has to swallow down the urge to stomp out of the bar, get into his car, race to her flat, and make her rethink her decision. Preferably, in the form of harsh spanks and overstimulation. He can see everything— the intentional rip at the crotch of the panties are meant for that sole reason. The closer he looks, he comes to realize that she’s wet, which in turn means she had been touching herself. She’d set this up perfectly, knowing that he’d easily be able to deduce that fact and that it would haunt him for the rest of the night. 

The monster releases a quivering exhale, typing back slowly and carefully, sight bleary. 

You’re going to regret that. 

Pinky promise?

///

When Harry arrives at Y/N’s apartment the next night, as he has for the last three Fridays, he doesn’t saunter up to her door and bang on it angrily. He doesn’t grab her by her hair and drag her into her room, how he’d intended. He doesn’t even have a single cinch in his sculpted brows. 

Instead, he raps softly on the door with one jeweled knuckle and waits calmly. 

The human goes to answer, her stomach twisting in excitement at all the possibilities of what punishment she might face for her antics. A small, sly smile buckles the corners of her lips at the thought, her fingers trembling as they wrap around her cold doorknob. She expects to find a furrow-browed, intense-eyed, red-faced Harry behind the threshold, who would shove past her, nab her by the arm, and throw her onto her bed. She expects him to yank his belt from around his hips while a distinct darkness swallows his emerald irises, his mouth curling into a sinister grin. She expects him to roughly command she get on her hands and knees, his palm finding the back of her head to shove her face-first into the sheets while he rips her panties down her legs and drags the cool leather of his accessory over her backside tauntingly.

What she gets is something— and someone— completely the opposite. 

When her door swings open, Harry is standing standing there, sure. But instead of looming over her with flaring nostrils and cruel intent, he’s decided to lean against the door frame with his arms folded casually. His body is completely empty of tension, his ankles are crossed offhandedly, and a small, bright red paper bag full of sparkly black tissue paper is hanging off his wrist. His expression is a relaxed facade of indifference, lips set into his usual signature smirk, no explosive emotions present whatsoever. 

That startles Y/N. This has to be an act; it feels like the calm before a violent storm and it has her shifting in her socked feet. Did he...Did he forget what she did? 

There’s no way he forgot. It was too brazen a move to dismiss.

Harry steps forward into her home, comfortable enough that he no longer has to wait for an invitation. Y/N moves to the side to let him through, hesitantly closing the entrance behind him, contemplating the man as if he were a ticking bomb. She does a quick sweep of his physique, looking for some other clue as to what he could be plotting, aside from the mysterious gift bag in his hand. He’s wearing a pair of flared denim jeans, a white tee with a royal blue cartoon bee printed in the center along with the words Enjoy health! Eat your honey! surrounding it, his white Vans, and an oversized colorful patch-work cardigan. The outfit is surprisingly domestic compared to his usual taste, but she finds it’s easily one of her favorite fits on him. He just looks so boyish adorable. 

The human comes up with nothing suspicious, glancing back up to lock eyes with her guest. Harry beams at her innocently and she knows for sure he’s planning something, but she can’t place what. 

“I got you this.” The vampire speaks up first, holding out the paper bag towards Y/N with his index finger, bouncing it encouragingly. “Take a peek.” 

The girl accepts the gift gingerly, giving him one more hard look before breaking away to investigate what lies beneath the tissue paper. She pulls out a small cardboard box, her eyes squinting slightly as she reads its print and surveys the label. The image on the surface appears to be of five silicone finger gloves, each about the size of a thumbtack, tiny metal plates embedded into the pads. She’s voicing her curiosity before she’s even finished studying the container. 

“What...What are these?”

Harry rolls his eyes jokingly, tapping the object for emphasis. “Read the fine print, love.” 

Y/N focuses on the region he’d pointed out, reciting aloud. “‘Vibrating silicone finger gloves. For the use of personal pleasure or with partners.’”

Then it all clicks. 

“Oh my God, you got me— what?!” Y/N’s head snaps up in shock, mouth parted and brows creased. “Harry, what?”

The young man laughs airily, gently opening the seal of the box in her hands, which she is now holding as if it were a weapon of mass destruction. It’s such a weird present to give in general, moreso all out of the blue, so she can’t be blamed for her reaction.

He uncaps the packaging, rummaging through its contents and pulling out two of the tiny rubbery gloves. They’re transparent and ribbed, obviously meant to deliver as many sensations as possible, and they’re about two inches in length. He slips them onto his index and middle finger, making scissoring motions for the purpose of symbolism, but mainly just to watch Y/N fidget. “I remember how you said you don’t have sex toys because you’d never really thought about buying any, so I went and picked these up down at my favorite shop. Jessi said they’re good for beginners.”

“Jessi?” Y/N’s voice is tight. She’s not sure how to respond to this; she’s never been in this situation before. No one has ever just given her a sex toy as if a were a candy bar. “Who’s Jessi and why do they need to know about my sex life?”

“She’s the manager.” Harry says matter-of-factly. He doesn’t seem to find anything strange about this encounter. “She helped me pick out my first pocket vag, so I trust her with my soul. Here, look. You just slip them on and—” He makes finger thrusting motions in the air, wiggling his digits playfully. “Big O. Not as good as what I can give you, obviously, but close enough.”

“Harry, you do realize this is a little…odd, right?”

The boy blinks at Y/N blankly. “What? Why? Sex is literally the basis of this whole thing.” He signals back and forth between them with his gloved forefinger. “It’s really not that weird at all, if y’think about it.”

“I just...it’s like…” 

Her argument fizzles to an end the longer she stares at him. He has the most wholesome expression painted across his handsome features, his eyes glossy with excitement. He looks genuinely elated about the present and she can’t find it in herself to question him any further. As unorthodox as this may be, it’s the first true act of kindness anyone has shown Y/N since she had moved to California. It’s the first time anyone has given the girl anything without her having to request it. She comes to the realization that Harry really is the only friend she has at the moment, and she refuses to pick and prod at that, lest he retract from her on the grounds that she’s ungrateful. Yes, this is a little atypical, but so is their whole dynamic. In his own twisted way, this is how Harry shows his friendship. 

The more she ponders on it, she starts to understand that this truly is something she should accept. He went out of his way to get her this gift, which solidifies their acquaintanceship. It’s sweet.

“You know what, never mind. Thank you! I love them.” 

The giddy smile that cracks his face melts her heart. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Harry then softly grasps her hand with his, tugging her down the entrance hallway, his intentions set on her bedroom. His voice takes on a deeper sultry twang, the corners of his mouth twitching suggestively. “Because on my way here, I was thinking, yeah? And I figured: who better to teach you how to use these than the person who picked them out.”

“Of fucking course.” Y/N huffs in amusement, shaking her head but allowing herself to be guided forward. “I should’ve known you had an ulterior motive.” 

“Heyyyyy!” Harry’s whine is offended, but the coy simper dimpling his cheeks ruins any defense he could possibly try to spin. “This isn’t an ulterior motive, it’s simply a supporting one.”

“Right.” Y/N states flatly, shuffling forward slowly as he backs down her corridor, momentarily glancing over his shoulder to orient himself. “Buying a fuck buddy a sex toy is totally selfless and mutually exclusive of the agreement.”

Harry takes a turn and crosses the threshold into her bedroom, releasing her arm and instead, he opts for wrapping his fist into the loose material of her large Transformers tee, twisting the fabric around his knuckles and giving it a sharp yank. She stumbles into his chest and almost drops the box. 

The vampire gazes down at her with half-lidded eyes, long lashes tempting and plush lips the color of roses. “I never said it was mutually exclusive. I just said it wasn’t meant to be evidently inclusive.” 

He takes the box from her grip, sliding it onto her nightstand so that any obstacles between them are eliminated. He beckons her closer with a flick of his wrist, feeling heat erupt across his chest as her palms slap down against it to steady herself. She’s always so warm, almost like a furnace. It’s a nice contrast to his ever-present coldness.

Harry’s cupped fingers nurse the slope of her jaw, tilting her chin up to level his, Cupid’s bow ghosting over her own teasingly as a grin threatens to betray him. His accent is thick, heavy with condescension. “Now do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Y/N gulps audibly, the sudden jump in her heart rate causing Harry’s cock to give a foreshadowing twitch in his designer jeans. Her eyes soften with a form of weepy desire, head nodding in his grasp. 

Harry’s top teeth catch on his lower lip as he appraises her from over the crest of his defined cheekbones. “I don’t think I heard you, pet. Must be the AC draft.”

The mortal’s eyes fall shut as she composes herself, a shaky sigh faltering past her nostrils. She tips forward onto her toes, connecting her itching mouth to his. Harry allows it, listing his head to the side to grant her more access, his free arm roping across the dip of her spine and pressing her front flushed to his. The kiss is soft and heated, full of drunken tongues and muffled whimpers. It’s tame compared to most of the others they’ve shared, but Harry likes it. It’s sloppy and intimate; only the beginning of what he knows will be a long night. 

Her words sting the ridges of his lips, hot and bated. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Harry speaks into her mouth, tone gentle but packing a punch. “Get my belt off for me, will you? I’m tying you to the bed tonight.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice, a dark chuckle vibrating across his tongue when her fingers immediately begin to fumble with his belt buckle. 

Once Harry has looped the leather tightly around Y/N’s wrists and has knotted them to one of the wooden railings of her headboard, he sits back on his heels to admire his work. Y/N is splayed out across her mattress with her arms suspended above her head, bare thighs clasped in anticipation as her t-shirt gathers around her waist. Her hands are curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she watches Harry leisurely shrug off his cardigan, keeping eye contact with her the whole way through. His tattoos stand out against the buttery light of the single lamp on the table, tanned arms flexing sinfully. 

He shifts around, laying down onto his stomach and coasting his palms up her quivering legs, kissing over her kneecaps and along the crease of her inner thighs, bunching her shirt further up her body as he goes. As soon as he spots the first garter, he blacks out for a millisecond, vision washing red. 

“Fuck, wait— did you…?” His voice is strained and desperate as he shoves the rest of her clothes up her torso, pulling her shirt over her head and letting it rest at her elbows. He hums appreciatively when he’s met with the full cherry-colored lingerie set from a few days ago, garters and all. “God, you did.”

Y/N’s gaze falls timidly, a sheepish smile brushing over her face. “I thought you’d want to see it in person, since you seemed to like it so much.” 

“Mm...” Harry struggles to swallow, fingers hooking under the straps that clip to the hem of her underwear, pulling the fabric from her skin and letting them snap back into place. He revels in the tiny noise she lets slip, the pads of his digits now toying across the frilly bands encircling her upper legs. After a thoughtful heartbeat, Harry speaks up, wistful but vehement. “I’m going to make you soil your sheets again.” 

Y/N bucks a tad at his promise, wrists stressing against the leather belt, but Harry’s practiced enough bondage in his lifetime to know she won’t be getting out anytime soon. He parts her knees open with his palms, dragging his silicone-covered fingers down her clothed clit and tutting when she lets out a stuttery gasp. 

“Always so sensitive, aren’t you, angel?” The vampire pets at her core patiently, heat pooling at the base of his abdomen as he feels her panties damped with every stroke of his touch. “Christ, you’re already soaking through.”  

“Want more.” The girl’s plead is strangled as she actively forces herself to keep her legs wide open, knowing that if she were to allow them to snap shut, Harry would only pry them apart again. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. Please.”

“All week?” Harry drags tongue across the inside of her thigh, nipping at the flesh tauntingly, the amber specks in his eyes glittering amidst his lashes. He continues to rub through her underwear, drinking up all the little noises streaming from her throat. “Tread lightly, dove. You’re swelling my ego.”

“I just…” Her hips give another jerk when he wriggles two rubber-clad fingers into the crotch of her bottoms, spreading her open just a bit and grinning against her skin at how wet she’s become. “I just need it hard tonight, Harry. Need you to leave me sore.” 

“I always leave you sore.” The monster reasons mockingly, taking one of the garters between his teeth and tugging, releasing so it stings her like before. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

Y/N trembles out an exhale, gathering herself enough to give him what he wants. “I need you to fuck me like you hate me.”

Harry grabs onto either sides of her panties, slowly peeling them down her legs and then scooting closer forward, planting an open-mouthed kiss right onto her bare clit. She mewls in return, her restraints creaking the bed. He continues pressing messy wet pecks to her cunt, feeling her tense up each time his soft lips suckle her fervently. 

“Is that why you sent that picture?” Harry wonders aloud, pausing his motions and raising one eyebrow at her. “Because you wanted me mad?”

The human nods, face wracked with guilt. It’s cute that she feels bad, especially because Harry had, in actuality, enjoyed her little stunt. Seeing her bent over like that, in a position that shows she couldn’t wait to please him— that she couldn’t wait until Friday came around so he could do to her whatever he deemed fit...It was the best form of edging he’s ever experienced. But for the sake of giving her what she wants, he’ll bite the bait. 

Harry rises up onto his knees, parting her thighs further as he fits himself between them, the pads of his gloved digits dancing across the thick of her damp clit. He bends down until his nose smudges over hers, the breath of his low words hot against her parted mouth. 

“Well, it fucking worked.”  

Harry taps his index and middle fingers against his palm in one quick flick and the tiny metal plates situated along the tips purr to life. He sinks knuckle-deep inside of Y/N, cold rings catching on her folds as he curls upwards to get at that special spot that resides along the pit of her tummy. The moan she releases it so raw and broken, it sends a zip of lightning through his veins. 

He fucks her like that for a while, with his strong chest poised against her heaving own as he marks love bites onto the cleavage spilling from her lace bra, his skilled fingers pumping into her at a harsh pace that has her legs shaking on either sides. He thumbs over her clit messily, the silicone molds sending waves of vibrations through her clenching walls as he relentlessly toys with her g-spot, her arms thrashing against his belt. Fragmented sounds of bliss freely stream from Y/N’s mouth without shame, his name intermingling amongst the whimpers as her head throws back against the headboard. Harry grips her throat in one hand, holding her to the sturdy surface as his other bobs between her thighs roughly, the bed groaning as a result of their intense actions. His wrist begins to ache from how hard he’s going, but the tears trickling out from the corners of Y/N’s eyes and the way she’s panting into his mouth are enough to keep him going.

“Look at me.” Harry squeezes her jugular tighter, garnering attention. She forces her eyelids open, inhales hiccuping when he braces his cool forehead to hers, his irises the color of a forest at midnight, pupils blown out of proportion. His teeth dig into her bottom lip just to feel it swell, a growl stirring the gravel in his chest. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes.” Y/N boggles her head feverishly, glimpsing down over her sweaty cheeks to see the way his veins are chiseling along the forearm that is flexing between her drenched thighs. “Fuck, it’s so g-good.”

“Yeah? How about we go a little higher, hm?” Harry scrapes the pads of his fingers against that spongy place inside her, pressing the vibrators down and the motion clicks the toy into a higher level of intensity. 

Y/N writhes in his grasp, back arching off the headboard as deeper, more concentrated rumbles lap throughout her body. “Harry— I— that’s— God, just please!”

Harry takes ahold of her jaw as he continues finger-fucking her without remorse, his short breaths warm against her burning lips. “That’s my girl. Taking it hard and loving every second.” 

Y/N’s eyes lull back into her head. She doesn’t know why, but hearing Harry call her his girl satisfies her in a manner so deep, she didn’t know it existed. Just hearing him recognize her as his— as something he claims for himself, almost like an extension of who he is— stirs a foreign form of fulfillment in the back of her mind. 

“I’m—” The girl chokes on her sentence, finding it difficult to concentrate with so much pleasure coursing through her system, as well as with Harry painting hickies across the side of her strained neck. “I’m gonna cum.”

The immortal’s voice is stern and authoritative. “No, you’re not.” 

“I am, I can’t hold—”

“Yes,” Harry’s grip firms, pace sharpening into unapologetic slams, “you can. And you will. If you cum before I let you, you’re not getting anything else from me for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”

Y/N’s cunt tightens around his fingers, warning him that she’s about to peak. “Harry, I’m sorry—but— but I—”

“Do I make myself clear?” 

Y/N has no hope that she can keep it in, but she adores the darkness swirling in Harry’s eyes at the moment and she’ll do anything if it means getting to witness it for a while longer. “Yes.” 

“Good.” She winces when she feels his teeth skim her earlobe, his whisper dripping with arrogant amusement. “I told you I’d make you regret it.” 

And he really does keep his oath. Minutes simulate hours as Harry continues to flirt her just along the seams of relief, pulling her back every time he sees her about to tip. Whenever he feels her begin to spasm around his slick fingers, he gives her a cautionary quirk of his brows accompanied by a testing, throaty, “Don’t you fucking dare.” or a simple, silent shake of his head. By some miracle, she manages to reign herself in every time, but each ruined orgasm makes it harder and harder to stifle the next. She doesn’t know how many times it happens; she stops counting after four. 

After what feels like decades of torture, Harry finally releases his hold around her jugular, allowing her to properly gulp air for the first time in a while. He sits back against his heels, pulling his hand from between her thighs with a sarcastic sympathetic hiss. “Poor thing.” 

He watches as a trail of her juices strings from his digits to her cunt, eventually snapping in the middle as he lifts his hand to study his work. Her release drips down his knuckles and palm, gleaming in the dim lighting. A mildly sadistic glint washes over Harry’s irises and for a split second, they look almost red, but Y/N dismisses it. Her brain is too fogged to trust right now. 

The boy’s sight flickers past his hand to where Y/N lies limply, wrists bruised from the bonds, arms quivering weakly, and legs trembling in overstimulation. He’s never seen her look more beautiful than now. 

He locks his bright eyes to her exhausted own, watching them shatter to pieces when he pushes his drenched fingers past his pillowy blushed lips. His lashes flutter as her taste washes across his tongue, sweet and decadent as always, a soft groan thrumming deep in his throat. God, he can only imagine how delectable her blood must be at the moment, honeyed by the plethora of endorphins he had repeatedly coaxed into her. He can't wait to feel its warmth fill his mouth later tonight.

Harry removes his fingers with a wet pop, licking across the back of his hand with finality and giving her a daring once-over. “Do you still want my cock? Or are you too sensitive for it, darling?”

He sounds so conceited and self-assured, it causes Y/N’s pride to flare. She wants to make him eat his stupid words.  

The mortal licks her chapped lips, wetting her dry throat and clearing it softly, wiping away the sweat on her forehead with her shoulder. “I still want it.” 

An impressed expression decorates Harry’s features. “You think you can take it?”

Y/N’s jaw clenches with dedication, her thighs spreading open a tad more and she wills herself not to flinch. Her chin cocks upwards. “I know I can.” 

Harry’s brows kink challengingly, a borderline evil smirk sewing onto his face. “Let’s see, then.” 

As it turns out, Y/N can take it. However, she knows for a fact she won’t be able to walk right for at least the next week.

Harry lowers his jeans and kicks them off, reaching into his navy briefs and tugging himself out, giving his length a few pumps for good measure as he shifts forward toward her. He flips the girl onto her belly as easily as he’d turn a sheet of paper, tying one arm around her hips and lifting them up as he slides a pillow below. He situates her accordingly onto the cushion, her ass slightly elevated to give him more range of depth. He pats at her backside lightly, telling her to part her knees and she does so obediently, gripping onto the leather strap around her wrists anxiously when she feels the bed shift with his weight. Harry lowers himself over her body, the tee covering his broad chest soaking up the thin sheet of sweat on her back. He moves all of her tangled hair to the side, burying his fingers into her roots and yanking her head back cheekily. He runs his nose across her damp cheekbone and chuckles when she jumps slightly at the feathery sensation. 

“You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you?” 

Y/N gnaws on her bottom lip as she struggles to swallow, throat taut from the angle he’s put her in. Her voice carries a confident bite, despite her compromisable position. “I like to think I am, yeah.” 

“Well, you know what that makes you, right?” Harry murmurs as he lines himself up with her entrance. 

“Mm-mm. What?” 

The vampire presses a lingering kiss to the tittering pulse in her temple, feeling it thunder below his skin as he forms his next comment slowly with an ominous edge. “It makes you a brat.” 

He feels her heartbeat trip. 

“And you know what I do to brats?” 

Y/N shakes her head as much as his dominant grasp will allow, body tightening in suspense. 

“I fuck them until they break.” 

Y/N learns that he’s telling the truth. The first thrust Harry delivers is swift, hard, and unbelievably deep; it causes her to let out a choked scream that no one else has ever drawn from her before, except for him. It’s like he can tap into certain aspects of her body she was unaware of; parts of her waiting for the right person to come along and reveal them. She feels that stroke rip into her tummy, but the pain of his size is something she’s become accustomed to in the last three weeks. She hardly feels it anymore; it had molded from a sharp throb to a dull ache, due to how often she’s experienced it. 

Harry doesn’t waste any time, quickly picking up a sloppy, adamant pace that has her hips bouncing against the mattress. He twists her hair around his fist, mouth pressed to the side of her head as his hot pants of exertion send a prickling through her scalp. His other forearm keeps him anchored to the bed as he pounds into her with absolutely no hesitation, the sound of skin slapping, cracked whines, and raspy grunts filling the tense atmosphere of her chilly room. 

“Is this what you were hoping would happen when you sent that slutty picture?” Harry grits out, short nails digging into the comforter beneath. “Wanted to get me all riled up just so I’d do your back in?”

Y/N mewls weakly in response, hands clinging to each other within the makeshift cuffs. 

“If you wanted me to fuck you like I hate you, you could have just asked. I’m more than happy to give you whatever you want. You don’t have to tempt me.” The vampire gives a particularly deep slam, laughing breathily when the girl’s back instinctively arches forward, paired with a watery yelp of, “Oh!”

Harry’s tongue grazes across the shell of her ear, teeth catching the skin. “But since you did, I’ll give it to you just— like—that.” His thrusts match to each word, fingers coiling harder into her locks. “You deserve it. Especially when you had the nerve to act like such a spoiled little brat right to my face.” 

Y/N’s not sure what emboldens her to speak, but her snarky remark is already halfway down her numb tongue before she can stop it. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

Harry hums tauntingly, circling his hips in long strides that urge a series of fractured whimpers to scrape out of Y/N’s sore throat. “Say it again. Go ahead, say it. I want to see you try.”

She remains silent, spine shuddering as she bites down on her tongue to avoid making any more noises that might condemn her.  

Harry roughly cranes Y/N’s neck to the side, buttoning their lips together in a filthy kiss that has her cheeks boiling. “That’s what I thought. The only thing that sharp tongue is good for is licking down my cock.” 

She gasps against his mouth shakily, tears of sheer bliss gathering along her waterline. “You’re such a fucking asshole.” 

Harry can tell her comment holds no true malice behind it; she’s too sweet on him— too whipped on what he gives her— to ever mean it. She’d only said it to provoke him into a power dynamic struggle. But the thing is, Harry’s dealt with feeling powerless before, so he had spent years teaching himself how to win. How to always win. 

“Am I, now?” His next line dismantles her entire plan. “Would an asshole let you cum?”

And just like that, her whole demeanor crumbles. “I take it back. I’m s-sorry.”

Harry releases her hair and nips at her ear mockingly, beginning to withdraw himself. “Oh, I think it’s a bit too late for that, minx.”

“No, no! Harry, please. I’m sorry. Genuinely. I promise I won’t say it again. Just…” She tugs helplessly at the belt restraints, trying to twist around to look at him directly. Her voice is wringed out. “Just please.”

The boy pushes a few stringy curls out of his eyes, pressing his tongue into his cheek coyly as he glances down, suggestively smoothing one hand over her ass. He gives it a firm squeeze, lifting his palm teasingly and feeling her tense in anticipation. “Do you want it?”

Y/N glimpses at his bejeweled hand with hunger, then back at his eyes. “Yes.”

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten what ‘it’ was, exactly. Jog my memory, will you? What is it you want?”

Her irises harden in spite at his shit-eating comment. He’s well aware of how shy she can be when it comes to admitting she wants a spanking, and he’s playing that to his advantage. He’s swimming in the way she squirms. 

“I...I want you to spank me.”

He tsks, shaking his head as he twists his HS rings around to face inwards. “You forgot something.” 

Y/N’s fingers tighten into begrudging fists. “I want you to spank me, please.”

“There’s a good girl.” His low, accented purr sends electricity through her nerves. “You’re so cute when you beg.”

Harry’s hand comes down swiftly, digits fanned out so that all of his rings print across her backside. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough to leave a satisfying sting. He loves the way she jolts forward with a hushed curse of surprise, and he adores seeing the shape of his initials marked across her clammy skin. It’s poetic, almost.

“So pretty.” His mumble is wistful as he massages deeply over the region he had just bruised, but it holds unyielding authority. “Whose is it, doll?”

“Yours.” 

“And don’t you fucking forget it.” The creature lifts one palm to do it again, pausing once more just to rev her further. He reaches forward with the other, shoving her face-first into the mattress to get her back to straighten out. “Look forward and don’t make a single sound.”

Y/N obeys, but manages to sneak a peek at his reflection through the waxy wooden surface of her aged bedframe. He looks so good perched behind her with bare heaving shoulders, looking down at her exposed figure over the crests of his sharp cheekbones, brows furrowed into a starved expression that gives away he’s enjoying this probably more than she is. Her voice comes out small and weak. “Yes, sir.”

Harry’s entire face tightens at the word and she feels him throb against her backside. 

“Now beg me to let you cum.”

///

The next morning when Y/N’s eyes flutter open to the grey light streaking in through her curtains, the first thing she senses is a pair of eyes staring at the side of her face. 

She turns her stiff body over toward where the sensation stems and sure enough, she’s met with a pair of sea glass irises filled to the brim with humor. Harry’s laying on his side with his hands tucked below one of her pillows, tousled ringlets sticking up in wild tuffs (thanks to the activities they’d engaged yesterday), he’s completely bare since he likes sleeping nude (though he’d had the decency to cover himself with sheets from the waist down), and his voice is slower and raspier than usual (a result of being dormant for the last eight or so hours). 

“You drool in your sleep.” 

Y/N tucks her hands against Harry’s cold pectorals, snuggling deeper into his chest and pinching at one of his nipples in playful revenge. “No, I don’t.” 

“Yes,” he reaches up and shoos her hand away, proceeding to wipe at the side of her mouth, where dried spit had accumulated. He makes a theatrical gagging face, cleaning his thumb off across the collar of her t-shirt. “You do.”

Y/N sighs in exasperation, making a bold leap to a different topic to avoid talking about her embarrassing sleep habits. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring at people while they sleep is weird? Like, serial killer weird?” 

Harry tucks a few matted strands of hair behind the human’s ear, thumbing over her cheekbone tenderly. He hardly ever indulges in such actions, simply because they’re typically reserved for actual couples, which he and Y/N are definitely not. But last night— after he had finally finished being a prick and allowed her cum along with him, and after she had fallen into the bed with exhaustion taking her under, and after he’d had his greedy fill of her blood for the week— he’d gotten bored of playing on his phone. He’d burned through three cold case documentaries on Netflix and played enough Mario Kart to memorize the race charts; it had grown old quickly, and he eventually just locked the device and placed it on her nightstand. He spent the next hour staring at her hideous ceiling, and the one after that fantasizing about taking down her tapestry and burning it in the oven. And finally, after hours of mindless daydreams and letting his eyes chase the city lights dancing across the walls of her room, he had settled onto his side and watched her sleep. 

Harry did it simply because he had nothing else to distract him. He figured it would eventually bore him enough that maybe— just maybe, if he was lucky— he would fall asleep alongside her. But he didn’t, so he just ended up gazing at her slumbering face until dawn. He had been surprised by how oddly beautiful Y/N looked sleeping— how relaxed and tranquil, with her features soft and skin seemingly made of flawless porcelain. That intrigue had bled into the moment they share now, resulting in his touch drifting down the curve of her jaw and across the faint dimple on her chin. He follows the slope of her neck and admires the smoothness of her flesh with the ridges of his fingertips, hearing her breathing stutter ever so slightly. His heightened senses make it feel as if he’s running his digits over velvet and the only concept he can compare it to is touching forbidden artwork at an exhibit. It’s exciting, but he knows that if he keeps going, he could end up getting himself into a crock of shit. 

When the pads of his fingers land on two prominent purple bruises he’d forgotten existed, he’s broken from his soft stupor. He retracts his touch as if she were made of iron, forcing himself to ignore the pout that automatically plumps her delicate lips. 

He clears his throat awkwardly, a tight chuckle stringing his vocal chords. “Staring at someone in their sleep seemed to work just fine for Edward Cullen, though.” 

Y/N snorts sharply, rolling her eyes up towards her headboard. When she sees his belt is still hanging off of it from the night prior, she hurriedly glances back down, pretending not to have seen it. 

“It’s funny you say that because as I recall, he literally admitted to being a murderer. I believe his exact words were,” she exaggerates her voice into an angsty cry, grasping at her chest dramatically, “‘This is the skin of a killer, Bella!’”

Harry bursts into boyish giggles, falling fully onto his back and swiping his palm up his face, fingers remaining perched over his closed eyes as he laughs. He sighs airily, shaking his head as an afterthought. “What a moron.” 

“Truly. His dad was hotter.” 

“Way hotter.” Harry agrees passionately, burying his hand into his messy curls, attempting to comb out some of the tangles. “And he was a doctor. What a man.” 

“Bella really fucked that one up. She had a midlife crisis over choosing between a sad vampire who looked like he had chronic constipation, and a yappy dog with a shirt phobia. All when Carlisle was right there. Brain damage, honestly.” 

“A moment of prayer for the mentally incapacitated. Couldn't be me!”

“Couldn’t be me, either.”   

“Fuck, yeah.” Harry throws his hand up, inviting Y/N to give him a high five. “To good taste.”

She gladly delivers. “Exquisite taste.”

An instance of comfortable silence suspends between the pair of lovers, filled with the soft thrum of the air vent and the distant chirping of birds outside Y/N’s windowpane. She traces her index nail over the wings of the swallow tattoos along Harry’s collarbones, seeming to be deep in thought. She then speaks up once again.

“Emmett was pretty hot, as well.” 

“You know what? I’m happy you mentioned that ‘cause— full disclosure here— I’d ride him like a fucking bull.” 

Now it’s Y/N’s turn to explode in a fit of giggles, nose scrunching and eyes crinkling shut as she loses herself at Harry’s graphic confession. 

“Why are you laughing?!” The fact that he sounds genuinely appalled only spurs her sounds of glee. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take that chance if you got it. Like, okay, he’s an airhead, yeah? I’m aware. But fuck’s sake, look at his body. I’d happily let him beat me at arm wrestling if it means I get that celebratory dick afterwards.”

The mortal manages to calm down a handful of heartbeats later and Harry feels strangely proud of how he’d made her pulse spike. 

“You’re valid for that, don’t worry. I couldn’t have said it—” A single giggle interupts her sentence, but she reigns it in before it can spiral. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Literally. There’s no way to express it better than exactly how you stated it.” 

Harry smirks softly up at the ceiling, folding his free arm behind his head as the other wraps securely down Y/N’s back, absentmindedly rubbing in gentle soothing circles. “My mind. It’s amazing, innit?”

“It’s definitely something.” 

Another span of cozy quietness fills the atmosphere of the room, longer than the last. Harry doesn’t mind. He finds it appeasing, and he continues to delight himself with running his touch up and down Y/N’s spine. He’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s aware that it’s probably a bit. His theory is supported by how he witnesses the beam of watery light that filters over the duvet gradually fade from silver to a sunflower yellow, indicating full daybreak. 

Even then, he doesn’t say a word, too caught up in this innocent bubble of domestic bliss to pop it so suddenly. He just lays there and listens. Listens to the birds harmonizing with each other across the branches of the tree outside. To the steady breaths that fill Y/N’s lungs with cool air, faltering past her nostrils in the same manner and fogging the metal of his cross necklace. To the faint sound of footsteps trotting down the staircase outside her apartment, and to the vague spritz of the sprinkler system going off at the front of the complex. To the distant honking of car horns in traffic, and to a random conversation between two friends as they walk past the pavement just under Y/N’s balcony. He hasn’t felt this at ease in eons. 

Harry just allows himself to grow in tune with the world around him— a world he’d been convinced was against him for the longest time. A world he was convinced stole his happiness and replaced it with the shackles of a blood-driven afterlife, for no other reason than because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong person. But now, he feels like he’s in the right place, at the right time, spending it with the right person— or at least a half-decent person— and he doesn’t want to let it slip between his fingers so soon. He wants to bask in it, even if he knows it’ll pass. 

And eventually, it does pass, and Y/N is the one who brings it to an end. 

The girl slowly peels away from Harry’s side, his lips dipping downwards slightly at the loss of the warmth she radiates. He thinks she’s about to get up to probably go use the bathroom or to make breakfast, but instead, she just bends her upper body over the edge of her bed to retrieve something from the floor. She comes back up with the box he’d brought her the evening before (which had ended up on the ground as a result of her bed rocking violently), setting it in the small space between their laps. She then returns to her place cuddled into his torso, looking up at him with an expression that Harry can only interpret as expecting. 

The vampire glances down at the container and then back up to Y/N’s face, raising his eyebrows curiously, voice tinged with comedy. “What did I say about bringing sex toys to the dinner table?”

Y/N stares up at him flatly for a second, fighting off a smile. “I just wanted to thank you again. It’s nice of you to bring me a present, even as strange as this one.” 

Harry sucks at his teeth, waving a hand dismissively, blinking down at her with slyness sparkling around his pupils. “What are friends for, if not for buying you vibrating finger gloves and then fucking you with them until you cry?”

Despite having been acquainted with Harry’s crude humor for three weeks now, it still manages to make Y/N’s cheeks sizzle. It could also be the fact that this is the first time Harry has openly accepted Y/N as a friend. It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned her name and that word in the same sentence, meaning that she can now shake a weight off her shoulders— a weight that had insisted he was only using her for sex, that he would eventually grow bored of her, and that he would throw her away once he was done. It’s good to know that’s not the case, and that the friendship aspect of their agreement is true to its name. 

“Right.” Y/N’s smile is full of so much genuine warmth, Harry feels like she could outshine the sun. “What are friends for, if not that. Thanks, Harry.” 

He wonders what she’s thinking, and he finds himself wishing that he had the one valid trait that idiot Edward Cullen possesses: mind-reading. But he doesn’t have it, so he simply returns her gesture and skates the conversation how he best deems fit. “You don’t have to call me ‘Harry’ all the time, you know?” 

Y/N’s brows cinch in entertained confusion. “What would I call you, then? Sherlock?” 

Harry scoffs lightly at the inside joke, shrugging one shoulder casually. “I mean, you could, if you want to. It might take some getting used to, but I think I can shoulder a full-time second identity. Just for you.” 

“How chivalrous.”

“You ain’t ever met a man like me, sweetheart.” He boasts in an over-the-top American southern accent, prying another round of laughter from Y/N, similar to the one before. “But you could also just call me ‘H.’ It’s what most of my other friends use.” 

“H.” Y/N repeats, getting a taste for the new nickname. It’s simple, unlike him, but it somehow fits. She then recalls something from a show she’d watched when she was younger and she can’t help but bring it up. “So, like, just your first initial? Like in Gossip Girl?”

Harry’s face immediately drops at the comparison she makes to the cringey teenage soap opera. “You know what, I take it back. You’re not allowed to use it. Illegal. Banned. By an official court. Gavel and all.”

“I’m just making a point!”

“Yeah, a shitty one.” 

“Oh, whatever. You’re just mad I debunked your little hipster alter ego. ‘That’s a secret I’ll never tell. Xoxo, H.’”

“Restraining order.” Harry pinches at one of her love handles, an evil grin dimpling his cheeks when she squeals. “Actually, nevermind. We’re going straight to the electric chair. Immediately.” 

“You don’t get to decide my punishment, remember?” Y/N slaps at his wrists, trying to ward off his attacks but failing miserably. “You’re just the—stop!— just the executioner.” 

“That’s right. I get to strap you to the chair.” Harry finally lets up on the tickling, his lighthearted grin taking on a slightly seductive hue as he momentarily glimpses upwards towards where his belt is hanging. “Though you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Fuck off.” Y/N smothers her palm against his face, breaking eye contact as she feels her ears bristle with heat.  

“Mm, exactly.” Harry gnashes at her hand playfully, but she manages to yank it away before he gets a bite in. “You can’t even admit you like being called a whore.” 

“Hey!”

“What?” The vampire gives her a cocky look, wagging his head knowingly and then mimicking her voice in a higher pitch. “‘I’m just making a point!’”

“You’re a dick, you really are.” 

“And yet you still ride mine, so who’s the one with the real issues here? Specifically, daddy issues.”

“I’m done with this conversation.” Y/N huffs, returning her attention to the box beside her thigh, muffling the twitching across her lips. 

She takes the cardboard into her hands, tracing over the small flap used to pry the top open. Harry watches her with interest, pondering as to what could possibly be scurrying around her skull that she seems so caught up with the context of the gift. He’d gotten it because he knew they would both benefit from it. It’s as simple as that. 

“You know,” she starts, but her gaze remains glued to the box, “I feel kinda bad ‘cause, like...You got me this gift, I have nothing to give you in return.” 

Harry’s face contorts into a silly frown for a moment, tone humorous. “It’s fine, Y/N. You don’t have to give me anything back. I got it ‘cause I knew we’d enjoy using it together, and because this way, you have something to play with when I’m not around. And you can send me videos of said instances. It’s truly a win-win. A double-ended gift.” 

“I suppose.” She mumbles softly, continuing to pick at the lip of cardboard sticking out. “But I feel like it’s only fair that you get to use it, too, don’t you think?”

And then the reason she’s insistent about this dawns on Harry. The way she’s avoiding looking at him directly, how her heart rate is slowly ebbing upwards, how she is gradually scooting closer to his body, how he can feel her thighs are clasped tightly below the comforter. How the scent of honey and lavender has intensified. How she keeps glancing towards where the sheets are crumpled messily around his hips in a haphazard attempt to remain civil. 

When the monster speaks, it carries all the arrogance brought forward by his discovery. “If you wanna give me a handjob with the toy on, just say so.” 

The human’s head snaps upwards, her expression one of utter alarm at his lewd comment, but he can see right through her act. It’s obvious that was her intention all along— the desire in her eyes is poorly masked. She looks so adorable, pretending not to know what he’s referring to, her palms gripping the box slightly tighter than before. 

Harry twirls a strand of her hair around his finger nonchalantly, giving it a jesting tug. “I just find it funny how much of a horny menace you can be.”

“What—?”

“And it’s not even ten A.M. yet.”

“What do you—?” 

“Y/N,” Harry sighs tiredly, giving her an omniscient look, “I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you want something. It’s written all over your body language and you’re pretty shit at hiding it in your eyes. Just admit you want to and I’ll let you.” 

The faux shock slowly melts off her face, replaced by sheepish humiliation at being so easily sussed out. She chews on her bottom lip pensively, struggling to sew together the appropriate words to communicate the very inappropriate activity she wants to engage in. Harry has to withhold from leaning down and taking a bite from her tempting mouth.  

She inhales a deep breath through her nose, puffing it out slowly and tapping her fingers across the box nervously. Her voice pipes up so softly, it’s almost inaudible. “I want to give you a handjob with the toy.”

Harry gently cards his fingers into the mussed roots along the back of her head, using that hold to guide her sight upwards until it meets his. He leans down, smearing his lips over her own, feeling static pass through the ridges of their skin. “That’s all you had to say, darling. Go ahead, then. Make me cum.” 

Y/N swallows thickly, lashes fluttering bashfully as she pastes her mouth to his in a soft kiss. It’s a simple action with just their lips and nothing else. No tongue, no teeth, no sucking, nothing sloppy or desperate— not yet, anyways. He can tell she does it as a way to ease herself into this. She wants to, that much is arousingly obvious, but for some crazy reason unbeknownst to him, she’s still shy about it. That’s what happens when you come from a conservative raising: you get intimacy issues. He of all people— with his Victorian era background— would know. 

The hand Harry has cupping the nape of her neck shifts over a smidge, ending up splayed across the side of her face. His palm rests on her cheekbone and his fingers in her locks, his wrist cradling the back of her skull as he patiently deepens the kiss. His chest begins to heave slightly, a familiar sensation already frothing at the trench of his stomach. Harry can feel Y/N’s clumsy movements as she unboxes the vibrators, digging through the packaging and trying to slip them on blindly, not wanting to break away from his embrace. The way he’s flirting his tongue along the inside of her top lip is just too consuming to leave. 

After a few seconds of grappling and a string of annoyed curse words, Harry giggles lightly into her mouth, nudging the tip of his nose across the bridge of hers. The jade tint in his irises is waltzing with amusement, all at her expense. “Sometime today, love.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, I just— I can’t— they won’t—” The mortal releases an irritated growl into their kiss, reluctantly splitting away when it becomes clear she won’t be able to get the rubber gloves on without giving the task her full attention. “God, I’m such a...Sorry.” 

Harry rolls his eyes in mirth, pecking sweetly along the angry creases present over her forehead and between her brows. He thumbs over her cheek affectionately to soothe her nerves, his other hand scratching distractedly at the back of his neck. He filters curls through his fingers as he waits, bicep jolting in the process. “It’s fine, I’m just teasing. I’m not going anywhere, babe.”

“Thanks. Just give me—” The girl pauses her actions for a second, jutting her chin back up towards him and locking the vampire into another quick kiss, solely for the purpose of keeping him interested while she figures herself out. She breaks away again, returning to her mission. “Just give me a minute.” 

Now that she can see, Y/N successfully wriggles all five of her fingers into their designated molds. She prods at them gingerly, copying Harry’s actions from the night prior, using that experience as a manual. The mini-vibrators purr to life, a buzzing sensation trickling down her fingers. She glances back up at an awaiting Harry, who gives her such an easy, good-natured smile, she instantly reaches up and glues their mouths together again. 

“You’re so eager.” The boy grins into the kiss, jumping a bit when he feels her tittering fingers duck beneath the covers around his lower torso. “It’s hot.” 

“I just want to make you feel good.” Y/N mumbles, one palm braced to his strong shoulder as the other rides down his bare abdomen. She can feel his grip on her hair tightening the closer she gets to his cock. “That’s all.” 

“Guess I’m just the luckiest— shit.” Harry’s quip is interrupted when Y/N wraps her digits around his length, giving it one slow, testing pump. His jaw drops open and he begins panting into her mouth, the corners of his lips ticking upwards into a smirk as an intense pleasure swells between his thick thighs. “Jesus fucking Christ, that feels— fuck, that’s incredible, oh my God.”

“Yeah?” The human asks timidly, gazing up at him dreamily from below her lashes as his eyes lull back into his head. “Not too much?” 

Harry loves how attentive she is— how she’s checking to make sure he’s alright before continuing. If he had a heart, it would surely be glowing right now. 

Harry gulps down the lump in his throat, voice more strained and needy than she’s ever heard it. “No, I’m good, I’m good. Keep going.” 

Y/N gradually sinks her palm back down to his base, feeling his cock twitch desperately as the vibrators work their magic. She slowly slinks back up to his tip, thumbing over it carefully, pressing the toy on her thumb pad right over his slit. The garbled moan that emits from Harry is a sound her ears will never forget. It’s a sound she wishes she could record and listen to on a loop. 

“Fucking hell, don’t— please, just— oh—” Harry stutters through a plead, voice bleeding, naked chest now heaving wildly against her own. His hips buck forward into her hand, but she maintains a steady grip, keeping the vibrator pressed to the center of his cock’s head. 

“Don’t what?” She whispers into his mouth, suckling at his Cupid’s bow and reveling in the little broken noises he pours onto her tongue. 

Harry’s breaths are shallow and pained, the grip on her hair stronger than she thought possible as the fingers of his opposite hand yank at his own feverishly. He’s barely able to choke out his next sentence. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” Y/N begins to fish for a solid rhythm, her strokes setting into medium pace and gauging the receiver's reaction. “How’s that?” 

Bright colors web across Harry’s eyelids and he feels like his soul is being torn from his body. “Y-Yeah, that’s perfect, baby. It’s so good— you’re so good.” 

“I am?” Y/N swipes her thumb over his tip again, and when he whimpers brokenly against her lips, she does it again. It urges the same exact reaction, but more shattered. So she does it again. And again, and again, and again. And each time it happens, his hips jerk more violently, chasing her intoxicating touch. She can feel Harry’s precum drip down his length and leak between the cracks of her fingers. 

“You are, you’re just so fucking good to me.” Harry’s spewing words at this point, brain half conscious, half floating in bliss. Whatever dam of common sense holds his mind together crumbles, all of his thoughts rushing out in the form of jumbled phrases and cracked whines. “You get me going like nothing else, pet. You get me going so easily, it’s embarrassing. You make me cum so hard, it feels like I’m touching h-heaven. And your mouth— God, y-your mouth. It’s the best I’ve ever had. It’s so soft and warm, and your lips are so pretty and silky. I could kiss you for hours. And your tongue— you know how to use it so well. You lick me once and I’m already on edge. And every time you get down on your knees, I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Y/N sighs shakily at Harry’s string of confessions, staring up at him with wide eyes as his own stay shut loosely, long lashes perched on his rosy cheekbones, handsome features slack with euphoria. She doesn’t halt her motions, continuing to pump him excitedly. The girl passes her thumb over his tip every time she gets to the top, and gives a hard squeeze every time she thunks down against his base, twisting her wrist as she glides back and forth between the two points of reference. That combination seems to work well, evident in the steady stream of vulgarities falling from Harry’s swollen lips as he thrusts upwards to match her pace. His groans splash across her tongue, traveling down her throat and burning into her stomach. She wants him to cum probably more than he does.

Y/N glimpses down, watching her sheets tent as she works Harry over, the outline of her knuckles pressing into the turquoise fabric. It’s such an erotic scene and she knows it’ll be branded across the front of her brain for years to come. She cranes her neck back up to look at the vampire, her breath catching in her lungs. He looks so pretty with his dark pink lips parted in pleasure, his damp ringlets matting along his sweaty hairline, his structured jaw ticking, and his usually sharp traits softened by ecstasy. She’ll do anything to make that image last.  

“Tell me more.” Y/N murmurs, swimming in the praise he is so willing to dish out. 

His eyes flicker for a heartbeat and in that instance, they look oddly darker than normal. Almost crimson, but she knows it’s due to the shadow of his lashes. The words that spill from his mouth next make her forget all about that occurrence, his voice melodic and dark, sticky against her wet lips. 

“Your hands are one of my favorite things about you, I think. They’re smaller than mine and I love how your fingers don’t touch when you wrap them around my cock. I love how they leave my back raw with scratches, and I love how they look tied to the bedpost. I love it when they press flat against my chest when you ride me, and how you lean back on them when I’m on my knees with my head between your thighs. I love how they yank at my hair when you’re about to cum, and how they grip my upper arms when we make-out. I love how your nails dig into my thighs when you're going down on me, and how they look fisting at the sheets when I’m taking you from behind. And I love how they feel tugging me off, like you’re doing now. I just love how perfect they are— how perfect you are.” 

Y/N is left speechless, Harry’s monologue ringing in her heated ears as he gazes at her intensely amidst heavy, barely-cracked eyelashes. His broad chest gasps for air and he takes it upon himself— despite his wrecked appearance— to smush their mouths deeper together, pooling moans across the roof of her own.  

“I’m—” His breathing throttles, voice coming out softer than she’s heard it in the last three weeks. “I’m gonna cum.”

Y/N nods her head numbly, strokes becoming lazy and fast, eager for him to finish. “I want you to. I want you to cum for me so bad. Please?” 

Harry’s hips writhe in a tell-tale sign that he’s about to tip. His whimper tastes sweet on her tongue, the meaning behind it pure syrup to her ego. “You’re the only one who makes me feel this good.”

The mortal whines gently in return, eyes falling shut as she feels him grow heavier in her palm. “You’re the only one I want to make feel this good.” 

The knot of white hot pleasure in his belly begins to unravel, his entire spine shuddering as a result, all strain beginning to wash out of his system in spurts if blissful electricity. He can feel his orgasm racing up his prick, pulling his composure along with it. He gives one last jerk against Y/N’s cupped fingers, feeling her press her vibrating thumb over his slit one more time for good measure. When the first milky ribbon spurts out, that’s when he feels it. 

Harry’s eyelids fly open in alarm as black veins protrude along the whites of his eyes, all his muscles contracting at once, defense mode activated. Y/N’s lips are on his neck. 

His first instinct is to do what he always does and guide her away from that sensitive, highly forbidden area. His fist tightens in her hair and he’s about to yank her back up to his mouth when suddenly, the icy tension present in his veins disappears. It’s replaced by a soothing warmth, which travels through every crevice in his body and kindles his climax, his impulsive hatred for being touched in that specific region funneling away completely. He can’t remember a time where this has happened before. 

Harry’s grip loosens hesitantly as he treads into this unexplored territory, allowing her to continue suckling along his throat. The sensation would usually garner a reaction similar to that of a molten metal brand being placed on his skin, but now— for some startling reason— he doesn’t feel any contempt. He just feels relaxed and cradled in the best way imaginable. The impact is pleasant this time around, and he finds himself wanting more of it. So, he lets her give him more. He lets this strange girl kiss and gasp and lick against his jugular while she finishes getting him off, his own desperate sounds of need bouncing around the brick walls of her bedroom. He lets her coax wave after wave of cum out of him, feeling it splatter against her bedspread and coat over her hand. He whines and grunts into the hair along the crown of her head, tears blearing his eyes as her scent of sugar and flowers clouds his mind. And when his release finally sputters to an end, he lets out an elongated groan so deep, it makes his chest ache.

“Fuck. You’re...You’re an absolute angel.”

Y/N draws her hand out from beneath the bed sheets, turning off the vibrating finger pads by pressing them against her palm. She looks down at the milky substance covering the toys and before Harry can make even a sound of encouragement, she’s already licking it off each individual piece. The girl looks up at the vampire as she cleans every trace of him off her fingers, swallowing it all down with a doe-like tint across her hazy gaze and murmuring a soft, “You taste good.” over a full mouth. Harry just watches silently, heavy breathing slowly starting to even out. God, she really is such a fucking godsend.

The next couple of minutes list by in a blur, all of his focus taken up by the feeling of unsettlement pricking at the back of his brain. Why had he let her touch him there? Why had he let her touch him in a place no one has since before his death?

Y/N puts the toys back in their box, putting them off to the side to thoroughly clean later. She reaches down, bunching up her bedspread in her hand and wiping Harry’s pelvis, thighs, and tummy down until he’s decently clean, as well as whatever is left on her hand. She then snuggles up to his side once again, laying her head into the crook between his arm and pectoral muscles, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully along with him. The irritating red tint across Harry’s chest, stomach, and neck gradually fades away, and he barely flinches when he feels her sponge her lips against his Adam’s Apple. She lulls the tip of her middle finger up along the vein of his cock one more time for finality, smiling slyly when he hisses in sensitivity.

The immortal tilts his head down to appraise her, sniffling lightly and allowing a weak, watery smile across his raw lips. His tone is feathery and detached. “That was…Christ.”

Y/N giggles softly, nodding along to his unspoken opinion. “It was fun. Really fun. We should do it again sometime.” 

Harry splutters into a drunken laugh, mind still floating around the room. “I don’t think I could survive that again.”

Y/N grins up at him cheekily. “Pussy.” 

Her friend breaks into an expression of utter offense, cheeks still slightly rosy. He shoves her head roughly as vengeance. “Hey! Piss off. Don’t blame it on me, blame it on the male anatomy.” 

The girl shakes her head up at him, eyebrows shrugging mockingly. “Excuses, excuses.” 

“Whatever.” 

A moment passes, and then Y/N speaks up again, her index finger poking playfully into the center of his bare chest, right over the butterfly tattoo. “Also, you’re washing my sheets. Your mess, you clean it up.”

Harry grins against her forehead, scratching lightly at the back of her scalp. “Fair enough…Wait, is that why you wanted to do this? ‘Cause you knew I’d soil your sheets and you could force me to do your laundry?”

That hadn’t been her motive at all, and Harry knows that, but she plays along anyways for the hell of the joke. “Perhaps.” 

“Wow. I feel used.” 

“Too bad. Go do it. Now. Before it stains.”

Harry stares at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “I literally can’t walk right now! I can’t feel anything below my waist.”

Y/N lifts the comforter off her body, symbolically showing off the bruises his fingertips and rings had left the night before. “Well, neither can I!” 

Harry reaches down and touches the marks, chuckling to himself. “How unfortunate. Who’s gonna make breakfast, then, if neither of us can even stand?”

“We could UberEats some iHop.” 

“Who’s gonna get the door?”

“Well, I can’t solve everything on my own, now can I?!” Y/N slaps his hand away from her body. “Contribute! You’re the lead detective, after all.” 

“I am, aren’t I?” Harry cocks his head to the side in recollection, remembering his role in their imaginary dynamic duo scenario. “And because I’m the lead, I say…” He ropes his lean arms around the human and buries his face into her warm neck, pulling her close and intertwining their legs together, trapping her to the mattress along with him. “I say we just bum around for a bit longer. Just until one of us can actually muster up the strength to leave the bed.” 

Y/N makes an exasperated noise in the back of her throat, but makes no apparent attempt to leave his embrace. “Fine.” 

“Mystery solved, then! Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“You’re so dumb.” 

The pair stay cuddled for a bit, with Y/N’s hands loosely gripping Harry’s forearms, tracing across his mermaid tattoo absently. She wanders in her thoughts for a period of time, lost in the sensation of Harry’s warm breath fanning down her neck, his hot lips pressing small kisses behind her ear every once in a while. She likes their morning after routine; it’s innocent and fun and sharing moments like this makes it easy to forget her troubles. She wants more of this, and she finds herself trying to come up with ways to convince Harry to spend the night more often. This is only the fourth time he’s stayed until morning and she wants that number to grow. 

An idea dawns on her and she’s voicing it before her inhibitions can kill it off.

“Do you...Do you maybe wanna stay over the rest of the weekend?”

Harry draws his face from the alcove of her soft neck, eyebrows poised in curiosity. “The rest of the weekend?”

“Yeah!” Y/N shifts her gaze up to look at him, hope swirling around her pupils. “Like, spend the rest of today and tomorrow over, and then leave tomorrow night ‘cause I have work on Monday. Does that, like...Does that make sense?” 

“Yeah.” Harry says slowly, mulling over her offer, thinking back to his schedule. He doesn’t think he has any commitments this weekend that would require him being home— none he can’t cancel easily, anyways. He’d told Mitch he’d go see him play again at the pub later today, but it’s the same set as last time, so he doesn’t think his best friend would mind if he missed it just this once. Niall was planning a barbecue at his place on Sunday, but the Irish bloke does one almost every other week so it’s nothing Harry can’t make up. Plus, what type of idiot would pass up two day’s worth of amazing sex? The more, the merrier.

Y/N watches the vampire’s expression carefully, trying to interpret whether her request was out of their boundaries. She doesn’t want to make him feel like she’s trying to tie him down or suffocate him, she just wants to spend a bit more time in his presence, rather than through a phone screen. Her tone comes out dismissive, with just the tiniest hint of panic. “It’s okay if you can’t, though. Like, if you have other plans and stuff, I totally get it. Or if you just don’t want to, that’s fine, too! I just thought it’d be a fun little thing we can do since we already talk so much on the phone and everything, so I guess I just kinda figured you wouldn’t mind—”

“I get it, Y/N.” Harry interrupts Y/N’s unhinged word vomit, voice amused and nonchalant. “I think I’d like that, yeah.”

Y/N blinks in giddy surprise. “Really?” 

“Well, don’t sound so shocked.” Harry laughs lightly, fingers toying with the pearls laying across his clavicle. “The sex is pretty fucking good and I’m more than happy to have it at my disposal.” 

“Right.” Y/N gives him a deadpan look, shaking her head at his bluntness, reaching forward to fiddle with the chain of his cross necklace for the sake of having something to distract her from smiling like a fool. “Great, then. I have some old boxers that I know will probably fit you and an unopened pack of toothbrushes under the sink, so I think you’re set.” 

Harry’s lips purse at the mention of the men’s underwear, brows creasing a tad. “You just casually have men’s boxers laying around?” 

“They were my ex’s and I kept them out of spite. But don’t tell anyone, I don’t wanna get locked up for robbery.” 

The tightness in his chest— which he hadn’t even realized had formed— melts away. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good, or else I’d have to kill you.” The girl states darkly, a theatrical seriousness to her appearance. 

“Oh no.” Harry wails sarcastically, knotting a fist into her oversized tee and pulling her closer, connecting their lips and grinning into the kiss. “I’m shaking in fear.” 

Y/N gives in without much of a fight, hands still clinging to his forearms, a smile of her own creeping across her cheeks. “Asshole.”

“The only thing I’m relatively afraid of is my dick falling off. You have the sexual drive of a rabbit.” 

“Oh, like you’re any better?” 

“I’m innocent in all this! You’re usually the one instigating. I’m just a mere pawn— a poor, unsuspecting nun led astray.”

“God, I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” 

///

The following weekend, Harry officially invites Y/N over to his house. 

It had been talked about in passing a while back, and he figures it's only fair considering all the time they’ve ever spent together has been solely at her place. Plus, he could tell she was curious to see what his living situation is like, which is valid. You can tell a lot about people through their home, and when you’re sleeping with someone on the regular, you want to learn as much about them as possible. It’s important to know who you’re getting into bed with. Literally. 

Harry’s proud of his condo. He keeps it clean, he keeps it organized, and he keeps it styled in a manner that combines his Victorian gothic roots with modern day aesthetics. The floorboards of the apartment are made of waxed light-wash wood, most of the expanse of his living room covered in a furry dark grey rug. The lightness of the ground is contrasted by the matte mahogany walls, of which the largest is covered in Harry’s collection of first edition artwork. He had picked out every single piece himself throughout the span of the last two centuries, ranging from modern digital technique canvases to nineteenth century oil paintings, all arranged in neat alternating rows from oldest to newest. He can’t help that he’s such a stickler; his mom had raised him so. 

Though his art wall is his pride and joy, the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline comes in at a close second. Harry loves the city, despite the fact that he was born in a seemingly irrelevant town whose only redeeming quality was the bustling public market. Urban regions are just full of so much life, excitement, and potential, which are all concepts he never really got to explore before he transitioned. Cities represent everything he wanted as a young man, when he thought he had prosperous years ahead of him and an entire life left to build; they represent diversity, unique experiences, and endless possibilities. When that was stripped from him, he began to bounce around different countries and cities all over the world, seeking a place that would fill the hole his dreams had left behind. Los Angeles fit that space like a puzzle piece. 

That glorified window just means more to him than anyone could possibly know. Sometimes at night, he’ll just stand by it with his arms relaxed across his chest, watching the city gleam and glitter as individuals from all different backgrounds go about their business, blissfully ignorant to the beautiful concept that they all contribute to something much bigger— a concept that only centuries of wisdom could reveal. When he’s not wracked with jealousy and spite, looking out that window and witnessing the world change and evolve is therapeutic, in a way. It allows Harry to live vicariously through others who get to have what he never did. 

Aside from his art collection and the glass wall, the chandeliers that hang from his cavernous ceiling are third on his list of treasured possessions. They’re special and no one on this earth owns anything like them; Harry made sure of that. They were created by a Swedish interior designer Harry commissioned about ten years ago, so they are custom-made in every aspect of the term. They took months to construct and finalize, which is hardly difficult to believe, given their grandeur. Each chandelier is made of two extensive layers of delicate golden chains, all arranged around a wire center, connected by light bulbs at each peak. It gives his home a chic, avant-garde atmosphere that mirrors his personality down to the last chain link. 

The rest of his flat is tailored to compliment these three major determining factors. The wood paneling all around his apartment is carved with intricate, loopy designs, his two rounded coffee tables are made of the same marble that resides across his kitchen counters, and his kitchen sits directly under the second story ledge with elongated fluorescent poles embedded into the room’s ceiling, eloquently highlighting the creme walls and polished detailings of all his appliances. His sectional couches are made of an off-brown leather, covered in large rectangular couch cushions with a checkered print embroidered across the pillow cases, and weighted fleece blankets litter some areas of the elegant sofas. A wide staircase leads up to the second floor, made of grey glass steps and metal railings. 

The top story of his condo is less Victorian era, more modern composition. The ground is dark maroon carpeting, and the ledge leads to one singular corridor that splits into two seperate rooms at either ends. One is the master bedroom, and the other is an accompanying bedroom which he uses for storage. His room isn’t anything extravagant, per se. It’s big, but his decor is minimalistic, covered in all different muted shades of blacks and greys, from the comforter on his king-sized bed to the tall dresser. A fifty inch flat-screen is mounted on the wall, but he hardly uses it since the one in his living room is larger; it’s only really there as an ornament. Starburst lights hang from his ceiling— smaller, downplayed versions of his chandeliers— and his walk-in closet stands parallel to the entrance of his bathroom. 

The humongous bathroom was meant for two people, pretty obvious in the double-sink set up, but he doesn’t dwell on it much. He isn’t one for dating, and he’s just happy to have that luxury because it comes in handy the morning after one night stands. He has a jacuzzi-like bathtub, lined with water jets and all, and a big walk-in shower with a large overhead panel instead of a regular showerhead. The whole room is made of dark marble and porcelain, and he couldn’t possibly adore it more. Some of his best experiences had happened in this room, explicit and otherwise. 

In the end, Harry has every right to be arrogantly proud of his apartment. It had taken him months to decorate, years to fill with fond memories, and an immortal lifetime to find. He loves it with every trace of his soul, even when others disagree. Namely, Niall, who had mocked his sophisticated relics and old-timey architecture from the first time he’d set foot past the threshold; “You went the dark gothic route? Really? Way to feed into the stereotype, Dracula.” 

But no matter what anyone says, this is who he is, and he couldn’t be happier. After decades of migrating and aimlessly searching the globe, he’d finally found a place he could call home, and absolutely no one could take that from him. Especially not some Irish moron who doesn’t even know the definition of “foyer.”

How Harry manages to afford his flat is a whole other intriguing tale.

It had come up in a pillow talk conversation with Y/N once, and he had told her the story he feeds to any human who asks. He’s a regional manager for an offshore company and it’s mainly a lot of online work. Handling duties through business emails, videochat meetings, job portals, and things of the such. It paints a valid image as to why he’s home all the time. He also claims to be the company’s lone contact stationed in California, so he handles all of the responsibilities that would normally be bestowed upon three or four people. This paints a valid explanation as to how his imaginary position would tether such a high pay grade, which justifies his luxurious living arrangement.

That story is part of the truth. Harry does indeed have ties with corporate businesses. That is, ties to their CEOs’ pockets. It’s surprisingly easy to get past secretaries and security dressed in a nice suit and thousand dollar leather shoes, especially with the help of compulsion and Harry’s golden charisma. Thanks to those tools, he has managed to convince some of the biggest leaders in corporate California to quietly deposit generous sums of money into his bank account once a month. And with his persuasive supernatural abilities, he convinces them to write it off as regularly scheduled charity donations in their minds. That’s how he makes a living for himself— by scamming the rich. Xander likes to take the piss and call him a sugar baby, but Harry sees himself as more of a modern day Robin Hood, instead. 

Mitch says his charade is unlawful, but considering how corrupt the business world already is, the vampire feels next to no guilt. The one percent have always taken advantage of those poorer than them— that was obvious even back in Harry’s time— and he doesn’t see anything wrong with taking advantage of them right back, now that he has the means to. How’s that saying go? “Fuck the bourgeoisie” and all that. 

Everything taken into consideration, Harry’s pretty excited to show Y/N his condo. Watching people’s faces break into awe the second he turns the lights on always gives him such a deep surge of satisfaction. It makes all the hassle worth it.  

The immortal is currently sitting in his vintage car, flicking through his Spotify playlist to find something to entertain him while he waits for Y/N to finish her shift. He had offered to pick her up, knowing that it’s what any courteous host would do, and she had appreciatively accepted, telling him she’d be out by eight P.M. It’s seven fifty-three now and Harry had arrived around seven fifty, taking the slot right in front of the cafe’s entrance so she can spot him as soon as she walks out. These ten minutes are the longest he’s ever had to endure, which says a lot considering he’s endured tons of patience-testing moments in his two hundred years.

Harry swipes his thumb down the glass screen of his phone, sampling songs left and right to see what will stick. After listening to the first few chords of an array of forties dance music, seventies rock and roll, and twenty-first century bubblegum pop, he settles for Rodeo by Lil Nas X. Harry has a very intricate taste in music— it’s one of the traits he’s most proud of— and Mitch often tells him he’s too snotty when it comes to his preferences. He’ll admit it freely that, yes, he can be a piece of work musically, but just because he thinks the industry peaked in the seventies doesn’t mean he hates modern music. He likes most of it, including rap, and Lil Nas X happens to be one of his favorites, much to everyone’s surprise. Most of the artist’s songs are eccentric not only lyrically but also instrumentally, to the point where it’s almost comical— who names a song Panini, of all things?— but the music is catchy and Harry can let loose to it easily. 

The vampire also happened to meet the musician, on one occasion. He ran into him at a club and after a few drinks and some banter, somehow ended up getting invited over to a party at the celebrity’s Malibu mansion. That night is a blur, definitely due to the copious amounts of alcohol and psychedelics, but Harry remembers they had fun and that the guy was worth a listen. In fact, he was the genius that came up with the theme for the rapper’s Rodeo music video. 

A light knocking on the passenger’s seat window brings him out of his memories. Y/N stands outside, hugging her arms loosely over her tummy, decked in her usual work uniform of a navy polo and black skinny jeans. When the two lock eye contact, she gives him a soft wave and a tired smile. Harry lifts two fingers in greeting, returning her polite gesture and swiftly lowering the window. He leans forward across the center console, his grin taking on a playful hue, voice carrying the same effect. 

“Uber for Y/N?” 

The girl snorts and rolls her eyes, but plays along, reaching forward and jiggling the handle of his black Cadillac symbolically. “That’s me, yes. Open up.” 

“Eh, eh, eh.” Harry tuts, wagging a finger in her direction and then making a motion that tells her to back away. “I’m gonna have to see some ID. It’s one of our new safe driver policies. Gotta make sure you are who you say you are, miss.” 

Y/N’s expression drops flatly, eyes half-lidded as he smiles up at her brightly, batting his eyelashes innocently. “Open the door before you end up sucking your own dick tonight.” 

Harry’s shit-eating face falls so fast, it causes her to burst into laughter. A soft click vibrates through the handle below her fingers. “I’ll waive the background check. Just this once.”  

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Y/N taunts, yanking the door open and ducking into the shotgun seat, gently tugging it closed behind her. 

Once the human is situated in her spot, she releases a lengthy sigh, sinking down against the cushions as she grabs her seat belt and clicks it into place. 

Harry puts his cell phone down into the cubby hole below the stereo set, setting the car in reverse and slinging an arm behind her headrest to get a better view as he backs out of the parking space. His gaze momentarily flickers to her slumped form as the car retreats slowly, tone curious. “Long day?”

Y/N glimpses over, giving him a quick once-over and taking in his olive green Nike jumper, ripped denim boyfriend jeans, and pastel yellow Vans. He looks so boyishly cute, which is ironic given the premise of tonight’s rendezvous. The shoes (which he had worn the night they’d met all those weeks ago) and the position he’s in (perched above her with his sharp jaw and neck flexing as he cranes his torso to look for oncoming traffic) flashes her back to the first time she had been in his car. They had been way less acquainted, she had been much less relaxed, much more nervous, but the encounter very much carried the same exact intentions. That recollection makes her lips quirk a bit. The pair had grown so comfortable with each other since then, that Friday evening feels like it happened decades ago. 

“Yeah.” Y/N murmurs softly, gladly indulging a deep inhale of the vanilla and tobacco scent she had become familiar with, allowing it to soothe her nerves and wash away the stress of a hard day. “I’m just happy it’s over and that the weekend’s finally started. Wanna forget all about it.” 

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, love!” Harry plops back into his seat, shifting his car into drive and gifting her his famous brilliant smile, dimples winking to life as he taps his ringed fingers across his steering wheel humorously. “I’ve made you forget your name plenty of times before; I’m pretty sure I can erase one shitty work shift just fine.”

Y/N scoffs at his pompous claim, reaching up and prying the hair tie out of her locks, looping it over her wrist and shushing her stiff roots. She tucks strands behind her ears, the corners of her mouth twitching in endearment at the giddiness of his aura. “Just drive, Sherlock.” 

The mortal isn’t surprised to find that building in which the vampire lives is one of the tallest in the city, and that it’s basically smack in the center, as well. One look at Harry and anybody could immediately tell he thrives off being the center of attention, so of course his home is a direct reflection of that. Refined boy, refined personality, refined environment. It’s practically a law of science. 

Once Harry’s car is parked and the ignition rumbles to a smooth stop, Y/N unbuckles her seat belt and goes to unlock the passenger’s side door. Right as her hand is wrapping around the handle bar, the door swings open of its own accord and she just barely manages to stifle a blood-curdling scream full of shocked fear. When her eyes focus, Harry is standing there holding the door open for her, features painted with cocky amusement. 

“How did you—?” The girl whips around to look at the empty driver’s seat, eyebrows cinching in bewilderment as she turns back to face him. “How did you get around so fast?” 

Harry shrugs his shoulders offhandedly, reaching one bejeweled hand down to aid her out of the vehicle. “I did track when I was younger. Made me a fast walker.” 

Y/N hesitantly takes it, body language still slightly tense from the jump scare. With his help, she gradually climbs out, the door shutting behind her as she sweeps her sight around the parking garage in wonder. This is the first time Harry has ever invited her anywhere, let alone to where he spends most of his life. She doesn’t want to miss a thing. Even the simplest aspect can tell you a lot about a person. 

Y/N jerks a tad when she feels her friend’s cold fingers slipping down her palm, sifting between her own. She glances down at their intertwined hands for a second, a warm glow bursting through her chest. She’s always admired how his are so much bigger. 

Harry tugs her forward toward the elevator at the other end of the parking lot, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a sly smirk. “C’mon, Watson. Let me show you around.” 

Y/N stumbles after him, allowing the boy to guide her to where she needs to go as he weeds through cars effortlessly. She suddenly chimes up from behind, asking a random question to fill the leftover silence their footsteps spare. “That car next to yours had such a weird license plate. What the fuck does ‘craic’ mean?” 

Harry chuckles knowingly, perfectly aware of whose car she is referring to. “It’s this odd thing Irish people say. Utter rubbish, honestly.” 

A comfortable quietness fills the air of the elegant elevator as it shoots up towards the twenty-fourth floor of the skyscraper, the only other sound being the gentle lullaby of a nameless tune wafting through the speakers above their heads. Harry finds himself studying Y/N as she looks out at the city through the glass walls, the lights of the exterior buildings casting a beautiful buttery gleam across her relaxed characteristics, along with a radiant glint over the surface of her glossy eyes. Despite the slightly smeared mascara staining her waterline and the inherent frizziness her hair carries after being pulled into a tight ponytail all day, Harry finds that she looks nice. Pretty, even. 

The girl senses him staring, craning her head to return his gaze, the edges of her lips lilting upwards lightheartedly. He returns the gesture, peeling away to focus on something— anything— else. He deems the control panel a worthy replacement.

As the numbers on the dial drag by, Harry finds himself absentmindedly thumbing over Y/N’s knuckles. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind, so he continues doing it, massaging the crest of each bump and pressing down gently along the troughs. He enjoys the sensation of her silky warm skin heating his icy own, and he ponders whether she likes how cold his touch is, or if she hates it as much as he does. He expels that notion from his mind; he refuses to let such a stupid concept upset him. He just keeps caressing her hand, restraining his mind from ambling too far into its meaning. It’s just to pass the time. 

He keeps the movements going until their ride skates to a joltless halt with a sharp ding! and then he steps out, having to give his full attention to leading her down the long corridor to his flat. Y/N is so caught up in drinking up her surroundings, she almost bumps into the creature when he comes to an abrupt stop in front of the entrance of what she can only deduce is his home. Harry drops her hand, much to her disappointment, fishing into his back pocket for his keys. He patiently filters through his keychain, picking out the right one and working it into the lock, a soft click emitting from the mechanism. 

Harry pushes the door open with his palm, standing off to the side just outside the threshold and tilting his head towards it, posture bowing slightly. “Ladies first.” 

Y/N thanks him quietly, taking a cautious step forward into his hallway. She can’t help the way her heart skips a beat at his gentlemanly tendencies; she rarely meets anyone as respectful as Harry seems to be and she finds his old-timey attributes to be refreshing. Helping her out the car, taking her hand to guide her through the parking lot, rubbing at her knuckles innocently, holding the door open for her— it’s all such an archaic form of chivalry she wishes she’d see more often these days. She doesn’t know if it’s a British thing, if he had just been raised like that, or if he simply does it to get laid, but she’s thankful for it either way. 

With one last glance at her friend over her shoulder, she begins wandering down the dark narrow path unsurely. The sound of the door slinking shut behind her and Harry’s footsteps ease her. 

She stops once she senses the corridor open up into a larger space, which she guesses is his living room. A soft gasp escapes her at the sight before her. The whole area is washed in darkness, the only source of light stemming from the large glass pane that stretches from the floor of the apartment to its tall ceiling. Dozens of buildings and cars glimmer below, the breath-taking image of the lively city looking almost like a snapshot from a professional movie. It’s absolutely gorgeous and she feels like she could stare at it for eons. 

A chilly hand suddenly presses along the dip of her spine, ushering her forward an inch or two, Harry’s invisible voice and warm breath hitting the shell of her left ear. “S’cuse me, dove.”   

The boy reaches behind her for the light switch and the condo bursts into radiance with one simple flick of his wrist. 

“Oh...my God.”

Harry’s home is something straight out of a luxury catalogue. The light floorboards and the mahogany panels. The massive leather couches and hand-sewn cushions. The extravagant chandeliers and glass staircase. The marble kitchen and generously packed liquor shelves. The ginormous wall of priceless artwork, littered with pieces from all different eras of history. It feels like stepping into a decor wonderland.

“Not too bad, huh?” Harry pipes up playfully, anchoring her back into reality from the floaty stupor that had consumed her mind. 

“Not too—? Are you kidding?” Y/N sputters incredulously, whizzing her head to the side sharply. “You were keeping an entire Four Seasons royal suite from me?!”

Harry belts out a bundle of childish giggles, the edges of his eyes crinkling and the tip of his button nose twitching. “I never thought of it much, to be honest. I’d grown to like your place.” 

“Right. Because a creaky mattress and a kitchen the size of a broom closet is so much more satisfying than chandeliers and a fucking glass wall.”

The vampire glimpses around his flat indicatively. “Okay, I see your point.”

“Exactly.” 

Y/N drifts forward, running the tips of her fingers across the backrest of the aged leather sofa and along the corners of the throw pillow, doing a slow circle at the middle of his home, taking everything in a second time around to make sure it isn’t a mirage. “Fuck, this is incredible. Is your boss looking for any more regional managers, by any chance?”

Harry follows after her, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his boyfriend jeans, chewing along the inside of his cheek to suppress a proud smile— a result of her explosive reaction. “I’m afraid my position is the one and only, sorry.”

Y/N droops her shoulders in exaggerated contempt, presenting a shitty English accent to tease him. “Bollocks.”

It garners the designated feedback, her tummy somersaulting at Harry’s exorbitant laughter. 

The boy comes to stand before her, cocking his head to the side questioningly towards his kitchen. “Can I offer you a drink?”

Y/N glimpses over at his bar area, eyes dancing over his extensive array of fancy bottles. “Oh, please do.”

Despite only having known Y/N for a few weeks, Harry has gotten quite acquainted with her tastes, even outside of sexual matters. She doesn't like the taste of alcohol, but she likes its effects. And he likes them, too, if he’s being honest. Her blood always begins to smell more appetizing after just a few sips and the way her cheeks heat up so easily when she’s buzzed always makes his breathing trip. 

He works his extensive skills, pulling from his liquor cabinet and mixing flavored liquids and syrups until he comes up with something that he thinks the girl will enjoy. It’s fruity, with hints of peach, lime, and strawberry, but also warm and fulfilling, with a rich whiskey and a few dashes of bitters. He plunks in a couple of ice cubes and mixes it together with a bar spoon, tapping it against the rim with finality and swiping it over his tongue in a quick taste test. He’s pretty happy with his concoction. 

Harry glances up to where Y/N is leaning against the armrest of his couch, her legs crossed before her as she stares at one of the abstract paintings mounted on his wall. It’s an original, as are the rest of them, which he had purchased some odd seventy years ago from a barely known artist whose talent had gone to waste in the world. It’s a deconstructed sunflower, with the color palette inverted and the strokes of the brush uneven and jagged. Odd and complicated, but beautiful, nonetheless. Its complexity is what makes it significant. 

The vampire slowly wanders over from his kitchen, holding her drink in one hand and a cloth napkin in the other. He takes the spot beside her along the armrest, speaking wistfully as if recalling a fond memory. “It’s a flower.”

Y/N nods slowly in recognition, peeling her gaze away with the corners of her lips jilting. “Mmhm, a sunflower.”

Harry’s brows jump in shock. Barely anyone ever guesses the identity correctly. He’s found that as time passes and humanity becomes more reliant on technology rather than cognizant knowledge, society in general has reduced to a more pea-brained state than ever. As a result, the amount of people who can interpret and understand the meaning behind complex artwork has greatly diminished, unfortunately, so he’s pleasantly surprised to find that one of the few who still possesses that talent happens to be the girl he’s shagging. “Wow, that’s a first. It’s so unusual, no one ever really gets it.”

“I guess I just have an affinity for the unusual.” His guest quips, giving him a jesting shrug of her eyebrows and a suggestive grin. 

You have no idea.

“You underestimated me, Holmes.” 

“That I did. My sincerest apologies.” Harry returns her joking simper, proceeding to then dip an index finger inside the stout glass in his grasp, bringing it up before her face. “Taste.”

Without breaking eye contact, Y/N parts her lips and allows him to coax the wet digit in, the tangy flavor of the mixture making her taste buds tingle. She encloses her mouth around his finger, lulling her tongue along it slowly with a mischievous glint shining across her irises. 

Harry’s prominent jaw clenches as he watches the scene unfold, breath bated and a moan threatening to betray him. She truly wastes no time.

He gradually pulls his finger from her tongue, struggling to clear his throat, missing its texture already. “How is it? More syrup? More biters?”

Y/N gazes up at him drunkenly, though it’s definitely not from the liquor. Her lips quirk cheekily as a result of how visibly frazzled she’d gotten him. “It’s perfect. Better than anything I’ve had at a club, that’s for sure.” 

“Yeah?” Harry taps his opal ring against the bottom of the lowball glass, trying to reign in his previous composure. “Think I could be a bartender?” 

“You don’t hit me as the type of person who has the patience for it.” The girl remarks wittily, slinking her head to the side and biting back a giggle when Harry makes a face at her.

“You make a valid point, I suppose.” The vampire responds with an airy sigh, nodding in surrender. “The stupid blabbing from drunk morons and impending fear of being vomited on would be too much for me. I wouldn’t last a day.” 

“You wouldn’t last a single night, let alone a whole day.”

“Alright, pipe down!” Harry deadpans, bumping her shoulder with his vengefully. “You’re bruising my ego.”

“It’s humongous,” Y/N snorts, shoving him in return, “it can take a few hits.”

The pair sit there in silence for a suspended moment, just taking in the expanse of the art before them. Harry then turns his torso towards her once more, bringing the drink in his grip up to her mouth. “Here, have a proper sip. Put my all into it.” 

Y/N obliges, looking up at him with her signature doe-like air of trusting innocence, allowing him to tip the hem of the cup against her mouth. The cool beverage filters through her taste buds and down her throat, the sweet and sour mixture leaving an enjoyable tingle in its wake. A few streams of the liquid bead out of the corners of her lips and Harry impulsively gathers them with the side of his index finger, the napkin in his other hand completely forgotten. 

As he goes to pull back in order to clean up, Y/N leans forward and traps his digit between her lips like before. This time, there’s a more insistent sultry hint sparkling around her pupils. 

“Christ...” Harry pants, watching Y/N work her way down his forefinger with a silent groan hinging on his teeth. 

He doesn’t deny himself from indulging the dirty action this time around. Her mouth is as soft and warm as ever, sending chills racing down his spine despite the sweater hugging his body. His mind slips for a second, reminiscing in all the other ways he’s felt the inside of her mouth before, a faint red tinge splattering across his cheekbones. 

Y/N draws his finger out, kissing messily across its length and over the pad, looking up at him through tension-heavied lashes. She doesn't speak a word, but her intentions are clear in the electricity between them.

He can’t hold back any longer, his next comment coming out as a pained growl. “God, you’re such a filthy little thing.”  

She hums softly in the back of her throat at his explicit compliment, suckling at the center of her bottom lip needily. “I like being your filthy little thing.”

Harry swallows thickly in order to keep himself somewhat tame, fangs suddenly pricking his tongue in warning.

The mortal scoots closer to him, sifting her fingers between his around the drink and bringing it upwards, downing the last couple of inches in one go. She draws the cup from his grasp, reaching over to set it down carefully on the coffee table before turning back and snuggling deeper into his heaving chest. 

Harry scoffs in amusement, but he can feel a certain charring scratching at the back of his throat. “Drinks like that are meant to be savored, darling. You’re not supposed to just pound them.” 

Y/N stretches her neck upwards, taking his earlobe between her teeth, lips wet and cold from the alcohol. His lashes flutter when her warm breath hits his skin, contradicting the sensations from before. 

“Why don’t you let me worry about how I drink, and you can worry about a different kind of pounding.”

And that’s all it takes, really. That’s all it takes for Harry to completely drop any self-control he has left. 

The creature jars his face towards her, large hand shooting upwards to grip her jaw firmly, holding her in place as he crashes their mouths together. It’s all tongue and clacking teeth, desperate whines and stuttered gasps. Y/N’s hands fumble for something to tether to while Harry takes it upon himself to grasp at her opposite hip with his free hand, yanking her onto his lap. She buries her fists in the cotton fabric of his jumper, balancing her knees on either sides of his parted thighs. The boy’s fingers coast from her jaw down to her throat, tightening ever so slightly. The action is minimal, but it reveals that flare of dominance Y/N has become addicted to. 

“Do you want it here?” Harry rasps against her eager tongue, smirking into the kiss when he feels her start to rock along the bulge that is beginning to tent his denim pants. “Do you want me to bend you over the couch and fuck you, baby? With the chandelier making your skin glow? Where we can put on a show for the whole city to see?”

It’s a tempting offer and his words obviously have some form of impact, seen in the way Y/N’s grinding takes on a hungrier, deeper pace against his clothed cock. 

“I want…” Y/N finds it difficult to voice her desires, the responsible party being the manner in which Harry glues cracked mewls onto the roof of her mouth. “I want it in your bed.” 

She doesn’t know why, but she just wants him to take her some place where the moment they share is intimate, unseen by the prying eyes of others. She wants to christen his bed exactly how he had done hers; she craves that strange connection, for some reason. Y/N isn’t naive, she knows she’s not the only person Harry has had in his home and in his sheets. But she wants that experience, nonetheless, even if it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She knows she’s not his only, but at least she’s one. 

Harry slowly breaks their kiss, brushing the tip of his nose across her own in a small comforting gesture. He blinks at her groggily, the copper specks in his eyes glitzing under the golden hue of the lighting. When he speaks, its soft and low, almost as if he doesn’t want to risk another soul overhearing. “Okay. Whatever you want, it’s yours.” 

Y/N almost doesn’t get anything she wants, given that she nearly kills herself on the trek up the stairs, courtesy of her weakened knees and wobbly ankles. Harry just barely manages to save her, but he finds the occurrence too hilarious to spare her the embarrassment. 

“Stop laughing, it’s not funny!” She exclaims indignantly as he helps her up the last few glass steps, clinging to him like a scared puppy, her hands still shaking with adrenaline. “I could have died!” 

Her shrieking only makes him laugh harder and he nearly keels over, palm clutching his stomach as if to keep it from popping. “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s just— your face when you— and how you tripped sideways— I—”

Y/N shoves him hard towards the corridor where his bedroom lies, but it’s hard to maintain an angry demeanor when the young man’s giggles sound like bells and when he looks so cute with his curls flopping across his forehead. “Dickhead.” 

They’re almost at his bedroom door when Harry grabs onto her wrist, tugging her roughly so that she lurches forward into his chest. He plants a wet kiss onto the bridge of her nose, expression entertained. “Stop being such a bad sport. It was pretty funny.”

“Yeah, okay.” She huffs begrudgingly, glancing down impatiently at his plump lips as he walks backwards down the hallway with her in tow. “You can invalidate my rage once you have a near death experience yourself.”

The irony of it all. 

Harry kicks the door open, ghosting his mouth over Y/N’s and watching her sight do a quick sweep around the area. “Welcome to my lair.” 

The human likes his aesthetic. The room has different hues of the same color, so it all ties together nicely, and the hanging lights look like miniature versions of the two large ones downstairs. The bed is huge, which is a relief because for once, they won’t have to actively worry about accidentally rolling off the edge mid-fuck. “It’s nice. Very chic.” 

“Thanks.” Harry reaches up and cups either side of her neck with his palms, dragging his damp lips over her chin and down the center of her jugular, smiling against her skin when he feels her shiver. “It doesn't have a bookshelf wall like yours, but I make due.”

“Yeah.” Y/N wisps out weakly, leaning her head back as he speckles his mouth across that sensitive point on her throat he discovered ages ago. “I bet.”

She feels Harry’s touch travel down her torso, cold fingers suddenly smearing across her love handles beneath her work shirt. His grip tightens at the hem with the intention of pulling the polo off, breath hot as it washes over her collarbones. “Wanna find out just how good I make it work?”

Y/N’s arms instinctively raise on command, her reply shaky and fragile. “Yes, please.” 

Harry makes it work. He makes it work so fucking well. He doesn’t need crazy positions or any vibrating toys to make her feel good; he just knows her so thoroughly by now that he’s able to tend to every single one of her needs like it’s his sole purpose. The sex is missionary, with her splayed out across her back upon his mound of feathered pillows, her thighs clamped over his hips as he slams into her at a harsh, curt pace. Her calves are tied around the backs of his thighs, her nails are carving memories into the broad expanse of his shoulders, they’re both panting curse words and encouragement into each other’s mouths, and he’s cradling her to his chest as if he wants to absorb her heartbeat right through her ribs. If only obtaining one were that easy. 

Y/N allows her head to fall back against the cushions, drawing away from the prolonged kiss only because she needs air to continue. Harry’s lips busy themselves elsewhere, running down the valley of her chest and toying with one of her pebbled nipples. Y/N’s back gives a sharp arch the second he brushes across the sensitive nub and the taunting coo he releases goes straight to her core. 

“Liked that, darling? Like it when I kiss you there?”

The girl’s lashes have fallen shut, her eyes lulling around in their sockets as he maintains a steady rhythm between her thighs, ramming into her with so much force, the headboard is knocking into the wall. It’s loud and intense enough that Harry has to fit one of his palms between the railings, bracing the weight of the bed in order to prevent a hole from forming. 

Y/N’s voice fills the dense atmosphere, so shattered and raw, she can hardly understand herself. “It feels so— so good, H.” 

“I love it when you call me that. Sounds so pretty coming from your lips.” The vampire’s tongue flicks over her nipple a handful of times, dark veins momentarily webbing over the whites of his eyes at the cracked whimper she lets loose. “And of course it feels good. I always make you feel good, don’t I? Always make my girl cum so—fucking—hard.” 

Y/N’s trembling fingers card into the curls along the nape of Harry’s neck as he thrusts to his words, twisting them around her knuckles and swimming in the throaty groan he pours over the clammy skin of her breasts. Her whisper sounds distant and dreamy. “Please...Please don’t stop.”

Harry gazes up at her through heavy lashes, lapping at her chest more fervently, accent thick and deep. “I won’t, baby. Not until I have you dripping all over my sheets.”

After a few more minutes of fractured moans bouncing around the panels of the room and the noise of wet skin slapping together, something catches Y/N’s bleary eyes. She wills past the blissful fog in her mind, focusing on the intriguing object hanging from one of the railings of Harry’s bedpost, swaying back and forth wildly due to his strong tempo. 

“Are those...Are those handcuffs?” 

Harry’s attention jumps to where hers is pinned, his powerful stride coming to a gradual stop. He’s heaving and shuddering above her, ringlets matted to his jaw and across his temples, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of cherry red. His Adam’s Apple bobs once and he gives a short nod. “Y-Yeah. I’ve had them for a while...”

The hope dripping from his voice is practically palpable and Y/N interprets it easily. She glances down at him as he takes quivering inhales against her chest, his eyes bleeding lust. Her mumble is so quiet and soft, he wonders how it’s possible for her to make some of the preposterously loud sounds he’s used to hearing whenever he’s buried this deep. “Use them on me. Please?”

Harry bends to her request without hesitation. He locks her wrists into the restraints, sponging a kiss onto each before giving them one hard tug to check for security. He then regains his rough slams, but with more fervor than before. 

The monster sits back onto his heels, groping her waist roughly and working her against his thighs, watching welts form on her flesh along the pads of his fingers. Y/N unconsciously begins circling her hips to match his speed and the fractured groan that rips out of him makes her walls tighten. He looks incredible looming in front of her, head toppled back between his shoulder blades, bouncing to his every ram. His throat flexes with the weight, jaw taut and inked pectorals glistening with sweat under the dim lights dangling from his ceiling. “That’s it, pet, just like that. Love the way you ride it. You’re so fucking tight and warm and...and just— Christ, just fuck me.”

She wishes she could frame this moment in time and drag it out forever.  

Harry swings his head forward again, blinking the blurriness from his vision to take in the image before him. Y/N just looks so fucking gorgeous like that, tied down at his beck and call, her chest bouncing pertly as her fingers bunch around the chain link, thighs clinging to his waist as she chews her bottom lip raw in an attempt to control her noises. 

The vampire ducks down, connecting their mouths in a sloppy kiss that cajoles her into spilling all the moans she had been withholding. He feels them trickle down his lungs and diffuse into his bones, flames lapping across his insides as their foreheads bump and noses smudge, ragged breaths intermingling. “Let it out for me, hm? Wanna know how I’m making you feel, don’t care who hears.”

As if that isn’t enough, there’s an instance where Harry’s animalistic senses suddenly enhance and he comes to the realization that the metal cuffs have made a tiny laceration along her skin. 

A thin trail of blood travels down her suspended arm, but she doesn’t seem to notice, too lost in the pleasure Harry is pounding into the pit of her stomach. So he simply leans upwards and licks the sweet droplet clean, feeling heat spark across every fiber of his being. He laps up the entire stream and then presses a tender kiss to her palm for good measure, grunting out a gentle, “There’s a good girl.” when she whines at the affectionate gesture. 

The release Harry is getting from between Y/N’s legs mixes with the ecstasy her blood brings, and it shoves him over the edge in a manner he hasn’t experienced since that first time they slept together all those weeks ago. Since the first time he tasted what lies in her veins, while also simultaneously getting to taste the indescribable relief her body so readily brings him.

After all is said and done that night, something peculiar happens. After they both milk their orgasms for everything it’s worth, and after Y/N gives into exhaustion in his arms with her wrists bruised and a content watery smile on her face, and after he gets a heftier drink from her neck and heals the two little puncture wounds with his own blood...The most bizarre, unexpected event occurs. 

Harry falls asleep soundly for the first time in months, and all he dreams about is how Y/N tasted. 

///

Y/N wakes up the next morning to her body covered in Harry’s Nike jumper, to an empty spot beside her in the messy duvet, to a familiar tune tinging her ears from a distance, and to a satisfying ache between her thighs. 

As soon as she cracks the bedroom door open, the smell of pancakes wafts in through the chilled morning air. Specifically, lemon and blueberry pancakes. Her grandmother’s lemon and blueberry pancakes.

A shiver runs down Y/N’s spine the second she sets a toe along the cold glass panels of Harry’s staircase. She takes a deep breath, pulling the extra length of the sweater’s sleeves over her fists and tugging the hem of the article downwards as if she could convince it to cover more than just half her thighs. She carefully works her way down the steps, flinching at the iciness that travels up her legs with every motion. When she finally thunks down emptily onto the light-wash floorboards, her body has grown accustomed to the temperature. As she pads across the furry rug in Harry’s living room, she finds herself wondering why everything connected to him is always so unusually cold— colder than any normal person could withstand. His touch, his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, his chest, even his thighs; everything is always freezing, and she doesn’t understand how he can bear it. It’s such an odd affinity to have. 

The human gradually wanders into the vampire’s kitchen, peeking inside the room from behind one of the archway’s walls. What she sees throws her for a loop. 

Harry is cooking breakfast, as she expected from the sweet scent she’d awoken to, but he’s doing it in a manner she never really expected from him. 

Music stems from a portable speaker he has situated at the center of the marble kitchen island, blaring loud enough to fill the entire giant home with high notes, guitar chords, and acapella riffs. The young man is dancing across his kitchen as he cooks, clad in nothing but a set of black Calvin Klein briefs and a pair of fuzzy magenta socks. Y/N rakes down his body, admiring the crimson and purple love bites she had left on his chest and the raspberry red scratches zig-zagging across his back, the marks flexing with the movements of his muscles. They’re strangely faint, for some reason. Practically barely there. 

She chalks it up to the fact that maybe she hadn’t bruised him as much as she’d thought. 

Y/N forces herself to keep her mind from straying onto anymore explicit topics; it’s probably not even ten A.M. yet. She needs to get herself under control.

Grooving while in the kitchen isn’t necessarily weird (she’s guilty of it herself), but Harry’s dancing techniques very much are. The only accurate depiction of it is that for a boy in his twenties, he dances like an old geezer in his eighties. His moves are choppy and old-schooled, almost like what you’d expect to see in a nineteen fifties disco hall, and watching him ebb and flow across the tiled ground to choreography similar to that of Dirty Dancing and Footloose... It would send anybody into a fit of laughter. Especially since Harry is so tall and lanky, so how he manages to move in such a way is beyond her understanding. 

Aside from that, his choice of music is baffling, as well. Not only because she recognizes the soundtrack, but because she would have never expected someone like him— with his cocky behavior and overly-confident caliber— to be into these types of songs at all. She always pegged him for the seventies rock and roll type. 

“You like Hamilton?” 

Harry’s actions creak to a halt and he whips around towards where the disturbance had stemmed, spatula clutched in one hand and a marble plate stacked with pancakes in the other. His face breaks into a bright smile, voice slathered with dramatic friendliness. “Well, look who finally got up! I was starting to think you were dead, Sleeping Beauty.”

Y/N narrows her eyes at him mockingly, walking over to the kitchen counter and propping herself onto her elbows, chin in hand as she watches him set down the platter of food before her. She tips forward onto her toes, taking a deep inhale of the homey, sugary smell, letting it wash over her in flashes of childhood memories. “Are these like the ones I make?”

“Lemon and blueberry, yeah.” Harry bobs his head casually, turning around to place his metal spatula down into the sink, as well as to retrieve a glass bottle of maple syrup from one of his cupboards. “They’re pretty close, I think. I’ve never seen you use a recipe or measuring cups or anything when you make them, so I kinda eyeballed it to the best of my ability. Hope I did your nan justice.”

He pours a decently-sized glop of syrup over the mountain of treats and Y/N watches excitedly as it trickles down all the layers. He then pushes back from the table, pulling open a drawer and rummaging through, continuing to whistle along to the tune of Satisfied as he bops the cabinet closed with his hip and sets down an extra pair of forks and knives beside the plate. 

Harry cuts a neat triangle out of the pancake at the top, pointing at her with his fork as he shrugs his brows nonchalantly. “And to answer your question from before: yes, I do like Hamilton.”

“Hm. Interesting.” Y/N murmurs, going cross-eyed as Harry offers her the forkful of food in his possession, poking at her mouth playfully and getting maple syrup all over her lips. She opens obediently, allowing him to feed her the piece. “You don’t really seem like the type of guy— oh, wow, these are actually really good!”

Harry bites into his lower lip with his two front teeth, a proud smile dimpling his cheeks as the light draft from the air vent ruffles a couple of his sex-mussed ringlets across his forehead. “Yeah? You mean it?”

The mortal nods her head vigorously as she finishes chewing and swallowing, wiping away some of the leftover syrup from her top lip with her middle finger and sucking it clean. “Yeah! You hit it spot on.”

“Aces. I should be on The Great British Bake Off.” Harry makes a small, celebratory fist bump next to his hip and the childish gesture makes Y/N snort softly. 

“Like I was saying, you don’t really strike me as the type of guy who would be into musicals.” The girl comments, watching her friend cut another triangle out of the first pancake and pop it into his own mouth. 

The vampire chews thoughtfully for a second, lifting one shoulder offhandedly and swallowing fully before talking. “I’m really not, to be honest. But this specific musical is pretty good. The songs are catchy.”

He nudges the other pair of utensils across the counter for emphasis, silently inviting her to dig into the dish along with him. She accepts, slicing down the other side of the stack as he leans forward onto his elbows, mimicking her stance. He gives her a curious glance. “What about you? Do you like musicals?” 

Y/N shrugs, poking a few chunks of food onto her fork. “Not really, but I had a major Hamilton phase back in college. That’s why I recognized it.” 

Harry hums in understanding, picking a blueberry off and chewing it slowly, a sly smirk beginning to tweak the corners of his mouth. “So were you, like, a nerd back then?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say a nerd, but I had decent grades and was pretty quiet.”

He swallows down audibly, blinking impassively. “That’s literally the definition of a nerd.” 

Y/N returns his flat expression. “Fuck off.”

Harry throws his palms up in peaceful surrender, but he still has that shit-eating grin present. “Alright, fine, fine...It’s okay if you were, though. You were probably one of those cute ones, y’know? With the clunky glasses and innocent goody-goody face.” 

“Shut up.”

“Oh, and with one of those short little plaid skirts?” He releases a pained groan, clutching his chest and closing his eyes for a second. She has no doubt he’s sketching some type of graphic image of her in his mind. “God, I bet you looked so good. Do you still have it? Can you wear it for me?”

“I said shut up!” Y/N reaches forward and stabs at his tummy lightly with her fork, ignoring the warmth crawling up her neck and across her cheeks. “Fucking perv.”

Harry smacks her utensil away with his own, giggling lightly as she tries to prick him again, continuing to fight her off. “I’m just asking a question! For science!” 

Y/N twists her fork around his, trying to outmaneuver him into dropping it. “How could my fashion sense in college possibly contribute to science in any way?” 

The vampire easily catches onto her play, slipping himself out of her grasp and trying to trap her makeshift sword down against the tabletop. He purses his lips into a simper, glimpsing up at her through his lashes and quirking his brows cheekily. “Biologically, of course. It contributes to my solo reproductive activities.”

“You are vile.” 

“Really? ‘Cause you seemed pretty happy to help with said activities last night.” 

Y/N drops her fork onto the brim of the platter, reaching up to massage at her temples and keep herself from swatting Harry’s eyeballs out of their sockets. “I’m finished.” 

“Yeah,” the jade of his irises glimmers coyly as he sets down his utensil beside hers in a ceasefire, “you definitely finished.”

Harry chuckles boyishly as Y/N drags her palms down her face, trying to hide away how flustered he’s getting her. She decides to change the subject, not caring to steer the conversation smoothly at all, but rather jumping to another topic right away. “So does this mean you have all the lyrics memorized? Since you like them so much?” 

“I do, yeah.” Harry taps his fingers against the marble counter to the beat of the song currently playing. “Do you?” 

“I was obsessed, so of course I do.” Y/N reasons, her own digits following in tune with the immortal’s. “I think Non-Stop was probably my favorite to sing. It made for a good shower concert.”

“Well, it’s settled then.” Harry quips happily, reaching for his phone and tapping across the screen. “We’re duetting this. Right now. C’mon, Burr.”

Y/N’s motions stop, shyness creeping in from the back of her brain. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry. I never really—”

Her refusal is interrupted by the beginning of the arrangement mentioned, the notes blasting through the speaker as Harry purposefully turns up the volume to drown her out. He taps at his ear symbolically, mouthing, “Sorry, I can't hear you!” and he doesn’t even attempt to ward off the evil grin creeping across his face. 

“Harry, I’m serious—” 

But it’s already too late. Harry juts his hand out in front of him, pointing at his companion with a theatrical edge as he begins to serenade, picking up the slack of her part. 

“After the war I went back to New York. A-After the war I went back to New York. I finished up my studies and I practiced law. I practiced law, Burr worked next door!”

He looks at her expectantly, urging her to jump into the next half as her assigned role. Y/N muscles down her hesitation and recites the lines timidly with her brows creased in hesitation, but at least she’s participating. “Even though we started at the very same time, Alexander Hamilton began to climb. How to account for his rise to the top?”

Harry joins her in the next stanza, grabbing her hand midair in encouragement, trying to shake her out of her rut. “Man, the man is non-stop!”

Y/N is surprised at how well they sound harmonizing together, and she can feel her discomfort slowly begin to melt. She watches as Harry freely boasts his solo with absolutely no remorse, making grand gestures as he slides down the side of the counter, his movements dragging her along. 

“Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious, bear with me. Are you aware that we're making history?” The boy taps at his chin to symbolize that he’s thinking, acting out the story the lyrics construct. “This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation, the liberty behind deliberation.”

He points at Y/N once again and she does the supporting vocals, gradually beginning to gain more confidence. “Non-stop!”

“I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, with my assistant counsel—”

Harry doesn’t even have to cue Y/N this time around; she picks up her half immediately, falling into line with him flawlessly as if they’ve done this a million times before. “Co-counsel. Hamilton, sit down. Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness.”

Harry quickly rounds the corner of the kitchen island, giving her body a grand spin as he draws closer, coming to stand right before her. She gives him a fake exasperated look to match the attitude her character depicts, shaking her head in disapproval. “That's all you had to say.”

“Okay…” The creature yanks Y/N forward into his bare chest, leaning down and flirting his lips right over hers tauntingly, eyes half-lidded in amusement. “One more thing—”

“Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room?” The girl rolls her eyes dramatically, shoving past Harry’s shoulder and she finds it humorous how these lines fit so well, almost as if they were actually directed at him, calling him out on the arrogance he always seems to dote. “Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude may be your doom.”

Harry swivels on his heel, following her as she scurries outside the kitchen entrance, running into the living room. 

“Why do you write like you're running out of time?” Y/N grabs onto one of the couch cushions, pretending to scribble over it with a fake pen. “Write day and night, like you're running out of time? Everyday you fight, like you're running out of time.”

Harry swipes at her from across the couch, trying to grasp onto the jumper she’s wearing. “Keep on fighting in the meantime.”

Y/N ducks out of the path of his grabbing hand, chucking the pillow forward and it bonks him square in the face. She sticks her tongue out at him as Harry scowls dully, climbing onto his sofa and scuttling towards her on his hand and knees.

She jumps just out of reach, diving across the other end of the furniture. The vampire throws his weight to try and tackle her to the sofa, but she just barely escapes. He ends up toppling over the backrest due to his over-abundant momentum. 

“Non-stop!” Y/N waves her middle up at him triumphantly as he pushes himself up off the ground, giving her a challenging look as he takes off after her once again. 

The pair continue to sing back and forth, with Harry chasing Y/N around the living room and kitchen as he belts out his part of the song, Y/N always somehow managing to slip from his grasp as soon as her turn hits. They’re a mess of giggles, silly faces, and boisterous actions as they reenact the play and neither can recall a time they had ever had more fun. There’s never been an instance when they felt so comfortable with another soul that they are willing to run around half-naked, screaming lyrics at each other in their underwear, not caring who sees or overhears. It just feels so second-nature.

A section of the song comes up where a woman is singing and Harry immediately takes up the part, placing his hand on his bare hip and standing in the most feminine fashion he can possibly muster, fanning at his face. “I am sailing off to London, I am accompanied by someone who always pays.” 

The exaggeration makes Y/N bend over laughing and her distraction allows Harry to nab her. He pulls her into his embrace by her forearms, cackling through the following stanza as she wriggles and squirms to try and get free. “I have found a wealthy husband who will keep me in comfort for all my days.” 

Y/N finally gives up on trying to thrash herself free, going limp against his chest and glimpsing up at him with begrudged annoyance, but a fond smile is unmistakably buckling her cheeks. Harry leans down, singing right in her face just to flaunt his victory, their noses brushing. “He is not a lot of fun, but…”

And then, there’s a shift in the ambiance between them. 

Harry gazes down at her as she giggles up at him from his arms, full of so much genuine warmth and excitement, she could power the entire city if she wanted. Her shoulders are heaving slightly as a result of all the running, there’s still faint traces of black mascara smeared under her waterline and down her cheeks from the previous evening’s exertions, she has some acne scarring littering her cheekbones that look fairly recent, and her hair looks like it could nest a family of at least ten birds. But despite these imperfections, Harry finds himself feeling oddly endeared by it all. These flaws are all things he’s gotten used to and has grown to treasure in Y/N. They make her who she is. They make her witty, and they make her clever. They make her fun, as well as trusting. They make her likeable, and energetic, and kind. They make her a good friend and a generous lover. They make her... her. Harry gets the feeling that if she didn’t have all of these traits— if even one was missing— this little arrangement they have going wouldn’t have flourished the way it did. 

Yeah, maybe he would have slept with her once or twice more just to scratch an itch, but he most likely would have let it fizzle to an end after the fact. Her personality paired with these small details— albeit, not all entirely attractive— that make up her existence play a key role in the dynamic they share. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything else— wouldn't trade Y/N for anyone else. Not anytime soon. 

A warm surge travels through his chest, filling his veins like kerosine, heating him from the heels of his socked feet to the tips of his ice cold fingers. An unorthodox swelling sensation twists inside his ribs, right where his heart used to beat, and he finds himself reciting the next line in a soft voice packed with more emotion than he’s shown or felt in the last two centuries.

“There’s no one who can match you, for turn of phrase…”

Y/N seems oblivious to all of the unsettling experiences he’s undergoing, her amused expression not changing in the slightest. Harry allows the rest of the song lyrics to pass by, the lump in his throat too heavy to fight. Instead, he just keeps staring down at Y/N with brows frowning in confusion, his breathing coming out bated and shaky, and that knot in his chest continuing to tighten until it becomes painful. He gets the sudden urge to kiss her— to feel her lips press to his and feel her give into him the way she always does. The way she has for the last four weeks. He doesn’t want it to be sloppy or desperate or sexual; he wants it to be intimate, soft, and caring. He wants it to be special. Something they share. Something only they share.

Then, that moment passes. That flicker of weakness that had leaked through vanishes and Harry feels like he can breathe properly again.

He breaks their locked eyes, releasing Y/N from his hold and taking a swift step back, coughing awkwardly to try and rid the tickling sensation in the back of his throat. He scratches at the nape of his neck nervously, fiddling with his baby curls and attempting to piece himself back together after that unexpected and unwelcome intrusion of his innermost feelings. Though, he doesn’t know if that spectacle even files under the category of emotions; from what he remembers, they aren’t supposed to tangibly attack you in such a manner. It felt more like a violation— like someone had gone in and started poking and prodding at his subconscious with a metal skewer. 

“Harry…?” Y/N inches closer to him, concern prevalent in her voice and across her features as she stretches her hand out caringly. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to be sick.” 

“I-I’m—” His voice comes out higher than usual and quivering, so he coughs once again to get it under control, taking another step back. He's scared that if she touches him, that horrible burning sensation will come back. “I’m fine. Just...Just forgot the lyrics.” 

“Oh, okay…” The girl doesn’t sound convinced with the answer, but she lets the subject falter anyways, her hand dropping back down beside her thigh. “Just checking.” 

“Yeah, I got that. Uh, thanks. But I’m all good now.” He holds up a clenched first and juts out his pinky, wiggling it for significance. “Promise”

Y/N scoffs gently at his playful deed. “Alright, then.” 

Harry eyes her attentively as she returns to her previous spot in front of the plate of pancakes, retrieving her fork and starting to pick at them like before, as if nothing had happened. As if Harry hadn’t just almost had a cardiac arrest, despite the fact that the organ responsible had crumbled to dust ages ago.

“Are you gonna eat anymore?” Y/N signals down at the stack of pastries before her questioningly. “Because if you don’t get some now, I’ll eat them all myself. Don’t think I won’t. They’re better than the ones I make and—”

The vampire suddenly feels like bile is rising up his throat and his words spew out before he can think to stop them, though he’s not so sure he would. 

“Do you want to stay over the rest of the weekend?”

[cherry-lipbalm]

survival of the fittest. spencer reid.

5.3k words.

masterlist

“ If they were to somehow get out of here alive, she was certain it would only be one of them. ”

three hours earlier

Y/N was ready to go home - more than ready. They'd gotten back from a hard hitting case in Boston, touching down by early afternoon meant they were expected back at the HQ, which henceforth meant piles of paperwork were in their future. Y/N knew her complaining would only go reprimanded by Hotch, so she kept to herself in her cubicle, shoved into the corner of the bullpen, and desperate to get the documents out of the way.

Over the scribbling of her pen, she heard the mutterings of Morgan and Reid's conversation beside the latter's desk not too far away from her own. She sighed in defeat, because she knew she wouldn't be able to resist joining them, especially when the opportunity arose to take the mickey at Spencer.

When it did inevitably arise, she pushed herself away from her desk and allowed the wheels on her chair to escort her over to the men. At the sound of jagged rolling, Morgan stepped aside to make space for her to insert herself, a snide smug painted on his face.

"Did I just hear the word 'Spencer' and 'girl' in the same sentence?" She asked, leaning on the armrest to shove her shit-eating grin into Spencer's face; he only rolled his eyes and gave an insincere 'ha ha'.

"Your ears did not deceive you, baby girl," Morgan said, receiving a smack on the arm from Spencer. The warning stare he gave him almost made Y/N stop pestering him. Only almost.

"Oh my! Spill the beans, who is she?" Y/N gushed, steering her chair even closer to the Doctor while Morgan watched on amusedly.

"There isn't a she," he grumbled, head bowed to his paperwork in the hopes that if he ignored the Agents they'd just go away.

"...a he?"

"No!" Spencer exclaimed, snapping his head upwards.

"Hey! It's no skin off my nose, Spence."

He groaned, then turned back to his work and allowed for Morgan and Y/N to exchange a glance as they both tried to hold back snickers at their friend's flustered existence.

She stayed huddled around with them for a few more minutes, but as soon as she saw the clock hit 5, she jumped from her chair and kicked it back to her desk. Announcing that she was off, she began to gather and pack her things. While she did so, she heard Spencer make the same announcement.

"You're off earlier than usual," she called back, "let me guess... Doctor Who marathon?"

Spencer's smile gave him away; Y/N chuckled and draped her coat over her shoulders, standing by his desk while he adjusted his satchel.

"Busy man," she commented, then proceeded to listen to whatever sci-fi related ramble Spencer was emitting, interjecting with exclamations of intrigue or surprise whenever she deemed suitable (they were all timed guesses, but she didn't waver once).

"...Christopher Eccleston is actually the second favourite, despite the fact that a lot of people skip his season, but he has a 52% popularity–"

"Wait, why do people skip his season?"

"Oh, because he preceded David Tennant. He's the favourite, with a 69% popularity."

"Ha, 69," Y/N muttered under her breath with a crude smirk. Spencer only gave a restrained smile and raised his eyebrows. The two fell into a silence, except from a 'thank you' Y/N said softly when Spencer opened the door for her.

The elevator button illuminated under her touch, and they stood in front of the steel doors, awaiting their opening. Y/N tapped her foot senselessly, and Spencer rolled on the balls of his heels.

In amidst the silence, Y/N looked up to Spencer and they exchanged a warm smile. The beep of the elevator distracted them, and after stepping aside to let people out, they ambled in and finally relaxed when the doors closed on them again.

"Today was relentless," Y/N sighed, checking her watch.

"Have any plans?" Spencer asked, out of courtesy.

"Well, I have to head to the repair store to pick up my phone, but after that there's leftover Chinese food in the fridge with my name written all over it," she chuckled.

"What happened? To your phone?"

"Morgan happened," was all she said. Spencer joined in on her judgement even though he didn't know the story, he did know that 'Derek Morgan' was simply a reason in itself that didn't warrant an explanation. Then, they lulled in the return of silence.

It wasn't until the elevator jerked and came to a sudden stop that the two spoke again.

"That's not right," Spencer muttered, and he immediately began to jab at the ground floor button before Y/N smacked his hands away, because she was already deep in a panic, so it was even worse when the next astounding jerk hit. She screamed when they were thrown off balance, and hoped she hadn't got a concussion from where she collided with the back wall upon the motion.

"What the hell?" She panted. They came to a still, but it made her even more nervous because she knew they hadn't been in there long enough to reach their floor. That, and the fact that they had just ripped through the air at about a hundred miles per hour.

Spencer's eyes furrowed, and he licked his lips in the way he did when he was focused on something. Judging by the way he assessed the doors, Y/N thought he was about to pull some thwarted stunt, or more likely reel off some facts about steel.

"I think something's wrong," he mumbled.

"No shit, Sherlock,"

"Ah, elementary my dear Watson," Spencer replied so quickly that Y/N was almost inclined to believe it made any sense.

"Did you know that Sherlock Holmes never actually said that? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle never wrote those words, they were only adapted into the movies years later-"

"Oh my god, Spencer, are we stuck in this elevator?" Y/N shrieked, her knuckles whitening under her tight clutch of the hand rails on the wall: half from fear and the other from frustration.

"Oh, uh, yeah, I think so."

Upon Spencer's bluntness, she stepped forward, desperate for any attempt of an escape plan, she began pressing the ground floor button repeatedly; when that didn't work, she resorted to aimlessly smashing all the buttons on offer. 

"That's– that's really not gonna do anything," Spencer said in the background.

"Do you have a better idea?" She snapped, turning to him with a glare before resuming her actions.

"Try the - try that one!" He pointed to the red button with an alarm bell engraved on it, and Y/N felt stupid under his stare for not noticing it before. She pressed it, and the ringing noise that emitted from it seemed to do nothing but that: ring. She was certain someone was supposed to come to their aid through a speaker, so she pushed it continuously, but derived nothing further. At least she gained some comfort in the panic of Spencer's voice that told her he was shitting himself as much as she was.

"It's not doing anything!" She cried, and when he leaned over her and pressed it too, she bit her tongue and raised her eyebrows to tell him 'see?', infuriated at the fact that he thought she could be somehow pushing a button wrong. But, then again, she'd have been even more angry if he'd done it and it had worked.

When it didn't, she alternated to the next best thing.

"Help!" She yelled, slamming her palms against the doors. She didn't know what floor they'd been wedged at (or even if they were just floating in some space between levels), but someone had to hear them; they were bound to...right?

Spencer seemed to think so at least, because he was joining her in pounding his fists on the steel. Sooner rather than later, the harsh echo made Y/N's ears ring, so she stopped and took a step back.

"Well, this is great," she sighed, slumping in a lean on the wall as she rubbed her temples.

"I'm gonna miss Doctor Who," Spencer whined, pouting.

Y/N just rolled her eyes at him and told him to call somebody. She was sure she'd seen JJ just before they left, still huddled in her office; hopefully she'd be able to call maintenance and they could be released from this death trap of a machine.

"I can't, my phone died. Use yours."

"What?"

"My phone's flat, can you use yours?"

Y/N just stared at him. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt because the adrenaline rush of panic can make memories a bit hazy, but her skin was flustering under the rage she was feeling, her forehead was already beginning to perspire and the walls were so small and entrapping and - is it hot in here or just her?

"My phones at the store," she reminded him through gritted teeth, and watched his composure fall in both comprehension and defeat.

"Great," he remarked.

"Oh, like it's my fault?"

"Well, it's not mine."

"And it's not mine either so don't talk to me like that!"

It was only a short exchange, but it made Y/N's blood boil; if they were to somehow get out of here alive, she was certain it would only be one of them.

Spencer gulped, and Y/N was sure that had he the opportunity to he would be storming away right about now, but unfortunately for the both of them that wouldn't be happening anytime soon. The wonderful reality of this hitting Y/N, she kicked off her shoes and planted her bum down on the floor.

Spencer looked at her curiously while she did this, then quirked his lip and proceeded to do the same. He used his satchel as a pillow to support his head, and sighed loudly (it seemed deliberate just how exaggerative it was).

"No one is ever gonna find us here," Y/N said.

"We're not dying–"

"You don't know that. We could be suffocating as we speak-"

"Suffocation is impossible in elevators: the cars are designed not to be airtight and there's vents that allow air to move in and out," he pointed up at the grated opening above Y/N's head. At being proved wrong by Spencer and his big, unfathomable brain, she crossed her arms much like a stroppy toddler and even pouted her lip.

"We could still die," she mumbled.

"The statistics of that are still very unlikely; in fact, the people that die the most in elevators are elevator technicians themselves. An average of 26 people die in elevators every year in America–"

"And you're ready to be one of those 26?"

"We're not going to be. We won't suffocate, and it hasn't fallen."

"Yet," she said. "Plus, theres other ways to die. Like, I don't know, murder perhaps?" She said with a potent glare in his direction. He gave her a blank stare partnered with a sarcastic smile, one that only made Y/N more devoted to her other-ways-to-die initiative.

"We just have to wait a while... Did you know the longest duration of time someone was stuck in an elevator was 41 hours? Nicholas White. And all he had to eat was a packet of Rolaids."

More than accustomed to tuning out Spencer's rambles, Y/N barely heard what he was talking about, in a dazed trance where she was focused intently on where the paint didn't match the wall, she was so invested she almost missed what he said.

"Wait... oh my god. Do you have food?" She asked, sitting up from her subsided posture.

Spencer's face softened in dread, which didn't bring any aid nor optimism to their situation.

She watched him sit forward, shoving hands into the pockets of his blazer, coat, trousers and pulling out nothing but a few crumpled pieces of paper. Y/N matched him with an empty gum wrapper and a Walmart receipt displaying a concerning amount of pregnancy tests she had purchased last month.

"Do I even wanna know?" Spencer asked, chucking it back to the ground with a grimace as if it was riddled with germs (it probably was but, still).

"All you need to know is that I'm not pregnant," Y/N scoffed, almost amicably, but her eyebrows creased and she was back to a fuck everything this sucks expression in less than a second.

"Well we can't survive on this."

"You really haven't brought any food?" Spencer pestered.

"No, I had Chinese leftovers on the cards for tonight. And I don't see you offering anything up; what's your excuse?"

Spencer only groaned, again. He kicked his feet out and let his head fall onto the wall back in the same place. He ran a hand through his hair, and the scarce gel he had used to keep it in place disassembled around his face in random strays of curls. The sight of him relaxing like he was settling in for the night didn't appease Y/N one bit.

While Spencer closed his eyes, Y/N got to her feet and decided slamming on the door again was a better pastime. Spencer, however, did not agree.

At the banging, Spencer's eyes shot open and his body shook in alarm. His eyes darted around the space frantically until they landed on Y/N's figure aligned with the doors on which she was unleashing hell. If yelling could open an elevator, they'd have been out in a jiffy.

"I think we've established that doesn't help," Spencer said.

"Then you help!" She shouted, continuing the thrashing of metal.

"How?"

"I don't know!" Her shriek echoed, and she yet again gave up on the violence. "Use that big brain of yours and find us a way out of here."

"The 7 steps to surviving being stuck on an elevator are fundamental; we've already done them. They include pressing the open button, the alarm and call button. We still have our light source, otherwise finding one would have been number two. We've tried yelled for help. The only one we haven't done is stayed calm," he said with a heavy emphasis in her direction. Currently, she was the epitome of panic.

Y/N furrowed a brow at him, "That's six. What's number seven?"

She watched Spencer inhale deeply before he told her, "wait it out."

Y/N felt her heart sink. The possibility of her going insane while being confined within this space was only increasing as the minutes passed by. And with that, she felt like oxygen was depleting alongside it. She took a big breath to remind her that there was still air to breathe, and Spencer caught sight of it.

"Are... are you claustrophobic?"

"No!"

His eyes widened at her outburst, and he even raised his hands in defence should the situation present itself, which was looking pretty inevitable.

"I'm not, I just... get a little... panicked, that's all."

"You don't say," he murmured, and —with a grunt— got to his feet again. He treaded towards the damned doors. Y/N thought he was going to bang on them again, and she took front-row seat on the floor to watch the imprudent, futile attempt. Instead, Spencer's long arachnid-like fingers dug into the crevice of the doors and he tried to pry them open. This was an even vainer approach; his strained groans showed such.

"It's no use. We're gonna be here for a while. I can offer you a juice carton," Y/N spoke, making Spencer turn attentively at the word 'juice'. He looked down to where she was rummaging through her bag and depositing a few random objects while she did so. In a very Mary Poppins like fashion, the entities incessantly kept coming and coming, gathering in remarkable piles on the floor. There seemed to be more things than space available, but then they were trapped in an elevator and space was one of the many luxuries the agents realised they had taken for granted. Despite his astonishment at the growing belongings, there seemed to be a concerning lack of food present.

She was, however, holding out an apple juice carton, and Spencer figured that you get what you're given. So while her attention focused to the remnants of whatever was in her bag, Spencer punctured the carton with the straw, and began sucking. He made a squeal of surprise and relief when he saw her pull out a feebly wrapped, half eaten bag of crackers.

"Oh, I forgot about these," she announced, with the first smile Spencer had seen from her since the elevator had broken down.

He leaned down to grab the bag, dusting off the sprayed crumbs and then took a seat to Y/N's left. He left space between them for chivalrous purposes and also to allow space for the bag of crackers to sit.

They made attempts to ration the snack, but it soon developed into an every man for himself situation when Y/N noticed Spencer had started to take two at once.

She wasn't even hungry anymore, but the hunger for beating Spencer at something prevailed and disregarded any logical thought that they ought to save food, so she dove in again for another cracker. Unluckily, she did so at the same time as Spencer, so it made for an awkward encounter when their hands collided but neither was willing to give up their slot in the bag.

Eventually (because they didn't want the other to notice their blush), they gave up when time ran too long and reached a compromise with halving the cracker. Y/N gave Spencer the bigger half of her failed equal snap, but neither of them addressed it.

Neither of them addressed anything actually, for the next... god knows how long they were cooped up in there. They sat in a pleasant silence, free from any awkward glances or trepidations: it was both from the fact that they were in their own heads, and a serendipitous comfort in one another.

"I'm sorry you're going to miss your Doctor Who... thing," was what broke the silence.

"Oh, it's okay. I can just watch it on repeat tomorrow."

"Okay," Y/N laughed softly, and they floated into another quiet.

"I'm sorry you're stuck in an elevator."

"Ha! Me too."

"When we get out of here maybe we can go for Chinese food," Spencer suggested, craning his neck to look at her with a discreet smile.

"Sure," she agreed. "By the time we get out my food at home might have rotten anyway."

And then time after that just... passed. In Spencer's satchel he had an uncanny assortment of reading material to thrive on, and amid her odd collection of pretty much everything she had ever owned, Y/N found an old MP3 player and some earphones (only the left ear worked, but it was as good entertainment as she was going to get).

There comes a point, though, when one person can only listen to so much music from their teen years; Y/N's taste back then was... questionable, to say the least. And her earphone seemed to agree with her, because it gave out just when the unmistakable sound of an NSYNC song began.

"Ugh, just when it was getting good!" She complained, tugging the bud from her ear and throwing it onto the miscellaneous pile.

Spencer's head quirked to Y/N, but his eyes only followed after he had finished a sentence on his page. When he did, he saw her curiously leaning over his shoulder and squinting at the words.

"You can borrow it if you want," he said. "This is my third time reading it and I have others."

He gestured to his pile, which had evolved into a makeshift bookcase in the corner of the elevator. A few pages were torn, and the spines were so worn down that she could barely make out what the titles were. Not from a lack of TLC, but rather copious amounts of it; having been read over and over again. 

"No, it's okay. You continue, I'll just... meditate, or something."

"It's a good book," Spencer said, and he sounded like he was trying to persuade her, so she gave in and nodded. Readjusting her posture, she focused again on where the paint didn't meet the wall as she listened to the one thing she thought she wouldn't ever be able to stand: Spencer Reid's voice.

———

Which, to her and Reid's surprise, she found quite calming. Her hidden envy and not so hidden annoyance with his ability to reel off facts and wisdom like he was only recalling what he had for dinner hindered any fondness Y/N could associate with his voice. Until now, that is.

He was reading Strangers on a Train, supposedly his third favourite book, and they were reaching "the best bit" according to Spencer, but then every bit within the past forty five minutes since he'd started reading had been "the best bit", so Y/N wasn't sure.

But she's pretty calm, as calm as she can be stuck in an elevator, so she's actually thankful she has Spencer of all people beside her. She knew that if Morgan was in his place they'd have attempted murder at least a couple times by now; not to say that Y/N hadn't considered stabbing Spencer at all, but there's only so much damage a blunt pencil at the bottom of her bag could do.

So, she's calm. She's barely following the story because she only joined in halfway through, but she's grasped the basis of it because Spencer reads so eloquently and so well that he's practically painted the vividness of the narrative for her, even though he vouches it's down to Patricia Highsmith's words, which is true, but Spencer has a role in it too.

One thing Spencer recites makes Y/N wonder why she's never had him read to her before.

"People, feelings, everything! Double! Two people in each person. There's also a person exactly the opposite of you, like the unseen part of you, somewhere in the world, and he waits in ambush."

The story portrays an uncanny resemblance to the plots of the abundant crime scenes they analyse daily (Y/N wonders how Spencer comes home from work only to read about the same gory instances): the same mannerisms, behaviours and intricate understanding of criminal attitudes. It's accuracy is so astounding that Y/N asks if the author was ever a profiler of sorts.

Although it's selfish, because Y/N is not the real victim, she wished there was some way Highsmith's words could spring into real life and provide tainted rose coloured spectacles to which she could observe reality through. In some sick way, Y/N needed to see beauty in things like murder. She sometimes forgot that what they were doing had a purpose, and they tended to be the good guys. But there was no writing beautiful enough for Spencer to read and glorify the crimes with.

But even Y/N thinks Spencer's reading could help her see life through more of the silver lining rather than shrouded by the dark cloud that accompanied it.

The moment of rare serenity within Spencer's words is suspended, however, when he suddenly stops with no obvious justification. Y/N wonders if she's missed something profound within the story again so she goes to read over them on the page this time (because she's been rather entranced in Spencer's voice rather than the actual words), except when she looks up she sees a look of horror depicted on Spencer's face: one that doesn't register with her primarily because what's happening in the story is rather quite mundane compared to the dismay on his face. It's so poignant that she thinks something must be fatally wrong.

"What is it?" She asks, sitting up (and away because she thinks he may be about to vomit. But no, the real reason is even more horrific).

"I need to pee."

Y/N gasps; she hadn't even conjectured this predicament. It was a basic human necessity, how had she not anticipated this would happen? At first she thought, hey it's not that bad, better him than me— he can stand. Until she realises that there isn't really anywhere to stand.

"Oh no," she whispers, and he looks at her dauntingly. "You shouldn't have drank that apple juice."

"What was I supposed to do, bathe in it?" He scorns, and the two connect in an unwavering exchange eye contact with one another. Y/N dreads looking away in fear of what he'll do when she has her back turned.

So, like I said, Y/N was pretty calm, and I'd say Spencer was too; reading was a delight, and he found Y/N almost as endearing (almost). Life was bearable until Spencer needed to pee.

And it is here that they throw all peace out the window (if there was one) and give up on step number seven, and instead say hello to their old friend step number five: frantic yelling.

The energy pent up from lazing around reading and being read to is released fairly effectively. Y/N thinks she's never screamed so loud in her life, and Spencer knows he hasn't: entrapment and a full bladder can take one hell of a toll on a man.

And when the profusion of footsteps and the clanging of doors sounds, it is glorious. It is what they imagine heaven to sound like and more. Y/N collapses to the ground in relief, and Spencer throws his hands up in a prayer of thanks (even though he doesn't necessarily believe, but he is just so high on adrenaline and the discomfort of needing a wee that he'd just about believe anything now if it meant he could get to a bathroom).

"You guys okay in there?" A voice calls in from above them (Spencer genuinely thinks it's God) and Y/N has never been more happy to hear Derek Morgan.

"We're good! We're good! Oh my god, get us out of here please!"

"Right on it, baby. Bet y'all thought you were gonna die in there, huh?"

"Worse," Y/N called, "I thought I was gonna have to see Spencer's dick!"

Morgan laughed (music to their ears: any voice that wasn't each other's fit that criteria in that moment), and then told her he didn't want to know. Spencer and Y/N heard him holler behind him, and even more footsteps approached. Y/N couldn't see much from the slither between the doors that had just been pried open, since they had fallen a considerable distance from their floor. What she could see was only half of Morgan's face while he knelt on the ground.

"What happened?" Spencer asked, trying to gain some understanding for the reason behind missing his Doctor Who marathon.

"Power cut. The whole city's in blackout."

"You're kidding," Y/N replied, then turned. "A whole lotta people just risked that 1 in 26."

"Us included," Spencer said.

They recognised the voices of the maintenance team, and even a few uniforms of firefighters that worked on opening the doors with as much force as they could muster. Y/N looked again to the wall and paint mismatch, finding it too unsettling to look at their rescue attempt (that had way too much potential to go wrong) and even more unsettling to look at Spencer who was practically cradling his crotch.

"Ladies first!" A fireman called, and his hand reached into the space they had managed to (barely) increase, hoping that it wouldn't prove to be too difficult. From what Morgan told them, Spencer wouldn't have any trouble getting through it if they had halved the space ("the kid's a sherbet stick, I'm telling you").

"No, we've got a man here who's about to explode," Y/N joked, forgetting that the word 'explode' is a term one should use lightly within the headquarters of the FBI. She was blissfully reminded of this when the few surrounding agents brandished their guns. They almost didn't let them out until Spencer yelled that if he didn't get to a bathroom that instant he would give them a real reason to get their guns out.

So he was lifted out first, falling into Morgan's arms the chance he got to. He, somehow, managed to wait until he saw Y/N definitely leave the elevator before racing off down the hallway. Maintenance didn't even bother telling him that the doors have been locked because officially work finished three hours ago; they figured he had enough vigour in him to knock a wall down, never mind a door.

"Are you alright?" Morgan asked Y/N, lifting her up onto her own to feet. She's given a shock blanket, which is a pretty cool souvenir.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Miraculously. I don't know how you survived in there with him; I'd go insane."

"Eh," she chuckled, "he's not too bad."

———

After gathering their belongings, Y/N and Spencer make their way to leave work, again.

Morgan's nonchalant explanation of the blackout is in no way accurate to the genuine portrayal of, what Y/N can only describe as, a thriller movie come to life. She's looking out the wide scale windows in the bullpen room and can only see her reflection. It's creepy. Skittishly, she jumps when Spencer's image shows up behind her own. 

"Jesus, haven't I had enough near death experiences tonight?" She asks, holding a hand over her heart that she's sure just kickstarted (for various reasons).

"Sorry," he laughs. Placing his hands in his pockets, Y/N can sense he's more relaxed now that he's peed and no longer trapped within the restrictions of one metre.

They smile, then look out again to the darkened abyss before them. Y/N has never seen the city so quiet, yet she knows it's anything but. Once she steps outside it's bound to be hectic central.

"You normally get the subway, what are you gonna do?"

"Oh, I guess I'll just walk," Spencer shrugs.

"Absolutely not. I'll drive you home."

"Oh, no, you don't have to do that—"

"Spence, I just spent the last three hours in a confined space with you, I'm sure I can do twenty minutes more," she said. "Get your stuff ready, we can head off now."

She swung her bag over her shoulder and turned to walk out the bullpen, her heels reverberating throughout the room. Spencer watched her stride out by her reflection in the window, as to not be caught staring.

"If my car breaks down I'm gonna commit murder!"

Spencer laughed loudly, which made Y/N smile as she passed the kitchenette. When he continued to chuckle to himself he realised he wouldn't mind another three more hours stuck with her— at least he'd have an excuse if the car broke down. Maybe if he set off now he could get there in time to beat Y/N to her car and slash the tyres. He kindly reminded himself that that's illegal while he retrieved his satchel off the back of his chair and strutted out the office.

He wasn't too far behind Y/N when he suggested getting a Chinese on the way back.

"Is that a date?"

"If eating a Chinese takeaway in your car is your idea of a date," he sang.

"It very much is," Y/N grinned irrefutably.

He held the door open for her, she said thank you, and their giddy (dare I say lovesick) smiles dropped when they faced the elevator.

They've taken the stairs every day since.

fin.

[pixelsandkink]

Swelter of the Night (Bryce x MC)

Pairing: Bryce Lahela x F!MC (Jessie Watson)  Rating: E Word Count: ~3,680 (she a little lengthy sorry) Summary: F***buddies with feelings.  Notes: Real clown girl shit - I started writing this before book 2 came out lol.  I’ve basically been wanting write this since that diamond scene where you can decide to tell Bryce if you have feelings or want to keep it casual. the title comes from “Say It” by Maggie Rogers. my bryce x mc playlist slaps. ANYWAY.  _________________

The worst thing about Bryce Lahela was the inevitability of him. 

From the very first second she got a look at him, at the lean sculpted muscles of his body, at the little swoop of his hair. At that smile that said I know something you don’t know. 

At that very first moment, she’d felt it. That thing. That pull. 

The thing that had her looking up from her drink on a hot July evening. The height of summer meant that it was approaching ten o’clock and the sun was just starting to set. Across Donahue’s, someone is talking to him, brandishing a beer bottle for dramatic effect. She realizes, belatedly, the other man is describing a baseball hit. 

But Bryce is already looking at her. 

It’s almost embarrassing the way her lips curl into a smile, the way her nipples harden underneath her shirt. That pulse in her middle that tells her exactly how her night is going to end. 

“Wow,” Elijah says, stretching the syllables into at least three words. “Earth to Jessie.” 

Jessie snaps her focus back to the table. “Wait, sorry, what did I miss?”

Jackie snorts. “That you just pulled the rest of us into your ‘dickmatized by Bryce Lahela’ orbit.”

“Leave her alone,” Sienna says, but even she’s laughing. Aurora looks on, her face twisted with disgust that rides the line between real and playful. 

“I mean, if you’re gonna screw someone you work with,” she agrees. 

“I’m sitting right here!” Jackie and Elijah say in unison, before high-fiving one another with annoyingly swift dexterity. 

“They’re cute!” Sienna declares. But the way she says it makes it sound (to Jessie’s ear at least) like she and Bryce are already planning the wedding and have named the children. 

“Uh, no,” Jessie protests. “We’re just--”

“Fuckbuddies or whatever.” The rest of the table beats her there and then whoops with laughter. 

Jessie shoots to her feet, eyebrow furrowed. “I’m gonna go get another pitcher.”  

They’re just teasing. She knows that. She knows that. But the words sound hollow even to her own ears. How many times has she told him I need to keep this casual? That she doesn’t have time for romance, not when she’s joining the diagnostics team. That she needs to devote all of her attention to her career. They are just excellent at relieving each other’s stress.

She’d figured she would absolutely fuck a cocky guy like him right out of her system. Just let the flirting reach a fever pitch and then get down to it in a supply closet. In a car. In a bed, sure, she wasn’t picky.

That she was sleeping with Bryce, was, at best, an open secret. All of their friends know. Certainly Ines and Zaid. But it can’t ever be more. Even when he looks at her across the bar like that, his lips curled into his special secret smile. 

She’s just put in her order for another pitcher of margaritas when he sidled up next to her.

“Dr. Watson,” he says with faux seriousness. 

“Dr. Lahela.” 

She doesn’t need to waste time looking over at him, at the stretch of his blue tee-shirt across his biceps. But she can’t help herself when he slopes down, leaning his arm on the bar, his voice dropping so no one else can hear. 

“That’s an awfully short skirt.” 

Jessie licks her lips, her tone dropping to match. “I’m off duty.” 

He hums. “That so?” She nods, and then goes quiet for too long, any banter dying on her tongue. His eyes narrow, his head tilting ever-so-slightly. “What’s up? What’s wrong?”

She does have to physically shake her head this time, just to clear it. “Nothing,” she says, and then double downs to deflect: “It’s just...been a few days.” 

Bryce’s smile is brilliant. “You need it that bad, huh?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Bathroom? Five minutes?”

Bryce scoffs. “Please. You’re not getting off that easy.” 

“Very funny.” 

“Very,” he agrees. 

The bartender comes back with a frosty pitcher and Bryce asks him to put it on his tab and then close it for the night. He and Jessie play a quick game of duck and dodge, where she tries to force a few bills into his hand, before she outmaneuvers him and slides the bills into the front pocket of his shorts. 

She lets out a long, ragged breath. “Banana in your pocket or…” 

That grin spreads. “Oh, so happy to see you.”  

She shakes her head, truly unable to smash her laughter down. “I’m going to drop off this pitcher, then what’s say we--” she jerks her thumb toward the door. Bryce nods, turning back to the bartender to get his card and receipt. 

Her friends treat her to the most good natured ribbing when she slings her purse over her shoulder and tells them she’ll see them later. 

On the train ride to her apartment, he lets her fall into silence. Not because they have nothing to talk about. If nothing else, Bryce could invent things to talk about. He could pull her stories and her laughter and her secrets out of her like he’d grasped the string of an unraveling sweater. 

(Not, snatched, never snatched, just sweet, gentle tugs, unspooling and unspooling until she wasn’t sure how she’d ended up naked.)

No, he lets her go quiet because it’s what she needs. It’s her natural state. She’s always been good at chatter and small talk, but she needs the reprieve of switching off. And it’s another thing that Bryce knows how to give her. 

Yeah, the quiet felt natural to her. It had been the case even when she was a little girl. Serious, introspective Jessie. Well, actually--

“Jessamine,” she’d corrected, and primly, even as a kindergartner, curly hair slicked into twists, with knockers hanging off the end. 

It had been drilled into her like her address and her telephone number. They’ll try to take a lot of things from you. But they can’t take away your name. 

Even so, there had been permutations: Jessamine all through grade school (which is where the ice queen thing stuck, because most people thought a young girl wanted to be called all nine letters of her name made her a little bitch) until she got her first real best friend in fifth grade who called her Jessie with nothing but love in her voice. 

And that had only happened because of a sleepover at home, where she was usually only Jessmine when she was in trouble, Jessie to her parents and Jess to her brother. (Minnie to her grandparents, and only her grandparents.) 

For many years she was Jessie and very occasionally Jess, until she got to undergrad, the first time she considered going back because despite the changing stats, she hated walking into all of her classes and being a Black woman and also being Jessie, who no one would take seriously. 

Her roommate told her to stick with it, that  it would sound cute, when she wedged her name in next to someone else’s. She could just see the mail rolling in: Dr. SomeMan and Mrs. Jessie SomeMan’sLastName. 

So, she went back to Jessamine and it wasn’t until after she graduated med school and got her new roommates did she let someone call her Jessie again, because they also called her Dr. Watson and she was happy to be that. 

And yet, and somehow still only Bryce had ever managed to pull off--

“J, here’s our stop.”

J. 

He’s eight letters short and he manages to make it sound more complete than any other man she’s ever met. He says J with more reverence than most people say Dr. Watson. He says J like it’s a secret, like he knows it’s just for him. 

She follows him out of the train and into the air. It’s one of those nights that tricks her again and and again--it settles into black so neatly that she expects to have cooled, but the July heat laughs at that. 

She’s grateful for her naked shoulders and the frisky length of her skirt and more grateful still when his eyes flit appreciatively over her exposed skin. The walk to her apartment building is quiet too, and swift, and maybe she’s walking a little faster after a look like that. 

The sometimey conditioner in their apartment kicks on just as they get inside. It’s finally the dark and cool she was expecting. She kicks off her shoes and turns to him, their height difference even more apparent now.

But God, he’s hot. Hotter than it is outside. Blazing, inferno.

“C’mere,” he says, but she’s already moving. 

He’s the one that has to lean down, but she pushes him against the door, her body rubbing against his. His kiss hints at the fire roaring at the core of him, that heat that threatens to swallow her whole when she kisses him back. He tastes like a kind of beer she doesn’t like (too dark) but she can’t bring herself to mind.

When she pulls away he chases her with his mouth until she’s too far out of reach, slinking down until there’s nowhere to go but her knees. She gazes up the length of him, at the rise and fall of his chest. The way his eyes rove over her as she makes quick work of his belt. 

She peels his shorts down, her eyes lingering on his. The words Calvin Klein are imprinted in the skin across his hip. Leftover from the tight squeeze of his boxers. She puts her mouth there too. The words melt under the attention of her tongue, the skin flushing dark pink as she sucks and bites. 

It goes on so long Bryce gives her a strained “Jess, please.” 

She tuts: “All things in balance,” and switches to the other hip. 

When she finally does take pity on him, when she finally does take the head of his dick in her mouth, she watches the muscles in his stomach flex to keep from moving his hips. Something about his reticence makes her try to grin, even full of him. 

She brings up a hand and then he can’t seem to help himself, pumping slowly into her mouth one hand braced against the wall. He swears until the words become slurred together. 

Jessie licks him until she’s making slurping sounds, cleaning up the mess, which makes him pump harder. She knows he likes those sounds, the ones that suggest she’s working hard--working hard to take him, to fit him, to make him come. 

He groans as he pulls out with a wet pop. They stare at each other for a second before she’s back on her feet, kissing him again and they both seem to remember they’ve barely made it past the front door. 

With only a small sound to acknowledge it’s happening, he hefts her into his arms, gathering her close, so he doesn’t have to bend to kiss her anymore. She groans, rubbing against him as his mouth travels down her neck to lick at the sweaty spot at the start of her cleavage. 

He dips his head to suck tightly at her nipple, through her thin bra and thinner shirt. She cradles his head as he switches to the other, letting out a gentle moan, restlessness making her struggle in his grasp. 

“Bryce,” she says, urging him along, pumping her hips in a needy, get-with-the-program kind of gesture. 

He laughs as he carries her back to her bedroom. “Bossy.” 

Her response is a kiss that manages to catch him off-guard, makes him stumble as she bites his bottom lip.  He drops her unceremoniously, but playfully, onto her bed. Jessie can’t help but giggle as she bounces, watching as he flips on the lamp next to her bed. She’s never had any real qualms about lights during sex. It wouldn’t even make sense. They’ve done it in the dark, by lamplight, by sunlight, under bright fluorescent hospital lights and under dim bulbs in shitty bars. 

But she almost wishes he would turn it off because she doesn’t want to be caught looking at him, when she feels all cracked open inside. She sits up on her elbows, feet braced on the comforter, just to watch him ease his sneakers off and strip out of his tee shirt.

Damn it, he has an incredible body, so rock solid it makes her mouth water. 

Bryce rubs his hands together like a silent movie villain. “No roommates.”

“No roommates,” she echoes and he descends on her. 

Mouth and tongue and teeth everywhere, ridding her of her clothing. Tweaking her nipples though her shirt and sucking her earlobe until she’s just a dazzled, jumbled wanting mess.

He digs around in her nightstand drawer for the condoms he’s started leaving there. She’d gotten instantly, frustratingly, soaking wet when she realized she didn’t have any that were big enough for him. 

It wasn't like she was a prude before she started screwing Bryce.  But Bryce liked everything.  He wanted to know everything and in excruciating, vivid, ruining detail.  He wants to know if she uses toys. If she'll let him put his tongue there. And doesn't she know how extra-pretty her moans are when he's hitting it from the back? 

Those are the moans he’s chasing as he guides her body without hesitation. There isn't a part of her he hasn’t touched, kissed, licked, stared at. It’s nothing to fold her legs over his own, to settle her into his lap.  He strokes his hands down her arms, until they meet hers and he folds them over the top of the headboard. 

Wet. 

That’s his mouth and his tongue sliding across her shoulder and up her neck and nipping her ear hard enough to make her jerk in surprise. 

Wet. 

That’s her realizing how much she wants him, that no matter how big he is no matter the position, it’s going to be so, so easy.

The first inch makes them both groan a little, makes him swear. She holds tight enough to the headboard to leech the color from her fingertips before taking him all the way. He grunts, and all of those fierce arm muscles bracketing her go tight.  

Jessie can’t help the grind of her hips once she’s full of him, and once she’s had that, she can only chase more, her hips lifting, her grip on the headboard giving her just the amount of leverage she needs to ride him, braced against his strong thighs. 

Bryce hisses, swears again. “Jess. Shit.” 

“What?”

His words run together again: “It’s so good like this.” 

He’s right, of course. It's so so good and so so easy and then she gives herself over to the languid rolling rhythm he sets, like he has all the time in the world: slow, slow, slow and she’s so full, full, full of him. 

Pleasure had never been something she could just...have. She’d always had fine, sometimes even good, sex. But it was always something she had to orchestrate and choreograph and direct. But not with Bryce. He listened and asked questions and toyed with her body until he knew how to make her hum and sigh and come. 

Even now, he seems to know what she needs, tipping control back to her, to let her set the pace, but giving her what she needs to get it done. He coils one arm around her middle as she rides. Whispers in her ear about how good she feels, how happy she makes him, how he can’t wait to feel her pussy come, all slippery and tight and full of him.  

He shouldn’t get to talk because what was that shit about making him happy and why did it make her heart speed up?

His hand drops down to stroke her clit, and it really won’t be much after that, not when she’s stretched so tight around him.

“Oh shit, yes...” Jessie dropped her hand to cover his, to force him to press harder. 

The very, very, very, worst thing about Bryce Lahela was that she couldn’t get enough of him. Not just that insane body, but of the brain inside it. Which is why, a year and change into boinking his brains out whenever possible, she was trying to focus only on boinking his brains out.

But he was an insidious thing with his confidence, his care. The faith he had in her. It shook her down to her roots, unearthed that thing inside her that craved more than friendship, more than sex. 

“Bryce,” she says, as he nuzzles her neck. That sweet, unnecessary press of his face to her skin is what opens that crack inside her, splits it in two. She is beyond unraveled. She is beyond naked. She is beyond even skin. 

“Bryce,” and it’s the last time she’s going to call his name out like that. 

His voice is serious. “I want you to come, J. I got it. I got you.” 

He does, she knows he does. He always has. 

She still as the orgasm rattles through her and Bryce makes a surprised sound before thrusting hard enough to crowd them toward the headboard. The way he pulses, the way the rest of him goes rigid for a split second, even as she’s melting into him, spurs extra sparks of pleasure through her. 

After a moment, he gives a short panting laugh, and then they’re both laughing as they separate. He makes a sound as he heaves himself out of the bed. She burrows down against the rumpled blanket, looking up at him, her mind racing. 

She watches as he quickly ties off the condom and drops it into the trash. He sighs, the great big satisfied kind, as he steps back into his underwear and his shorts. 

“Okay, so,” he says, “you’re not gonna believe what I get to do.” 

“What?” 

But even as he begins to describe the complicated surgery he was taking on, she doesn’t hear a word. She’s just watching him. The way he gets excited and starts talking all big with his hands. The way the muscles in his back ripple as he shrugs into his t-shirt. The way he grins down at her, big and unabashed. 

He checks his pockets in the usual post sex routine. It’s not that he’s never stayed the night before. When they’d both had too many drinks and sleep seemed easier than the alternative. When they both had early mornings and it made more sense to get rest instead. The last time...when she’d distracted him until the trains had stopped running because he’d cuddled her into his arm and kissed the top of her head. 

“Alright,” Bryce says, turning to her with a soft smile. “I’m gonna head out. Let me get a little something ‘fore I go.” 

The giggle that slips out of her is nerves more than anything else. He leans over her for a kiss that is chaste in comparison to what they just shared. In the second before he would’ve slipped away, she grabbed the hem of his t-shirt. 

“You could...stay,” she says, her lips brushing his as they speak. 

He straightens, seems to carefully conceal his expression. “I could.” 

She can’t read that tone, she can’t tell if it’s a question or if he’s agreeing or if he’s trying to let her down easy. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, sitting up quickly, but dropping her gaze to the bedsheets. Her face flushes so intensely hot, she starts to fan her cheeks and ears as she talks. “I’m sorry you know I don’t do this. I don’t usually just say stuff.” 

“Right.” 

She refuses to look at him. What is that tone? Jessie keeps going, hands still moving. “And I don’t know. I don’t know, it’s so stupid--I want to just say, ‘hey, Bryce, I like you, like you.’ Which is so juvenile but I don’t do that! I don’t say, stupid, risky stuff like that I don’t--” 

“I think you just did.” 

She looks up finally, to find him trying not to smile. He’s failing. 

“Hi. I’m Bryce Lahela. Nice to meet you.” He says it with a thrust of his chin and smile so winning he should be jailed. “Seriously,” he goes on, well, more seriously, “I’ve got enough risk chaser in me for the both of us.”

She’s still looking at him with that crazy fear in her brain when he eases himself back into the bed, over her, looking down at her from his hands and knees. Criminal. He is so pretty it should be criminal. 

“So. I can stay? And not because I fell asleep. Or because it's too late to get the train. Or because we drank too many margaritas.” 

Her heart is still going wild inside her chest, beating a warning sign to her singed ears. But he has that look on his face. She gives a jerky little nod. Then, he’s pressing her down into the bed, squeezing her in a hug between himself and the covers. 

They lay there for a long moment, and she marvels at the way their breath falls into sync, how comfortable and natural it feels to hold him in the cradle of her naked body. 

To be held by him. 

“You’re crushing me,” she says. 

“Liar,” Bryce cracks right back, before the words have really left her mouth. “You’re doing that squirmy thing you do when you wanna go again.” 

It’s true so she can only laugh, “Shut up.” After a beat: “I’m sorry if I fucked this up, if I made it weird--” 

“Hush, J,” he says, voice soft and serious in her ear. “I like you like you too.” 

“Do we have to talk about it anymore, right now?”

“No.” 

He did always know when she needed a little quiet. 

Because she’d been wrong about the bright, hot thing that was Bryce Lahela. Maybe he won’t burn her alive. 

Maybe he’ll just keep her warm.  _______________ tagging: @pixeljazzy @nazario-sayeed @brightpinkpeppercorn @choicesarehard @raleiighcarrera @levineseth @melaninnntae @writinghereandthere @princediavolos @beaumontypython

[feralnumberfive]

TUA Season 3 Wishlist

Hello everyone! Since Season 3 was announced to start filming in February of 2021, I thought that it would be fun to make a wishlist of songs that anyone would like to see in the new season. I'm quite passionate about music and often think of songs that I personally believe would fit the show well. I know a lot of others do this too and thought that it would be fun to share our beloved songs with the fandom!

Guidelines/Information

You may submit as many songs as you want!

You may submit them to my ask box or send me a message (I don’t bite!)

You may request not to have your username by your song(s) but if not I your username will be attached to your song(s).  | Ex. “Help!” by The Beatles @feralnumberfive   OR   “Help!” by The Beatles “Anonymous” 

The songs don’t have to be by the original artist. If you’re submitting a special version or cover of the song, please specify that

Feel free to attach scenarios for your song(s)! They can be as brief or as detailed as you want them to be, but please try to keep it to one paragraph or less for your explanation | Ex. “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance ((Scenario: Five killing tons of enemies. He’s gone mad with anger and glee. The horror of those being slaughtered, seemingly by a teenager)) |

Some lyrics really hit hard, y’know? Similar to the scenario guideline, feel free to submit a song and lyrics from that song that you think would match a character/specific scenario | Ex. “Evil Woman” by Electric Light Orchestra (I think the lyrics, Evil woman how you done me wrong, but now you’re tryin’ to wail a different song, would match Diego’s mixed feelings on Lila if she returns in S3)

It’s not required that you have a scenario/lyrics with your submitted song(s), so no pressure! Some songs just give off good vibes that fit with the atmosphere of the show. You can even submit songs and simply say (This gives off “Character name” vibes)

You can even just name a band! Some bands have tons of bangers that just match the vibes of TUA or of a TUA character

The scenarios don’t have to be serious, they can be odd or fun!

If a song is requested more than once, I will add the amount of times it was requested in parenthesis next to it 

If you see a song on the list that you really like, you can send (+1 for “insert song title here”) and I will add a tally to it

If you see a song on here that does or does not have scenario/lyric(s) and you think “Oh yeah I can imagine a scenario/lyric(s) for this!” go ahead and speak up! If requested, I will add your username to the scenario you created. If you’re not comfortable with having your username next to your scenario, I will simply put you as “Anonymous.” Same thing with the username and “Anonymous” if you want to tack on that a song gives “Character name” vibes | Ex. Song by Artist “username of person who submitted it” (Scenario: blah blah blah) || (Scenario: blah blah blah) by “username” || (Scenario: blah blah blah) by “Anonymous” || (Lyrics: blah blah blah) by “Anonymous” || (This song gives of “Character name” vibes) by “username” |

This will be open until the Season 3 Soundtrack is released (It will be fun to see if any of the songs in this wishlist are actually on the official S3 soundtrack!) 

The guidelines will be updated as the wishlist progresses. Most of the time I won’t reply to the song requests sent through my ask box, but I certainly will add your requested song(s) to the list. If you see that I haven’t added your song(s) after updating the wishlist, please reach out to me. Don’t be afraid to ask me any questions! 

Here’s the Playlist created from the Wishlist

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6QRajb4Nap3hjjs2KcWQYc

Wishlist

Gimmie! Gimmie! Gimmie! by ABBA @feralnumberfive ((Scenario: Five rescuing his siblings))

Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles @feralnumberfive ((This song gives off Vanya vibes)) 

Rich Kids by New Medicine @feralnumberfive ((Scenario: The Hargreeves arrive in 2019 to find that they have been replaced. The Sparrow Academy quickly springs into action and attacks The Umbrella Academy)) 

Lonely by Palaye Royale @feralnumberfive ((Lyrics: | So sick and tired of being alone, so long, farewell, I’m on my own | I feel like these lyrics represent Klaus feeling alone due to his siblings ignoring him and him being a living person haunted by ghosts)) by @feralnumberfive 

Toxic by Britney Spears “Anonymous” ((Scenario: When they are all talking about Reggie))

girls by girl in red “Anonymous” ((Scenario: When Vanya is talking/thinking about Sissy))

WAP by Cardi B “Anonymous” 

Manic Monday by The Bangles “Anonymous” ((Because 4/1/2019 and 11/25/1963 were both Mondays, so the s3 apocalypse should be too))

Just the Two of Us by Grover Washington Jr. @feralnumberfive

Teenagers by My Chemical Romance @feralnumberfive | but really everyone in the UA fandom wants this | ((Scenario: Any fight scene with Five going ham))

Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Tears For Fears @feralnumberfive ((Scenario: Something sad))

Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees @feralnumberfive ((Scenario: The siblings get into deepshit™ and have to fight their way out of it))

Dear Wormwood by The Oh Hellos @feralnumberfive ((Scenario: Evil/Sparrow Five returns back to his family or Five struggles with his killer urges and impulses from his killer DNA))

Bit by Bit by Mother Mother @feralnumberfive

Lay Me Down by The Oh Hellos “Anonymous” ((Lyrics perfectly fit Five: “Fire and brimstone fell upon my ears, as their throats of open graves recited fear, like the bullets of a gun they drove my tears, and my feet to run the hell out of here”//“I was born a restless wayward child”//“I owe it to my brothers to carry them home”))

Vampire Money by My Chemical Romance "Anonymous" ((Gives off Klaus vibes))

Arms Tonite by Mother Mother @burnyouwithacigarettelighter ((Lyrics: | I died in your arms tonight, I slipped through into the afterlife, | Would totally fit anything to do with Ben’s death))

Oh Ana by Mother Mother @burnyouwithacigarettelighter ((Scenario: Any scene with Five just generally being a badass and/or the rest of the siblings!!))

Black Sheep by Metric  “Anonymous” ((Lyrics | Our common goal was waiting for the world to end, now that the truth is just a rule that you can bend you crack the whip, shapeshift and trick, the past again, | Which is SO five and anything about the commission or the apocalypse OR | I’ll send you my love on the wire, lift you up every time, everyone pulls away, from you,” | For luther/the siblings perspective on him.))

Everybody’s Gotta Live by Love @feralnumberfive​ ((Gives off Five vibes and also a bit of the siblings in general))

I’m Gonna Win by Rob Cantor @feralnumberfive ((All of the lyrics match Five so well))

Running In The 90's by Max Coveri/Maurizio De Jorio @latinofireball ((Scenario: For an Umbrella and/or Sparrow family dance))

The Sharpest Lives by My Chemical Romance @fandoms-or-life ((Scenario: Group fight))

Hayloft by Mother Mother @bi-ginny-weasley ((Gives off Five vibes and would be great in a fight sequence)) 

bad idea! by girl in red @pr-ingles 

Silver Lake Queen by Diplomacy @purplegrapefruit ((Scenario: Any woman-being-badass moment, bonus if it's all the girls and Klaus))

Blackbird by The Beatles (accidentally replied without getting your name, sorry about that feel free to reach out to me again :[ ) ((Scenario: I am really intrigued by the Sparrow in the comics who could turn into a flock of crows. I think Blackbird could be a good song for her. Especially since its about the yearning to be free which I think will come to pass with at least some of the Sparrow Academy members. It could be played in a moment when she is considering how trapped she and her team/siblings are under Reginald))

Cold Cold Cold by Cage The Elephant “Anonymous” ((Scenario: Maybe for a fight scene or the end of an episode when everything has gone tits up))

Daddy Issues by The Neighbourhood @b99detectivealpaca ((Scenario: Anything related to Reginald)) 

Footloose by Kenny Loggins “Anonymous” ((Scenario: Dance scene that will inevitably happen))

Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne “Anonymous” ((Scenario: Also for the dance scene that will inevitably happen))

Rät by Penelope Scott @sukker-sugar ((Scenario: Sth related to reggie, and specifically with the lyrics | Experiments and sacrilege in the name of public good | They taught me everything just like a daddy should |))

Time Warp (Cover from CAOS Soundtrack) by Ross Lynch, Jaz Sinclair, Lachlan Watson, and Jonathan Whitesell @theladyfae ((Scenario: A random scene in a club where everyone's dancing to it but then it cuts to the siblings fighting against multiple enemies))

Waiting For The World To End by Mother Mother @feralnumberfive ((Gives off Five vibes and the lyrics match him so well))

1983 by Neon Trees "Anonymous" ((Just gives off Season 3 vibes))

Skyfall by Adele @fudgemutt ((Scenario: For when the whole Umbrella family comes together and works as one, and specifically the lyrics | Let the sky fall, When it crumbles, We will stand tall, Face it all together, At Skyfall | ))

Dirty by Grandson @fudgemutt ((Scenario: An epic Five fight scene, and specifically the lyrics | Do you have enough love in your heart, to go and get your hands dirty? | ))

The Day Before You Came by ABBA "Anonymous"

Tiger by Abba @notmireelname

Tropical Loveland by ABBA @notmireelname

Twisted by Missio @feralnumberfive ((Scenario: Give loses his goddamn mind))

Heart Of Glass (Cover by Miley Cyrus) originally by Blondie @feralnumberfive ((Scenario: Five losing his mind and thinking about his family or something to do with Klaus cause it gives off Klaus vibes)) 

Without Me by Alec Chambers “Anonymous” ((Scenario: Five finally snaps at his family after they continuously blame him for their problems))

Something’s Gotta Give by All Time Low @enjoltairesimp ((Scenario: A badass fight scene, preferably one that includes Diego))

Any songs created by Mother Mother (not a song, just a statement) @enjoltairesimp because it would be amazing 

Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds by The Beatles @enjoltairesimp ((Scenario: A reunion scene with Klaus and Dave)) 

Music Of The Night by Andrew Lloyd Webber (either version from the Musical or Movie) @feralnumberfive ((Scenario: Five either turning to the dark side or being convinced to do something "bad"))

A Good Song Never Dies by Saint Motel @life-needs-abit-of-madness ((Vibe of the song is so good)) 

Hotel California by Eagles Everyone in the UA fandom ((What else do we need to say? S3 will match Vol. 3 Hotel Oblivion of the comics. It's an absolute killer bop that needs to be in S3))

Cold Cold Man by Saint Motel @life-needs-abit-of-madness

La Jolla by Wilbur Soot @sukker-sugar ((Scenario: Either someone dies (but like klaus in s1, they get resurrected) and we see this in the background while they talk to god, or we see the siblings lounging around and talking about what they'd do after the shenanigans™ are over with that in the background ))

When I'm Sixty Four by The Beatles @feralnumberfive ((Something with Five))

Just A Girl by No Doubt @feralnumberfive ((A badass scene of any girl character fighting//bonus if it's Allison or Vanya since they're the only two girls in the Umbrellas))

You're The Devil In Disguise by Elvis Presley @life-needs-abit-of-madness ((Scenario: A fight scene))

You Don't Own Me by SAYGRACE @give-the-boy-a-hug ((Scenario: Someone's walking away after a fight))

Ballroom Blitz by Sweet @feralnumberfive ((This would be soooo good for a fight scene with dancing or a fight scene in general))

Hand Me My Shovel, I'm Going In! By Will Wood and the Tapeworms @feralnumberfive ((Would be awesome for a fight scene))

My Generation by The Who @feralnumberfive ((Another fun song for a fight scene))

Hopelessly Devoted To You by Olivia Newton-John @feralnumberfive ((Either the siblings' or just Luther's feelings towards Reginald))

You’re The Best by Joe Esposito @feralnumberfive ((Scenario: Either Luther, Diego, or even the whole family having some sort of montage of overcoming their issues))

Rumor Has It - Adele @alex-mercerss ((because what better song for Allison to have playing for it, plus I’ve seen it mentioned a few times somewhere))

Show Me How to Move - The Elwins @alex-mercerss ((this is such a fight scene song no matter where you put it))

Really anything off of Let Live and Let Ghosts by Jukebox the Ghost @alex-mercerss​ ((half of this album was literally written about the apocalypse))

2econd 2ight 2eer by Will Wood and the Tapeworms @feralnumberfive ((Could absolutely imagine Five losing control and killing to this song))

As the World Caves In by Matt Maltese “Anonymous” (( I think it would be good where five is having a flash back to the apocalypse or he sees his family die but he cant do anything bc the cube is making his fear come out therefore it is just a hallucination))

I Heard A Rumor by Bananarama @uuhhhhwhat ((Scenario: A scene where Allison is sad and thinking about Ray and/or Claire))

There's a Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered Honey, You Just Haven't Thought of It Yet by Panic! At The Disco "Anonymous" ((Scenario: A Five fight scene))

Are You Satisfied by MARINA "Anonymous" ((could work for anything Luther related because the lyrics describe him so well))

[justgillespie]

Missing (2/?)

Summary: Your next door neighbor, Luke Patterson (a.k.a. your longtime crush) has gone missing, and you think you could help finding him.

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: none!

Author’s Note: Hey, it’s me again! So I’m back. I noticed that I didn’t mention before that the reader is a dancer! So I hope that didn’t bother anyone. And I’m sorry there’s not much in this part, but I’ll try to upload the third part as soon as possible xo

Part 3

•

You came up with a few rules, if you were willing to do this. Rule #1: You would not think of Luke as the boy you have a crush on until you know for sure that he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Rule #2: You were taking Max with you wherever you needed to and whatever you needed to do. Rule #3: You would do as much as you could to find Luke. Rule #4: Find Luke.

The information Tamra gave you was enough for you to wait impatiently for school to be over the next day. The bookclub’s meetings were on Thursdays at 6:00 p.m.

Today was Thursday.

You talked to Hannah at lunch, asking her about the bookclub. She told you about the book they were reading and the social environment, but she didn’t mention the band. You didn’t make any specific questions either, since you didn’t really want to tell her what you were actually doing. Hannah also offered you to take you the library. But you politely declined. You were just taking the bus with Max. For which he complained, later on when school was over and you both were heading to the library on the bus.

“She OFFERED to take us there, in a CAR, and you said no?!”

You rolled your eyes.

You were all dressed in your dance uniform, wearing a comfortable sundress on top of it and some shoes that you randomly picked. And you had your dance bag, seated at your feet. Your dance class was at 6:30, but you weren’t worried about the time. You calculated that if the band had to set up their equipment, then they would definitely be there earlier then the rest of the bookclub members.

“First of all, she offered ME a ride. Not us. She didn’t know I had company.” You said, checking up the watch on your wrist. 5:25 p.m. You looked back at him. “And second of all, if you weren’t too afraid of driving, then maybe, we could’ve given that car of yours some use.”

Max told you that the car parked in his garage was his, and was given to him on his seventeenth birthday, months before you moved to the neighborhood. Since Max was afraid of driving, his mom was the one using the nice car.

“Uh, yeah? Why don’t you try driving then?” He said, cheeks flushed.

“I did. Several times.”

You just weren’t perfect at it yet. Not that you were desperate to drive. Your sister would always drive you wherever you needed to, so what was the rush? You didn’t need a car yet. You just couldn’t ask her to take you to the library today because she had to recover a piano lesson she missed a few days ago.

“Then why-?”

“Oh my gosh, Max, let it go. Tamra’s picking us up once we’re finished. Geez.” You said, frustrated. This guy could complain and argue for hours if he wanted to.

“Sorry.” He said rolling his eyes. “So what are we doing?”

You snapped your head at him. “Didn’t I tell you anything yet?”

“I know it has to do something with Luke, because of what you asked me last night. And that we’re going to the library... Now that I say it out loud, we’re going to that bookclub they play at, right?”

You definitely forgot to explain. Your so focused on getting started with your plan that the only words that came out of your mouth that afternoon when you called him were: “Come with me to the library.” He didn’t asked much in that moment either, so it was on both of you.

“That’s right. How could you just jump in with me without even knowing what I was dragging you to?”

“Because I was waiting for your call. You said you were gonna tell me what you were up to, so I just linked everything to that. You still didn’t explain yourself, by the way.”

So you explained to him. That you were on sort of an adventure/investigation about Luke’s location and that he was your Watson.

“I am Watson?! I gave you most of the information you know now.”

“It was just an expression, Max.”

Soon after, you were both standing in front of the big public library. Once again, you checked the time.

5:37.

“Come on. They’re probably there already...”

“Wait a second.” Max grabbed your arm, stopping you in the middle of the steps. “Luke ran away from home, right?”

“Yes, that’s what Mrs. Patterson said...”

“Well, don’t you think that a performance in a bookclub full of people would be too... I don’t know, noisy? I mean, if he ran away, it means he doesn’t want to be discovered. I don’t think hey will perform today if that’s the case.”

You stared at him for a second before you hit him in the arm.

“Hey! What was th-?!”

“You couldn’t have said that before coming all the way here for nothing?!”

“I just thought of that! And you could’ve thought about it too! Don’t blame it all on me!”

You frowned and walked down the stairs.

“Where are you going?!” Max asked.

“Home. Dance. I don’t know.”

“Don’t be dramatic. We’re already here. We can still do some research. They probably have their information here. I don’t think they would even let them perform if not. And besides, we don’t even know if I’m right about before.”

You turned back to him, this time, embarrassed. You were being a little dramatic.

And maybe a little too optimistic.

No, you stopped yourself before any negative thought clouded your mind, no one’s ever too optimistic.

And you couldn’t back up from the investigation in the first day. That was basically breaking rule #5.

You walked back to Max and without saying anything, you walked into the library together.

As much as you wanted Max to be wrong, he actually was right: the guys didn’t show up. And maybe it was also because of what Max said, but it was not the reason the people at the library told you. You asked about them and most of the workers frowned immediately at what you said, either confused or mad.

“Those guys aren’t allowed to play here. They just showed up a couple of times, but trust me, they won’t come back.” The librarian told you.

Therefore, Max’s backup idea didn’t work either.

Ten minutes later, you and Max sat on the steps outside the library, not knowing what to do next.

Your watch ticked 5:50. Tamra said she would be there at six.

You said hi to Hannah when she got there. She asked if you were going in.

“Not really.” You sighed, and decided to tell her the truth. “I came to do some research on that band... It’s named Sunset Curve. Tamra told me they played here the day she came with you.”

“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot that happened.” She chuckled. “I didn’t come to the meeting prior to that, so I wasn’t aware that a band would be playing in our bookclub. That’s why I forgot to tell you about them, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Did you get to talk to them?”

“A little bit. They stayed for the whole meeting and then ate almost all the snacks on the table. We just talked about music for a bit. Well, Tamra did. I was just standing next to her having no idea of what were they talking about... But if I see them today I can try to get more information, if you want.” Hannah offered when she noticed the disappointment in your face.

“They’re not coming today. Or ever, again. I already asked. But thanks, Hannah, I really appreciate it.”

She smiled at you sweetly and squeezed your shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll get something soon. See you guys around.”

You checked your watch for the hundredth time now. 6:04.

“When you said that Luke’s band plays at a bookclub.” You said to Max some minutes after Hannah left. “I thought you meant they play here OFTEN. You didn’t mention they played here TWICE before and weren’t even allowed to do so!”

“I didn’t know that either! I just supposed...”

“You supposed?!”

“Well, yes! I heard the other day at school... some of the Math Club members attend this bookclub and they said that Luke’s band performed there so I just guessed they might just play here often!”

“I can’t believe you sometimes.” You felt mad. But tried to calm down. You would get nothing by reproaching him.

You decided to stay quite. Otherwise, you might yell at him.

“So what are we doing now?” Max spoke after a while.

“I don’t know.” You said honestly.

Another silence.

And then, you had the most simple idea, which, you thought, you should’ve come up with way earlier.

“Can’t you ask a friend if they know more about Luke’s bandmates?”

Max blushed, and you thought that was suspicious. “Don’t think so. My friends are... busy.”

You frowned. “All the time?”

You said, more than asked.

“Y-yeah...”

“Every single one of them?”

“Yes, Y/N.” He rolled his eyes, but his nervousness was still visible.

“Max.”

He looked at you sideways and then sighed. “Fine, I... don’t have many friends at school. I don’t make much of an effort to make more, either.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m just not the social type.”

“But you have friends?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I have friends. Well... one friend. His name is Ian. We’ve been classmates since first grade. And we moved together to the same high school.”

“What about the guys from the neighborhood?”

“Well yeah, them too, I guess. We’re just not too close.”

“Like Luke.”

Max scoffed. “Yeah, with the only difference that Luke could be close with everyone if he wanted to. I am not close with anyone because, again, I’m not exactly sociable.”

“But you could be.” You insisted.

“I guess. It’s not that easy, you know...?” He then gave you a look and shook his head. “You don’t know. You are sociable. Like Luke.”

You weren’t sure of what to say, so you just stayed quiet.

“Speaking of which, why are you so invested on finding him, anyway?”

It was your turn to blush, but you were saved by Tamra, who stopped the car in front of you.

“Let’s go.” You said, and he followed you.

So today’s mission didn’t go exactly as planned, but you had lots of clues. It was impossible not to find anything. This day had to end on a good note.

Tamra left you at your dance studio before going back home with Max. You told him you would call him later.

During your dance class, you managed to distract yourself for a bit. But you came back to trying to come up with something as soon as you got out of class.

“I’ll use your landline! Call me when dinner’s ready!” You said once Tamra parked in the driveway.

You said hi to your parents and ran to your room to pick your notebook and then go to your sisters’ room.

So you did come up with something.

You decided to call every kid from the block that knew Luke, and try to get more information. Your last alternative was to go to the Patterson’s house and talk to Emily herself, although you were kind of nervous at that idea and you weren’t too hopeful about it since Max mentioned she didn’t know much about Luke’s band.

“All she knows is he has a band and that she doesn’t like the idea.” He’d said that afternoon.

You took the phone and dialed the first number: Amy Campbell.

You decided to go straight to the point with everyone, just to not lose any time and call Max as fast as possible to update him.

“Hello?” You heard Amy on the other line.

“Hey Ames! It’s Y/N-.”

“Y/N! You’re coming to my pool party, right?”

You blinked. A pool party?

Something clicked in your head. Amy’s pool party, of course. It was this weekend. You forgot to ask permission to your parents.

“Of course I’m going.” You said, even though you weren’t actually sure. Amy cheered.

“Awesome! Almost everyone already confirmed they’re coming, except for... Luke.” She said, and you rapidly took the opportunity to ask her about what you originally called for.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you about him, um, don’t you happen to know anything about his band?”

“Oh my gosh, are you helping to find him? That sounds so much fun!”

You faked a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, I don’t know much, but... I saw them perform in front of this club once, when I was going out for dinner with my family. We stopped to watch them along with some other people. Before they were kicked out. Oh, I also know his parents don’t love the idea of him on a band.”

“Do you remember the name of the club?”

“Oh, not really... but I can tell you it was close to that restaurant... Delish Japan? Yeah, I think that’s how it’s called.”

You wrote that down.

You thanked her and hung up. So your first call went well.

Although the rest of the calls were pretty similar. Most of the kids said they saw the band playing either in front or in the back of different clubs. One of them mentioned they saw them play at another bookclub.

“Any news?” Max said once he answered your call.

“Kind of.” You checked the names of the clubs written in your notebook. “Almost every kid said they saw the band playing in some club or bookclub. It seems that they do that, without asking.”

“You mean playing in places people might see them?”

“Yes. They know it’s not easy to book a gig at any place. Especially since they don’t have a manager and they’re just teenagers...” You sighed. “This information is pretty much useless, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t want to say it but... yes.” You groaned while Max kept talking. “I mean I guess we could go check those clubs but one, we’re minors and two, they just set their stuff, play and then they get kicked out. I don’t think any of those places have their personal information.”

“My other idea was to go and talk to Mrs. Patterson but... I don’t know if it’ll be useful. I don’t know what else could I do anyway.”

“Me neither.”

You already thought of something else, actually.

You sighed again, this time more dramatically.

“If someone around here at least went to the same school Luke does... That way we could ask some people about him and his band...”

“Come on.” You could practically hear Max rolling his eyes. “I don’t wanna do that.”

“Max, this could go faster if only you took the courage to talk to people. I’m not asking you to go out with them. Just ask them about Sunset Curve...”

“Y/N. I told you before. It’s not that easy for me-.”

“Y/N! I’ve been calling you for half an hour now! Come down for dinner!”

You heard your mom yelling from downstairs and you froze. You said you were going the first time you heard her but you didn’t realize it’s been half an hour since then.

“I’m coming!” You yelled back, and then said goodbye to Max.

You frowned while jogging down the stairs. You told Tamra to tell you when dinner was ready. Now your mom would be mad at you.

After your mom reproaching that she called you “a million times”, you defending yourself that you asked your sister to call you and her saying she never actually agreed to doing so, your dad stopped you. Silence flooded the room for a few minutes.

“Tamra told us you went to the library to do some research on Luke.” Your dad talked. “Did you find anything?”

“Not really.” You said, finally letting the disappointment get into you. “Any of our plans worked.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll get something soon.” Your dad squeezed your hand and you smiled at him.

“Let us know if you need any help.” Your mom added.

You slowly nodded.

When you finished your food, you decided to stay and just listen to your parents’ conversation.

“Are you done?” Tamra asked then, and you frowned.

“Why?”

“Just- Yes or no?”

“Yes, I’m done.”

“Good. Come with me.”

You and Tamra thanked for the food and she guided you to her room. You sat on her bed while she started looking through the mess.

“What are you doing?” You asked, and she didn’t respond.

“Here” You heard her say before stretching down to take a purse from the floor.

She then went through it and took a piece of paper out of it, which she gave to you and you looked at it closely. A phone number was written on it.

“It’s one of the band members’ phone number. Not sure who, but he was flirting with me the day I went to the bookclub with Hannah.”

Your face beamed.

“You’re not gonna need it?”

“Pff, no. I have a boyfriend, remember? And he was not my type anyway”.

Actually, you forgot she had a boyfriend. They started dating just a few months ago but Tamra hasn’t taken him to the house yet.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?!” You said.

“I forgot I had it.” She shrugged.

You were too excited to get mad at her. You hugged her and asked to use her landline again. She agreed and left you there.

As fast as you could, you took the phone and dialed the number.

[morizoras-cave]

Manners (Request)

Sherlock x gn!child!reader, John x gn!child!reader

Genre: fluff

Request Description: Thank you for saying you’ll write for Sherlock, I appreciate it :) Could you do one where all the peeps are round for dinner (Sherly, Mycroft, Greg, John ect) and John invites his cousin round (like age 9) and she’s just like REALLY polite and even when Sherlock says something really mean from one of his deductions she just brush’s it off and forgives him for it and even Mycroft likes her (PURELY PLATONIC PEOPLE) and she asks to see the brains in the fringe and Sherlock is ECSTATIC

Warnings: none really

(A/N): the only warning here is really that i dont remember the sherlock characters THAT well. and ive totally forgotten who sherly is, so this fic must live without her hahaha

“Fuck,” John mumbled, looking at you at the entrance to 221B Baker Street. He had to take care of you today, and while he usually loved taking care of you, his niece, today was not the day he had expected. 

You were the most delightful and polite girl, your mannerisms just made everyone around you smile. But John did not want you to meet the careless, brutally honest, and genius Sherlock. But today, the one damned day where he had to take care of you, there was a dinner with Sherlock, Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft (the latter had with pleasure paid for it all).

“Language,” you said, giving him a warning glare. The action was enough to make him smile. His heart melted.

“Let’s go inside then,” he said reluctantly, deciding that there was nothing he could do about it. 

You entered the home, eyes glittering as you saw all the weird and unconventional items stacked on the shelves and furniture. You held your admiration, and politely brushed your shoes off on the mat, before taking them off. You then placed them in order, even taking the time to lightly push the others’ strewn-about shoes in a straight line.

John watched you with a smile. He had no idea how his aunt had produced such a person as you, but he was thankful for it. 

From the kitchen loud clattering and sizzling sounds came. Sherlock popped his head out, gaze first on John, then lowering to you. John took a deep breath, knowing he had to introduce you now. 

“This is Y/n. They’ve just turned-”

“9 years old..” Sherlock mumbled, looking a you with narrowed eyes. John sighed. You gave the sociopath a toothless smile.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m actually 9 and a half,” you walked up with him and then reached your tiny hand up for him to shake it. Sherlock looked at you, and you had no idea what he was thinking, but you hoped it was about shaking your hand. 

“Lower your hand, Y/n,” Sherlock said and disappeared behind the doorway to the kitchen. You lowered your hand slowly. John was already regretting bringing you over. “A nine year old’s hands? That’s an enormous number of bacteria I could gladly live without.”

“Nine and a half year old!” you called after him, but remained positive. It was his decision to not shake your hand, and it was your duty to respect that. 

You stepped further into the living room - or what was normally the living room, now just a room stuffed with a dining table that was too big for it. 

“I told you all we should’ve done this at a restaurant. Or my house. Or anywhere else, really,” Mycroft, you guessed, said from his place at the table. He had a very cat-like voice, you thought.

“Yes, well, now we’re here,” Mrs. Hudson (whom you’d met several times before, and who was always delighted to give you homemade cookies) argued. Just as she finished, you made your way up on your chair, greeting the guests with a smile. 

Currently seated was you, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Greg (the police officer John had told you about), and John who was settling down beside you. Sherlock and Molly were in the kitchen, and by the sound of it, they were making soup. 

“Aw, who’s this?” Greg asked, pointing at you. 

“Y/n. Y/n Watson reporting for duty!” you said proudly. The people around the table aww’ed. 

“They’re a charmer, huh?” Mycroft commented. John nodded at this.

“Soup’s coming in! Soup’s coming in!” Molly warned, carrying a rather heavy looking pot into the living room, holding it with some cloth. She placed it down with a ‘plunk’, and then sighed in relief. “Gosh, I thought I was gonna drop it all.” 

“You were statistically very likely to drop it, you’re very lucky,” Sherlock said as he entered, sitting down on his chair at the end of the table. Molly flushed and sat down as well. 

“Dig in!” she said and everyone did, hoisting some of the boiling-hot pea soup into their bowls. You made sure to compliment Molly on the soup, to which she smiled with a smile that mostly said wait-why-is-there-a-nine-year-old-here.

You kept a proper conversation with everyone at all times, making sure to bring in the quieter ones. Meanwhile, John was staring at you in adoration because you were simply overbearingly cute, but also because in his head it was very unlikely that you came from the same gene pool, yet here you were.

“She’s quite polite, this one. Children these days usually have no discipline, no manners,” Mycroft said at one point, and from what you had gathered throughout the evening, that was the closest thing to a compliment you would get from him. 

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but I think that kids my age can be very polite. Maybe you just don’t know the right kids!” you said, sipping your soup. Mycroft smiled and shook his head. Sherlock, who was sitting at the end of the table, soup untouched, seemed unamused. 

“Kids are dumb. Nine year olds are dumb. Gosh, people are dumb too, and you kids are just dumber versions of already dumb people,” he said finally.

Everyone at the table turned their heads towards you, wondering if you would snap and start yelling or crying. Instead, you snickered, putting your spoon down. 

“That’s a very bold statement, Mr. Holmes,” was all you said, and although you wanted to say more, you couldn’t stop snickering. Sherlock watched you, and you saw his face change. You couldn’t quite tell what it meant, but he didn’t retort. 

Slowly, people fell back into conversation, and so did you. The dinner was very pleasant, and you were happy to see that you had made a good impression. 

“So, Sherlock, you started cooking soup these days?” Greg pointed with his spoon to the pot, now only a quarter or so full. The noise of his spoon against the metal let out a hollow ‘clunk’. 

“No, no, I was in there supervising. Making sure Ms. Molly didn’t mess with my refrigerated brain.” 

At this, you gasped. 

“You have a brain?” you asked breathlessly, mouth wide open, and your hands on your cheeks in shock. Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes, I do.”

“Can I see the brain, Mr. Holmes? Please, can I see your refrigerated brain, pretty please?” you begged, curiosity and adventurousness getting the better of you. 

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock came first, with a small smile, that he didn’t seem aware was on his face: “Yes, of course!”

You tried to control yourself and not run into the kitchen, but your excitement was still very visceral. You were bouncing about, unable to stand still, and doing a little victory dance every once in a while. 

Sherlock opened the refrigerator theatrically, the light turning on and shining on you, as your eyes landed on the human brain. 

“Wooooooooow,” you squealed, “that’s so cool- I mean, that’s very impressive..” you could hardly contain your excitement, but Sherlock couldn’t either. No one was every excited about his brain (the one in the fridge, of course, the other was often a topic of interest). 

Sherlock then proceeded to give a full anatomical tour of the brain, taking it out and showing it to you up close, letting you hold it, and telling you all the facts. Meanwhile, John was having a mental breakdown, trying not to look. He knew very well that he would get in trouble with his aunt for this. 

“This is the frontal lobe. If you damage it, you become like me,” Sherlock said morbidly, showing the front part of the pink nerve. 

“That doesn’t sound all too bad, Mr. Holmes. You seem pretty cool,” you said passively, still fully entranced by the brain. Sherlock, however, took full note of this, eyes snapping to you immediately. He smiled. 

“Alright, I think it’s about time me and Y/n head home!” John said when he’d finally had enough. You were too polite to protest, so you just quite literally bowed to everyone and then left with John. 

When John came home later that night, after dropping you off back at his aunt’s place, Sherlock was still awake, brain in hand. 

“Uh, doesn’t that go back in the fridge?” John asked. 

“In a moment,” Sherlock responded. Then, “Why don’t they come over more? The kid.”

John looked at him in confusion. “Y/n? Why would I bring them over more?” 

Sherlock sighed, turning his attention from the brain. “I feel like I could give them good anatomical knowledge. Perhaps, teach them a bit about science and such.” 

There was a moment of silence and then John scoffed. 

“You really just want me to bring Y/n over, because they think you’re cool?” 

“That’s not at all what I said, John!” Sherlock protested, moving to put the brain back in the freezer. John sauntered off into his bedroom. 

“Whatever!” he said, and then the conversation was over.

But then, slowly, he started bringing you over more, each time letting Sherlock and you have your own weird conversations on life, people, biology and everything else. You become very rich in knowledge of science and anatomy, and in return Sherlock’s ego went through the roof. 

It was a fair trade, you decided, and you loved every moment of it. 

___________________________

Tag List:

@hera-the-writer @marvel-madness @40srogcrs @whatthefuckimbisexual @snarky–starky @garbage-potato @lozzypoz321 @rororo06 @shady80smusicsingercolor @ireadfanficforfun​ @deephideoutmilkshake​ @rae-is-typing​ @sophs-library​ @herecomesthewriterwitch​ @alicedanganh​ 

[ofcartographers]

on weathered shore

pairing: Johnny Silverhand x Female V

warnings: implied/referenced child pornography, implied/referenced sexual assault — to avoid, skip the paragraphs denoted by 「」

spoilers: The Hunt, They Won’t Go When I Go, Sweet Dreams, Dirty Biz

summary: Johnny Silverhand was many things — washed-up rockstar, former terrorist, womanizer extraordinaire, and occasional dickhead — but one thing he wasn’t was a heartless bastard. Sure, he and V weren’t exactly best chooms and exchanged heated barbs most of the time, but Johnny would never undeservedly give her shit. Especially not for something like this.

read on ao3 or ↴

Johnny Silverhand’s interest was piqued when the familiar lilt of “Welcome to Clouds” reached his ears. Oh ho! Interesting, he sneered into existence, nestling himself into the worn leather chair at the end of the hallway. His little merc was too preoccupied with the blue-haired receptionist to notice him making an appearance.

Materializing a lit cigarette in hand, he took a few drags and waited for his ‘brain-dead host’ to finally take notice of him. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised V was here to “get her bean flicked” given how much of a raging bitch she had been lately. Chick was wound tighter than the stick up that one ‘Saka scum’s ass. She needed to get laid. Badly.

Thanking the receptionist, said woman was near giddy with excitement as she made her way down the hallway towards Johnny — until she spotted him. “What?” She ground out through grit teeth, wrenching open the nearby locker with more force than necessary, her mood now soured.

Johnny almost felt offended that a mere glimpse of his ruggedly handsome face would sour her mood just so — keyword: almost. “Nothin’,” he drawled innocently, to which V let out a sharp bark of laughter — she didn’t believe him and he couldn’t blame her. “‘M just surprised,” he began nonchalantly, reveling in how tense V’s back had suddenly become in anticipation of his jab at her. “Sweet lil’ V visitin’ this kinda place?”

V’s gaze dropped to him, a saccharine smile spreading across her lips, “How ‘bout you go an’ fuck yourself?” She suggested sweetly, flipping him off for good measure.

Unperturbed, Johnny adjusted his aviators to perch on the tip of his nose so he could meet V’s gaze. “Don’t need ‘ta, princess. ‘Specially with you doin’ it for the both of us,” he leered, rivaling her saccharine smile with his own.

Slamming the locker shut, V whipped around to face him, pointing a manicured finger in his face. “Fuck off, Johnny,” she seethed, jamming her unoccupied hand into her jacket pocket, only to retrieve a telltale blue pill.

Johnny balked. Shit. “Oh, come on—” he began to grumble, as V waggled the Omega blocker in his face before popping it into her mouth and dry swallowing with a grimace. Within a few seconds he could feel his conscience beginning to fade as his body began to fizzle in and out of existence. “Cunt!” He managed to yell out, before feeling himself fade into nothingness.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he awoke to the darkness of V’s apartment, her small form curled up in that ridiculous position of hers on the edge of the bed, sound asleep. Peering over her sleeping form, Johnny couldn’t discern whether or not she had gotten her needs satisfied , so to speak. Her body felt heavy with exhaustion and she was sleeping soundly. And well, Johnny wasn’t sure about her, but he always slept like a baby after a good fuck.

---

Not two weeks later did Johnny find himself blinded by the neon pink signage of Clouds.

V let out an annoyed groan when she spotted his reclined form in what was sure to become his usual seat. “You gonna behave?” She asked pointedly, sparing him a glance as she placed her belongings in the nearby locker.

“Scout’s honor,” Johnny beamed, holding his organic hand up in a three figured salute.

“Bullshit!” V snorted, immediately calling his bluff, “You were never a boy scout, ya gonk.”

“Ah. Got me there,” he smiled sheepishly, feigning innocence.

There was a pause as V casted a cursory glance at Johnny, the Omega blockers in hand. With a weary sigh, she hesitantly placed the bottle in the locker before closing its door with a gentle click. Spinning on her heel, she stared down at him with crossed arms. “Don’t make me regret this,” she hissed; Please, begged her mind.

Johnny scoffed, “Relax, princess. Ain’t nothin’ I seen before.” This earned him a withering glare from the now-seething woman. Reflexively, he raised his palms in a yielding manner, hoping to mollify her. “I ain’t gonna peek!” He bellowed, running an exasperated hand through his dark locks. “Christ, V! Why the fuck would I watch you when there’s a bunch’a whores here?”

A brief look of hurt flashed across her face before she grimaced and sniffed indignantly. Turning on her heel, V stomped away from him. “Asshole!” She hissed under her breath, retreating to her designated room.

Rolling his eyes, Johnny scoffed. “Cunt!” He retorted immaturely, knowing full well V couldn’t hear him. Whatever! He thought with a huff, jumping to his feet. He wasn’t going to let that bitch ruin his fun — especially not when he had front-row seats to best free show Night City had to offer: depraved sex.

---

It wasn’t until her third trip to Clouds that Johnny began to notice a pattern.

Since he was true to his word for not making an unwelcome appearance during her last romp, V decided to forgo the Omega blockers completely; though the threat of still taking them loomed in the air.

Johnny wasn’t planning to peep on her, but after being subjected to 15-minutes of God-awful lazrpop that was blaring mind-numbingly loud in the lobby, Johnny was desperate to be anywhere but there. Sure, he could’ve simply retreated back into her headspace where he would’ve remained unaware of both his and her surroundings, but where was the fun in that? Besides, curiosity was beginning to get the better of him the more he thought about what V was like in the sack.

He could feel his imagination beginning to run wild as he tried to paste a scene together with bits and pieces of her previous sexual encounters he’d seen from her fleeting memories. Materializing in her designated room, he wasn’t quite prepared for this. What he saw instead made him feel something awful deep in his chest.

In the center of the bed was V, curled up into a tiny ball, her shoulders wracking with heavy sobs as the doll rubbed soothing circles into her heaving back. “I-I-I-I n-n-nailed him t-to it a-an’ an’—” V tried to gasp out between hiccupping breaths, being too overwrought with shuddering sobs to continue. The doll — Skye, he vaguely remembers — held the trembling woman in her arms, murmuring soothing words and kisses into the crown of her head.

Fuck, Johnny nearly uttered aloud, realization dawning on him. She was talking about Joshua Stephenson and his fucked up “last request” of having V play the role of his executioner in his crucifixion. That shit was grim, even for Johnny.

And then it clicked.

「 The first time she went to Clouds — for pleasure, not business — was not long after V had taken care of the father and son XBD duo whose specialty was children. Johnny could remember the white knuckled grip she held on her pistol as she dug barrel harder into the son’s temple as he began to babble incessantly — much to his father’s chagrin — about the other XBDs they had and that he wasn’t sure which victim V was talking about. 」

It was then he could feel something snap in her as she pulled the trigger and was left staring coldly into the lifeless eyes of the son, blood slowly seeping from his bullet wound as his father’s wails permeated the air. He too shared the same fate not long after, too far gone in his hysteria to even put up a fight.

V had remained eerily collected as she silently rifled through their XBD collection, searching for the raws that Regina Jones had requested. Johnny hadn’t dared to make an appearance or say a word — it was unsettling how mechanically she went about the rest of the studio and how oddly calm she was reporting to the Watson fixer of what had gone down; almost as if she was in a fugue of some sort.

「 The second time was immediately after her massive fuckup of landing herself in a scav haunt, stripped bare of her weapons and clothes. Johnny would never admit it, but at the time he was scared out of his goddamn mind — helpless to watch as the scavs perversely divested her of her clothes with both vulgar hands and eyes lasciviously roving over her form, before tossing her into the icy bath like she was already a fucking corpse. 」

And what had he done? Retreated to his old ways and acted like a dick when she awoke — called her “Night City’s dumbest merc” despite the look of abject fear, which quickly faded to hurt, in her eyes.

Armed with nothing but her mantis blades and Johnny at her six, they somehow managed to make it out alive, despite their stacked odds of 12 armed scavs to one naked, agitated merc. They were on such an adrenaline high that Johnny didn’t even blink at her declaration of going to Clouds. After all, what better way to feel alive than a good near-death-experience fuck?

A choked sob broke him out of his reverie. Sparing one last glance at his distraught merc, Johnny glitched himself out of the room, reappearing on the leather armchair from earlier. The awful feeling was back in his chest and he could almost put a name to it. Shame? He fleetingly thought, before grimacing and pulling out a much-needed cigarette.

Taking a long drag, he exhaled through grit teeth. “Fuck!” He let out a frustrated growl, slamming his fist into the arm of the chair. Johnny Silverhand was many things — washed-up rockstar, former terrorist, womanizer extraordinaire, and occasional dickhead — but one thing he wasn’t was a heartless bastard. Sure, he and V weren’t exactly best chooms and exchanged heated barbs most of the time, but Johnny would never undeservedly give her shit. Especially not for something like this.

It hurt to know that V didn’t think she could trust him on intimate matters such as this. That she thought so lowly of him that he would mock her for being human. After seeing how small and fragile she had looked earlier, he wanted nothing more than to scoop her into his arms in a tight embrace, with a fierce promise of zeroing the fucker that hurt her. “Shit,” he groaned, scrubbing his face with a worrying palm. She was growing on him — he actually cared about her.

He was chain smoking by the time V exited the room; a habit of his whenever he was overwrought with nerves — or in this case: guilt. Plucking her things from the nearby locker, V sighed suddenly, turning to shoot him a quirked brow. What is it? Her expression read.

Johnny glanced up at her, pretending not to notice her reddened nose or the puffy state of her eyes. “S’nothin’,” he mumbled, tossing the remains of his cigarette to the ground, crushing it with the sole of his boot.

Before V could open her mouth to retort, Johnny was up out of his seat and glitching down the hallway, desperate for fresh air — all these newfound emotions were stifling. Slightly winded, she caught up with him in the elevator, though it wasn’t like he could operate it anyways. “What’s up with you?” She asked, her tone void of aggression for once — a hint of genuine concern in her voice.

Luckily, her ringing holo saved him from having to fumble for a reply. “River,” she answered hesitantly, casting a furtive glance at Johnny, knowing the mere mention of the cop’s name put her cohabitant in a foul mood.

“V, hey. I need your help.”

---

As soon as the Trauma Team’s AV was up and out of sight, Johnny could feel a wave of exhaustion wash over V — though he knew she wouldn’t let it show and instead put on her brave façade, like she always did. Not here, he could hear her repeating to herself, like a mantra.

The drive back to V’s apartment was uncomfortably silent, despite the blare of the radio and the buzzing of Night City nightlife. Johnny was grateful that V had decided to take Jackie’s ARCH this time, giving the ex-rocker an excuse not to make an appearance. Though he doubted she wanted any company or interaction right now, with how white-knuckled her grip was on the handlebars and how tightly her jaw was clenched.

Upon crossing the threshold of her apartment, V hastily began to divest herself of her clothing and gear, eager for a shower — eager to clean herself of the filth of Edgewood Farm. Johnny gave her privacy and made himself scarce during her undressing and shower, only to reappear when she looked ready to head out the door.

“‘M goin’ to Clouds,” she mumbled dazedly, grabbing a jacket from the closet and slipping it on with trembling fingers. As she turned and made her way to the door, Johnny suddenly appeared, blocking her path.

Without his trademark aviators, his face appeared more severe than usual. “V…” He began softly, his tone serious.

“What?” She looked up at his face, refusing to meet his gaze directly. Her eyes were wide and glossy, the slightest tremble in her lip.

“It’s okay.”

“W-What?” She chuckled nervously, hysterical laughter beginning to bubble in her throat.

“It’s okay,” Johnny repeated firmly, his earnest eyes boring into panicked ones. Gripping her by the shoulders, he pulled her into an embrace; his cold, metallic hand rubbing soothing circles into the small of her back.

Immediately he could feel the levee break as she crumpled bonelessly into his arms, her back beginning to wrack with sobs. Carefully, Johnny lowered their entangled forms gently to the floor, moving her small frame to cradle her protectively in his lap.

She was crying uncontrollably now, desperately clutching at the front of his shirt as if it were her lifeline, her small fingers tangling in his dog tags. Her face, wet with hot tears, burrowed further into his neck as he  murmured soothing words into her hair, his lips occasionally pressing a sweet kiss into her crown.

“I got you.”

[musicprincess1990]

Sherlolly Week, Day 6

“Just Tell Me When to Cough”

Ok, almost there!  My day 7 contribution is gonna be my ILY Anniversary fic, so this is the last new one.  For now.  😉

*

“Okay!” Sherlock appeared behind John, making his way to the door.  Molly’s throat closed at the state of him, in a rumpled shirt and a dressing gown, unshaven and probably unbathed, pale and thin and still more gorgeous than he had any right to be.  “Fully equipped ambulance, Molly can examine me on the way to save time.  Ready to go, Molly?”

“Er, well—”

“Just tell me when to cough,” he interrupted, raising his eyebrows and giving a little smirk that made her blush.  “Hope you remembered my coat,” he added, pushing past them and toward the waiting ambulance.

Molly stumbled for a moment, trying to make sense of everything.  She glanced up nervously at John, who was scowling at Sherlock’s back.  “Sorry, I didn’t know that you were going to be here.  I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.”

“Sherlock’s using again,” John growled.

Her stomach dropped to her shoes.  “Oh, God… um… a-are you sure?”

“No, it’s Sherlock, of course I’m not sure!” he snapped, still glaring at the detective in question.  He exhaled swiftly then muttered, “Just check him out.”

Molly floundered a bit again, then gave a nod before turning and making her way to the ambulance.  With each step, her anxiety lessened while her anger mounted.  She ground her teeth together, forcing the most neutral expression she could manage.  Sherlock was already inside, shedding the dressing gown and rolling up his sleeves.  Molly averted her eyes as she got in, avoiding looking at him at all costs, until she slammed the doors shut behind her.

“Right, then, shall we?”

Finally looking at him properly, she saw all the tells plain as day. Bloodshot eyes, dark bags underneath, and countless little pockmarks on the insides of his forearms.  He was pale as death, and the low light in the ambulance made the shadows under his eyes look even darker.

“Molly?”

In two strides, Molly was directly in front of him, and her hand collided sharply with the side of his stubbled face.  As he stumbled back and collapsed onto the gurney, she realized just how bad it was, and she nearly slapped him again.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she shouted.

“You slapped me!” he shot back.

“You’re lucky I didn’t do worse, you selfish bastard!  How could you do this?! Again?!  And you better not say it’s for another case, because dammit, no case is worth it!!”

He rolled his eyes.  “Honestly, Mol—”

This time, she did slap him again.  “Explain.  From the beginning, and don’t you dare leave anything out, or I swear to God, I will take you to rehab myself, plans be damned!  I will drive you there, push you out the back, honk the horn, and drive off, because at this moment, it’s more than you deserve!”

When she finished her tirade, she closed her eyes and took two deep breaths.  Her hand shook with fury, and she could hardly stand to look at him.  After a longer silence than she expected from him, she opened her eyes.

He was staring at her, his face the picture of remorse.  Molly wanted to find a trace of falsehood, a hint of manipulation, anything to justify slapping him again… and found none. He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back and forth unseeingly, before shooting up to meet hers again.

“‘Go to hell, Sherlock,’” he said in a low voice.  “That’s the last thing Mary said to me, on a video she had arranged to be sent, in the event of her death.  She knew it would break John, and that he would need to be saved.  But the only way to save John Watson… is to make him save me.”

Molly sank onto the gurney beside him, torn between wanting to comfort him, and wanting to call him a liar.  But she knew better.  She could see the love he felt—for Mary, for John, and for little Rosie—and knew he wouldn’t stop until he finished… whatever this was.  Sherlock Holmes would go to hell and back to save the ones he loved. And Mary had been right.  John was a stubborn git, and he would never acknowledge that he needed saving.  But he would save Sherlock, even with all his anger and grief, because deep down, she knew John loved him.

“Promise me,” she said finally, “that this is the last time.  Because I can’t take it anymore.  I can’t take knowing that you might… just promise me.”

His hand closed around hers, his fingers strong even as they trembled. “I promise.”

Molly looked in his eyes, seeing him as she always had, and nodded. “What do you need?”

He smiled.  “You.”

[inglourious-imagines]

The Only One (Lewis Nixon)

Requested by: @dontfearthereaper-09

Summary: You're Colonel Sink's granddaughter and you're helping out with paperwork - you eventually fall in love with Lewis Nixon and start dating. However, every relationship has its ups and downs.

Prompt: a requested one - I wish I'd never met you.

Author's Note: I struggled so hard with this and I'm not proud of it at all, but hope it is what you wanted. A big thank you goes to for @alienoresimagines and her great help as always!

Taglist: @alienoresimagines @teenmagazines @meteora-fc @eugenesmorphine @band-of-brothers-cz @real-fans  @not-john-watsons-blog @tealaquinn @ok-roemanov @mrseasycompany @punkgeekchic @wexhappyxfew @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @rayofshanshine @mavysnavy @easynix @stressedinadress @georgeluzwarmhugs @easy-company-tradition @immrsronaldspeirs @snafus-peckuh @curraheewestandalone @warrior-healer @justamadgirlinabox @happyveday

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.

.

"He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began." - Anna Karenina, L. Tolstoj

Y/N had never in her life shooted from a rifle or even held it in her innocent hands. She had never known combat, real combat, where men kill and die. She had never endured real physical pain.

And still, Y/N was standing in the middle of Camp Toccoa during the hot summer days of 1942 with a huge grin on her face. She finally persuaded her grandfather to let her join the paratroopers. Well, she was there to help out with paperwork mainly, to be there at hand for the intelligence officers, but she also managed to pull a few strings so she will be undergoing the combat training like every other soldier even though she's not allowed to go and fight in France.

The first weeks were exhausting - physically and mentally - with the combat training Y/N volunteered for. She constantly felt like she's at the verge of giving up and going home. 

But Y/N didn't and neither will she. Even though it was the hardest thing she'd ever done in her life, it seemed right. This is where Y/N Sink belonged.

But thank God it wasn't just exercise, work and signing documents. One evening, when everything was finished for the day, her grandfather Sink took her with him to a certain celebration, more like an occasion to get drunk and forget that a war is going on just across an ocean. 

It was certainly the most eventful night during her stay in Camp Toccoa, Georgia. Y/N lost her grandfather nearly 10 minutes after they walked in the pub. She immediately befriended two guys - George Luz and Joe Liebgott. It seemed like they'd known each other for years. The soldiers heard all about the mysterious woman that had been helping out in their training camp weeks ago now but never really got the chance to talk to her.

George introduced her to the rest of his friends within Easy Company and they spend the night together laughing, downing shots one after another, dancing and joking around. Y/N felt relaxed and genuiely unworried that night so when they were told to break it up and get some sleep for tomorrow, it suddenly saddened her. The Easy Company boys were the most welcoming, kind and funny men Y/N'd met during her stay and she was sure that she's not gonna have a chance to talk to them like that night for a long time.

There was a soldier waiting for her outside of the pub to escort her into her room but Y/N kindly told him to fuck off and he made sure to be quickly on his way. 

So there she was again, standing under the starry night in Georgia, a warm summer breeze dancing through her hair while she struggled a bit to remain on her feet due to all the alcohol flowing in her veins. 

"Have a trouble finding your way, Miss Sink?" a deep voice filled her ears and Y/N jumped a bit on her spot as she didn't see him coming from behind.

"I'm perfectly fine, soldier." she tried to answer with a firm steady voice but a quiet giggle escaped her lips.

"I can see that. Let me help you there, Miss." he offered his help kindly, smirking. The Moon was illuminating his face making his hair appear darker than the night itself and his eyes shined like two stars up at the sky.

"I assure you, Mr Nixon, that I have no trouble at all. I can manage myself." Y/N stood behind her words but a part of her desired his gentle hand on her lower back steadying her. 

"I'm surprised you know my name." Nix laughed raising his eyebrows as he took a few steps closer to her.

"And I'm surprised it was just a can of peaches." Y/N replied boldly looking directly into his dark eyes.

They were covered in silence for a few moments but they burst out laughing in the next second earning some "shut the fuck ups" from the nearest barracks.

The duo spent the rest of the night walking around the camp as they eventually ended up in her room talking about nothing and everything. By the next morning, Y/N knew every little thing about Lewis and he knew every little thing about her. 

It was no surprise, to Easy Company boys or even his grandfather, that the two of them started dating just a couple of days after the party. Richard Winters soon payed Y/N a visit informing her how he's never seen Lew so damn happy and cheerful all the time.

•••

At the end of May, 1944 when all the preparations for D-Day were finishing, another party was thrown in honor of the paratroopers that had earned their jump wings. Y/N persaued Sink to take her to Britain with him so she was able to celebrate with all of them. 

She was a bit tipsy already because George Luz made her drink three beers and the forth was already on its way. 

Lewis Nixon glared at the duo with a bottle of whiskey in his right hand and a cigarette in the left. He watched how Y/N's lips curled into the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen at something George whispered in her ear. She burst out in a hearty laugh as she touched Luz's shoulder gently and this simple action reminded Lewis the night they met for the first time. An uneasy feeling burned through his chest - it suddenly became hard to breathe. Nixon clenched the glass in his hands and he'd have break it eventually if Richard didn't shake with Lew's shoulder.

"Not now, Dick," the intellingent officer snapped immediately, "we'll talk tomorrow. I'm heading back to my room."

And with that, he stood up and walked out of the pub without any other glance toward his girlfriend. The bottle of Vat '69 was left on the table half full.

•••

"Baby? Why did you disappear so quickly?" Y/N barged in his room while he was sitting behind his desk looking out of the window absently. 

"You seemed quite happy with George." Nixon murmured quietly, he didn't even bother to turn and face her.

"What is this all about? Is there a problem?" she asked kindly moving closer to her broken soldier. The sweet tone of her voice was making it even harder than it already was.

Lewis Nixon looked at her for the first time. "I think we shouldn't be seeing each other anymore." He sounded decided, strongly convinced in his statement.

Y/N suspiciously eyed his face whereas Lewis tried to avoid her concerned look. "Is this about George?"

"No, it's not about fucking George!" Lewis raised his voice and stood up from the little chair, "you are better without me, okay? I drag you down, Y/N."

She stared at him in disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about? I love you and only you, damn it!"

"You just think you do!"

Y/N's eyes began to water and when the first hot tear rolled down her cheek Nixon's heart broke into million pieces. He hated himself for hurting the most precious human being on the Earth but he had to do it. There was no other way.

"I wish you trusted me more, Lew." she breathed out reaching out to caress his cheek but changed her mind in the last second and her hand fell to her body.

Lewis pressed his eyelids tightly together forcing the coming tears stay inside of his soul. "I wish I'd never met you."

•••

The next days hit Y/N harder than her first days at Toccoa. No combat training, no amount of paperwork had ever made her feel so broken, tired and demotivated. As weird as it sounds, even after the relatively short relationship with the Easy Company intelligence officer, Lewis was a big important part of her life. He made her feel so many new emotions, he fulfilled her soul and heart like nobody else did.

And now, it was all gone.

Everyone noticed the sudden cold behaviour between Y/N and Lewis but they didn't really know what happened. Y/N brushed it off every single time when someone asked her and no one really dared to approach Nixon. 

It wasn't like the duo stopped communicating absolutely. Lewis after the argument stormed off and got drunk, he was genuiely wasted, but he also realised what a mistake he did. It was the first time Y/N told him she loved him and he was still able to make the person who cared for him the most go away.

When Y/N tried her best to avoid Nixon, he tried his best to talk to her as much as possible, every day he left her a note at her desk along with a flower and every time she accidentally glanced at him he sent her an apologetic smile.

Y/N knew her anger and hurt was slowly fading away. Lewis felt truly sorry - alcohol and jealousy wasn't really a great combination.

•••

My dearest Y/N,

I know you don't want to have anything to do with me, and I don't blame you, but there's still something I need to tell you. I'm just gonna hope that this sort of letter is not lying in the bin already.

I want you to know that I regret every single word I said that night. Clearly my jealousy and my alcoholic problem (as much as you hate me right now, please don't tell anyone I just admitted that) came in the way and I thought you're better off without me.

I'm not the perfect boyfriend, Y/N, and I never will be. I'm not funny as George, and I guarantee you there's gonna be more arguments between us. But I can assure you that no matter what happens, I will love you for the rest of my life. 

Hope you can forgive me,

I'm sorry.

With love, your Lewis

A tear soaked into the piece of paper as she pressed it to her heart. Little did Y/N know that she will love the idiot forever.

[hoffmannwrites]

You Better You Bet

Previous - PART EIGHT - Next - Masterlist

Author’s Note: We are back in business BAYBEEE!! I posted a full detail update if you want to read that for all my juicy secrets. Thank you ever so dearly for being to patient and so kind. I can’t even fathom that so many people actually like this. It’s really crazy. Y’all are the best. Stay safe and stay home if you can. 

Pairing: Riverdale, FP Jones, and 19-Year-Old Reader

Description: A bet with Jughead leads to so much more than winning.

Warning: Language, Adult themes, Age Gap, Teenage drinking, Sex talk (but no actual hanky panky here), Wholesome female friendships, Pining, Brief mention of female masturbation

Song Inspiration:  Savage (Remix) by Meg Thee Stallion Ft. Beyonce (Nothing to do with the chapter, but this has been on repeat for 24 hours)

It’s been 7 days. One whole week since you last saw Forsythe Pendleton Jones the Second. The morning after your last little rendezvous proceeded much like that after the first, however when you finally returned home, you stayed there. No texts from a taunting Sweets. No follow up calls from the man himself. Not even a disapproving glare from dear old Juggy. A whole week had passed and nothing changed at all. It seemed to be that the entire world had forgotten you fucked FP Jones (many times). School crawled on as usual. Betty and Jug were off playing Holmes and Watson. Archie and Veronica were fucking on every expensive piece of furniture they could find. Cheryl bought a new red lipstick. Kevin decided that Spring Awakening was his latest Magnum Opus. Homeostasis achieved. Right? 

Wrong. Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t seem to pry your mind away from thinking about The Serpent King. You’d find yourself in the middle of a class, biting on your pen, absentmindedly thinking about the way his brown eyes looked right before he was about to...until someone called your name loud enough and often enough to snap you out of it. You’d get a shiver down your spine getting a flashback of his hands on your hips. The worst, though, was the smell of him. It followed you around and cling to your hair and clothes no matter how much time had passed. When the wind blew the right way or you turned your head quick enough, you’d get a strong gust of him that was enough to make you whimper. 

No one tells you this, but it sucks when someone you don’t particularly want to date is the best lay you’ve ever had. It’s not so much that you didn’t want to date FP, but you couldn’t. He’s more than double your age, and a father of 2 children (one of whom is your best friend), AND he’s the leader of a gang. Imagine brining that home to mom. As much as you didn’t have any feelings for him, you couldn’t very well track him down anyway. You didn’t have his phone number (and weren’t planning on trying to get it from anyone else) and a trip to the Wyrm alone again would look needy at best. Instead, you were stuck alone, rutting against your fingers or your pillows, chasing after a high that only FP could give you. 

Saturdays were for the boys, sure. But Sundays? Sundays were for the girls. Pops on Saturdays was a ritual of catching up and hanging out and making plans for the week. Sunday’s were for shit talking and chicken wing eating and face mask applying. This Sunday was extra special, considering you had bailed on last week’s event due to a mild limp and the overall body ache. When Betty and Ronnie showed up at your house, already in PJs with Twilight DVDs, buffalo wings, and the finest Champagne Veronica could steal from her parents’ liquor cabinet without being noticed, you knew this was just what you needed to get your mind off FP. 

Or so you thought. Soon the wings had been devoured, the Champagne bottle was emptied, and Edward was left sparkling in the sun. All that was left to talk about was the elephant in the room. “So (Y/N/N)... care to spill some sinful details to your doting BFFs?” Veronica inquired with a shit-eating grin. 

“I have no idea what you could ever be talking about, my dearest Lodge,” you replied, sad that your I-don’t-need-no-man bubble was being popped. 

“(Y/N), come on, girl. Even I want to know what happened.” Betty pleaded with you. 

“Betty just wants to know if big dicks and praise kinks run in the family. For her sake, spill!” Veronica teased, earning a bright red blush from Betty. 

And so you did. Perhaps it was the liquid courage, or maybe you just needed someone else to know it was real too. You told the girls everything- no detail spared- gossiping like a bunch of, well, teenage girls. 

“Fuck.” Betty was the first to break the silence after your monologue was over. 

“But he hasn’t called you?” Ronnie asked, indignant. 

“Nope.” you replied. 

“Men are such fucking trash. They can cum in you for 48 hours straight, but god fucking forbid they pick up a phone!” She continued her rant. “You should call him. Show him you’re more than just a two-night stand.” 

“By doing what?” you questioned. “Asking him to fuck again? Plus. It was just a fling. It was a bet. Remember? And I won. So it’s over now. Done. Finito. Terminado. Fertig. Ip-shay has Ailed-say.” 

“Oh yeah you sound real happy about that...” Betty giggled, pulling her knees up to her chest with a smile. You shot her a glare. “I’m just saying! Those Jones men are addictive. I think you should shoot your shot.” 

“How would I even do that? I can’t go to the bar AGAIN. People are gonna think I have a problem,” you deadpanned. 

“Well...it just so happens, that I am dating your paramour’s son. So it would be justifiable that I would have said paramour’s phone number, in case of emergencies.” Betty said, chin resting on knees. 

“It’s an emergency,” Veronica declared, holding out her hand for Betty’s phone. 

She obliged and soon your phone screen was looking up at you, with FP’s number in the contact line and a blinking line waiting for you to type out the perfect message. 

“Okay. What do now?” you asked, looking to your friends bug-eyed. “I don’t talk to people.” 

“How about ‘Hey it’s (Y/N). with a little smiley face,” suggested Betty. 

“OUH!! Or you could send him a nude!” proposed Ronnie.

Your brow furrowed and you turned to the brunette “...no....” you said, almost concerned for your friend‘s mental stability. “How about something...flirty. Something so he knows it’s me. Like an inside joke or something. OH. Wait i think i got it.” You tapped on the screen excitedly, like a child writing a letter to Santa. You showed the girls the finished message before you sent it. 

“Hey, Jones. You up for another round of pool? Promise I won’t make you dance this time.” 

With their approval, you pressed the little blue send button and practically threw your phone to the ground like it was a hot potato. 

You waited. 

And waited.

And waited. It felt like you were staring at the screen for hours before three little gray dots made their debut. You screamed. You couldn’t bare to look. Veronica did it for you. Men never made you act this nervous or childish. (Women did, but they had boobs and nice hair, so it was a completely different set of rules. Girls are pretty, yo.)

You heard it. The faint sound of a message hitting your line. Veronica picked up the phone and read the text quickly. “Bitchhhhh...” she said, handing the phone over to Betty. “Oh my god...” the blonde whispered into the palm of your hand, before handing the phone back to its owner. 

You read the screen. 

“Wyrm’s closed on Sundays, baby girl. But my door is always open for you. Don’t you practically live here anyways?” 

Somehow, all the air you had was sucked out of your lungs, while an anvil lifted itself off your shoulders.  

Taglist: @ragweed98 @reblogserpent @cassidyiscool @cyberbadman @ohhmyexo @anondunar @startwiththeridingcrop @colie87 @derangedcupcake @scintilla-morningstar @princess-east @xxghostnappaxx

[magdaclaire]

partner

read it on ao3

a/n: This fic is at least a little based on the fact that as soon as I met my boyfriend, the very first day I met him, I spent 5 and a half hours with him, and he became my best friend. Some people, you just know. Partner.

He’s got, probably, three million things to do today. Football practice before school, the 6am slot because lacrosse had booked the 7am, and a Student Council meeting at 7am anyway, first period math, second period english, a lunch interview with one of the kids from the school newspaper (“Are you ready for the game against the Bronx Hydra? Do you ever feel like you’re going to let the team down? Now that you’re… not at your best shape?”), actually eating lunch, maybe getting a glimpse of his friends, and he’s still got half the day left after that. He’s only done the practice and the meeting so far. He could do this math in his sleep, of course, because high school Algebra 2 is child’s play, but it’s so time consuming, as if not showing his work is evidence of cheating. Everyone here knows that James Rhodes doesn’t cheat, but some people are just waiting for him to slip. It’s fine. He won’t slip. He’ll show his work. He’ll be perfect. He’ll do it all. 

“James,” a clear voice cuts into his monologue as he walks into English, his bag slung over both shoulders evenly because only rebels and boys who don’t care about their future throw around their things, Jamie. He turns loyally and puts on a perfunctory smile, smiling down at the principal he recognized from voice alone, because of course he did. Nicholas Fury is a man of slightly shorter stature than James, but rather large presence, and he has his hand on the shoulder of a rather beautiful young man, despite the fading bruise above his right eye. “This,” Fury says, putting an undue amount of emphasis on the word, “is Anthony Stark. Anthony, James Rhodes. James, I’d like you to show him around a little. He’ll be in this class, and Miss Harvelle will be assigning you as his study partner. I trust you’ll be treating him well. That’ll be all, Mister Rhodes.” 

With that, and no explanation to boot, Fury turns and leaves. Typical. He had done the same thing to Clint when he had brought Natasha in, and she had barely spoken any English. He hopes this one speaks English. He knows this one speaks English. Everybody knows who Anthony Stark is - even though he usually goes by Tony in the tabloids. Maybe he goes by Anthony in everyday life though, James can’t assume. Just because somebody is tangentially famous because of who their Dad is doesn’t mean you know them, right? And, everybody has heard that Howard is kind of a dick - it’s all over social media. But, that’s not James’s business. 

“Tony,” the guy says, still not looking directly at James. 

“What?” James asks, startled. He hadn’t really been expecting Anthony to talk. Anthony’s eyes snap to him, and those pretty brown eyes are sharp, dangerous in their analysis and wow. It’s a lot of attention, a lot of terrible, awful attention. It might say something about James that he doesn’t quite mind it. 

“I prefer Tony. Where do you sit? If we have to sit together. Honestly, I don’t care. If he’s not seriously, I’d prefer to sit anywhere else,” Tony says, looking James up and down. James raises an eyebrow, shifting his bookbag on his shoulders. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, slightly defensive. Tony snorts. 

“You wear your bookbag on both shoulders, like a fuckin’ narc. You get assigned the new kid, like a fuckin’ narc. You wear a letterman, which means you play sports, which means you have cronies, which means not only are you able to get away with shit because you’re a narc, you’re a narc with backup. I’m not interested in being a chew toy. Count me out. I’m gonna go sit in the back with that kid who’s definitely high even though it’s second period, which means he definitely smoked between classes, because that’s a kid who isn’t a narc. See you around, quarterback,” Tony says, the bell ringing in perfect timing for him to slide into the seat next to Brock Rumlow. 

James doesn’t know what to think. 

“James, is there something you need? Please, take your seat,” Miss Harvelle requests from the doorway, and James hadn’t even noticed her come in, given his distraction. He clears his throat, but finds he has exactly nothing to say, thrown completely off kilter by that interaction. He slides into his own seat, the desk next to him empty, and he wonders what the fuck just happened to him in here on this day, really. Brock Rumlow laughs from two rows back, a barking laughter that James hears probably everyday because of just how little Brock cares about his classes and the reputation he holds with teachers, but it holds more of James’s attention this time. Because Tony is back there. A kid he just met. 

James turns his attention to the front of the classroom and doesn’t allow himself to look back there again for the rest of the class. Miss Harvelle doesn’t insist upon the study partners thing, not like Fury said she was going to, and James tries not to feel disappointed by that. It’s not because Tony is pretty or anything. James isn’t that easily distracted by a pretty face. He has enough to do today. 

He catches Tony after class anyway. With a tap on the shoulder, Tony follows him reluctantly to the stairwell that has emptied out for students heading en masse to the cafeteria. James thanks whomever for the small blessings of his life. 

“Hey, I think we got off on the wrong foot there. I don’t know what you think I’m gonna do to you, but I’m not a bad guy, Tony. You can ask anybody. Fury wants me to show you around, and you don’t seem that bad either. Maybe we could try again?” James offers, putting out his hand for a shake. Tony narrows his eyes, ignoring the hand to cross his arms. 

“I was really rude to you, Rhodes. What do you mean that I ‘don’t seem that bad?’ And maybe you just put on a good face, honeybear. Doesn’t mean you’re a good guy,” he says, looking smaller, actually, in his defensiveness. Something in James, something that he’s never had before because he’s never been an overprotective friend, not even of Pepper or Wanda, and never of Nat because she could fucking kill him with a spoon, but something in James wants to wrap him in a blanket and take him home to meet his mom. Something has made him damaged, and Jesus Christ, what is his fucking damage? 

“Come meet my friends, Tony. Come meet my friends, come sit at our table, and everything will be okay. Okay? I promise nobody will do whatever you’re thinking is gonna happen. You have my word,” James promises, looking in Tony’s eyes then. He tries to put as much of himself as he can into that eye contact, and he watches as something in Tony wants to believe him. He watches as that desperate kid wants to believe in something, anything, wanting to protect him and like him and get to know him, and he watches as Tony lets himself believe in it, even if just for a lunch period. Tony sighs, looking put upon, but somehow, James knows, James just knows, that he’s okay with this. 

“Alright, I’ll come with you. Don’t be a baby about it. I’ll come. Lead the way. I don’t know my way around quite yet, and you’re supposed to show me around anyway, right, Rhodes?” Tony says, his voice taking on a teasing note that isn’t half bad, and James grins. Not bad. He takes Tony’s wrist in his hand and guides him toward the cafeteria, leading him directly toward their table, not toward the line at all. 

“The food here is trash, and Thor always brings enough food for everybody, even extras, so you’ll be fine,” James promises, his hand still not having moved from Tony’s wrist, though now it was a little further down. His fingers are now wrapped around Tony’s palm without him having realized at all. He doesn’t remove them, just drags Tony over to meet his friends. 

“Rhodes! We’ve been waiting for you - Thor brought that kroppkakor shit you like, and he won’t let anyone else get into it until you have first dibs,” Bucky says from the table, perched on the side of Clint’s lap like he nearly always is. His legs are in Steve’s lap, who is also balancing Bruce on the side of his lap, like they can’t just sit in their own seats. Tony snorts derisively. 

“Even your friends call you Rhodes?” he asks, looking at the other boy incredulously. James raises an eyebrow. 

“Bucky over there, his first name is James too. Don’t want everybody getting confused on who is getting talked to, so it’s easier. Why? What would you call me?” James challenges, nudging his shoulder. The others, silenced by a newcomer, look on interestedly. Even Pietro and Wanda have stopped their usual squabbling to show their interest. 

“Isn’t it kinda obvious? Rhodey. Rhodeybear. Rhodey is the obvious take here,” Tony says, a bored front forced into his voice, but his hand is tense in James’s. Rhodey’s. Yeah, okay, he can see where that could work. That isn’t half bad. He tosses it around in his mind a little bit, and maybe his distraction is why he doesn’t notice Mary Jane Watson saddling up beside him, clipboard already out. 

“Come on, Rhodes, you and I have an interview to get to, and you’re already late. My photographer and dramatic artist are already in the interview room,” she says, grabbing him by the shoulder. He holds in a groan at the mention of who will be waiting. The photographer is fine, but the artist. Michelle Jones, one half of the dynamic duo (Mary Jane being the other) known as MJ&MJ, is the bane of pretty much every male’s existence. She hates guys, especially upperclassmen. 

“Come on, Tony, right? I heard you introduce yourself in English. Stay with us, okay? Let Rhodey do his interview. He’ll be fine. Stay,” he hears Clint coaxing, only then realizing the grip he still has on Tony’s hand, and the fact that Clint must have turned up his hearing aids to have heard a conversation in a full classroom at 9am at all. James lets go of Tony, but leans in to talk to him anyway. 

“You don’t have to stay with them, not if you don’t want to, but I think you should. They’ll like you. It’ll be okay,” Rhodey says gently, leaning in just a little too close, before MJ snags his arm. 

“Let’s go, Rhodes,” she says, and then they’re off. The interview goes about like he expects it to, with the prying questions he didn’t want to answer. He does fine on his braces, he’s not scared of the Bronx Hydra, their own team, Shield, plays good enough football that it’s fine even if Hydra wants to dry and play dirty. It’s not like they’re playing hockey and somebody can try to cut a tendon with their knife feet. He gets a laugh out of Parker with that one, which is always fun; the kid is just a freshman, and he just lost his uncle, so startling a laugh out of the kid is a point of pride. He and Rogers have been trying to get him to join the team - he’s small but he’s fast, they’ve seen him run from Thompson, as many times as they’ve tried to get him to stop giving him a reason to run - but he’s stubborn. 

“It’s been nice, kids, but I’ll be back to my friends now. Let me know when that’s hitting the paper,” Rhodey says as he leaves the newspaper room, which is really just one of the old conference rooms that Michelle bullied her way into keeping. He pretty much sprints back to the cafeteria and checks his phone on the way; ten minutes til the end of lunch. Awesome. 

“Hey Rhodey,” Tony greets him when he gets back, sitting between Bruce and Maximoff like he was born to be there. Rhodey laughs, shouldering Pietro sideways so that he can sit beside Tony, just because he wants to and just because he can. Snorting, the Sokovian takes no offense, just sliding closer to his sister like it was his idea in the first place. Pretty much all of them just move Pietro - he’s a wide receiver, tall, sure, but real thin, and light because of it, and even with his braces and Bucky’s arm, they’ve both carried Pietro on their shoulders a couple of hours each. 

“Hey Tony. Enjoying my kroppkakor?” he asks, because low and behold, Tony is already eating his kroppkakor, which Thor was supposed to be saving for him. Tony, who is proving to be a little shit, eats a forkful of it cheekily, grinning. 

“It is delicious, and did you know that Thor makes it himself? Yeah, his mom used to make it, but when his brother started poisoning him, you know, as a prank, Thor started making his own food so he could make it and store it in his room and always know where it was and be sure and stuff. Isn’t that so funny?” Tony asks, giggling. It sets James’s teeth on edge, and he leans in, sniffing Tony’s jacket. The smell there makes him want to go out to the back lot and knock Brock Rumlow’s block off. 

“Tony, are you stoned?” he asks, even though he knows the answer. Tony’s face goes dark. 

“Are you my fucking mom? Wait, no, ‘cause she’s in Argentina, just like she’s been for the last fucking month. Couldn’t even come home for me getting kicked out of school, could they? Never good enough or bad enough to fucking matter for a good goddamn, even when it’s not my fucking fault I’m getting kicked out, so why should you fucking care if I’m stoned, Rhodeybear? We just met this morning, partner. You’ll be fine,” Tony says, standing up roughly, patting Rhodey’s face. Every single person looks at James before any of them follow Tony, and it’s him and Clint that struggle out of their seats to do it. He looks at Clint, begging him with his eyes to sit back down, to which their archer complies. 

Great. One less thing to worry about. 

He catches Tony at the exit of the cafeteria, catches his arm and leads him over to an alcove that is relatively devoid of activity. He’s already decided on investment. He’s a man of commitment. So stay committed, Rhodes. See it through. 

“I fucking care, Tony. I fucking care because I’ve decided to care. It’s time to get good with that, alright?” he asks, crowding Tony against the wall, just a little bit. Tony leers up at him, a false smile taking over his face. 

“Is that what it is, Rhodes? Do you want something else from me?” Tony asks, scanning Rhodey up and down. Rhodey pushes down the impulse to be flustered, pushes down the impulse to say no, why would you say that?, pushes down the impulse to lie, and instead sighs. Smiles. He leans his head down, and looks at Tony honestly. 

“Maybe one day, when you’re not as fucked up, and I mean more than just sober, Tony. I don’t know what shit you’ve got going on, and I know it’s something - you don’t have to tell me, but you need to tell someone. My friends, they’re good people. You can tell them, you can go to a counselor, you can tell an adult, you can go to therapy, but anything but this, okay? I’ve known you for one day and I can see the self-destructive on you from a mile away. You need to tell somebody what’s eating at you, Tones,” Rhodey rambles, running his fingers along his short shorn hair, the speed across textured curls leaving a buzzing feeling in his fingertips. He’s nervous, maybe more than nervous, but it needs to be said. Tony looks like he’s been punched in the gut. 

“Jesus, Rhodes. Don’t hold anything back,” he says, coughing, “couldn’t have said that when I was sober?” 

“Maybe don’t get high in the middle of the school day then,” Rhodey quips, a huff of laughter escaping despite himself. The bell rings then, with Rhodey having eaten exactly nothing for lunch, with Tony still half high and neither of them at all prepared for the rest of the day, and that is the first time that James Rupert Rhodes skips class in his entire junior year of high school. He and Tony peel out of the high school in Tony’s obnoxious cherry red custom Ferrari, because of course he drives something terrible, and they go get lunch at the Avengers’ favorite diner. The Avengers is something that their friend group calls themselves, which is a story that gets told that afternoon. They exchange quite a few stories that afternoon. 

Tony comes down more as he eats more, and Rhodey tells stories to fill the space; he doesn’t want Tony’s trauma when he’s too out of his head to hold his jaw shut. Apparently, he had given Rumlow eighty fucking dollars for six consecutive hits off of his pipe. First of all, who hits a pipe six times in a row? Second of all, eighty goddamn dollars? James doesn’t fight. But Bucky and Sam sure as fuck do, Bucky boxes, metal arm or no, and Sam does whatever the fuck Sam does, and if James texts them underneath the table, that’s none of Tony’s business. He lets Tony Stark buy him a milkshake for skipping his fourth period (because apparently, that’s a separate offense from skipping third), and they have a nice afternoon. 

When the high has completely faded, Tony does tell him. 

“I was kicked out of my last school, a private school, for fighting. Howard paid to keep it out of the media, and paid enough to keep Jus- Hammer’s parents to keep from pressing charges. But, Rhodey, you gotta know, I didn’t fight anybody. Justin was my best friend. His… lackeys, they backed him up, they lied. Anything to get baby Stark kicked out, you know? I skipped a grade, fourth grade, and they never forgot it, still resented me, and I-” Tony is rambling and ranting, and Rhodey needs to get him back on track. He takes Tony’s hand from across a shitty diner booth, holds his hand across the table. 

“It’s okay, Tony. Just continue. Tell me what happened,” he encourages, his voice much calmer than he feels, because he has a feeling he knows where this is going. Tony still has a bruise on his face. He doesn’t know if he still has bruises anywhere else. 

“The night that Justin… decided we weren’t friends anymore, he punched me in the face. It wasn’t even that good of a punch, but it surprised me, you know? And, uh, two of his cronies were in our room, because me and J were roommates before I got kicked out and he let them in, but… yeah, he and they… beat the crap out of me, I don’t know. Lied about it. Really committed to it, you know? I thought Justin was… he was my friend, you know? God,” Tony says, shuddering. Rhodey squeezes his hand. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is okay. You’re gonna have better friends now, Tony. Nothing like that is ever gonna happen again,” Rhodey promises, dipping his head to look Tony in the eyes. Tony smiles bitterly. 

“How do you know? You gonna follow me to college, Rhodes?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Rhodey shrugs a shoulder, sitting back and splaying out confidently. 

“Depends, where do you wanna go?” 

[astudyinimagination]

So... I was inspired to write a Sherbeth fake-dating-for-Christmas fic and @wellmanneredthief and @lost-without-my-detective were my enablers. :D I don’t know how often I’m going to be able to post and this is going to be way more ramble-y and fluffy than I usually do but here it goes.

Also playing a bit fast and loose with SH22 canon; if you know the show, you’ll know it when you see it. ;)

And sorry for the horribly unoriginal title. If I come up with a better one, I will change it!

Holmes for the Holidays

1. White the Fading Forests Grow

“I still don’t understand why we’re doing this, Inspector.”

Beth Lestrade sighed but didn’t look away from the road, gripping the steering wheel of her rental as she turned north onto U.S.-31 from the South Bend International Airport. “Watson, what’s not to understand? My family wants me to be set up with some nice guy, so I’m giving them that. For this Christmas, anyway.”

She felt rather than saw Sherlock’s look of amusement. “And next Christmas?”

“I will cross that bridge when I come to it. Live in the moment!”

“Yes, please do.”

“Relax.” Beth signaled and moved left to pass a semi truck. “This isn’t as bad as New London.”

“Yes, but it’s on the ground. I would have thought this city was big enough to warrant air traffic.”

“Nope, that’s just the big cities and their urban sprawls, and South Bend is still too small and too far outside of Chicago. You’ve just spent too much time in New London, that’s all. Relax.”

“I will when we’re clear of the urban traffic.”

She risked a quick glance at Sherlock Holmes — he was clutching his armrests. “It’s the side of the road throwing you off, isn’t it.”

“...it might be.”

“Okay, it’s okay. We’ll be in the countryside soon, all right?”

“But, Inspector,” Watson piped from the backseat, “the most direct route is to take this freeway straight up to South Haven.”

“Yes, the most direct route, but not the prettiest. I’m taking you guys the scenic route, just as soon as I can hit a Michigan road I know. And then Sherlock can relax, too.”

“Too kind.” His tone was bone-dry.

“Relaaaax. Traffic is thinning out already and also we’re in Michigan now.”

“I’m still not sure why we didn’t use a Michigan airport,” said Watson. “There are two closer to your parents than South Bend is.”

“Mm, a little bit closer but not as direct. The flight to South Bend was the shortest and most direct, and now we have a little time to kill to enjoy the scenery.”

“I must say, the scenery is already quite pretty.”

Beth smiled. The scenery was pretty. Most of the land surrounding U.S.-31 in Southwest Michigan was either farmland or woodland, and it was all liberally coated with snow. The snow wasn’t necessarily a given for seven days before Christmas, and Beth was grateful for it.

“Okay,” she said aloud after a few minutes, “here we go.” She turned off the freeway and headed northeast. “We’re hooking up with M-139, and that’ll take us basically all the way to St. Joe, turn on to M-63, and then take that north until it meets with the Blue Star Highway and that rides us all the way up to South Haven.” She glanced at Sherlock. “You’ll get to see the lake along the way.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Saint Joe?”

She sighed. “That river we just passed? The Saint Joseph River. Look, a lot of Catholics settled in this area.”

“Irish, Germans, and Poles, from what I’ve read, followed by African and Latin Americans.”

She raised both eyebrows at him. “You researched the area?”

He shrugged. “I was curious.”

She shook her head. “Just look out your window and let me know if you spot any deer.”

“Is that a danger?” Watson sounded concerned.

“Eh, a little bit. Not as much now as in the fall, but I do remember I almost wrecked on time on a little gaggle of does on a country road.”

“Perhaps the freeway would have been safer,” Sherlock muttered.

Beth sighed. “Just wait till we get to the lake. I promise you it’ll be worth it.”

❄️❄️❄️

Less than an hour and no deer later, Holmes had to admit that Lake Michigan was worth the detour. Beth’s own hometown was also on the shoreline, but he could understand her impatience to show off her Great Lake. The water was green-grey beneath a pale grey sky, and the waves were choppy enough that for a moment, he felt disoriented, thinking that he should have been able to smell salt in the air. But there was no salt in this particular inland body of water, no tang to the air above it, just the bite of winter.

“Beth, it’s magnificent,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Although it did remind him achingly of the English Channel, and his little cottage on the South Downs.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her beaming. “Isn’t it great? Technically, Lake Michigan and Lake Huron are a single body of water, and as such, they’re the biggest body of freshwater in the world, and on its own, it’s still the fifth-biggest.”

“It’s very impressive, Inspector.” Watson had a camera out, and was snapping pictures. “I imagine it’s calmer during the summer?”

“It depends. While you guys are here, though, you should definitely see a Great Lakes sunset if the sun shows. It’s beautiful.” Beth’s eyes were distant, her smile dreamy, and the wind off the lake whipping her hair around her, and Holmes realized he had never seen her looking quite like this. What are we doing, performing this little charade? It had seemed an innocent-enough idea at the time...

“Yes, well…” He cleared his throat and turned away from the view. “I imagine your parents are wondering what became of us.”

Beth waved a dismissive hand. “I told them I was gonna do a little sight-seeing with you guys. It’ll be fine.”

They both blinked the next moment as a light flashed, and Watson smiled innocently at them, his camera pointed in their direction. “Sorry.”

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The drive northwest to the lakeside had been mostly fields, quiet and white, the very image of “a picture print by Currier and Ives.” The drive north along the lake was more wooded and less peaceful, the road often running close to the shoreline. “A hundred years ago, the lake was further back,” Beth explained, “but erosion has always been a problem and, early 21st century, it was helped along by climate change. A lot of homes were lost — their foundations crumbled right out from underneath them.”

“That’s horrifying.” Watson sounded aghast.

Beth nodded. “No matter how far we advance, we can never manage to control nature.”

“And that’s probably just as well,” Sherlock said quietly.

Soon enough, they were entering South Haven, and Beth was always hit with a wave of nostalgia as she returned to her hometown. She had eventually adjusted to living and working in New London, but at heart she was still a small town girl, and she was pretty sure she would come home when she retired.

“What a charming little town,” Watson remarked.

Beth smiled. “It is pretty, isn’t it?”

“Festive,” was Sherlock’s comment. “Not as overdone as some parts of New London I could name.”

“I actually like the huge displays.”

“Of course you do. You put up an artificial tree in my sitting room in the middle of November — of course you like the ostentatious light shows.”

“Oh, c’mon, you like the tree, you know you do.” She glanced over at him, and he was trying not to smile. “Ha.”

“Your parents aren’t in town, Inspector?” Watson asked as they drove further from the downtown area.

“Nope, they’re on the other side of the highway, in the country. Just a few more minutes.”

❄️❄️❄️

The Lestrades’ home ended up being a few miles east of the highway, sitting a respectable distance from the road: a renovated old farmhouse, pale yellow with white trim and surrounded by trees. Old… but Holmes had a notion that the house had been built decades after he’d been born. At least the place looked homely. An enormous Christmas wreath graced the front door, and smaller ones decorated the windows.

This scheme is insane.

But it was far too late to back out now. As Beth parked the car, a woman in her fifties emerged from the house, her hair dark, her skin pale olive… but those brilliant blue eyes were Beth’s.

Beth grinned and sprang out of the car, hurrying towards the woman. “Mom!”

Definitely no backing out now.