#other then that.. my life has been taken over by sleep token (so please just blacklist them if you don’t like them cause I swear it’s all I

[foxgloveinspace]

Hulloooo! I just restarted my island last week! It's my personal nightmare currently but it'll get there. How have you been?

I’ve been pretty good! This weeks been a bit of a time cause I had cold that just completely zapped all my energy, but other then that, I’ve been doin pretty ok. Nothing to stressful or crazy and nothing too like.. exciting to talk about I guess, lol.

Hmmm, I think the most exciting thing that has happened is that I drove home from ‘the big city’ and I even drove in it, so like…. That was a bit crazy! Slowly getting there on the driving thing lmao.

I’m both really excited about starting over my ac island and like. Nervous lmao. I never really got very far in decorating it tho, so I’m looking forward to a completely fresh slate with it!

How about you? Anything cool, or just acnh (nothing wrong with that if it’s the answer tho 🥰).

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 26 - ao3 -

“Qiren-xiong, would you like me to keep them back a little longer?” Lan Yueheng asked anxiously. He’d been biting his lip and wringing his hands and pacing hard enough to leave a mark on the floor. Lan Qiren really ought to let him go back to his mathematics and his alchemy, to abandon this sad sorry world of politics that the rest of them were mired in for the purer joys of academic discovery. “It’s just, they’re getting really insistent on talking with you…”

Lan Qiren sighed and put down the cup of tea that had already cooled without him taking a single sip.

“No,” he finally said. “It’s fine. I’m amazed you managed to keep them back this long.”

He had been working very hard these past few days. He’d just wanted a short break. An afternoon of silence, or even just a few shichen...

Apparently, he couldn’t even get that now. 

Lan Yueheng beamed. “I got Zhang Xin to help! She’s keeping them all back – elders and teachers and fellow disciples and all.”

Lan Qiren frowned a little, thinking of the lady in question, who was fierce and fiery but definitely not fearsome or well-respected enough to hold back the teeming tide of Lan sect members desperate for Lan Qiren to stop ignoring them. “…do I want to know how?”

“With a club!”

Lan Qiren did not want to know how.

“I put explosives in the –”

“Please stop explaining,” Lan Qiren begged.

“You asked.”

Technically, Lan Qiren had asked if he wanted to know, but he shouldn’t stand on technicalities. Especially not now that he was –

He stopped that thought before completing it.

“Go out and tell them that I will not be taking any questions on my living conditions, quarters or clothing, any of the current rule modification proposals - it’s far too soon - and certainly none that are just about the current situation, and also that anyone who doesn’t have a question is not welcome,” he decided. “If there’s anyone left over, they can come inside and pose their question. If it’s not a good one, I will impose punishment on the basis of Concentrate on cultivation.”

In the end, there were only three people admitted out of the disappointed throngs of disciples outside. The first two questions were appropriate ones, being both purely administrative and critically necessary to the running of their sect; the last, however…

The disciple in question was one of the gate-guards.

He saluted. “There are visitors on the way in,” he reported. “From other sects.”

“Didn’t I already give orders that all access tokens not currently in the Cloud Recesses be revoked, and no new ones issued?” Lan Qiren asked curtly. “We are not currently accepting guests, and will not be until matters have been settled. You may inform them as much.”

The disciple hesitated.

“What is it?”

“The visitors in question…” The disciple hesitated again, and Lan Qiren frowned. “It’s Sect Leader Nie and Sect Leader Wen.”

Lan Qiren had been reaching for his cup of tea again, but his fingers stopped in mid-air.

“They’ve been very stubborn. Neither has agreed to go, no matter what we tell them, and they’ve been there all day, saying that they’ll stay standing at our gate until we let them in. Do – do the same orders apply to them?”

Lan Qiren looked down at his hand, frozen in midair. His fingers were trembling a little. Strain, probably; he’d had a very bad time for quite a while now, and even though he’d taken the time for it, he hadn’t actually slept properly. He’d only lain in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to absorb whatever little rest he could.

“They do,” he finally said, putting his hands back into his lap as if he could hide his misery from himself. “Dismissed.”

The last disciple left.

“Why won’t you let them in?” Lan Yueheng asked from behind him. “They’re your friends, aren’t you?”

He paused, falling silent for a brief moment.

“You could use friends right now, Qiren-xiong,” he finally said. “You really could.”

“I know,” Lan Qiren said, and felt the bitterness rise up in his throat until it almost choked him. “They are my friends, and one even more, my sworn brother. They are that, but they are not only that – they are also the sect leaders of two of the other Great Sects. Even if they don’t want to cross me or hurt me, their sect obligations must be always in the forefront of their minds, be their primary care and consideration, just as the Lan sect must be mine.”

Now, he added. Must be mine, now.

“But…”

“The sect comes first, Yueheng-xiong.” Lan Qiren was so tired that it felt like a physical ache. “It has to come first. First and foremost, above everything else. Haven’t we seen what happens if that’s not what’s done?”

Wasn’t everything they were suffering now all because his brother had put himself first, instead of the sect? He had equated his interests with the sect and in doing so harmed the sect so deeply, harmed all their family and all the rest of them, everyone that relied on them...how could Lan Qiren willfully repeat such a mistake, no matter how much he longed sometimes to do so?

“But -!”

“I’ve made my decision.”

“It’s the wrong one,” Zhang Xin said from the door, still holding that club of hers and looking as fierce as a small angry dog. “You’re the rule expert, aren’t you? Stop thinking about your brother for a moment and focus on them. As far as I’ve always heard, the rules say that you can’t just care for the sect, you have to care for yourself, too. Or else who’d be left to care for the sect?”

Lan Qiren flinched and looked down at his hands again.

He supposed she had a point.

“Yueheng-xiong,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Go after that disciple. Tell him…tell him that they still can’t enter, but that he should pass along a message to them. Tell him to tell them…” He hesitated. “If they truly wish to remain nearby, I will be available to meet with them in Caiyi Town ten days from now.”

That should be enough time to settle everything if he really exerted himself, Lan Qiren thought. All the preparations that needed to be made before the world could find out what had happened.

“They don’t have to,” he added, bitterness curling in his gut even as he tried to make it clear that he was speaking in earnest. “If they don’t want to. I won’t be offended if they don’t.”

After all, it would be asking rather a lot, forcing them to stay outside doing nothing for such a long time. Wen Ruohan and Lao Nie: they were sect leaders both, Great Sects at their command, and not possessed of a great deal of spare time. More than that, neither of them were especially patient people in the best of times, and much less so now that they were currently at odds with each other – though perhaps the fact that they’d put up with each other’s company long enough to yell at his gate-guard suggested that their recently frozen-over relationship had perhaps at last started to thaw. 

Anyway, Lan Qiren wasn’t even doing them the courtesy of offering them accommodations within the Cloud Recesses, as anyone might reasonably expect. They’d have to stay in Caiyi Town instead, take a room at an inn like any ordinary mortal…truly, it would not be a surprise if they did not choose to stay.

It would be fine if they didn’t stay. It would be.

“I’ll pass it along,” Lan Yueheng promised, and ran out the door. Zhang Xin sniffed, but said no more. It was clear she would have preferred he do more, perhaps go and speak to them immediately, but she also knew that she’d pushed her insolence about as far as she could take it. 

She was very brave.

“You should marry him,” Lan Qiren told her, thinking to himself that someone ought to be happy even if it wasn’t him, and she blinked at him. “Yueheng-xiong. He looks at you like you hung the moon in the sky.”

Zhang Xin blinked again, and then flushed. “Well…”

“You like romances, don’t you? Why not take the next step on this one?”

She waved her hands at him. “We’ll get there! Don’t rush us.”

“You don’t have parents, right?” Lan Qiren pressed. “If you like, I can act for them in making the arrangements –”

“I’ll consider that,” she hissed, her face now bright red. She pointed the club at him, and Lan Qiren hastily raised his hands in surrender; he knew what Lan Yueheng’s explosives were like. “Go back to moping. I’m starting to think I liked you better that way.”

Lan Qiren didn’t think she did.

“I need more ink,” he said instead. If he was going to have to make up for all of his brother’s failings and get the Lan sect into the state it needed to in order to be ready to face the storm that awaited them outside their gates within ten days, he would need to work hard, and that meant starting now. “Please fetch some for me. I promise not to bring it up again.”

She eyed him suspiciously, but bustled off, and Lan Qiren turned to apply himself to work.

Work was – he could do the work.

As long as he didn’t have to think about why he was doing it, or how long he would need to do it, not think about how this work wouldn’t just be for now but for the rest of his life, he could do it.

It took the full ten days and several sleepless nights, interspersed with sleep borne of pure exhaustion, but in the end Lan Qiren managed to make all the preparations he thought were necessary to minimize or at least endure the loss of face that the Lan sect would subject to once the world heard of rumors of what had happened. Even with the sanitized, filtered, cleaned-up version of it that they intended to spread, it would still hurt their reputation.

“You should take several days to yourself,” his music teacher advised, looking genuinely concerned, and his swordsmanship teacher nodded in agreement. “There will be more work to come, but none so soon.”

Lan Qiren nodded, being too tired to care about them worrying about him now, and went to the gate.

“Zhu Dawei,” he called, recognizing the disciple there. It was the same one who had brought him the news, ten days back; the one he’d sent back with the message. “Was there…”

He trailed off, not sure how to ask the question without seeming overly pathetic – by chance, do you know if my sworn brother and best friend abandoned me and returned to their sects, as any reasonable person would, or did they decide to wait an unreasonably long time in order to talk to me?

Zhu Dawei saluted adroitly. “Sect Leader Wen and Sect Leader Nie said to tell you that they will be waiting for you at the inn along the main waterway in Caiyi Town, the one with the red awning. They’re planning on dining at you hour if you would like to join them.”

He had good friends, Lan Qiren thought, feeling stabbing pains of emotions in his chest that he thought might even be a good thing. He nodded. “My thanks,” he said, and headed down the mountain.

Wen Ruohan and Lao Nie were there in the inn in one of the private suites that were available for rich guests, sitting at a table laid out with all the local specialties: six different dishes and tea and wine. They were bickering over something or another – Lan Qiren didn’t strain himself to listen, only paused a little outside the door, watching them both for a moment. 

Having been forced to spend ten days’ time in close proximity had clearly been good for them: they were practically back to the way they had been before they’d fallen out, each one clearly genuinely at ease - Wen Ruohan with his smirks and his haughty sneers, Lao Nie with his booming laugh and expressive scowls. Perhaps they had even had the opportunity to actually talk to each other, to clear the air between them and make plain their respective positions, which Lan Qiren had been starting to think they never would - that Wen Ruohan would grow so resentful that he’d shut off his heart again and take Lao Nie back on the condition that he never speak of it again, and so let it fester as an unhealed wound. Lan Qiren had worried about the terrible things that might come of such lingering rage. He had not liked it, but had felt helpless to change it: after all, who on earth could force these two men to stay near to each other when they did not want to?

Him, apparently.

They looked good together, suited each other, he thought, watching them both. They were both tall and strong, fine men that exuded power and fierceness and determination in equal measure; it was a real pity that they weren’t quite the right match for each other.

Lao Nie caught sight of Lan Qiren standing at the door first. The moment he did, he turned away and rose to his feet. “Qiren! There you are – come in – sit! Sit, sit – have you eaten?”

“Earlier,” Lan Qiren said, coming in and trying to raise his hands in a salute that got quickly knocked aside. “I could eat again.”

“We insist on it,” Wen Ruohan said, looking him over with a judgmental frown. “I think you’ve gotten thinner…he’s gotten thinner, hasn’t he, Lao Nie?”

Lao Nie held Lan Qiren at arms length and looked him over critically. “Normally, Hanhan, I’d accuse you of being a mother hen and never let you live it down ever again,” he remarked, “but in this case I really think you’re right. His face is thinner than it was before, definitely a sign of losing weight too rapidly…tell us what happened, Qiren. There’s been no news at all from the Lan sect, only that there was some sort of crisis – some violence – and then all the gates to the Cloud Recesses were shut.”

“Yes,” Lan Qiren said, rubbing at his temples. He didn’t really want to think about it, but there was no avoiding it. “They were. The full details will be announced at the next discussion conference, which is coming up rapidly.”

“It is,” Lao Nie said. “I should know; I’m hosting. Will you tell us in advance what the news is?”

“I will.”

“Food first,” Wen Ruohan interjected. “No talking during meals, remember?”

Lao Nie made a face at him, but Lan Qiren smiled thinly at his sworn brother’s poorly concealed kindness and sat down. He ate quickly, the food largely tasteless on his tongue even though it was finely made and featured many of his favorites. They must have ordered them especially, knowing that he was coming tonight.

The quiet was a welcome reprieve, and allowed him to think over what he was going to say a little more thoroughly. He’d known, of course, that he’d have to tell them, but he hadn’t yet settled on exactly how to force the words from between his teeth…

When dinner was done and the dishes cleared, the only thing left on the table being the tea and the wine, he cleared his throat. “Did you rent the room?” he asked, and they nodded. “For how long?”

“We booked the whole month,” Wen Ruohan said carelessly. “It didn’t cost as much as all that.”

Caiyi Town was the nearest town to the Cloud Recesses, which was full of very rich cultivators. The prices here were far higher than a comparable inn in another place, and were nowhere near cheap even for a night - much less a month. More than that, Lan Qiren hadn’t seen any other guests, which made him suspect that Wen Ruohan had rented not only the room but the entire inn, making it the sort of expenditure more commonly seen among the scions of Lanling Jin.

Still, Lan Qiren did not complain or point out the inaccuracy. Not when he had hoped for something exactly like that.

“Good,” he said, and reached up to his forehead ribbon.

Both Wen Ruohan and Lao Nie gaped at him in stunned disbelief as he removed it, carefully folding it up like the precious thing that it was and tucking it away into his sleeve for safekeeping – even though the process took some time to accomplish, they had not yet recovered by the time he was done. They looked a bit like gawping fish.

“The forehead ribbon reminds you of your self-restraint,” Lan Qiren quoted. “I do not intend to maintain it tonight.”

More gawking. He ignored it.

“I’m intending on getting drunk,” he clarified, nodding at the jars of wine on the table. “I’ll drink as much as you allow me to. Could you keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t leave the premises? I can’t lose face for the sect right now, but both of you are considerably stronger than me, and faster, too. You can keep an eye on me and restrain my behavior, if necessary, and I would appreciate it if you would.”

“…of course,” Wen Ruohan said, exchanging glances with Lao Nie. “If that’s what you want, little Lan. We’ll care for you.”

“Can we ask why?” Lao Nie asked, always the blunt one.

Lan Qiren looked down at the table, gathered his courage, and looked back up at them. “I’m going to be attending the next discussion conference,” he said, and even he could hear how dull and depressed his already monotonous voice was. “At that time, you will need to call me Sect Leader Lan.”

“Sect - Sect Leader…? You?” Lao Nie was gaping again. “But – you –”

“What happened to Qingheng-jun?” Wen Ruohan asked, his eyes already narrowed as his mind rapidly churned over the information. 

“He has entered permanent seclusion,” Lan Qiren said. His fingers had tightened into fists again, and his knuckles were white from the strain. “Along with his wife.”

“His – wife?”

“He Kexin?” Wen Ruohan asked. “He’s married – no, she married him?”

“Yes,” Lan Qiren said, because friends or no, brother or no, they were still sect leaders, still outsiders. He could not share with them the full story, at least not yet, not until he’d made sure they couldn’t use it against his sect. Not until there was a story that the whole world would accept as the truth. “They are married, and secluded. I am the next in line, and have therefore taken on the position.”

“But you wanted to travel,” Lao Nie said. “To play music, to go see new places. You had all those plans –”

Lan Qiren flinched.

“Be silent,” Wen Ruohan told Lao Nie. “Can’t you see you’re just making it worse? He knows.”

Yes, Lan Qiren knew. No one knew better than him the dreams he’d had, the plans he’d made, how much it had been a fixed part of his life – stronger than mere hope, it had been an expectation. He had never imagined that his life wouldn’t be what he planned to make of it.

He never imagined his life would be…like this.

“It is temporary,” he added, the rotten feeling of disappointment coating his tongue like a swallow of bitter medicine. “An examination has revealed that He Kexin is pregnant with my brother’s child. Although it is far too early for any medical indications, divination suggests that it will be a boy.”

And even if it wasn’t, well, Lan Yi had set a precedent for women to be allowed to be sect leaders, too.

The sect elders had compared the exceptional qualities of Lan Qiren’s brother against Lan Qiren’s own, compared their respective talents for cultivation and temperaments and their ways with people. That analysis complete, they had suddenly changed their tune: no more did they try to comfort Lan Qiren for his crushed dreams by painting pictures of the power he would obtain, of his children inheriting after him – as if Lan Qiren had ever cared about power, he who had never coveted the position of sect leader even once in his life, and had on account of his inclinations, or lack thereof, had already given up hope of children – and instead they spoke instead of Lan Qiren’s duty to his brother’s legitimate bloodline, his duty to the sect overall.

Lan Qiren had listened in silence for a while, barely restraining from sneering at their shallow and obvious hypocrisy, before striking a deal with them: he would take on the role of acting sect leader, as he had already known he had no choice but to do, and in time he would willingly step aside for his brother’s heir or heirs, if there was more than one, but he insisted on being the one to raise them.

He didn’t especially want to raise children, having no idea if he would be any good at it, but he didn’t trust anyone else in his sect to prioritize raising the children as children – as people of their own, rather than extensions of their father, as another chance to correct the mistakes of the past. To raise them with the rules as guidance, as support in times of weakness and pride in times of strength, not as an obstacle to be overcome; to try to do whatever he could to help them avoid the faults of the prior generation without crushing their souls the way his brother had tried to crush his.

He would give this unborn nephew or nephews everything he could. He would give them the rules, and he would protect them from them; he would spend the rest of his life exerting himself to clean up the sect until it was something worth inheriting, and then he’d give them that, too.

“Congratulations,” Lao Nie said blankly, and Wen Ruohan elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

Lan Qiren chuckled humorlessly. “He’ll be only a few years younger than yours,” he said to Lao Nie. “And about of age with your second when he’s born, da-ge.”

“You don’t deserve this,” Wen Ruohan said, his mouth twisted with bitterness that for once had nothing to do with his own desires. “You deserve better.”

Lan Qiren appreciated the thought.

He appreciated them both being angry on his behalf, which they so clearly were. Lao Nie’s face had grown black with rage, his brows tight as if pulled taut with a string, and while Wen Ruohan’s face was calm and sedate as always, his qi seethed and hissed and coiled around them all as if he could keep away Lan Qiren’s duties by sheer force of will. He might even try, if it was something Lan Qiren would consider letting him do.

It wasn’t, though.

“The sect’s needs come first,” he said simply. “You both put your sects above yourselves; you know how it is. It’s the same for me.”

“You still deserve better,” Lao Nie said, and shook his head. “Hanhan’s right. You really do. I’m so sorry, Qiren. I should’ve been there to help more – shouldn’t have been so distracted –”

“Nothing could have been done to change it,” Lan Qiren said. He didn’t disagree, knowing as he did how careless Lao Nie had been over it all, but if he were to blame Lao Nie, he might as well blame Wen Ruohan, who he knew for a fact did know about it and didn’t bother to try to intervene – but he didn’t want to blame his sworn brother, who had no responsibility here, and he didn’t much want to blame Lao Nie, either, even if he’d said some very stupid things from a distance. It had only ever been his brother’s fault; there was nothing else for it. “It’s…”

He trailed off, not able to say it was fine, because it wasn’t. It just wasn’t true.

Do not tell lies.

“I’ll live,” he said instead, because that was. No matter what, he had to live. His sect depended on him, his not-yet-born nephew depended on him. “I’m going to become a teacher, instead. It’ll give me something to do.”

He would have more than enough to do as the sect leader, of course, acting or otherwise, and with him just barely into his early twenties he was very young to be a teacher. But he desperately wanted something that wasn’t just the sect’s, something all his own, and he had planned on being a teacher, too. Much later in life, of course, but – it was still something.

Something of his own.

Maybe he’d push the elders for permission to have children from other sects come for lessons, just to mimic the variety of the world that he was no longer permitted to go see. Sect leaders feather their own nests with the stories of others, he’d once told Cangse Sanren, that’s a way of living, too…

He had to think of it that way. If he didn’t, he’d think instead of what she said, a caged lark singing only for a select few, and that would be worse. 

“Do you have any more questions?” he added, not wanting to think of anything at all any longer. “If not, I would very much like to get drunk on your wine, if you don’t mind.”

Wen Ruohan and Lao Nie exchanged glances again, some secret communication that Lan Qiren didn’t bother to try and fail to decipher – truly, if there was one good part to the entire disaster it was that they had overcome their distance in truth rather merely on the surface – but then Wen Ruohan nodded firmly and Lao Nie began to set out the drinking bowls.

“For once, I’m almost looking forward to hearing about your sect rules,” Wen Ruohan remarked. “As long as you just tell me about them, this time, and don’t knee me in the –”

Lan Qiren grabbed at the drinking bowl, glaring at him, and Lao Nie laughed. “Let’s see how much you can tolerate,” he said cheerfully. “The liquor here is pretty mild, so start with one bowl and tell me how you’re feeling after –”

Lan Qiren drank the bowl, grimacing a little at the taste, and remembered nothing more.

[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?”

[luimagines]

He Accidentally Hurt You Pt. 1

Masterlist

Takes place while in the group, written as a platonic relationship.

this one got away from me entirely, so I had to split it up

Warrior

“I’m telling you, we need to head west!”

“And head straight into enemy territory? I don’t think so!”

“Wild’s right, Warrior. We can’t just sit around here and wait for them to come to us or the people of the town. We’re the only ones who can do something about it.” 

“Need I remind the both of you that we’re all tired as hell as well? We have no potions or healing items, our weapons haven’t been tended to in over a week because of the constant fighting and everyone has an injury in one way or another. We can’t afford to keep going at this rate. We’re lucky enough to have enough food as it is.”

You glanced at the W Trio. Wild, Wind and Warrior.

They’ve been going over the map and strategies for the past hour and it’s getting tiring. That normally would have fallen to Time and Twilight to talk to Warrior about it but they went ahead as the currently strongest of all to secure the perimeter.

It hasn’t been going great.

You sighed and stood up, making your way over to where they were.

Warrior was getting worked up and his gestures became more agitated and pronounced.

They needed to stop.

“Ok, guys, take five and a breather.” You started before your head snapped backwards.

The arguing stopped instantly.

“Oh for Din’s sake! Are you ok?.” Hands covered your own as you felt your face trying to pry them off to get a read on the damage done. “Oh course this has to happen.”

You took a step back and plugged your nose for good measure.

Wild and Wind both look tense and looked between the two of you, expecting something to blow up in their faces.

“Well that was unnecessary.” You spoke after a tense beat.

Warrior bit his lip, warring within himself to both step forward to comfort you and too afraid of pushing your boundaries more than he already has. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. Does it hurt?”

“I’ll live if that’s what you’re asking me.” You raised an eyebrow. “I was going to say that you should all take a break and leave it for a while. Maybe take a nap and come back to it once Twilight and the Old Man can have a say. Because yeah, we’re all tired as hell. I don’t think you liked the idea though.”

Warrior had the decency to look ashamed. “That was unintentional.”

“Regardless, I think I’m bleeding.” You smirk. “You’ve got quite the arm Captain. Last time I checked, a backhanded slap was usually reserved for-”

“Please don’t make this any worse.”

You laughed.

Wind

“Wind! Get down from there!” You called up the tree.

Mr. Sticky Fingers had taken something important from you, not that he knew what it was and you didn’t plan on telling him it’s importance since it was mostly sentimental value but the kid turned it into a game instead.

“I’m not going to climb after you Pirate!”

“I guess it’s mine then!” He taunted back.

You glared at his smirking face and snapped your head to the group. “Excuse me Wild Child, care to lend a hand? You’re the best tree climber among us and I’d really like to get my item back.”

Wild looked up and spotted Wind in the tree. He shrugged and stood up, making his way over. “I can make that climb. Sure.”

“Uh oh.” Wind huddled into himself on the nearest branch before making a mad dash through the tree.

Wild followed closely and you stepped under the tree to get a better view of the chase. The multitude of branches and leave and twigs made it hard to see through and you didn’t see make the executive decision to jump down.

And it seemed as if he didn’t see you either. 

You both landed on the ground, a sickening crack following shortly. Your cry of surprise quickly turning into one of pain.

Wind jumped off of you as if you burned him but stayed close, handing your item back as if that would fix the problem.

The boys crowded you instantly. Hyrule led the charged followed by Twilight and Time. Warrior pulled Wind aside to give them room, Wild jumped down from the tree and Legend chose to stand closer to Hyrule to get a look over his shoulder. Four and Sky held back, concerned faces mirroring each other.

“I think you broke my arm.” You gritted through your teeth.

“I didn’t.... I didn’t mean-” Wind spoke up but bit his lip, cutting himself off. He knew there was no saving him.

“What on earth was so important that it had to come to this?” Time glared at the both of you. You would have felt a little more embarrassed because it was easily avoidable but at the same time, it was your dominant arm and now you struggled to sit up.

“Wind took an item of mine and refused to give it back. To keep me from getting it back, he climbed up a tree and I asked wild to help me out. The kid jumped on me and this happened. End of story.” Hyrule looked up at you questionably before snapping the bones back into place. A scream tore through your throat before you could stop it. “‘RULE! A little warning next time?!”

He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. It’s better if you aren’t expecting it.”

“What’s so special about that item anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?” Sky came a little closer to rub comforting circles on your back. Hyrule took that as his cue to begin healing the injury properly. “Is it magic?”

Pain clouded your judgment slightly. “No, not exactly.”

“What is it then? It doesn’t look like anything special.” Legend gripped the tip of it and you pulled it closer to your chest, away from the others. “It’s defiantly not magic.”

“Not in the traditional sense.” You agreed. The pain was slowly fading away now, but with the quickening of the healing process, it looked worse than it did before. You turned your eyes away from the black and blue mess.

“It’s... the last gift my mother ever gave to me.” You admitted. “It’s a special kind of magic that only means something to me.”

“The sentimental kind.” Four smiled sadly.

You nodded in agreement. “But it’s not like it does anything. It’s only a token really. However... I’d rather die then let anything happen to it.”

The group stood around you silently, taking in the information.

“I’m sorry.” Wind stood before you. “I didn’t-”

You held your good hand up. “It’s not broken, I knew you would never try that and I got it back. I’m not even mad, just don’t do it again.”

He looked worse after your words, as if it was the worse news you could have told him. You knew the feeling. You felt like maybe it would help him feel better to get yelled at or something equivalent of a punishment but it wasn’t in your nature.

Once that mess was cleared up, he stayed to close to you but was unusually quiet.

You made it a point to make sure that he knew you were still on good terms by the end of the day.

Wild

“I wonder if theses are ok to eat.” You mutter to yourself. Poking at a berry bush that was near your camp, you heard (and felt) your stomach rumble. “Wild would probably know. Hyrule might know as well but....”

THWIP

Something was imbedded in your leg.

“OH MERCY ME!” You fell over, narrowly avoiding the berry thorn bush and looked down. “FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY-  WHAT IN THE WORLD-!”

An arrow.

An arrow was just... sticking out of your leg.

Rustling came from the bushes beyond and out popped a twig and leaf covered head of hair. A scarred face came next that expressed confusion to immediate concern and shock. Wild jumped over the bush and made a mad dash to your side.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry, I thought you were an animal.” He crouched down by your side and hovered his hands around the offending object.

“Why on earth did you think I was an animal?” You nearly cursed him then and there. 

It hurt. It hurt and hurt and he wasn’t doing anything!

“I heard a growl.” He admitted, a bright blush on his face.

“No, that was me and my stomach. I’m hungry man! I was just checking if those berries were edible.” You growled and tried to move over but your leg wouldn’t cooperate without sending bouts of burning static up to your hip.

“That was a crap shot anyway. It wouldn’t have taken the animal down regardless.” Wild muttered to himself.

“Excuse you but I’m the one who was shot. Take it out!”

“Ok, ok, ok, hold on.” He placed a bracing hand on your leg and grip the arrow in the other. “Deep breath. Ready? One. Two.”

“OUCH! YOU SICK, TWISTED, SON OF A-”

“Here.” Wild handed you a potion. You recognized it as a healing item of his, even if the bottle was wrong and uncorked it, gulping it down with vigor.

“You owe me Champion.” You crossed your arms when you finished, handing the bottle back to him. 

“I’ll cook you something. Anything you want.” He nervously scratched the back of his head. “Those berries aren’t edible anyway.”

You blinked at him and the berries, not pouting at all. Your glare hardened at the plant. “I blame you.”

“The plant?”

“I just wanted to eat something!”

Legend

You couldn’t believe it.

There he was, sleeping in your bedroll.

You were tired as it was and didn’t have the energy to put up with it. Instead of anger though...It was mostly confusion.

Why was Legend asleep in your bed roll?

Was he really that tired that he just didn’t care? Probably. The nightmares were bad the night before and he was working nonstop the whole day.

You couldn’t fully blame him. He probably didn’t even notice.

Still.

You were exhausted as well and you refused to take his spot.

You walked over and shook his shoulder.

BAM

You stumbled backwards and eventually fell over, your hands covering your face. 

Legend sat up blearily and blinked for a solid minute before realizing his fist was still raised. 

“Legend!” You yelled at him. “What the heck man? You can’t punch to save your life!”

“What?”

“That’s my bedroll, dumb bell. I would like to sleep please.” You crossed your arms and stared him down. “Also, I’m telling Twilight you can’t punch for crap.”

Legend pushed himself up and looked beneath him. “Oh. Sorry. Wait. What about my punching?”

”You suck at it.”

He glared at you for a moment before taking a swing in your direction.

You dodged it easily and grinned. “Your form definitely needs work.”

“Shut up!”

Part 2

[call-signvalkyrie]

Ignite the Spark pt. 1

So I quit my shitty job today. Yay me! With the extra time I had today, I got a chance to finish the first chapter of a Poe Dameron series I’ve been working on. Let me know what you guys think!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: After years of undercover work for the Resistance, the daughter of Luke Skywalker has returned. Arriving on Ajan Kloss to a warm greeting from General Leia Organa, the Reader is given a gift and has their first meeting with everyone’s favorite pilot.

Pairings: Poe Dameron x Skywalker!Reader

Tags: talks of the Force, a few flashbacks, Poe being embarrassed lol

Word Count: around 3k

When your transport landed on Ajan Kloss, you weren’t sure you would be cut out for this. You’d spend so much time on backwater planets, filtering information to the resistance and doing your best to go unnoticed. You were so used to not interacting with anyone that the thought of being around so many people on a bustling base was a bit scary. All feelings of reservation were swept away, however, when the door of the transport opened to reveal the face of an older woman. Her hair was different since the last time you had seen her. Her face was aged from the many years of fighting the good fight for the rebellion. Her eyes, however, had not changed a day. They gleamed and twinkled in the dying twilight. Her smile made them sparkle even brighter as she reached out toward you.

“Aunt Leia,” you stepped off the transport and into her open arms. “It’s been too long.”

“Yes, it has. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I shouldn’t have kept you away.” She smiled lovingly, taking your face in both hands.  

“I brought the data you asked for. I’ve got it all here.” You said, pulling a flash drive from your jacket pocket.

“That’s wonderful, Stardust.” You beamed with pride at the mention of your childhood nickname. “Lt. Connix, will you please take this data to the command center. Start running a detail immediately.”  

“Yes, General.” Lt. Connix took the flash drive and was gone before you could blink.

“Beaux, see to it that Lt. Skywalker’s bags are placed in her quarters, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Beaux gave you a quick wave before stepping onto the transport and out of sight.

“Now, Y/N, I want to give you a quick tour before you settle in. I’m sure you’re exhausted but I want you to be as familiar as possible with everything on this base. This is your home now. No more field missions, I need you with me.” Leia smiled again, taking your arm and leading you toward the left wing of the base and toward the living quarters.  

Home. Leia was the only thing you had left. Wherever she was, that’s where your home would be.  

After showing you where your quarters would be located as well as the mess hall, med bay, and a quick tour of the Command Center, you were ready to get settled in for the night.  

“Well, Y/N, if you need anything tonight, my quarters are right down the hall. You should have a data pad on your desk all charged and ready to go. It’ll have your clearance codes as well as any information you’ll need to know while on base. I’ll need you with me in the morning to debrief that data. It should be downloaded and ready so make sure to give it a look over before the morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You said, smiling softly at the older woman.

“Goodnight, Stardust.” Leia gave a quick wave before walking out the door.  

Turning on your heal, you took a quick second to familiarize yourself with your new home. Being the niece of the general had its perks. Your quarters were small, yes but they were cozy. A small bookshelf and dresser were along the wall to your left, a double bed and desk and chair to your right. The data pad Leia had mentioned was right where she said it would be, all charged and ready to go from the looks of it.  Straight ahead was your own private refresher. After unpacking your duffle of clothes, along with your rucksack containing a few personal mementos, you decided to take a quick shower before bed. You could wake up early and review that data for Leia. It wasn’t like you hadn’t spent the last 5 years gathering every piece of intel you could on the First Order.  

Grabbing a fresh pair of underwear, a grey tank and a pair of sleep shorts from your dresser, you stepped into the refresher. Ten minutes later you were scrubbed clean and feeling surprisingly relaxed. It was amazing what a proper shower could do. Opening the door and stepping into your room, you turned to hang your towel on the desk chair when you spotted something you hadn't noticed earlier. On the desk were two boxes accompanied by an envelope. Scrawled across the front in a familiar script was the word “Stardust”. Opening the envelope, you began to read:

Y/N,

For far too long I have kept you in the dark and for that I will always be in your debt. Please accept these as tokens of my sincerest apologies. I hope at least one of these will help light your way. I understand if you’re conflicted but I have hope that one day you will be able to continue your training. Your fathers only wish in life was to see you follow his footsteps. Maybe we can fix that now.  

All My Love,

Leia

Setting the letter to the side, you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. Picking up the smaller of the two boxes, you opened it to reveal a small jewelry box. Lifting the lid, you gasped allowed. Nestled on a small black pillow was a beautifully woven silver chain. Placed ever so delicately in the middle of the pillow was a pendant. Pulling the chain from the box, you let it dangle in front of you in the soft light.  

You never thought you would see this necklace again. Your father had given it to you when you left the Jedi temple to be with your aunt Leia all those years ago. When the temple fell and Kylo Ren rose to power, your necklace went missing in the night. That was almost 8 years ago now. Yet, here it was right in your hands like it was never gone. You ran the compass shaped pendant through your fingers, letting the wave of sadness and nostalgia run over you. On one side, a golden crescent moon surrounded by three silver stars embellished the surface. Turning it over, there was an engraving: Stardust.  

You gingerly pulled the chain around your neck and adjusted it to size. That’s why you had always loved this necklace.

“It will grow with you, Stardust.”  

Sniffling, you took a look at the other package. Thinking back to the note, you already knew what it was. How Leia had found it, you would never know but would be forever grateful. This box was longer, over a foot in length. The box was made of a soft wood that smelled faintly of burned embers. It had no exterior markings and no obvious way of exposing its contents. Slowly, you lowered the box to the floor. Taking a seat in front of it, closed your eyes. Reaching out with your mind, you felt it: The Force.

“The Force is all around you, Y/N. Reach out with your feelings and let it flow through you.”

“Okay, dad.”

“Ahem.”

“I mean: Yes, Master.”

The box gave no notice it had even opened. If some random onlooker happened to be watching, they would be none the wiser. You knew, however, the moment it happened. Lifting the lid, your breath caught in your throat. The inside of the box was lined with a soft, deep blue velvet pillow the color of the night sky. On top of the pillow, an emblem was stitched into the fabric. A shooting star wrapped in what looked like wings. Atop this pillow was a smooth cylindrical object, covered in beautiful ancient markings. It had a slightly curved handle for better grip for your smaller hands. You always favored nature and practicality over dominance and your build had reflected that.  

“You must gather your crystals quickly, younglings. The cave is only open for so long. We don’t want any of you getting stuck in here.” You could hear his soft chuckle even now.

Picking up the silver object, you ignited the switch. Your room began to buzz with the soft whir of noise from the object in your hand. Ethereal, green light radiated from the source. You disengaged the ignitor, taking the smooth metal in both hands. How could it have survived? You looked everywhere after the temple was burned and never found it. Had Leia had it all this time and was just waiting for the right time to return it? Who had taken your lightsaber?  

Your thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sound of frantic beeping coming from the hallway. Quickly, you slid the blade back into the box. Tucking it away under your bunk, you scrambled to the door and hit the lock. The door opened with a soft shlick and you stepped into the hallway. Another round of agitated beeps could be heard coming down the hall followed by what sounded like combat boots. Coming around the corner was a small round droid, a BB Unit by the looks of him.  

“BeeBee-Ate, I’m sorry! Buddy, our room’s not even this way, where are you going?” a male voice called after the little droid.

“What do you mean you're telling Leia?! It’s the middle of the night, pal. She’s most likely asleep.”  

Leaning against the door to your quarters, you began to understand the little guy. He was angry because someone named Poe left him alone with the ship. AGAIN. And got captured and made him worry. AGAIN. You gave a slight chuckle as the little guy rolled by, angry beeps the whole way. Punching your code back into your door panel, you were just about to step back in when a voice called out to you. Stepping back into the hallway, you were greeted by a Resistance pilot. He was still wearing his bright orange flight suit. His thick, curly hair stuck up in odd directions from his helmet. He gave you a soft smile and waved.  

“I’m sorry for all the noise, it's been a weird day.” The pilot smiled at you apologetically. “I hope my friend didn’t wake you.”

“No, I was awake.” You smiled back, taking a step out of your room and into the hallway. “Just checking to make sure everything was alright. The General, however, won't be too happy about being disturbed.” You nodded toward the little droid, now rolling his body into your aunts' door at full force.  

“Gods, BB-Ate! It’s not that serious! I -” the pilots voice stopped in his throat as the shlick of the door BB-8 was throwing himself into slid open. The little droid went flying full force into the now open quarters of General Organa. You heard a loud clang followed by a series of confused beeps and whistles from the little droid.

“Dameron, you nerf herder! Get your droid out of my room right now or so help me not even the Force will be able to save you!” the General stepped out of her quarters and into the hallway, glairing toward the man to your right. You had to cover your face to hide the smile that was creeping onto it.  

“General, I am so sorry.” a deep blush began to creep up the man's neck and onto his face. “I tried to get him to calm down but he just wouldn’t! He insisted - “

“I don’t care, Dameron. Get him out of here NOW. You’re obviously alright so whatever it is can wait until morning.” Leia said, placing one hand on her hip. You hadn’t seen Leia this irritated since you were a child. You were glad that look was fixed on someone else for once.  

“Yes, ma’am.” The pilot said, lowering his eyes. “C’mon BB-8. It’s time for bed.” The little droid gave what you interpreted to be a light grumble but complied, rolling out to meet his master. Turning on his heal, the pilot gave you a light nod and started off in the direction he came from.  

“Y/N! Ben! Get in here.”

“I told you not to take her lightsaber!” You whispered to your cousin, jabbing him in the ribs.

“She’s my mom. I can take whatever I want from her.” Ben smirked at you and you rolled your eyes.

“Whatever, Bantha-breath! I’m gonna tell her you said that!” You skipped off toward your aunt's voice, Ben chasing close behind you.

“Y/N, you okay?” A hand touched your arm, bringing you back to reality.  

“Yeah, Aunt Leia, sorry. I think I’m just tired.” You yawned, covering your mouth lightly. “Hey, who was that guy?”  

“Oh, that’s Poe. Poe Dameron. He’s a pilot, leader of Black Squadron.” Leia said, exasperation in her voice.  

“Like, THE Poe Dameron? Wow.” You laughed lightly, shaking your head.  

“He’s a good guy, just has his head in his cockpit most of the time instead of down on solid ground.” Leia said, shaking her head with a smile.

“No, it’s not that. I just thought he’d be taller.” You both smiled, enjoying the joke between the two of you.  

“Well, between you and me, he really is the best pilot I’ve ever seen.” your aunt gave you a little wink before turning to go back into her own room.  

“Even better than...” but you stopped yourself, letting the thought trail on.  

“Almost. Maybe.” you could hear the smile in her answer as the door to her room shut behind her.  

[bazwillendinflames]

Wish For You

Read on AO3 

For Matteusz, he had hoped that travelling to the kingdom of Rhodia would bring a better life. Despite a job at the castle, his magic - forbidden by the Queen - and growing feelings for Prince Charles, have only complicated things.

For Prince Charles, tired of living in a carefully controlled world meant to protect him, seeks a night of escape, with the help of the closest thing he has to a true friend. A night at the Festival of Souls provides them both a night of freedom. But how free can you truly be when there's a part of yourself you're always hiding? 

(AKA A loosely based Merlin Marlie au)

Part One - Magic

Matteusz did his chores by hand, even though it was so early the grand hallways of the castle were practically deserted. He had seen the fate of magic users first hand within his first week in Rhodia. Even almost a year later, the smell of smoke still brought back uncomfortable memories of the woman’s screaming. 

He pushed open the Prince’s door without knocking and almost dropped the breakfast tray as Charles let out a startled yelp. Matteusz was equally surprised to see him awake so early - it was rare for him to be awake before Matteusz arrived. It was even rarer for him to awake and ready, although his shirt was ill-fitting and old. 

“My apologies Matteusz,” Charles said formally. 

“I should have knocked,” he said, not quite sure whether to comment on the fact Charles was usually sleeping at this time. “Your breakfast.” 

“Thank you.” 

Charles began eating, in the delicate way only nobles who had their next meal guaranteed could. Matteusz tried not to stare at him, although he was more concerned the Prince had gotten himself cursed again than the other reasons he sometimes found himself watching him . But Charles’ eyes were the same pretty blue, no hints of enchantment or glossiness there. (He always seemed to get himself in trouble, magical or otherwise. Matteusz wasn’t sure how the Prince made it to nineteen without him.) 

“Are you feeling alright?” 

Charles nodded. “Why would I not be?” 

They may be friendlier than Mattuesz suspected a Prince and a servant were meant to be - almost friends (which was enough, even if a part of him ached hopelessly for more) - but he still knew better than to push it. 

“No reason,” he answered politely instead, busying himself with lighting the fire. 

“What has my Mother planned for me today?” 

“Strategic meetings in the morning, training with the knights in the afternoon.” The same as every Friday. 

Charles’ handsome face twitched into a frown. “How… lovely. What of the evening?” 

“No plans I know of.” 

That seemed to please Charles, although he didn’t let on why. “Excellent.” 

Matteusz didn’t pry. As long as Charles did not get himself into danger (again), he was welcome to his secrets. 

Matteusz started tidying the room picking up crumpled clothes. Charles may be polite and remember the names of his servants but he was incredibly messy. He could afford to be in a house full of servants, part of him thought bitterly. Still, Matteusz enjoyed his job, he liked the quiet domestic mornings and he liked being at Charles’ side. He was lucky to get a job at the castle, even if it was a little tedious at times and he was too fearful to use magic. The paycheck that funded his sisters’ education kept him going. 

A canvas was set up in the corner, still wet at the edges. It must have been why Charles was awake so early, although Matteusz would never have guessed he was an artist. It was impressive, a beautiful painting of the Rhodian town square, lit up with hundreds of candles. Only half of the night sky was painted but Matteusz could tell it would be a gorgeous piece when finished. 

“Did you paint this?” He found himself asking. Then, as it was an obvious question he added: “it is very good.” 

Charles looked over at the canvas, his expression pained. “I did. I can explain-” 

“You are very talented,” Matteusz interrupted, hoping he wasn’t pushing any of the unspoken boundaries between them. “Is it ever lit up that way? With all the candles?” 

“Yes, candles,” Charles said quickly. “It’s how I imagine the town to look at night. I have not been able to see it like that.” 

“I would like to see it like that as well,” he agreed, “you make it look magical.” 

“Do not tell the Queen that,” Charles said dryly. Matteusz stepped back from the painting guiltily. But it was clear Charles was not being serious, just another of his jokes that did not land right. 

“Our secret,” he promised. 

Charles smiled at that and Matteusz made himself busy again. It would not do him well to linger on the fluttering in his chest for too long. A Prince and a servant - especially a foriegn one with magic -  like him would never work. (But it was nice to imagine sometimes. But only sometimes. If he indulged in Charles' smile for too long, he’d never get anything done at all.) 

With the prince busy all morning, Matteusz found himself in a cramped corner of the palace library. Tanya always seemed to know when he’d be away from Charles’ side and had ambushed him half-way through doing laundry. There had been little point arguing as he was dragged around the castle, although he made a token attempt at protesting anyway. 

“Shouldn't you be working?” 

She hushed him, balancing another scroll on the pile in his arms. Matteusz was sure they weren’t allowed to access the royal library for personal use but there was little point bringing it up to Tanya. She was both stubborn and clever enough to get away with it. Besides, she was one of his only friends. 

“Come on,” she hurried him along. 

Matteusz followed her, weaving through the many hallways and servant passages of the castle. It had been an impressive sight on his first day but there was always some new pathway or hiding spot he was learning of - impossibly, it was bigger on the inside. Tanya had taken them to a small room, the size of a cupboard, with two beds squeezed in and a rocky dresser in the corner. 

“Do not let anyone see you here.” 

“I won’t,” he promised. 

Tanya pulled on the bottom draw until he came out completely with a creak. A dozen scrolls were hidden there. 

“Clever,” he noted. Matteusz had hidden a few texts of his own - old books of magic from the old religion, half-translated to Polish by his Grandmother. Under the queen’s rule, it was important to know how to hide. 

“Thanks. I usually don’t take so many, but it was so busy today. Everyone is preoccupied with the festival today.” 

“What festival?” 

Tanya looked up from her scrolls. “You don’t- I keep forgetting you’re new. Tonight is the Festival of Souls. All staff get the night off. It’s tradition.”  

“That’s unexpectedly nice of the Queen.” 

“The Prince actually,” she corrected. 

Matteusz smiled. “Really?” 

Tanya wedged back the draw with force. “Come help me finish my chores so we can go early? And please take that sappy look off your face.” 

Matteusz followed her smiling. Tanya may drag him around the castle but at least she dragged him out of it too. A kingdom away from Cela, he had found himself another sister. 

   “So tell me more about this festival?” Matteusz asked.

They were taking the long walk on the outskirts of the castle, carrying heavy buckets of water out to the stables. As one of the younger servants, Tanya was usually stuck with grunt work like that. Matteusz had only been roped into helping her out of his own niceness. 

“It’s fun. There’s live music and nice food. At the end, we light candles that’s meant to be our soul’s wish.” 

“It sounds wonderful.” 

“You’re lucky you get to experience it for the first time.” 

They crossed over from the cobblestone bricks onto the uneven grass. It was a short cut that they desperately needed - Matteusz arms were starting to ache. 

“Thank the gods,” Tanya said, dropping the buckets on the ground. “I wish they’d just install a pump out here.” 

Matteusz put down his own load and sat by her on the ground. “We deserve a break.” 

“Agreed.” 

“Did someone say break?” April asked. “Count me in.” 

She ignored her own duties of taking the buckets in and joined them. April was one of the stable hands who looked after the castle horses. It was a job that suited her - she was very gentle with them. Matteusz had even caught her singing to them a few times. 

“Are you coming to the festival?” 

“If the right person asks me,” she replied coyly. 

“Are you talking about a certain knight?” Tanya teased. 

They were sat close enough to the training fields to make out the figures sparring with each other. 

“I might be.” April waved in their direction. The knight in question, Lord Singh, waved back and was knocked on the ground. He did his best to style it out, jogging over in their direction. 

“Here’s your chance,” Tanya muttered. “Oh hey Ram. You know you’re meant to stay on your feet during a fight, right?” 

“Funny.” He smiled at them charmingly. “I wasn’t expecting my fans.” 

“More like casual spectators,” Tanya replied, although it was clear his attention was now firmly directed at April. 

“I think that’s our sign to leave.” 

“Agreed.” They stood up to leave. 

Matteusz smiled over his shoulder. “Hope to see you later April.” 

“You will!” 

“Should I be jealous you have plans?” 

Matteusz almost laughed. He had far more interest in him than April. (Ram flirted with everyone. It said a lot about how smitten he was with Charles that Matteusz wasn’t taken by him more.) 

“Just the festival later. You know the one you’ll be taking me to later.” 

The pair continued flirting as Tanya and Matteusz walked back in the direction of the castle. 

“Good for her.” 

“Yeah.” She seemed a little wistful. “Wish it was that easy for people like us to find someone.” 

Matteusz’ thoughts ended up back to Charles. “And tell them,” he added. 

  “My apologies, I didn’t realise you were back from your training already.” 

Charles was sitting in front of his canvas, a smudge of dark blue paint on his chin. “No need to apologise.” 

“You didn’t go, did you?” 

“It may have slipped my mind,” Charles confessed. 

Matteusz peered over his shoulder at the painting he had been working on this morning. It was now near finished, with the indigo sky complete and a pale moon in the corner. “You really are talented.” 

“You flatter me,” he replied. But Mattuesz could tell from the smile that he enjoyed the flattery. 

“Is it the festival?” 

“It’s close. I’ve not yet been able to attend myself.” 

 The Queen was likely behind it: she was a paranoid woman. (She had enough reason to be paranoid, the magical community had targeted Charles a dozen times over her policies against them.) 

“I can tell you about it tomorrow.” 

“You’re attending?” Charles asked, turning away from his painting. 

“If I am allowed to?” 

He nodded. “Of course. It’s funny, in ways you have so much more freedom than I do.” 

“In some ways,” Matteusz replied, thinking of the flow of magic under his skin he was terrified to use. 

“Could I ask something of you?” There was a softness to the Prince’s voice that Matteusz had clung onto. He had a feeling whatever it was Charles would ask of him, he would agree. 

“Anything.” 

“Could you take me with you?” 

Part 2 - Magic

Part of Charles had been hoping that Matteusz would have lent him some clothes. It was strangely disappointing that he hadn’t - his painting clothes had been women enough to pass as commoner wear. Although perhaps if he claimed to be cold later, Matteusz would offer his jacket, or the soft looking scarf he usually wore. 

(Charles usually didn’t allow himself to linger too long on Matteusz like that. There were a hundred good reasons not to linger on the way Matteusz had tenderly wiped paint from his face earlier. It wouldn’t end well, for either of them.)  

As if Matteusz could tell what he was thinking, he looked over (or down, more accurately) at him. “Are you alright?” 

Charles felt his cheeks flush. “Yes.” 

Matteusz smiled at him. Perhaps his simpler clothing was doing something good: it seemed like they were almost equals. Matteusz rarely smiled at him as much whilst he was working. 

“I can see from here.” 

Charles followed him, catching sight of the lights threaded amongst the trees and windowsills of the square. He had only been in the town square a few times before and never in under conditions. This was no emergency evacuation due to cursed wells or an unfortunate face off with an embittered magic welder. (Or, on one special occasion, a dragon.) 

The square was far from the state of chaos he was used to. The festival was filled with dozens of lights, meant to represent the souls of their lost family and friends. There were small stalls, with barrels of ale or delicious smelling foods. A band played music in the centre. 

“It’s so much more than I was ever able to imagine.” 

“You can try and repaint it,” Matteusz suggested. 

“Some things are just too beautiful to really capture.” 

“You don’t know until you’ve tried.” 

Under the waves of gentle candle light, his warm brown eyes were almost golden. It was hard not to get caught up in it all, so Charles forced himself to step away. He was still a prince after all, no matter how free he felt or how simple he was dressed. 

“Best not to. I don’t want to give us- me away.”

Matteusz seemed to get the underlying message and nodded. “Yes, of course sir.” 

“You know I hate that,” Charles said, hoping his exaggerated frustration would lighten the mood. 

Matteusz looked almost relieved. But before Charles could really analyse his expression, Mattuesz was pushing forward through the crowd towards the cluster of stalls. 

They stopped at a few stalls, browsing the various wares there. Matteusz picked up a set of two woven bracelets. A matching set. 

Charles swallowed back any jealousy. It wasn’t his business to ask who it was for, Matteusz was allowed to have a life outside of his work. 

“Best ale in the kingdom,” Matteusz said. He was talking to the old woman who ran the stall with an easy charm. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere young man,” she replied. Her accent was similar to Matteusz’ own - she must be from the edge of the kingdom as well. “Who’s this?” 

“A friend from the palace,” Matteusz answered. 

“Ah. Another unlucky soul?” 

Charles stayed quiet, mildly alarmed. Maybe his Mother was right when she told him there was danger everywhere. 

“But we have so kindly been given a day off,” Matteusz replied. 

It hadn’t occurred to Charles that Matteusz might actually want to spend his day off away from him. He couldn’t imagine any of his past servants doing the same for him. 

Matteusz paid for the drinks, passing a tall glass of a dark ale to him. 

Charles gave it an experimental sip and spluttered on the bitter taste. He was glad Matteusz was turned away for that one. 

They moved away from the stalls, crossing a group of giggling young women pushing past in the other direction, knocking their bags into him and splashing their drinks. 

“It seems like your disguise is working.” 

Charles rubbed at the dark stain now on his arm. “Yes. Maybe too well.” 

“Surely it is nice to be invisible for once?” 

“It’s certainly… a change.” He sighed. “Although if we could escape the crowd, I’d appreciate it.” 

Just a small comment had alerted him to all the unknowns in the crowds. It would only take one magic user with a grudge to cause chaos. 

Matteusz seemed to sense his anxiety and reached for his hand, navigating them through the masses of people into a more secluded corner. 

“Better?” 

Charles nodded, trying to ignore how his hand was tingling. (He had once fought a magic user who shot bolts of lightning at people. It felt similar - like all his nerves were on edge.) 

“I will get us new drinks.” 

Charles found himself suddenly alone, in a quiet corner at the edge of everything he had ever dreamed of seeing. He closed his eyes and let the sounds wash over him: endless chatter, musical warm ups from the band, laughter. He could still feel the warmth of Matteusz's hand in his own. 

This was a life that Charles could imagine for himself if he had been born common. Visiting the festival every year, not having to worry about meetings or magic or pleasing the Queen. Marrying for love, not power. 

It was merely a fantasy - and it would only ever stay a fantasy. But it was nice to imagine otherwise. 

“We have a good view of the musicians.” 

Charles opened his eyes again, with Matteusz now by his side. 

“Uh, yes.” 

“Oh there’s April.” Matteusz pointed at the dark haired woman holding a fiddle. “She works at the palace. We should be careful though, Lord Singh is with her.” 

“You know a lot about the palace.” 

“They’re my friends.”

Charles wanted to ask what that was like but he didn’t want to look too naive. He busied himself by trying the ale again, but the taste hadn’t improved. 

Matteusz tried his best to hide it but Charles caught the laughter behind his hand. 

“Are you laughing at me?” 

“No.” 

“I can hear you.” 

Matteusz moved his hand, revealing his bright smile. It was almost enough for him to be forgiven. “Okay. Just a little. I’ve seen you drink caskets of wine in the kingdom with no problem.” 

“They taste nice!” 

Matteusz took a long sip of his own drink. “You’ll get used to it.” 

They say in a peaceful quiet. They were positioned perfectly to watch couples dance to the music played. Now Matteusz had mentioned it, he could make out Lord Singh spinning the pretty musician girl. 

“Must be nice to dance without such strict rules.” 

“Yes,” Matteusz agreed, sounding a little wistful. 

Charles took a longer gulp of his ale before asking: “do you have anyone to dance with? If you hadn’t escorted me?” 

“Escorted?” Matteusz seemed amused. “You’re a little old for a babysitter.” 

…Which wasn’t answering his question. 

“But no,” he answered. “I had someone back home but I had to leave him behind.” 

Him. Charles tried not to overthink it. 

“Do you miss it?” 

“Dancing?” Matteusz asked. “I am not very good.” 

“Having someone.” He felt his face flush again. At least it was darker now and less obvious. He could always blame the ale. 

“It was nice.” He looked away from the couples. “I miss other parts of home more. Like my sister. I send her gifts when I can. Like the bracelets I brought earlier. She likes to make ones like them.” 

Charles felt a little foolish. “You don’t mention her a lot.” 

“I miss her,” Mattesuz replied. 

“I sometimes wish I had a sibling,” Charles confessed. “To share the burden of being a prince.” 

“Must be lonely.” 

He looked over to Matteusz, reliably by his side as always. “Not always.” 

  Wobbling slightly, Charles was starting to regret his second and third ales. It had taken them to finally pluck up the courage to ask Matteusz to dance with him. It had been ungraceful, yet freeing, to be spun around in hazy circles. 

“I’m dizzy.” 

“I’m sure you are.” Was Matteusz laughing at him? He found it more endearing than anything else. They had both let their guard down. 

“I wish I was normal so we could do this everyday.” 

“The festival is only once a year.” 

“Then I’ll make it law to happen everyday.” 

“Normal people can’t make laws.” Matteusz was definitely teasing him now. “This way.” 

“I’d run away after.” 

“You can’t just run away.” 

Charles frowned. “You did. You left everything you knew.” 

“Yeah. But it is different. They need me to be here, even if it's dangerous for me. Rhodia needs you right where you are.” 

“How is it dangerous?” He asked. “Magic?” 

Matteusz stopped for a moment and Charles stumbled into his back. 

“It’s okay. I’ll protect you from the evil magicians Matti.” 

“Don’t call me that,” he replied. All the fun sucked out of the conversation suddenly. 

Even in his inebriated state, Charles knew when to shut up. 

“This is a bad idea.” 

“Is it?” 

“This shortcut I mean.” Matteusz glanced over down the steep hill. “Not when you’re like this.” 

“I’m fine,” Charles shot back. He didn’t want Matteusz to think he was incapable of walking. 

“Wait, don’t-” Matteusz called, his voice the last thing Charles heard before he slipped.

   Charles had fallen down a hill, in the darkness of early morning, and woken up to the natural light pouring through his open curtains. He had expected the light to sting but he felt okay, minus a fogginess in his head. 

Matteusz was nowhere to be seen. He was usually on time for his duties, but maybe Charles had just missed him. There was tea and breakfast on the side, fresh clothes and the open window. Charles just hoped he hadn’t done anything stupid yesterday. 

(Charles could remember looking up at him, opening his mouth, a horrified expression on Matteusz face. He couldn’t remember what he said, which was somehow worse.) 

He dressed himself. In the mirror, he spotted a small scratch on his forehead. (He could remember falling last night. Maybe just the stairs. He was drunk after all.) 

Matteusz was still missing as Charles went about his day. He had done his lessons alone, then was served by a new servant at lunch. By the time his mother had her meetings, he was convinced Mattuesz was avoiding him. He let Councillor Ames speech wash over him, recounting the last night’s events again, trying to find where he went wrong. 

Charles recalled his face when he had called him ‘Matti', his warning of caution, then a weightless falling, as if time slowed down. That part felt even blurrier, perhaps he had hit his head, even if it didn’t hurt. In fact, he hadn’t even been hungover. It was like- 

“Magic,” Ames was saying, “is evil.” 

(“Magic,” Charles recalled himself saying yesterday, “but you’re not evil.”) 

“Yes, my lord?” 

Without realising he had stood up. It wasn’t just the councillor’s eyes on him, but the whole meeting room. “Um, I agree with the councillor.” 

“What was she saying?” 

He winced: the queen never went easy on him. “Er.” 

“Just go Charles,” she said sternly, “it’s clear your mind is elsewhere.” 

“My apologies,” he said. Usually being told off like a child would be upsetting, but there was already something else on his mind. 

Charles forced himself to walk out the room slowly. Once he was back in the empty hall, he took off running towards his room. He sunk into his bed, shaking, as the events of the night before finally clicked into place. 

  He had been falling, Mattuesz shouting something. Not for help, something else. Words he didn’t recognise. 

Charles had stopped falling, more like drifting, like a feather caught in the wind. The world suddenly slowed, until he had harmlessly landed on a patch of grass and wildflowers that hadn’t been there before. 

Matteusz had gotten down too, suddenly crouched in front of him. He had wiped the small scratch on his face gently and suddenly the bleeding had stopped. 

“Are you okay?” 

Charles was dazed. “You did something.” 

“No I didn’t,” Matteusz said, too quickly. “You just got lucky.” 

“No, it was you,” he had repeated, with clarity. “I was floating, it was like…” 

“Don’t say it.” 

But he had said it. “Magic. You have magic. But you’re not evil.” 

“I’m not anything.” 

“It all makes sense,” he had said, feeling suddenly sober, “all those fights we won - that was you. I thought I was special. I thought I was a hero.” 

“I needed to protect you,” Matteusz whispered. “I will keep protecting you. I’m sorry.” 

He had put his hands on his face and for a second Charles had thought he was going to be kissed. Instead, there was just blankness, nothing. 

Matteusz had made him forget. 

Charles had finally caught up with Matteusz after training with his knights. He had fought better than usual, filled with so much anger that he had even managed to beat Lord Singh. 

He had been with the same musician they saw yesterday, watching from a distance. 

“Let’s go for a ride,” he had suggested. The musician girl had been a stable hand and given them a horse each and they headed into the quietness of the forest. 

“How’s your head?” There was a forced playfulness to Matteusz’ voice. 

“Alright, considering how far I fell.” 

Matteusz had stopped. “I-” 

“I remember.” Charles stopped his horse and slid off him. “Have you made me forget other things?”

“No, never. I only ever used my magic to help you. Memory spells are tricky.” 

“You used untested dark magic on me?” 

Charles was starting to wonder if going somewhere alone with a magic user was a bad idea. If it was up to his Mother, Matteusz would be executed by the next morning. (He couldn’t let that happen. Charles couldn’t be that wrong about him.) 

“It wasn’t dark magic,” Matteusz said, “no magic is dark-” 

“Experience tells me otherwise. Magicians killed my Father.” 

“I know and I’m sorry that happened. But we are not all like that.” Matteusz stepped back, like he was the one to be afraid. “I will leave tonight. You won’t have to see me again. Please, don’t tell the queen.”

“How could you say that?” Charles asked. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

“You have done it to others like me,” Matteusz said. He still looked scared. 

“Is that why you didn’t tell me the truth?” 

“It is dangerous to be magic,” he explained. “I could take no chances.” 

“I understand. I have my own secrets. Even from you.” 

Matteusz didn’t ask. (He wished he would. Then he could do something. One kiss, if he really was going to leave, if Charles was allowed one indulgence.) 

“For what it’s worth, I wish for you to stay. I will keep your secret. You have saved my life so many times, I owe you that.” 

Mattuesz looked relieved. “Thank you.” 

(When Charles woke up the next morning, it was Matteusz opening the curtains and letting the light in.)

[the-scottish-costume-guy]

JK Rowling, transphobia and a hopefully helpful post.

A few days ago I posted on my Facebook (yes I have one sue me) debunking some of the things Rowling has been saying on twitter. Since she made a statement I felt the need to make another one... but this time Im sharing it here. Please note this is long, it is fairly opinionated in places but her statements have felt so insidious I want to share something in depth. If you are cis I implore you to read, but I understand this is long and a lot of people wont want to. No judgement. 

Jk Rowling’s latest statement is a mess of valid concerns and fear mongering. At this point there can be no claim she doesn’t know what shes talking about - she herself has said shes been researching this for years. She throws in token acknowledgements to “real” trans people while framing the rest of her statements as concern for confused teens.So first things first - and something that might not be popular with some of my trans friends. I agree that teenagers should not be able to medically transition. It is a choice that should be made when the brain is fully mature. Hormone blockers are something I trust - and that are reversible. I have seen enough detransitioned people hurting to feel like we do need to be careful - especially with children who are trying to find themselves. I dont know about other people but during my teens I was coming to the crushing realisation that I wasn’t special. I was learning that no matter how well I painted someone else did it better, no matter how badly I hurt someone had it worse - I was learning about the wonderful mediocrity of life, and having anything that made me stand out gave a brief reprieve from learning to be okay with all these things. For me to be fair it was dying my hair outrageous colours and dressing in black leather during 30 degree summer heat - but its still something we cant forget. I KNOW a lot of kids claiming to be trans are - and I dont want to keep that from them, however I dont want to cause harm to the kids that are wrong. Continuing on, I’d like to address her comments about TERFS. Terfs are Self Described Trans-exclusionary-radical-feminists and the term does get thrown around a little too liberally at times. Terf is not and never will be a slur. No more than “White” is. It is about a group of people who have taken it open themselves to segregate another group - and calling that what it is, is not a crime. The reason Terf and transphobe have become synonomic is because the ‘radical feminists’ that subscribe to this have lost focus on nearly all other issues of feminism and sit squarely on “dropping the T” from the lgbt community and “keeping men out of womens bathrooms.” Terfs are overwhelmingly women - this is sadly simply a fact. Terfs are reviled because of how much it feels like a betrayal to the community. A group that fights for rights - except ours. A group that wants equality - except for us. Its different to the conservatives who hate us all equally - with Terfs we are singled out. Terfs are not, as Rowling claims, inclusionary to Trans-men. I’ve been met with a combination of pity, loathing, mockery and revulsion by people within this group. I’ve been told that I shouldn’t let homophobia push me into transitioning - only for all correspondence to abruptly drop when I mention Im marrying another man. I’ve been told my old body was beautiful - only for stunned silence when I agree. I was beautiful - I was curvy, I was a dancer and had a body to match - but I wasn’t Me. When their usual arguments against me fail - I’m met with hate. Im called anti-woman, traitor, homophobic. I even have some such comments saved on my blog. I have yet to meet a Terf who was pro-trans-man. Rowling claims that had she had the ability, as a confused teen, she may have sought to transition. I hate to tell her but she did have the ability and trans people didn’t pop into existence in the twenty-first century. I’m actually looking to do my dissertation topic in my final year on lgbt presentation throughout history - and in my overeager way I’ve already started researching. James Barry has been becoming a common name for years - a transgender surgeon who died in 1865. If Barry was able to at least socially transition from 1790 to 1860, I am fairly sure Rowling could have in 1980 - over a century later. Rowling also claims that groups of friends in schools all suddenly identify as trans at the same time. Speaking from my school experience - the queer kids group together. We seek out others like us, and we take strength from each others bravery to come out - often around the same time. We almost get a rush of resolve when one of our group musters the courage and strength, and some of us use that rush to bite the bullet ourselves. Its one of the beautiful ways the lgbt community is here for one another - and the influx of people identifying as trans is partially a factor of more people knowing the name of their feelings. Survivor bias will ignore the trans people through history without the knowledge or means to transition - and will claim they were never trans at all. Her initial statements about charities worry me in particular. As I said last time - we know sex is real, we just dont really like to be defined by it. She is worried that we’re going to “rebrand medicine” and ignores that medications for years have had warnings in their leaflets about “If you are or become pregnant” regardless of if the person receiving it has a dick or a vagina. We dont advocate for ignoring the differences in how people respond to heart attacks - and I for one would like research to be done on how hormones effect that. I dont actually know if I would respond more like a cis gender woman or a cis gender man if I were to have a heart attack or a stroke. But where possible we do want to change the language around some of these things. I have had a double mastectomy, but some Cis-men have these as well. This is not a gendered term. Why should a period be called anything else? Why call it a “womens problem.” I and Im sure many other trans people, support the research into how different medical and mental issues affect different sexes. I just think that should be extended further - and we know it should, as some medical issues affect people of different ethnicities in different ways and we don’t know how. I am truly sorry that Rowling has experienced abuse and assault of any nature. I am truly sorry that she has felt unsafe. But her feelings do not invalidate others experiences. Of the trans people I know, a saddening number have been assaulted, have been abused and in particular have experienced these things domestically. There is much work to be done on this in the UK. There are nearly no mens shelters for sufferers of violence to my knowledge. I, a trans man who have experienced some of these things in my teen years, would Not want to be around cisgender women even if I could be. A cis woman was responsible for much of the pain I personally suffered - and in fact one of the acts of violence she carried out against me was directly after I came out as trans to her. Trans women, even if they could go to male shelters, should not have to be surrounded by a group that put them in danger - in a place that is detrimental to them physically and mentally and is frankly degrading. The belief that allowing trans women into shelters for those escaping abuse is dangerous is sad. To be so afraid is deserving of pity. To let fear blind you to the suffering of others - to think its better that a trans woman face homelessness or a return to an abusive household because you personally would sleep better at night is the kind of passive evil we should be aware of in this day and age. It comes from choosing to see the word “trans” before “person.” Its from choosing to see a persons genitals before their humanity. Trans people are not dangerous - and cause no greater risk than any other demographic.  Her claims that she can empathise with this fear are empty. A gender recognition certificate is not a ticket into womens bathrooms. Funnily enough you dont actually require a piece of paper to go almost anywhere. I do not have a gender recognition certificate and use male bathrooms, can enter male spaces as I please. All a gender recognition certificate does is change the letter on your birth certificate. It doesn’t even affect other forms of identification - my passport, my student id, my drivers license all already say male. I am not sure why so many people have chosen this as their hill to die on because its the least relevant thing to them on the planet. How often have any of you seen another persons birth certificate? Rowling says she and other ‘gender critical’ (a terf dogwhistle) people are concerned for trans youth. Well… she can take her condescending concern and direct it to matters that are relevant to her. Trans people want to be left alone. Its a simple request, and yet people endlessly seem to trip over the dirt level bar.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, noahreidhours!

For @noahreidhours. You wanted angst, have some angst (and some fluff, I guess)

*****

It starts like an avalanche, a small, defined moment that coalesces into something much bigger. Derek can’t pinpoint the exact moment everything clicked into place and the snow started, metaphorically, tumbling down the mountain, but once it started, it didn’t slow, didn’t stop, and couldn’t be avoided.

Derek has been convinced for so long that good things didn’t happen to him, that when things start looking up, he tries to quash it away as best as he can, in the only way he knows how; he bares his claws and snaps his fangs.

He doesn’t know when it stopped working on Stiles.

— — — — — —

It must be a day that ends in Y, because Stiles goes missing a few days after the pack discovers something hinky going on out in the preserve. Boyd and Erica have both found evidence of some sort of magical presence - fire pits that stink of non-native herbs, a spool of twine, a silver coin, several rocks and tree trunks painted with strange runes that even have Deaton scratching his head - and not even Derek is able to catch a scent.

Things really go ass over tea kettle when, one day later, Alison goes missing, too.

Chris Argent calls in every favor owed to him to aid in the search. Chris vouches for every hunter that comes to town, swears that they keep to the code, but Derek trusts them about as far as he can spit.

Derek delegates that Chris and his hunters can search one half of the preserve, while he and his wolves check the other half. Boyd and Erica make up one group, Scott and Isaac the other. Jackson and Lydia are holding down the fort, so to speak; Danny’s hacked into the database that stores the video for traffic cams across town, and the three of them are going through it in hopes they can find something. Thus, Derek searches alone. After all, he’s the strongest, he’s the alpha.

It’s more coincidence and dumb luck than expert tracking that Derek finds them at all.

The moon is high, and he pauses by the stream that runs through the preserve, scenting the air. He smells nothing but the forest around him, crisp and clear and just a little damp from the afternoon rain.

That’s when he hears it, a strange sound that has him freezing in place. It sounds muffled, like hearing a TV or radio in another part of a house, softly faded but just loud enough that, if you listen closely, you can make out a word or two every now and then.

Derek hears the sound again, but this time he’s ready for it, and he leaps off his vantage point and tears through the underbrush, teeth gnashing, eyes red.

He skids to a halt when he enters a small clearing. A length of red twine connects seven trees until it comes back on itself, making a lumpy circle of sorts. Off each length of twine, between one tree and the next, hang small wooden tokens, square in shape, twine threaded through a hole near one of the corners. Derek thinks there might be writing or runes on them, but he’s too focused on what’s inside the circle to investigate further. On two slabs, floating several feet off the ground, are both Stiles and Alison, tied up with what looks like the same twine that surrounds them. He can’t make out Stiles’ upper body due to a tree blocking his line of sight, but he’d recognize those lanky legs and scuffed-up high-tops anywhere. He sees Alison’s profile, and, unfortunately, she doesn’t look too great. There’s a length of cloth tied around her head acting as a gag, and her face is sporting more than a few bruises and cuts.

That’s not all, though, because of course it isn’t. Good things don’t happen to Derek Hale, remember?

Not one, not two, but three hulking, vaguely human-shaped figures stand within the circle, along with a single hooded figure.

What’s more is that Derek can’t smell any of them.

When he sees one of the mammoth figures move a bit, he realizes that he can’t hear them, either.

The figure that had started moving comes to a stop next to the slap Stiles is tied up on. It raises a gigantic, meaty fist and-

Derek is moving before his brain can catch up with his feet. He tears out of the foliage, and as he passes into the circle, a strange feeling ripples through him, sends a shiver down his spine.

Witchcraft.

The hooded figure takes one look at Derek and then flees like his ass is on fire. Derek moves to give chase, but narrowly misses the haymaker one of the lumbering figures throws at him. He flips backward to dodge it, and with it his shoulder catches a length of twine, his body weight snapping it easily.

A little more hell breaks loose after that, because why not, right? In for a penny, in for a pound. As soon as the twine snaps, the two slabs holding Stiles and Alison fall to the ground with a tremendous sound that makes Derek wince.

The three figures don’t pause in their assault, however. They move fast for their size, and when Derek executes a move that would take off the arm of a normal being, he almost twists his spine in two trying to dodge the creature’s countermove.

“Derek!” he hears Alison yell.

“Little busy!” Derek shouts back, snaking behind a tree.

“No, Derek, they’re golems! There’s a word carved into their foreheads! If you erase the first letter, they’ll stop moving!”

It takes some fancy footwork on Derek’s part to manage to get high enough to reach the creature’s forehead, but one well-placed claw swipe has the golem crumbling into dirt. The next golem goes down as easy as the first, but the third gets in a good punch. It sends Derek flying back, but he easily rights himself. As he moves back to his full height, he bites his teeth and pops his shoulder back into the socket. For one moment, he feels a searing pin-point of white-hot pain, but it’s over in the blink of an eye, and Derek’s back to being fight-ready.

He snarls, then charges the creature, his dense muscles knocking the thing off balance. Another swipe to a forehead and the golem crumbles under him.

Derek jumps back to his feet quick as he can, rushing back to where Stiles and Alison still are. Alison’s managed to free herself, and Derek dashes to her side, using the claw of his index finger to cut loose the twine that binds Stiles’ hands together. After that, he cuts the gag free from the boy’s face.

Stiles doesn’t thank him, because Stiles is out cold, and a little more than a little worse for the weather. He’s got a black eye and a fat lip, and there’s a dark, ugly bruise peeking out from the dip of his t-shirt.

“Can you-” Alison starts to ask, but Derek’s already scooping Stiles’ unconscious body into his arms.

“Are you alright to walk?” he asks Alison.

“I’ll be fine if we go slow.”

It takes almost an hour to get back to where Derek had parked the Camaro. Derek has Alison reach into his pocket to grab his phone and call the others, then, when that’s done, she tells him the story of what had happened since she’d been taken.

Stiles wakes up right as Derek is able to see the road.

“Am I being carried like a damsel in distress?” Stiles slurs.

“I could have thrown you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes,” Derek answers. He’s at least a little pleased Stiles feels good enough to be sarcastic. Though, to be fair, there’s never really a time Stiles isn’t sarcastic. Even in life-or-death situations, he can’t keep his mouth shut.

“Oh, man, don’t talk about food. I haven’t eaten in three days.”

Derek growls at that, displeased. He thought it had been a trick of the moonlight, but Stiles’ cheeks and eyes looked sallow and thin when Derek had picked him up.

Alison reaches into his other pocket and frees his keys and helps Derek gently heft Stiles into the passenger’s seat, the back of the chair laid as far back as it can go. Once safely seat-belted in, Derek lets Alison climb into the back.

The trip back to town is quiet. It’s a little disconcerting, considering what a motormouth Stiles usually is. Derek can tell he’s not sleeping from the patterns of his breathing and heartbeat, but he keeps his eyes closed and his body still all the same.

Everyone is already gathered back at Stiles’ house, and Derek is more than relieved for the lack of police cruiser in the driveway.

Scott crowds around Alison, helping her out of the back seat of the Camaro, and Chris’ face scrunches up like he’s just caught a bad smell.

Derek doesn’t really bother with anyone else, though Erica is the one who opens the front door for him. He carefully navigates up the stairs and brings Stiles into the bathroom that’s across the hall from his room, carefully seating him atop the closed lid of the toilet. He rids the boy of his shoes first, then his shirt, while allowing the sink faucet to run until the water turns warm. He wets a washcloth and rings it dry, handing it to Stiles as he fishes for the first aid-kit under the sink.

“Wait, you get the golems?” Stiles asks, scrubbing at his face.

“All three that were there. It was eerie, the way they didn’t give off a scent.”

“Golems are made out of clay or dirt. If they were made out of stuff from the preserve, of course you wouldn’t be able to sniff ‘em out. They’d just - ah, hey, careful!”

“Quit whining, it’s just peroxide. There’s a few cuts next to your black eye. And they’d just what?”

“They’d just smell like the rest of the forest.”

Derek nods, feeling a little relieved over the idea that his inability to scent the monsters hadn’t been due to some inadequacy on his part. Still, if the witch decided to make more, he’d have the same problem…

Once Stiles is patched up, Derek helps him into his bedroom and gets him to sit on the bed, grabbing him a change of clothing.

“How did you find us, anyway?” he asks.

Derek furrows his brows. He can no longer hear anyone outside of the Stilinski home, and finds himself inexplicably annoyed over the fact that no one else had come to check on Stiles after Derek had brought him into the house.

“I heard something. I don’t know what it was, but it was loud enough to get my attention.”

Stiles’ grin is blinding. “Knew it!”

Derek raises an eyebrow, trying to appear unimpressed.

“The twine wrapped around the trees and the runes on the square pieces of wood made up a silencing spell. I managed to snag a handful of gravel, and had spent the next, like, hour throwing it outside of the barrier, piece by piece.”

Derek blinks, taken off guard. Stiles’ thrown-together-on-a-hunch plan had literally been what helped Derek find them. “Smart,” he says, as close to a compliment as he’s willing to give.

Stiles grins wider in response, and something inside Derek twists a little.

“Well, I mean, it’s what got me clocked upside the head,” Stiles says as he gestures to his rather beat-up face. “And, hey, thanks for patching me up, man.”

Derek nods. “Get dressed, I’ll get you something to eat.”

Down in the kitchen, Derek makes two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, then fills a glass with water, since he figures if Stiles is hungry, he’s likely a little dehydrated, too. When he’s back inside Stiles’ room, Stiles has changed his clothes, though the boy is now laying half on the bed, his knees bent and feet flat on the floor.

Derek puts the food on the bedside table.

“Get some rest,” he tells Stiles and he heads for the window.

“Derek,” Stiles calls.

Derek stops, and then turns his head over his shoulder.

“I mean it.” Stiles’ voice is softer, and Derek can hear the sincerity in his tone. “Thanks for the rescue and the Florence Nightingale treatment. And thanks for, you know, the whole golem-slaying thing. Though I am a little disappointed I didn’t get to see them go down. You’ll have to give me a play-by-play so I can add it to the bestiary.”

“Get some rest, Stiles,” Derek reiterates, avoiding saying anything else by means of jumping out the window.

He knows what that pang had been, there, in his chest, behind his heart.

After all, he’d felt it twice before.

And each time had ended in utter ruination for him.

So Derek does what he’s taught himself to do in order to keep himself safe.

He ignores it.

— — — — — —

Three weeks later and the door to the loft swings open, and Stiles, in a flurry of over-gesticulation and an almost-incomprehensible string of words, storms inside. He smells like anger and hurt, and makes a b-line for the musty, second-hand couch.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest and doing his best to glower.

But Stiles is already unloading his laptop from his backpack, his face screwed up in frustration. “I just need, like, an hour, okay?”

“For what?” Derek snaps back.

Stiles doesn’t even seem to notice how angry Derek had made himself sound.

“Dad’s up my ass about why I looked like I went ten rounds with Muhammad Ali the other week. I hate lying to him, but I’m not about to spill the proverbial beans about Beacon Hill’s propensity for the supernatural, so I didn’t have a choice. He’s not listening to it, which, hey, I get, but I can still get mad about it when he accuses me of being in a gang.”

Derek sits in his favorite armchair. It’s the one with the least amount of foreign scents.

Stiles turns to look at him. “Me. In a gang. I’m hardly a buck forty soaking wet.”

He can’t help it, Derek lets out a soft wuff of a laugh.

Stiles blinks at him a little in surprise and a little in awe, and Derek doesn’t miss the sudden uptick in the boy’s heartbeat. He quickly schools his features back into a scowl. “So you need an hour because your dad thinks your extracurricular activities are of a more nefarious nature?”

The spell is broken and Stiles rolls his eyes. “I need an hour because I’m really good at being an asshole when I’m mad and blurting stupid things out.”

“No, you do that on a pretty continual basis, angry or not.”

Stiles glares. “Yeah, ha ha, sassy-wolf. Laugh it up. I need an hour to do my homework in peace before he leaves for his shift, and this was the only place I could think of with a couch and outlet where I didn’t have to buy a menu item every half hour to occupy.”

Derek leans back, reaching for his unfinished book on the coffee table. “If you take anything from the kitchen, I’m charging you.”

“Love you too, big bad,” Stiles says, eyes focused on the start-up screen of his computer.

And while the boy does well to hide his tone with layers of sarcasm, Derek almost drops his book when he doesn’t hear the tell-tale skip of a lie in Stiles’ heartbeat.

He swallows, breaths out through his nose, then pushes it out of his mind. It doesn’t matter, it will never matter. Derek Hale doesn’t get nice things. No, that’s not entirely true - when Derek Hale gets nice things, the world around him crashes and burns. Sometimes literally.

— — — — — —

Isaac gets launched backward, and Derek hears him hit the wall. The concrete indents slightly where Isaac had landed, but he’s back on his feet in a heartbeat, looking more than a little pissed.

“Once I’m in charge of the territory,” the beastly intruder growls, “I’ll kill everyone that ever associated with you.” The creature laughs. “And then, I’ll turn everyone else!”

Derek’s ready for the creature to charge at him. He’s the alpha, and the beast - Derek’s weary to call it a werewolf, given how different it looks in comparison, but Stiles had been adamant - wants that alpha spark.

But even as Derek braces for impact, the blow never comes because in the next second, moving with a speed Derek didn’t know he was capable of, Stiles runs and leaps at the beast. Above his head, ready to be swung downward and clutched tightly in both hands, is, of all things. A baseball bat.

But Stiles never does things in halves, oh no. It’s not in his nature.

The baseball bat connects with the back of the beast, an awful, meaty sound echoes throughout the room. The creature stills, then falls to his knees.

“Wh-wh-wh-”

Derek notices that Stiles’ hands are empty and the bat is somehow stuck to the back of the creature.

“I carved that from a branch of mountain ash, and drove nails coated with a liquid wolfsbane mixture.”

In complete and utter awe, Derek blinks at Stiles.

The boy doesn’t notice. He’s still staring at the incapacitated creature as it sways on its knees, then falls on its side.

“The nails make sure it stays niiice and stuck in you, and the mountain ash is a great paralytic when used like this.”

“Holy shit,” Derek hears Scott whisper.

“Now, because the wolfsbane is a mixture, there’s no way for you to naturally find what’s in it before it kills you. I have the antidote.”

True to his word, Stiles pulls out a small vial from his pocket.

“I’m giving you two options. You can lay here and die, and hey, that solves all of my problems. Or I can take the bat out, give you the antidote, and you’ll never hurt anyone again.”

The beast growls from his position on the floor. “Wh- what’s to st-st-stop me from going b-b-back on my w-word?”

Stiles smiles. “Because Alison Argent’s archery skills rival Hawkeye, and I made her entire cache of arrows the same way I made the bat stuck in your back.”

“Okay, I s-s-swear.”

It’s hard to miss the fear in the beast’s eyes.

Stiles, without any soft of gentleness, puts his foot on the side of the beast, then uses it as leverage to pull what Derek now knows to be a nail bat from his flesh. It’s a sickening sound, and a few of the nails drip with fur and blood, but as soon as it’s free, the beast takes in a shuddering gasp of air. Stiles tosses the vial on the floor next to the creature, then digs out a lighter from his pocket.

“You have until sunrise to get out of the county.”

Stiles doesn’t look back as he walks toward the door, and everyone follows suit, including Derek.

Outside, as they near their cars, Derek watches as Stiles gestures for Isaac to come near. Careful to stay a fair distance away, Derek watches as Stiles looks over Isaac like a doting mother hen might.

“I’m fine. The broken ribs already healed,” he hears Isaac say.

Stiles nods, then pats Isaac on the shoulder. As Isaac walks away, Stiles looks around and makes eye-contact with Derek. The boy gestures him over, then turns around and starts digging in the back seat of his Jeep, where he’d stashed his ridiculous weapon.

“What?” Derek asks as he nears.

Stiles doesn’t even turn around, just hands him a bundle of stuff. When Derek takes it, he sees it’s a pack of baby-wipes and a new shirt.

Derek’s lack of movement is likely what tipped Stiles off, because it’s not a moment later when he speaks. “I know how much you hate getting crap in your car. Figured this would come in handy eventually.”

Staring at the shirt and package of wipes in his hands, Derek’s mind races. Stiles had kept an extra shirt in his car. But not an extra shirt for him, no. Because as Derek holds up the shirt, he can see that it’s not in Stiles’ size; it’s in his.

His mouth goes dry as he turns away and heads toward his Camaro.

— — — — — —

It never gets any easier, the anniversary of when his family had…

But he hasn’t visited his mother’s grave since he and Laura left, and as much as it hurts, he knows he should. Maybe it’ll finally give him a little closure, or maybe Derek just likes inflicting all manner of pain upon himself; it could go either way.

What surprises him, however, is the fresh bouquet of flowers already decorating his mother’s headstone. He blinks in surprise, then furrows his brow. It’s been years since his family had died. Who would bring them flowers after all this time?

The cemetery is mostly dark. It’s just before sundown, and the tall trees that pepper the pristine-grass and well-kept headstones make long shadows. But who is Derek kidding, he’d recognize that stupid red hoodie anywhere.

Part of him is mad, and he doesn’t quite understand why. Misplaced anger, maybe, or something more deeply rooted. As he nears Stiles’ sitting form, ready to verbally tear into the kid, he stops short.

“And, like, you should have seen it! The whole kitchen was a mess!” Stiles laughs, then the sound tapers out into a sigh. “He misses you. I mean, I miss you, too. But I know it’s different for dad. When you lose someone you love the way dad loves you, it’s like you’ve lost a piece of yourself.”

Derek swallows.

Stiles sighs again, then rubs a palm over his face. “And I know I’m not making it any easier on him. But you understand why I can’t say anything, right? He’d blow his top, never let me leave the house. Sometimes I wish I could tell him. And maybe someday I might, or I might be forced to. But I have to protect my friends before I can protect his feelings.”

There’s a long, sad silence that follows. Eventually, Stiles moves to stand and Derek maneuvers to hide himself behind a tree. “Thanks for listening, mom. And thanks for sharing your flowers.”

When Derek gets home, he showers, then eats a bowl of cereal just to get something into his system. He lays in bed, staring at the exposed pipes and beams of the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t steal him away for some time.

— — — — — —

Things stay quiet for a time, which suits Derek just fine. It means he doesn’t have to deal with people; he holes up in his loft and marathons shitty TV shows on the streaming service Stiles had insisted be set up. When he can’t stand to look at the TV any longer, he reads. And, when he runs out of books, he finally leaves the warmth and solitude of his flat to venture out to the grocery store. He stocks up on what he knows he’s out of, without any sort of meal-plan in mind, then scours the pathetic section of books he finds in the same aisle as the greeting cards. Most of them have ridiculous covers and names - bodice-rippers, uncle Peter used to call them - but he finds a few that at least look somewhat promising before he heads to the checkout.

He’s almost completely done putting away the groceries when he hears Stiles let himself in. How the little shit had managed to get a key made or copied in the first place is outside the realms of Derek’s imagination.

When he turns around, it’s to see Stiles, holding out two small, wrapped gifts.

Derek furrows his brow.

One present is wrapped in Star Wars Christmas paper - R2D2 is sporting a rather stylish Santa hat - and the other, much to Derek’s surprise, is wrapped in what appears to be birthday-themed paper.

He looks up and is met with Stiles’ soft smile. “One’s for Christmas, one’s for your birthday,” Stiles tells him, like this kind of interaction is completely normal for the two of them.

When Derek doesn’t move to take them, Stile rolls his eyes and just puts them on the table. “Open ‘em or don’t, Scrooge-wolf. I’m not trying to put pressure on you or anything.”

Even though Stiles has told him there’s no pressure, Derek’s pretty sure the amount of pressure he currently feels rivals that of the deepest part of the ocean. After a moment, he musters up his, what? Courage? Fortitude? Doesn’t matter. He takes a deep breath, and reaches first for the Christmas present first. Red and green light-sabers and Princess Leia with reindeer antlers peel away to reveal a box. Inside the box is a little tissue, and when Derek finally gets what he supposes is the actual gift free of the packaging, he stills. The mug is plain white, but on the side are printed letters.

What do you call a wolf that

has his shit figured out?…

Aware-wolf!

Derek shoots Stiles a look of disdain, but it doesn’t seem to deter the boy. He’s grinning like an idiot. “I got one for Isaac that says ‘What do you call a beta wolf? A sub-woofer.’”

Derek rolls his eyes, but he lets his lips curl up into a slight smile. Terrible as the Stiles’ jokes may be, it’s not hard to see that they are never meant to be harmful.

The birthday present is next, and Stiles seems excited about this one. He leans forward a little as Derek tears open the paper. It’s another box, but it’s much smaller, and when Derek opens this one, he’s confused for a moment.

It’s a ring. But it looks like some kind of wood and epoxy mixture, with the wood making the ring portion of it and the epoxy forming an almost rectangular shape on one side. He takes it out of the box carefully and looks it over. The wood inlay looks splintered, and the transparent epoxy holds… a little moon?

“I don’t expect you to wear it or anything,” Stiles says. “It’s, uh, it’s a piece of wood from your old house. And I made the moon out of clay, because I thought, well, with the whole werewolf thing and-”

“Get out.” Derek’s voice is low and cold.

Stiles freezes. “I’m sorry, I thought you’d-”

“Get. Out.” When Stiles doesn’t move, Derek growls and lunges forward, taking a handful of Stiles’ shirt and pulling him toward the door. He shoves Stiles through and into the hallway, then slams the door before he can catch a glimpse of Stiles’ expression. He locks the door, then leans on it, the ring still clutched in one hand.

“I’m sorry, Derek,” Stiles says.

Derek doesn’t move, hardly breathes. He stays pressed against the door as he hears Stiles walk away. He remains there longer still, far past when he can hear the Jeep start and Stiles drive away.

He peels off his clothes and climbs into bed, despite it being four in the afternoon. He pulls the covers over his head like he used to when he was little, when his mom would turn out the light after tucking him in.

For a long time now, Derek’s mastered the art of trying to not care. The walls around his heart are made of solid steel, layers upon layers.

But now there’s a hole somewhere in that barrier.

He doesn’t cry. To be honest, he doesn’t think he can. He’d cried himself stupid after the fire, had sobbed almost every night for the six months following, and then he just… closed up. He’d shut the door and locked the deadbolt, because kindness and sincerity and just a dash of naivety had been the perfect mix to allow for someone to manipulate him. What had he left now? Every one he’d ever allowed himself to love were dead and gone.

And Derek couldn’t do that to Stiles, couldn’t put the burden of the curse of his heart, of him vulnerable, on Stiles’ shoulders.

— — — — — —

“Stiles, hey - hey, keep your eyes open!”

Derek’s voice is frantic. He cups Stiles’ head in his broad palms, a protective barrier between the back of the boy’s head and the cement below.

Stiles blinks one eye open - the other is already swollen shut.

They’d found the witch with a penchant for creating golems, the one that had kidnapped Stiles and Alison months ago. But this time, instead of three, the damn bastard had made an army of the fuckers, giant, lumbering automatons that swung their ham-sized fists without restraint.

The fight was dirty and tiresome, and even Derek, who’s been a wolf since birth, is tired and nearly out of breath.

Stiles’ good hand, the one not resting in an unnatural manner, rises up and tugs on something that’s dangling from around Derek’s neck. His blood-splattered lips curl up into a smile, or as much as he can make of one, considering the awful state he’s in.

“Scott’s already called Malissa; there’s an ambulance on the way. Just stay awake for me, just-”

“Sourwolf, you kept it.”

Derek pauses, then looks to see what Stiles holds.

It’s the ring made with the wood of his house and the little moon sculpted by Stiles’ own fingers.

“Thought you hated me after I gave this to you.”

Unsure of what to say, Derek just shakes his head.

Stiles coughs, and Derek can hear the strain. It’s a wet sound, and Stiles is slow to take air back in. One of his lungs has likely either been punctured, or has already collapsed.

Derek’s hands are shaking.

“I need a favor, big bad.”

Stiles cuts Derek off before he has time to protest.

“If I don’t make it, keep my dad safe, alright? Make sure he’s… make sure he’s okay.”

“You’re going to be fine, Stiles.”

Stiles just smiles, blinking slowly.

“And you.”

“Me? Derek breathes.

“Allow yourself to have something nice, damnit. You deserve nice things. I know that shit’s been really bad for you for a long time, but you shouldn’t let the hurt that might come outweigh any good that comes before.”

It feels like someone has Derek’s heart in a vice-grip. He swallows, licks his lips, then does just that.

Derek Hale allows himself to have something nice.

He kisses Stiles square on the mouth.

— — — — — —

There’s no other choice to make.

They tell the sheriff what happened. Exactly what happened. Scott fumbles through a lot in his attempt at an explanation, but Derek backs him up, and is the one to shift when the sheriff threatens to have them all arrested unless they tell him the actual truth.

How could they not? His son, his only living blood, looks like he’d been in a one-on-one match with a woodchipper. The hospital did well to keep Stiles alive, but he’d flat-lined on the operation table twice, and Derek had nearly cracked his teeth from clenching so hard. Once stable, Stiles had been set up in a private room, though he hadn’t woken up yet.

Derek’s been at his side for three straight days.

Isaac brings him a change of clothes and something to sleep in, saying that even the nurses were starting to complain.

Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t seem to know what to make of the twenty-something-year-old young man that never leaves his son’s side longer than it takes for him to use the shower or restroom. But, well, he can guess. He’s not really happy with it, of course not. All things considered, however, his son is still alive, isn’t some kind of creature of the night of myth or legend, and has what likely constitutes to be as close to a superhero as you can get at his son’s back; things could have gone a lot worse.

He’ll give Stiles a week before he’s grounded until he’s eighty.

— — — — — —

Derek slides the window open. He sees Stiles partially sprawled out on his bed, laptop balanced precariously on top of a pillow.

“Hey, sourwolf,” he greets. His eyes look less sunken in, though he still hasn’t gained back all of the weight he’d lost.

Clothing the window, Derek toes his shoes off and comes to rest on the other side of Stiles’ bed. It’s small, more than a little cramped, but they make it work.

He gets comfortable, and, as soon as he’s settled, Stiles hooks a leg over his, then reaches out and laces their fingers together, all the while never moving his eyes from the screen.

It’s slow-going, this thing between them, partially because Stiles is still very much on the mend, and partially because Derek still has a hard time with intimacy, especially showing affection.

If it bothers Stiles at all, Derek would never know because it’s never been brought up. Stiles is perceptive, can obviously guess why Derek sometimes still stiffens when they touch, but he doesn’t push. It’s sweet, he thinks, the way they are slow-dancing around one another. They hold hands and watch movies, with legs or heads in laps. They press their shoulders against one another when they go out to eat and take up a single side of the booth.

They kiss.

That’s something new to Derek, the slow press of lips without the promise of something in the distance, kissing just to kiss, tasting one another for the sheer thrill of it, and then backing off slowly, with no one’s feelings hurt.

Stiles falls asleep, his head resting on Derek’s shoulder.

The avalanche has passed.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Within the Circles

Good Omens Spooky/Whump fic.

This fic was written for the @tricketyboo2020 “Trick-or-Treat” prompts; @peppervl requested a scary angel/demon summoning, with the summoners wanting to hurt their captive, a rescue, and Hurt/Comfort (non-graphic and SFW). Well, I have Part 1 ready to go, but rescue and comfort are still being written! I’ll try to get out more later today!

This fic is massive (part 1 is just under 5k), so please consider reading on AO3!

Part 1: Circles of Protection

Crowley snapped awake, fighting off the dream, just as the sun rose. He could still taste the salt and smoke, still see the black candles, the silver sigils laid into the floor, still hear the careful chanting – the words changed over the centuries, but the intent always remained the same.

Someone had started the process of summoning a demon last night, and Crowley was the unlucky target.

“Bad dream?” He shook himself out of the reverie to see Aziraphale smiling down at him, reaching over to gently brush strands of bright red hair from his eyes. “You always get clingy when you have one.”

“Nh.” Crowley was pressed as close to his angel’s side as he could get, arms twined around soft stomach, one leg hooked over Aziraphale’s knees. There was a warmth emanating from him, surrounding them both, a warmth that had nothing at all to do with Hell or Earth, a warmth that could heal everything in Crowley within seconds. “Better already.” He pressed his face into the soft tartan flannel, soaking it all in.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” A little too quickly, perhaps, but Aziraphale didn’t try to pry, simply pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing deeply, as if he enjoyed the burnt-match smell that still clung to Crowley even after all this time out of Hell.

“Alright. Get some more sleep then, darling, it’s only just after seven.”

But Crowley didn’t have time to sleep. He needed to prepare.

Was the New Moon tonight? Most likely. And it was halfway between the Harvest and Hunter moons. The night the humans would have the most power. More than Crowley could resist on his own. Hard to judge how strong they were – felt like at least three, could be more. Already he could feel their hook in his mind, tugging at him. It was just lucky his mental defenses were still intact, or else they’d have him now, bound to a circle, and the questions…

Aziraphale noticed how tense he was, rubbed a hand down his back. “Crowley, dear, it’s alright. Just a dream. It’s over now.”

No, it wasn’t over. It had barely even begun.

“Angel…” he started slowly, not wanting to pull away. “I’ve got…some things to take care of today. Why don’t you head back to the shop?”

“Oh, no, I’d much rather stay with you.” There was no denying the growing concern in his voice.

“Really has to be done alone.”

“Can you tell me about it?” Now Aziraphale’s fingers clutched at the back of Crowley’s shirt.

“Ngh.”

He could. Aziraphale could probably help him. Even with his defenses, Crowley would be in for a fight tonight, and there was no one else he’d rather have at his side.

Except.

Except Crowley would have to tell him. Would have to say the words out loud. Would have to admit to all that fear and pain, and see the horror he could just barely keep buried reflected in Aziraphale’s eyes and then what was he supposed to do?

No. Much better to face this alone, as he always had. He could fight this off, and after the New Moon the humans wouldn’t be able to do more than irritate him, no matter how large their group. They’d lose the trace on him in a day or two, and that would be the end of it.

Besides, Aziraphale would only worry. And fuss. And get anxious and lose his appetite, and a thousand other things Crowley had sworn to keep him safe from.

No, this was the way it had to be.

“S’nothing to worry about.” Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hand, kissed the back of it. Covering up his nerves as best he could. “Just demon stuff. I’ll call you first thing in the morning when I’m done. We can...mmm…go for a picnic?”

“It’s a bit cold for a picnic,” Aziraphale admonished, wearing his most put-upon frown. “And you know I would much rather spend the day with my husband.”

“Nh, I’m in trouble.” Crowley tried to smile, pushing himself to sit up. He felt a wave of cold the moment he moved away from Aziraphale, his mind filling with that echo of chanting, but he quickly slid beside his angel, head on his shoulder, arm around his middle. Back into the warmth. “I know you only call me husband when you’re angry at me.”

“Or when I’m angry at someone else. Do you remember that rude man in the park?”

“How could I forget?” This time his smile was almost genuine. “You made that old bigot cry. It was beautiful.”

“Well. I obviously didn’t want to use such harsh language, but there were children around. I couldn’t have them thinking his behaviour was socially acceptable.”

“My hero,” Crowley said mockingly, lifting Aziraphale’s hand to kiss it again.

“Stop trying to distract me. Why don’t I stay here and, I don’t know, make you tea? I know how to stay out of the way.”

“I just...it’s easier this way.” Another kiss. “And we do whatever you want tomorrow. Dinner? Trip to Paris? What are you in the mood for?”

Aziraphale pulled away a little, trying to see his face more clearly. “And...you promise it’s safe?”

There was no hiding the way Crowley hesitated, but he pushed through it quickly. “If everything goes right, worst thing that’ll happen is a sleepless night for me. No one else gets hurt, promise.” Not unless something went very, very wrong.

“I still don’t like it,” Aziraphale sighed. “But…I suppose…a nice walk in the woods? See the leaves?”

“Yes! Whatever you want.”

“Scarecrow competition?” Crowley nodded eagerly. “And...a maize maze? Oh, a vegetable grower’s contest! There’s one at that farmer’s market over in Oxfordshire – we can stop by Tadfield and see how everyone is. And then we can fly kits and carve pumpkins and – and have a bonfire with marshmallows—”

“We can’t do all that in a day!” The demon slumped back down with a dramatic groan, head hitting the pillows with a thud.

“You said whatever I like. And if I’m to be deprived of your company for a day, I expect you to make it up to me.”

“Fine,” Crowley growled, rubbing his jaw. “S’Friday tomorrow anyway. We can make a weekend of it.” He’d need to recover, and a weekend out of London sounded more appealing than ever. “Just promise you’ll let me take a nap first. Then we can head over, take the kids wherever you like. I’ll even do jack-o-lanterns. Show them how to make a proper one out of a turnip.”

“Alright. It’s a deal.” Aziraphale leaned across and kissed his lips. “And if you insist on being mysterious and secretive, that just gives me an entire day to think of wonderful autumn activities for you. There will be fuzzy jumpers. Maybe a crown of leaves.”

“Bastard.” Crowley kissed him back, trying to pull in every ounce of that warmth.

He’d need it to get through the night.

--

The back room of Crowley’s flat contained his most important possessions – an eagle lectern rescued from a bombed out church, several artworks by Leonardo da Vinci, a photograph of Aziraphale, the first he’d taken when they no longer needed to keep themselves a secret.

He hadn’t meant for the room to have a theme, but all the important things in his life tended to have something in common.

He tugged open the safe that had once held his flask of Holy Water. The flask itself was long gone - Aziraphale had whisked even that away, a gruesome reminder of his greatest fear. Crowley had never considered asking for a replacement; the first had nearly cost Crowley the most precious thing in his life, and that was too high a price to pay.

Still, he wondered how Aziraphale would react if he knew about the box.

Tucked in a corner of the safe sat the simple chest of dark wood, sigils traced across the lid with little more than a hint of the silver that had once inlaid them. Still, they remained strong enough to keep the box safe, and to keep Crowley safe from it. Even picking it up made the hair prickle down his arms, his fingers tingle. It was almost too heavy to lift.

He carried it to a table in his solarium, settling it between trembling plants. They, at least, would have a relaxing day. No time to shout at them now. The lid rattled when he set it down - it had once locked securely, with a key that he carried everywhere, until an emergency caught him unprepared and Crowley had shattered the latch to get inside. He should get it replaced, probably, but in truth the only one he needed to keep out was himself.

Crowley flipped back the lid.

The inside was lined with deep red velvet, worn and torn in many places, and packed tight with rows of glass vials. Some held salt, others spices, herbs, small stones, one even had a jumble of tiny iron nails; the largest held pure black ink. A side compartment held larger stones – amethyst, agate, selenite, quartz. In another, a bundle of candles, black and white and deep violet. An Evil Eye pendant, the back carved with symbols of protection even more obscure.

Every good luck charm, every token of protection that humanity had ever devised. Everything that had ever been waved at him in fear, in an attempt to ward off the evil spirit - everything except holy symbols. Not because he feared them more (though he did), but because they wouldn’t be any help to him now.

Even without the Holy Water, Crowley could still be a danger to himself. Every object in this chest, if used properly, could harm a demon – some of them almost fatally.

He’d learned long ago that sometimes he needed to take risks to protect himself.

--

Crowley decided to make his stand in the bedroom. No windows, only one door, practically a cave, though a literal cave would have been better. He miracled out all the furniture, leaving a glass-fronted concrete cube, facing west across the solarium to the windows, then set to work scrubbing walls, floor, even ceiling until it was almost astringently clean.

Grabbing a bowl from the kitchen, he mixed salt, black pepper, cayenne and a few other ingredients, muttering words of power few humans would still remember. His fingers began to sting as he stirred them through the mixture, but that just meant it was working. Crowley carefully poured a thin line of black and white powder, moving in a clockwise circle in the center of the bedroom, being careful to leave a gap to move in and out through.

Four black candles, set at the cardinal points; four white halfway between them. Three violet, inside the circle. He wasn’t sure if those last ones did anything, but he’d never been summoned while burning them, and he wasn’t going to risk it now.

Another clockwise pass through the room, putting down incense burners – cedar, cloves, dragon’s blood, sandalwood. Even unlit, the scent of them made his lungs ache. He could feel the power building in the room, like a charge of static electricity, like lightning looking for a place to ground itself.

The vial that should have held garlic was empty. He’d used it all back in the 70s and never replaced it. Stupid. Careless. He could miracle some up, but he’d learned the hard way that anything he manifested would be useless for protection until cleansed by a witch. Book Girl would probably help if he asked, but not without asking questions and making it a whole thing. She wouldn’t be as bad as Aziraphale, but it still wouldn’t be good.

Besides, he didn’t even have time for a trip to the grocery store, never mind Tadfield.

The jar of ink, thankfully, was filled to the top. He snapped his fingers to create a paintbrush – that, at least, he could manifest safely – and set to work dabbing sigils of protection on the floor and across the walls. They were hasty, badly formed – but each one hurt, a burning flash of pain up his arm as he finished it, some of them jabbing at his heart. He couldn’t imagine what a proper sigil would do to him, so he went for quantity over quality.

Sixteen around the outside of the salt-and spices circle, eight more around the inside, and one on each wall. In between he set the stones, piles of herbs, and glass jars filled with dried flowers and less savoury items.

The protection in the air was almost palpable now, dragging across his skin, clinging to him like the heat in a sauna. It made his head spin, and he wasn’t even done.

The box was nearly empty now, just a pile of assorted good luck charms – a horseshoe, a rabbit’s foot, a stone with a hole worn through the center – and the Evil Eye amulet.

They burned when he picked them up.

Fumbling, Crowley set the last items around the innermost circle, barely leaving himself space to sit.

Every time he stepped into the solarium, it was like the shock of a cool breeze on a hot day, or the flare of a campfire on a frozen winter night. Both at the same time. A relief. The bedroom repelled him.

He leaned against the table, eyeing the empty chest, trying to think of anything he’d missed.

Nearly sunset. No time now.

He reached for the box of matches, then hesitated.

Heading to the back room one more time, Crowley made a quick call on his mobile phone.

“Hello,” a cheerful voice called across the line, and a little worry unknotted almost immediately. “I’m sorry, you just missed us. We’ve been closed since August—”

“It’s me.”

“Oh! Crowley! How are you? Did you, er, take care of what you needed to do?”

“Nh. Finishing up now.” He grabbed what he needed and turned back, feet dragging as if he could delay the inevitable. “Few more hours. So. Um. Don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Well, of course I’m worried, you silly thing.”

“Really you don’t—” The sky burned red as the sun sank behind the buildings of Mayfair. The hook in Crowley’s mind stirred to life.

“It’s my job to worry about you, dear,” Aziraphale went on. “Why don’t you let me come down and help. I’m sure whatever it is—”

“Nuh. No chance.” He snatched up the box of matches, hand shaking so badly half of them immediately spilled onto the floor. Get it together, Crowley! “Stay wh – where you are.” 

“Crowley!” Now there was no mistaking the deep concern. “Something is wrong, I can hear it in your voice.”

“S’fine.” Why was his voice so high?

“I don’t believe that for a second.” A pause, while Aziraphale probably paced around the room, lips pressed together. “I...I know you have your secrets, and I’ve never pried. I won’t start tonight. But, please, just tell me...are you sure everything is alright?”

Crowley took a deep breath, pulling off his glasses to rub at his eyes. No, he wasn’t sure. There was nothing sure about summonings. He’d be in for a fight tonight, and the smallest thing to distract him or throw off his wards could bring disaster.

He knew what he was doing, he was good at this, really. Hadn’t lost the fight in centuries. Not since 1386, when a group of seven summoners had overwhelmed all his defenses. Of course, Crowley had barely escaped them, and when he had…

No. He would not – could not – tell Aziraphale that.

But he wouldn’t lie, either.

“Honestly…no. But I don’t think there’s anything you can do.”

“Crowley…”

“S’fine. M’gonna feel…” His throat closed up, and it had very little to do with the lingering scents of incense. “Feel so much better when I see you tomorrow.”

A short pause, and then a voice so soft it nearly broke Crowley on the spot: “I love you, dearest.”

“Yeah.” Crowley wiped at his eyes again. “I, uh…” Swallowed, tried to clear his throat. “I…”

A tug of power at the back of his mind, almost too subtle to feel. So strong already. The sun hadn’t even fully set.

“I gotta go.” Crowley’s voice was rough, even to his own ears. “Call you in the morning.”

He shoved the mobile into his pocket and hurried back into the bedroom, striking a match as he went, trying to keep his fingers from trembling and putting it out.

Moving clockwise around the room one last time, he carefully lit candles and incense, filling the room with thick, cloying scents. The tug on his mind weakened, but the protective charms were almost as bad, flaring across his skin like red-hot razor blades.

When everything was complete, he settled in the center of the room and poured out the last of the salt-and-spices mixture, closing the circle. At least seven layers of protection surrounded him, candles and charms and sigils and everything else humanity’s fantastic imagination could devise.

Crowley tied the amulet around his neck, where it hung like a millstone, and placed the object he’d retrieved from the back room in front of him: the photograph of Aziraphale, smiling at St James’s Park, three days after the world had ended and a better one had taken its place.

The picture wouldn’t provide any protection, but it made Crowley feel stronger anyway.

“Right, Angel,” he managed, crossing his legs and hunching his shoulders. “Here we go.”

Through the windows of the solarium, he watched the sun vanish.

--

The first attack came an hour after sunset, at 7:18 PM, just as the tension was beginning to make Crowley’s back ache.

Candles flickered around the room, and the flames turned violet-black, one by one, growing, towering almost up to the ceiling. Whenever a candle shifted, it tugged at Crowley, absorbing his own power as much as the power invading his space.

A wind stirred around the circle of salt, sending stray grains rattling and tumbling away. Glass vials rattled and clicked, but so far everything held. Crowley tried to recite the mantra he used - Latin, very dignified and appropriate - but he kept messing up the words.

The air of the room sucked at him, like the sea going out before a wave, and Crowley barely had time to brace himself before the wind solidified, slamming against his circle like a physical force, swirling around him, coiling, boiling, trying to find a way in. 

Each impact rattled him, and the hook in his mind pulled, trying to drag him towards the door.

“No, no, no, fuck off!” He braced his feet against the floorboards and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He gave up on the Latin and tried something more his style: Get the fuck out of my home, repeated, over and over, until it was no longer words, just a wave of sound.

The power slammed against his circle again, nearly knocking him over. One foot lashed out, and his toe caught one of the glass vials of protective herbs. It teetered - spun - and fell over, rolling towards the circle of salt. “Oh, shit, no--”

Before he could put the blessed thing back, the power sensed the hole in his defenses and struck. It hit him in the chest, like an arrow, like a harpoon, and the force of it threw him to the ground. Gasping and twisting, Crowley sprawled on the bedroom floor, scrambling for something to hold on to as the line of power started to pull, dragging him towards the door. He scratched at the concrete floor, the ink-drawn sigils, but there was nothing to hold. His toe tapped another vial.

Fuck, why did I put so many of these things in here? He used the pull on his chest to force himself to sit up, despite the pain, and caught the vial before it fell. The first one had come to rest just shy of the circle of powders, leaving them unbroken. Where did this one come from? All the blessed trinkets made circles within circles, and if he didn’t plug the gap—

Something not-quite-solid shot around Crowley’s neck, constricting, squeezing, pulling him to his feet, up, off the ground. It was a hand, he could feel it, fingers digging into his flesh, becoming more real as it tried to pull him to his destination. Crowley twisted in the air, helpless, feet kicking futilely at a captor who stood miles away, scratching at his own neck in his desperation to get free.

One finger shifted, brushed across the amulet he wore, and suddenly it released him, dropping Crowley in a heap in the middle of the circle. He coughed and tugged at the charm, which sliced his finger like broken glass even though it was still intact, and crawled across the sigils to the gap in the circle of stones and jars. Another bolt of pain struck his shoulder, insubstantial fingers plucked at the collar of his shirt, but with a scream of “Leave me the fuck alone,” Crowley slammed the little glass jar back into place—

A flash of black light and a shock of pain through every nerve—

And suddenly everything was still again.

The candles burned, blue flames steady, the circles unbroken.

Crowley curled into a ball at the center of the circle, shielding his wounds. Everything hurt, his ribs, his shoulder, his back, his neck. He felt like he should be a bloody, bruised mess, but apart from the tiny cut on his finger there was no sign of injury. And beyond that, the cold, every part of him down to his core, a bone-deep cold beyond shivering.

With a great effort, he managed to push his sleeve up enough to see his watch.

7:24 PM.

It was going to be a long night.

Already, somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear the chanting again, calling to him. The candles started shifting from blue to black. Already.

His eyes fell on the picture of Aziraphale, smiling like a bastard by the duck pond after stealing Crowley’s ice cream. Crowley hadn’t been angry. He’d ordered Aziraphale’s favorite for a reason.

“S’gonna be alright, Angel,” Crowley muttered, forcing himself to sit up even though his arms and chest and head felt like lead. “I’ll see you soon.”

No wind this time; the summoners tried a different approach. The quartz crystals began to glow and hum, a high-pitched noise that ground against Crowley’s eardrums.

He braced himself, eyes on the door.

“Alright, you assholes. Do your worst.”

--

Crowley was not winning.

Candles lay scattered across the floor, most with flames snuffed out, and he had long since lost the power to miracle them back into place. The charms, the herbs, the incense - everything had failed, one by one. Even the sigils were smudged beyond recognition.

Every part of his body was bruised, broken, sore.

Now Crowley clung to the ceiling as a powerful wind shifted the circle of salt, grain by grain breaking down his last barrier. His fingers dug into the light fixture, even as more lines of power than he could count buried themselves into his bones, hauling him towards the door. Metal twisted under his fingers.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned as the circle below grew thinner – thinner – and vanished altogether, breaking the protection with a snap he felt in his soul.

The forces pulling on him – harpoons and snares and hands and everything else the bastards had thrown – suddenly became irresistibly strong, ripping him free, dragging Crowley back along the ceiling.

His feet slammed into the glass above the door, bracing him, but only for the moment. 

It was the last line of defense, the last thing keeping him safe – once he passed through the door they would have him. He pawed at his jacket looking for any other tricks – the amulet had burst shortly after midnight, all the powders burned to nothing, even his mobile phone was gone, lost in some struggle he barely remembered.

Nothing remained but his legs bracing against the wall and ceiling, his mind bracing against the pain and the call, and his glasses…

Shit, that might work.

He pulled them off and glared at the lenses. More black holes than mirrors, but they might be reflective enough.

It was dangerous, trying to reflect power back on the attacker. It worked best if you knew who was attacking you and where they were. A desperate stab in the dark could go wrong in too many ways.

Worse, leaning forward to attempt this might tip his balance enough to drop him through the door, ending this fight entirely.

But what else could he do? Try to hide in this corner until dawn released him?

The glass cracked under his feet.

Now or never.

Planting his feet on the ceiling, Crowley swung his head down, glasses in hand and pointed west, through the door, in the direction the power pulled him. Shoved them right where the pull was strongest and snarled, “Get out of here! Find some other bastard to play your games. I’m not fucking going!”

And just like that, the power released him.

Crowley hit the floor – hard – hard enough to crack his ribs, if they weren’t already damaged, hard enough to slam his teeth against each other. He spat out a mouthful of blood – had he bit his tongue? Or some other injury in the night, ignored until now? – and wriggled across the floor, grabbing four candles as quick as he could. North, east, south, west, all around him. One still flickered and he used it to light the rest before the attack could come again.

But…nothing came. Not even the chanting in the back of his mind.

He looked at his watch, cracked but still running. 5:08 AM.

Had it worked? Had he made it through the night?

Crowley shook his head and let his gaze drift around the room, trying to focus on anything.

What a mess. Broken glass, plant matter and powders scattered everywhere, formless smears of ink, burnt-out wax stubs. Even his glasses were destroyed, frames twisted, glass melted.

Would he have to do this again tonight? Most summoners could only manage an attack like this on certain nights when the forces of the universe aligned, but these had been strong and persistent. There was a chance…

At the center of the room, Aziraphale’s picture suddenly burst into flames, turning to ashes in a heartbeat. Too quickly for a stray spark, for a mundane fire.

“Shit, no, no,” Crowley’s eyes darted around the wreckage for his mobile. Had he dropped it in the corner? Blown out of the room in a stray wind? He snapped his fingers, trying to summon it, but he couldn’t find a whiff of power.

It could be a mistake. It could be a trap. One step out from his makeshift candle circle, and they’d have him, and Crowley didn’t have the strength left to endure what came next.

But if something had happened to Aziraphale, that didn’t fucking matter, did it?

One cautious step past the candles, half in and half out. Nothing.

Three steps to the door, leaning through into the incongruously still-clean flat. Nothing. The plants didn’t even stir.

He crossed the solarium, gazing out through the windows at the night sky. The miracle that allowed him to see the stars despite the lights of the city was rapidly fading, as he hadn’t even the strength to sustain it, but he could still see Venus, clear as lamplight, and Regulus, and Leo…

It wasn’t even near dawn.

And still, nothing tugged at him, nothing beckoned.

Which could only mean…

Crowley ran from the room, all pain forgotten.

--

“No, no, no, shit, shit, shit, no, no, shit, fuck, no,” he muttered the entire drive to Aziraphale’s shop, an excruciating three and a half minutes at speeds the Bentley had never previously reached.

The east window lights were on, the rest of the shop dimmed, the way Aziraphale liked it when he was reading all night in his favorite chair.

The door was blown wide open.

Crowley slammed the Bentley into park right in the middle of the road and staggered out. “No, no, no, Azira—”

There, lying in the doorway: a suit, a waistcoat, a tartan bow tie.

Aziraphale was gone.

Crowley had told the summoners to find some other bastard, and they had. They’d found his bastard.

He collapsed in the street, and for the first time that night, screamed in pain.

--

Thank you for reading, and I’m so sorry! More coming soon!! Special thanks to @angel-and-serpent who gave me so many ideas for protection magic, I’m probably going to have to write MORE fics with witchcraft in them! In particular, thanks for the idea that the protections would hurt Crowley as much as help him, which really allowed me to go off.

[when-they-write-stuff]

No. 25 - Wrapping arms around them when they make breakfast - but with a specific twist. In canon. Pre relationship. Stiles fell asleep at Derek's (exhausted after research, hurt after fight with big bad, it's up to you but nothing too dramatic ^^) or Derek stayed at Stiles'. When Stiles wakes up Derek's in the kitchen, making breakfast. Then the prompt happens. Then awkward silence xD cause, wtf are you doing Stiles? Set season 2ish? Or something? Idk.. But only if you want to! XD

“I told you to stop touching it.”

“I’m not touching it!”

“I can see you touching it, Stiles.”

“Whatever,” Stiles said, crossing his arms as he dropped back onto the bed. “I totally wasn’t touching it. You don’t have eyes in the back of your head.”

Derek huffed and turned back around, a first aid kit in hand. Stiles sat straight back up then, only to groan and wrap an arm around his side once more.

If anyone asked, Stiles would say that he totally got injured in some badass, heroic way. He totally wasn’t running from the current Monster of the Week only to trip over his own feet and nearly brain himself on a rock.

There was a gash sliced open across his chest. Stiles winced as Derek knelt down in front of him, frowning at it. Like the injury had somehow personally offended him or something. Stiles snorted at that, earning a strange look from Derek.

He just shrugged. “I’m just curious, but when was the last time you cared that I nearly died?”

“I’d care if you died.”

“Aw, Sourwolf. Would you say some nice things at my funereal?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m just saying,” Stiles said. “There was this one time I showed up with a bruised face, bloodied lip, and cracked rib and I don’t think even Scott cared.”

Derek’s face hardened at that. He glared even harder at the gash before angrily dabbing at it. Stiles squeaked and tried to shy away.

“Dude, ouch! That hurts!”

“I should have checked in on you,” Derek said. Stiles blinked at him.

“Dude, it’s fine. I’m not bitter.”

Derek looked a little bitter. Stiles studied him for a moment longer before barking a laugh. 

“Oh my god, you totally care about this token human.”

“Shut up.”

“Derek, I’m just gonna say it. I’ve totally gotten under your skin.”

“Like a parasite.”

“Rude!”

Stiles thought there was a hint of a smile playing along Derek’s lips when he rolled his eyes and set the cloth aside, studying the injury again. Stiles was pretty sure it wasn’t bad at all, but Derek had taken one look and told Stiles either he came back to the loft, or Derek was taking him to the hospital.

Looking at it now, Stiles laughed again. “Dude, that’s just a little baby cut.”

“It could’ve been worse.”

“Oh yeah, definitely. I could have gotten an infection and died.”

“You could have.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, pushing himself up. “You’re no fun, you know that?”

Derek rolled his eyes. Stiles pulled out his phone but then hesitated, glancing back. Slowly, he raised an eyebrow. 

“Why the hell do you have a first aid kit lying around anyway?”

“Why do you think?”

Stiles grinned from ear-to-tear, turning around again. He scrolled to his dad’s name, just to let him know he was finally heading home, and waved a hand through the air as he wandered back out of Derek’s bedroom.

“Whatever, you totally care about me. Now if you’ll excuse this token human, I’m going home. My bed is calling and it’s like… oh my god,” Stiles blinked at his phone. “It’s three am, dude. I can’t go home now! My dad is the lightest sleeper you’ve ever met and he’ll totally ground me for life.”

Derek stood silently in the doorway. Stiles spun around, pointing a finger at him.

“I blame you. This is your fault.”

The man just blinked silently. Stiles thought for some reason, he looked a little pleased. Groaning, he typed out an ‘At Scott’s’ message, knowing there was no way his dad was going to fall for that. But Stiles still had yet to explain… things. Werewolf things. And currently, he’d take distrust over putting his dad in danger.

“I’m staying here,” Stiles said flatly. Derek raised an eyebrow and Stiles crossed his arms. “The pups are already asleep and you, sir, can spare the couch. The next time you nearly hospitalize me over a small cut, I hope you remember this.”

“I will,” Derek said. And Stiles didn’t think he was being sarcastic.

Huffing, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and wandered down the hallway to find some extra blankets or pillows. But, finding nothing, he popped his head back around the corner.

“Dude, I’m not sleeping on that lump of a couch without at least a pillow.”

“Okay,” Derek said, pushing his bedroom door open. Stiles blinked a few times and then narrowed his eyes. 

“What?”

Derek raised an eyebrow, his meaning obvious. Stiles crossed his arms, sitting back on his heels.

“Dude, what are you playing at?”

“It’s a big bed, Stiles,” Derek said flatly. “If you don’t like it, you can sleep on the floor. I don’t care.”

“You totally care.”

In response, Derek turned back into his bedroom, vanishing from sight. Stiles stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, debating his options. Because yes, he could probably share a bed with— oh my god— Derek Hale. But Stiles was… okay, you know what? Stiles was a growing boy. The feelings he may or may not possibly have were completely not his fault.

But he was totally waking up early tomorrow morning and making a run for it. Stiles did not need to see Erica’s smug grin if she came across any of this.

Stupid werewolves and their super-sniffers. She always caught him thinking bad thoughts at the worst moments. 

Usually when Derek was around.

After another long moment, Stiles plodded into the room after the werewolf. He could share a bed just fine! He and Scott used to all the time.

When they were literal children.

Derek was already under a giant pile of blankets, his back to the door. Stiles held his breath as he climbed in bed behind the man, carefully turning his back toward Derek was well. The last thing he wanted to do was have his throat ripped out because he accidentally ended up snuggling the man come morning or something.

It took him a long time to fall asleep. And by the time he did, he was nearly falling out of bed trying to make sure he stayed very far away.

Stiles woke up first.

That was exactly like he’d planned except for some reason, he was sweating. Like, drowning in his sweat, and he was pretty sure he couldn’t move. It took a few moments of tired blinking to realize there were a pair of giant arms wrapped around his chest, caging him against the mattress, and a stubbles face pressed into his neck.

Stiles froze. 

If Derek woke up to this, Stiles was so dead. He’d never be able to show his face at the loft again. He could probably get his stomach sliced open and Derek wouldn’t bat an eye.

Stiles was an idiot. And he had to escape.

He tried to move slowly. A wiggle there, a bit of ducking underneath Derek’s unfairly muscular arms here. By the time he was halfway out, Stiles was pretty sure he was going to be caught in the most compromising position ever. 

He ended up with one foot out of bed, one foot still tangled up in the sheets, and ended up just oozing to the floor.

Derek grunted and Stiles froze, staring in terror at the ceiling. But then the man rolled over, seemed to go right back to sleep, and Stiles let out a soft breath.

His phone read six o’clock in the morning as he crept out of Derek’s bedroom.

Erica was sitting on the couch.

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, resisting the urge to groan. “What is wrong with you betas? It’s six in the morning! Go back to bed.”

“Sleep well, Stilinski?”

“I am not engaging in this,” Stiles said, ignoring Erica as he pulled his shoes on and started toward the door. But the beta cut him off before he could make his escape, a smirk tugging at both sides of her mouth. 

“I won’t say anything,” she said. “If you make us breakfast.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“I want pancakes and eggs.”

“I’m pretty sure Derek doesn’t have anything in that kitchen of his other than protein powder, raw meat, and bread,” Stiles said flatly. Erica just grinned.

“You’d be surprised at the things he has around this place to impress the annoying token human.”

Stiles blinked at her. Because… he was the annoying token human, wasn’t he? Allison was definitely very human, but Stiles was pretty sure she was just drop-dead gorgeous and exceedingly nice, not annoying. 

Erica raised a brow and rested her shoulder against the loft door, waiting. After a moment, Stiles groaned, turning back around and starting toward the kitchen. Erica’s laugher followed him.

Stiles hated Derek’s betas sometimes.

He was pretty sure he heard the sound of Erica’s door shutting and of course she was going back to sleep. Stiles briefly considered making a run for it, but then he just sighed, resigning himself to his fate.

He made some mean pancakes. He better get all the praise in the world for this.

By the time Stiles had a neat stack of pancakes on one plate and a skillet of scrambled eggs on the stovetop, he realized Derek was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Just standing there, looking at Stiles with an odd expression on his face.

Stiles froze, feeling a blush creeping up his neck. A dozen excuses came to mind but none were better than, “Erica made me.”

Which Stiles realized also wasn’t great. But Derek just nodded quietly and plodded into the kitchen, coming to stand behind Stiles. The man studied the food over Stiles’s shoulders and Stiles shivered a little, painfully aware of how close he was standing.

For a moment, all he could feel was arms locked around his chest. A stubbled face tucked into his neck. Derek’s warm breaths on his skin.

Stiles was pretty sure his heart skipped a beat. 

Then Derek was reaching around him, stubble brushing against his ear. Stiles went stock-still, not moving a muscle, only to realize Derek was reaching for one of the pancakes. He made a noise of protest, trying to smack the man’s hand away, and Derek’s arms wrapped around his waist instead.

Stiles froze. “Derek.”

The man didn’t say a word but he’d gone stock-still too. Stiles swallowed hard.

“Dude.”

“You’re making breakfast.”

“An astounding observation.”

“In my loft.”

“... Erica made me?”

Derek finally pulled back, fingers ghosting over Stiles’s sides. Stiles shivered despite himself and then Derek was reaching over again, grabbing a pancake and moving away before Stiles could protest. He glared as Derek took a giant bite.

“You animal.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. Stiles glared harder.

“Pancakes with no syrup is a crime.”

“I don’t like syrup.”

“Because you’re an animal. Next thing I know, you’ll be begging for ear scratches and whining when I pet you.”

“No dog jokes,” Derek grumbled, dropping onto the stool in front of the counter. His hair was sticking up in all directions and he was still wearing the same rumpled clothes from yesterday. It was kind of adorable. “It’s too early.”

“That’s the only objection you have about what I just said?”

“If you ever try to pet me, I’ll rip your throat out.”

“There the Sourwolf I know.”

Derek gave him a flat look, taking another pointed bite of his pancake, but Stiles thought he could read a hint of a smile. Before he could say anything though, the betas came plodding in. Erica last, looking from Stiles, to Derek, and then back with a small smirk. Stiles rolled his eyes and returned to finishing the eggs.

This was blackmail. The only reason he was still here.

Stiles could still feel phantom arms wrapped around him, though. The brush of stubble against his ear. Once more, he shivered and this time, it was Derek watching with an amused expression. Or maybe a pleased one. Stiles just rolled his eyes and looked away.

Whatever. He didn’t care.

There was another first aid kit in the drawer that Stiles opened, searching for the silverware. Despite himself, he smiled. Another one. Because apparently Derek didn’t trust him to not be an idiot.

Or maybe the man cared a little too. 

Stiles closed it carefully and might have been smiling even brighter when he turned back to the eggs. Erica was downright beaming now and Stiles flat-out ignored her. Whatever. He could survive this level of blackmail.

And maybe he would accidentally stay over again some time.

- -

I accidentally misread the prompt a little and had Stiles make the breakfast instead. But it still works, I hope? I had fun with this one! I love some awkward accidental domesticity. Thank you for the prompt, my friend!

(if you enjoy my writing, consider supporting your struggling student writer? You can also request a prompt if you’d like!). https://ko-fi.com/rh27writer

[pathetic-has-been-rockstar]

Finding Warmth

Pairing: Crowely x reader

Written for: @spnchristmasbingo​

Square filled: sharing a bed

Warnings: none

Summary:  Chuck is gone, Amara is in charge, and the world is finally free. You're heading to the bunker for the first proper Christmas celebration with Team Free Will, but you're forced to stop along the way. When the former King of Hell shows up, you manage to surprise him, and discover a new side of the demon.

Words: 2644

Beta: @raspberrymama​

my work can be found on AO3, here! If you’re interested in the whole series, you just have to click here!

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The road to the bunker is pretty long, and the radio doesn't bring reassuring news. Apparently, there's a snow storm raging somewhere, and the roads aren't going to be open for long.

With a sigh, you peek at your car's clock. It's well past nine, and you're hungry and tired, so you decide to pull over at the first motel sign you see. You book a room, head to the gas station next to the motel and buy a couple of sandwiches, a cupcake and a couple of soft drinks. You're in the mood for some beer, but you're tired enough as it is.

Walking back to your room, you make a call.

“Hey there, Dean!”

“Kid! We were starting to worry. Where are you?” You smile at the concern in his voice. Since Chuck is gone and things have changed, he became almost overprotective in regards to his little found family.

“Still a state over. Snow storm raging, closed lanes. I've managed to snatch the last room in a motel, tomorrow morning things should be better.”

“Crap. I'm sorry. Anything we can do?”

“Nah, don't worry. I'll have some food and hit the bed, it's been a hell of a drive so far”, you quietly thank yourself for being reasonable and driving something maybe less fascinating but definitely more comfortable than the Impala. Dean's voice brings you back shortly.

“Take some rest and stay safe, ok? We'll check in tomorrow, but you keep us updated”.

“Won't miss. Night guys.”

You quickly hang up and walk in your room. It's pretty cold, close to the road, and the bed doesn't look really comfortable, but it still beats the idea of sleeping on some shoulder of the road.

Once you're done with your dinner, you try to turn on the tv, but it doesn't work, just like the heating, apparently. Bored and slightly frustrated, you make yourself a cup of tea using the courtesy set, then pick up your phone and send a text.

A moment later, a familiar British accent rings behind you.

“Hello, darling.”

You turn around in your chair, smiling at the king of Hell. As usual, he's clad in black, looking both impeccable and mildly bored.

“Hello, Crowley. How are you?”

“I'm curious, actually. How can I help my favourite non-hunter on this fair night?”

The day he won't tease you about the fact that you still refuse to label yourself as a hunter will be the day Hell freezes over, probably. You laugh it off, and make your request, hoping he's in a good mood.

“Do you have a way to bring me to the bunker that's not through a snowstorm?”

He tilts his head, looking at you.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I need to get to the bunker, but the snow...”

“Do I look like a bloody taxi service to you?”

Alright, he's not in a good mood. You shake your head, feeling the tiredness of the day washing over you, and you shift a bit in the chair.

“You don't have enough juice anymore, do you?”

He gives you a cold glance, and doesn't even bother denying. He pulls up a chair and sits, stretching his legs under the table and looking at you.

“Why are you in a rush to get there, anyway? As far as I know, the Wonder Brothers are on holiday break.”

“Yes, they are. I'm part of that break.”

He looks surprised, then he pouts for a second before talking, like he does when something doesn't go the way he wants.

“Of course you are. Well... since you summoned me for a stupid request, I'll take advantage of it. Which means... I'm staying here.”

You choke a little at the idea. You're not going to complain about spending a night with him, but the idea of doing it like that, without anything to steal, hunt, or kill just feels a bit weird. It's also the first time that you two spend time together alone after the whole Chuck affair and his return from the Empty.

“The whole night?”

He nods, eyeing the bed with a smirk you know too well.

“You fear we'll run out of things to do, love?”

“Oh, please. It's freezing in here.”

“One more reason to take advantage of the bearer of Hellfire, love.”

You laugh off his swagger and take it for what it is: the very essence of Crowley, and a clear attempt to play his favourite game of making people uncomfortable. Then, you remember something.

“Yeah, sure. Hang on, I gotta pick up something from my car.”

You grab the keys of your car and rush out of the room, leaving a very bemused Crowley behind you.

That's not how he was expecting a nightly summoning to go... nor what he was hoping for. You don't seem particularly interested in replaying that only night in which you fell between his arms, but that doesn't mean he won't play his cards to get there.

He walks to the table and picks up the cup of what looks like tea, but smells like chemicals and bad food colouring, until he hears you stepping back in the room and closing the door behind you.

“Here.”

Crowley raises his nose from your cup of “tea”, which he was curiously smelling, and looks at you with a confused expression.

“... what... what’s that?”

“A box. Inside it, there’s a thing I’d like you to have on my behalf. It’s called a present, or gift. Mortals do this thing of exchanging them at Christmas. Remember that?”

“... you got me a present. A... a Christmas present.”

“Yeah.”

“You... got the King of Hell a Christmas present.”

“Former king of Hell, last time I checked. If you don’t want it I can always take it back, you know.”

Setting the cup back on the counter, Crowley’s stare shifts from your hands holding the box to your face, studying your features. You seem good willed enough.

“I didn’t say that”, he mumbles.

“Well, take it, then. Careful, it’s fragile.”

Crowley finally takes the box from you, brushing your fingers with his ones in doing so, and noticing the slight pink tingeing your cheeks for a moment.

The box is wrapped in brown paper, but you drew a geometric pattern on it, snowflakes-shaped. Then, watching more carefully, Crowley sees a pitchfork here and there in the middle of the snowflakes, and he smiles. You really put some effort in that, and you're glad he seems to appreciate it.

“You surely do have a certain sense of humour, kitten.”

“There’s not a single good enough reason to be dull”, you brush off his compliment, but it surely flatters you.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

With a snap of his fingers, the wrapping paper opens without tearing, making you smile. You stand, awkward, and watch Crowley carefully examining the wooden box in his hands, until he sees the name branded on it. Immediately, he grins. You certainly know him.

“Kitten, of all the surprising things you could have done, this goes easily up in the top ten.”

“I am surprising, after all.”

You shrug, awkward. You're happy that he liked the present, but you keep hoping that he won’t ask you the most obvious question, the one whirring through your mind since you decided to give him one bottle of the finest whisky in the world.

“Indeed. Just... why?”

“One of my clients saw a bottle you left at the store and asked me if I was interested in whisky. I treat him pretty well, so he sent me a couple of these, and I thought you might like it.”

“That's not what I asked.”

“It's just... tradition, you know?”

Crowley shakes his head, carefully setting the bottle on the table of the motel. You both are well aware that what you gave him is rare, coveted, and incredibly expensive. It surely is not a token exchanged to respect a tradition.

“No, it's not. And you put me in a difficult position, now. I haven't gotten you anything.”

You smile, a bit disappointed by the fact that he deemed that present as a formality.

“It's fine, actually. You must be terrible with presents.”

“Pardon?”

“Of course. You were a king, used to being revered and obeyed... when was the last time you gave someone a present, just because you felt like doing it? And don't mention paying Dean's bar tabs, that doesn't count. It must be something you picked out, not a deal.”

Crowley thinks about it for a second, then scoffs. You got him, and yet he's not particularly bothered. There's something in the way you tease him that he really likes. Perhaps it's because you're not scared of him, or maybe because you don't seem conflicted about him. No awkward shuffling and senseless musings about right or wrong. Even after your night together, you simply moved on, like you would have done with any other one-time lover... even if perhaps he didn't exactly appreciate that.

“Alright, kitten, you got me. But I'm sure that, if I had a chance, I could certainly surprise you with a nice present”.

“Ah, now. I gave you something... it's already impossible to be spontaneous.”

“I don't think this game has fair rules.”

You laugh and relax on the uncomfortable chair. “Of course it doesn't. Christmas is a very tactical time of the year. If I surprise you with a present, you will be forced to be nice to me until next Christmas. I'm an evil genius in a very hot body.”

He laughs, his eyes roaming your forms.

“While I can definitely see that... I'm sorry, love, but you lack conviction.”

“Meaning what?”

“I am quite the epitome of the villain... and that speech lacks the necessary emphasis to be believable. In fact, I think you like Christmas quite a lot, and you took real pleasure in giving me something.”

“I've never been so insulted in my life!” you mock him, making him laugh. You've always taken a certain pride in being the one able to make Crowley genuinely laugh, and his humour is one of the things you appreciate most of him.

He snaps his fingers and conjures two crystal glasses from thin air. They're made of crystal, finely etched, and you recognize them as a part of his personal collection, one you've often seen in his hand. He gives you a questioning look.

“... what is it, your highness?”

“I was wondering how upset you'd be if I were to share my present with you.”

You think about it for a second, then solemnly look back at him.

“You know... I think a quality check is in order.”

“Just what I thought. Let's see if mister Gordon and mister MacPhail have honoured fifty years of ageing.”

When Crowley pours you your whisky, you immediately take a deep breath of it, studying the articulate aroma. You rarely had the chance of drinking something this old, and you're always curious about it.

The first note is sweet, like apple and honey, followed by a hint of smoke, and that promise is kept when, after a proper toast with your favourite demon, you indulge your dram. The sweet and thick taste is balanced by a sour note, and it leaves a peaty finish on your tongue. After the first few sips, it's already going to your head, and you lick your lips. The smoky finish reminds you of something similar, far more tempting.

Something that's currently sitting in front of you, telling of a deal he made with the owner of a distillery in the Speyside, a couple of centuries ago. You try to engage in conversation, at first, but time flies, the bottle empties more and more, and pretty soon you're half asleep.

You almost miss his laughter when he stands up and places his hands on your shoulders, helping you up on your feet. You protest weakly, closing your eyes.

“Come on, kitten. Let's get you to bed.”

“... no... I don't want to, it's cold...”

“I'll see to it. Do you trust me?”

The warm voice purring to your ear is a dream, a promise of comfort and warmth that you’re not willing to give up, but you also know you’re not supposed to indulge.

“... I shouldn't...”

“But do you?”

You drop your head on his shoulder, rubbing your face against the fabric of his suits while you nod.

“... yes.”

“And thanks to Christmas magic, this time you won't pay for this mistake.”

Crowley laughs next to your ear while he effortlessly carries you to bed. With a snap of his fingers he takes off your shoes and clothes, substituting them with a comfortable flannel pyjama.

You curl up under the thin sheets, shivering in the cold bed, and close your eyes, trying to relax. You hear another snap of fingers and you feel Crowley slipping in the sheets behind you, wrapping you in a warm embrace.

You'd like to protest, but he's too warm, and you're tired. All you manage to do is let out a muffled sound, before snuggling closer to him and falling asleep right away. You enjoy the best night of sleep you had in months.

The following morning, you open your eyes and, for a second, you don't see anything. It takes you a moment to realize that you must have turned in your sleep, and your face is now pressed against Crowley's chest. One of your arms is folded between you, while the other is draped on his side. You pull back, suddenly awkward, making him laugh. Your breath hitches imperceptibly when you feel the soft rumble shaking his chest, but you hope he didn't notice.

“Morning, love.”

“I... hi. How... how are we... did we...”

Crowley runs a hand through your hair, pulling them away from your face. “We shared the only bed, yes. I think we could have done something more interesting, but you were drunk, and quite exhausted.”

“I wasn't drunk, just... never mind. What time is it?”

“Barely 9. We still have plenty of time to get to the bunker.”

“... we?”

The kiss on your forehead is so light that you wonder if you imagined the light prickle of his beard on your skin, but Crowley lingers there for a moment before answering your question.

“You surely need a copilot to get there in one piece, and you can't die while you're one up on me.”

You finally chuckle and slowly, very slowly, you disentangle yourself from Crowley. One of his hands moves on your side, and his fingers sink in the fabric covering your skin. The shiver running down your back has very little to do with the room temperature.

“... alright, you can come with me, then. Let me just take a shower and...”

“No rush, love. Actually, why don't we...”

Your phone buzzing furiously on the nightstand interrupts Crowley. You give him an apologizing look, then grab your phone and pick the call, groaning.

“Yeah?... yes, Dean, I... alright, sure. Thanks. I'll get going”. You hang up and turn to Crowley, blushing. “He... he heard that the roads are open, but the weather cast says it's snowing again this afternoon. We'd better get on the road.”

Before he can say anything, you stand up, grab your bag and walk into the bathroom, locking the door behind you. On the good side, you're so confused and excited that you barely notice the cold. On the bad side, you're so confused and excited that you almost try to use your mouthwash as skin tonic.

Crowley , still lying on the bed, smirks at the stained ceiling. He's seen how nervous you are around him, and he congratulates himself on his decision to come with you at the bunker. He's never been a fan of holidays, but it looks like things might change soon.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you for reading! I truly hope you enjoyed this little story. Every kind of feedback is very much appreciated, just as much as likes and reblogs!

Please, do not repost my works or part/s of it on different places, not even if you give credits.

[avengemebuckyy]

Be Careful

Summary: 

You tell Bucky to be careful with your heart. Too late he realizes you should have been careful with his.

or:

You’re awkward,odd, and not the most conventionally attractive yet you’re the only woman that Bucky sees

Warnings: manipulation 

Authors note: Back from the dead lmao. This is probably trash but I just needed to force myself to finish something it order to try to get back in the groove! Feedback is more than greatly appreciated, it’s what keeps me writing tbh...

PS. You ain’t shit in this lmao

---

You weren’t the most eye-catching. You didn’t look like the girls Bucky used to chase after in his younger years, or the girls on the internet he’d find himself staring at once he’d discovered Instagram, endlessly scrolling through picture after picture, lost in a sea of beautiful bodies and faces. You didn’t look like the tall slim blonde agent he’d always make a point to hold open the door for, or his neighbor’s daughter in Wakanda, who had had dark skin so smooth and a face so perfect he’d never managed to say more than two words to her.

You were slightly awkward, with a slightly odd sense of humor, always cracking jokes that sometimes no one laughed at but you. But you didn’t care, you would laugh at them all the same. You wore baggy clothes, and not the fashionable baggy kind either. Your favorite outfit was baggy camo print cargo pants and an old grey band t-shirt, logo so faded it was almost impossible to decipher.

At first Bucky didn’t pay you much attention. He wasn’t rude, but he treated you with the same gruff stoicism he treated everyone with. Well everyone besides Sam, Steve, and Natasha. Besides he only saw you rarely, you were a high level agent thanks to your skill, but you didn’t work closely with the team very often. Until you did.

One mission with Clint was all it took to have your name thrust forward when Fury was looking to fill a coordinator position. Suddenly you were everywhere. Coordinating their positions on missions, even going on missions with different members of the team. You fit in well with the team, your corny jokes and generally happy disposition make you easy to like. Your apartment was five minutes away, thanks to Tony, so you would often eat breakfast with the team and stay at the Tower well into the night, often crashing in a room designated for you, also thanks to Tony.

You were like a deceptively shallow river Bucky would think after. One minute he was wading through your shallows, next moment he was being taken under by your currents, realizing too late that he was in deeper than he thought possible.

It started slowly, you would make an effort to make conversation with Bucky, never seeming off put by his non answers. Bucky found himself coming to you with numerous questions on how to work social media, you would give such long winded explanations he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself with asking questions. Soon he found himself seeking you out for more than explanations. Funny thing is you were the one who introduced him to Instagram, to the  beautiful women on the app but eventually he found himself unable to see any woman but you.

Bucky found himself sitting with you at lunch, looking out the window in the mornings waiting to catch sight of your army green jacket. He’d sit with you in the afternoons as you did your paperwork, steal glances at you ,your forehead always shiny by midday with an almost ever-present patch of acne, eyebrows scrunched together as you filled out mission reports. He loved those quiet moments the most. Bucky wasn’t good with words, not anymore. But he would help carry the 10 pound boxes of paperwork, always bring an extra pen in case yours ran out of ink, and constantly would bring you your favorite Starbucks order. He secretly hoped that you would read the affection behind his actions.

You didn’t usually go to Stark’s parties, you’d rather go to bars and clubs with your friends.

“The crowd at Stark’s parties just aren’t my crowd,” you’d explained with a shrug, toeing the floor with your scuffed sneakers. Bucky had nodded in understanding. They usually weren’t his crowd either, but he’d always go to support Steve, who was pretty much expected to show face.

But for some reason you show up to this party. Four months into your blossoming friendship (and Bucky’s crush). Bucky wasn’t prepared for what you were wearing. When he heard the agents whispering about your unexpected appearance at the party he half expected to see you in jeans and a t- shirt. Or even your cargo pants. At the sound of your name Bucky zeros into the muttered conversation.

“Did you see her?”

“Yeah, damn.”

“Was not expecting that. Or her to even show up. Who knew?”

“She’s kinda hot, not gonna lie. In a weird way”

Bucky turns his head scanning the crowd, heart rate already picking up, fully expecting to see your sweat-pant clad form. He sees you alright. But not in sweatpants. A red dress barely covers your figure. Hemline way above the halfway mark of your thighs and twin slits in the skirt reaching up to your hips. A draping halter neck ties at your neck and completely exposes your back and gives a generous view of your tits. He catches flashes of the curve of your ass as you walk.

In hindsight the dress was totally in line with your character. You didn’t dress the way you did because you were ashamed of your body but rather because you didn’t give a fuck. Your hair is pinned up, one perfect curl escaping your updo and kissing your neck. Bucky feels his heart stop. He spies numerous heads turning as you languidly weave through the crowd in dangerously thin stilettos. You cozy up to one of your agent friends and the two of you drink, giggle, and dance. Bucky can’t take his eyes off of you.

When you head to the balcony he follows.

“Hey,” you say when you spy his shadow darkening the entrance to the balcony. 

“Hey,” he gruffs, in a tone he fears is too quiet. But looking at the curve of your exposed back suddenly has his voice dying in his throat. You turn back to looking at the city skyline. Bucky steps forward next to you. Close. Closer than he’s ever been to you, painfully aware of your arms brushing. He can’t fully feel your skin through the long sleeve button down he’s wearing but the touch sets him on fire all the same.

“Needed some air. “ He eventually grumbles. Trying not to stare at your profile. You look at him then, wearing a sly expression he had never seen on you.

“I’m sure you did,”

--

After that it doesn’t take long for Bucky to gather up the courage after that. Maybe it’s the way you had looked at him on the balcony or the way both male and female agents were sniffing around you at the party. All the same about a week later Bucky finds himself heading to your office in the afternoon as usual, but this time holding a bouquet of flowers.

Afterwards Bucky falls in love with you hard and fast. He finds himself doting on you, taking you out, bringing you flowers and other tokens of his affection. He hears the whispers, it’s almost impossible not to with his super soldier hearing.

“How’d she’d get him,”

“What an odd couple,”

“The Winter Soldier’s with cargo pants?”

But he still holds your hand in public all the same. Stops in the middle of training recruits to kiss you whenever you happen to cut across the gym all the same. Keeps a picture of you in his wallet all the same.

Bucky has never felt this amount of care and comfort from a person since...ever, even before, in his other life. You put his boots by the heater in the winter when he sleeps over so his feet won’t freeze when he walks to the compound. You listen to him, even when he’s angry, raging at nothing, or when he’s sad and sullen, taking minute long pauses in between sentences. Or even when he wants to do nothing but sit in silence and hold you. You especially listen when his words come fast, tinged with self hatred. You reassure him, holding him like he’s fine china. After many late night musings you give him with the best present he’s ever gotten, an impossibly soft kitten who’s uncharacteristically loud purr always grounds him. Bucky finds himself able to open up with you in a way he can’t with anyone else, even Steve. Bucky’s not good with words anymore, but with you he’s amazing. He can’t stop singing your praises, lavishing you with sweet words and adoration.

In hindsight it was a warning.

“Sweetheart, your wallet must be screamin’ for mercy, with you buying this cake nearly everyday,” Bucky says pinching off a piece of the lemon pound cake which is almost always at the corner of your desk. He recognizes the cake from a bakery across the street, and knows its nearly four dollars a slice. You stretch cracking your back, nipples poking through your shirt. Your ever present band shirt had breathed its last breath, and this new shirt is thinner and cropped, and hugs your body closer.

“Not really, I don’t buy it, Tommy hooks me up” you say, shooting him a smile and then returning back to your paperwork.

“Tommy?” Bucky says, and unbidden hot jealousy sears through his chest at the mention of your coworker “He’s always buying you these?”

“Yeah,” you answer, not looking up, and Bucky tells himself to remain calm, unbothered. 

He doesn’t.

Later after the subsequent fight and make up Bucky holds you as the two of you sit on his bed.

“I’m sorry,” He says again.

“It’s alright,” you say and somehow your simple words draw the truth out of him.

“I’m just...I- I’m afraid of losing you.”

“I’m afraid of losing you too,” you confess, then pause “Bucky, please be careful with me,”

Your relationship was easy, comforting. The two of you almost never fought, and never grew tired of being with each other. One blissful year turned into two and then five. It was like a dream and Bucky never wanted to wake up.

But reality eventually did.

How closely you guarded your phone should have tipped him off. How you’d constantly declined calls while the two of you were together. The way you almost always got ‘too drunk’ on girls night and would end up crashing at your friend’s place.

The first time it’s sixth months into your relationship on a lazy Saturday. The two of you had ordered pizza and planned to cuddle on the couch and have a movie marathon. You were in the bathroom when your phone had vibrated. Knowing that you would get a notification when the pizza arrived Bucky had looked at your phone. Bucky had felt surprised to see the name Dominos instead of an unsaved number pop up on your screen. Your phone didn’t show the preview of the text like his did. Your phone was still unlocked since you had headed to the bathroom but a few seconds ago, so Bucky tapped to open  the text.

Dominos: [Can’t wait to see you again, beautiful]

Bucky’s blood had run cold. He froze, only unfreezing when he realized you were standing next to him.

“We aren’t exclusive!” you had defended.

“What the hell do you mean?” Bucky had growled. At that your face had crumbled, eyes filling with tears.

“You never asked me to be your girl.” you had looked away “We never talked about what we are,”

“Whaddya think we’ve been doing these past months?!” Bucky had yelled back,

“ I don't know. I don’t assume Bucky. Because guys always seem to want to date me, treat me like their girlfriend and then turn around and throw it in my face that they never said I was.” your voice breaks and so does Bucky's anger.  He hadn’t been very verbal with you so far. It’s true he never asked you to be his girl, or even verbally on a date. He just thought you both knew. Guilt fills him at the sight of your tear stained face.

“I’m sorry I was just preparing for the inevitable,” you say and turn away. Bucky grabs your arm and pulls you towards him.

“Well, let me make it clear. I want you to be my girl. I want you to be mine and mine alone.”

Your expression is unfathomable as you wind your arms around his neck.

“I am yours.”

That night you stand in front of Bucky and  wordlessly slip out of your sweatpants and t shirt, rendering him speechless. With reverence Bucky’s hands trace your frame and his mouth follows. That night he worships you.

Later, you wrap your arms around him and whisper 

“I love you,”

 And Bucky knows that he’s done for.

“I love you too sweetheart.” he says, and later still when you’ve fallen asleep Bucky lies awake, stroking the soft contours of your back. He’s done for. And he knows it.

“I’ll be careful,” he whispers.

--

Reality had tried to wake Bucky gently. Through warning signs that should have been loud and clear especially to an ex assassin. But Bucky had accepted your half baked truths and excuses. He was too far gone off of the drug that was your love to heed the warning signs until reality slapped him- no choked him, awake.

His awakening came in the form of the sight of you on your kitchen counter, a man kneeling in between your spread thighs. The flowers he had bought you on his way back from his mission that had ended early drop to the floor. Bucky freezes. But at the sight of Tommy’s face, cheeks slick with you he loses it. Next thing he realizes that he has his hands around your coworkers throat. But your hand on his shoulder drains the fight out of him, and as Tommy scrambles out of the apartment Bucky crumples to the floor and sobs. 

“Why?” He asks and he realizes he’s not just asking about now, but about all the times he’s caught you cheating but didn’t have the strength to leave you. 

“Baby” you say and gather him into your arms. He wants to pull away, thrash, yell, but he doesn’t. He just melts into your touch. You make him weak. And at night when he thinks about your excuses and half truths he hates himself for it.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” he says, sobs wracking his frame “Five years-did they mean nothing to you?”

“I’m sorry,” you say “I love you,” 

At this Bucky pulls away, standing. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” he hisses.

“I’m not,” you say standing “I might lie all the time but I’m not lying about this.” your eyes go soft at the corners, and start to water.

“No. I love you. I adore you. I’d give you anything-everything and you treat me like shit” Bucky spits, there’s a pain in his chest, his heart is breaking “And I just fucking take it, because you make me so fucking weak- and I hate it” another sob ribs from his chest. A part of him thinks  that this is his punishment. For all of the terrible things he’s done. Cursed to be in love with someone who will never truly love him back. He looks at you, your hair is in disarray, baggy t shirt, those fucking cargo pants around your ankles. He gives a bitter laugh “Who woulda thought that you would’ve been the one to make me weak.”

“Why? Because I’m not pretty?” hurt flashes across your face then your eyes go hard. Usually Bucky would have been quick to refute any self deprecating words, reassuring you how beautiful he found you, how gorgeous you were. But now he just lifts his chin and looks back at you with the same hard eyes.

“Well I know I’m not pretty.” you shrug, face going strangely expressionless “But you still fell for me all the same. More fool you.” you say, and after a moment continue. “We should break up.”

At this Bucky shatters. Because he knows deep down that even after all of this he still would have taken you back. He still wants to grovel at your feet and plead to try to fix your relationship. But instead he decides to finally choose himself and turns and walks out of the door and out of your life.

Year later he still finds himself looking at your picture in his wallet, the one remnant  of you he has left, that he can’t bear to get rid of. On lonely nights where he can’t sleep and can’t stand the coldness of his bed  he’ll trace the curve of your smile and wish that you had cared enough to have been careful with him.

Tags:@stephie-senpai@ayeputita@pixierox101@iamwarrenspeace@ dreamgirljere  @ufffg@pietrotheavenger @trinityjadec@abbytagg@wastedsummerss@turdblossommm@jimmyisfab@sev7en@hottrashformarvel @superbuckytrash@waidewilson@abbytagg @awkwardfangirl2014 @desir-ae

Bucky only @chamongangae@callmebucky-doll

[edgeofmyniall]

twelve: yours

story page | playlist | taglist | thoughts

“I came to life when I first kissed you. The best me has his arms around you.You make me better than I was before. Thank God I'm yours. The worst me is just a long gone memory. You put a new heartbeat inside of me. You make me better than I was before. Thank God I'm yours...”

Meet me.

Ginger stared at the words on her phone as she waited for Daniel to pull up into the parking spot. Her heart beats and as she looks up into the rearview mirror, her eyes are brimmed with red. She didn’t really know what she was doing, her mind had taken over decisions. Her subsconscious had dissipated after Niall left. 

She watches as the SUV pulls in and Daniel waves to her from across the street. He smiles toothily and she returns his big gesture with a small token of a wave. She breathes in and exits her car-- her safe place. 

Her feet walk on without her. She opens the vehicle door and climbs in before shutting the door. They were alone together at last for the first time in years. 

Small talk was never Ginger’s forte. She longed for deep conversations. The menial speech causes Ginger to become nervous and she fidgets before Daniel takes Ginger’s face into the palm of his hands. 

“It’s only me…”

Ginger leans in for a kiss, and as Daniel’s lips roll around hers, she has a sudden moment realization: There were no sparks, no knots in her stomach, no involuntarily shaking or rapid heartbeat like there had been when she was a teenager. She felt a little guilty for being this close to Daniel, to be in the same space as him.  She was just...there in a car with the man who broke her heart all those years ago. 

She pulls back and watches Daniel catch his breath. She blinks rapidly before speaking: “I gotta go…” She opens the car door before Daniel could utter a word. She feels this is symbolic for Daniel: she’s leaving him high and dry like he did her in high school. Ginger isn’t one for acting on karma’s behalf, but maybe this could be a lesson learned. She ran to her own vehicle as tears began to build in her eyes. She just hopes she isn’t too late.

~~~~

“When’s the next plane to LAX?” Ginger stands at the counter puffy eyed and red faced. She feels like she’s run a marathon when in reality she’s running against the clock. The young girl looks at her, and Ginger senses she’s taking pity on the auburn haired girl. 

“How soon?” Ginger reads her name tag: Pennie. It was a sign from God above, and Ginger smiles for a moment.

“Like yesterday. If possible.” Ginger swallows and throws her credit card across the counter. She meant to lay it down gently, but she’s shaking and it’s only a matter of time before security escorts the drug addict out of the airport.

“Sorry,” Ginger says, her voice cracks and her tears spill over. Pennie rests her hand over Ginger’s and looks into her emerald eyes. 

“It’s okay. Let me check if we have anything leaving in the next hour.” Pennie begins to tap the keys of her computer quickly and Ginger thanks God for the literally angel in front of her. 

Ginger looks around frantically and begins to quietly whisper, “Please, please, please, please, please, please…”

Pennie stops clicking the mouse and runs the credit card. Handing her a ticket and her card back, she looks up and smiles, “There’s one boarding now. Run.”

The last time Ginger ran was when she was little and she was running from the woman screaming at her on the rec field. She hates running; the only running should be done is when it’s for her life- like a zombie apocalypse. 

But she ran. She ran until her feet hit the flooring of the plane. She had thrown her ticket to the boarding associate and hoped security wasn’t far behind her. Her heart is in her throat as she sits down trying to even her breathing. She wished the plane would take off already- that it was in the air and almost landing onto the LAX runway. But she had a few hours to go and with that time she figured out what she needed to say to him. 

~~~~

It was well past dark before Ginger arrived at the white mansion. Lights were on in the house, but there was no life outside. The moon felt like a spotlight on her, helping her on her venture of love. She pressed the numbers on the pad, and the gate opened up automatically. He hadn’t changed the password. But he always kept careful watch of his security cameras. He knew she was there. 

“Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” Ginger tells herself as she walks up the path to the front door. She’s walked this path many times, but now, it feels strange and unknown. She stumbles on a jagged rock and she thinks she sees a shadow dance across the curtained window. 

She reaches the small patio and takes a deep breath before raising her hand to ring the doorbell. Her heart is in her throat and she feels a little sick. The door swung open with a jolt and there, wide eyed and mouth agape, Niall stood in the opened doorway. “What-”

“I came to life when I first kissed you. The best me has her arms around you. You make me better than I was before,” Ginger sings off-key. Tears bellowing over her face, her promise to herself broke. “Thank God, I’m yours. The worst me is just a long gone memory. You put a new heartbeat inside of me. You make me better than I was before. Thank God I’m,” Ginger lets the tears roll down her face before breathing the word: “Yours.”

There was a moment of silence between the two. Ginger is searching for anything on Niall’s face. There was nothing- a stone wall on his outerbeing. 

“You downloaded the song?” he finally asks. Ginger rolls her eyes and sighs.

“After we danced in your kitchen that night.” Ginger sniffles before wiping her tears away. Her voice is broken, but frustrated.

“You hate country music.” Niall says dumbfounded.

“Listen. I know I’m the last person you want to see,” Niall rubs the nape of his neck before stepping fully onto the porch, closing the door behind him. Ginger steps back, trying to put as much distance between them. Even in the moonlight, he was beautiful. He has dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. “But I,” Ginger sniffles and feels the urge to cry again. “I want another chance.”

“I know I fucked up last time, and you said no more, but that was before...before I realized how much you mean to me. I haven’t been the best to you. And I know I lied to you, used you. But without you in my life, I can’t breathe as cliche as that sounds. I find myself thinking about you. Wondering what you’re doing, how you’re feeling, and if you’re thinking of me. I can’t get you out of my head. It’s like...like you’re a virus or something. Jesus, Ginger,” she closes her eyes at the bad example. “Not a virus, but the fact is, you’re all I think about. I got used to looking forward to every single one of your texts. When you came to my house. When you called me for no reason other than to hear my voice. You have me wrapped around your finger, and I can’t let go.

“I realized that night in the kitchen and at the beach that you weren’t playing. This was forreal for you. And it scared me because I’m not used to having someone wanting something real with me, ya know? I wasn’t second best to you. I wasn’t some back burner for you to waste your time on when you’re bored. I was your end goal.” Ginger watches Niall as he crosses his arms around his chest. “I risked my relationship with my cousin for you. My family hates me, and the only thing I have to show for it is two broken hearts. I let the opinions of others get in my head. But who cares?” A half laugh falls out of Ginger’s mouth before she continues. “The only people I should care what they think are you and me. That’s it. I just want a second chance. But if that’s too much, I understand.” Ginger tries to stifle her tears, but they win against her fight. She sure they caused her mascara to run down her face. What a sight she must be. They stand in the quiet of the awkward silence. Ginger thought about opening her mouth before the front door opens. There stands a girl  in a white button down shirt with her bra peeking out. The tanned naked legs hover in front of the door. Ginger blinks away the tears and nods. 

“Niall are you coming back?” She’s leaning on the door before he answers.

“Ina minute,” Niall calls back, never faltering his eyes from Ginger. The door closes and Ginger is left in Niall’s front lawn with her heart shattered. 

“I think...I think I got,” Ginger feels her throat close up and her stomach drop, “my answer. Goodnight, Niall. I’ll leave you alone.” Ginger turns to walk back to her car with not even her dignity left. 

“No,” Niall breathes and wakes up from his trance. “It’s not what you think.” He grabs Ginger’s upper arm and turns her around. He searches for some kind of understanding in them, but there’s nothing but bitter heartbreak. “Please listen to me. It’s not what you think. She’s some girl Deo brought over. I haven’t even…” 

“I’m barely out of your bed and she’s in yours,” Ginger spits.

“Did you not hear what I just said woman? She’s Deo’s girl. I haven’t even left me house since I last saw you. I can’t sleep. I worry about you night and day, wondering if I did the right thing letting you go. I picked up the phone millions of times, but I couldn’t bring myself to bother you.”

“Bother me? I-” Ginger cuts in, but Niall’s lips form a small line. 

“Let me finish. I tried texting you. Calling you. But you didn’t want me. You wanted someone else so I took myself out of the equation,” Niall’s voice breaks as fights back tears. “God, I love you Ginger, but you broke me. You made it seem like you’d rather die than be with me. So I let you go, but in that time of being together, I was so fuckin’ happy. I was buzzed that I had you on me arm, fightin’ your family and shit. Ya know Stella called me the other day. Said that she finally sees how happy we are. She said we’re meant for each other. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that you left me.”

“Was it worth it?” Ginger asks. Half of her knows his answer, but the other half needs to hear it so she can truly believe it. 

“Was it worth it?! Are you shittin’ me? I’d do it all over again if it meant that I could love you better. It was worth every fight, every laugh, every moment we had... Was it worth it?” Niall cups his hand over his mouth as he wipes away his disbelief. 

“Was I worth it?” Ginger asks again. 

“You’re worth a million lifetimes,” Niall’s tears fall down his face as he stands in the dark with his soul bare. “Was it worth it to you?” Ginger stands with her life as she knows it fleeting from her, feeling the world sway freely, but at the same time, the air around them is closing in on them. If this was to be their last conversation, she wanted to end it right. She walks slowly towards him, each step heavier than the other. Around Niall, she feels worth more than the Mona Lisa. She feels his heavy breathing on her skin as she leans in and kisses his lips. She cups her hands around his neck and feels his arms wrap themselves around her waist. The mixture of salty tears and coconut chapstick burn their lips. His lips brush against hers and the lump in her throat dissolves as Niall swirls his tongue around hers. A moan escapes from Niall’s chest as Ginger pulls away, breath ragged as she claims her oxygen. 

“Worth it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

@oyesmendes​ @klairelavarias​ @dontgiveupthedayjob​ @hannahollan1181 @perks-of-being-a-niall-girl​ @kare38 @verorax​ @stayclose-holdsteady​ @halfpinthoran​ @angrynarry​

[shyinadarkplace]

One of Zed’s darkest moments

WARNING: DARK THEMES PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

Zed is an original character as is Ryth. Loki is well Loki this definitely leans more toward mythology Loki

Zed knelt at Loki’s altar, more drunk then he had ever been and almost completely naked save for a loin cloth. He was broken. He was tired. He was done trying. He could feel it in his bones that if he tried to kill himself now it would finally fucking work. On the altar he placed a series of thick envelopes, his goodbyes. More importantly explanations, these beings whose faces he never saw had taken everything from him. Everything that he loved. His birth mother. His true mate before he was even old enough to know her for what she was. Then His adopted mother and siblings. The only woman he had ever truly loved. He had been beaten, tortured, his mind fucked and mangled. He was so fucking tired. So he prayed, to the only god who has ever bothered to give a damn. The only one who had bothered to help .

Zed took a deep breath. His forehead resting against the edge of the altar, tears blurring his vision falling unchecked. Numbly he gripped his hunting knife and held out his right forearm. Deftly he dug the blade in and slashed downward savagely. Quickly he repeated the process on his left arm. Zed watched the blood pour from him and sobbed. Releasing choked and broken noises chest heaving.

Loki heard screaming, a tormented yell. The token for Ryths altar glowed a slight red. Odd Ryth and her mother never left blood...realization hit him the only other person to use that altar was Zed. Loki cursed standing before the mirror image of the altar. Saw a poor and broken boy open his veins, saw the thick letters, then he heard the prayer. Many thought Loki cold and cruel, but he was far from it, so hearing these words and seeing these images made his heart ache.

“Loki...Loki...th-this is it. *sob, slight chuckle* I I can finally escape. I am sorry I bled on your altar. I am so tired. Why would my father do this to me? Why would he help those bastards? I guess it doesn’t  matter now...Nothing matters now. I lost them all Loki....my mother. fUCK  she didn’t even know how messed up my father was and then after she had taken such good care of me .... he he KILLED her. But you already know that from before . *sigh, sobbing hard* Tuari, oh fuck  she is  gonna hate me...for awhile I think she will come around ...she will know that every word is true because the paper, ink, and pen are imbued with truth spells I couldn’t lie there if I wanted to. Ryth will too, though she probably won’t care really. I am glad Tauri has her mates. I know they will take good care of her. Keept her out of too much trouble. Loki...you know Ryth has the most beautiful eyes right ? I love her . I love her so fucking much. I loved her the second I saw her. *chuckles sadly* Her hair was so long it brushed the ground. *brings up the image in his mind* Her eyes were shining like green opals at least But she will never forgive me. Never. I will never see any of her smiles. She has so many, but they all, they all take my breath away. *gently touches the faded half formed mating mark just above his heart crying harder* Loki please take care of her. Please, I know you care for her and love her too, so please take care her. D-don’t ...fuck its getting dark...so tired *laughs broken sobbing* D-don’t let her cut off her hair for Eric...uhhh I know a secret way to bring him back from...from the ashes...its its in my letter….please help her . I wonder if my mark is still on the inside of her ankle ? I thought I saw it when we first saw each other again. *heart skips a beat slowing darkness taking over* Hey loki can I ...can I go with Hel I just want peace. Please. Please take care of her...pl...ease… take care...of her. *falls over passed out*”

Loki appears at the altar. With a wave of his hand he stops the bleeding healing the wound, placing the poor boy in deep healing sleep. Gently he lifted Zed and took him to the back of the cave and summoned a soft, comfortable bed, laying him down. As he covered him with a thick, soft blanket Loki was thankful he had free time, though he was loath, feeling that once again he would have to put his claiming of his little changeling. Or he thought to himself perhaps not, perhaps his claiming would benefit all involved. Making a decision he placed food, drink and a note for Zed before placing strong concealments and protections around him before going back to the altar to retrieve the letters and clean away the blood. After securing the letters away to retrieve later he returned to Asgard there were a few more things he had to finish and not long to finish them. He knew that it had been almost a month since Eric’s death but Loki still felt the effects of Ryths scream. Hell everything  with the breath of life had felt the echoes of her agony when the mating bond between her and Eric shattered. Just thinking about it made his heart hurt all over again. He had to hurry.

Meanwhile Ryth wandered aimlessly out in her gardens. She summoned what she called shadow memories. They were memories that places and people shared. She could view all the memories of her and Eric since he began building here. So she did. As she watched it all  kind of played in fast forward, at the same time overlapping. She watched him building the house and planting the gardens. She smiled and laughed at all their antics. Looked on longingly at every time they had mad love out here under the stars. She shuffled inside tears once again rolling down her face, and watched everything on the inside. All the times they had cooked dinner together, had their friends over, danced through the whole house singing and laughing. Every time the depression hit, and how Eric took care of her. Finally came the last time they had actually seen each other. Rhythm gripped the choker around her neck using it to try and ground herself. She watched their fight. It tore her apart. She collapsed in her chair muffling her agonizing scream with a pillow as she watched and cried. How many times had she watched that night? One hundred, two hundred times? It didn’t matter, Ryth screamed until she lost her voice and cried till she dry heaved, before she finally fell asleep curled in her chair, still clutching at her necklace.

Loki heard Ryth wail at the loss of her love. Felt her clutching at the necklace he had given her many years ago. He stood under the light of the full moon and admired the home that Eric had built her. He could feel the love and care that went into every brick and board. All the care that had been given during tilling and tending. Ryth had done well with him, she had learned to thrive in many ways. Loki’s long hair stood almost on end for a moment while all the protections around the house examined him trying to determine if he was a danger or not. After a moment his hair dropped and he smiled at having been able to witness the strength of his little changeling, then continued into the house. For a moment he simply watched as Ryth slept .

Ryth woke suddenly, her knives flying from her hands before her thoughts could even fully form. They embedded themselves on either side of Loki’s head. To which he cocked an eyebrow. “Is that really how you would welcome me little changeling?” he said softly, gently. He waited, as Ryth rubbed her eyes and rose from her chair, another knife in her hand she stalked forward. Loki leaned against the door frame, hands in the deep pockets of his trousers. She was certainly a sight. Her long hair unkempt, bedraggled and slightly greasy. Her eyes were vacant and rimmed red almost raw from crying. She wore an oversized shirt and little if anything else. Oh she was firey, good. Ryth snarls showing her needle sharp fangs (all fea had sharper than average canines on the top and bottom) “You aren’t really here.” her voice was hardly a whisper as she had screamed it away for the most part. “Yes, I am little one. I am here to help you heal. You are mine and I am going to bring you back from the dark pit that you are in.” Ryth dove at Loki, tackling him to the floor knife pressed into his throat. For a moment he was taken by surprise.

[brucewaynehastoomanykids]

Forced Marriage

Requested by Wattpad user principepena

This kinda goes in ties with my 'Damirae Week Day 5: Soulmates' chapter. (You can go back and read it if you forgot :)) It's the same sort of universe, but it's a bit of an alternative story to that.

_____________________________________

"Curse this day." I mumbled to myself.

I have always had a bad feeling about my father joining in alliance with the Al Ghul's. Ra's al Ghul was a snake to everyone he came across, who's to say his daughter, the current leader, would be any different? I suppose that's why they made the agreement they did, to show there was 'no harm, no foul,' but I personally don't buy it for a second, and I can only pray that father doesn't either. Truth be told, I have my suspicions that the only reason Talia al Ghul wants me to marry her son is to either use me against my own father or keep me prisoner strictly for the purposes of continuing the bloodline should she pass and her son rule. And the kicker of all of this? Her grandchildren would have the blood of Trigon the Terrible inside of them, as well as the now fallen Ra's. I must say, my children would be a true legacy.

I stare out onto the world. From Hell, the world above seems so small and meaningless, never really knowing it's purpose in this universe. Hell and Azarath, we both have... or should I say, had a purpose. Slaying down Azarath in the name of Trigon was the best decision I never made in my youth. It gained me the respect I deserved. And now, I lay in wait for that respect to be taken from me and be thrown into that confusing world to marry a spoiled brat.

I sigh. "I should sleep while I can," I told myself, "If I wait for tomorrow, tomorrow is coming. If I don't wait for tomorrow, tomorrow is still coming."

Though sleep was most definitely not an option. I ended up spending the night hours wondering and worrying about my future, and for my father. What if he was in danger by this? What if the League of Assassins just wanted him out of the way? Questions like this continued to make there way into my mind and before I knew it, it was daybreak, and I was to be married to a stranger in a few short hours.

~

There was no ceremony, no vows, or family visits as you'd see in traditional weddings. It was just me, my husband, and his mother in a room. She told us both to sign some papers and to exchange rings and, boom, we were married.

My husband, who I had just learned to be called Damian, was a very peculiar character. He didn't speak a word through the process of marriage and kept his stunning emerald eyes away from me. It was as if this poor boy was entranced to do this sort of thing by nature like he had practiced over and over again. Part of me wondered if he was doing this completely unaware of his surroundings.

That night, I had overheard him arguing with his mother. He, too, apparently didn't want this wedding as much as I had. He told her how it was a 'horrendous decision on her part' and that 'he alone was powerful enough to lead the League without the assistance of a partner'.

Once he had seen I was eavesdropping. He glared, looked me up and down and scoffed without saying a word.

"Look, I know this situation is... unwanted, for either of us, and I know we don't know each other well, but I'm still worried about you despite this. No one deserves to keep so much anger locked away." I told him, calmly.

He almost instantly stopped in his tracks and faced me. "Don't worry so much if you know what's good for you. I'll end up breaking that little empathetic heart of yours in two if you do." And with that, he walked away again.

"It's bold of you to assume my life hasn't already torn it to shreds..." I mumbled, mostly to myself.

~

Months have past sense. And while Damian and I are still tense, we at least talk to one another. We came to realize we had a lot of similar interests, such as literature and spirituality. I've found that, when he wants to be, Damian is a very kind person, but there is so much rage bottled inside of him that blocks that kindness, a rage that he takes out on anything and anyone in sight, even me. Even his mother.

And speaking of parental figures, I hadn't heard news of my father since my wedding. Though father is an all-powerful demon, the conqueror of worlds, and just all-around god material, I'm starting to grow worried for him, if I'm honest. I kept thinking to myself if what I had feared most were true, that the League of Assassins only wanted me to get my father out of the way, and if that's the case... may God spare Talia and Damian al Ghul from my wrath. I need answers. I need them now.

That night I decided to sneak away from Damian and wonder the palace looking for those said answers. I climbed out of bed and sipped on my cloak.

"It's too late for you to be out by yourself, you know..." Damian said, rolling his body over to face me at the door, "you could get in trouble of you stumble into the wrong area."

I scoffed, glaring at him slightly. "Oh spare me! Please stop pretending you care about me when I know you don't."

"And what exactly gives you that notion?" He cocked a brow.

"Well, for one, it took you weeks just to even hold a conversation with me that wasn't about how much you hate the marriage, which leads me to my other point: you absolutely despise being married to me and you know it."

"Actually, I quite enjoy your company. I'm just... shall we say, not good at this sort of thing? I've never had any friends let alone a wife. Honestly, I'm still trying to figure out how to speak to you properly as well as how to act. But you shouldn't use that to question if I care for you, because I do."

"Right... well..." I was a bit lost for words, honestly. Then, I remembered my father, and why I needed to leave, "I really do have to go, Damian." I walked out before he could question anything.

~

It was always so easy to get lost in this place without a proper guide, then again, I wasn't exactly going to just ask someone to accompany me while I go into Talia's room search through her belongings. I knew Talia wasn't going to be in her room for some time. A sort of 'business meeting' as she called it with an unknown allied group.

Eventually, I had found what I was looking for, the alliance agreement my father had signed upon. It was shocked at its contents.

"By signing this document, I uphold the agreement(s) stated today as they are as followed: no harm is done to Trigon the Terrible or his daughter, Rachel Roth, no harm done to the al Ghul family or the League of Assassins as a whole, fair usage of both sides with food, shelter, weapons, soldiers, and war should it come, and the marriage of Rachel Roth and Damian al Ghul as a token of solidarity to this contract. Know if one party is to break one of these agreements, punishment will be seen and decided at the ruler level (ie. Trigon, Rachel, Talia, and/or Damian).

Signed: Trigon the Terrible and Talia al Ghul"

"Alright... so perhaps this wasn't as bad as I--" it was then I saw another document. It was one I recognized, for it was my marriage document. I remembered Talia had covered the wording with her hand as she signed it. She didn't want us to read its contents.

I picked up the paper and began scanning over the words. Then, my heart sunk.

"By signing this document, the foreign bride/groom relinquishes all holding power to his/her old home/life. This includes monarch, subjects, and family, and must follow the same rules as the other rulers present. This includes, never leaving the palace walls unless it is needed, or until they are ordered to by a higher ruler, and should always be accompanied by soldiers when doing so to both ensure safety, and to ensure the mission is completed without the ruler going astray."

"So in other words... I'm trapped here... and the reason I'm not hearing from father is because... because I'm not allowed to be in contact with him, now that I'm an... an al Ghul." It was taking every bone in my body to not burst into tears right then and there. "No, if I am to cry... it can't be here. Talia could walk in any minute now." I quickly put the documents back in their places and hurry off to my room.

~

Damian was already waiting for me when I arrived. I kept my hood up so he couldn't see the sadness on my face.

"It's almost 3 in the morning! Where the hell were you?" He demanded, his arms crossed.

I was silent for a moment before responding. "I am never going to see my father again... this marriage has stripped him from my life, as well as my home... my father, he... he may not have been the best of fathers, but I loved him... he understood me--the real me. The me I never allowed my mother to see."

Damian raised a brow. "I fail to understand why any of this news should make a difference to me."

I looked up at him, stunned and wide-eyed before glaring, sneering, "I swear you have about as much compassion as a rock."

It was only when I heard Damian ask why I was crying had I noticed the warm fluid on my cheeks.

"I-it's none of your business." I said rather quickly, stepping away from him.

He grabbed my arm and forced me to look at him. "It's my business if you're crying because of me." This only caused the tears to spill more. His eyes softened, filling with what seemed to be worry. "No, no, I'm sorry--it's alright, come here." He said gently, pulling me into a hug.

I was stunned at first but soon gave in to the hug. "Why?" I asked. "Why are you being so... nice to me so sudden? I just don't understand."

"Does your father mean a lot to you?" He asked, ignoring my question.

I was quiet again before responding, "Yes... as I told you, he was the first to ever understand me for who I am: a demon. My mother, Arella... bless her. She tried her best to control that side of me... but it ended in her demise. I killed her and all of Azarath in the name of my father, so I could be with someone who got me. I love my father more than I could love anyone else."

"I understand," Damian sighed, "that's how I feel towards my mother. She can be... hard on me, and we may argue over her decisions from time to time, but she's still my mother, and I love her dearly. As for my father... I don't know him. I don't even know his name. I just know that he's 'a great warrior' according to both my grandfather and mother..." Damian let got of me, letting his hands rest on my shoulders as he smiled, "Rachel, I've been thinking. Since you're my wife now... it should only be fair we know each other better. I know I haven't been the kindest to you these past few months, but like your father to you... you really seem to understand me. But..." his smile dropped, "all I really know about you is your heritage and, well, your sarcastic nature. So... begin sharing? It could rid your mind of negative thoughts for a moment."

"Oh, okay," I said, a bit thrown off, "well, if I'm honest, I may come off as very shy and quiet, but I do have a fun and, dare I say, goofy side. I can be clumsy, and laugh at the most random of things... and I kinda like that feeling. It makes me feel... young. But, what about you? All I really know about you is that you're a bit of a brat with anger management problems." I laughed.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Well, actually, I'm not as stone-cold as you seem to think, Rachel," he playfully glared, "I have emotions too, you know."

We both shared a laugh then. It was the first time in a while I had genuinely laughed, and the first time I had heard Damian laugh at all. We spent the remainder of the night getting to know each other. Of course, we had already known of our common interests, but now, it seemed we were closer than we ever had been before.

As the sun began to rise, our bodies laid side by side on opposite ends. Our feet away from each other, and our heads close. It was quiet and peaceful.

"You know... we are so different... yet so similar in such confusing ways." I said, breaking the silence.

He only hummed in agreement before closing his eyes. "Rachel?"

"Yes?"

"Do you mind if I make a promise to you?"

"And what promise would that be?"

"To reunite you with your father as soon as possible."

I turned to look at him, surprised. "And break the rules? Why would you do that?"

His eyes opened slowly as he gave me a tired, but genuine smile. "Because, I haven't told you yet, because I didn't know the feeling before now but... I think I might be falling in love with you."

A small wave of heat rushed to my face as I smiled at him. "You know... I think I'm falling in love with you too, surprisingly."

He didn't respond.

"Damian?" Then, I noticed his breathing got heavy, his mouth slightly ajar. "Oh..." I whispered. "Goodnight then... love."

[kittensjonsa]

Otherwise, Engaged

The Proposal AU. 

Summary: Flashbacks. A discussion on consent, freedom and independence. Jon finds his heart again -  and the burden of feelings that comes with it. 

Note: Some angst and a backstory.. before the hot smut can begin, of course! Hence, the length of this one. Sorry not sorry. Rated M.

Chapters 1 - 6 

Chapter 7

THREE YEARS EARLIER

“Sansa!”

Sansa wanted to run. Run away from it all. From everyone and especially her mother.

“Honey, please.. just let her be,” Sansa heard her father’s calm voice behind her as she stomped past the hallway and out the door.

Yes, just let me be. Be my own person and away from anything Winterfell or anyone named Stark.

It wasn't so much of the place or the people, it was just the fact of the importance of being a Stark she has had to deal with all her life. Grow up, live and breathe Winterfell. True that she was indeed very much a Northern girl and every bit a Stark but she still had her own character and personality, her own person - didn't that count for anything?

“So, here's our new guy, Jon Snow. Someone you all are familiar with I am sure,” Jeor gave Jon's shoulder a firm squeeze as the introductions made their rounds at the table. Jon smiled and nodded at the elderly gentlemen and a lady seated with them. Jon spoke very little and merely listened throughout the dinner. Jon realised very quickly that it was all business and had little to do with him, managing polite yes-es and a laugh at every dull joke every once in a while. Besides, he was far more concerned about getting his affairs in order and with so many accounts under his name, Jon feared he desperately needed an assistant. My brain can only handle so much, great as it is.

It had only been two weeks since the move into the swanky corner office of Mormont & Sons Publishing and it had been dinner every night as Jeor insisted on making sure Jon and his talent was right smack in the faces of the right people. Small price to pay for being the new hot shot editor in town.

“Hey Ryan, if you have a minute, send me some resumes my way would you? You know, for the opening for the exec assistant? Haven't heard anything from HR.”

Jon was ignored as Ryan, the HR head only continued his conversation on his phone. A token nod greeted Jon as Ryan finally waved a hello to him, patting down a pile of papers in a corner of his desk, his ear still glued to the phone. Jon wasn't sure what that meant but perhaps he was pointing out to the resumes the department had received along with the personal assistant posting. It was obvious Ryan did not really care if he existed or not.

Jon Snow was just another name on the payroll, amongst hundreds of others. Ryan had his work cut out for him indefinitely, though Jon couldn't care less, as long as he got the right person he wanted for the job. Another name on the payroll. Sorry, Ryan. Jon decided to help himself to the pile seeing how busy Ryan was, the active lines on his phone on hold blinking impatiently.

“Oh right, yeah. So, there are already some here you might want to look at. Sandra already found hers and these were the shortlisted ones. They seem promising.”

Sighing, Jon took the messy folder off the desk.

“Right. Of course. I'll look through them then. Thanks.”

No thanks.

Jon was about to say something about scheduling appointments when he saw Ryan going back to ignoring him as soon he got on the phone again.

Looks like I'm on my own. Story of my life, ain't it.

Jon stared tiredly at the piece of paper before him. This was the last resume from the pile of rejects Sandra had left him. The only piece of resume was from, quite possibly the only candidate left worthy of any attention. Jon was exhausted, realising this was tedious work - from the mingling dinners every night to reading manuscripts one after another - he was quite content with an extra pair of hands really. He hardly looked after himself recently. And if he had to eat from another take out box and sleep on the office couch again, he'd quit. So done. There was no way he could do everything himself. Especially the phone calls. Waking up in bed with his phone on his face was something he'd like to avoid as much as possible.

“Sansa Stark, let's see if you're the one,” Jon skimmed through the cover letter.

University of Westeros. Okay good enough.

“Please, please say you can start immediately.”

Jon rubbed his tired eyes as he clicked 'send' and decided he was done for the day. His head was pounding away, drained from all the reading he had done and all he wanted was his bed. He'd check for any emails from a Sansa Stark first thing in the morning. Right now, he needed to sleep and at home, not another night on the couch in his office.

Sansa Stark. God, I need you. Save me.

The blaring alarm had Jon spring out of bed and while he was normally up quite early for his workouts, he was not feeling quite up to it that morning.

Stumbling about, Jon grabbed the first shirt he found his hands on in the closet. It looked decent enough with yesterday's suit jacket over it.

Right, twenty-four hour dry cleaners. That's going on the list.

Twenty four hours never seemed enough ever since he started his new job with the Mormonts. Exhausted was an understatement. Although, now he was a little relieved, looking forward to the next few days when he could sleep a little easier thanks to Sansa Stark. Well, hopefully.

“Mr Snow, your 8.30 is here.” A bored tone greeted him the moment he stepped out into the lobby.

It was too early to choke on his triple shot espresso. "My what?"

“Mr Snow? Hi, I got your email yesterday and I replied, though I wasn't sure if you got it. So... hi, I'm Sansa Stark.”

Oh.

“For the executive assistant post? I figured the HR department knew about our appointment but looks like… nobody's quite in yet.”

A tall, leggy redhead with blazing blue eyes and a smile that lit up the sky.

Ahh...right.. Sansa Stark.

---

Her sultry drawl that lingered on a breathy rasp was his reckoning. Say my name. Again and again. Jon gently brushed away the soft copper locks from the creamy skin of her neck and kissed it. He inhaled deeply, as deep as he could drink her in, hungrily desperate, because this might the first and only time he'd have with her.

Her scent was unmistakable. A heady mix reminiscent of lavender and rose, Jon recalled how it greeted him every morning, almost every day the past three years. He had grown fond of it, comforted by it, knowing that she was a constant at his side. How he looked forward to seeing her leap into his office and greet him with a smile and his favourite coffee. How he noticed the way her lips pursed, poring over pages of manuscripts whilst sat next to him with her long slender legs crossed ever so daintily. Little bits and pieces of her, that if only she knew he'd taken a liking to- Sansa probably wouldn't have despised him so much.

He had chosen this life. He was good at it. There was no compromise on his career because it was the only thing he ever had that was his and his alone. Jon refused for it to be taken away for the sake of a mere whim or an itch to scratch. Years and years of hard work had him where he was right now, and it would have all gone to dust, if he were to ruin everything for the sake of feelings. Feelings he had buried so deep within that are now on the verge of imploding, teetering on losing the one thing he yearned for all his life. Acceptance. And if fate wasn't cheeky enough, it was all Sansa gave him and it was exactly what he needed.

It was fortune that smiled on him, chancing upon a resume his former editors had passed on due to her clear lack of experience. It was his first week at Mormont & Sons and it was clear, with all the new accounts thrown at him, the golden boy of print and press, that he was in dire need of an assistant. As long as they were willing to put in the time and work, Jon wouldn't be picky. Even a naive, inexperienced fresh graduate would do, he told himself that. It was just assistance he needed, nothing more.

Only thing was, he didn't expect a tall beautiful redhead named Sansa Stark to step into his office, all eager and enthusiastic and willing to do whatever it took to be an author of her own right one day. The day Jon couldn't possibly forget. And now, the one person Jon could not lose.

“Sansa…” Jon nibbled at her ears as his hands roamed to parts of her he once longed to touch while his lips quickly found their way lower to her bosom.

Sansa seized a fistful of his curls as his mouth hovered closer to her teats, soft yet hard from arousal. Heaving full mounds of soft flesh so scintillating Jon couldn't help but open his mouth wide and devour them still clothed. She was perfect in every way, just like he had pictured in his mind.

“Oh god… Jon..”

The kiss had gone further than they imagined as Jon and Sansa laid on her bed, a tangled mess of legs and arms caressing every inch of the other. Sansa writhed at every contact his lips made with her skin, with the hem of her dress shifting higher and dangerously above her hips, where his hands and mouth were only a breath away from a place no man had been before.

Sansa groaned at the clothed yet growing hardness stroking against the sides of her thighs as Jon's body moved along with his lips pecking lower and lower below her stomach. Jon had to pause, because if he went on, there would absolutely be no stopping him. He needed to be sure. He needed her to be sure. It was happening indeed, despite his best efforts to control himself.

“Sansa… please.. for the love of God... tell me to stop.. right now.. if you want me to… because I... cannot,” Jon muttered at the end of every kiss as he made his way up to kiss her lips again. Sansa groaned at his touch and responded with a deep kiss, like the one he gave her moments ago. Sansa hissed as Jon's mouth left hers and back to her lower body.

“Jon… don't.. stop.. but.. I have to tell you something,” Sansa answered in between gasps and hisses, her skin burning hot at every lick of Jon's tongue on her belly.

“Tell me… what?” Jon continued in bliss as his mouth found hers again, this time his eyes gazing deeply into hers.

“I…. haven't... done this.. so.. be gentle?” Sansa confessed, blushing as she cupped and kissed his face.

Jon could hear the sound of tyres screeching in brakes in his head. “W-wait… what?”

No... Hold on. Wait.

Jon sat up immediately the moment the reality hit him. He refused to face up to it but he now he had to. It took a moment before Sansa opened her eyes and found Jon sitting at the end of her bed watching her with a frown.

Oh God, what now?

“Jon? What.. why.. what's wrong?”

Jon bit down his lip. Should he ask? Should he say it? Perhaps not. It was an amazing moment they both shared and she gave her consent. True, that was enough, but why did it feel so awfully wrong? Sansa waited but grew impatient. It was a look she had never been acquainted with before and it worried her.

“You mean to tell me.. you haven't done it yet? Shit.. this is not happening.”

What?

Sansa felt the usual annoyance rising in her again and this time it was seething. Suddenly she felt naked and stupid. From a high she didn't want to come down from, it only took minutes to feel like she had been spat out onto the ground.

“What.. why are you being like this, Jon? Why.. why does that matter? I said yes didn't I?” Sansa dared to ask, her eyes filling with tears she didn't expect. Jon only sighed and looked away. Shame. She knew that look well enough.

“Why.. am I not good enough now?”

Jon panicked and hastened to cool the growing tension. “No, that's not what I meant, Sansa. It's just-”

“Just what? How ridiculous it is that I'm here almost topless and you giving me a hickey seconds ago and then.. for posterity's sake, I say I'm a virgin, because you know, I just wanted to let you know since I've never done this before, ever.. and then all of a sudden, you stop and GROW A CONSCIENCE?!”

“No, Sansa that's not what-”

“Then, what the hell do you mean? Because it was was as clear as day when you had your tongue down my throat seconds ago!”

Jon gulped, his eyes slowly meeting hers. “I just.. didn't expect us to-”

“To what? Have sex?” Sansa asked, her voice wavering.

“Sansa, look.. let me just explain, please?” Jon pleaded, lowering his tone and voice, hoping Sansa would do the same. The last thing he wanted was an argument about sex with Sansa under Ned Stark's roof and everyone else hearing them.

“Just say it... I'm not good enough am I? Well, screw you, Jon Snow, you're on your fucking own.”

Sansa wiped away her tears as she hastily put her dress back in order and stood up, wanting to leave. Sansa flinched and almost elbowed him as Jon reached out to console her. He didn't know what to do or say exactly and he did not want to leave nor did he know how. They had come this far and certainly this can't be it. This has gone way, way off course.

“Sansa, please.. listen to me. I.. I don't want to impose anymore than I already have Sansa. Please try to understand that. I can't… lie to your family and then.. take you.. like that... Under these circumstances. This.. just doesn't feel right.. I can't do that to you.”

Sansa blinked as she tried to comprehend what Jon was trying to say.

“Take me? What the hell am I to you? Cattle? So, you're saying if I wasn't untouched and pure like you said, you'd do it? And all of the above?!”

This wasn't going well at all.

“No." Jon paused.

"You're on thin fucking ice, Jon. After all I've done for you.”

Sansa knew the right words to hit right back. Ouch.

“Yes and you deserve better than this! Than all of this right now! You've been.. everything to me since we met. I don't want to ruin this just because I needed dick relief!”

Dick relief. Some editor you are. Jon groaned, exasperated. He was losing, fast.

“How would you know what I want or deserve? Don't I get a say in this? I chose it, yes. I played along with this, yes. Did I want to be intimate with you? Yes! What part of me telling you not to stop meant anything but?”

Sansa sighed and watched the trees sway in the chilly breeze from the balcony. She couldn't face him now. She had become just another conversation, an afterthought.

“It's 2019, you know. My body is mine to give, Jon. It's not for anyone to take. And I wanted to give it to you. It was my choice.”

Ah, fuck. Touché. And I wanted it.

Sansa could hardly believe what was happening. From pure passion one moment, to wiping away tears the next. Of course, it had to be Jon. Sansa had cried tears over the tyranny of the workload he dumped on her, but this.. this was something else.

Sansa turned and sat back down on the bed, seeing Jon seated at the bench, his face in his hands.

“Let me tell you something, mister. Do you know how hard I've worked to find my own two feet? Moving to the city and be a writer some day? All this, without relying on my parents, while being a Stark? Do you know how much I had to give up to get here? I did that on my own, because I chose to. Without any help from my family, knowing how much it hurt them. All my life, I've been told what to do, what to be and how to do it and for the most part, I played along and obliged. But one day I decided, no. I'm going to do my own thing. Myself. And from then on, I decided whatever I choose to do, it would be me who says so."

Sansa sighed, recounting the numerous arguments she had with her mother and the times she's had to skip Skyping her brothers just to prove her point on how well and busy she was doing on her own.

Jon had no idea how it had been for her but he understood what she meant. Sacrifices.

He raised his hands in surrender. It was getting far too deep and deviated away too much from what they had in mind - this wasn't how he wanted the weekend to go. They had one plan and no matter what, they both had to stick to it.

Sansa bit down her lip, struggling not to say too much before it was too late. She had said enough to make her point. Enough of everyone telling her how she should live her life. Enough. Besides, there was nothing to be ashamed about it, Jeyne consoled her once. The whispers behind her back, how she was the ice queen of the North, the ways they all stared at her in university the moment she stepped foot there. Sansa Stark, pride and joy of Winterfell - what shame if she was ruined. Sansa couldn't do that to herself and her parents. Being the eldest daughter of the North's power couple was already hard enough. Sansa assured herself constantly, how there was no one remotely interesting enough to spark any interest anyway. Plus, the Stark name was repellent enough. Everyone knew who her parents were, so nobody dared to try.

“So, all this, fake fiance bullshit? Yeah, I chose it. Me, working for you and staying on despite your royal douche-ness, I chose it. Why is that such a strange concept to you.”

Jon wanted to strangle himself if he could. Or kick himself in the balls, as it would be appropriate. Pretending to be fake-engaged with the threat of five years in prison looming over their heads was one thing, if only he could explain how taking Sansa's untouched body was quite another. And to think he was so close to ruining every single area of Sansa's life just moments ago. He couldn't do it to her.

“Sansa… you don't know.. how much I owe you for this. All of this. And.. man.. the things I want to do to you..” Jon scoffed at the irony of it all.

“Well, now you're just saying that,” Sansa huffed indignantly at the revelation.

Jon reached out to grab her hand but Sansa pulled back.

“No, I'm not this time. Listen, let's just-”

A loud knock jolted both of them back to reality. “Sansy? Can Jon come out and fish with us? Can he? Please?”

Ah, shit. The family.

Jon looked to Sansa for an answer. Clearly they both had forgotten about the day's program.

“Uhh.. yeah. We'll be out in a minute.”

Sansa sat on her bed, watching Jon deliberate his next move.

“Well? Don't make my dad and brothers wait,” Sansa prompted.

Fair enough. “Sansa, please.. can we talk when I get back? I promise I have a point to make. I'm just failing badly at making it right now.”

Sansa couldn't listen to anything, not to a single word he'd say, anyway. Time apart would be good. She needed to think, go over what had just transpired and perhaps how to move on from there. Surely she didn't want to lose her job if Jon went to jail, that was a fact whether she liked or not. Crawling back to Winterfell with her tail between her legs, hearing her mother gloat how she had been right all along, was hard to swallow too. Damn decisions. All after that speech about independence, Sansa Stark. Great.

“I'll be in the treehouse. It's behind the shed. Find me there when you're done.”

Jon nodded and grabbed his coat as he headed out.

All Jon wanted to do was tear his hair out. If only she knew how much I want her right here, right now. But the fishing call was a good save, he'd might have said worse things and dug a deeper hole than he was already in. He would think about what to say and how he'd say it. It was clear that this little adventure to meet the family, to convince some immigration officer and avoid going to prison was turning into something else entirely.

It was a nice but cold day out on a rocky boat that Jon mustered enough will to survive. He didn't like the water and certainly not the icy cold one at Winterfell and he longed to see Sansa again, counting down the hours.

He needed to do right by her, at least in keeping the boundaries, though they were already crossed. But that didn't matter as boundaries were boundaries. He had to do something. If he truly was a cad through and through, he'd have her four ways to Sunday, against the wall in her own room, in her parent's house where she grew up, having her scream his name for her mother and all to hear - and then leave and go back to normal once the visa got approved. But we can't go back to how things were, can we? Not after that kiss.

But he wasn't a cad, safe to say and he was proud of it. He actually cared for Sansa. Infuriating, smart-mouth and gorgeous Sansa Stark. He'd end the whole charade right now, if he had to do the right thing. A small part of him feared that it perhaps was already over.  Whatever it may be, he'd rather go to prison in Dorne than put Sansa through all of that on top of everything he had dragged her into.

I would. She deserves better than this.

“Well, I guess better luck next time eh?” Jon turned to hear Ned's voice call out to him. He was talking about the day's poor catch but to Jon, it meant something else.

If there's a next time, indeed. So help me, God.