#Florida is a fucking creep okay

[samkerrworshipper]

she’s on the run

beautiful girl series part 4 -> pt.1 -> pt.2 -> pt.3

leah williamson x daughter reader, jordan nobbs x daughter reader

this was created whilst i listened to so long, london and florida!!!!

You waited until Leah had fully descended the stairs, waiting patiently until you heard Lia and her talking in the kitchen before you started to creep off of your bed and towards your open window. It was a easy climb, one you’d made hundreds of times, you hardly batted an eyelid as you climbed out of the window, your legs swinging out and over until they hit the tiling of the roof. After that it was a simple jump from the roof too the gravel drive way, your only concern was trying to be as quiet as possible, so instead of jumping as normal, you stepped to the edge of the tiles, being ever so careful to make sure that you didn’t slip and fall. Once you got to the edge you sat down, scooting until your feet were hanging over the edge, turning onto your stomach and sliding down until your feet found one of the tresses on the side.

It was a odd form of rock climbing but with some arm strength and dodgy footing, you managed to eventually get your feet onto the gravel of your moms driveway.

You didn’t look backwards as you tiptoed across the driveway, the only think you focused on was turning your location off before starting to jog away from your mom’s house.

You didn’t know where you were going, you just knew that you needed to get far enough away that your moms friends who crowded all of the surrounding neighbourhoods couldn’t find you, you needed a way out of here.

You didn’t have a lot of options, and the options you did have were shitty, but there wasn’t really any others that would work.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket as you rounded the corner of the block, ducking into the first alleyway that you spotted.

There were a couple of numbers that were options, some better than others, you went with the first one that came to head.

The phone rings out for a few seconds, your fingers jitter against the sides of your plastic case, whether you feel prepared to admit it or not, you’re going through withdrawals, it’s around now that you’re body is accustomed to shooting up, to getting a hit of drugs and right now it’s becoming more obvious by the minute how desperate your body is for that high that your body is used to receiving.

Maya had become the older sister that you never had, she cared about you, she treated you with more care and love then anybody else in your life, there wasn’t really any hesitation in your mind as you pressed down on her contact, the ringing noise being the only thing to register in your mind.

It rang out for a while, before your phone went silent for a few seconds.

Originally, you thought that it had rung out, but then there was a groan and something else from the other side of the phone.

“Babygirl?”

You don’t know where the nickname had come from, but along the way it had just become the way that Maya had chosen to address you.

“Hey, I need your help, where are you?”

You heard some rustling, and then Maya’s voice.

“I’m still at Matt’s house, what’s happened?”

Fuck. Fuck.

Matt was a problem, but he was one of the only people who could solve your main problem right now, that was all that was at the forefront of your mind.

“Mom found out about the drugs, she took them off me. I’m crashing, can you come get me?”

More rustling, then someone talking in the background.

“Fuck, kid. I’m gonna come get you alright, we’ll get you to Matt’s house and he’ll look out for you, it’s gonna be okay, we’ll look after you, I always look out for my girls.”

More rustling, accompanied by more background talk.

“Just send me your location alright, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

You nod your head, taking in the information and finding that your hands and body seem to relax with the knowledge that there is a resolution coming.

“Okay, okay, thank you, thank you, I love you.”

Maya’s like you, or at least you try to tell yourself that. She’s never had anyone who loved her, she’s all by herself. That’s what you tell yourself, that nobody’s ever loved you, that you’re all alone, she tells you the same. That nobody will love you like a good high, that your all alone, that you always will be. To start with, you thought it was all nonsense, that to her you were just a means of getting money, but after hearing it enough, after realising the truth behind her words, you thought it must be true, she was older than you, she’d seen more of the world than you had.

You stayed hunched over in the alleyway, ignoring the buzzing on your phone that meant your mother had realised you were gone. You felt a pang of compassion in your heart, just briefly. You didn’t want to worry her, you didn’t want to think about the anguish that would have crossed Leah’s face when she’d returned to your bedroom to find it empty, even worse if it was Jordan.

Consciously, you didn’t care, not really, all you cared about was the fucking high that you were missing out on. But the eight year old version of you, somewhere in the lowest pit of your heart felt horrifically bad.

It took fifteen minutes of you being hunched against a brick wall, hiding from the view of the street, shaking and shivering before you were hit with the light of headlights, coming from the end of the alleyway.

You stayed hidden, just in case it was your mother or somebody else, staying crouched down behind a bin.

“Babygirl, let’s go.”

You stood up properly, your body straightening out and beginning to walk towards the far to bright white lights.

You sat down in the passenger seat, closing the door behind you as swiftly as possible.

Maya captured you in a hug before you could do anything, her arms wrapping around your neck and torso.

“I’m so proud of you, you’re in good care, I’ll look out for you, me and Matt and the girls, you’re in good company.”

You nodded your head against her shoulder, slowly pulling yourself from her embrace.

Her pupils were dilated, your brain didn’t consider the danger behind her being high, more jealous that she was riding on a happy cloud that you were craving to be on.

The drive felt longer than it should have, your phone buzzed relentlessly the whole way there, it took everything in you not to look down and block the numbers that you knew were ringing, but you didn’t have it in you.

You didn’t like the feeling that hit your gut when you rolled up to the same house that you’d stumbled out of a couple nights ago, you loved Maya, you loved drugs, what you didn’t love was the overwhelming fear that you felt at having to face the same man who had done those horrible things to you days ago. Maya must have noticed, or seen something was up with you.

“Something wrong, darlin?”

She was 23, closer to your Mom’s age then yours, she cared about you.

“Matt, he didn’t want money for the drugs, he wanted something else.”

You expected, or you hoped that Maya would be shocked, but she wasn’t, not in the slightest.

“I think you’ll find babygirl that your body is the most powerful form of payment, men will do anything for a woman’s body, it’s good you learn that young. Matt provides a lot, drugs, care, a house, give him what he wants and he’ll treat you well.”

You stuttered on your words.

“W-what if I don’t want it?”

Maya put her hand on your cheek, squeezing firm enough to make it sting slightly.

“There is no such thing as not wanting it. We’re primal, we crave to be touched and wanted, he’s just teaching you that. It’s an eye for an eye. You get your high, he gets what he wants. It works out for everyone. He’s just trying to keep you safe, just trying to make you feel loved, it’s the only kind of love there is.”

In your core, in your brain, you know it’s untrue, Maya believes in what she’s saying though, or at least she appears to.

“Now c’mon, let’s get you upstairs, get you some artificial assistance.”

She pats you on the shoulder, before opening up the door on her side of the car and stepping out. You let go of the breath that you’d been holding in. Maya is like your big sister, she cares about you, she would never intentionally hurt you, she’s the only person who really gives a shit about you.

You open the car door without much more hesitation, having convinced yourself that she’s right, and more that once you shoot up that your brain will quiet down and all of your doubts will be silenced.

Maya leads you into the house, it’s a lot emptier than it was the other day, a lot less people sprinkled across all of the surfaces, instead there are a few girls and Matt, who’s right in the middle of all of them.

“Pretty girl, didn’t think I’d see you back so soon.”

He’s voice is drawling, slightly tilted.

You didn’t have anything to say that wouldn’t come off as rude, so you simply smiled at him, as well as you could considering the bile that was in your stomach just at the thought of the man in front of you.

“She got kicked out, needed some place to go, I told her there is always room for her here.”

Matt nodded and smiled, his hands were all over the women around him, you tried your hardest to keepy your eyes on his face and not the company he was keeping.

“Of course, I look out for my girls. You craving pretty girl? You need something?”

You nodded your head, hopefully, you were desperate, the emotional nature of what you’d just been through with your mother enough to be slowly pushing you towards the edge.

“Maya take her upstairs, the speed is in my bedside draw, I’ll be up in a bit.”

Maya smiled and nodded, grabbing you by the shoulder and pushing you towards the same stairs you’d stumbled down just a few days ago.

You tried not to feel completely daunted as you were tugged upstairs, your shaky legs carrying you the distance to the bedroom that you’d been in less than twenty for hours ago.

It was the same position, same place, same everything.

It was hard not to feel completely terrified.

Maya led you over to the bed, sitting you down whilst she rustled in the bedside table.

It was silent, calm, as peaceful as you could feel in your current situation, until your phone started buzzing again.

“Answer it, let them know you’re fine.”

You looked ay Maya like she was crazy, she sure seemed it.

“Excuse me?”

Maya looked up from her spot rustling through the drawer.

“They’ll leave you alone if you answer, let them know you’re fine and not dead in a ditch somewhere.”

You gulped, pulling your phone out of your pant pocket and looking at the flashing contact of your mom, your finger hesitating over the green button before clicking on it.

“Bubba? Bubba? Jord, she answered, I’ve got her.”

The exhale of relief that you heard leave your mom’s lips was one of pure happiness.

“Mom, please don’t ahte me, please don’t hate me.”

You could always deal with the thought or realisation that your mom didn’t love you, but having her hate you, it would do things to you that you couldn’t handle.

“Bubba where are you? I don’t hate you, I could never hate you, I love you so much bubba. Just let me know where you are, we’ll come get you, we’ll sort this out.”

Your mom sounded more desperate than you’d ever heard her.

“I’m okay mom, I’m okay, I’m safe.”

Another exhale of relief.

“Look bubba, all your aunties are out looking for you, me and Jord have been worried sick, just let me know where you are, please. I’m so worried about you bubba, look, just come home, we can figure out the drug stuff, me and mama will get you all the help you need, we’ll make it all better, just come home.”

It had been hardly two hours since you’d slipped out of your window, you didn’t want to know how stressed your mom would have gotten had it been six or twelve.

“Mom I know I did wrong, trust me, I know. But you want me to go to rehab, you want me to get better, and trust me I want it, but I can’t do it, please.”

You heard something being dropped and then a button being pressed.

“Chick, listen to me, your mom and I are worried sick, you need to come back home. We’ll sort it all out, we’ll get you the help you need, but you need to come home, just tell us where you are.”

The feeling of the rubber tourniquet being tied to your upper arm and a needle prodding at your vein distracted you slightly.

“Look mom, I’m in good company, I’m safe, I love you both but I can’t do rehab, I can’t do getting better, I’m not ready, I’m not strong enough for that, I’m not like you and mom, I can’t be strong and brave, I can’t tough it out when it gets hard. I just need you to love me from a distance and understand that I’m doing whats best for me.”

Maya looks on proudly, it feels like your saying things to appease her and that makes you feel good, the validation of having her smile at you and nod her head at you, it wasn’t love but it was something close, the closest you felt in a while.

“Bubba, listen to me. You are so strong, everything you’ve been through in your life, it’s nothing in comparison to this. You don’t need the drugs, you don’t. This isn’t you bubba.”

You think that deep down, Leah and Jordan have no idea who you are anymore. The injection into your bloodstream only solidifies those thoughts.

“This is me mom, this is who I am now. I was like you and jord’s perfect little child, your perfect girl but that’s not me anymore. I’m not the same kid, this is me.”

You swore you heard a sob, or sniffle from the other side of the line.

“Bubba, we’ll sort this out, just come back home, please.”

You shook your head, enjoying the feeling of your blood circulating the drugs that had just hit your system.

“I can’t do that mom’s, I love you, and I’m so grateful for you but I can’t come home, I just can’t mom, bye.”

Before either of them could reply to you, you pressed down on the hang up button, throwing your phone to the end of the bed and leaning back, letting the high begin to sink in.

The bed sunk down next to you, Maya’s arm snaking around your waist.

“Good job babygirl, I’m proud of you, you’ve got me, I’ll look out for you, I look out for all of my girls.”

If you were sane, you’d probably ask yourself the question of what kind of person looked out for their people by giving them drugs and subjecting them to sexual assault, but with the drugs running through your veins and the relief starting to hit your brain, you couldn’t find you in it to care.

“Feels good.”

Maya brought your head to her neck, it was warm, happy, nice.

“I know babygirl, feels so good doesn’t it?”

You nod your head, the bliss starting to really get to you, your whole body feeling the affects of it.

Everytime you get high you think it’ll last forever, that the overwhelming numb happiness will last permanently. Every time you shoot up, you think that maybe it’ll all get better, that the feeling you’ve been searching for, will finally set in. It doesn’t though.

You come to the conclusion that it must be a more pure solution, or more concentrated because it’s getting to your head a lot quicker than normal.

You don’t even notice when Matt slips into the room, too busy processing the overwhelming feeling of the drugs rushing through you. It’s good, it feels good, until the bed dips on the other side of you and a hand is on your waist.

Your body is too numb to try and fight back, even if you had the energy or will to, you doubt you’d be strong enough.

There are words being spoken around you, hands all over your body.

You can’t open your eyes, can’t even try to understand what is happening to you.

You bite down on your lip, as your pants are tugged down.

You dissasociate it, disassociate the hands on you, dissasociate the feeling of being violated, enjoy the fact that the mixture of the drugs in your system and pain coming from your lip manage to be enough to distract from the pain being inflicted on you.

It’s primal, it’s an eye for an eye, it’s a form of payment.

Some time during the process, you drift off, whether it’s from the drugs or pain you aren’t sure, you just know that the sweet mixture of the meth seems to be enough.

You wake up with an arm around you, your silently terrified to open your eyes and find out who, but you’re also in pain and a little bit too curious for your own good. You’re grateful that the hands are Maya’s, it’s a small win. Your head is still dazed, it feels good, but you’re itching for something, itching for more.

“Hey babygirl.”

It’s light outside, it has of been a couple of hours and based on the pain between your legs you don’t want to know what’s happened in the couple of hours you’ve been unconscious.

“You feeling a bit better?”

You nod your head, focusing in on the daze and not the itch across your body and the pain your experiencing.

“You’ve been such a good girl for Matt and I, doing exactly how we pleased, we’re so proud of you.”

It’s the kind of praise you’ve been searching for months. Growing up, for your mom’s, you’d always been the perfect child, a pathological people pleaser. You’d always been told you were independent, in the end though it had all just been loneliness. You grew up to quickly, from the moment you were in foster care, passed around like a piece of trash, there was no option but for you to be lonely. Then you moved in with Jordan and Leah, and they had each other, you were still alone. You didn’t allow for yourself to make mistakes, you had a chance with them, if you were anything less than perfect then how could they want you? You were a student, a star athlete, polite, a perfectionist to your core. You took on all of the burden during the breakup, you were there for both of your mom’s through it all, yet you were the one who was always at the brunt of their anger and discontent. You weren’t worthy of their love, not when the perfect child stopped being perfect because of the pressure, because of the self-hatred that had manifested inside of you since the first people to show you love had broken apart, leaving you empty on the inside.

You blamed yourself for a lot of it, Leah and Jordan had been fine before you, it was like as soon as you entered their life it was just a ticking time bomb, you wrecked everything, you were a semi truck that drove through people, pulled everyone and everything in it’s way a part.

Maya knew how it felt, she’d broken people a part, she knew what it felt like to be all alone, she’d taught you that it was okay, that it was okay to be lonely.

She cared about you, she understood you, she wanted you.

“More, need more.”

She looked into your eyes and you felt understood, like she knew exactly what you were going through and knew how to patch up and fix all of your problems.

“Alright babygirl, just give me a second and we’ll get you juiced up, huh? You deserve it, you’ve been such a perfect girl for us.”

Maya removed her body from yours, reaching over to the bedside table, rummaging through it the same way she did last night.

Your body was still vibrating with the endorphins, the dopamine was filling your head, replacing everything in you that felt dead and broken, it felt so good, it was the feeling that you craved, the reason that you’d given everything else up, because it made you feel more content and fulfilled then anything else.

You were scared of losing it, scared of losing touch with the feeling that you were relying on.

You craved her praise, craved the drugs, craved the nothingness that came from having everything around you turn into nothing, all of the feelings, all of the struggle, all the pain and suffering turned into dust.

It was what made your life worth living, without the high you didn’t think your life would even remotely worth living for, you had nothing, you had nobody, you were alone.

Maya was quicker with her mannerisms, she knew what she was doing.

You’d never seen her do needles before the last twenty four hours, but you also weren’t that shocked. She had the tracks along her arms, the attitude that seemed like she could. She was the one who’d introduced you to drugs, it had started with a bit of pot, then coke, then heroin, then any pill that you could find and eventually, speed.

You’d been tentative at first, speed was more addictive than any other drug, speed did bad things to a body, methamphetamines were a druggies worst enemy. You’d met cokeheads and some of the most addicted heroin junkies and yet plenty of them had told you that they would never touch meth, that it was too intoxicating.

Meth took control of a persons body, penetrated the system faster than most drugs, meth got into your head, it changed a person for the worse.

You wanted that though, you were seeking for that. You were seeking for something to take control of you, something to change you, something to change the way your brain was wired.

It felt so good, you’d never been into needles either, avoided them like they were the plague, but with the plastic tourniquet strapped onto your arm and the cold point of the needle pressing against your inner arm.

It was the best feeling in the world, the best feeling known to man.

You felt like you were on the peak of Mount Everest, like you were unstoppable.

It was the same feeling you’d once gotten from just being in a room with your moms, the same feeling you’d gotten after a good game of football, the same feeling you’d gotten out of getting a good mark back on a test.

A while ago, a time that you don’t like to think about anymore, it all came naturally. Your body did hunger for that kind of attention because it received it naturally, it didn’t have to worry about when the next burst of serotonin would come. You didn’t have to create your own sensation, like you do now, you didn’t have to put yourself on a constant calendar to keep yourself sane, to make sure that you stayed happy enough to stay alive.

You didn’t think about the fact that you’d shot up a couple of hours ago, that you’re body was only just now learning to absorb intravenous drugs, that you were more dosed up then you had been in your entire life and now you were adding gasoline to the fire inside of you, you didn’t care, all you wanted was for this feeling to keep lasting, for the pain in your stomach from everything that you knew had happened but couldn’t recollect to be numbed by the drugs that you were craving.

You felt alive when the needle pressed into your arm, it made you feel like you were unstoppable, enlightened, like nothing could stop you. It was a strak contrast to how you felt when you were sober, when you were sober, you felt like the weight of the world was resting on your shoulders, that you were responsible for all the people that were around you and if you failed them then you were no better than the little traumatised girl that had been handed to your moms all those years ago.

You tried to ignore the odd chest pain that set in as the drugs mixed in with your blood, or tried your very best at least, it was hard though, when the initial pain started to turn into a skin splitting sensation you tried your best to pay no mind to it.

It was odd, you figured it might be a new effect you were unearthing, needles gave a different high in comparison to your normal, it was understandable that their would be different effects.

For the first time though, in a long time, you weren’t overcome with the near overwhelming relief that normally flooded you, the pain in your chest was to strong, instead of your heart slowing, your pain subsiding and all the thoughts quieting down, it felt like you were going into overdrive, hyperaware of everything that resided inside of you. Your chest was hurting, your heart was beating at a abnormally fast pace and your brain hurt, like it was rattling around inside of your head, bruising the inside of your skull and cracking it into pieces as every second passed.

“Maya, maya.”

It was a croak, yourr eyes being forced open as you took sharp, short breaths.

“You’re okay babygirl, deep breaths, it’ll feel good any minute.”

Except it wasn’t feeling good and it was feeling worse as every second passed. Your skin was prickly, hot and red and burning all over, your heart felt like it was beating faster than it had ever before and everything about how you were feeling felt so inexplicably wrong.

“Not good, not good, not good.”

Maya’s hand was on your face, patting at you like you were a dog, like you were a pet to her.

“Ride it out, you’ve got it babygirl, it’ll pass.”

It wasn’t passing though, it wasn’t, nothing about how you felt was passing at all.

You could feel your control of your body start to fade, you didn’t understand how or why, you didn’t understand what was happening, you knew though that whatever this was, whatever you’d taken or been given, it wasn’t good. It felt like poison inside of you, slowly taking control of every thing inside of you, like something was eating you up from the inside, as every moment surpassed.

You wanted to think that it was going to be fine, that you were just experiencing some kind of heightened high from the buildup in your system, but there was something overwhelmingly odd and wrong about how you felt, it was real, realer than any drugs had made you feel.

Drugs were artificial, and they made you feel artificially happy, or numb, somewhere between those two. Drugs had never made you feel real and tangible, like you were more of a human than anybody else, but right now, you felt more personified then you ever had, like you were so synched with your body that it was too much, too much feelings, too much pain, to much of everything.

You struggled to get out anymore words, between the feeling of your heart beating the speed of light and your chest being too tight for any oxygen to enter your airway.

You supposed she got the message when your body started to shake, your eyes rolling into the back of your skull as your body struggled to cope.

You heard her scream, felt her pick up your body, in blinks of your eyes you made out the staircase, the entryway, Matt in your line of sight.

You get traded into his arms, arms that make you feel tense and uncomfortable, something your body seems to react to because the tremors or seizures, or whatever the fuck your experiecing only worsens.

You blink in and out of consciousness as you’re taken from the house, into the backseat of somebody’s car, Maya and Matt seated in the front, murmuring to each other as you violently shook in the backseat, your consciousness fading as your body became less connected to you.

You weren’t sure where you were going, where drug addicts thought it was a good idea to take a person fucked up out of their minds, you hoped it wasn’t back to your mothers, or rehab, you seriously doubted the latter considering that two addicts themselves were more likely to take you to a fucking graveyard instead of rehab.

You knew neither of them were talking to you, just talking between the two of them, you hoped they were getting you some kind of help, that the two of them would stick by you and find you some help, Maya loved you, Maya was the only person who cared, she would get you help, she would stop this feeling, she would fix it.

You couldn’t see, you couldn’t control your body, you couldn’t feel any sensations across your skin beside the burning created by the lack of oxygen being circulated throughout you. It was like the drugs were slowly infiltrating every part of you, that the veins which mapped out your body underneath your skin were being pumped full of the toxic substance that you’d been so desperate to fill yourself with.

It must have been a bad reaction, or something you’d taken was laced, probably with fentanyl or something that was mixing badly, fentanyl was renowned for being one of the worst things to combine with meth, opioids and stimulants were bad together, it was probably the two forms mixing together inside of you, creating a horrible chemical concoction of reactions inside of you.

You couldn’t keep yourself awake for most of the car ride, there were patches of consciousness, patches where your eyes would open just for them to close once again.

You were awake when the car stopped, not awake enough to catch a glimpse of where you’d stopped at but awake enough to hear the car engine turn still on. The passenger door opened, then footsteps, then the backseat door beside you opened.

Maya picked you up, or at least that’s who you thought had your arms around you, your eyes were forced shut so you didn’t have any confirmation.

A few steps were taken, fast ones, and then she was squatting like she intended to put you down, and then she did.

You didn’t know how or why or where, you just knew that it was cold, there was rain drizzling down on your face, your body was shaking more than ever and you could hear the footsteps getting further and further away from you, then the sound of a car door being opened and shut and the car pulling away.

You were in agony, there was no other way to put it.

You’d been abandoned before, it was nothing new for you, it only reinforced the idea that you were simply incapable of keeping people in your life, nobody wanted you long term, you weren’t made for long term love, you were like a toy to a child. Fun and entertaining for a short amount of time, before you were forgotten and then eventually, thrown away.

You passed out before you could think more about the toy comparison, cold, alone and forgotten.

#woso #woso community #sammykworshipper thoughts #leah williamson #arsenal wfc #leah williamson x reader #jordan nobbs x reader #jordan and leah #jordan nobbs #golden retriever leah vibes #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson fic #woso fix #woso imagine #woso fanfics

[ddejavvu]

i think you just spun my whole world with dbf! jake seresin. like i’m thinking about him going back to top gun to teach and you happen to tell your friends that miramar is the PERFECT place for your spring break. and he thinks he’s going to lose his mind when he sees you strutting into the hard deck with your friends. and when you see him and send him a smirk, he’s getting up to talk to you and rooster would be like “you still got it, old man” and jake’s just grumbling about “if only you knew”

🤭🤭 gAh okay i'm horny <3

this post is 18+ (and so are its characters), minors dni. (cw: age gap, don't like, don't read. rooster's about 33-34 in the film, i think, so i'm assuming hangman is somewhere around there, too).

"Woah," Coyote's low drawl breaks Jake away from the concentration he's administering to pool, "They're not navy wives."

"Navy daughters, maybe." Rooster snickers, and Jake turns to see-

Oh fuck, Jake turns to see you.

You and your friends, finishing off college strong with a spring break trip that Jake had no idea about.

"I bet they've got fake ID's," Coyote watches as you make your way over to the bar, and Jake scoffs, putting his pool cue down.

"Christ, guys, they're old enough to drink. They're almost through college, don't be creeps. Just-" Jake's eyes meet yours, and he startles as he realizes you've turned to look at him, your eyes burning and laser-focused on him, "-let me handle this."

"Damn," Coyote laughs, jabbing Jake in the side with his own cue, "Didn't know you were into cradle robbing, Hangman."

"She's not that young," Jake huffs, smacking the cue away from his side, "And- and I'm not doing anything! Fuck off, guys."

He's halfway over to you when the unmistakable voice of Rooster whoops, "You've still got it, old man!" and Jake's jaw clenches as he closes the distance between you.

"Y/N," Jake raises an eyebrow at you, smiling sweetly, "Care to explain what you're doin' here? If I recall correctly, you should be studying for something right now."

"It's spring break," You gush, sipping on a beer, the same kind Jake drinks, "I forgot you were teaching here! I just wanted to see the beach."

"Hm," Jake ponders, "Really? The beach is out there. In here," He switches his pointer finger from aiming outside to the wood floor beneath you, "There's booze."

"Booze is good, too." You shrug, taking another sip, "So, how's teaching going?"

Jake's eyes break off of your own mid-sentence to watch a young pilot's across the bar. The man's eyes dip greedily down your form, landing at the hem of your skirt that Jake decides is too short.

"Nope," He huffs, reaching towards your hip to yank the dress down, one hand braced on your shoulder to stop it from exposing your chest, "Let's, uh- let's go outside, okay? We can see that beach you came here for."

You let him lead you across the bar, back to the front doors that swing open at his touch. You don't see the aggressive middle finger that he throws to his laughing friends in the corner, but when he's done with the obscene gesture the hand falls to your shoulder, guiding you down the steps and into the sand.

"I didn't come here for the beach," You confess, just when you reach its waters. The ocean laps at the shore, seafoam nearly crowding your toes.

There's a long sigh from Jake, then, "I didn't think so."

"Oh? Why not?" You turn on your heels, back to the water. Your red dress looks fantastic in the moonlight, and Jake has a hard time keeping his hands off of it.

"If you wanted to take a spring break near the beach, you'd go to Florida." He reasons, shrugging, "Everyone goes there."

"Florida scares me," You admit, "Maybe I just like Miramar better."

He snorts, "Really? You'd prefer a bunch of hotshot dickhead pilots breathing down your neck?"

"No," You shake your head, sand soft beneath your toes, "I prefer the one that doesn't."

"Sweetheart," He sighs, but you cut him off.

"No! No, don't do that," You point at him, "Don't start spiraling. I know you like me, Jake. I know you do. And I like you, too! You're not a cradle robber," Jake cringes as he realizes you must have heard his friends earlier, "I'm the one pursuing you. I know that you really care about me, Jake, that's why I'm okay with it. You respect me."

"I do respect you," Jake nods, keeping his eyes on the sand, "That's why I can't do this to you. I can't steal you away while you're young, while you could be out having fun. It doesn't matter what I want."

"I'd have fun with you," You urge, "Jake, I flew cross-country to see you! I have one week off of school, do you think I'd make the trip if I didn't want it?"

You can tell he's thinking about it. He's scared, you know he's scared of what people will say, what people will think, but you know he's right for you. He's kind, he's respectful, he's caring. You both deserve that, and you're more than happy to give it right back.

"Just.. try." You beg, centering yourself in the sand before him, "Please? Just for this week, and then if it doesn't work, we can stop."

He reaches out cautiously, and you melt into the feeling of his massive hands on your waist. They stay respectfully chaste, not too low on the fabric of your dress.

"You want this?" He confirms, eyes shining in the light of the moon.

"I want this," You nod vigorously, drilling it into his brain, "Do you want this?"

Finally, he seems to relax, weight lifted away from his broad shoulders when you promise him that he's what you want.

"I want this," He hums, leaning in to bump his nose into yours. The first kiss you share is beside the moonlit beach, as is the second, third, fourth, tallying up to an uncountable number. More are shared later, across the seats of his car, between pillows on his bed, and in the airport just before you leave, and each one takes your breath away. They leave you restless to finish out your semester and see him at your graduation, and a thousand more will later be exchanged in the comfort of your shared apartment.

#jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #hangman #hangman x reader #hangman x you #hangman x y/n #hangman fanfiction #hangman imagine #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin imagine #jake hangman seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x you #jake hangman seresin x y/n #top gun x reader #top gun maverick x reader #dbf!hangman #dbf!jake #jake seresin au #hangman au #jake hangman seresin au

[mitchellpete]

Kinktober Day 10 - Handjob

pairing: cole trickle x gn!reader

cw: drinking, handjobs, slight dirty talk (?)

word count: 1066

kinktober masterlist here.

18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI

-

His first ever NASCAR victory, a sponsor, and a bit of weight off his shoulders. Some of it off of yours too. The eventful—but gratifying—day had Cole sprawled out on the leather booth in the trailer. En route to Florida, a beer in his hand and you by his side. It really couldn’t get any better than this.

He’s got a cheeky smile on his face, taking a swig of his beer every other minute as he mumbles on and on about the race. You listen attentively, though it’s hard to focus with the way he’s laying beside you. Head against the arm rest, Superflo hat hanging over his eyes, beer bottle against his waistline, a leg dangling off the seat and the other one propped up next to you. Your fingers absentmindedly wrap around it, squeezing at his calf, toying with the material on his jeans.

Cole is happily murmuring to you, unbeknownst if you’re actually listening or not—too tipsy to care. 

Unbeknownst to your hungry eyes, too. 

Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of his fingers around the beer bottle, how he’s got it right above his crotch, hips jerking up ever so slightly as he squirms on the seat. 

He’s still in the midst of his rambling when you quietly (and impulsively) ask him, “Do you want a handjob?”

Cole stops talking, his half-lidded eyes fluttering open, as if he were awakening from sleep. He squirms again, shifting an inch to really look at you under his low hanging hat. “What?”

You bite your lip. “Do you want a handjob?” you repeat, same tone.

He takes the hat off—pushes it up on his forehead and it falls off his head, rather—and looks at you with suddenly eager eyes. A bit bewildered, he answers as quietly as you asked him, “Okay.”

Okay, so maybe it could get better.

Cole carelessly sets the nearly empty bottle down on the floor, and it rolls towards the wall with a clink. He doesn’t take his eyes off you for even a second as he starts to unbuckle his belt. You bring his propped up leg down and over your lap, inching closer as he starts unbuttoning his jeans. You let him work the front of his pants open, but reach in to intervene when he sticks his hand inside to palm at himself.

“Stop,” you interrupt. “Let me.”

He slowly removes his hand, breathes out, and watches you.

A small tug at his briefs, and the way he’s laying grants you easy access. He watches your hand as it pulls his cock out and hisses at the first contact. 

Cole’s lashes flutter in pleasure, his eyes drooping as your fingers squeeze his shaft. “Mmm.. What’s the sudden occasion?”

You shift even closer, opening your salivating mouth above him to let a good amount of spit collect on your tongue. It drips over the tip, trailing down and over the fist you have around him. “You and that beer bottle.” 

He languidly raises his brows, relaxing into the seat. “Huh.”

You smile, your hand spreading the spit over the head and down the sides, feeling him harden in your grasp. Cole starts panting, shallowly at first, before the little quiet and high pitched moans start spilling from his lips. 

It’s the alcohol, you think, that has him so fucking flushed and pretty and whiny for you right now. A blush creeps into his cheeks at the slicked noises your hand makes around his dick, bringing it up over the head and then all the way down to lubricate him generously. 

“Oh—” he whines, tilting his head against the arm rest, eyes still semi-shut as the pleasure buds in his abdomen.

Once his cock is nice and slippery, you lean down to press a kiss to his hipbone before starting your strokes. Easy at first, a middling pace, but it’s enough to get some very happy noises out of him; you don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound so giddy.

“Feel good?” you ask sweetly, hand slipping up and down, feeling the prominent vein he’s got along his shaft.

The tip gets red as your pace quickens, small strains of precum beading out.

“F–fuck—yes,” he gasps out, bowing his head to continue watching. 

Cole absentmindedly starts jerking his hips again. Your hand slows down to observe him, which gets a particularly loud groan from him, and then he’s fucking himself up into your fist in impatience. “No, don’t stop,” he pleads, voice shaky, hips sputtering into your tight grip. 

You almost want to just let him fuck your fist, have him chase his own high, but it’s not that kind of day. He’s already earned it, you think. This is more of a reward on your part, a way to help him relax, too. 

Cole does not look relaxed anymore, instead entirely disheveled, hair sticking up slightly from rubbing his head back and forth against the arm rest, cheeks flushed, lips slick with spit. Pathetic little noises coming out of him, urging you to get him to his breaking point. You can’t wait to see it happen, how pretty he’ll look, so your hand quickens once more. 

Pleasure buds at your core too, the sounds of your hand working him and the sounds of his moans arousing you deeply, not to mention the sight of him. 

His entire body jerks when you use your free hand to fondle his balls, squeezing gently, running your thumb over the skin. You feel them tighten after a few more furious strokes, your touch there pushing him to the edge. Cole eventually spills out hot spurts of his cum, as well as even louder groans and a mix of uncontrollable whimpers as the white hot bliss overtakes him. Some of it lands on your hand, some on his clothed thigh, some even on the leather beneath you. 

“Nnngh—so good,” he slurs, hips still jerking up into your fist, his hand bunching into the material of his t-shirt. 

Your stroking decelerates, motions becoming more languid and lazy. No longer impatient, his hips start to jerk in overstimulation instead; you realize when his whines continue. 

You remove your hand then, and climb over him to pull him into a heated kiss. His hands immediately cup your face as you lock lips, and he murmurs a very soft ‘thank you’ as the kiss deepens.

#kinktober 2023 #cole trickle #cole trickle x reader #days of thunder #tom cruise x reader #*

[gothicprep]

I hate that the creeps on to catch a predator legitimately have hilarious usernames

some of the ones that I made me laugh were “meatrocket8”, “daddieforu”, and “genericwhitemale”

We’re watching an episode set in florida and. Look. Okay. Fuck cops. But seeing florida cops just fucking tackle these guys kills me. I know it’s because florida has relatively relaxed gun laws, doesn’t change that they look so fucking cartoonish

[chaotic-on-main]

Hiiii! I hope today's been good to you. This is regarding your weirder asks post. I hope you don't mind :D

2, 21, 44, and 50?

:O thank you so much for the asks!! Yesterday was okay, felt some sad creep in but I was able to combat it with some music and sleep. I just woke up for the day. c:

How is your day/evening going?? 💕

2. lighter or matches?

This was harder than I thought. I love the feel of playing with matches but lighters scare me significantly less so I'll have to go with those! The clickies bring me sensory comfort.

21. something you've kept since childhood?

I think the oldest thing I have would be my stuffed build-a-bear rabbit named Joe (named after Joe Jonas lmfaooo) that I got when I was probably 11-12? He's looking worse for wear but he's still doing his best every day.

44. you get a free pass to kill anyone, who is it?

Hmmm. This is really hard because I do my best to stay away from anything negative in my life (yeah my voluntary blissful ignorance is gonna hurt me one day). Idk if I'd ever really wish anyone death, but if I had to choose something close to it for someone, I'd choose Trump, maybe? Or Ron DeSantis. That clown has been fucking Florida up more so than usual recently.

50. can I tag you in random stuff??

absolutely!! And this goes for anyone else too. I love being thought about and seeing what reminds people of me. Especially when it's a tag game (asks, picrew, etc.) Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged too! I can add you to my list for games. 💕

Ask me weird things!!

#ask game #moots

[commaclear]

So since ÆÆ anon was concerned abt what was going on with my being blackmailed, I come here with updates on that situation first and foremost, before I deal with ÆÆ's bloodthirstiness.

so. I got into contact with my blackmailer. they were willing to stop being a fuckin creep (even after I used a machine gun to chase them off of my lawn), and that's all good and all, but. I chased them off with my gun bc they revealed themself to be fucking ÆÆ anon.

so anyway. we had a civil conversation after my overreaction. they called me stormy (jealous, qaa?) and then I fucking realized. they didn't even fuckin know who I was. I told them, i told them: "fuck u for fuckin my mom and fuckin my ex that's fucked up" and they still didn't know who i was. this bitch is ominously coming to other anons' doorsteps too???? THEY WERENT JUST FUCKING MY MOM. WILBUR SEMI DEFENDER, I THINK THEY WERE FUCKING YUOR MOM TOO. DONT TRUST THEM DONT FUCK THEM THEY FUCKED YOUR MOM

I'll give them this, tho. they were very apologetic for mistaking me for other anons. and for apparently not having given much of a fuck abt my mom. oh my God I think they fucked ****** anon's mom too... you really get around, huh? I'm frankly a little impressed, but mostly fuckin disgusted.

Fuck you. Fuck ur mom, you Freudian piece of shit, and. just saying. qaa cares just as much abt u than you cared about a lot of our moms. You have all this big talk about fate and how u and qaa were always attracted to one another, but let's get this straight. even if you're okay with qaa using you, just know that's all this is. qaa didn't know you were the same gender whore anon from months ago, they just started making moves on you to piss our poor Saint Comma off who's right for anti-shipping qaa.

sincerely,

quackity apologist anon (NOT qaa, wilbur semi defender anon or ******)

First of all, the mom fucking is hilarious, but you'd better stay away from my mom (for those of you who don't know she's bisexual, Floridian, and even more unhinged than you would expect from your average Florida escapee... the stories I've heard from that woman.........)

And on a more serious note, feuding is hilarious so long as it's all in good fun, but I want to make sure none of y'all take it too far. Anonymity on the internet makes it way to easy to be cruel to strangers or take jokes too far. I none of you mean ill, but seriously don't go on other people's blogs and threaten or blackmail anyone. Even as a joke, that's not cool. If you're gonna feud or threaten each other, please keep in my inbox where I can play referee, okay? We're all here for a good time, and as your appa, I want to make sure no one gets accidentally hurt

And once again, do not fuck my mom. You couldn't handle it.

#sorry for interrupting the haha funnies with a Serious Talk #but it's important to put out there #I care about the well being of all my little anons #anons my beloved #the cooler qaa #quackity apologist anon #my own personal soap opera

[vidadeisla]

Back from the ether

Holy fuck, how long has it been since I logged onto Tumblr? I think about a full decade? All of my profile info is based on my life in Korea 2015 and now it’s 2022 and I live in Germany. Okay so not a decade but you get the point. Twitter took over the spot that Tumblr once held and everyone fled. Twitter is still going strong but Instagram is in the shitter. They really fumbled the bag with their algorithm changes. Tumblr was put on the back burner when p0rn was removed LOL, funny how much power the s3x industry has on our culture. I have a feeling that Tumblr is making a come back and the 2012 grunge indie era is creeping back in. I honestly feel good being back, it’s nostalgic and feels like a safe space. It feels familiar. I used to have a Wordpress but it’s just way too difficult to juggle so many social media platforms.

If you’re curious on what’s changed with me since 2015, Anthony and I will be celebrating 8 years of marriage this November 😳 We’re almost to double digits but it feels like it was yesterday. He’s still my best friend and he still makes me laugh every day. Nala is now 7 years old and she has a 4 year old Australian Shepherd brother named Odin. She took a bit of time to get used to him but she doesn’t fight him all that much anymore. We no longer live in Amco Aston Park on the 11th floor in Sangdodo, Dongjakgu. Andrew lived with us the majority of the time we lived there and his girlfriend Eun became his wife. They moved to Florida for a bit but they both didn’t like it and moved back to Seoul and have been there for years, Andrew even became a Korean citizen and is now an English teacher. I’m very happy for them.

Our friend J. Hall committed suicide a few years after we all left Korea and he was in WA state. It took everyone by surprise. I don’t think anyone knew this would happen but maybe that’s because I wasn’t close to him. I think about him once in a while and I wish I would’ve known, I wish I would’ve known him better and given him guidance. I have only good memories with him and I hope that his soul is at rest, I miss him.

We moved to Louisiana LOL for almost 2 years and it was the most depressing thing I’ve ever experienced. Going from a huge, busy city to a…boring, humid, racist, tiny town was…detrimental to my mental health. I had to face my emotional and mental issues and they won for some time and I had to get help. I reached my rock bottom and eventually regained control of my life. It was the hardest time of my adult life.

Then we moved to San Antonio and that was a huge relief. We were back in a city and I was able to better myself and improve my career. I had a good income, stable work, and Anthony got promoted many times. Our life improved, we bought a house, sold it, moved to a very nice apartment, had 2 Teslas. We simply enjoyed life. We met many friends and so many more memories I can’t pack onto this post because I’m supposed to be doing homework. Oh yes, I just started my journey to getting a Bachelor’s in Business Administration.

We moved to Germany last month and it’s like being back in Korea again. I think we’re simply city people. We’ve been to Heidelberg and just came back from picking up another Tesla in Frankfurt. I’m still not sure what to do with my life, so that hasn’t changed but who the hell does?

#Private #diary #update #ether #might delete

[xadoheandterra]

Mimneskesthai - Misrecollect - Amnesia pt 3

Series:  Mimneskesthai Title: Misrecollect Chapter: Amnesia pt 3 (1 | 2 | 4 | 5 | AO3) (Hypomnesia) Fandom: Red vs Blue Characters: Agent Florida/Butch Flowers, Tucker, Alpha AI, Church Story Summary: Church blamed his faulty memory on the head injury. Everything was all mixed up. He’s pretty sure he’s got the most important bits down now; if only Captain Flowers would stop asking. Honestly it’s like Agent Florida—Flowers—Florida?—thought Church would give him away.

Oh.

Oh.

Well this explained a lot.

.

Wherein Alpha’s memories are even more of a mess than previously thought.

a·mnesia – n. modern latin               1. loss of a large block of interrelated memories; complete or partial loss of memory caused by brain injury, shock, etc.               2. loss of memory from –               a- – prefix; latin                             1. Not               -mnesia – suffix; latin                             1. (condition or type of) memory               from –                             a·mnesia – n. greek                                           1. forgetfulness

 Florida looked to Private Tucker hunched over a bowl of cereal and noted the apparent absence of Alpha from the commons. He took a second to parse that information before he released the catch of his helmet—the subtle hiss a comfort—and carefully set it down on the table. With a soft sigh he headed over to the cabinets, pulled out a mug, some earl grey tea, and began to boil water.

“Where has Private Church gotten off to, Private Tucker?” Florida asked lightly with a soft smile pressed against his lips. The teakettle began to whistle softly as the water heated.

Tucker swallowed his bite of cereal and rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. “Migraine. Went to lay down.” Tucker tilted his head back to regard Florida. “Shouldn’t we, you know, call in a medic now Captain?”

Florida tsked. “I told you, Private Tucker, call me Cappy. Or Cap, if that’s your flavor.” He turned and gave Tucker a wide smile. “I’d really hate for all this command structure to get between our team.”

Tucker stared, and said slowly, “You call me and Church Private, dude.”

“Mm,” Florida hummed lightly and pulled the kettle off the stove. “How bad is the poor things head this time?” he said instead of addressing Tucker’s carefully worded, and correct, reply.

Tucker breathed out heavily through his nose and turned back toward his cereal while Florida made his way over to the table. “I gave him some aspirin, he went to lay down.”

“And how did he appear?” Florida asked lightly. Tucker frowned, and Florida watched how he gripped the spoon tight. Perhaps he should try to mitigate attachment. It wouldn’t do to have Alpha fracture while in a host.

“Slow,” Tucker said carefully. “Confused. Tired. Same as fucking usual.” Tucker shoved more cereal into his mouth and it took all of Florida’s willpower not to grimace at the display. “I still think we should call in a medic. Something’s seriously fucking wrong.”

Florida hummed, sipped at his tea, and set the mug down. “I hear your concerns, Private Tucker. I don’t think we need a medic at this time, but I have forwarded the issue to Command.”

Tucker looked up, almost relieved. “So we’re getting a medic?”

“No,” Florida told him flatly. “Don’t you worry about it, Private Tucker. Just let me know if you see any changes, alright?” Florida gave him a bland sort of smile. “Enjoy your breakfast.” With grace Florida got up from his seat, mug in hand, and headed out of the commons. He left his helmet behind—it didn’t matter if he was in armor right now. It was nap time after all.

Right on schedule, Florida mused as he headed down the hall of the base and pushed open Alpha’s door. Consistent; and a cause for concern. Hopefully the Director pulls through. This ploy wouldn’t work if Alpha slept far too much after all. While Florida understood the AI being tired—having whole pieces of yourself forcefully twisted away in the manner that it’d been had to be tiring—this entire ruse depended upon some level of activity. Private Tucker would expect nothing less, and if Alpha didn’t improve the boy might just go and try to contact V.I.C.

Agent Florida hummed softly as he settled down onto the edge of Alpha’s bed. He sipped his tea with one hand, the other curled into the dark locks of hair on Alpha’s host’s head. They really chose well with Private Jimmy, Florida mused. Dark hair, lighter eyes—a slightly oval face and not-quite-prominent cheekbones. The only discrepancy that Florida could see were the freckles, and the exact shade of pale of Private Jimmy’s skin. All in all the similarities worked in their favor. It’d do no good to have Alpha go through periods of intense dysphoria because of something as simple as appearance.

With a soft hum Florida tugged his hand through the host’s hair, Kevlar and armor covered fingers digging lightly into the scalp.

“Private Church,” Florida said softly. “Are you there?” He watched as the brow furrowed and the faint groan came from Alpha. Florida frowned, and cautiously whispered, “…Alpha?” That garnered a slightly louder groan, this one with some sort of question as Alpha’s head turned.

Wonderful, Florida thought with a grimace. Oh, well, it worked in his favor for now.

“Program; system status check,” Florida said, and made sure to keep his voice low. He leaned over the host body and kept his face close to Alpha’s ear. It wouldn’t do for Private Tucker to hear him address the AI.

Alpha moaned, but this close Florida could see the way the host’s eyes fluttered and shifted. For a second there was no response, and then Alpha began to mumbled in the sleep hazed and distant way that Florida did not expect.

“Men-ntal scarring, damaged neu-neur-neural net and implannnnt site electrical b-b-burns. M-M-Memory malfunction with ddddata chip.” Alpha shifted as Florida dug his fingers into the host’s hair with a sharp grimace, entirely not pleased with what he could hear or how he could hear it. “A-A-Agent Fffflorida?” Alpha slurred. “Where—”

“Go back to sleep, Private Church,” Florida murmured. He relaxed his fingers and leaned in close to almost press his lips against Alpha’s forehead. “These headaches will go away soon.”

“Fffflor-flor-flowers?” Alpha mumbled, brow furrowed from both pain and confusion.

“That’s right,” Florida said gently. “Cappy’s here. He’s got you, Private. Go back to sleep and everything will be okay.” Florida waited for any further response, and then sighed when Alpha finally drifted back off.

With a scowl Florida got back to his feet and stared down at the AI stuck in a host body. He shook his head and mumbled a short curse before Florida plastered back on his genial smile and slipped out of Private Church’s room. He headed back to his own and contemplated how to phrase this in a report, and even if he honestly should. The fact that Alpha could still manifest and follow an obvious command perhaps could be considered a good sign—or a bad one, depending on how far the Director desired to follow through with this ruse.

Florida wondered if the time came that they finally stopped Agent Maine and the AI fragments that had fallen into full blown rampancy if they’d call this mess finished and return Alpha to whatever the Director desired to have the AI settled into. If that was indeed the overall plan then perhaps the subtle signs that Alpha still presided as a consciousness beside what they wanted Alpha to be—in this case ‘Private Church’ as the designation the AI gave—was in fact a good thing. Florida shook his head. It wouldn’t do to contemplate this for now. There was plenty more to focus on for the time being.

Such as nap time. If there was one thing Florida appreciated it was that Alpha gave him the perfect excuse for nap time. Infiltration and information gathering could be so tiring after all. Florida shed his armor, set his mug of tea down on the bedside table, and flopped over with a pleased sigh. There was only one thing missing from the bed, but Florida could deal with that easily enough. With a pleased hum the Freelancer settled down for his own nap.

#rvb #red vs blue #alpha church #agent florida #lavernius tucker #leonard church #fanfic #fic: amnesia #fic: misrecollect #Florida is a fucking creep okay #Church is very beginning of being in Jimmy so everything's all sideways right now #he's a bit more Alpha than Church atm but that'll change #referenced past trauma #fic: mimneskesthai

[starryevermore]

just like her: been getting closer and closer (8) ✧ andy barber

just like her ✧ an andy barber series | ao3

pairing: dark!andy barber x fem!reader

summary: you reach the point of no return. 

word count: 2,181

warning(s): 18+ MINORS DNI, cheating, smut, mommy kink, pet name (teach), not proofread

note: there is no set update schedule for this; new parts come whenever they come.

You couldn’t get Teddy’s words out of your head. That Andy would make up such bullshit about you. Didn’t he care about you? Why would he do this shit? Just weeks ago, he was talking about leaving Laurie for you. And now, he was making sure you were all alone. Where the fuck was his heart? Was this a punishment for you not being there to pick up the phone? Was this all just an elaborate scheme to show you how much you had hurt him? To get back at you for the pain you caused him? 

You couldn’t fucking take it. You couldn’t take another day not knowing what the hell was going on in his head. You couldn’t take another day being so fucking alone. So, after your writing class, you got in your car and drove straight to the Barber residence. 

It was a small house. Andy and Laurie had started renting the place from an elderly couple who had moved down to Florida but didn’t want to sell the house they had raised their family in. So, when the charming young couple sent in an application to rent…Well, there was no way they could turn that down. 

You had only been over once before. The study had met at Andy’s place because the library was closed for a minor renovation and the rest of the group only had tiny apartments. You were the last person to leave, offering to help Andy clean up after he had made dinner for the group. And as you stood in the kitchen, looking over at him, his sleeves rolled up his forearms as he washed the dishes, cracking jokes with you, all you could think about was what it would be like for him to bend you over the kitchen island and fuck you as hard as he could. 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Coming back here now felt like a violation of some kind. Andy was pushing you out of his life. He didn’t want you. He didn’t want you. He didn’t want you. And yet… A part of you wanted to believe that that wasn’t true. And you weren’t going to give up until you got an answer to why he was acting like this. You had to know if he still wanted you, or if you had ruined everything. 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Your heart had jumped up to your throat. It was suddenly dawning on you what you were doing. That you were going to see Andy. That you were going to talk to him, for the first time since before winter break. That you might be getting your answers. And that you might not like them. 

You raised your fist to knock again, hesitating just before it met the wood, the uncertainty creeping up on you. It wrapped its hand around your throat, tightening the closer and closer your fist got to the door. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t. This was not the sort of thing you did. You were not the kind of woman to be the other woman. If Any had cast you aside, good for you. You couldn’t cause pain to Laurie that other men have caused to you. You couldn’t be that woman. 

Just as you started to turn, to go back to your car, the door swung open. And there he stood, eyebrows raised as he took you in. “Shit,” he whispered to himself. To you, he said, “What are you doing here?”

What do you say to that? What was the most appropriate thing to say? Was there anything appropriate to say? Do you just dump it all on him? 

You finally said, “I needed to talk to you about what happened over break.”

“Fuck. Okay. Come in. Make it quick,” he said, moving out of the doorway. 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you brushed past him, knocking your shoulder against his. You walked to the kitchen, looking at the array of food spread out. He was making dinner, dinner for two. Because he’s married, because he’s never going to be yours. He had made his choice. And it wasn’t you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls,” you said, not looking at him. “I was with my parents. I…I didn’t even know you were trying to call me. If I had known, I would’ve picked up.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” Andy said. 

“I guess. Yeah. It is. I can’t change the past. But I don’t feel like I should be punished in the present for this,” you said, turning slowly. Your heart stuttered in your chest as you looked at him, missing the dark gaze in his eye. Maybe if you had seen it, you’d have run for the hills. You doubted it. Back then, you would’ve done anything for Andrew Stephen Barber. “I thought we were friends, Andy.”

Andy’s jaw clenched. He looked at his feet, then back to you, then to his feet, and back to you again. “I wouldn’t call it a friendship.”

“Whatever it was,” you conceded, “I thought I meant something to you. And I thought that was enough to make you not tell everyone we fucking know that I’m some bitch.”

“I had to get ahead,” he snapped. “You fucking messed me up when you didn’t answer my calls. I wanted to make you feel as fucking shitty as you made me feel.”

“That wasn’t my fault! I-I couldn’t have answered your calls, and I’m fucking sorry I wasn’t there—!”

And suddenly he was on you, pressing you back against the island, his fingers digging into your hips. For a second, you were worried he was going to hurt you. You weren’t sure where the thought came from, but it jumped into your mind faster than you could blink. But as you felt his hardened length pressed against you, you knew he made something else in mind. 

“What are you doing?”

“You’re sorry. Is that right?”

“It is.”

“Can you prove it to me?” he whispered, ducking his head down, his hot breath fanning over your face. 

“W-What do you want me to do?”

“What will you do?”

As you felt wetness pool in your panties, you couldn’t stop yourself from saying, “I’ll do anything.”

And as he turned you around and bent you over the island, pulling your panties to the side, a click of a belt being undone and a zipper being unzipped, his cock soon sinking into you fast and hard, you knew there was no turning back. 

And you weren’t sure you wanted to turn back. So you let him use you and use you and use you. Because, surely, that had to mean he still loved you…

Didn’t it?

Your heart thudded in your chest as you heard a knock on your door. You knew it was going to be Jensen. You’d invited him, after all. But…god, you were so scared that, when you opened it, Andy would be on the other side. That he had tapped your phone somehow, that he knew you asked Jensen to come over, that he knew you weren’t abiding by the conditions of his threat. And you knew that you were putting Jensen in harm's way by doing this. Andy didn’t have anything to lose anymore. He could do anything. He would do anything. 

And yet, you opened the door. A smile stretched across your face, your eyes crinkling at the corners as you looked at Jensen. He was just so…He was literally everything you could have wanted. Jensen was kind and caring. He made you laugh so hard your belly hurt. He loved so passionately, so fully. He made you feel loved in all of the right ways. 

“How’s my tech whore?” you cooed, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt and tugging him into the apartment. 

“Better now that I get to see you,” he said, leaning in to kiss you. “I’ve missed ya, teach.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” you mumbled against his lips. “Don’t ever leave me for that long again.”

“Next time,” he swore, “I’m taking you to meet my family.”

And that shouldn’t have made you cry, but it did. The little squeak you made when you start to cry escaped before you realized it was happening, followed by a little sniffle. Jensen was pulling away, reaching up to cradle your face in his big hands. 

“What’s wrong? Did I say something?” he said. 

He didn’t. Well, he did. But it wasn’t a bad thing. You were just so used to being hidden away. To being the dirty little secret. You couldn’t remember the last time a man was eager to show you off. It had been decades, at least. 

“No, no, it’s not that,” you said, trying to swallow your cries. “I would really fucking love to meet your family.”

Jensen chuckled slowly, pressing a kiss to each of your tear-stained cheeks. “You worried me there for a second, teach. Thought I’d upset you. Was ready to drop to my knees and beg for your forgiveness.”

“No begging yet,” you teased, reaching up and grabbing his hand, pulling him towards the living room. “Though, I might have to put you on your knees sooner rather than later.”

“You really know the way straight to my heart.”

You pushed him towards the couch, watching as he sat down. His glasses started to fog up as he waited for your next move. You motioned for him to remove his pants, and he did, fumbling as he pulled his jeans and boxers down his legs. “Please, let me do this,” you whispered as you shimmied your own pants and panties off before throwing a leg over his lap, straddling him, running your hands down his chest, grinding against his hardened cock. “I need to be in control for just this once. I need to have something in my control.”

Jensen’s big hands squeezed your ass, gently tugging you closer to him. “You can have me any way you want me, teach. I’m all yours. I always have been.”

You took his cock in your hand, guiding the tip to your pussy. You gasped slightly as you began to sink down it, Jensen lifting his hips up to meet you halfway. “Don’t,” you whispered, pushing down on his shoulders. “You don’t get more than I give you, baby boy.”

“Sorry,” he whispered before a moan tumbled out as you rolled your hips.. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

You began to pick up some speed, riding him faster, dots popping up in the corner of your eyes. “Such a good baby boy. Just wanna make me feel good? That all you want? Want me to make myself feel good on your cock?”

“So badly. It’s all I want, mommy,” he said. His eyes widened and his face tinted pink as he realized what he said. “I-I–”

“Fuuck,” you gasped as his cock brushed against your cervix. “You’re making mommy feel so good, baby boy. Gonna make me cum soon. Do you want that? You wanna make mommy cum?”

“Y-Yes,” he gasped out. “Wanna make mommy cum so bad. Please, please, please—”

Your orgasm came faster than you were expecting, sending you tumbling over the edge. Your vision went black for a few seconds, the waves of pure ecstasy washing over you. You collapsed against Jensen’s chest, your thighs shaking as you rode out your high. He tightened his arms around you, holding you, whispering sweet words to you. 

“Shit, you didn’t cum, did you?” you realized when the high began to dissipate. “Hold on, I can—”

“Wait, no,” he said. “Can we, like, try edging? I-I wanna see how far I can be pushed.”

You smiled softly, kissing him. “Of course, baby boy. After an orgasm like that, you can have anything you want.”

Jensen smiled back. “Can, can we go on a date, too? On Saturday? Wanna treat you like a queen after all of this.”

Your heart dropped. “I-I can’t. There’s this alumni event for the law school on Saturday, and Donella’s roped into doing a tour before we have this dinner. If I had known that you and I would…I RSVP’d just for myself months ago and—”

He shushed you, cupping your face in his hands. “Hey, it’s okay. We can go out next weekend. It’s no big deal.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He kissed you gently. “Now let me soak up my time with you before you go be a badass professor, okay?”

“Okay.”

And for a single night, you forgot about ex-boyfriends and threats and stalking. For a single night, you let yourself live your life as you wanted to. And for that single night, you were finally at ease. 

But little did you know, parked across the street from your apartment was an Audi. Its driver held a pair of binoculars, gazing into your living room window. And the driver, Andy Barber, was not happy at what he saw.

He was going to make you pay for this. You just didn’t know it yet.

#just like her: an andy barber series #andy barber imagine #andy barber x reader #andy barber x you #andy barber x y/n #andy barber x fem!reader #andy barber x female reader #andy barber fic #andy barber fanfic #andy barber fan fic #andy barber fanfiction #andy barber fan fiction #starrywrites #starryevermore

[bubblyhoney]

sandy cheeks

warnings: language of course, nipple talk??, dream being a fanny pack dad for .2 seconds, an admission of Love

tags: sapnap x gn!reader

words: 1115

A/N: wrote this in like an hour.. not sorry!

-

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, shoulders tensing as you pull your hands up to your chest. The water is fucking cold. Like, shrink-your-balls-cold. Like, my-pinky-toe-fell-off-cold.

“Come on,” He teases, grabbing your wrist and tugging you towards him. You just stumble like a newborn deer, slamming into his chest and gasping at the splash of water rising to your hips. “It’s not that bad.”

“Tell that to my rock-hard nipples,” you sputter, crossing your arms tight on your chest and letting yourself get swayed by the current.

It’s a surprisingly windy day in Florida, sun out every once and a while to warm up the scattered groups of people on the beach. Sapnap insisted you two go down to the beach (“we don’t even have to swim!”) for dinner and to waste some of the day away. It’s summer, so you can do that. You still put on a swimsuit, deciding that relaxing would be more comfortable in less clothes anyways.

“Tell your nips to chill, then.” A large hand catches you around the waist and tugs you forward. His chest is surprisingly warm on your skin and you shiver. You press even closer, hiding your face in his neck to steal some of his warmth. “You are cold,” he murmurs, in awe, and slides his hands up and down your biceps that prickle with goosebumps.

“No shit,” you whine and shuffle closer. Gravelly sand works its way in between your toes and makes you shuffle your feet, disgusted look pulling at your face. “I hate the beach.”

Sapnap reaches to brush your windswept hair out of your face and his hand drops to thumb at your pout, brows pulled together.

“No you don’t. You just hate being cold.” His hands tug at your elbows and lift your arms to loop around his neck. “Just hug me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. Your pout softens and you silently agree. He is warm. He also smells like sunscreen and something musky you attribute to that cologne he says makes him “smell like David Beckham’s butler”. Whatever the hell that means.

Your attitude shifts as soon as you stop trembling. The sun peeks out of the clouds and warms your shoulders. The water lapping at your abdomen seems calm and warm instead of rough and piercing. And the boy in your arms is patient instead of the devil reincarnate who wants you to become a human popsicle.

“Better,” you decide, sliding a hand to the nape of his neck and tracking your fingers through his silky hair. He just hums, content. The arms slung around your waist grip tight as you two sway together to no tune in particular.

A gruff voice shouts from the shore and you peel yourself from his chest, turning. It’s Dream. Waving like an idiot from the place where your bags and towels lay in the fine sand. He must’ve just got here after finishing up a plug-in at home, too busy to come with you guys when you left but apparently not too busy to leave ten minutes after. You just lift a hand, grinning at his excitement. Everybody likes beach day.

“You hungry?” You ask, voice quiet and sweet, and Sapnap just stares back at you with a blissful expression. You blink. He shakes his head, licking at his bottom lip.

“Uh, yeah.”

You pass him a weird look.

“Is the heat getting to your head?” You suggest with a mocking tone and lift a hand to press to his forehead. He bats you away with a smile.

“I will hold you under,” is all he says before he’s letting go and walking back up to the shore. You just gape, pausing, before wading after him.

“You wouldn’t.” You sound scandalized and he just laughs, waiting until you’re shoulder-to-shoulder with him so he can take your hand in his.

“Try me.” His lip quivers with a held-back laugh. You just roll your eyes and shove his shoulder. Brat.

The sandwiches and fruit he packed are well-needed replenishment. Well, however much fruit you get—Dream is a cantaloupe fiend. And he steals like half of the bag of jalapeño chips. This is why you can’t have nice things.

But the rest of the late-afternoon swings by quickly. The wind dies down with no protest and the beach gets less and less crowded as time drags into sunset territory.

“Go stand over there,” you order, gesturing to a lump of sand right next to what used to be a sandcastle.

“I don’t want a picture, Y/N,” Sapnap complains, not very go-with-the-flow.

“Too bad, baby.” You lift your phone and snap a few pictures of a grumpy looking Sapnap in front of the beautiful sunset.

“Smile like you love me,” Dream suggests, standing to the right of you with his hands on his hips. This feels like two parents forcing their eight year old to take pictures with the Mickey Mouse statue at Disney World. Your boyfriend pulls his face into what looks like halfway between a grimace and grin, but it’ll have to do. A smile stretches your lips subconsciously at his cute face.

“So cute,” you coo, and step forward to squeeze at his cheeks. He can’t help but chuckle and lean to press a kiss to your mouth. Okay, two. Would be three if Dream didn’t make a vomit noise and stomp back to your things like a petulant child. You just shake your head.

The ride home is perfect. Sapnap has the windows down, allowing you to lean your head out and feel the wind in your hair with closed eyes. Music different to his usual modern taste drifts lazily out of the speakers and makes you uncharacteristically sleepy for 9 pm. The second he parks in the driveway you jerk awake, blinking wildly around in the night air. A yawn splits your face and you lift a hand to cover it, turning to Sapnap with watery eyes. He just gazes at you, looking somewhat in a trance.

“I love you.”

You freeze, palm dropping from your mouth. The water in your eyes stills.

It’s the first time.

First time he’s said it.

And he doesn’t sound nervous. No shake in his inflection, no quiet tone. He says it like it’s the easiest thing, deciding to love you.

You love him too. Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?

“Really?” You ask, shy grin creeping onto your lips. He just nods, cheeks pink. You wait a beat, still processing. The wind slides gentle and easy, lifting the hair up off your neck. “I love you too, you know. You have to know.”

He just nods.

Of course he knows.

-

A/N: ask or send me some stuff!! requests, rants, anything. :D let me know what you think in the comments!

#sapnap #mcyt #sapnap x gn!reader #sapnap x you #sapnap fluff #sapnap drabble #sapnap one shot #sapnap oneshot #mcyt x reader #mcyt x you #bubblyhoneyfics #sapnap x reader

[sunflowervolvimp3]

you’re someone i just want around: X

I will not ask you where you came from,

I will not ask and neither should you.

Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,

We should just kiss like real people do.

Like Real People Do, Hozier

A/N: okay i know i say this every time but genuinely THIS IS MY FAVOURITE PART SO FAR!!!!! and my lil section of this story has come to an end!!! act one is done!!! and the beginning of act two aka part 11 will be coming on andrea’s blog!!!!! thank u guys so so much for all the love and support you’ve given us!!!! we truly cannot believe you guys have been so receptive and we love you all so so much 🦋 as always any and all feedback is deeply appreciated not just by andrea and I but by all content creators!!! seriously we do all of this for free while going to school and working full time and those little messages make our days so much better!!! so do reblogs!!! you should reblog the content you like!!!! leave a lil message in the tags!!! shoot us a message!! anything is truly madly deeply™️ appreciated 💌 thank you all once again for your support!!!! pls enjoy 🦋

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

word count: 37.9k

content/warnings: harry ignoring “bros before hoes” part 45684957, “FUCK FLORIDA!!! ALL MY HOMIES HATE FLORIDA!!!” - xander, fight scene (rap), jefferson x hamilton (friends to lovers), road head ahead?? uhhh yeah, i sure hope so!!!, MUSI 1113: history of classical music, prof. harry styles, sherlock and watson solve the biggest mystery yet, *edward cullen voice* and so the mosquito fell in love with the butterfly

“Are you going to stare at your phone all day, like a bloody tool, or are you actually going to join the conversation?”

Despite the baited question, Harry keeps his gaze on his device as he flicks through his notifications, opening one app after the other in quick repetition before closing the screen. “That depends.  Are you actually going to say something interesting?”

From the other side of his couch, Niall flicks up his middle finger with ease, his expression sour and unimpressed. “We are saying something interesting, you prick.  I want to get out of town next weekend, but no one—” The Irishman shoots a pointed look to Xander, who’s leaning across the kitchen island with an unbothered expression. “—can agree on where to go.”

“It’s not that I can’t agree, Niall. It’s that your ideas are stupid.” Xander shoots back in an exasperated tone, raising his Bloody Mary (with extra blood, hardly any Mary) to his scowling lips. “No one wants to go to fucking Florida.  It’s Florida.  Why the fuck would we go to Florida?”

“Because I’ve been alive for two hundred years—”

Adam clicks his tongue from the lounge seat by the window. “I’m not sure if ‘alive’ is the best description.”

“—and I’ve never been to Disney World!  I died from a fucking famine.  Am I not entitled— nay, am I not owed—” Niall straightens his posture on the couch as he addresses the whole of the room, a determined look set in his icy blue eyes that contrasts the dulled gaze of those watching him. “A warm churro, cold Dole Whip, and a set of over-priced Mickey ears?  Huh?”

“That still doesn’t answer the question of why we’d have to go to Florida to get that!” Xander exclaims, rounding the corner of the kitchen counter with his drink in hand.  He raises the glass to his lips, pausing halfway to point towards the wall of windows that’s currently letting in the midday Sunday sun. “We could drive a half hour to Disneyland, and get you the exact same thing!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Niall sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth, as if he needs to calm himself down before doing something he regrets. “Xander,” He begins in a controlled voice, tight and tense and on the verge of snapping. “I suffered through starvation, fought in a world war, went through the Great Depression, and then fought in another fucking world war!  After all that, why would I settle for Disneyland, when we could easily make it to Disney World and back in three days?”

“You know…” Mitch says slowly, flopping down on the sofa between Niall and Harry, who’s already turned his attention back to his obsessive ritual of checking his notifications. “You can’t keep playing the ‘fought in a war’ card.  Harry fought in World War One, too, and I fought in the Revolutionary War.  And died in the Revolutionary War.  You do realize the majority of our group are veterans, right?”

Niall sighs in exasperation, clutching his beer in his fist to keep it from spilling as the older vampire beside him shifts on the couch. “I don’t play the ‘fought in a war’ card, Mitchell, I play the ‘fought in two wars’ card. And I think that card earns me the right to choose what we do next weekend.”

“And I think you folded those cards the moment you suggested Florida.” Wrinkling his nose, Xander finally enters the living room, and Harry risks a glance up from his phone to eye the dark-tinted liquid that laps at the edge of Xander’s glass with every step. “Why don’t we just go to Disneyland?  Or, better yet, why don’t we take a few extra days and go somewhere exciting?  I hear Greece is lovely this time of year; I wouldn’t mind trying some Mediterrean food for a week.”

“Florida is just as lovely—”

“That’s a lie, Florida is never lovely.”

“And Adam wants to go to Disney World, too!” Niall finishes triumphantly, taking a large swig of his half-empty beer before wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “So it’s two-to-one!”

“Two-to-two, actually.” Mitch interjects, pursing his lips at the childish grimace that overtakes Niall’s previously cheery expression. “I’m not too fond of alligators, and last time I heard from Sarah, she was in Italy.  It’d be nice to have a week with her in Greece.”

Niall rolls his eyes at the sudden tie, turning his gaze past his disappointing friend to his other almost-as-disappointing friend, tone growing firmer. “Alright, then, Harry, it’s up to you.  You’re our tie-breaking vote.”

Harry, however, had spent the better part of the last two minutes scrolling through the photos he and Y/N had taken on their date the day before, and doesn’t even glance up from his screen upon registering the utterance of his name. “Hm?  The vote on what?”

The frustrated Irishman lobs his bottle of beer at Harry’s head, his pitch powerful enough that it nearly collides with its target a millisecond later.  And would have collided, if Harry’s hand hadn’t shot up on a supernatural reflex to capture it perfectly within his grasp.

Keeping his eyes locked on his phone, Harry sighs at his friend’s antics. “Watch it, Ni, I don’t want to scrub beer stains out of my couch—”

“I wouldn’t have to resort to throwing bottles at your thick head if you could get it out of your girlfriend’s arse long enough to participate in our discussion!” The blue-eyed vampire shoots daggers at him, and the lightness of his irises shifts to a dark crimson as Harry’s gaze barely flickers to him. “Oh for fuck’s sake—” Bracing himself against Mitch’s lap, Niall launches over the couch and snatches Harry’s phone from his hands, scrambling back to his seat and stuffing it down his jeans pocket before Harry can react. “You’ll get this back after we finish talking, alright?  Now, where do you want to go next weekend?  Disney World or Greece?”

Although the urge to tackle Niall and fight for his phone twinges in Harry’s mind, he forces himself to stay seated, settling for just shooting a glare across the couch.  He’s certain that Mitch wouldn’t be appreciative of him and Niall biting at each other on top of him, just as certain he is of the fact that attacking Niall won’t exactly make him look mentally stable.  

Instead, Harry merely sucks in a deep breath, setting the beer bottle on the coffee table and dragging his jeweled hand through his hair before answering evenly. “First of all, she’s not my girlfriend.  And second of all… neither.  Y/N and I have plans next weekend.”

A collective groan runs through the room the moment the phrase falls from his lips, and Harry swallows down a smirk at the reaction he receives from his friends.  Only Mitch’s face remains free of irritation, and instead sits in a neutral expression that, from his years of friendship, Harry can tell is tinged with concern.

“You have plans with her every weekend.” Xander complains, taking a sip of his Bloody Mary as he sits down next to Adam on the lounge seat, pulling Harry’s attention from the eldest immortal. “How can you sit there and say she’s not your girlfriend when you’ve been ditching us for the last, like, three and a half months to spend time with her?”

That, in all honesty, is a fair question.  Harry knows that he’s been spending more and more time with Y/N in the last few weeks at the expense of his friends, and on some level, he does feel bad about it.  Except that when he actually thinks about it, he doesn’t feel that bad in the slightest. He has no reason to, given that he spends almost every weekday with his friends, so what’s the harm in saving his weekends for someone else?  

In fact, he rather enjoys bracketing off those days just to spend them with her, alone with no one else to bother them, where they can just bask in each other’s company. So no, he really doesn’t feel bad at all.

He has the sudden realization that, on top of having the sweetest, most addicting blood he’s ever had the good fortune of tasting in the last two hundred years, Y/N is just generally fun to be around. Due to this, Harry has unintentionally continued to grow closer and closer to the human girl with every second they spend together.  She’s witty, adventurous, and always down to try something new— both in public and in the bedroom.  And in the bedroom— a smile unknowingly creeps onto Harry’s face as he recalls the dinner he’d taken her to last month, and what they’d done after. 

He also recalls the morning that had followed, in which they had eaten breakfast on his couch together in nothing but their underwear, their bodies tangled against the sofa cushions as Y/N had fed him bites of French toast while he showed her the extensive collection of Polaroid pictures he’d taken the previous night before.  He vividly remembers the way she had squirmed at the images of her with her legs spread open for him, of her bare chest heaving and her back arching, and of the wetness dripping down her thighs and staining the sheets. And he especially remembers the way she’d hid her face away in his neck at the snapshot of his hand wrapped around her throat, as well as the picture of her suckling eagerly at his thumb while his array of rings had glinted under the flash of the camera. 

It had been so cute watching her eyes brim over with shyness, especially because she had been more than happy to shed her inherent timidness the night prior. He’d teased her about it, of course. How could he not? He’d laid there as she rested between his legs, pointing out every welt and bruise prominent on the photos, and then skimming his icy fingers over her actual body to find them. It had been a very intimate moment, given that they were reflecting on more than just the physical aspects of what they’d shared. It feels like their entire dynamic had shifted slightly, all due to the fact that the roughness and aftercare that had occurred between them were actions that required immense amounts of trust and communication. Harry felt closer to her in a way he hadn’t before, and if the softness behind Y/N’s eyes was any indication, she felt the exact same way. 

Their connection felt different now— purer, in a way, now that they’d seen one another in such an exposed fashion, but it still managed to stay within the boundaries Harry was intent on upholding. She’d given him a type of relief he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much, considering he hadn’t indulged in anything of that caliber in years due to certain doubts about his self-control. But somehow, he had managed to keep his supernatural strength and impulses at bay the whole way through, and he’d kept her safe and satisfied, as he promised he would. In return, she’d made him feel more in tune with himself than he had in a while. 

With all of those thoughts filtering through the vampire’s mind during their morning cuddle session, he had ducked down and kissed at the tip of her warm nose, sighing blissfully when she had returned the gesture onto the curve of his chin. Then, he’d begun pinching playfully at her sides, not being able to resist the urge to make her smile. He had burst into laughter when she herself had erupted into spontaneous giggles, thrashing against him while squeaking curses between gasps of his name, pleading with him to cut it out or she’d wind up falling off the sofa. It had been a wholesome pastime, up until he’d ended up sucking maple syrup off her fingers with that signature devious twinkle in his half-lidded eyes, and then she herself had ended up licking that same syrup off his abdomen. That had led to him tonguing it off the swell of her breasts, and then she had wound up lapping at something much more interesting than his stomach.

It’s only natural, though, considering that in the bedroom, Y/N is a refreshingly unstoppable force.  She matches his every push, pull, and thrust with ease, as if she knows his body by heart.  Maybe she does, Harry muses, considering that he undisputedly knows hers from every angle, like the stanzas of his favorite poem. And between all those things, is it really his fault he wants to spend as much time with her as he can?  Keeping her happy and content had worked well to sweeten her blood for him thus far, so why should he change his game plan now, when he’s so clearly in the lead?

Last weekend, for example, he and Y/N had driven the scenic route out to Malibu, where they spent the entire day lounging on beach towels and frolicking in the waves.  He’d enjoyed seeing her with saltwater hair, her soft skin encrusted with sand and warmed by the sun, almost as much as he’d enjoyed fiddling with the strings of her bikini and coating her body in sunscreen, because “protection from UV rays is a top priority, love.  Trust me.”  They’d packed a picnic lunch for themselves that consisted of homemade sandwiches, chips and salsa, and fruit skewers, which Y/N had hand-fed to Harry after she’d convinced him to let her bury him in the sand.  It had been irritating to shower the grit out from some unsavoury places, but worth it to see the smile on her face and hear her infectious giggles as she molded a sizable pair of sandcastle breasts onto his chest.  And doubly worth it after he took her home and fed on her sea-tinged blood.

Yesterday, as well, had been an example of how well Harry is doing with this arrangement the two of them have.  He’d picked her up in the early afternoon and taken her to the Museum of Contemporary Art, where they’d spent the rest of the day wandering the exhibits and debating the artistic merits of each piece.  Of course, their discussions were less educated and more humour based, as Harry tended to list every painting as reminding him of sex, while Y/N said that every sculpture she saw was a comment on capitalism, but it had made them laugh nonetheless.  And while the security guards standing by didn’t seem to think their overheard conversations were amusing— nor how they posed with the paintings, trying to mimic the various expressions depicted in the artwork— Harry could tell that Y/N was entertained. It was obvious in how sugary her blood had been after she’d fallen asleep hours later. And if Harry were a better artist, he would’ve created his own sculpture dedicated to the honey and lavender liquid that he’d become so tied to over these last few months, but it appears his position as a collector is what he was suited for— both for literal artwork and the metaphorical pieces he’d paint on Y/N’s body with his lips. 

It’s with all these events in mind that he turns to Xander casually as the man’s question echoes in his head once more. “How can you say she’s not your girlfriend?”

A clear and concise explanation slips from Harry’s tongue without a second thought. “I can say she’s not my girlfriend because it’s true.” Harry slicks a hand through his tousled curls again out of habit, so used to busying his fingers with fiddling on his phone that he has to find some sort of substitute. “Keeping her satisfied keeps her— and her blood— around.  And, yes, she’s a sweet girl, and a nice break from you lot—” He nods towards Niall specifically with a jerking motion and a raised brow. “But there…” He just barely hesitates before spitting the words out. “There aren’t any actual feelings there.”

“Oh really?” Niall challenges, his own brow kinking as he shifts on the couch, turning his body completely to face Harry at the expense of Mitch’s personal space. “So all those times I’ve heard the two of you shagging— all those times you’ve called her ‘a dream’ or ‘perfect’— there were no feelings in that?”

Xander wolf whistles at the comment as Adam barks out a laugh, and even Mitch allows himself a reserved smirk at the mention of Harry’s bedroom talk.  Harry, on the other hand, straightens his shoulders as a flush works up his spine and onto his cheeks, and instead commands his tone to be as cutting as possible when he forms his reply.

“I don’t think Y/N would be very appreciative to know you’re eavesdropping on us fucking like some type of perverted creep, so you might want to invest in a better pair of plugs before I rip your ears off and solve the problem myself.” Harry threatens lowly, eyes flashing bright red for just a moment before reverting back to their natural emerald hue. “And you can take what I say mid-fuck as a ready-made script, mate, since you have no clue how to sweet-talk a bird into making her cum.”

Niall’s hands reach up to cup his ears protectively due to the other monster’s violent warning, his brows furrowing into a pointed scowl. “Eat shit. It’s not like I have a choice but to listen, given that you two nearly bring the building down while—”

“You know,” Xander chimes in from the lounge seat, his voice taking on an accusatory tone as his eyes narrow at Harry. “I thought a constant supply of blood would mellow you out, but if anything, you’ve grown a bit more irritable.  Does this arrangement have an expiration date?”

“Xander…” Mitch begins, caution written into his quiet voice as his eyes flit from Harry to Xander and back again. “That’s not—”

Harry sharpens his voice into a blade as he slashes over Mitch, jaw growing taut as he spits out his retort. “I know a relationship lasting more than one night is a bit of a foreign concept to you, so I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but I really don’t think that’s any of your fucking business.”

“So you fuck the same person for a couple of months, and suddenly you’re a relationship expert?” Xander inquires with a humorless huff, his tone just as bitter as his eyes as he glares at Harry from across the room. “As if you haven’t had commitment issues since the nineteenth century?” Raising his drink to his lips, Xander takes a slow and calculated swig as Adam shifts in discomfort next to him, his eyes meeting Mitch’s with a nervous glance. “At least I can call shit what it is, while you just delude yourself for weeks on end, pretending that anything good can come out of your attachment to an insignificant human—”

“If I were you,” Harry says through gritted teeth, his fingers curling over the edge of his couch to hold himself in place. “I’d choose your next words very carefully, Xanny.”

“Or what?  Are you gonna dig into your Fifty Shades chest and spank me?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  What, are you just upset you never got the full treatment?”

A hot flush crawls up Xander’s neck as his jaw clenches. “I never said I wanted it.”

“The jealousy written all over your face suggests otherwise.” 

“Alright!” Adam’s voice barks, swiftly slicing through the tension in the air, his eyes glowing crimson as he commands everyone’s attention from the two quarrelling vampires back onto himself. “That’s enough.  You’re both being ridiculous. Harry, you can’t be upset with us for trying to understand what you’re doing, mate.  We’re just curious, that’s all.  But Xander—” The youngest vampire’s snickering is cut off when his name is called sternly. “That doesn’t give you the right to ridicule him for it.  Harry knows what he’s doing— he’s a full-grown adult— and he wouldn’t do anything that would put himself, or any of us, into any sort of jeopardy.” With a long sigh, Adam’s gaze slides over the two creatures with a look of parental finality. “Are we good?”

Despite the annoyance still woven around each of Harry’s limbs, he forces himself to nod as he settles back into his couch, inhaling a deep breath through his nose.  Beside him, Mitch nudges the back of his hand against Harry’s arm, as if in encouragement, and the motion reminds him just exactly who it is that he’s talking to.  These are his friends— of course they have concerns about him.  Although they might voice those concerns in unusual ways (like sticking their noses into his intimate life), the meaning behind their words comes from a place of affection.

“Alright.” Adam says again, relief flooding across his face as he turns his attention to the rest of the room. “Now, we still need to decide what we’re doing next weekend.  Personally, I think a three day trip to Disney World would be a lot easier than Greece; I say we save that for next month, so we have more time to plan it and actually make the trip worthwhile.”

Xander, still a little irritated from his confrontation with Harry, huffs in response. “That’s all well and good, Adam, except you forgot that I refuse to step foot in that humid swamp-fest. Makes my face break out and my curls frizz up.”

“Jesus Christ, Xander.” Niall groans from the opposite end of the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose like before, nudging his large squared glasses up as he does so. “Can you just get that stick out of your arse long enough to—”

Whatever Niall is about to suggest Xander do seems to disappear from his mind as the Irishman suddenly cuts off his speech, his ears perking up as Harry’s phone begins to chime from his back pocket.  Although the sound is muffled from both the cushion and Niall’s trousers, the distinguishable opening motive of “Alexander Hamilton” playing can be heard by everyone, and it only takes one loop of Y/N’s signature ringtone for Harry to launch himself over the couch with his arms outstretched.

“Hey!” Mitch exclaims loudly, pressing himself into the cushions as Harry’s body writhes against his lap in his effort to extract the phone from Niall’s pants. “Jesus, watch your fucking feet!  You’re like Gumby!”

Harry, however, is only paying attention to Niall, who is fending off his attempts at snatching the device with one hand while holding the phone over the edge of the couch with the other. “Give it!” He snarls, eyes shading red as he watches an immature simper grow onto Niall’s face, his thumb poising over the answer button. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“Shh!” Niall hisses at him, but his voice is lit with delight as he clicks on the green phone icon and raises the device to his ear, lowering his voice into a relaxed drawl. “Hi there, you’ve reached the Styles residence! Para español, por favor oprima el número uno. This is Niall speaking, what can I help you with today?”

“Oh—” Even through the tiny speaker, Harry’s highly tuned ears have no trouble picking out the gentle cadence of Y/N’s voice. “Hi, Niall!  It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N!” The younger immortal grins at Harry as he dodges his attempt at swiping for the device, setting his palm between Harry’s eyes and shoving him back roughly as he clambers up off the couch. He dashes across the living room to hide behind the lounge seat, sticking out his tongue and wagging it at his very peeved friend. “Lovely to hear your voice, darlin’!  How are you doing on this lovely Sunday afternoon?”

“I’m alright, thanks.” Harry hears her response as he pounces off the sofa, barreling across the room to chase after Niall. The shorter man is stealthy, and manages to duck and weave past Harry without a single issue, escaping under his left arm. He scrambles towards the glass stairs, holding back giggles as his opponent circles around the furniture to go after him, unhinged aggravation written all over his handsome features. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m just delightful.” Niall laughs airily, taking a sharp turn away from the staircase to confuse Harry’s impulses, snatching a throw pillow off the nearest couch and aiming it at the brunette’s head.  Like the beer bottle, Harry catches it easily, throwing it back at Niall’s stomach with a harder hand. Niall avoids it by a hair. “What can I do for you?”

“Uh, I just wanted to talk to Harry— I had a question for him.  But if he’s busy…”

“Yeah, he’s a little indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid.” Niall races into the kitchen, bracing himself against the marble island with that shit-eating grin still on his face, shuffling erratically from side to side to sike out the other creature across from him. “But I’d be happy to take a message from such a gorgeous girl as yourself.”

“Oh, um, that’s very kind of you—”

Harry rounds the corner of the marble island with a growl, snatching his phone from one hand and smacking Niall upside the head with the other. “Bloody prick.” He hisses over the other vampire’s snickers, eyes colder than his touch as he delivers another blow to Niall’s shoulder. “Fucking annoying, is what you are—”

“Niall?  Are you there?”

After heaving an exasperated sigh and sending one more glare to his friend, Harry raises his phone to his ear, doing his best to lighten the irritation in his voice. “Sorry, love. Niall just wants to be a bit of a bother today, it seems.” He sucks in a deep breath through his teeth as he turns away from the Irishman, wrapping his free arm around his middle as he leans his lower back against the island, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. He picks at a loose thread on his copper tartan trousers, voice coming out honeyed and delicate, as it always tends to get when he regards her. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He can hear the smile that spreads across Y/N’s face upon hearing from him, and the tone sends a flood of warmth through Harry’s chest. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, sweetheart, never.  I’m always free to talk to you.” Harry sends a cautious glimpse towards the living room, knowing that the four vampires sitting in his living room (Niall had slinked his way back to the couch now that his ridiculous charade had come to a close) are hanging onto his every word. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m good, just��� I had a question, but if you’re busy—”

“No, not busy at all!  I’ve just been lounging around with the boys all morning. S’nothing serious.” Harry replies a bit too excitedly, straightening the hem of his fitted red and black striped t-shirt, which had gotten mussed during his tussle with Niall. “What d’you need?

Over the phone, he can hear Y/N clear her throat delicately, and a picture of her sitting on her couch in her living room plays across the front of his eyes, her thumb wedged between her lips as she chews on her nail, as she always does when she gets nervous. “Uh, well, I was also just relaxing this morning, and I was playing on my phone, and I kinda came upon this cute little bookstore called Verbatim Books. They have a bunch of really cool used books— and records, too, which I think you’d like— and they have this really neat, like, labyrinth layout—” Harry’s lips twitch as Y/N continues to ramble, “—and I’ve been looking for a replacement copy of Wuthering Heights because I dropped mine in the bathtub, remember?  And I wanted to get a new copy of Romeo and Juliet, as well—”

“Alright, slow down, pet.  Can barely understand you when you’re going a mile a minute.” Harry chuckles boyishly, absentmindedly carding a jeweled hand through the soft curls along the nape of his neck.  Just the sound of Y/N’s innocent dialect ringing in his ear manages to somehow soothe his entire body. “You want to go to this bookstore, is that it?  Because we can.” He flicks his eyes back over to his friends, who are already rolling their own in response. “Just give me an hour or two to finish up with the guys, and I’ll come pick you up—”

“Well, the thing is…” He pictures Y/N chewing on her thumb some more, timid uncertainty pouring into her usually clear irises. “Verbatim Books is in San Diego.”

“San Diego.” Harry repeats back to her, his free hand settling against the cold marble of the island behind him as he quirks an eyebrow in mild shock. “As in the San Diego that’s a two hour drive away?  That San Diego?”

Y/N’s anxious laugh tinkles through the receiver. “Yeah, that San Diego.  But if you have plans with your friends, I completely understand.  We can go a different day.”

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth wearingly, Harry glances at the digital clock blinking above his stovetop, reflecting back the time 12:53 P.M. “When do they close?”

“Five, I think?”

The vampire calculates the route to San Diego in his head, his sculpted brows creasing as the time frame appears in his mind. “If we left now, we’d probably get there between three and three-thirty.  Would an hour and a half be enough time for you to explore and find what you need?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you are unbelievable,” Xander mutters from across the condo, but Harry pays him no attention other than raising a blue-lacquered middle finger to flip him off. 

“I mean, yeah, I think so, but—”

“Alright, darling, then just give me a few minutes to grab my things and kick everyone out.” Harry says firmly, pushing himself away from the counter to begin searching for his car keys. 

“No, Harry, it’s not so important that we have to go today, and I don’t want you to kick your friends out.  In fact…” Y/N’s voice becomes thoughtful as a new idea pops into her head, and she hesitates for a moment before suggesting it on the grounds of not wanting to come off as pushy. But in the end, her curiosity bests her. “Why don’t we save Verbatim for another day, and I could just come over and hang out with you and your friends?  I bought all the ingredients for this really yummy guacamole recipe I saw on Tasty the other day— we could do, like, an impromptu movie night or something.  I’ve been craving one of your margaritas all week.”

“Yeah, Harry!” Niall chimes in as Harry re-enters the living room, obviously ignoring his friend’s earlier threat against eavesdropping. “I could go for some guac and a marg— not blended, though. Tastes like shit that way.”

Harry stares at him in disgust as he snatches his keys from the coffee table. “You’re a fucking twat.” 

“What?”

“Oh— not you, babe!” Harry hurries to reassure her as Niall cackles in taunting satisfaction. “Sorry, I was talking to Niall.  No, it’s… it’s alright.  You want to go to this bookstore, and the boys were on their way out anyways—”

“Were you on your way out?” Adam asks Xander sarcastically, and Xander raises his half-full Bloody Mary as a negative response, making a mockingly sour face in return. “Okay, I thought so.  Neither was I.”

“—so it’s all fine.  I’ll leave in a few minutes, yeah?  Probably be at your place within fifteen?” Harry checks the time on his Rolex as he estimates his arrival. “Does that sound good?”

“I— sure.  Yeah, that works.” Y/N says slowly, her voice a little softer than it was a moment before. “I’ll see you when you get here, then.”

“Alright, doll.  See you soon.” Harry hangs up his phone with a tap of his finger, sliding the device into his back pocket as he turns to face his friends. “So that was Y/N—”

“Oh, really? I had no clue!” Xander deadpans, rising from the lounge seat and setting his condensation-covered glass on the coffee table, deliberately avoiding the coaster Harry always insists should be used. “See you later, Harry.”

Adam matches the motion, a smirk jolting across his scruffy cheeks as he stands from his seat and claps Harry over the shoulder as he passes by. “Have a nice drive, man.  We’ll do a movie night with Y/N another time.”

The promise plants a seed of unease inside Harry’s stomach, but he doesn’t allow it to show on his face, choosing to smile easily at Adam’s innocent comment instead. “Yeah.  Another time.”

“Yeah, have a nice drive, H.” Niall mutters as he passes him, his face set in a petty surrendered frown. “A nice, long drive.  Preferably off a very short cliff.”

“I would, Ni, but you’d miss me too much.” Harry grins at him jokingly, bumping the vampire’s shoulder with his own until his irritated expression softens into a slightly less irritated smile. 

It’s Mitch, however, who makes Harry pause the most as he goes to leave. He halts in the doorway of Harry’s flat with a somber look in his eyes, appraising his younger friend with a curious gaze, which settles into trepidation as he sighs reluctantly. “You okay, H?” He prods gently, the question heavy as it falls from his mouth.

While Adam’s words were lighthearted and Mitch’s are anything but, they still leave the same feeling of uncertainty curling through Harry’s belly.  And, like Adam’s words, Harry plasters the same reassuring smile across his features, doing his best to dampen his best friend’s concern. “‘M peachy keen, Mitchell.  Don’t need to worry about me.”

“Are you sure?”

Harry only hesitates for a split second before urging himself to respond. “AB positive.” 

///

If Y/N doesn’t say something to him, Harry is going to go absolutely insane.

It’s not that they haven’t had silence fall between them before, because they have.  They’ve had comfortable silences as they lay in bed at night, Y/N wrapped within Harry’s inked arms as her breaths align with his.  They’ve had quiet lapses in conversation during their usual breakfasts as they watch reruns of Y/N’s favorite crime show, or as they’ve wandered up and down the Santa Monica pier, or walked to and from casual dinners on warmer nights. Despite the lack of words flowing between them, Harry would always know what Y/N was thinking as he slipped his light denim jacket over her bare shoulders, capturing her hand within his own once more as he pulled her to the inside of the sidewalk so he could walk closer to the traffic.  Silence is nothing new to them, and has even been the host of some of Harry’s favourite moments between the two, given that being able to hold a comfortable pause with someone is such a beautifully rare occurrence. Silence has typically been his friend.

But the silences that linger in their past have never felt quite like this.

From the moment Harry pulled out of Y/N’s apartment building parking lot and into the busy traffic of L.A., the mortal girl had grown quiet, and seemingly immune to Harry’s inquiries about how her day had been since he’d dropped her off at her apartment the night before.  Although she first answered him with short snippets— no more than a few words long— by the time he’d peeled them out of the hustle and bustle of the city and onto the highway towards San Diego, even those answers had come to a faltering halt.  Instead, Y/N had propped her chin up on her hand, rested her elbow on the ledge of the car door, and turned her pensive gaze at the scenery whizzing by the window, which she watched with a contemplative crease between her brows.

And the infuriating thing is that he’d asked if something was bothering Y/N the moment she’d begun to clam up, and his question had only received a small jerk of her head and a barely audible, “No, H.  I’m fine.” No gentle caress of Harry’s hand against her leg or soft squeeze of her palm had granted Harry any more clarity on the subject.  

She’s allowed to have secrets, of course. Everyone does.  Harry himself certainly has his own fair share locked away in his chest, free from prying eyes and curious minds.  But the thing is, she hasn’t held any from him.  Any question Harry’s asked, she’s always provided an open and honest answer, even if there’s been a beat of hesitation before the words fall from her pretty lips.  But her answer today, of being fine, is so clearly the opposite of that, and her insistence on hiding it means that she doesn’t want Harry to know that she’s upset.  Which means— Harry’s hands tighten around the steering wheel as he rounds the curve of the road— that Harry’s part of the reason she’s upset.  He’s not sure how, or why, or what he’s done, but he’s done something.  Otherwise, Y/N wouldn’t be refusing to give him even a fraction of the warmth she’s usually so willing to gift him. 

Another sigh heaves from Harry’s chest as he lets one hand fall from the leather wheel onto his thigh, tracing the pattern of his plaid trousers absently.  He wants to ask again, just to see if her stubbornness has dwindled by the slightest degree.  And it easily could dwindle with just a breath of suggestion from Harry, but he refuses to do that, no matter how badly he may want to.  If Y/N is really mad at him for something, how can he convince her that she should forgive him if he’s using supernatural powers to make her admit what’s wrong.  Even more, how can he convince himself that he’s justified in earning her forgiveness?

Harry casts another concerned glance at Y/N before shifting in his seat to extract his phone from his trouser pocket.  With a quick swipe of his thumb, he unlocks it with ease, his eyes flicking from the road to the phone and back again as he opens Spotify. 

“You’re not supposed to text and drive, y’know.”

The sweet cadence of Y/N’s voice, despite its quiet tone, uplifts the corner of Harry’s lips and mills a gentle chuckle in his chest. “I’m not texting.  And I’m an excellent driver, sweetheart.” He glimpses at her from the corner of his eye before returning to his search through his playlists. “Got good reflexes.”

The human girl gives a hum of acknowledgement rather than another retort to his comment, and Harry’s newborn grin quickly melts into a frown as Y/N’s attention returns to the window.  Harry finds comfort in another sigh as he selects an album from his library, clicking the shuffle icon in the corner and tucking his phone back in his pocket. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Music begins to roll out from the speakers that Harry installed in his car the year before, producing a hip-hop beat and the voice of Christopher Jackson as George Washington. “You could’ve been anywhere in the world tonight, but you’re here with us in New York City.  Are you ready for a cabinet meeting?”

Harry taps his fingers to the beat against the steering wheel as he steals a sly peek at Y/N.  Although she hasn’t turned to him again, he can see her eyebrows pricking up with curiosity as to what Harry’s doing. That’s all the encouragement Harry needs.

“The issue on the table: Secretary Hamilton’s plan to assume state debt and establish a national bank.  Secretary Jefferson, you have the floor, sir.”

The vampire bites back a triumphant smirk as he turns his gaze back towards the road, feigning a lack of interest in Y/N’s response as he begins to rap along to the Hamilton score. “‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’.  We fought for these ideals; we shouldn’t settle for less.  These are wise words, enterprising men quote ‘em,” He cocks his head to the side, allowing his grin to fully light up his face as he captures Y/N’s attention within his. “Don’t act surprised, you guys, ‘cause I wrote ‘em. OWWW!”

Although Y/N’s expression stays neutral, he can see a twitch in her cheek at his loud exclamation, and Harry begins to exaggerate his actions even more as he gestures towards her with twinkling emerald eyes. “But Hamilton forgets!  His plan would have the government assume state’s debts.  Now, place your bets as to who that benefits.” Harry taps his chin symbolically, feigning thought, and then points towards Y/N with dramatized realization. “The very seat of government where Hamilton sits.”

Keeping her own eyes locked on the road ahead of them, Y/N gives a quick yet defiant shake of her head, the corner of her lip raised just a fraction more than it was a moment before. “Not true!”

“Ooh, if the shoe fits, wear it.” Harry’s simper continues to grow with the warming attitude Y/N’s beginning to display, and he shakes his head in return and raises his free hand in a questioning manner as he continues to rap along. “If New York’s in debt, why should Virginia bear it?  Uh, our debts are paid, I’m afraid.” He lifts his fingers into his curls, running them through his roots and pretending to fluff the ends poshly for a haughty effect. “Don’t tax the South ‘cause we got it made in the shade.” Tapping a jeweled finger against the dashboard, Harry emphasizes the beats of his next line. “In Virginia, we plant seeds in the ground.  We create; you just wanna move our money around.  This financial plan is an outrageous demand, and it’s too many pages for any man to understand!” He pretends to flip the endless pages of an imaginary novel, and then snaps his wrist dismissively with a cocky smirk, deftly guiding the car around the curve of the road with his other hand. 

“Stand with me in the land of the free, and pray to God we never see Hamilton’s candidacy.  Look, when Britain taxed our tea, we got frisky—” Harry rolls his chest to the rhythm of the song, his dimples deepening in his cheeks as he reaches over towards Y/N and pinches at her side playfully, warmth erupting across his veins when she squeals in surprise. “Imagine what gon’ happen when you try to tax our whiskeyyyy.”

“Thank you, Secretary Jefferson.” Washington says through the speaker as Y/N smacks his hand away and purses her lips, appraising Harry with a raised brow. “Secretary Hamilton, your response.”

For a moment, Harry waits with bated breath, thinking that Y/N won’t rise to his challenge.  She’s too angry with him, for some reason he can’t fathom, and when she opens her mouth, he assumes she’s just going to tell him off for—

“Thomas, that was a real nice declaration.  Welcome to the present, we’re running a real nation.  Would you like to join us?  Or stay mellow doin’ whatever the hell it is you do in Monticello?” Y/N rolls with the music just as Harry had, his rainbow cardigan slipping from her shoulder as she gestures towards him with ridicule. “If we assume the debts the union gets a new line of credit, a financial diuretic.” She lists off each subject on her fingers, making a sour face at Harry. “How do you not get it?  If we’re aggressive and competitive, the union gets a boost—” She slaps her hand down against her thigh passionately, as if his side of the imaginary argument appalls her. “You’d rather give it a sedative?”

Harry barks out a laugh as Y/N’s expression grows more incredulous, mocking him in character as if they were really on a Broadway stage, and not his ‘67 Cadillac driving down a highway in California. 

“A civics lesson from a slaver.” She snorts, reaching across the seat and tapping her knuckles against Harry’s head with a light touch. “Hey neighbour, your debts are paid ‘cause you don’t pay for labour.” She mimics his voice, right down to the slight British tinge that had made it into his Virginian twang, throwing up her hands and shaking them in an overexaggerated motion as she quotes him. “‘We plant seeds in the South.  We create’— Yeah, keep ranting.  We know who’s really doing the planting.” 

One of Harry’s hands shoots up towards his mouth and forms a fist, which he presses against his lips in fake astonishment at her dig, joining the background vocalists in howling. “Ooooh!”

The mortal gestures towards him with renewed fervor in her eyes that barely hides the amusement lingering in her irises. “And that’s another thing, Mr. Age of Enlightenment.  Don’t lecture me about the war; you didn’t fight in it!”

Harry bites back the jesting retort of “No, but Mitch did.” that nearly rolls from his tongue.

The minimal restraint goes unnoticed by Y/N, who continues her scathing attack on Harry’s alter ego as she points over her shoulder with her thumb. “You think I’m frightened of you, man?  We almost died in the trench,” She pinches together her index finger and thumb and brings them to her mouth, and the ease at which the mimicry of a joint comes to her makes Harry wonder if she’s ever actually smoked one. “While you were off getting high with the French!  Thomas Jefferson, always hesitant with the President.  Reticent— there isn’t a plan he doesn’t jettison.  Madison, you’re mad as a hatter, son, take your medicine.  Damn, you’re in worse shape than the national debt is in!” Gesturing theatrically, Y/N lowers her voice, keeping her intensity as she points to Harry. “Sitting there useless as two shits.  Hey, turn around,” she makes a small twirling motion in the air with her forefinger, and then juts two digits upwards as if to stuff them somewhere, “bend over, I’ll show you where my shoe fits!”

Harry bursts into laughter with reckless abandon, wrapping his free hand around his stomach as he bends over the steering wheel.  Reaching towards the stereo dials, he turns down the volume, letting the rest of the track fade to background noise before turning his gaze back to Y/N. 

Just like him, the mortal girl is bent over with fits of  belly laughter, and the sound echoes around the Cadillac in the sweetest way.  Harry would take that over the Grammy-winning soundtrack any day. 

“That was good, love.  You’re a proper Broadway starlette, aren’t you?” Harry says between giggles, rubbing at his dimpled cheeks before settling his hands back on the steering wheel. “Didn’t realize you’d been holding out on me so much.”

“I wouldn’t call that holding out.” The mortal girl counters, fixing the slouching shoulder of Harry’s cardigan as she rests back into the passenger seat with a satisfied air. “You’ve heard me sing all the parts to ‘Non-Stop’ at once.”

“Well, yes, but…” Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, Harry shoots a cheeky grin at Y/N as he drums his fingers against the leather wheel. “This time you were actually good.”

An indignant scoff falls from Y/N’s mouth as she reaches across the car and smacks his arm.  Harry can sense that she puts a lot of her force behind it, but the action feels as forceful as a fly landing on his shoulder, and he fakes a jostling of his body as he pouts. “You can’t hit the driver!”

“Then don’t insult my Broadway-worthy performances!” She remarks, crossing her rainbow-clad arms over her chest with a defiant air. “I think I’m quite talented— ready to take over the role of Hamilton himself, even.”

The creature rubs over his arm in an attempt to feign soreness, but the simper that’s still dimpled across his face gives him away. “I’m not sure if I’d go that far, peach.  I think I’d give you a chorus role, at best.” He snickers as Y/N’s mouth drops down into a disgruntled frown. “If anyone would be playing Alexander Hamilton, it would be me.”

“Uh, I don’t fucking think so.” She shakes her head adamantly, her brows drawing together in petty disbelief. “They wouldn’t cast a fucking Red Coat in an American Revolution play.”

Harry wedges his plump lip between his teeth at the tauntingly insulting nickname as his mind flickers to Mitch once more.  He’d be amused, Harry thinks, at how this girl seems to so easily mimic the attitude of those who have known Harry for decades. 

“I can do a flawless American accent, love.” Harry’s emphasis on the consonants in his response only highlights his native tone of voice. “But that’s not why I’d be picked to be Hamilton over you. It’s because I just fit the role of the main character better.”

Y/N sputters in her seat for a moment, jaw dropping open at the assured statement. “Are you kidding?” She demands, pressing her palms flat on her thighs as she narrows her eyes. “Like, are you actually fucking kidding?”

“Not one bit.” With his voice dropped to a serious tone, Harry keeps his eyes locked on the road as he replies.

“That is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard.  I can’t believe you really—” Y/N sucks in a deep breath through her nose, as if she needs to calm and center herself in order to form a coherent answer, and her playful eyes slowly drift shut. “I grew up in a small town, dated the same guy for five years, was left behind while he went to university, where he then cheated on me, and then I moved from the town I’d never left before all the way across the country to Los Angeles, California.” Opening her eyes once more, Y/N turns her determined gaze back to Harry, collapsing her hands in front of her for emphasis. “I literally followed the ‘smalltown girl moves to big city’ trope.  There are dozens of LifeTime movies that follow the exact same plot.  If that doesn’t say ‘main character,’ I don’t know what does.”

“Mm, I’ll tell you what does.” Harry counters, wagging a ringed finger at the human girl while keeping the rest wrapped securely around the steering wheel. “‘Following the life of a handsome, rich British bachelor with a mysterious past, a great fashion sense, and who happens to be very well endowed.’”

“Oh, please. That says ‘one of two love interests from a Hallmark Christmas movie,’ at best.”

The vampire gasps with faux offense, clutching a hand to his dormant chest as he flickers his eyes to the scoffing girl. “A love interest?  You think that’s all I’m entitled to?” He asks, brow furrowed as he clicks his tongue. “Did you miss the part where I said I had a mysterious past and a huge dick?  Girls would foam at the mouth for me.”

“No, believe me, I know all about those two things.” Y/N snorts, brushing back a loose strand from her eyes before she rolls them. “Unfortunately for you, those are all key characteristics of a protagonist’s love interest.”

A smug smirk overtakes Harry’s face as he flicks on his turn signal, glancing over his shoulder before passing a car that has been going a bit too slow for his liking. “Huh.  Well, I suppose as long as you know that I have those key characteristics— particularly that last one— then I guess I’ll settle. S’the most important of them all, I think.”

He expects his joke to receive a rolling laugh from the human girl, or a noise of acknowledgement at the very least, but all that echoes from her is an empty hum from the back of her throat.  When Harry glimpses her way again, he finds that she’s resumed her previous expression of quiet contemplation, brow creased in thought as she chews on her bottom lip. Concern begins to weigh heavy in Harry’s chest once more.

“Speaking of mysteries, though…” She fiddles with her fingers, twisting one of her rings around a digit the same way Harry does when he’s anxious, and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might take pleasure in the fact that she’s picked up one of his mannerisms. “There is something I’ve been wondering.  About you, I mean.”

From her closed off body language and sudden shift in mood, Harry knows that this has something to do with the guarded and upset expression she’d had when he’d first picked her up.  And, from her lead in, he knows that his assumptions were right: her unsettled demeanor has something to do with him.  Although the possibilities leave a feeling of unease in the pit of his belly, Harry’s curiosity and his need to satiate her wariness wins out, and he forces himself to nod and ask, “What is it, dove?”

Y/N opens her mouth, but no question falls out.  From the corner of his eye, Harry watches as she closes her mouth again, as if she’s decided against asking whatever it is that she wants to. Harry is just about to encourage her to make her inquiry when a surge of confidence suddenly overtakes her body, and she’s spitting it out in a quick and confused voice.

“Why haven’t you introduced me to your friends?”

Out of all the causes for her guarded demeanor, the topic of his friends had been the farthest from his mind.  The question catches Harry so off guard that he, for what feels like the first time, doesn’t have a quick response already formed on the tip of his tongue.  Instead, his own mouth falls open in surprise, and he casts a quick look at the girl from the edge of his emerald eyes before turning back to the road in front of him.

He knows the answer to her question, of course; it’s the same answer that he’s given to his friends every time they’ve asked him to invite Y/N to a bar trivia night, or a weekend barbecue, or a club outing.  And, truthfully, it’s a question that’s been floating more at the forefront of his mind for the last few weeks as he and Y/N have continued to spend time together, gradually becoming a constant in each other’s lives. However, he didn’t expect it to be at the forefront of her own, as well.  

And the answer, really, is quite simple: if Y/N were to spend time with Harry’s gang of friends, there would be a larger possibility of her realizing that there’s something off about all of them.  Like how they all have a specific jeweled accessory that they’re never without, or how none of them seem to ever grow weary, or how they all have the same cold skin and slight shadows around their eyes.  Surely her keen eyes would catch how, despite the copious amount of shots and number of pints they throw back, none of them seem to become inebriated as easily as normal people would, and they can walk out of a club with their heads held high, free of stumbling or exhaustion.  It’s with careful planning and—truthfully— sheer luck that Harry’s managed to present himself with a halfway-human appearance, and he has no doubt that it would be ten times harder to keep up that charade when the chances of her discovering what he is quintuple.

“Uh…” His brow furrows while searching for a valid response to give to the mortal beside him— one that would avoiding hurting her feelings, while still sounding believable. “I-I dunno, really.  I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

The quiet “oh,” that slips from Y/N’s downturned lips alerts Harry that, no matter what response she was expecting, that wasn’t the right one.  She tightens her cardigan-clad arms around her middle as she nods tightly, keeping her gaze fixed pointedly on the passenger window.

Harry rubs his bottom lip with his ringed index finger— another nervous tic of his— as he tries to remedy the tension that’s been brewing between them since she first stepped into the car. “I mean… this whole thing—” He gestures between the two of them, and although the urge to take her hand makes his fingers twitch, he returns his grasp to the steering wheel instead of allowing himself to try and extract her palm from the fabric it’s hidden beneath. “— has been between just the two of us, so I didn’t really think… it mattered.” He finishes lamely, knowing that his justification is just making things worse. “Does it need—?  I mean, did you want—?”

“Well, it’s just…” Y/N lifts and lowers her shoulder in one quick motion, the cardigan once again sliding down to reveal the strap of her tank top underneath and a path of smooth skin that Harry yearns to touch. “It’s kind of like a— I don’t know, a marker?  Like if something is going… well…” She spares him a quick glance before returning her gaze to the passing scenery. “You tell your friends.  I’ve, um, I’ve told mine about you— like, my friends back home, over the phone— and if they weren’t so far away, I know they’d want to meet you, so I guess I—”

“You’ve told your friends about me?” Harry cuts over her, the shock laden in his voice raising it from its usual low drawl. “What did you tell them?  What did they say?”

An anxious flush begins to creep up Y/N’s neck and onto her cheeks, and Harry suspects that it’s not from the warm wool of the cardigan. “I did, yeah.  A couple weeks ago.  They called and asked how I was doing, if I had made any interesting friends yet.  And, well— I’ve pretty much only got you right now, so I kind of had to say something.” She lets out a weak laugh, more air than anything substantial. “I just said that we, um, we were seeing each other, kind of.  Like, mostly we’re friends, and we hang out, and—”

“We do more than hang out.” A grimace tugs at Harry’s own lips at her simplified explanation of their complicated relationship, and he risks an elongated look at the girl beside him, trying desperately to read her expression with no success. 

“I know that, but— like, we’re not dating, right?  It’s not… that was the best explanation I could give.  I don’t think there’s a proper label for what we are— not that we need one.” Although Y/N’s laugh holds more substance this time, Harry can still detect an undercurrent of tension in the sound. “Either way, they said they wished they could meet you, so I was just wondering— your friends know about me, obviously.  We’ve met a few times quickly, but we’ve never, like, had a proper introduction, you know?  I met Xander and Niall in the hallway, and Mitch briefly when we were having a movie night at your place… you talk about Adam a lot, too, and I’ve never even seen him in person.” Turning her head towards Harry with slow hesitation, Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth, her expression so frighteningly open that it makes Harry’s stomach turn. “Do they not… do they not want to meet me?”

Despite the quiet and cautious cadence of Y/N’s voice, and the way it twists around Harry’s unbeating heart like a vice, the question draws a soft laugh from the vampire.  Shaking his head adamantly, Harry rakes a hand through his curls before it goes to tap against the steering wheel decisively. “No, sweetheart, that’s not it.  They’re actually quite eager to meet you. As of late, I haven’t been able get through five minutes without Niall asking about you.  He pries like a gossipy nan and s’been getting on my nerves, honestly.”

Relief spreads through Harry as the admission brings a gentle upturn to the corners of Y/N’s soft lips, but it’s short-lived as another thought pops into her mind, and her cautious tone returns at the realization that—

“So you don’t want to introduce me to them, then.” She states quietly, a clear degree of hurt present in both her tone and her eyes as she twists her body beneath her seatbelt to face him head on.  As certain as she is in her assumption, the cautious shadow that sweeps over Harry’s face serves as confirmation of her statement, and it creates a hollow pit in her belly that grows with each passing moment.

Y/N is aware that their relationship— or whatever it is, because they still haven’t put a title on it, and that’s a whole other complication that she can’t dive into right now— is about as far from normal dating as they can get.  She’d fucked Harry before she knew his last name, he’d told her to take him deeper before he’d even told her where he was from, and he’d asked her on a date two months after they’d met, mostly out of territorial jealousy; everything that they’ve done has been out of the traditional order.  But still, she thinks, picking at her nails as the strain between them becomes palpable in the worst way, there are certain things that you do when you’re interested in someone.  Certain milestones that indicate that a relationship is viable and can be sustained for an extended period of time.  Meeting someone’s friends usually comes around the two month mark, and by Y/N’s calculations, that means they’re nearly two months overdue.

Which is fine, Y/N tells herself, dropping her gaze from Harry’s stormy sea glass eyes as she chastises the self-pity coursing through her veins.  Everything about their relationship has been done out of order; why should meeting Harry’s friends be any different?

Except it is.  As much as she hates it, it just is, because it’s not even that she hasn’t met them.  It’s that Harry, with his guilt-ridden eyes and darkened demeanor, clearly doesn’t want her to.

“Y/N,” His gentle utterance of her name draws her from her thoughts more than his hand crawling across the leather seat does.  It’s not until his cool fingers weave through hers that her fidgeting stops, and she even notices that he’s moved. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet them, I just—”

“It’s fine, Harry.” She insists softly, despite the tightness in her statement making it obvious that it’s very much not fine.  She pastes a thin smile onto her lips as she shakes her head, trying to appease him as best she can. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Harry squirms in the driver’s seat, tightening his hand around the steering wheel as he heaves a sigh through his nose.  Y/N might be saying that, but the look in her eyes tells a different story.  Does she really think that she can look at Harry with such a wide, wounded expression, and he won’t bend over backwards to make things right?  The thought, although scathing, rings true in Harry’s mind as he worries his cheek between his teeth.  Does she not know the lengths he’s willing to go to just to make her feel better?  For fuck’s sake, he’s making a four hour round trip just to take her to a bookstore in San fucking Diego.  Somehow, without Harry noticing it, this human has managed to influence him in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine anyone ever would again.  Is he supposed to believe that she’s unaware of that?

Shaking his head tersely at her previous reply, Harry squeezes her fingers in his own, clearing the newly formed lump from his throat. “Yes, I do.” He says firmly, looking at the girl from the corner of his eye. “I can tell where your mind is going, love, and I promise you, it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Oh, yeah?” Despite the hurt still splashed across her irises, there’s an echo of a challenge in her tone. “So you just hide all of your… hook-ups from your friends, then?”

“You know I don’t have hook-ups, Y/N.  There’s no one else, there’s just— there’s you.  I only have you.” Harry makes his words as plain as can be, without any joke or teasing to downplay the sincerity of what he’s saying— or attempting to say, because his throat feels so tight that he can barely choke out a single syllable. “And that’s why I haven’t introduced you yet.  I… I like what we have.  This—” He raises their clasped hands, bringing the back of her knuckles to his lips so he can plant a chaste kiss over her soft skin. “I like it.  We’ve spent these last few months in a bubble, just you and me, and it’s been…” A smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips, nervous and shy, but tinged with hope. “S’been amazing.  And I’m just… not ready to give that up yet. I…I don’t know how to word it, really.  I’m not good with, um—” With emotions, he thinks to himself. He’s not good with expressing any of this, but he forces himself to try. “It just feels like what we have is something I want to keep private, because it’s special. It’s kind of like when you were a kid and you got a new toy, yeah? And you didn’t want anyone to touch it because you liked it so much, you wanted to keep it all to yourself. It was something so personal, you didn’t want to share it…” 

Harry trails off to look over at Y/N anxiously, and then comes to a sudden realization of the unintentional mistake he’d made by using such a materialistic analogy. His voice comes out rushed and apologetic. “And I’m not saying you’re an object or anything! I just wanted to explain it better and that’s the first thing that popped into my head. Did that...make sense? It probably sounded a bit dense. Or very dense. I’m sorry.” Harry knows he’s babbling aimlessly now, and with a surrendered sigh, he lowers their hands to the seat, still keeping Y/N’s fingers locked tightly with his. “I don’t want to share you, petal.  That’s what it comes down to, really— just me being selfish.  I like having your attention all to myself.”

Y/N listens attentively to Harry’s explanation as a new wave of blood boils to her cheeks, warming every inch of her body.  As much as she still has her doubts— about his reasoning, about their whole arrangement— she wants to believe him.  She wants to believe him more than anything in the world.  

So do it, she tells herself, grazing her lip between her teeth as her gaze remains glued on Harry’s (ridiculously attractive) side profile.  Believe him.  He’s never given you reason not to.

“Okay.” She finds herself saying, and she decides that it’s her turn to raise Harry’s knuckles to her lips for a kiss.  His skin is cool against her mouth, as always, and she lingers against him before lowering their intertwined hands to her lap. “I get it.  I like what we have, too; I don’t want it to change.  Plus,” She can’t resist tacking on a dig, glancing at Harry with a sly look. “From the brief interactions we’ve had, I think Niall and I are pretty compatible, so I don’t blame you for wanting to keep us apart.”

Although Harry barks out a laugh, he barely manages to hide the flash of crimson that streaks through his eyes at the suggestion. “Please,” He shakes his head as he strokes his thumb over the back of Y/N’s knuckles in a possessive manner. “I’m not worried about Niall.  If I was going to be concerned about you leaving me for any of my friends, it would be Adam.” Y/N shoots him a curious look, and his dimples pop out of his cheeks as he elaborates. “Good sense of humour, attractive, and arguably the most sane out of all of us, present company included.  But he can’t perform in bed like I can, so I think that’s a solid deterring factor.  And I doubt he’d drop everything to drive you to a bookstore you found out about through— where did you say you heard about this place again?”

“Uh,” Y/N drops her gaze from Harry, turning her head straight back to the road as she shifts in her seat. “I, um, I saw it on TikTok.”

The vampire snorts obnoxiously, pulling his hand from Y/N’s to rake his fingers through his rouge curls. “Jesus Christ, of course you did.”

Y/N matches his scoffing with ease, crossing her arms over her chest with a defensive air. “Don’t give me that tone!  This is exactly why I didn’t tell you! You know, you can actually find a lot of valuable information on there—”

“Yeah, because filming yourself doing the Renegade is a really great use of your time.”

“I didn’t say— wait—” The mortal girl quirks an eyebrow as she regards him with disbelieving eyes. “How do you know about the Renegade?”

“There’s a reason we blocked the app from Niall’s phone.”

///

Much to Harry’s relief, the drive back to Los Angeles begins a lot smoother than the drive to San Diego had.  

The bookshop had been extremely similar to the antique store they’d been to a while back— it had the same rustic, messy aesthetic that gives a cozy, homey vibe, and it had sprouted a seed of nostalgia in Harry’s chest. They’d wandered around for a bit with their fingers intertwined, rarely breaking away from each other for too long for the sake of maintaining their buddy system. The pair had filtered through the extensive array of titles and knickknacks, walking under archways built out of novels and winding through tall shelves full of vintage collectibles. Y/N had entertained herself with grazing over the spines of all the different books they’d passed, her eyes glazed with a form of childlike wonder he’d grown so fond of seeing. And while Y/N had been losing herself in all the old treasures the shop had to offer, Harry had found himself losing his thoughts to her dreamy smile instead. 

Satisfied with her purchases of Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet, as well as a used copy of Jane Eyre (“Look, Harry, it has little notes in it from the previous owner!  Isn’t that neat?”), Y/N had settled into the passenger seat with ease, a light smile on her face as she buckled her seatbelt.  Harry’s own mood is considerably brighter than it had been on the previous drive, but his shift in energy had only partially been caused by his purchase of a new Simon and Garfunkel album.  Truthfully, Harry thinks, as he watches Y/N thumb through her new second-hand annotated book (the irony of her affinity for literature written from Harry’s original time period is not lost to him), his attitude is merely a mirror of the girl next to him.  It’s much more difficult to be in a good mood when she’s in a sour one, but on the flip side, it’s nearly impossible to be grumpy when she’s showing such a sunny disposition.

Her inquiries from their drive to the bookstore are worrying him, of course.  He knows that he’ll have to introduce her to his friends eventually, especially if he wants to keep this agreement between the two of them up.  He also knows that it’ll be ten times harder to do so with Niall running his mouth, Xander making sly digs, and Mitch and Adam watching him with parental-like concern.  Perhaps it would be easier to just call this all off right now, before things continue to progress.  It would certainly be better for Y/N, he’s sure of it.  Y/N, who gets excited over annotations in her books.  Y/N, who sings along off-key to the radio even when she doesn’t know all the words.  Y/N, who innocently presses tender kisses to his throat in a manner that draws an obsolete warmth from every limb of his undead body, and who smiles at his stupid inappropriate jokes and returns them with her own, and who fits into his arms like she was made for the sole purpose of filling them perfectly.

Y/N, who is reaching between the two of them, intertwining their fingers together with a practiced motion, and—

“Thank you for taking me to the bookstore.” The human girl murmurs, her lips grazing the back of Harry’s knuckles as she speaks. “I really do appreciate it, although I’m sorry I pulled you away from your friends.”

Harry’s woes melt away as she pecks across his icy skin, and a grin begins to jolt his lips as he brings her hand to his own mouth. “Don’t be sorry.” He smears a kiss to the back before dropping their tangled palms to the seat between them, his thumb caressing over her velvety flesh. “You’re much better company than the four of them.  And much prettier.”

“You’re such a flirt.” Y/N rolls her eyes at the comment, but leans further towards Harry in her seat. “And a liar.  We both know that Mitch is prettier.”

“Mitch?” Harry’s emerald eyes widen in appalled surprise, the corner of his lips twitching once more in amusement. “Out of all of my friends, you think Mitch is the prettiest?  What about Xander?  He’s quite the vain one, don’t you think?”

Y/N shrugs one shoulder in a light manner. “I like Mitch’s hair.  The long style works for him.”

“Ah, it’s the hair.  That makes sense; it’s always the hair.” Nodding sagely, Harry allows his lips to pull into a full grin. “So you like it long, hm?  Suppose I should keep growing mine out, then?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sherlock.” Y/N shoots him a smirk that’s much more mischievous than his own. “I said the long hair worked for him, not you.  Who’s the vain one now?”

Despite the jesting tone of her voice, jealousy twinges in the back of Harry’s mind as his eyes darken from emerald to forest green.  He forces his lips to stay upturned as he offers a response that’s only half a joke. “Ouch, Watson.  S’not very nice, especially considering how I’ve driven you to San Diego and back today.  I think I deserve a bit of praise, don’t you?  Instead of you mocking me—”

“I’m not mocking!” Y/N’s protest is muffled around the entertainment in her voice, the rainbow cardigan once again slipping from her shoulder as she shakes with suppressed laughter. “Making one little comment isn’t mocking!  It would be mocking you if I acted like you do when you get in front of a mirror— you make this one specific face, like you’re trying to pull a Blue Steel, and—”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Harry huffs as he yanks his hand away from Y/N’s, swiping it through his loose ringlet before clamping it back around the steering wheel. “Ungrateful little wench, aren’t you?  I have half a mind to pull over right now and—”

“A wench?  I’m a wench?” Y/N’s laughter grows louder, filling the entire Cadillac with the unabashed sound that, despite his act, warms the pit of Harry’s stomach. “Alright then, Merlin. What, are you going to put me to work in a labour house?  Is that what a wench does these days?”

“First of all,” Harry quips, giving her a flat glimpse, “I’d be Arthur, not Merlin. Main character complex, remember?”

Y/N rolls her eyes grandly, proceeding to lower her head in a dramatic bow. “My apologies, sire. How could I forget?” 

“And second of all,” the vampire states slightly louder, talking over her sarcasm, “no, because apparently, all wenches do nowadays is just make fun of the men who volunteer to spend four hours in a car with them without so much as a ‘thank you.’”

The mortal girl’s upturned mouth drops open in amused disbelief. “What—?  I said thank you!  Literally three minutes ago!” 

“Did you?  I don’t recall.” Harry sighs airily as he smoothly guides the car around a bend in the road. “All I remember is you saying you think Mitch is sexier than I am.”

Snorting loudly, Y/N crosses her arms over her middle as she gives a small shake of her head. “Alright, I think that’s a bit of a stretch.  I just said he has nice hair.  And, while we’re on the topic—”

“Watch it.”

“— his mustache is cool, too.  It suits him.”

“You know, I could grow a mustache if I wanted to.” Harry can’t help the pout that plumps his lips, nor can he help the whine that creeps into his voice when Y/N giggles at the sight. “It’s true!  I could!  I just choose not to.  And, really, you should be thanking me for it, because it saves you from getting a carpet burn between your thighs.”

“So I should be thanking you for driving me today, for not growing facial hair…” Y/N ticks off the items on her fingers with a ridiculing gleam dancing through her eyes. “Anything else we need to add to the list?”

Harry tuts as he thinks, pursing his lips in consideration before letting out a sharp exhale as a sly smile carves his dimples into place. “That cardigan you’re wearing.  You could thank me for letting you borrow it— although ‘stealing’ might be a more accurate term.”

A miffed expression rises to Y/N’s face just as a flush does. “I didn’t steal it!  I’ve just been borrowing it, like you said.”

“Mmm.  Alright.” Harry hums in the back of his throat as he glances at the girl beside him, kinking a brow expectantly. “And when can I expect it back?”

“Fairly soon, actually.  It—” Y/N’s cheeks boil with more heat as she drops her attention to her lap, clearing her throat gently before continuing. “It, um, it doesn’t really smell like you anymore, so…”

Silence falls between the two as Y/N’s voice drifts off, leaving behind only the sound of Fleetwood Mac gently drifting through Harry’s speakers to cut through the thickening tension that fills the vehicle.  It’s only the faint sound of Y/N’s own shallow breaths that reminds Harry that he needs to fake his own, and he sucks in a deep gasp of air, his throat burning as her thick honey and lavender scent settles on the back of his tongue.

“Well,” He begins cautiously, gauging her reaction from the corner of his eye while keeping most of his gaze glued to the road. “You can always steal it again after I get it back, yeah?  It’ll be good as new.”

Harry nearly heaves an audible sigh of relief when he sees the edge of Y/N’s mouth twitch. “Not steal.  Borrow.” She corrects, her voice as tentative as his.

The heavy atmosphere in the car begins to dissipate as Harry rolls his eyes with fondness. “Agree to disagree, dove.”

Y/N lets out a sound of dissent as she rubs her palms down her legs, drumming her fingertips against her knees with finality. “Thank you for letting me borrow it, H.  And thank you for not growing a mustache.” She giggles out, throwing a coy smile his way before her expression grows more gentle. “And thank you for driving me today, although I’ve already said it.  I’ll have to think of a way to repay you.”

“Oh, I could think of a few.” Harry says with a suggestive smirk, thrumming his ringed fingers against the steering wheel. “How do you feel about spending the night?  We could order dinner from that Thai place you like, take a nice bath, and I could spend a few hours between your thighs while you make those sweet little noises I like so much.  Sounds relaxing, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” Y/N agrees, keeping her voice as light as she possibly can at the mention of Harry’s skilled tongue working her over. “But that doesn’t seem like much of a thank you on my behalf.  Shouldn’t I be the one giving you something?”

Harry casts a look at the mortal girl with a raised brow. “Shouldn’t I get to choose my own reward?”

The fact that he sees the action of eating her out as a reward makes Y/N’s tummy froth. She really doesn’t know how she got so lucky, truly. “You should, but I can think of something better.”

The creature licks his lips once at the promise of something more enjoyable than her taste on his tongue. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a blowie in the bath.”

“Actually…” Y/N tugs her bottom lip between her teeth as she casts Harry a sideways look through her lashes, twisting her body beneath her seatbelt to angle towards him. “I was thinking of something more immediate.”

The question of what she means by that dies before it can make its way out of Harry’s mouth, stopped in its tracks the moment Y/N’s fingers travel across the leather seat between them.  She rests her palm on his thigh for a moment before beginning to massage the muscle beneath his trousers, her delicate fingertips just brushing over his inseam as her hand works its way higher.

A choked groan is all Harry can manage when her touch travels over his suddenly-growing bulge, and it takes all of his focus not to veer the car off the road. “Y/N,” He says, his accent low and thick with warning. “‘M driving, sweetheart.”

“I know.” Her voice thrums darker than normal as her palm presses flat against him, moving in a slow circle over the plaid fabric with insistence. “I didn’t ask you to stop, did I?  You can keep driving.”

The laugh that rolls from Harry’s lips is breathless and strained. “Yeah, except I can’t when you’re— fuck—” Y/N squeezes along his hardening shaft, and Harry tightens his hands around the steering wheel with nearly enough force to bend it. “‘M gonna crash this bloody car if you keep doing that.”

“No, you won’t.” The mortal girl smiles sweetly at him as her nimble fingers pop the button of his tartan slacks, grasping his zipper and tugging it down so slowly that it’s almost painful. “You can multitask, can’t you?”

“Not like— God—” Clenching his jaw, Harry casts a pained glance at Y/N, only allowing himself a moment of looking before forcing his attention back to the road.  What he sees in that moment, however, is a mischievous glint in her eyes that’s hidden beneath set determination, and the combination would send a shiver down his spine even without her soft hand creeping beneath his trousers. “This doesn’t feel like a reward, pet.  Feels like torture.”

Y/N shrugs lightly, continuing to rock against Harry over his boxers as her free hand reaches for her seat belt and clicks the release button. “Maybe it is.  Maybe I want to see if you can stay just as focused as I did when you made me cum on that ladder. Remember?  Right in the middle of that antique mall?”

Harry watches as her seat belt retracts, a flash of worry striking through his body. Before he can voice his concern for her safety, her hand is dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Y/N,” He strains to get her name past his lips, his abdomen tightening as she grips him snuggly, and her palm feels like agony and salvation all at once. “If you make me cum in my pants with an hour left in our drive, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Or maybe…” Shifting across the seat, Y/N leans into Harry’s ear, her breath hot against his cool skin as she pumps him slowly and ignores the comment he’d moaned. “Maybe I just feel the way you did that day.  Maybe I want to tease you a bit.” She uses the precum that’s begun to steadily leak from his tip as lubricant, twisting her hand around his length to elicit a hiss from Harry’s clenched jaw. She takes the shell of his ear between her teeth, nibbling at it just to feel him writhe in response. “What was it you said to me, H?  When you slid your fingers inside me in that little music room?”

Harry offers no response other than the short puff of air that leaves his nostrils as he clenches the wheel harder beneath his palms.  He keeps his eyes locked on the road, knowing that if he looks down and sees Y/N working him beneath his slacks, he won’t be able to restrain himself from yanking the car to the side of the road and throwing her into the backseat.  And however wonderful that sounds— because it does sound incredibly wonderful, especially when Y/N swipes her thumb teasingly over his bubbling tip— he can’t let himself give into her.

Y/N, however, doesn’t seem to accept defeat so easily, and begins to drift her lips down Harry’s jaw and neck.  While the area had previously been a sensitive spot for Harry in the worst way, he’s repeatedly come to find that the sensitivity he feels when Y/N caresses him there to be an entirely new and pleasant sensation. 

“You said you wanted to have fun, remember?” She licks over the curve of his throat, her own breathing growing heavy when she feels Harry’s Adam’s apple bob beneath her tongue. “Now it’s my turn, don’t you think?”

“Thought—” Harry swallows thickly again, his hips unconsciously thrusting up slightly into Y/N’s hot palm. “Thought this was about thanking me, wasn’t it?  Not getting even.”

Y/N pulls away from his skin with a coquettish look in her wide eyes, her brows raised and lips parted into a small pout. “Are you saying that my mouth isn’t enough of a thank you?”

“Your—?  Oh, fucking hell—” Harry nearly swerves the car into the other lane of traffic when Y/N frees his length from his trousers, the cool temperature of the air-conditioned car sending a shudder down his spine.  The sensation only increases when Y/N dips her head down and extends her tongue to tease his cherry tip with the textured surface. “Y/N.”

“That’s what I thought.” The human girl says smugly, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips even when she wraps her mouth fully around his head and sucks gently, just enough to draw a breathless whimper from the man above her. 

With one hand still grasped tight around the steering wheel, Harry threads his other into Y/N’s hair, roughly tangling his fingers between her silky locks.  He doesn’t guide her head as he usually does, but the idea of being able to move her if he wants allows him to feel a semblance of control. 

Y/N clenches her thighs together as she bobs her head down further, heat pooling inside her belly as she feels Harry tug on her hair with the lightest pressure.  She trails the tip of her tongue down Harry’s expanse, following the prominent vein that pulses underneath her touch. “Do you still want me to stop, baby?” She asks softly, looking up at him through her lashes as she pumps him in a slow motion, batting her lashes sultrily. 

“No.” Harry whines the word as he presses his head back into the seat rest, his neck flexing as he forces his gaze to stay pinned on the road. “No, love, just— fuck, just keep going.” He grits his teeth when he feels her nose smudge along one of his fern tattoos, his next phrase coming out as a barely contained growl. “You’re down there already, so you might as well.”

Tucking her loose hair behind her ears, Y/N takes Harry back into her mouth, pushing herself further and further down his cock at a pace that’s nearly agonizing.  Harry twists his hand within her roots to create a makeshift ponytail, holding the locks out of her face so that she can focus better on the task at hand.  He feels the mortal girl smile around his length, her tender fingertips drawing a little heart along his exposed pelvis as a cheeky thank you. 

As the highway straightens out, Harry risks lifting his hand from the steering wheel for a quick moment, and his deft fingers quickly find the volume button of the stereo to lower it to a quiet lull.  He wants to hear every sound of Y/N’s throat opening up for him, and the muted noises she releases at the taste of him in her mouth.  

Of course, all of that is nearly overpowered by his own sounds of pleasure, and he struggles to keep himself quiet as he grips the wheel with renewed force. “Fuck, doll, look at you...I just…Christ.” The last word comes out as an elongated groan, his eyelids fluttering as her tongue massages down his extent in slow and even strokes. “Just like that, darling. God, you’re so good. Such a pretty mouth with such a filthy fucking tongue, hm?”

Harry throws a haphazard glance over his shoulder as another vehicle passes them, and a flash of territorial protection runs through him at the possibility of someone looking into the car and seeing Y/N touching him like this.  The sight of her acting like such a bold little minx is for his eyes only, and that thought combined with her slow, blissful motions pushes him to inch his foot towards the gas.  Harry wants to put a bit of distance between them and the other traffic on the highway, which will insert some much needed privacy into the situation. 

His acceleration, however, is interrupted by a particularly rough bump in the road, and his body jerks in his seat as they drive over it.  He hears the sound of Y/N gagging before he registers the searing sensation of his cock hitting the back of her throat, and he risks a peek downwards to see Y/N’s watery eyes blinking up at him in disorientation.

“Baby—” He tugs her head up from his lap, concern mingling with the pleasure in his voice as he evaluates her well-being.  Her expression is hazy from her ministrations, and she blinks tears from her irises, keeping one hand wrapped firmly around his length as the other wipes away the wetness at the corner of her eye. “‘M sorry.” Harry gulps thickly as he smooths his thumb over Y/N’s scalp, trying to soothe any discomfort he may have caused. “Are you alright?”

Y/N nods in a jerking motion as her mood darkens lustfully, and she swipes her thumb over the glistening tip of his cock before answering. “I’m fine, H.  Just caught off guard.  Don’t worry.” The rasp in her voice is evidence of her actions, and Harry hates how the sound goes straight to his throbbing length in her hand.  Undeterred by the harsh thrust that had choked her a few moments earlier, Y/N leans down once more to smear more sloppy kisses to the head of his prick, rubbing the slit against her bottom lip to elicit a cracked gasp from Harry’s lungs. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

“You—You are.  God, you fucking are.” The praise falls easily from Harry’s raspberry lips as her mouth returns to its previous distraction, fully suckling on the leaking head as her hand continues to work him in a practiced manner. “Feels like a dream, sweetheart, t-the way you take me down your throat like that.”

The mortal girl keens at the validation, and uses it as fuel to push herself further down his shaft again.  She makes sure that she’s mindful of how deep she’s taking him, keeping her hand wrapped firmly around the base as a buffer in case they hit any more rough patches of road.  With that worry eased, she allows herself to focus on massaging his pulsing prick with her tongue, alternating movements with strong sucks to his sensitive tip. She twists her wrist at a rising pace, matching it to the tempo she’s established with her mouth, working him over messily and swimming in the strangled noises that pour out above her.

Y/N sniffles lightly, talking over Harry’s thick cock to the best of her ability, her voice garbled and raw. “You’re so fucking big, Harry. And so pretty, too.” She moves her hand lower down his expanse, carefully cupping his heavy balls and fondling them between her fingers, preening at the fractured grunt that filters from her lover’s taut throat. “And so full.”

“Please, baby…” The immortal’s quiet plea sends electricity coursing through every cell in her body, his grip on her hair tightening to the point where blots of color speckle her foggy vision. “Don’t stop. Just please don’t fucking stop.” 

“I want it.” She whispers around him, the warm breath of her words puffing down his prickling skin and sending goosebumps across his clammy thighs. “I want you to fill my mouth, Daddy. Want every last drop.”

The creature sucks in a rattling breath through the cracks of his teeth, waves of pleasure erupting along his cheeks and down the knobs of his spine, all because of how erotic her delicate voice sounds as it expresses such explicit confessions. “You’re fucking ruining me, dove.” 

The girl tugs at Harry’s balls gently, rolling them around her palm again as she gives a particularly harsh suck. He can’t stop the loud whine that tumbles down his tongue in response, his hips bucking upwards a tad in unrestrained need. “I want you to give it to me, H. Please? Want you so bad.” 

Harry throws his head further back against the headrest of his seat, his jaw dropping open in a silent moan as his heavy eyelids lull over his rolling irises, tears blearing his vision until he can barely make out the road in front of him. “Gonna—Gonna give it to you, pet. Gonna give you every last bit, all for my sweet girl.” 

Y/N hones her blurred sight above her onto Harry’s face, more warmth flooding the area between her thighs. He looks gorgeous as ever, with his prominent features slack in ecstasy, his clavicle cutting into the sweaty skin visible along the collar of his fitted tee, and with his unusually dark eyes framed by his long lashes. His chest is heaving wildly as he tries to keep his composure, his cross necklace glimmering in the sun with every rapid rise of his defined muscles. His sharp jaw is wound taut, the tendon along the structure ticking as he gazes at her drunkenly from above his sculpted cheekbones. His chestnut curls as matted along his temple and over the nape of his neck due to the heat of the moment, his thick brows are knitted together in pleasurable gripe, and his teeth-swollen lips are parted in aroused wonder at how skillfully she’s taking every last inch of him without any hesitation whatsoever. 

Y/N watches him intensely, drinking up every twitch of his expression and every soft groan he tries to stifle, her tongue lapping at him with more excitement than before. Harry locks eyes with her through his foggy haze, the corners of his flushed lips jolting upwards into a cocky open-mouthed smirk when he sees just how fucked he’s got her, despite the fact that he’s barely lifted a finger through the entire process. He slowly tongues over his chapped lips, glimpsing back up towards the highway for a split second to make sure he’s avoiding any other oncoming cars. He then returns his attention to the human, giving her head a playful tug and feeling the tip of his cock nudge along the roof of his mouth, resulting in a low hiss streaming past his condescending simper. “Why don’t you take a picture, princess? It’ll last you longer.” 

Y/N gives a quick squeeze to his balls, sly satisfaction weaving its way into her chest when she feels him jerk in response, a whined curse of, “Fuck me.” slipping through his defenses. “Maybe you should watch your tone while I’m down here.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at her challengingly, his palm grasping the back of her head with more intent and forcing her down, her nose smearing over his tummy as he hits the back of her throat deeper than before. He holds her there for a second, reveling in the way she constricts around him as soft gagging sounds bounce off the walls of his Cadillac. 

After a few seconds, he pulls her back up his cock to a more reasonable length, humming smugly as she shudders and coughs dryly, her eyes twinkling submissively. His voice comes out strained, but its dark and accented tenor holds its usual unyielding authority, as well as arrogant chiding. “And maybe you should learn not to talk back to me. Guess I’ll have to pull the paddle back out sooner than expected, huh?” 

A shiver coils down Y/N’s spine at the reference to that night. It happened a few weeks ago, but the memory is fresh in her mind as if it’s only been hours. It’s nearly impossible to forget, given everything Harry had put her through, and she often finds herself thinking back on it whenever she needs some relief and doesn’t have his company as help. 

The human murmurs her next sentence shyly, her watery eyes regarding him with a certain type of wistfulness that makes his balls ache. “Maybe you should.”

Harry lets out an airy chuckle at her eagerness, which slowly molds into a gravelly moan when she returns to dipping her head with faster, sloppier strokes. A few strands of hair have escaped the ponytail in his palm, and he takes great care in tucking them back behind her ears with his index finger, which then trails across her cheek affectionately. “Maybe I will. But right now, you just worry about finishing me off. Then, we’ll see if I’m feeling up to it some other time— if I feel like you deserve it.” 

Y/N nods her head obediently. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“‘Course, darling. Anything for my proper little slut. Especially when she’s taking me down her throat like such a good fucking girl.” 

Y/N’s only reply is a broken mewl, and she allows herself to become immersed back into the action of giving Harry the orgasm she so desperately wants to deliver.   

She can taste precum as it dribbles onto her tongue, a precursor to Harry’s impending climax, and the flavour makes her center throb.  She has half a mind to remove him from her mouth and beg him to pull over so that she can properly ride him, but she doesn’t doubt that doing so would add hours onto their travel time.  There’ll be time for all that once they’re back at his place, she reminds herself, pulling off of him just enough to lick her lips before lowering herself again.  Right now, there’s just one thing she wants above all else, and if the sounds Harry is making are any indication, she’s fairly close to getting it.

“So fucking close, angel.” Harry pants, his abdomen contracting over and over again as he struggles to keep the car moving at a steady and consistent pace. “Gonna make me cum, aren’t you?  Want Daddy to pump that pretty mouth full?”

Y/N hums around Harry as he yanks on her hair again, more for the sensation than to actually guide her.  Still, she pulls up from his prick with a pop, looking up at him with doe-like eyes as she replies. “Mhmm.” She hums again, giving him a particularly hard pump and delighting in the groan that rolls from his tongue. “Wanna taste you.”

“You— fuck, darling, that’s fucking it.” Harry’s words echo from his throat in a ragged gasp as he twists his jeweled fingers around her locks once more, straining his head back against the seat to keep himself from looking down again as she retakes him down her throat. “I’m gonna fucking— Oh my God, baby, please—”

Y/N digs the nails of her free hand into Harry’s pelvis, scraping over his plant tattoos as she feels his toned tummy tighten beneath her touch.  It only takes one more squeeze of her hand around his balls and one last determined suckle to draw his orgasm from him, and she lifts herself until just the head of his cock is in her mouth as he spills onto her tongue.  Her own eyes flutter shut as she whines at the salty taste, swallowing it down without a second thought.  She keeps her lips locked around him, wanting to capture every aftershock that spurts into her mouth, feeling ropes of cum splatter across her taste buds as Harry squirms against his seat, whining in encouragement.

She continues to milk him for everything he’s worth, repeatedly prodding the twitching vein protruding along his prick and scraping his sputtering head against the inside of her cheek, wanting to urge every last drop out of him. She only pulls away when the young man whimpers from above, shakily tugging on her hair to alert her that he’s crossing into more sensitive territory.

“Fucking shit…” He murmurs weakly, his breathing erratic as he eases off the gas pedal to reduce the car to a slower pace, rather than keeping the accelerated speed he’d fallen into as he came.  He combs his fingers through Y/N’s mussed locks as a faint, exhausted chuckle rolls from his lips, his thumb ducking down to collect a bit of the mess that had seeped out of the corner of her mouth. He pushes the digit past her swollen, colored lips, his breath catching as he watches her clean it off without a single hitch. “God, minx, I’m gonna need a little warning the next time you decide to do that. Thought I was gonna crash the car a few times.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Y/N reassures him quietly, looking up at him with a fond smile before turning her attention to his softening prick.  She licks up one stray bead of cum from his tip, delighting in the strangled sound the action draws from Harry. She then proceeds to carefully tuck him back inside his trousers, buttoning and zipping them up with ease.  She even takes care to tuck his red and black striped shirt back inside the waistband, but only after she presses a gentle kiss to his still-tensed abdomen, nuzzling her nose across his happy trail and feeling butterflies flutter in her belly when he lets out an appreciative mewl.

Harry inhales deeply as he watches her sit up from the corner of his eye, his hand slipping from her hair to his own to fix the disheveled curls. “No, I suppose not.  I have precious cargo.  Speaking of—” He reaches over Y/N’s body, and with one hand still on the wheel, fumbles to fasten her seatbelt back across her chest and lap. “Y’gotta keep this on if you ever do that again, alright?  S’not safe to have it off for so long.”

A fond smile tugs at Y/N’s lips as Harry sews his fingers over her thigh, squeezing lightly over her jeans before massaging the muscle.  She’s noticed that he’s grown more and more touchy and protective each time they’re intimate with each other, and it would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy it. “Yes, sir.”

Harry’s fingertips stutter over Y/N’s leg for just a moment, and the twitch of his sensitive cock beneath his slacks nearly causes Harry to swerve the car again. “Fuck, don’t say that right now.” He mumbles brokenly, his voice much more raw than he’d like it to be. “Don’t think my poor dick can handle it.”

Laughter bursts from Y/N’s chests, and the contagious sound draws a giggle from Harry’s own body as she settles her fingers over his, twisting them together in an instinctive motion. “Too sensitive?” She teases, lulling her head back against her seat rest while keeping her eyes focused on him, sweetening her voice down into a babying drawl. “You poor thing.”

A bright pink blush sears itself onto Harry’s cheeks as he clears his throat, tightening his hand around the wheel again to ground himself. “Yeah.  I only really like overstimulation when I’m the one administering it, not the one receiving it.  And you—” He squeezes her thigh as punctuation. “—are much too stimulating, especially when you’re looking at me like that.”

Another honeyed giggle falls from Y/N’s strawberry lips, and the corners of her eyes crinkle as her smile continues to grow. “I like seeing you like this.” She says decisively, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she reaches over and affectionately twirls one of his loose ringlets around her finger. “All flustered.  It’s cute.”

“Are you seriously calling me cute after deep-throating me while I drive?” Harry asks incredulously, a snort echoing from his throat as he shifts around in his seat.  He’s already uncomfortable in his trousers again, both from the wetness she’d left on him and the way her words are making him stiffen again. 

“Mm.” Y/N thrums in agreement as her free hand reaches for the stereo, dialing up the volume again so the sounds of The Kinks can be heard without strain. “I think you’re cute— very cute, actually.  Even moreso when you get all blushy. Am I not allowed to say that?”

Another layer of warmth soaks itself across Harry’s small ears and stinging nose, and he tries to play off his childish reaction with a casual scoff. He can’t deny the way the compliment makes him feel, though. It’s different from the praise she usually gives him, which tends to be sexual and in the heat of the moment. But this is much more intimate in such a sweet and tender manner, and he hasn’t received that type of innocent attention from someone in much too long. He likes it, he decides. Especially when it comes from Y/N.

She makes him weak, and though he’d normally seethe at the idea of anyone ever making him weak again, he comes to find that the softness she coaxes from him is something so different from the mainstream definition of that dangerous word. She makes him weak, yes, but not in a destructive sense. This girl— this simple mortal girl with bones made of glass and skin of fine velvet— makes him weak in the knees, and in the pit of his stomach, and in the cement walls he’d built around his phantom heart. She makes him vulnerable in new places that have been entirely foreign to him for the last twenty decades, if the glowing warmth surging through him is any indication. And for the first time in a while, he’s beginning to think that maybe— just maybe— that’s not such a terrible thing.

The vampire comes to the sudden epiphany that being weak for someone is unorthodox to him because it’s a human trait. Allowing yourself to form a deeper connection with someone— with a person completely the opposite of what you are— requires compassion and understanding. It requires willingness and empathy, as well as trust and pure intentions. It requires humanity. And that’s what Y/N is doing, Harry realizes. She’s taking that last wilted shred of humanity he possesses and is urging him to use it. Even though it’s not intentional on her behalf, and even though she has no idea of just how small that fragment of humanity is, it’s somehow miraculously working; just her being the caring soul she’s always been seems to be enough to awaken that part of him. 

Despite the fact that the immortal would normally laugh at such a stupidly cringey and cliche concept, there’s no denying that at this point in their little LifeTime movie crossover, it’s true. That’s why it feels so utterly weird— she’s bringing out a side of himself he hasn’t shown in literal centuries. She makes him feel the one sensation he didn’t think was possible for him to ever experience again: She makes him feel alive. 

Oh.

…Oh. 

Harry snaps himself out of his inner turmoil, sucking in a shaky breath and exhaling slowly, releasing all his consuming thoughts. Relying on his supernatural impulses to focus on any oncoming hazards, the creature allows himself the indulgence of shifting his hunter eyes onto Y/N for a lingering glance.  The sun is just beginning to set outside the car window, ducking over the cityscape and washing the distant buildings in mellow shades of soothing pinks, cozy oranges, and buttery yellows. The colors cast a golden light through the glass of his car, and it settles onto Y/N’s soft features like stardust, highlighting her flyaway hairs, the gentle slope of her plush lips, and the dreamy tinge in her captivating eyes.  

If Harry didn’t know any better, about both what she is and about not believing in such ridiculous tales, he’d think she was an angel.  Not that an angel would ever be seen with the likes of him.

“Y’can say that, petal.” He murmurs after a lengthy pause, reluctantly returning his attention to the long stretch of road in front of him, his palm still secured over Y/N’s denim-covered thigh.  If he focuses enough, he can feel her pulse through the fabric, and the steady thumping sends a strange prickling through his hand and into the rest of his body. “You can say whatever you’d like, and I’d listen.”

“Oh, is that so?” She pokes at him with a cheeky grin, using her nail to absentmindedly trace the blood red daylight crystals embedded into the eyes of his lionhead ring. “So you’re actually offering to listen for once, instead of making your cocky little comments?”

The edges of the vampire’s lips jolt with endearment. “Just this once, yeah.” 

Except it’s not just this once, Harry thinks to himself, adding on the words he will most likely never have the courage to speak aloud. I’d listen to anything and everything you have to say. No matter how small and insignificant it may be, or however random and useless you might think it is. I’d listen. For you, always.

Harry doesn’t express his private thoughts, but he pretends that he has, and he pretends that the smile Y/N is gifting him at the moment is her heartfelt response to his silent confessions. 

He adores it more than he should, and how could he not? It’s so blinding, he thinks it could very well burn him.

///

It’s not that Harry is nervous for tonight, because he’s not.  

Spending his Friday nights with Y/N has become as regular as clockwork, and Harry knows that it’s overdue in their routine for him to cook a dinner for her, given that she’d had the courtesy of doing it for him. He’s already picked up her favourite red wine to accompany the gnocchi recipe he’d sweet-talked Vincenzo into sharing with him (Gnocchi al Vostro Gusto— the one she’d enjoyed on their date at Bella Vita), as well as snagged all the ingredients for the lavender lemonade cocktail he planned to make her when she first arrived.  He’d even gone so far as to freeze a few petals from edible flowers into his cubed trays earlier in the day, just to up the ante on his already stunning presentation.  

He’s already set out shining dinner plates along his kitchen island, tidied and dusted his entire condo, and made each of his friends promise to leave him alone for the night.  He’s prepared everything that’s been within his power into sheer perfection; nothing could possibly go wrong.  So he’s not nervous, because everything is fine and because he never gets nervous. Being nervous is for morons, and he’s far from being one, so he just isn’t. It’s that simple. There’s absolutely no reason to be nervous. 

Except that he can’t manage to get his mahogany belt to lie properly against his waist (he’d searched in vain for his black Gucci belt with the logo buckle, but hadn’t been able to find it), the woven leather tail twisting repeatedly whenever Harry tries to tuck it beneath the rest of the belt.  And while the rational part of his mind knows that this doesn’t matter, and that he can just guide the tail into a loop along his olive trousers, the irrational part of his mind— which, unfortunately, just happens to be in control at this very moment— knows that tucking it in won’t look nearly as chic as folding it just right to lay the excess along the length of his thigh.

He’s already crafted the rest of his outfit so carefully, spending almost an hour deciding on the red and black patterned vest to pair with the trousers, and an additional forty-five minutes choosing which short-sleeved button up to layer beneath it.  He’d ended up picking a yellow top with indigo swatches along the collar, proceeding to tuck the shirt sleeves up along the sleeves of the knitted vest to give the fit a stylish flare. Harry thinks he looks good (although, to be fair, he always does), but he knows that if he turns his attention back to it for too long, he’d end up tearing it off and starting all over again.  However, judging by the clock that’s ticking from his bedside table, Harry knows that isn’t an option.  It’s 5:42 PM, and Y/N had said she’d be here by 6:00, and if Harry isn’t ready by the time her delicate knuckles rap against his front door, then she might just decide to turn on her heel and leave, and Harry won’t ever get the chance to ask her—

The creature stops short in his tracks, his fingers freezing over the leather of his belt that he’d just managed to settle into place.  He’s not asking her that, he reminds himself, loosening his limbs just enough to nervously twist his mother’s ring around his pinky.  He’s already decided that— and undecided it, and decided it again— after his road trip epiphany the previous weekend.  It doesn’t matter just how weak, or warm, or alive, or just plain human Y/N makes him feel.  He knows what this is, and has known since the beginning, and there’s just no way that he can bring himself to ask Y/N to be his—

Harry can’t even force himself to think of the word. 

He makes long strides towards his dresser, picking up the string of pearls lying on top of the varnished wood and fastening them around his icy neck.  What meaning could that word even hold for him, anyways?  He’s a vampire, and though Y/N makes him feel the complete opposite, there’s no way he could ever feel so human as to give into the notion of having a girlfriend.  A girlfriend leads to a fiancée, which leads to a wife, which leads to the expectation of a family, and Harry knows that none of those things are compatible with the immortal afterlife he lives now.  If Mitch, who is— by any accounts— ten times the man Harry could ever be, hasn’t even managed to lock Sarah— another vampire— into a solid relationship after three years, how could Harry delude himself into thinking that he could do that with a human?

And even if he, with all his commitment, abandonment, and trust issues aside, could have a relationship with a mortal— not any mortal, he reminds himself, but the only mortal that’s ever managed to capture a sliver of his genuine attention— that doesn’t mean he actually wants one.  Why would Harry ever want to be tied to one place, or one person?  Why would he ever want to have to phone someone before going somewhere, or have to check in on them when they’re doing the same?  Why would he want to deal with having to manage someone’s emotions, problems, and life?  He’s traveled the circumference of the world and back again, and seen more changes to society than any human could ever comprehend. He loves being reckless, and untethered, and not responsible for anyone other than himself. He enjoys being impulsive and not having to worry about his actions falling back on anyone else’s shoulders other than his own. It’s who he is— it’s who he’s been for a while now— and it’s who he had imagined he’d continue to be for another two centuries. 

It’s like that one country song that tormented his radio in the early 2000s— the one about life being like an endless road and about how people should enjoy it while it lasts. He believes the exact words are, “Life is a highway, I want to ride it all night long” or something of the sort. Horrendous song, but it held a pretty decent message. 

So with all of this taken into precise consideration, why would he, in his right mind, ever chain himself to one geographical location, and one single fleeting soul?

The answer floats to the forefront of Harry’s mind as he casts a glance towards his half-opened dresser drawer, where a pair of Y/N’s pastel blue sweatpants are folded neatly on top of his own pairs.  She’d left them there a few weeks ago, and while Harry had washed and dried them for her with the intention of giving them back, he’d decided it would be a better idea to keep them here in case Y/N ever ended up staying the night without planning to.  Just so she’d have something comfortable of her own to put on before falling asleep in Harry’s bed, on the side that he now keeps made up just for her.  

Why would Harry ever tie himself to one person?  Because that person is Y/N, and she’s not just a person.  She is— in every way except officially— Harry’s girl.

Harry can’t even bring himself to deny that fact as he fixes the collar of his shirt and strides out of his bedroom, dimming down the lights before making his way to the glass staircase.  Every issue he’d brought up, every fact that he’s tried to use to convince himself that he doesn’t want a relationship, can’t even be considered an issue when it comes to Y/N.  He already does all of those things— checking in on her to make sure she’s alright, letting her vent about her stress, listening to her problems with an attentive ear, holding her hand whenever they’re together, kissing her forehead while she lays against his chest, switching her to the inside of the sidewalk to ensure her safety, moving strands of hair out of her face so they don’t become a bother— and he does it all gladly.  He’s come to adore the soothing comfort he receives when he walks Y/N to her door after a date, or double checks the locks after she’s inevitably invited him inside.  He delights in calling her during her lunch breaks to inquire about how her day is going, and to remind her that “iced coffee isn’t a substitute for water, peach.  You’ll feel a lot better on your shift if you drink a glass, alright?”  And even when her voice is strained and laden with anxiety as she curls into his side after a particularly rough day, it still sounds like the most beautiful melody he’s ever heard, and the weight and warmth of her body against his own acts like a relaxant to Harry’s cold limbs.  

He rolls his shoulders now as he skips the last two stairs and lands squarely on his leather Gucci boots (they’re one of his favorites, and though they’re a simple black, they have a rainbow impression along the lip that he thinks is quite chic). He releases a long breath as he absentmindedly studies over his art wall, his eyes landing on the painting of a deconstructed sunflower. The abstract piece reminds him of the night Y/N had come over to his condo for the first time, and he begins to feel that annoying yet familiar knot between his shoulder blades that always seems to form when he’s away from her.  It’s something he hadn’t even noticed until a few days ago; how his body grows rigid and stiff whenever they’re separated, like he can’t allow himself to exhale until she’s beside him again.  He supposes it’s a strange vampire tendency— something carnal and territorial inside of him that thinks it’s his job to protect Y/N, the decadent and intoxicating center of his strange obsession, and when she’s not around, unease threads into his muscles until he can be sure his primary source of blood is alright. 

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s something deeper inside him— some other reason to keep her out of any harm and an arm’s length away. However, he refuses to indulge that unsettling mystery right now. It’s too fucking complicated to dwell on.

Ambling into the kitchen, Harry begins to dig through his lower cupboards for the apron he hadn’t bothered to slip on when he was cooking earlier.  Pushing aside the white cover with the words “World’s Best (pancake) Tosser” stamped onto the front (it had been a gift from Niall, delivered with a sly grin and a cheeky comment about how the apron was too accurate to pass up), Harry selects the butcher’s apron printed with the phrase “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’!” He slips the loop over his head and ties the straps behind his toned back with a quick motion, the edges of his lips quirking at the pompous joke. He knows Y/N will make a comment about it. 

He hadn’t bothered with the apron before when he’d been preparing the gnocchi simply because his loungewear isn’t necessarily that important, but now that he’s changed into something much nicer than the t-shirt and sweatpants he’d previously worn— and after he’d struggled with deciding on the outfit for so long— the last thing he wants to do is splash sauce onto himself as he navigates his kitchen.

Harry’s mind continues to race with nearly incomprehensible thoughts as he gathers the last of the ingredients needed to finish the meal, his nimble fingers easily peeling the skin from a clove of garlic before he begins to mince it with practiced skill.  Maybe that’s the cause of all his confusing feelings, he muses as he tosses a knob of butter into his preheated pan, scooping the garlic onto his knife and adding that to the mix as well.  Maybe that instinctual feeling to protect is the root of all his fantasies of a relationship.  He can’t possibly want— can’t actually believe that he’d...

Except he does.  

Sighing grimly as he snags a wooden spoon from a kitchen drawer, Harry nudges the cabinet shut with his hip before beginning to stir the sizzling concoction in his pan.  Somehow, against all odds— against all reason— he’s become attached to Y/N.  So attached that he’d spent an hour begging Vincenzo for this specific recipe when he could’ve so easily googled a different one and recreated it to near perfection.  So attached that he’d driven to three different liquor stores to find her favourite brand of red wine, which he’d set to chill in his fridge hours ago, because even though a cabernet sauvignon is supposed to be chilled for forty-five minutes at most, Y/N likes it icy cold.  So attached that he’d taken care to freeze individual flower petals into ice cubes, just so he could make her a cocktail flavoured with honey and lavender, the exact same way she is.  So attached that, for the first time in twenty decades, the concept of a relationship doesn’t draw a disgusted gag from his throat and doesn’t send a ghostly spike of pain to his neck.

“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters the words out loud to himself, as if speaking them audibly will reinforce their meaning.  Opening the fridge with a rough tug, Harry nabs the quart of cream he’d purchased earlier that day, bending the mouth of it open and pouring it smoothly into the saucepan and giving it a stir.  It doesn’t matter if he wants a relationship, because there’s no way that Y/N does.

A bitter laugh tears its way through his chest as he reaches for the bowl of gorgonzola cheese he’d shredded earlier, scattering the ingredient into the saucepan and slowly mixing it in.  He’s arrived at the same point he has all week when he’s had this argument with himself. The same fact that’s stopped him in his tracks each time he’s dared to think that— if he should ask— Y/N would say yes to him becoming a more permanent fixture in her life.  She’d say yes, he thinks.  Or he hopes, at least.  She’d say yes, until she wakes up in the middle of the night to Harry caged over her with crimson irises, terrifying shadows below his waterline, black veins webbing out from his eyes, and a blood-soaked mouth bared to reveal his dagger-like fangs. Then, she’d be gone.

Not gone, he amends in his head, the thought somber and acrid in his mind as he reduces the sauce to a simmer.  He’d have to go after her, of course, but not in the way a man usually goes after a woman.  Despite how they’d joked about it casually, Harry most definitely doesn’t belong in a LifeTime movie.  No, he’s from a much darker genre— less leading man, more malicious creature that lurks in the night— and the only thing he could do when he chases Y/N down would be to wipe all traces of himself from her mind entirely.  That’s the ending they’d be destined for if he let himself buy into his romantic delusions.  It’s better not to put a label on anything.  No labels keep a degree of separation between their two lives— at least, that’s what Harry tells himself.  And as much as it pains him, a degree of separation might be exactly what they need.

And yet, when Y/N knocks on his door two minutes later, just as he’s sprinkling various ground herbs into the sauce and setting it onto the back of the stovetop to wait until they’re ready to eat, Harry can’t help the giddy grin that immediately decorates his dimples. He hurries to untie his apron and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs lined against his kitchen island, dragging a ringed hand through his purposefully tousled curls as he nearly super-speeds to the front door of his condo. He trips on his way there, spewing curses as he barely saves himself from face-planting the ground like an imbecile. He straightens himself out with a petty huff, slowing down slightly and being more mindful of every step he takes. His smile has already returned before he even yanks the door open.

Y/N— his Y/N, he allows himself to think affectionately— is dressed from head to toe in his own clothes.  Well, almost head to toe, he corrects, casting a sly glance at the way her black jeans hug the curve of her hips too perfectly to be his own pair.  But he recognizes the black and white speckled short-sleeve button up that’s french-tucked into the high-waisted denim, and shrewdly notes the addition of a Gucci belt looped around her waist— the very one he’d been searching for earlier.  She’s even styled the shirt the same way he does, with half the top buttons undone.  However— Harry licks his lips unconsciously as his eyes hover over her exposed chest— she’s paired the top with a delicate looking black lace bralette that catches his hungry gaze the moment he spots it.  Even the black ankle boots she’s wearing are reminiscent of his own fashion choices.

“Y’know,” Y/N’s amused voice cuts through his stupor, drawing his attention back from the obvious canvas of her body and up to her glittering eyes. “It’s not very gentlemanly of you to check out my tits before even saying hello.”

Harry’s mouth crooks sheepishly in response as he reaches out to her, looping his muscled arms around her waist and pulling her inside the condo and against his body with ease. “Hello.” He murmurs obediently, thumbing at her waist over the silky fabric as a teasing yet fond cadence sews its way into his voice. “So this is where my clothes keep disappearing to, hm?  I searched for that belt for an hour today.”

“Shouldn’t have left it at my apartment, then.” Y/N counters easily, curling her hands against Harry’s chest.  He can already feel her heat beginning to web through his entire being, warming him in a manner nothing has in the last two hundred years. “And you said tonight’s dress code was casual formal— which makes zero fucking sense, by the way— so I figured the best way to conform to that would be would be by wearing your own clothes.” A drop of hesitance begins to colour Y/N’s tone as she casts her gaze towards his own, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she tries to read between his teasing words for any hint of actual annoyance. “Is that… okay?”

“Perfectly okay, angel.” Harry soothes the worry lines that have formed between her eyes by stamping a kiss onto her forehead, allowing himself to linger for a moment to inhale her familiar scent of sugar and flowers.  It seems more powerful today than it usually is, almost bowling him over right there in the foyer, and he takes a step back to regain control of himself under the pretense of closing the door. “Honestly, I’m a little miffed that you look better in my clothes than I do.”

“‘Miffed’?” The mortal girl laughs as she reaches down to retrieve something from the ground, and it’s only then that Harry realizes that she’d had an overnight bag in her hand before he’d tugged her into his grasp and caused her to drop it.  “Who says ‘miffed’?  Are you a sixty-seven year old woman named Betty?” 

Although he allows a chuckle at her incredulous question, Harry’s attention has focused in on the bag inches away from her outstretched hand.  Cursing himself for being too wrapped up in her appearance to notice the item she’d been toting, Harry quickly fetches it from the ground before she can, carrying it further into his apartment before setting it down on one of the island chairs, as if the small distance could make up for the initial lack of manners he’d displayed. 

“No, I’m not.  I’m just British.” He should bring the bag up to his bedroom, he thinks, just so Y/N doesn’t have to wonder where her clothes are when she’s fraught with exhaustion later. But that would mean having to leave her side, and the grip her fragrance has on his senses right now won’t allow him to do so. 

“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot.” Y/N lilts with an exaggerated air, another giggle rising from her petal-like lips as she leans against the marble countertop on her elbow, propping her chin up in one hand and resting the other on top of the stone.  She regards him with all the affection that he doesn’t deserve, and yet always seems to crave, and it takes all of Harry’s willpower to not grasp her chin in his hand and sift their lips together just to taste her laughter. “Along with ‘pip pip’ and ‘cheerio,’ right?”

“Yes, those phrases are definitely at the top of my vocab list.  You’ve heard me say them a million times.” Harry rolls his eyes playfully, shaking himself from his distracted thoughts as he steps back behind the counter to effectively put a little bit of much needed space between him and the mortal girl.  His restless hands are already outstretched to his bar shelves before he even asks, “D’you want a drink, darling?”

Y/N watches with innocent curiosity as Harry sets two lowball glasses down on the counter before reaching into his cupboard for a jar of honey, which he spoons onto an awaiting plate.  He rims the glasses in the syrup before dipping them into sugar, sparking confusion in Y/N as she tries to decipher what cocktail Harry is making her.  Her befuddlement only grows as he extracts a bottle of clear liquid that she assumes is vodka and a purple concoction that she can’t identify. “What are you making?”

“Lavender lemonade.” Harry answers swiftly, reaching into a drawer for the small double-ended measuring cup tool that Y/N still can’t remember the name of, as well as his crystal cocktail shaker.  Y/N observes with wide eyes as he fills the shaker with ice and vodka before picking up the mysterious liquid. “This is lavender syrup.  Not homemade, unfortunately, but I do buy it from a little organic grocer I know at the farmer’s market.  Adds a nice floral note to the drink, and mixes well with the lemonade.” He caps the container and shakes it expertly (the way his muscled arms ripple with effort doesn’t go unnoticed by her, as it never does) before setting it down on the counter and making his way to the fridge freezer. “S’where I get my honey, too.” He chances a look over his shoulder just in time to see Y/N dip her finger into the honey pooled on the plate and pop the digit into her mouth, and Harry has to force himself to tear his eyes away as she sucks lightly on her fingertip, her cheeks just barely hollowing. “Do you like it?”

“Mhmm,” Y/N hums around the digit as she keeps her eyes shamelessly glued to Harry’s ass while he bends down to open the cooled drawer, retrieving a tray of cubed ice and coming back over to add one large block into each lowball glass. “Are there flowers in there?” She asks in wonder after retracting her finger from her mouth with a pop, leaning over the table more to observe the decorative ice that has filled the cups.

“Mm.” Harry matches her hum with a more pleasured undertone, both from her noticing the small detail, and from the unobstructed view of her cleavage that her new position allows him.  He picks up the shaker and strains the light purple lavender and vodka mixture into the glasses, topping off each cocktail with a can of sparkling lemonade that he’d also retrieved from the fridge. “S’pretty, isn’t it?” He asks, stirring the drinks with a spoon before holding up one of the glasses to the light and handing it to Y/N. “My own creation.  You’re the first person to try it.”

Their fingers graze as Y/N accepts the glass from him, sparking electricity up her entire arm, and she can’t help the irreverent moan that thrums in the back of her throat as she brings the glass to her lips, tasting the honey and sugar first before the lavender coats her tongue. “This is so good, H.” She praises, licking a lingering dab of honey from her mouth between her words.  Twisting the glass in her hands as she regards the lilac drink, Y/N eyes him over the rim of the crystal, pupils blown wide. “I didn’t think honey and lavender could ever taste so good.”

“You know, I used to think that, too.” Harry’s mumbles knowingly as his own eyes drift a shade darker. He watches the human girl’s neck strain with her swallow, as if she knows he’s trying to keep his gaze away from there and she’s beckoning him back. “But it’s my favourite flavour combination now.  Can’t ever seem to get enough.”

The comment goes right over the mortal girl’s head, just as Harry knew it would.  His expectations of the cocktail in his hand are also met from his very first sip; although the concoction is delicious, it pales in comparison to the fragrance wafting across the island from Y/N.  He may as well be drinking water, honestly. But he knows he’ll end up repeating the recipe a few more times at the very least, just because Y/N tells him that it’s her favourite drink he’s ever made.

“You say that every time I make you a new drink, dove.” Harry can’t help but quip coyly at the repeated compliment, setting his crystal tumbler against the counter with a quiet thud. “Am I supposed to keep believing it?”

“Obviously. Especially when each drink keeps getting better and better.” Y/N licks a drip of honey from the rim, her tongue delicately capturing the sugar crystals before her lips settle back onto the edge to take another sip. “You would be an amazing bartender, but we’ve already talked about that before.”

“We have, yeah.” Harry smiles softly as he recalls the conversation they’d had weeks ago, where she had said his drinks were better than anything she’d had at a club, and he had responded by saying he doesn’t have the patience to be a bartender. That conversation feels as if it happened a lifetime ago, and considering how much closer they had become since, it quite literally could be. “But refresh my memory, will you? Why is it that I’d make such an amazing bartender?”

Y/N gives Harry a jokingly flat glance as a response to his smug tone, but decides to humor him, nonetheless. “Well, you obviously have the mixology skills, and I don’t doubt that the whole thing you have going—” She nods her head to him over the island with a teasing smirk. “—would get you endless tips.”

“My whole thing?” Harry repeats the phrase with an air of faux confusion. “What do you mean, my whole thing?”

He knows what she means, of course.  But he won’t deny himself an opportunity to hear Y/N feed his ego with sweet-spoken praise.

Y/N doesn’t buy his innocent act for a minute, but still indulges him, yet again.  She likes to see Harry preen under her compliments just as much as he likes to receive them. “You know…” She casts her eyes over his figure slowly, picking out every detail she can comment on as she wedges her bottom lip between her teeth. “Your whole look— the tattoos, the muscles, the dimples, the sparkling green eyes, the shiny curls… all of that would have any drunk customer draped over the bar for you.  And even if you couldn’t get by on looks alone, you’re absolutely charming.  To the point of ridiculousness, honestly, but,” Y/N eyes him suspiciously, and while her words are mostly in jest, she can’t deny that she’s seriously thought them at some point in time. “I’m not entirely convinced it’s genuine.  Although being able to fake that kind of attitude would serve you well in a crowded bar.”

Whatever Harry was expecting to hear among the praise, an accusation of dishonest behaviour wasn’t it.  His brow furrows deeply as his lips turn down into a displeased grimace, and he drums his ringed fingers over the marble countertop as he cocks his head to the side. “What d’you mean?” The question is earnest now, no longer a coquettish teasing remark, and the warmth the mortal girl had provided him with begins to subside as a flash of icy doubt digs shards through his chest. “Not genuine?  Does it seem like I’m faking it or something?”

Y/N teases her lips with her tongue, unable to stop the nervous tic as she hears the displeasure that clearly strains Harry’s tone.  Setting her own glass down on the counter, Y/N lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I just mean, like… I don’t know.  I don’t really think that now, but in the beginning…”

“What?” Harry prompts her with more intensity than he’d meant to, but he’s spent so much of this past week analyzing their every interaction while wrestling with his own thoughts that he’s already on edge; he needs to hear what Y/N had thought of him when they’d first met.  His own recollection of the memories has made him flinch multiple times, particularly the times when he’d thought that Y/N was as boringly ordinary as humans come. He can only imagine what her take on the situation is. “Did I— was I rude, or—?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” She hurriedly assures him, shaking her head hard enough that her loose locks bounce around her shoulders. “You weren’t rude at all— the opposite, actually.  I don’t know, it just seemed… like it was too good to be true, y’know?” Her voice grows impossibly softer as she traces her finger over the rim of her glass, her eyes dropping from Harry’s like it hurts her to hold them. “Like, there was no way that someone could be so attractive, so funny, so good in bed—” Harry can hear blood creep up the nape of her neck against her will, beginning to pour into her cheeks. “—and so charming.  Something had to be an act.”

Despite the urge Harry has to justify his actions, he knows there’s nothing he can say that could prove Y/N’s original perception of him wrong.  And, in all honesty, he has no right to.  As much as he’d like to argue the fact, and as much as he did genuinely come to enjoy being around her, Harry can’t deny that from the first moment he’d approached Y/N in that club, he’d dialed up his charm as he always did without a second thought.  He’d flattered her, flirted with her, done everything he could to convince her that she should take him home so he could indulge in the two things he’s always manipulated people for: sex and blood.  And when that worked, he did it again, and again, and again, until they’d fallen into the pattern they have now.  He’d never lied, of course, and he prides himself on that— every compliment he’d paid her had been rightly deserved.  But even that justification doesn’t stop the shame that’s twisting its way through his limbs and making his head heavy.  

She had thought something had to be an act, and she had been right.  Harry himself was an act, in every aspect of the term— stretching the truth about his past, opening himself up just enough to make her open herself in return, setting her up so that she’d become dependent on their relationship. And all so he could sink his teeth into her neck without a second thought.  

He can’t exactly pinpoint when all that had changed— singing “Non-Stop” in his kitchen?  The jealousy he’d felt when he spotted her on a date with that insipid idiot, Jacob?  Seeing her in that yellow sundress when he picked her up for their first date?— but the fact that it had changed doesn’t erase how it had started. It doesn’t erase the cruelty he’d hidden beneath his calculating words, intricately-placed caresses, and dirty promises.

“Harry.” He’d been so caught in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Y/N had moved until she’s standing right in front of him, one of her velvet hands twisting into his own as the other tucks a loose curl back from his creased forehead. “I don’t think that now.  You know that, right?” Even after securing the ringlet, she keeps her palm pressed against his cheek, and Harry can’t help but lean into the burning heat her touch provides. “I just— I’d never met anyone like you.  There was no one like you where I grew up.  I didn’t think someone could be so…” Y/N worries her lip between her teeth again, and Harry wishes he had enough in him to smooth the bite mark with a touch as soft as her own. “I didn’t know you yet.  But I do now.”

The vampire inhales a shaking breath as if he needs it to live, lifting his own free hand to wrap over the palm Y/N rests against his cheek.  Weaving his fingers through hers, he drags her hand lower until her skin is secured over his lips, and he smudges a gentle kiss against her handprint.  There’s something so tender in her words— no one could ever accuse Y/N of being disingenuous.  But he needed to hear this, he thinks as he presses his mouth repeatedly to her palm, the throbbing of her pulse in her wrist catching against his cheek.  He needed to hear how she thinks she knows him.  It’ll serve as a reminder that he can’t allow himself to succumb to the weak thoughts he’d battled earlier in the day.  As much as Y/N assumes she knows him, there’s things that she’ll never understand— things he would never allow her to understand, because she doesn’t deserve such a terrifying burden— and how could he keep up that pretense while allowing her to call him her boyfriend?

“I know you do, sweetheart.” Harry mutters the words into her fragile skin, inhaling her intoxicating aroma deeply until his throat burns in agony.  It’s a small price to pay for what he’s put her through. “It’s alright.  I don’t blame you for doubting it.” The smirk he forces onto his face is nowhere near believable, but he manages to keep the strain out of his voice enough to sell it. “I’m pretty hard to believe, y’know?  Especially when you grew up with people like Cucumber Dick.”

Successfully diffusing the moment, Harry’s comment tugs an irritated groan from Y/N’s chest, and she takes a step back from him as her hand falls from his face, despite her other fingers still remaining tied with his own. “You can’t just keep calling him Cucumber Dick, alright?  He has a name!”

“Yeah, Bradley.” Harry says in distaste, his nose wrinkling as he shakes his head slowly. “S’honestly worse than Cucumber Dick.  I’m doing him a favour— a bit of charity work.”

Y/N hums in the back of her throat thoughtfully as she steps back around the kitchen island, Harry’s arm extending over the countertop as she tugs his hand along with hers. “Then don’t do me any favours like that, alright?  Can only imagine what you call me when I’m not here.”

A few names pop into Harry’s mind— dream, darling, angel, and countless others that he’s murmured to himself in the privacy of his condo— but they’re tainted by the memory of his friends confessing how they’ve talked about her when he hasn’t been around to hear it.  How they’ve compared her to different foods, used that to reference her, as if that’s all she is to him.  As if she isn’t the only person who has managed to make him feel something in over two lifetimes.

In the rational part of Harry’s mind— which, once again, is sadly not the part of his mind that’s ever in control— he knows that he can’t blame his friends for thinking that.  It’s his own fault for being so insistent on that fact over the last few months.  How many times had they questioned his motives behind his daily phone calls to her, or how often he found himself dropping everything just to spend some time with her?  How many times had he rolled his eyes at their assumptions that he wanted more from the mortal girl than he’d ever admitted?  How many times had he asserted that there was nothing more that she could offer him than her body and her blood?  They’d only listened to what he was saying, despite knowing that Harry’s reassurances were false.  Did any of them suspect that things had changed for him now?  Or did they still think that Harry’s only motivations behind his relationship with Y/N are primal?

Harry pushes the badgering thoughts from his head as best he can as he reaches for his apron that’s still lying over the back of the chair.  He can’t dwell on those thoughts now.  If the turmoil twisting inside of him hasn’t subsided by the end of the night, he’ll call Mitch once Y/N is fast asleep under the extra blanket he keeps on his bed just for her.  Although he doesn’t relish the thought of admitting he was wrong to the likes of Xander or Niall— he knows their teasing and taunting would never end— he can talk to Mitch about it without the worry of judgement.

“Why don’t you put a record on, petal?” Harry asks absentmindedly, nodding his head towards the record player set up in the corner of his living room as he slips his apron back over his head. “I just have to boil the gnocchi, and then—”

“Wait, wait wait,” Y/N cuts over him with an increasingly gleeful expression, rounding the edge of the island again to tug on the strap of Harry’s apron. “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’?” She repeats, unable to bite back the giggles that are rising through her throat. “Please tell me you didn’t buy that for yourself.”

His troubling mindset disappears the moment laughter falls from her lips and echoes around the kitchen. “‘Course I did.  And why wouldn’t I?” Harry simpers as his deft fingers easily secure the ties behind his back in a neat bow. “I’m Mr. Good Lookin’, and I’m cookin’.  S’only the truth.”

“Your vanity is astounding.  Truly.” Y/N trails her finger from the strap of the apron to the pearls around Harry’s neck, stroking the silky stones with the lightest touch. “Like, borderline narcissistic.”

Snaking his arms around her waist, Harry easily pulls the mortal into his body, securing her against his chest just as he had done when she’d first arrived.  It’s comfortable for him to have her pressed against him like this.  The steady rising and falling of her chest and hummingbird beat of her heart against his own unmoving organ keeps him centered, like his own personal lifeline. 

“Is it so wrong to be confident in my appearance?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his dimples pop from his cheeks, and he slides his hands from Y/N’s back to her ass, cupping and squeezing firmly in appreciation.  His smirk only grows as Y/N’s cheeks begin to boil from the suggestive contact. “How can you contradict me when it gets such a reaction from you?”

“I think that has less to do with your looks and more to do with where your hands are.” She quips dryly, and yet her nails dig into Harry’s exposed collar bones with the slightest of pressure, a surefire sign of just how much his touch affects her.

Harry leans forward as the girl’s breathing grows more erratic, and he nuzzles his nose along hers while keeping the smallest of spaces between their lips. “Either way, I’m getting what I want, aren’t I?”

To his immense pleasure, Y/N’s words are breathy and strained when she replies, a side effect of the shallow inhales her body draws against his. “Which is?” 

“You.  More specifically, you melting under my touch like you just can’t get enough of it.” Harry drags his lips across Y/N’s for no more than a second before continuing his path up her jaw, only stopping when he can feel the flushed shell of her ear beneath his mouth. “You should indulge your vanity a little more often, sweetheart.  S’quite fun, honestly.”

Y/N shivers beneath Harry’s touch, her eyelids fluttering as his cool breath rolls over her ear and down her neck.  Turning her head to the side, she locks her half-lidded gaze with his own before slotting their lips together to indulge in the lingering taste of honey and lavender that sits on his tongue. 

Despite his instinct to draw her closer while curving her body into his own, Harry separates their lips with a gentle nudge of his forehead against her own, his breathing growing just as erratic as Y/N’s.  Control, he reminds himself as heat prickles along his icy skin from the tender pads of Y/N’s hands.  This isn’t like their first meetings, when he could invite her over under a pretense and take her against the counter before they’d even finished their drinks.  This is different now.  She’s different now.

“Why don’t you go put a record on?” He says again, his voice noticeably deeper than it was when he first made the request. “And I’ll finish getting dinner ready. Sound alright?”

Y/N manages to nod without removing her forehead from his, but that seems to be the only movement she makes; her palms remain pressed firmly against Harry’s tattooed biceps, even after he reluctantly releases his hold on her body.  She can’t help it— it feels too good to be so close to the young man to allow herself to willingly walk away.  Something in his presence is so calming, so steady to her, even when he’s whispering obscenities in her ear.

But outweighing the need to be next to him is her desire to make him happy, and if he wants her to pick out a record… “Alright.” She nods once more as her hands slip from his skin, trailing down his forearms and grazing his wrists before falling to her sides. “Any record?”

Harry drags a ringed hand through his curls, his lithe fingers tugging on the locks before falling to his side in a loose fist. “Any record.” He confirms as he reaches for a kitchen drawer, tugging it open to extract a long metal spoon. “Anything you want to listen to.”

He watches as a serious expression paints itself over the human girl’s face, as if the task he’s given her is of the utmost importance.  She turns on her heel and marches out of the kitchen as if on a mission, and as Harry turns towards the now-boiling pot of water on his stove, he knows that his own face reflects a look of fondness.  It’s too easy to let his guard down with her, he thinks as he ladles his homemade gnocchi into the rolling water.  When she looks at him, there’s such an openness in her expression that he can’t help but allow himself to be seen.

But being seen doesn’t always feel so sweet, which Harry remembers the moment he hears Y/N’s melodic voice ring from the living room. 

“When did you get a piano?”

Harry’s hand freezes mid-scoop, the few gnocchi that had been dangling on the edge of his spoon falling into the boiling water.  A bit of the liquid splashes out and lands on his arm, but quickly fizzes to room temperature once it meets his freezing skin. 

“Uh—” He clears his throat as he tries to refocus on his task, but his actions are much more frantic than careful as he finishes filling the pot with gnocchi. “I’ve had it for a while, remember?  I mentioned it to you before.  At the antique mall.”

When his explanation receives no response, he gives his own frustrated sigh, and sets down the polished spoon to retrace Y/N’s steps out into the living room.  As he expected her to be the moment he heard her question, he finds her with a reverent hand tracing the edge of the matte black Steinway grand piano that’s occupied a space in nearly every home he’s had since he purchased it in the 1920s.  Seeing her nimble fingers drift over the hand-crafted edge brings back a hazy human memory to Harry’s mind— a flash of sharply manicured fingers and a strangely pale hand, adorned with an opal ring as they danced over the pianoforte in an opulent sitting room. The sound of tinkling laughter that rang like a bell, pitched almost high enough to make his ears ache, and a soft, hypnotizing voice slathered in the most delicate accent he’d ever heard. 

Harry has to blink a few times to bring himself back to the present.

“What was that, darling?” He hopes his voice isn’t nearly as strained as it feels when he refocuses his eyes on Y/N’s waiting gaze. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said that you told me it was in storage.” She glides over the intricately carved music stand, the digit dancing across every twist and curve of the decorative panel. “Why did you bring it out?”

“Uh, I dunno, really.” An uncomfortable itch settles onto Harry’s skin, his stomach turning as Y/N takes a seat on the creaking piano bench set in front of the instrument. “I just, uh, figured it should be displayed somewhere, instead of gathering dust in a storage unit.  It’s a vintage Steinway, y’know?  Those need to be taken care of.”

In truth, the vintage instrument had rung Harry quite a high bill over the last few decades, not only in the price it cost to keep it in permanent storage, but in the services he’d had done to it once a year to keep it in its nearly pristine condition.  Despite keeping it out of sight to keep it out of his mind, he couldn’t seem to allow himself to let the instrument fall into disrepair, just in case he ever decided to display it again.  Or sell it, as he’d been leaning towards doing over the last few years— a genuine Steinway piano in condition as good as his had quite the high price tag.  But he’d never been able to force himself to part with it, as it looked too similar to the one he had originally learned to play on.  Even though those memories were tainted with the usual pain that came with thinking about his human life, it was still his life, and he ached to hold onto some part of it.  It’s why he had his mother’s ring, and his sister’s earring, and his father’s cross and pocket watch.  It’s why had a small wooden box hidden away under his bed with memorabilia from his first life.  As much as it hurt to remember— and it did, in ways he can’t possibly begin to describe— remembering seems better than the alternative.

“Well, if you want to show it off…” Y/N’s fingers are trailing down the fallboard now, inching their way towards the ivory keys with a daydream-like purpose. “You shouldn’t hide it away in the corner of the room.  It would look gorgeous in front of the windows, don’t you think?  A proper centerpiece.”

It would make a beautiful centerpiece, and he originally intended it to be so after the delivery company had dropped it off at his condo a few days before.  After bribing Adam and Niall with the offer to buy out their bar tabs for an entire month, the three of them had spent the afternoon rearranging the furniture in his living room to display the Steinway in the center of the room.  He’d thought that, knowing how excited Y/N had been to hear him play the piano in the antique store, she’d like to hear him play in his own home, on an instrument he knows like the back of his hand.  He’d even begun kicking around the idea of teaching her a few songs, but those musings had quickly turned sour as the instrument brought back more memories of his foggy human life.  In the end, he’d decided to restore his living room back to its original state with the addition of the Steinway thrust into the corner, where the ghosts of his past could plunk the keys quietly without drawing too much of his attention.  He’d done his best to ignore the instrument over the last couple of days, and in his hurricane of thoughts that had centered around Y/N, he’d nearly forgotten about its existence completely.

He can’t be mad that Y/N is asking about it; after all, he’d brought it out of storage with her specifically in mind.  But seeing the newfound object of his affections with her fingers poised over the keys brings back a rush of emotions he’d been repressing for the better part of two hundred years.

“It—” Harry clears his throat once more, trying to rid himself of the lump that is rising up like bile. “It took up too much space in the center of the room.  Wasn’t very cohesive.”

“That’s too bad.” The mortal girl’s words fall from her mouth in a murmur as her gaze remains locked on the keys, almost as if she’s in a trance.  Her finger begins to press down on the ivory with a slow and meticulous motion. “It seems like such a shame to—”

“Let’s— Let’s not get into that now, sweetheart.” Harry says hurriedly, his fingers catching her own before she can trigger the instrument to make a sound. “Dinner’s almost ready, and you—” He forces a grin onto his lips. “—still haven’t picked a record out.” Threading her fingers through his own, Harry gently tugs the human girl up from her seat on the piano bench. “Would you rather I do it instead?”

As he expected, Y/N wrinkles her nose with distaste as she rises to meet his emerald eyes. “No.” She scoffs as a quiet snort rises from her throat. “I don’t need to listen to some weird experimental 60s music while trying to eat dinner.”

While Harry would normally bite back at her dig, he just responds to her with a thin laugh and a smile without dimples. “Exactly.  So why don’t you pick something out,” He jerks his head over his shoulder to where his record player and vinyls sit neatly on a shelf lining the wall, ignoring the ghastly spike of pain that twinges his neck as he does so. “And I’ll plate dinner, yeah?”

“Alright.” She agrees, and Harry nearly breathes a sigh of relief before she finishes her phrase. “But you’ll play for me later tonight, won’t you?”

The phantom pain grows until it extends down Harry’s entire spine, filling every nerve in his body with a sense of anxiety and trepidation.  The last thing Harry wants to do is move his fingers over those weighted keys, and with the burning sensation now shooting through his fingers, making his hand twitch around Y/N’s, he’s not even sure he can.

But he is sure of one thing, and that’s the fact that he can’t ever seem to say no to Y/N.

“Yeah, dove.  Of course.” Keeping his voice even, Harry pulls her away from the extravagant instrument as inconspicuously as he can. “Later tonight.”

///

There are so many things that Harry has done over the last two centuries that have both angered and confused him.  

He’s held grudges against himself over the way he’s acted, the people he’s surrounded himself with, the people he’s allowed himself to trust, and the blatant disregard for human decency he’s allowed himself to succumb to.  In the last twenty decades, Harry has amassed enough vendettas for fifty lifetimes, let alone the one endless life he’s been given.  And yet, even with all of those missteps in mind, the fact that Harry ever looked at Y/N and deigned her an ordinary human might be one of the biggest mistakes he’s ever made. 

It’s so clear to him now— sitting across from her at his kitchen island, the few scented candles flickering between them doing almost nothing to cover her sugar and flower scent, her eyes reflecting back the burning flames and something else that Harry can’t quite put a finger on— that he’s not sure how he ever missed it.  How had he once leaned against the counter in her own kitchen, looked into those very same eyes, and managed to convince himself that it was only her blood that drew him to her?  How had he listened to her sweet and sensual voice murmur delicate phrases about her day and her emotions, and not realize that he was inching closer and closer in order to hang on every word, as if she had the supernatural ability to compel him as he did her?  How had he seen her in the smokiness of the club, with her fragile skin practically luminescent under the pulsing strobe lights, and thought that she was so utterly unmemorable and unnoticeable that he could easily take her home for one night without anyone wondering about her whereabouts?  How had he convinced himself that it would only be one night? 

There are so many things that Harry will always be angry about, will never forgive himself for, and his initial perception of Y/N is one of them. 

If he has any redeeming qualities, he thinks as he watches the mortal girl spear a bite of gnocchi onto her fork over the rim of his wine glass, it’s that he can, at the very least, admit when he’s wrong.  He can admit to himself that this girl— this self-assertive, stubborn, vivacious, kind-hearted mortal girl— is the most interesting and most intriguing human he’s ever met.  And as terrifying as that is, it’s also a little thrilling; it’s been so long since Harry has felt a pull to someone like this.  The sensation, while unfamiliar and something he’s severely out of practice with, is just as electrifying as he remembers, and now that he’s had a taste of it, he can’t stop chasing that high. 

It’s that undeniable pull which drive Harry to murmur an unauthentic apology about not having a dining table (he’d chosen a larger living room over a dining area when he moved in, and his friends just settled for eating at Niall’s when they wanted to sit down somewhere) because he’s secretly pleased that he has an excuse to sit next to Y/N.  It’s that pull that makes him hang on her every word about her day like she’s relaying the plot of a Greek tragedy, his facial expressions perfectly mimicking hers as she describes the customers she dealt with.  It’s that pull that sends his fingers forward of their own accord to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the soft melody of Hozier’s “Like Real People Do” floats between them like a comforting lullaby.  It’s that pull that, when she inquires about the entrée he’d prepared for them, causes him to proudly admit that he’d recreated the recipe from Bella Vita after wrestling it from Vincenzo.  It’s that pull that urges him to scoop up one of his own gnocchi and bring it to Y/N’s lips to feed her the first bite of the meal, his hand cupped delicately under the utensil to catch any sauce that might drip onto her shirt (which is really his shirt, and that fact alone delivers so much more pleasure than he ever would’ve thought possible).  

It’s that pull, that adrenaline rush, that indescribable sensation, but underneath it all, it’s her.  It’s always been her, since the moment they’d first met.  From the moment he first laid eyes on her.  How is it, Harry wonders, that his first sighting, enhanced by his supernatural senses, had managed to make him so blind?  How is it that he’d had this girl in front of him all along, and he’d managed to delude himself into thinking that he’d be able to stop himself from becoming vulnerable for her?  And maybe, he wonders slowly as he clears Y/N’s empty dinner plate from the marble island to the sink, he’s still deluding himself, because for some strange reason, being vulnerable for the mortal girl doesn’t seem to be as terrifying as he thought it would be.

The vampire suddenly recalls a specific day all those weeks back, when Y/N had stayed over and they’d taken their first bath together in his jacuzzi. He thinks about how he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable for just a fraction of a second, when he had admitted to her that she often caught him off guard. She had returned the sentiment, and he remembers the words he'd uttered to her amidst the warm steam and quiet splashing of the water. He had said that he found her influence on him— the influence they had on each other— to be scary, but exhilarating. And now, after spending so much time together and allowing himself to grow closer to her than he ever could’ve imagined, he’s come to find that his attraction to Y/N is no longer incredibly scary. Yes, there’s still a sliver of fear in him at the notion of opening himself up to her, but it’s only natural— there isn’t one person in existence who isn’t scared to strip themselves emotionally bare for someone else. However, his genuine excitement soothes his hesitations, and it startles him in a pleasant manner he can’t quite decipher.

Setting the dirty dishes into the sink to be dealt with later, Harry risks a glance at Y/N over his shoulder.  He watches as she wipes the corner of her mouth on a napkin before raising her stemmed glass to her lips, delicately draining the last of the crimson liquid before placing it back down with a clink.  When he catches her sparkling eyes, Y/N shoots him a smile that, even with only one corner of her lips lifted, manages to dazzle him from across the kitchen.  Harry can hear the fresh flush of blood that overtakes her cheeks, as if the wine itself is settling beneath her fragile skin.

Yes, vulnerability should petrify him.  Vulnerability means danger.  It means giving someone the ability to break you, and Harry knows this from firsthand experience.  Harry might be the only monster in the room, but in this moment, Y/N is the ominous threat. She’s the vague silhouette that hides in the shadows, the mysterious mass circling just beneath the waves, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But now that he’s dipped a toe in, Harry can’t stop himself from diving headfirst into those dangerous depths.

“D’you want another drink, love?” He asks, turning back around and leaning his hip against the marble counter as he cocks his head to the side in a questioning manner. “Some more wine before dessert?  Or another cocktail?”

Y/N glances at her multiple empty glasses in front of her, but shakes her head slowly. “No, I’ve had enough to drink.  But I’d love a cup of tea, H.  If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.  A cup of tea, coming right up.” Harry reaches for the sleek kettle that he keeps set on the backburner of his range, flicking on his tap with his other hand before settling the hollow object under the stream of water. “You know, I think this is the first time I’m actually making tea for you.  S’a real treat, isn’t it?” He flashes a toothy grin at the girl before placing the now-full kettle back onto the burner and twisting the knob to high. “A proper cup of tea made by a proper Brit.  Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N rolls her eyes playfully as she circles her finger around the rim of the empty wine glass, her motions just starting to get heavy with the liquor. “It’s just some dried leaves and water, Harry.  Don’t get too full of yourself.” 

“I think you’re the one who’s usually full of me, aren’t you, pet?” Although his back is turned towards the stove, Harry can hear the effect his words have on the human girl by the small, nearly imperceptible gasp that leaves her lips. “‘M not sure you’re allowed to make that observation.”

Despite the choked feeling that’s welled up in her throat at his comment, Y/N quickly clears it out with a small cough, capturing Harry’s sea glass eyes with her own to stare him down stubbornly. “I’ll make any observations I want.” She says firmly, crossing her arms over her exposed chest in a mockingly angered pose.

A fond laugh rolls from Harry’s stained lips as he opens his cupboards and extracts two tea cups that are painted with vines of wisteria flowers.  He’d found them a few years back at the very same antique mall he’d brought Y/N to, included in a china tea set that he hadn’t been able to resist buying.  The hand painted violet flowers had caught his eye from the moment he’d glanced at the china cabinet they’d been locked inside, and he’d barely been able to tear himself away from the glass case to retrieve the key from an employee.  

He’d always had a soft spot for wisteria; there had been a wisteria tree outside of his childhood home, and he and Gemma used to collect the bunches of blooms and bring them inside for their mother.  That had been a long time ago, of course.  When they were children.  Harry can’t quite remember at what age they’d stopped digging through the garden for flowers— it might have been when Gemma turned eleven, which would’ve made him…. Seven?  Harry frowns at the uncertain memory as his grip tightens around the delicate china cups.  Yes, he reminds himself, he would’ve been seven.  His sister had been four years older than him, and it was around age eleven when she’d declared herself a lady, and said that it wasn’t ladylke to dig through a garden and walk around with dirt under one’s fingernails, and Honestly, Harry, you must wipe your feet before stepping into the house, or else you’ll track mud everywhere—

With trembling hands, Harry sets the wisteria tea cups down on the marble counter, flexing his fingers to get rid of their shakiness before reaching for the respective saucers.  It seems that Y/N’s ability to make him feel more human isn’t just resurfacing the manners and emotions he’d long suppressed, but the memories, too.  How long had it been since he’d heard his sister’s voice ring in his head as clearly as that?  How long had it been since he’d thought of the tiny foyer of his childhood home, which he’d tracked mud into countless times as his mother and, eventually, his sister clicked their tongues at him?  Is the tree still there, he wonders as his thoughts continue to spiral.  Or had it been cut down in the two hundred years since he’d last seen it, long after his family had all… 

Harry places the saucers carefully down against the marble before bracing himself against the edge for just a moment.  Barely thirty seconds have passed since Y/N’s retort, and although his enhanced mind had begun to spiral, it’s not too late for him to give a half-sane response.  

“I know you will, sweetheart.” He finally murmurs, hiding his face as he pulls open his fridge to extract the carton of oat milk he’d purchased last week.  Y/N, he’d come to learn over the last few months, prefers milk over cream in her tea, just like she prefers sugar over artificial sweeteners. 

Harry can feel the burn of her eyes into his back as he extracts a teaspoon from his kitchen drawer and the kettle begins to whistle.  Focusing and relishing in being the object of her attention, Harry removes the kettle from the heat, flicking the stove off before reaching for the canister that stores his tea bags.  In an effort to fully distract himself from the troubling thoughts of his past, he begins to hum the tune to the Hozier song that had been playing earlier, before the record had spun to stop just before they’d finished their entrees.  With the near murmur of the melody reverberating through his throat, he spends a moment debating on whether or not he should use the matching wisteria-adorned teapot that sits on the highest shelf of his cupboard, but quickly decides against it— it’s too formal for the occasion.  But tossing two separate tea bags into the two teacups, he finds as soon as he does it, doesn’t feel right either; after all, he’d told Y/N that he’d be making her a proper cup of tea.  That fact settles the manner in his (moreso than usual) changing mind, and within a few moments, he has the two teabags deposited into the teapot before pouring in the boiling water to steep the satchels of dried leaves.

Halfway through his preparation, his ears had perked up with the distinct sound of Y/N rising from her chair, which had been followed by the muted pattering of her feet against his hardwood floor.  Not bothering to ask where she’d been going, Harry had instead decided to wait for his suspicions to be confirmed.  Sure enough, just as he’s stirring the sugar and oat milk into Y/N’s cup of tea, he hears the quiet press of one of the keys of his piano.  C4, if his aural skills are still as tuned as they used to be.

Setting the two cups of tea onto their respective plates (Y/N’s with milk and sugar, and Harry’s plain), the vampire easily balances both cups of tea in his hands and makes it to the living room without spilling a single drop.

Just like before, Y/N seems entranced by the piano, plunking out different notes and letting them ring into the open air.  Harry can’t help but wince slightly as he approaches— as talented as Y/N seems to be at some things, music theory does not appear to be included.

“Christ, love, a tritone?” He protests, his voice hinging on a whine as he approaches the piano bench. “What, your fingers couldn’t make it a perfect fifth, hm?”

The answer to his teasing question comes in the form of Y/N’s entire body jumping as her fingers stutter over the keys, an audible gasp falling from her mouth while her hand clutches to her chest and her head turns to stare at Harry over her shoulder. “Jesus, you scared me!” She says breathlessly, her palm massaging over her the area where Harry can hear the rapid pulsing of her heart. “Have you always creeped around like that?”

A playful grin tugs at the immortal’s lips as he extends an arm out, handing the china saucer and cup to the human girl. “Only when I’m carrying boiling tea.  Scooch over, will you?” Nudging his way onto the newly unoccupied space of the bench, Harry nods his head towards the keys she had been previously playing. “Was that an original composition?”

“Beethoven, actually.  I’m surprised you didn’t recognize it.” Y/N blows gently over her tea with pursed lips before taking a small sip.  Harry knows that his sister would have condemned the action, along with the following slurp, by calling it unladylike, but the inelegant manner leaves a fond feeling buzzing through his body once more. 

Raising his own teacup to his lips, Harry chuckles quietly over the rim of the cup. “I wouldn’t have pegged it for the classical era, actually.  Sounded more atonal to me.” He takes a small sip of tea, the liquid scorching down his throat in the best way. “You said you took lessons when you were younger, didn’t you?  Do you remember anything?”

“Twinkle twinkle little star, maybe.” Y/N takes another small gulp before setting the cup back down on the saucer. “I was, like, eight.  Nursery rhymes were as far as I got.” Her gaze drops to the caramel coloured tea with a curious gaze; Harry had remembered exactly how she takes it, despite him only having seen her make a cup of tea once a few weeks ago. “But you, on the other hand… Mr. Good Lookin’...” Her lips jolt into a teasing grin as her eyes flicker to the side to capture his own. “You’re quite the musician, from what I remember.  And you promised to play me something.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Harry’s smile grows imperceivably tighter as he takes another drag of the boiling drink, his throat growing thicker with every swallow. “And you still want me to?”

Brow furrowing at his reluctance, Y/N cocks her head to the side in bewilderment. “Of course I do, H.  I loved listening to you play for me at the antique mall.”

Harry thinks back to that day, when he’d stuttered his way through a Chopin piece before his stumbling fingers had given up entirely. “I’m just a little out of practice, love.  It’ll be a bit messy.”

“I didn’t ask for perfection; I asked for you to play.” Her warm fingers find Harry’s upper arm, massaging the tattooed muscles just underneath the tucked sleeve of his shirt as she regards him with wide, curious eyes. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but if you’re nervous because you might mess up… Well, you heard me play.” Her light laugh rings through the cavity of the piano, reverberating off the highest strings in a way that only Harry’s immortal ears can pick up. “I won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Despite his reservations, a half-hearted smile finds its way to Harry’s lips over the rim of his tea cup, which he sets down on the living room side table after taking one last sip.  

Flexing his ringed fingers, he repositions himself on the piano bench, moving more towards the center of the seat as Y/N moves down to the edge to give him full access to the piano.  For a brief moment, his hands hover over the ivory and ebony keys as he evaluates the repertoire he knows he can muddle his way through without too much trouble.  He’s already played a few Chopin pieces for the human girl, so that composer is out.  Liszt doesn’t seem to fit the mood, either, as his pieces are much too ornamented for their quiet living room ambience.  Debussy is out before Harry can even consider him; the last thing he wants to do is invoke any more memories of sitting at a piano with the much too familiar composer.  And Beethoven and Mozart seem too contrived for this setting, as well.

With a frown on his wine-stained lips, Harry spares one glance at Y/N, whose own eyes are glued to his floating fingers.  She reaches out with a tentative touch of her own, gliding them across Harry’s tensed knuckles with a pressure so soft that, if not for the heat of her skin, Harry might not feel it at all.  The cautiousness of the motion is not lost on him— it’s almost as if Y/N is worried that she’ll spook him out of playing, like any sudden movements could break him.  It reminds the creature of the awareness he has whenever he touches her; how he always carefully evaluates the amount of pressure he uses whenever he glides his fingers over her vulnerable skin. 

As if she were a butterfly, he thinks, not for the first time.  His butterfly.

Harry doesn’t remember making the conscious decision to start playing.  He doesn’t even recognize the piece that’s tentatively ringing from the piano until the repetition of the first motive, when Y/N emits a satisfied breath and her warm hand falls back to Harry’s thigh, rubbing gently over his olive trousers with that same delicate touch, almost as if he were a butterfly.

The creature’s fingers continue to glide over the ivory keys, his phrases growing smoother and more confident with every passing moment.  He pays careful attention to the dynamics of the piece, trying his best to recall the sheet music that he hadn’t looked at in decades, but it only takes about thirty seconds for him to realize that it’s easier to just let himself feel the music.  With Y/N’s hand continuing to dance over his thigh in time with the tune, Harry lets himself play around with the score, peppering in crescendos and decrescendos as he sees fit.  He draws out some of the minor phrases, hoping to wrench on his obsolete heartstrings the way he had when he first learned the piece in the early 20th century, and hovers his fingers over the bass notes as he uses the pedal to make them ring out into the living room.  

Halfway through the composition, Harry realizes that he’s breathing with the phrases, timing each inhale and exhale of his lungs with the musical lines.  It only takes him another two measures to realize that Y/N is doing the same, her body leaning into Harry’s as Harry leans into the instrument.  And that, he finds as his jeweled fingers slide over the keys, tugs on his heartstrings more than any melody ever could.

As he approaches the end of the piece, he softens his touch, his fingertips almost ghosting over the keys as he gently presses the final notes.  Harry keeps his foot hovered over the pedal, allowing the quiet cadence to fade to silence in its own time, and as it does, he can feel his body coming back into itself— which is strange, considering he hadn’t noticed the trance-like space he’d slipped into.

Y/N, however, must have noticed, because her voice is hushed and hesitant when she speaks again, waiting until the final notes have completely faded to silence, as if she’s afraid that she’s interrupting something. 

“That was so beautiful, H.” She praises, her hand still rubbing over his clothed thigh.  The motion would normally drive Harry mad, but for some reason, all it does to him in this moment is bring a strange lump to his throat. “What’s it called?”

In his unfamiliar haze, it takes Harry a moment to find his own voice. “Uh, Papillons.” He says through his thick accent, clearing his throat subtly as he lowers his hands to his lap.  He hadn’t even realized they were still lingering over the last notes. “It means—”

“Butterflies.” The mortal girl nods in recognition, a thoughtful look over her face as she taps a finger against his trousers, her tone slightly jesting as she murmurs her next sentence. “I know enough sixth grade French to understand that.  Is it a French piece, then?”

“No.” Harry jerks his head in the negative, only remembering to soften the agitated motion after it’s happened.  He raises his keen eyes to meet Y/N’s, a reminder of where he is.  And a reminder of who he’s with. “It’s the fifth movement in a suite by Robert Schumann— the “Polonaise,” in B-flat major.  S’one of my favourites.”

“I can see why.” Y/N murmurs, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “It was wonderful, really.  ‘Out of practice,’ my ass.”

Even with the residual anxiety still coursing through his veins, Harry manages to force out a chuckle at her teasing. “Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are.  But Schumann has always been a favourite composer of mine—” Harry takes Y/N’s teacup from her, noting how her eyes had flickered to the ground, as if she was looking for a place to set it, and she sends him a thankful grin as he sets the cup next to his own on the end table. “—along with his wife.  They were both incredibly talented musicians.”

“His wife?” Intrigue threads through Y/N’s voice as she props up an elbow on the piano, resting her chin on her loose fist as she turns her body towards Harry. “She was a musician, too?”

Harry hums affirmatively as he cracks his knuckles, flexing his fingers in his lap to loosen them from the buzzing sensation that’s still prickling his skin. “She was, yeah.  They had a pretty passionate love story, y’know.  That’s why his music is so beautiful— he wrote it all for her.”

Y/N doesn’t miss the reminiscent tone that seeps into Harry’s voice, and she threads her fingers through his own as her eyes widen with a gentle plea. “Will you tell me about them?  Schumann and his wife?”

“I—” Hesitating at her request, Harry squeezes her hand tightly, half in affection, half in warning. “It doesn’t have much of a happy ending, darling.  A bit of a tragedy, that one.”

“I want to know.” The human girl nods her head stubbornly as her eyes flash with determination. “Just because it has a sad ending doesn’t mean it’s not worth knowing.” 

Harry pauses for a moment, allowing her words to fully sink into his mind and spark the beacon of hope that’s sat coldy in his head for so long. “I suppose that’s true.” 

He mulls over where to begin, thinking back to all the newspaper articles he’d read about a child prodigy in Germany in the 1820s, who was the daughter of—

“So the story really begins with Friederich Wieck.” Harry’s voice falls into a smooth cadence as he begins, thumbing over Y/N’s warm knuckles absentmindedly as he recalls the information. “He was a music teacher, most known for piano, but what he really wanted to be known for was raising a child prodigy.  He had a few children, but the one who filled that description was Clara, his second oldest.”

As Harry begins to spin the tale, Y/N can’t help but focus on his expression.  Although his eyes are set on their linked hands, she can tell that his gaze is far away, as if he’s seeing the scene play before his eyes as he tells it.  It’s fascinating, she thinks, seeing him focus so intently on something as niche as an old love story between musicians, but more than that, it’s new to her.  This is a new side of him that she hasn’t seen before— not cocky, or charming, or playful.  This side of him is intent, as if he wants to make sure that every word he speaks is the truth.  His expression is almost as interesting as the story itself.

“Clara’s parents, Friederich and Mariane, didn’t really get along very well, and Clara had a lot of trouble when she was young; she didn’t really speak until she was four.  But music always came easily to her, which made sense, considering her parents.” Harry’s free hand drifts back to the ivory keys, just resting over the lacquered surface. “Her mother was a musician, too— an accomplished singer.  But after her parents split when she was five, when Mariane had an affair with a family friend, Clara was left with her father.  And her father wanted to focus on her music career.  He gave her hour-long lessons every day, and made her practice for two hours on top of that.  She made her performance debut when she was just nine years old, in 1828, at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig.”

“Okay, wait.  Pause.” Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she waits for Harry’s faraway eyes to refocus on her confused expression. “What does playing in Leipzig at age nine have to do with a love story?”

An amused laugh slips from Harry’s lips at Y/N’s impatience. “I’m getting there, sweetheart.  A little bit of patience would be beneficial to you, I think.  And a little bit of trust in me, yeah?”

Although she huffs a little bit, Y/N relents, squeezing Harry’s hand in acknowledgement at the phrase he always seems to end up repeating: Trust me. She vaguely wonders why it’s so important to him. “Alright, fine.  Continue.”

“Thank you.” Harry swipes a hand through his tousled curls before settling it back down on the keys, running his fingertips over the smooth surface absentmindedly in the same rhythm he’s swiping over Y/N’s knuckles. “Okay, so… She played in Leipzig a few times that year, and once was at a private music party at someone’s house, where she met Robert Schumann.” At the mention of the name, Harry shoots Y/N an ‘I told you so’ look, which she meets with a roll of her eyes. “He was a gifted pianist, and was so inspired by Clara’s playing that he got permission from his mother to quit his law studies in order to study piano under Clara’s father, Friederich.  So in 1830, Robert moved into the Weick household as one of Friederich’s students, and—”

“Sorry, I— pause again.” Brow furrowed, Y/N’s eyes narrow in suspicion as she mulls over Harry’s words. “So— if Clara was, like, nine—”

“Eleven, actually.  It’s 1830 now, remember?”

“Alright, eleven.  If Clara was eleven… You said Robert quit law school to study music.” Y/N’s narrowed eyes widen as she regards Harry, as if asking him to contradict her suspicions. “How old was Robert?”

“Around twenty, I think.” Harry says casually, lifting his shoulder in a light shrug. “He was born in 1810, so— yeah.  He would’ve been twenty.”

“Twenty?” Y/N yanks her hand from Harry’s as she fully twists her body to face him, as if just hearing the horror in her voice isn’t enough. “He was twenty?  I thought this was a love story?”

“It is!  It’s just—”

“No, it’s not!  It’s gross!” Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Y/N shakes her head harshly, her loose hair spilling over her flushing cheeks. “A twenty year old shouldn’t—”

“He didn’t!  Nothing happened until they were older, love.” Harry captures Y/N’s hand within his own again, smoothing over her knuckles as he hurries to reassure her. “And it was the nineteenth century… a nine year age gap in a relationship wasn’t exactly uncommon.” For a brief moment, Harry wonders what Y/N would think if she knew just how much older he really was than her.  Would she react with the same horrified expression she had now?  Yank her hand from his again as she had just done?

“Yeah, well…” Y/N’s appearance is still bristled as she shoots Harry a condemning look. “There’s a difference between a nine year age gap and a child—”

“Nothing’s happened yet, sweetheart.” Harry bites back the involuntary laugh that bubbles through his chest at the indignant tone of her voice. “Now can I continue?  Or do you want to yell some more?”

Although her response is grumbled, the mortal girl mutters, “Fine.  Continue.” as Harry lifts her knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. 

“Thank you.” He lowers her hand back down to his thigh, smoothing it over his trousers before continuing where he’d left off. “So Robert studies under Clara’s father and stays with them for a year.  And although Clara and Robert were just friends, Friederich could tell that they were becoming close, which he didn’t like.  And before you say anything,” Harry watches as Y/N’s lips twitch into a frown. “It wasn’t because of Robert’s age.  Friederich didn’t want Clara to fall in love with anyone; he just wanted her to focus on her music.  He still wanted his child prodigy, you know?  So he began to take her on tours through Europe.  But by the time Clara was sixteen, it was clear that she and Robert had feelings for each other.  They wrote countless letters to each other, signed them ‘your special friend’... And when Clara turned eighteen, Robert asked Friederich for his permission to marry his daughter.  And Friederich said no, because that would ruin his plans for Clara’s music career.”

Despite her hesitation at the relationship, Y/N still mutters a quiet “Harsh.” at the story.

Harry’s hands return to the keys, but this time, they do more than hover.  He begins to press a few notes slowly, letting one ring out completely before moving to the other, and it takes Y/N a few moments to realize that he’s playing an actual melody, albeit a deconstructed one. 

“Because Clara wasn’t twenty-one yet, they needed her father’s permission to marry, so Robert took the case to court.  And it was…” His fingers stutter over the keys for a moment as his face twists up, remembering how the story had decorated the society pages of newspapers back then. “Messy.  Really messy.  But in the end, Robert won the case, and he and Clara were married.  And they wrote all this beautiful music together…” Harry’s left hand joins his right over the piano, moving with more intention now as he adds a quiet harmony to his slow melody line. “They weren’t good with words, but they were good with music.  That’s how they communicated with each other.  You can hear the love in everything they wrote, the devotion they had for each other.  Listen,” He says in a hushed voice, the melody of the music becoming unbearably sweet. “D’you hear it?”

“I do.” Y/N nods softly, her fingers massaging Harry’s thigh muscle as he continues to play.  It’s not a lie, either; there’s a sincerity in what Harry’s playing that twists within her chest.  

Or maybe, she thinks, her eyes trained in the profile of the man beside her, it’s just Harry. 

“Didn’t you…” Y/N hesitates both in her words and her motions over Harry’s leg as a new thought tugs at her mind. “Didn’t you say the story had a sad ending?  That all seems good, isn’t it?  Clara and Robert got married, wrote music together…”

Harry’s fingers begin to slow down, returning to the reduced melody he’d been playing previously, as if weighed down by the knowledge he’s about to share. “Uh, yeah.  Robert had a lot of problems— mental health issues.  Later in their marriage, he became manic, had episodes where he saw angels and demons… and he was worried he’d hurt Clara.” Harry says quietly, risking a glance at the girl beside him, who’s watching him with such wide and trusting eyes that he almost can’t bear it.  Harry knows what it’s like to fear hurting the ones you care for. “He tried to kill himself, and when he was unsuccessful, he asked to be taken to an insane asylum.  And he never went home again.  He died there, just a few days after Clara was finally allowed to visit.  S’like…” Harry’s fingers pause over the piano once more. “S’like he was waiting for her.  Before going.”

Detecting the emotion in his voice, Y/N raises her hand from his thigh, smoothing back a few loose curls before gently setting her palm over the curve of his neck. “That is a bit of a tragic story, I’ll admit.  To have fought so hard for each other for so long… And then to lose all of it like that…”

“Yeah.” Harry clears the lump from his throat as subtly as he can.  He’s certainly no stranger to loss, to feeling helpless at being unable to save someone you love… He knows that pain all too well. 

As if she can sense the darkness in his mood, Y/N rubs a comforting hand across his shoulder and down his arm, drifting over his inked skin with a warm touch.  Her comment, however, is more lighthearted than her caring caress. 

“I still think the age gap is a little weird.  How do you go from writing letters about being ‘special friends’ to falling in love?”

Harry rises to her baited joke, doing his best to shake himself from his introspective thoughts as his fingers begin to drift over the keys once more.  He focuses on just his right hand now, playing out an absentminded yet tender tune as he speaks. “So if I started to call you my special friend, you wouldn’t like it?”

“God, no— that sounds awful.” Y/N scoffs, her own hand drifting to the ivory keys. “We’re sleeping together, not making mud pies in a kindergarten class.”

Harry’s laugh is more genuine as he begins to slow down his playing, plucking only single notes that Y/N echoes in the lower register of the piano. “Alright, fine.  Not special friends, then.”

“There’s just so many cooler historical ways to say we’re having sex, y’know?  None of that ‘special friend’ bullshit.” Y/N continues to match Harry’s notes as best she can, wincing every so often as she plays a dissonant key. “Like… ‘lover.’  That’s a good one.  Nice and simple.  Or—” Her eyes light up with mirth as the thought pops into her head. “Courtesan to the queen.  Not as simple, but it certainly rolls off the tongue.”

Harry quirks a brow at the suggestion. “And you’ll be the queen in question, I presume?”

“Of course.  Do you have a better idea?”

“‘Paramour’ is a neat little name, don’t you think?” Harry asks, his fingers pressing down a simple perfect fourth on the piano to punctuate his question. “Sounds pretty elegant.  Understated.”

“If you want understated…” Y/N matches the top note of Harry’s interval, already knowing she wouldn’t be able to match the actual notes without hurting both of their ears. “We could do what historians do when talking about ancient queer couples.  Say we’re just good friends.”

The creature hums in acknowledgment at the back of his throat. “We could, yeah.  Or we could be mistresses.   Is there a word for a male mistress?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his lips pull into a quizzical frown. “A master?”

“Jesus Christ, never refer to yourself as a master again.” Y/N groans loudly, her fingers slipping from the keys as she feigns a shudder. “That just sounds creepy.  Even creepier than a special friend. How about…” She tries her best to stifle a wry grin as a more vulgar alternative pops into her head. “The Whore of Babylon?” 

“Fuck’s sake, what did I say about slut-shaming me?”

“I just thought it’d fit! It has a nice ring to it! But if it really irks you that much— Oh, wait—” She quirks her head to the side, a new wave of amusement lighting up her eyes as she thinks of her next step in their game. “What about ‘special advisor’?  You know, like we’re in a historical drama, and I have a kingdom to defend from oncoming war, and you’re my most trusted advisor, and when my husband is away with the army, you and I sneak off into my chambers…”

Although he giggles boyishly at the suggestion, Harry can’t ignore the twinge of jealousy that shoots up his spine at the mention of Y/N’s— albeit imaginary— husband.  He doesn’t like being referred to as her side relationship, even in an imaginary world of queens and wars.  Even then, he wants to be Y/N’s first choice. 

Because she’s his, he realizes, his fingers continuing to pluck out single ivory notes as a way to deal with the impending ball of tension that’s growing inside his abdomen.  Even in a game, in an imaginary world, in any way imaginable— Y/N is his first choice. 

He just— he wants her, in every sense of the word. And he knows all the reasons he shouldn’t— he knows how reckless it is to allow a human to get so close to him, how he’ll never truly be able to be honest with her, how he’ll always be using her for her blood, how he can’t give her the human relationship she deserves.  But he can’t stop from thinking about Robert and Clara, who fought for each other from the very beginning, who persevered through every challenge thrown their way, and who still only got sixteen years together before circumstance tore them apart. 

Harry is here. He is— for all intents and purposes— theoretically alive.  And the girl he wants more than anyone else is right next to him.  There’s no doubt in his mind that it’ll be difficult, but does he not owe it to those who ran out of time to try?  At the very least? Does he not owe it to himself to fight for the happiness he’s spent so long evading, all out of fear? 

He can manage that.  He can manage his cravings around Y/N enough to take only what he needs, and never anything more.  He can manage his double life and keep her from falling victim to the darkest corners of his mind. He can manage his strength enough to treat her as delicately as he’d treat a butterfly.  He can manage the most monstrous parts of himself.  He can do that for Y/N. 

But only if she wants him to. 

It’s that hesitation that brings a tremor to his hands as they pause over the keys, poised over the lacquered surface that he can barely tear his gaze from. “A special advisor sounds fun, yeah.  Or you could…” Harry clears his throat roughly, sweat pooling across his brow as he fiddles with the opal ring on his pinky.  He twists it back and forth around the digits, only managing to spare one look from the corner of his eye at Y/N’s quizzical face before dropping his stare back down to the piano. 

“Or you could, um… you could just… call me your…” Say it, the voice in his head practically yells. It’s just one word. It’s not that hard. “Boyfriend. You could just call me your boyfriend.”

A heavy pause fills the air in the large room, and Harry feels like he’s being suffocated. His voice grows fainter when he detects the sudden hitch in Y/N’s breath, but nothing else. He finds himself wanting to fill the empty space between them with something, or else he might pass out from the nerves. “If you… If you want, that is.  It would just keep it simple. Plain and simple.”

Plain and simple, Y/N thinks as her hands curl together in her lap, slotting between her thighs as if the pressure of her clamped legs can keep her from feeling how they shake.  It would keep it plain and simple.

But when has their relationship ever been simple?

It should’ve been simple, and the mortal girl knows this.  Two consenting adults, calling each other every once in a while for a bit of release— that’s simple.  That kind of relationship doesn’t have any pressure.  There’s no need to try and impress one another, or to meet any expectations.  That kind of relationship is no muss, no fuss, and no strings attached.  That was how they had started, and it had been simple.  It had been easy.  It had been uncomplicated. 

And it also hadn’t been that way for a long time.

Y/N’s known for a while now that the line between two friends having sex and being in a committed relationship has become increasingly blurred; that was all but confirmed when Harry nearly pitched a hissy fit when he saw her coming home from her date with Jacob.  But even with all of the dates, the gifts, the phone calls during her lunch breaks, the homemade dinners and drinks and desserts, even with all of that— Y/N never thought that they’d actually arrive at this moment.  This moment, in Harry’s apartment, their bodies pressed together on the small piano bench, his fingers fidgeting nervously as hers are pressed between her thighs, with the word boyfriend dangling over their heads like a sword.

She can’t pretend she hasn’t thought about it, because she has.  And she can’t pretend that her thinking about it doesn’t usually lead to her daydreaming about it, because it does.  It’s why she spends the majority of her downtime wrapped in Harry’s rainbow cardigan, and why she’d picked out his button down shirt to wear tonight.  It’s why she’s talked about him to her friends, why she’s begun to speak about him casually to her coworkers, instead of hiding in the storage closet when he calls her on her break.  Because even though they aren’t together— even though they’re friends in the least and seeing each other at the most— it had been nice to pretend that either of them were capable of being more.

Y/N is no stranger to heartbreak, and she’s spent long enough studying her own commitment issues to be able to recognize them in someone else.  Harry had pretty much told her in the beginning that relationships weren’t his thing, that he didn’t want to be defined by a label that could so easily be broken.  And Y/N, who hadn’t opened herself up since Bradley, had been inclined to agree.  Relationships are messy, and labels only bring expectations that would eventually not be met.  Seeing each other is easy.  Seeing each other is breezy.  Seeing each other leaves room for interpretation, for allowances, for excuses to be made if one of them suddenly changes their mind.  Seeing each other is plain and simple. 

Boyfriend.

The truth of the matter is that Y/N shouldn’t be so terrified of such a simple word.  In all forms and fashion, Harry practically already is her boyfriend— he literally calls her his girl during sex, for fuck’s sake. They do everything that a normal couple does, and have been doing it for a while now.  She’s fairly certain that calling Harry her boyfriend instead of the guy she’s seeing wouldn’t actually change their relationship that much.  But if she’s honest with herself, Y/N knows that it isn’t their present day situation that’s sending a cold sweat down her back.  Boyfriends, from her limited experience, lead to fiancés, which lead to husbands, which lead to children and a white picket fence in an unassuming suburb.  That was the exact life she’d come to L.A. to escape— how could she willingly fall back into it?

And then she hears Harry exhale shakily, his thumb fumbling with the opal ring on his pinky, and she knows exactly how she could willingly fall back into it.

This is Harry.  Harry, who tells her the stupidest jokes that can somehow still make her laugh.  Harry, who gives her all of his attention every moment that they’re together.  Harry, who listens to every story about rude customers without complaining once, hanging onto her every word as if what she says matters more than life itself.  Harry, who makes her believe that it does.  Harry, with entrancing emerald eyes, shining chestnut curls, intricately inked skin, and the most comforting arms she’s ever been held in.  This is Harry.  Not Bradley.  Bradley wanted the wife, the white picket fence, the house filled with children.  Harry— as far as she can tell— just wants her.  And she just wants him.

Plain and simple.

Y/N extracts one of her hands from between her legs, snaking it over Harry’s, where she captures one of his fiddling hands in her grasp.  Intertwining their fingers, Y/N fixes her gaze onto his opal ring as she hesitantly swipes her thumb over his cool knuckles.

“Yeah,” She whispers the word, as if speaking any louder could break whatever it is that’s brewing between them. “Yeah, that could work.  I’d really like that.”

The human girl watches from the corner of her eye as Harry’s lips, which he’d been gnawing on nervously while waiting for her response, slowly curl into a hesitant grin, as if he’s nervous to show how anxiously he’d been waiting for her to answer.  He keeps his sea glass eyes glued to their tangled hands, his own fingers contracting to test their grasp. 

Harry knows that it’s selfish of him to be so happy that the girl he cares for is entering into a relationship with a monster.  But seeing as how he’s the monster in question, he can’t make himself feel guilty for it.  All he feels is the elation that’s slowly spreading through his entire body, and the determination that’s chasing it.  He can do this.  He’s strong enough.  He can be strong enough for her. 

“Can I…” His voice is just as quiet as hers, nearly cracking at the end when he finally lifts his gaze to her heated cheeks, wide eyes, and stained lips. “Can I kiss you?”

A tender laugh falls from those stained lips as Y/N combs his curls back over his ear, dragging her thumb over the sharp lines of his jaw. “You do that all the time, so the answer is obviously yes, isn’t it?” She thumbs down the muscles in his neck, until her palm settles over the collar of his shirt to fist the fabric between her grip. “You don’t even need to ask anymore.”

“It never hurts to ask.  And this time…” Harry worries his bottom lip back between his teeth before he soothes the bite mark with his tongue. “It’s different.  We’re different.”

“Not too different.” Y/N leans forward until their noses nudge against each other, their mouths kept apart only by an inch.  She cards her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting the locks around her digits in a way that’s so much softer than Harry thought possible. “Still us, yeah?”

The taste of honey and lavender is so thick on the back of Harry’s tongue that he’s almost choking on it, but he’s never felt less thirsty in his life.  He has this under control.  He can tame this.  He can.

“Yeah.” He inhales deeply through his mouth, as if he were relishing the bouquet without tasting the wine, and slots their lips together with ease. 

Although they’ve shared countless kisses over their months together, this might win the record for the gentlest that they’ve ever shared.  There’s no rush, no animalistic need to pull Y/N closer and tighter against his body.  There’s only her burning warmth, her silky skin, and her sugar and flower flavour washing out the black tea that had been lingering on his taste buds.  Harry has never felt closer to being human again than he has in this moment.  Right now, they’re not a predator and his prey; they’re simply two people who, against all odds, have managed to find each other.  And Harry is owed this happiness.  He knows he is. 

The rest of the night passes in a blissful haze of comfortable domesticity.  They eat dessert on Harry’s couch, feeding each other bites of raspberry sorbet in between giggles and banter.  It’s something they’ve done countless times before, but there’s something different about it now; maybe it’s the fact that Harry knows that Y/N isn’t going to push him away now.  She wants him.  She wants him.  She’s leaning into his touch every time he brushes his knuckles over her cheek, laughing at his poorly-timed jokes, gazing at him through her lashes in a way that stirs desire in the very pit of his belly.  They’re comfortable together, and for the first time, Harry is realizing just how wonderful that is.

It’s the only thing on his mind as they stand side by side in front of his double vanity in his en suite, his gaze tilted to the side to watch as Y/N removes her makeup with some wipes she’d packed in her overnight bag (Harry makes a mental note on the brand so that he can pick them up the next time he finds himself near the drug store).  He’s never had such casual comfort and ease with someone like this before; the last time he’d found himself in a relationship, it had been in a time where maids were required to help lace and unlace corsets and valets prepared him for bed.  There was never a chance to watch as someone he cares for ties their hair back in a loose ponytail before rubbing cleanser into their skin.  He never got to observe the quiet, intimate moments of someone’s bedtime routine.  In the early days of their relationship, Y/N had never had a chance to properly take her makeup off before Harry was tugging her into bed, her lipstick smeared across his face as much as hers.  This is his first time really witnessing that transition, and he likes it more than he thought he would.

There are, however, a few things that he knows Y/N likes before bed, and he gives her a moment of privacy to change into her pyjamas while he makes the quick trip to his kitchen to fill a tall glass with cold water.  He doesn’t need to grab an extra blanket this time— he’d already made sure to toss the knit afghan onto his bed before Y/N arrived, and he finds it draped over her body when he returns to his bedroom.

“You look cozy.” He comments with a fond smile, handing the mortal girl the glass of water as he pulls back the other half of the blankets.  He climbs underneath the covers, propping his elbow up on his pillow as he lies on his side to watch as she takes a sip of the drink. “Y’alright, love?  Need anything else?”

Y/N shakes her head as she sets the glass down on the bedside table and settles back into her pillows, stifling a yawn into the back of her hand.  She always gets sleepy after she has a few drinks, something she’d explained to Harry— much to his amusement— a few weeks prior, after a movie night at her house when he’d made his famous margaritas.  They’d been having a Harry Potter marathon, and they’d barely begun the second before her eyes had started to flutter closed. 

“I’m good, I think.” She tugs the blankets up to her chin, tilting her head to the side to find Harry already staring at her with a soft expression. “Actually…” Extending a hand to him, she lifts her covers off her body enough to indicate what she wants. “C’mere.”

A boyish giggle falls from the vampire’s strawberry lips, and he flicks off the lamp before crawling towards Y/N in the enveloping darkness.  He folds himself right into her side, opening his own arms for her to slide into, but is surprised when her hand finds his shoulder and tugs him closer to her.

Harry takes the hint and hesitantly settles himself onto her own body, allowing the mortal girl to rest his head along her collarbones, his ear finding a home just above her beating pulse.  One of her hands knots itself in his hair, delicately detangling his messy curls as the other finds a home on his naked shoulder blade, rubbing over his defined muscles with the hottest touch Harry has ever felt. 

It’s a vulnerable position, one that Harry hasn’t been in for decades.  And yet, instead of feeling the usual mix of fear and trepidation, all Harry can feel is comfort.  The combined sensation of Y/N playing with his hair and massaging his shoulder is more pleasurable than he ever could’ve assumed.  A month ago, that would have confused him.  But now… he exhales softly as Y/N’s nails lightly scratch along his scalp.  He can be vulnerable with her.  He trusts her.  And, to his extreme luck, she seems to trust him.

A few minutes pass with nothing said between the pair, the silence around them punctuated with only the sound of their breathing and Y/N’s lone heartbeat.  If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think that Y/N had fallen asleep, but his sharp senses know that’s not true; her pulse is still a few beats faster than it normally is, and her breathing hasn’t completely evened out yet.

Sure enough, Harry’s suspicions are confirmed when Y/N whispers into the darkness a moment later, as if she could hear him mentally assessing her body language. “Harry?” Her voice is gentle, halfway between a whisper and a murmur, as if she’s afraid to be any louder. “Are you awake?”

Harry bites back the smirk that threatens to overtake his lips. “Mhmm.” He hums, nuzzling his head further into Y/N’s caring touch. “Still awake.”

She matches his hum of acknowledgement, the pads of her fingers pressing deeper into the knots of his back. “I was wondering…” Her voice thickens with hesitation. “Would you, um, would you sing for me?”

Without completely lifting himself from her chest, Harry raises his eyes to meet her own, her fingers pausing their motions through his locks as he does so. “Sing?” He asks, taken off guard by the out-of-the-blue request. “Y’want me to sing?”

Although there’s a shadow of shyness across her face, Y/N nods slowly. “I heard you humming earlier today, while you were cooking, and it sounded nice, so I was just thinking about it…” She clears her throat nervously, and Harry can hear the wave of blood that rises to her cheeks. “But you don’t have to.  I know it’s late—”

“No, petal.” Harry hurries to ease her, a frown settling onto his face as he hears her breathing grow shallower with anxiety. “S’fine.  No need to get shy.” Harry is amazed at how smoothly the reassurance falls from his lips. “Yeah, I’ll sing for you.  Any requests?”

Despite him telling her not to be shy, Y/N just shrugs her shoulders in response to his question, her eyes locked on the ceiling above them as if she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze.  Harry plants a kiss along her clavicle before settling back into her plush chest, mentally running through the catalogue of songs he’d been humming earlier.  He should pick something soft, he thinks.  Something like a lullaby.

Y/N resumes her gentle combing through Harry’s locks, mostly to distract herself from his thoughtful silence.  She shouldn’t have asked him to sing something— he’d made it clear earlier that playing the piano for people was something that made him nervous.  They’d sung together playfully multiple times, and Y/N could tell that Harry has a pretty voice, but half-singing, half-rapping along to the Hamilton soundtrack is so different than singing to her in the darkness of his bedroom.  She shouldn’t have asked.  In fact, she should tell him to just forget it, and—

“I had a thought, dear, however scary, about that night, the bugs and the dirt.” Harry’s low vibrato echoes around the previously silent room, his voice no louder than a murmur.  Y/N can feel the vibrations of his vocal chords against her chest, a quiet hum that soothes her like nothing else ever has. “Why were you digging?  What did you bury, before those hands pulled me from the Earth?”

Harry clears his throat quietly between the stanzas, his own eyes drifting close.  He’s never been one for stage fright— he’s always been eager to show off his vocal skills, and there’d been a time when all he wanted was to sing on stage in a smoky speakeasy.  But this— singing in the quiet of his bedroom for an audience of one— is more intimate than he’s used to, and he knows if he catches Y/N’s observant gaze right now, he’ll lose his nerve.

“I will not ask you where you came from; I will not ask and neither should you.” Harry tunes his ear to the steady pulse of Y/N’s heart, using the rhythm as a makeshift metronome to keep his time.  To keep himself steady. “Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips; we should just kiss like real people do.”

Harry feels a spike of warmth against the top of his head, and it takes him a moment longer than normal to realize that it’s Y/N’s lips pressing against his hair.  As he continues to sing, she times her caresses of his ringlets with the beat of his words, which he keeps timed with the beat of her heart.  They’re in a cycle, he realizes as he quietly sings the second verse into her skin. She’s lined up with him as he lines up with her.  They’re locked together, steadying the other while relying on them to keep them steady in return.  For the first time in two hundred years, Harry feels truly in sync with someone.

“Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,” Y/N’s mouth smudges against his temple once more as he nudges his nose along the base of her throat, allowing himself to press his own lips against the satin skin of her chest, just over her heart. He feels like he could stay in this moment forever, which means something given that he truly does have forever. He’d spend every second of the rest of eternity frozen in this instant, if the world allowed it. He’s content, and relaxed, and cradled in his duvet with the one other soul who has somehow managed to thaw the coldness from his stony heart. For the first time in too long, he feels like an actual person again. He isn’t bogged down by his carnal instincts, or by the fear of losing his composure, or by the fact that he doesn’t have a thumping rhythm behind his ribs. 

He doesn’t need all of that because he has Y/N, and she makes him feel more real than all of those aspects ever could. 

“We could just kiss like real people do.”

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles smut #vampire!harry styles #vampire au #one direction fanfiction #one direction fic #one direction imagine #harry styles au #writing #ysijwa

[avintagekiss24]

APPEARANCES || FRANK ADLER

pairing: Frank Adler x black!reader || word count: 5,898 || warnings: smut, sex, slight ass play, a little bit of dirty talk, swearing || request: your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere during a downpour and Frank comes to you rescue 

authors note: fic number #2 for the 4k celebration! this was requested by @stargazingfangirl18​! hope you like, babe! line divider by @firefly-graphics​​!

“Uncle Frank, where are you?”

You smile gently as Mary’s words hit your ears. You send your eyes towards her as she talks on your phone, pacing slowly, her little fingers playing with the hem of her Girls Scout vest. You hear a deep, muffled voice on the other end and turn your eyes back to the laptop in your lap, continuing to tap away at the keys.

“Okay, okay… yes… no… okay… I will… okay, bye.” She plops down next to you, holding out her hand containing your phone,  “He’s on his way. He said thanks for sitting with me.”

You wave her off, winking, “I owe you for all the help you’ve given me this semester.”

The young blonde leans over, placing her hands on your lap as she starts to read the dissertation you’re working on. She pushes some of her blonde hair out of her face as she mumbles, “This is good, except you forgot the negative here… and you need to carry the two here.” She says, pointing to the screen.

You tilt your head and squint your eyes, rereading your work quickly before you shake your head as a slow smile creeps on your face, “Shit.”

Mary looks back at you and smiles widely before leaning back over in her spot, “Can I play Angry Birds on your phone?”

“Well, I owe you again for telling me to carry this two, so yes,” you laugh as you delete the last two lines of your work to start treworking the problem, correctly this time, but you can’t get your fingers to move. You glance down the hallway as students in the small college building move about and spot the vending machine - your stomach rumbling as if on queue, “You want some chips or something, Mary?” you ask, grabbing your purse.

“Doritos please,” She answers, not looking up from your phone, “And a coke.”

You laugh a little as you stand, “Your Uncle is gonna kill me.”

“No he won’t, that’s what he had for breakfast this morning.”

“Wow,” You laugh, shaking your head as you start for the machine, “Don’t move, please.”

You move to the vending machine, pulling out your debit card and swiping it before tapping on the Doritos for Mary and the Cheetos for yourself. You pay for two cokes, (you’ve already ruined your diet with the Cheetos, might as well go all out) and turn on your heel to head back to your seat by the front doors. Just as you're handing the snacks to Mary, the doors open, a cool gust of wind washing over the two of you.

“Finally,” Mary says, rolling her eyes as she stands, “You’re late Uncle Frank.”

“I know it, I know.” He starts, running his hands through his damp hair, “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Mary asks, scrunching her face at him before she turns her attention back to you, “Thank you for the chips and the coke.”

“You’re very welcome. I’ll see you Monday, study buddy?” You ask, raising your hand for a high five.

The little monster slaps your hand with hers, her toothy grin stretching across her face, “You got it.”

“Thank you for sitting with her,” Frank says, glancing up at you as he helps her with her backpack, “And for feeding her.”

You wave him off as you pack up your own bag, “It’s no problem. She’s literally the only reason I’m passing this class, so I can certainly sit with her for fifteen or twenty minutes here and there.”

He smiles at you and you smile back at him, diverting your eyes after a few seconds. You don’t have time for hot uncles. Especially hot, tan uncles who work on boat engines for a living that wear loose Hawaiian button downs and old, dirty jeans. You certainly don’t have time in your life for hot uncles whose bicep muscles flex softly as he puts his nieces backpack on her shoulders.  Nope, you definitely don’t have time for hot, slightly grumpy uncles.

“You be careful out there, the rain is supposed to get worse for the rest of the night.”

“Thanks,” you say, unable to wipe the stupid smile off your face as Frank and Mary move towards the front door, “You too.”

He smiles again as he pushes open the door for the little human, “See you Monday.”

You lift your hand, wiggling your fingers a little as they push out into the wind and the rain. You watch as they run towards his old truck, Frank throwing open the passenger door for her before he slams it shut once she’s in. He jogs around the front of the trunk and then peels out of the parking lot, leaving you standing there, staring out of the glass doors like an idiot. You sigh - you really wish you had time for hot ass uncles.

You throw your messenger bag over your shoulder and grab your math book, holding it over your head as you push through the threshold of the doors out into the rain. You jog towards your old - and when you say old, you mean old. Your baby has two hundred thousand miles on her, a wonky tail light that sometimes comes on and sometimes doesn’t, and a passenger side window that doesn’t roll down all the way, but she’s always done right by you; until recently. You just need her to hold on for a few more weeks - until your dad comes down to visit his favorite girl and shell out a downpayment for a new car.

You toss the heavy math book into the passenger seat and dumb your bag onto the floor board before you put the key in the ignition and turn. It takes a minute, but the engine finally turns over and you pull out of the parking lot to head home - but you should stop by the store because you know you’re not going to want to do it later.

You groan as you slow to a stop at the intersection, cutting your eyes towards the Whole Foods to your left, and then the Taco Bell that sits on the corner to the right. God, a Mexican pizza sounds good… a Mexican pizza, Warrior Nun, and your couch sounds even better. A car honks behind you, startling you out of your daze, and you quickly take a left, heading towards the Whole Foods. Your scale will thank you later.

----

You waste longer than you intend in the Whole Foods and by the time you’re finished, it's pouring outside. Being the responsible adult that you are, you of course left your umbrella at home. So, of course, you and your groceries are soaked by the time you get them into the backseat and you get yourself back behind the wheel. You huff, pushing your wet, soon to be frizzy hair out of your face before slamming your key back into the ignition.

“Come on baby,” you whisper, “Come on, come on.”

After a few more prayers, it turns over, the heat (which is about the only thing that works the way it should) blasting over your chilled body. You rub your hands together quickly, eyeing the Taco Bell as Linkin Park blasts through the speakers. You’re soaked, starving, and no thanks to the thoughts of hot ass uncles and their stupid Hawaiian shirts, suddenly super horny - you deserve a Mexican pizza… and a chalupa… and some nacho fries… and a Baja Blast.

----

Your mood has improved greatly as the smell of tacos fill your nostrils. You tap along to the loud metal music blasting from the speakers as rain pelts down on your car. Ten more minutes and you’ll be home, in your pajamas, stuffing your face - this day can finally end.

Your car jerks suddenly, violently. Lights start flashing on the dash, the gauges pushing into the red as the car starts to die.

“Fuck!” You shout as you grip the wheel tightly, your eyes going wide, your heart starting to pound as you steer the car into the grass.

It rolls for a while before it finally comes to a stop. You turn the key, and hear nothing but clicks, “Shit,” you mumble, turning the key again and pumping the gas pedal, praying that it’ll start up, “Please, please, please.”

Click, click, click.

“Don’t do this to me!” You whine, turning the key again.

Click, click, click.

The lights on the dash flash again, the radio starts, the heat starts to blast, “Yes!” You squeal, bouncing in your seat.

It dies again.

You celebrated too soon.

“Fuck!”

You turn the key again.

No clicks.

No nothing.

You slam your head back into the seat and let your arms fall to your sides. Fuck. You sigh heavily and reach into the backseat, fumbling around until you feel your purse and pull it into your lap. You pull out your phone and tap the screen, but it stays black. You tap again, and then again, but nothing happens. You push the side button and groan when the red battery flashes across the screen. Of course. Of fucking course.

You throw the dead phone into the passenger seat and open your door, running around to the front of the car. You pop the hood, grunting and cursing as the heavy, hard rain drops down on you. Once the hood is up, you just stare at the engine. You don’t even know what you’re looking at, let alone what you should be looking for.

You tug on a few wires, push on the battery, you know, to make sure it’s in its place or whatever, wipe away old, wet leaves - but you’re completely lost, out of ideas and out of your element… in the middle of a downpour, with a dead phone. Just your luck.

A car drives by, splashing the puddled rainwater up onto you as you stand huddled under the hood. You slam your eyes closed, sucking your teeth before you count to ten, trying not to shout obscenities. You hear another car coming and naturally shift over a few feet to avoid being splashed again. A truck zooms past, but you hear it slow down within seconds. You peek over the hood as the truck comes to a complete stop and then is put in reverse. You’re half grateful but also half afraid - it is Florida.

“I thought that was you,” You hear a familiar voice call to you before a door opens and slams shut, “What happened?”

Relief floods over you as none other than Frank Adler, hottie McUncle pants, jogs towards you and joins your side, “God, I don’t know!” you whine, “I was driving home and it just stopped.”

“Let me take a look,” he mumbles more to himself than to you as he starts tugging and pushing on random wires, “Does it click or no, when you try and start it.”

“It was clicking, but now it’s not.”

He grunts a little, “Sounds like it’s probably the battery and the starter. When’s the last time you got an oil change?” You glance towards the sky, scrunching your face as you try and remember, “That’s too long to go without an oil change.” he chuckles, “I can get you fixed up, but not in all of this rain. Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“No, I can’t - I can’t ask you to do that, I’ve taken enough of your time already and now you’re all soaked and,”

“I’m not gonna leave you in the rain,” he smirks, “Come on.”

“No, no, really! I can call somebody.” You lie, knowing good and damn well your phone is beyond dead. He scoffs, grabbing your hand, “I mean it, I have a backseat full of groceries!”

He pulls you into the street, opening the passenger side door to his truck and helps you in before he jogs back to your car. You watch as he grabs all of your groceries, all of them, in one hand at that, before he jogs back to his truck, opening the door again and depositing them at your feet. He runs back to your car, grabbing your backpack, purse, and your Taco Bell, before he jogs back to the truck, this time climbing into the drivers side.

“Frank,” you start, laughing nervously, “You really don’t have to do this. Really.”

“Don’t worry about it. I owe you anyway, for watching Mary whenever I’m running late.”

You roll your eyes playfully, “Not really, but okay. I live off of Ventura.”

“Ventura?” He says as he pulls off, flipping a u-turn, “That’s like fifteen minutes from here. You can chill at my place, get cleaned up, eat your food, then hopefully the rain will have let up and I can come back and change out the battery.”

His place? You swallow hard. This is not how you’ve elaborately daydreamed about finally being alone with Frank Adler, “You don’t have to do that, I’m sure you and Mary have plans.”

“Nah,” he says absentmindedly as he drives, “She stays with Roberta on Friday nights. It’ll just be you and me.”

Great. Now you don’t even have a buffer. You tap your fingers nervously against your knees as you stare out the windshield, your mind - and heart - suddenly racing. You clear your throat and glance over at him, which is a bad idea. His skin is damp, his loose dark gray t-shirt - now soaked - sticking to his chest and stomach. You push your eyes to his outstretched forearm and have to take a breath. How is it possible to be attracted to a forearm? Has it honestly been that long for you? You flick your eyes back towards the windshield - you’re not even going to chance looking at his face.

He pulls you into a small trailer park, parking his truck in front of a turquoise house. The two of you grab your belongings, him again grabbing all of your groceries in one hand - another thing that turns you on that shouldn’t - and run towards his front door, Frank pushing his weight against it to pop it open.

He lets you push in first before he closes the door and sets your groceries on the counter. You glance around, finding an orange, one eye cat meowing at you from its place on the small table pushed against the wall.

“Fred,” he says, pushing the cat softly, “Off the table, come on man.”

Little remnants of Mary are scattered around, her small sneakers tucked underneath the chair, her Spongebob DVDs piled on top of the table, with advanced math books and an apple laptop. Frank is also scattered around the small, but strangely cozy place.  A motor - or what you think is a motor - sits on the coffee table in the living room, tools strewn around it, and an open but turned over philosophy book lays on the couch.

“Do you wanna shower? I have some clothes you can change into if you want.”

You snap your head towards him, blinking rapidly as your brain tries to keep up with his words, “Oh, um, yeah. Okay, yeah.”

You follow him nervously to the bathroom, where he points out that you how to jiggle the knob a little to get hot water before he disappears into his room, only to return with a pair of sweatpants, an old t-shirt, a large pullover hoodie, and some socks. Just as he leaves the bathroom, there’s a hint of a smile, more like a smirk, on his face before he dips his head and shuts the door behind him.

The butterflies that fill your stomach.

You turn towards the shower, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You slam your eyes closed. This is definitely not how you’ve envisioned this moment.

----

You step out of the bathroom twenty some odd minutes later, drowning in his sweats and hoodie, but warm and definitely feeling a lot better. Rain still beats down on the small house, seemingly harder than before. The TV is on, either wrestling or MMA or whatever playing, the sound low. Frank is in the kitchen, changed into a slightly dirty white t-shirt, complete with a little pocket, and baggy jeans, his feet bare - something else that turns you on that shouldn’t.

He hasn’t noticed you yet and you’re unsure if you want him too. You run your hand over your hair, towel dried as best as you could and pulled into a tight bun to try and keep it from curling and frizzing, with a scrunchie that you hope is Mary’s. You shove your hands into the front pocket of the hoodie and take a few steps, clearing your throat as a small, nervous smile plays on your lips.

Frank glances over at you as the microwave beeps, “Feel better?”

You nod slowly, “Much. Thank you again.”

“Not a problem, although, I’ll need you to keep this to yourself. I have appearances to keep up.” He says with a straight face.

“Oh yeah?” You chuckle.

He nods and points at a house across a small patch of grass, “My neighbor, Roberta, thinks I’m a nice guy,” he shrugs and you laugh again, “So, I constantly have to remind her that I am not.”

Your smile grows as you see your phone plugged into the charger, knowing that you weren’t the one to do so, “Of course. I will be more than happy to let people know that you sped right past me in my desperate time of need.”

“Thanks,” he chuckles, holding out a plate to you, “You know they’re getting rid of the Mexican pizza, right?”

Your eyes widen as you take your heated up tacos from him, “No way!”

He throws up his hands as he pulls his microwavable burrito out of the wrapper and throws it on his plate, “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

You follow him into the living room and plop down on the opposite side of the couch, as far as you can get away from him, and tuck your feet underneath your butt, “The Mexican pizza is the staple of their menu, how could they do this?”

Frank shrugs again, “Trying to class the place up a bit I guess.”

You snort as you take a bite, “You can’t class up the drunk capital of the world, baby.”

The two of you fall into an easy silence as you eat, the rain still falling hard as you watch whatever it is you’re watching. You grimace as one man punches the other in the jaw before tackling him to the mat as they start to wrestle. You close your eyes and turn your head away, groaning as the same man starts rapidly punching the other in the face, “What um, what is this called?”

He chuckles, grabbing the remote, “Sorry, I’ll change it. Mary and I usually watch MMA together.”

“You let Mary watch this?” You ask shockingly, laughing a little.

He scrunches up his nose as he hisses, nodding his head slowly, “I probably shouldn’t, right? Too violent?”

“I mean,” you start, “Just a tad. I can see why she hit that kid in the face now.”

“Ah fuck, she told you about that?” He laughs, falling back into the couch.

“Oh yeah, she did.” You laugh harder.

He covers his face with his hands, “Not our most shining moment.”

You push your elbow into the back of the couch and prop your head up with your fist as you smile back at him. Hot uncle is really… hot in his element, and when he’s talking about the small, blonde human. It makes your ovaries quake.

“She’s a great kid, you know.” You say, “You’re doing great with her.”

He rolls his head towards you, a smirk tugging at his lips, “You think?”

His question catches you off guard a little - the earnesty of it. Like he really wants you to say yes. Like, he doesn’t believe that he’s doing a great job.

“Yeah. You are.”

He blinks at you - once, and then twice before he looks back at the tv, touching his knees together before he pushes them back out again. Mark down a third thing that turns you on - the manspread.

“She talks about you a lot,” he says after a few moments, “Not just to me, but Roberta too. She really likes you.”

You smile softly, “Yeah?”

He looks back over at you, nodding slowly, “Yeah. That’s half the reason Roberta comes to get her, you know, so she can have some girl time - talk about girl stuff. She needs that,” he nods again, clearing his throat, “And you, you know, you kinda help out with that in an unconscious way, so,” he clears his throat again, “It means a lot, it really does.”

You drop your head as a large smile spreads on your face, “Well,” you start, “Somebody has to offset your asshole-ness, so Roberta and I are doing our best.”

The two of you laugh again, him dropping his head, you glancing back at the tv as the air around you starts to suddenly shift. He takes a swig of his beer before he places it between his legs, holding the neck with both of his hands. He taps his thick fingers against the green bottle a few times before he turns his heads towards you, blinking as he chews on his bottom lip. Your lips part as your breath gets shallow, your eyes bouncing around his face.

Within a second, his lips are on yours, taking you by complete surprise. You’re frozen for a few seconds, your eyes still open, your breath hitching in your throat - but then… oh, but then. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into his kiss slowly, placing your hands on his shoulders and gripping ever so tightly. He releases your lips quickly before he delves back in, this time harder, his tongue pushing into your mouth for the very first time.

You can taste the faint alcohol on his lips and you moan - slipping your hand around his neck to push your fingers into his surprisingly soft hair. He fumbles with his beer, stretching out his arm trying to find the table. The bottle clangs against the edge and then the top before he just lets it go, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud as the rest of the golden liquid pours out onto the carpet.

He crawls towards you, his knees sinking into the couch as he loops his arm around your waist, pulling you into his lap and further down onto your back. You slip your hands up into his shirt, sliding them along his sides and up his sinewy back. You push yours hips into his as you feel his muscles flex underneath your fingers. The tips of his fingers are still cool from the beer bottle as they skirt across your stomach. You break the kiss to laugh at yourself when you jump at his touch, Frank’s low chuckle harmonizing with yours.

“You okay?” he whispers, a smile still on his face, his lips brushing against yours.

You nod, still giggling like an idiot, “Yeah, sorry,” you whisper, leaning up a little to kiss him again.

His hand continues to travel the length of you, reaching your bare breasts, where he cups gently. You gasp lightly as the pads of his fingers graze over your nipples, exciting them further as they tighten and protrude. He pushes his hips down into yours and rocks forward - so you can feel him. You dig your fingers into his sides, matching the slow pace of his hips with yours.

His lips push down to your jaw and neck, where he nips and sucks, his arm looping around your waist again. He pulls you into his lap as he sits back into the couch, his hands dragging up your back. You lean back and bite your bottom lip in uncertainty as your eyes search his. His lips are red and swollen, his eyes wide and sparkly as they drop to your lips before linking with yours again. He drops his hands to your waist, holding you firmly as he pushes his hips into yours.

You bunch the baggy hoodie and t-shirt that cover your chest and pull, bringing them both up over your head in one fell swoop and drop them to the floor. Frank takes a breath - deep and slow - as his eyes drop to your exposed flesh. He sends his eyes back up to yours seconds later and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as his hand slips up your back. He wraps his long fingers around the back of your neck and pulls you down, crashing your lips to his.

You reach for the bottom of his shirt, tugging it up, helping him shrug it off quickly before you fumble with the button on his jeans. He digs his fingers underneath the band of your sweatpants, lifting you up to yank them down your legs and throw them to the floor. You pop the button of his jeans and pull down his zipper before you reach for him, palming his warmth. He hisses, and pulls your body into his, tightening his grip on you as you stroke him.

He releases you just long enough to pull his jeans down his legs. He then grabs two handfuls of your ass, spreading your skin as the tip of his cock pushes against your slit. You grip his shoulders as you sink down on him - throwing your head back as he penetrates you. You feel his eyes on you as you gobble him up, wiggling your hips slowly as you adjust to his girth. He sinks back into the couch, resting his head on the back of it as his eyelids droop over his blues, his hands still gripping your ass.

You start to move. Pulling up on him before you sink back down, hissing as a fire starts to rage through you. You dig your nails into his shoulders before dragging them down his biceps as you let your head roll back on your neck, your mouth falling open as your eyes close.

Frank leans up to peer around the curve of your body to watch the primal connection between the two of you. He palms your ass hard, squeezing your flesh in his hands as he spreads it apart again as you bounce and rock into him. He slips a large hand up your back and spreads his fingers to push your naked chest into his. The hardness of his body against the softness of yours - your supple, full breasts pushing against his wide, hairy chest is… wildly erotic. The sturdiness of him, the tightness in which his hands hold you.

He starts to fuck up into you, bucking his hips to meet you on your way down - all the while keeping his hands full of your ass, kneading and groping -  feeling you. You wrap your arms around his neck and lean back, pulling him with you. He peppers hot, wet, furied kisses over and between your breasts and along your clavicles as his hips dig into yours.

It feels good - he feels good. He leans away from you, pulling you up with him as he stands, He wraps his hands around your thighs and kisses you hard as he starts to pull you through the living room and the kitchen, back into his bedroom. He closes the door with his foot and lays you down gently, climbing over top you, his knees pressing into the mattress. He drags his dick through your folds before he centers at your slit, pushing gently - slowly -  like he’s savoring the feeling.

He grabs your leg and hooks it over his waist as he starts to move again. He runs his hand the length of your calf, over your knee, down your thigh as he fucks you - harder than before, on the couch. You sweep your hands up his sides and along the small of his back, feeling his muscles as they flex while he fucks you good; deep. His name falls off your lips as more heat blooms across your skin, and he likes it - growls at it - the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.

He grunts, squeezing your thigh in his hand as he pumps into you, “You feel so good, baby,” he slurs, “As good as I thought you’d feel.”

As good as I thought you’d feel. You slam your eyes closed as you groan at his admission. He pulls out of you suddenly and pushes his hands underneath your body, flipping you right over onto your stomach. He grabs your sides, his rough hands pulling you up onto your knees. He slips his hand between your folds and massages your clit with the pads of his fingers as he pushes into you again.

His free hand slips up your back, grabbing your shoulder and squeezing as he starts to fuck into you again. You grip the sheets in your hands as you lunge forward with each of his thrusts, your breasts bouncing, the sound of his skin slapping against yours filling the room. He releases your shoulder and flattens his hand between your shoulder blades, pushing hard to get you to rest your head and shoulders against the mattress. He grabs your hands and crosses them at the wrists over the small of your back as he holds them in just one of his large hands.

“God, Frank,” you groan, “Fuck.”

His thrusts are long and hard; pushing deep into your sex, stroking you in places that haven’t been touched in ages. Your wet muscles start to squeak with each push of his hips, a soft squish sound filling your ears. He grabs your ass again, squeezing hard, spreading you open so he can see all of you. You feel his fingers drift through your cheeks, circling your tight hole before his thumb starts to press gently.

You grit your teeth and push back into him as hard as you can, meeting his hips halfway. Your head swims as sweat and goosebumps pop up along your skin, your heart slamming against your chest. Electricity flashes through your body, making your toes curl as your ungodly howls float through the trailer. Hot uncle is a hot fuck - that’s for sure.

Frank slips out of you again but stays close - the tip of his cock still pressing against your slit. You open your eyes and glance back at him, your lips parted and breath heavy. He stares down at your cunt and ass, stroking himself from his base to his tip slowly, his free hand pulling softly on his balls. You pull your hand around to your sex and push your fingers along your clit, arching your back as you hiss loudly. You lick your lips as you keep your eyes on him - his hard, wide chest and thick biceps flexing as he pumps himself.

“This is a pretty pussy, baby girl,” he praises, releasing a deep breath, “So pretty.”

You whine at the words, your fingers picking up their pace as his praise falls over you. Your cunt is hot and swollen - so wet that your fingers glide with ease through your folds, your slick starting to slide down the inside of your thigh. You push your fingers into your opening and pump them quickly for him, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as he growls at the sight.

You pull your fingers out and start rubbing your clit again, pulsing your hips slightly as you watch Frank stroke himself. His tip glistens as precum spurts from his slit, dripping off of him and splashing on the sheets. He grabs your ass, jiggling your flesh playfully before he slides his cock through your folds. He positions himself right at your opening, but doesn’t push - he just waits.

You wiggle your hips, giggling a little before you push back onto him, a smile curling onto your lips as your muscles spread for him. You push until you’ve swallowed him whole, until your ass is flush against his hips, and you feel him deep. You pull forward and then push back, over and over until you’re thrashing against him; you’re eyes slammed closed, your sounds loud and high pitched.

He pulls you up onto your knees and flattens your back to his chest. He nips at your neck with his teeth as he glues his hands to your bouncing tits, tweaking your nipples between his thumb and index fingers. He pants in your ear, mumbling not so sweet nothings, his hot breath washing over the side of your face. He snakes his hand down your stomach - right down to your sex - and touches you ever so lightly.

That’s all it takes. Just the gentle tap of his rough fingers against your sensitive, sore, clit; and you’re gone. Your body tenses and then shudders as your orgasm spreads through you like lightening. Heat blooms across your skin as your pussy convulses - your clit jumping with each contraction, your muscles tightening around him.

He gets louder, his voice deeper and gruffer as each stroke gets harder and faster. Within minutes of your undoing, he’s spurting into you, coating your insides with his milky warmth. You fall forward onto your chest, Frank onto his back next to you as your chests heave. You stare at the opposite wall, blinking slowly as the world starts to center again - the sound of the television comes back to you -  the sound of the rain.

You roll your head towards him and he does the same, the two of you just blinking at one another until a fit of giggles erupt from you. You don’t even know why. You laugh so hard that you have to cover your face with your hands. This definitely isn’t the way you’ve imagined this going when you’ve had your hand down your pants at night in your apartment. He rolls over onto his side and props his head up with his palm, smiling at you as you laugh.

“Sorry,” you mumble, “I don’t know why I’m laughing.”

“It’s okay,” he shrugs, “You have a nice laugh.”

“That’s not very asshole-y of you, Frank.”

He chuckles, nodding slowly, “That’s right, okay, yeah. You have an awful laugh.”

You point at him, “Appearances, right?”

----

You wake with a slight start. You sit up quickly, your eyes squinted as the sun breaks in through the crack in the shade over the window. A sleeping Frank lays beside you. He’s on his stomach, his hands shoved underneath the pillows that hold his head, facing away from you. The tv still plays in the living room. Your discarded clothes still in a heap on the floor, the beer bottle still tipped over.

You glance back at the window and lift the shade slowly, a smile spreading on your face as you spot your old Jetta parked next to his old truck. You lay back down and pull the covers up over your head just as he shifts beside you, stretching out his long arm until it finds your hip.

You close your eyes.

You can’t wait to tell everybody how big of an asshole Frank Adler is.

#frank adler #frank adler x reader #frank adler x you #you x frank adler #reader x frank adler #frank adler x black!reader #gifted #gifted fanfiction #gifted fanfic #gifted fic #black!reader #black reader #brittanys4k

[elizabeethan]

Watch the Sunlight Fade: 15 / 17

Emma Swan finds out that her boyfriend has been hiding something from her: he’s in a gang and trying to get out. Reluctantly, she decides to support him, sticking it out with him until they have enough money to flee to Florida. All she has to do is wait and ignore that feeling in her gut that something is seriously wrong. With the help of a kind and handsome stranger, she just might make it out alive.

Or, alternate summary: I’m horrible at summaries, please just read it.

Something of a cross between a What Still Remains AU and a Sons of Anarchy AU.

A/N: get ready for some whumpy aftermath

Rated M

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Read on Ao3

~~~~

Emma creeps through the building, eyes scanning each door for any indication of Elsa’s whereabouts. Robin told her in haste as she was leaving that Elsa lives in this building, too, but he failed to inform her of what unit she was in. 

 As she walks the halls, a door opens slowly and reveals the face of someone she recognizes and is relieved to see. “Tink, hi.”

 “Looking for El?” 

 She nods. “Killian asked me to make sure she’s safe.”

 “Is he okay?” she asks with concern. Emma almost smiles at how much his friend truly cares about him. 

 “I don’t know,” she shakes her head. “They really hurt him.”

 Her voice is heated. She won’t get past the anger that boils the blood singing through her veins. They hurt the man she loves, and she isn’t sure how she’ll get past that fact without making someone pay. 

 “Well, let’s get the hell out of here so we can get him help.”

 Tink shows her where Elsa’s apartment is and she knocks on the door, answered quickly and coldly. “Yes?” 

 “Elsa,” Emma greets, confused by her clipped tone, less confused to see that she looks entirely unharmed. “Killian wanted me to check on you.”

 She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure he did,” she says sarcastically. 

“We have… we have a safe place for you. Come with us,” she tries. She doesn’t actually want to even bother convincing her, but she knows it’s what Killian wants.

 “Safe? You’re full of it.”

 She knew it. Killian feared that she had the information tortured out of her, unable to believe that she could have betrayed him with her own free will, but Emma had a sinking feeling that that wasn’t the case. Now, she thinks she’s right. “You told them,” she accuses. 

 “Yes, I did. He should know better than to try to betray the club like that.”

 “He trusts you,” she tries. “He loves you because you loved his brother.” 

 “I love my family,” she argues vapidly. “Killian tried to destroy it by shacking up with you and killing one of our own. He betrayed Neal, just because he can’t get over what happened to Liam.”

 Tink laughs, shaking her head, and Emma says, “They killed Liam! How can you not see that?”

 “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t see. You don’t know anything; you certainly don’t understand the inner workings of the club or why Peter makes the decisions he does.”

 Her thoughts are swirling in her head, moving too quickly as she tries to straighten out what Elsa says to her. She’s too forgiving, too accepting of what’s happened to the man she was supposed to love. Her actions have been too cruel. Someone who loves Killian wouldn’t have given him up; she wouldn’t be taking such a black and white stance if… 

 “You knew,” she accuses knowingly, without needing to ask. “You’ve known all along that they killed Liam.” 

 With a roll to her eyes, she says, “Liam’s actions no longer reflected his promise to the club. They did what needed to be done, and I understood that-- unlike you. The club has been my family long before Liam came around.” 

 “How could you…” she whispers, unable to say anything more. She can hardly vocalize how horrified she is to learn that someone she thought was sweet and innocent has been working against the people who love her all along.

 With a scoff, she says, “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Go back to your real boyfriend, you slut. You’re lucky he even still wants you after all you’ve done to betray us.”

 “You’re a monster,” Emma grumbles, backing away from her. “I don’t know how you can do this to someone who really loves you.”

 The sting against her cheek is immediate and sharp, Elsa’s hand delivering a solid slap and making Emma and Tink gasp in unison. “The club loves me. They’ve taken care of me since I was a kid. Now get away from me before I tell Peter what you told me about a safe place,” she goads. “Go back home, and maybe you won’t get hurt.”

 “Like Killian did? And Liam?” 

 “They got what they deserved. If you’re not careful, you will, too. I’m willing to look past this transgression, only because I know Neal loves you and thinks you’ll be a good candidate at carrying on the bloodline. But make no mistake; fuck up again and I’ll be taking this little conversation to Peter.”

 Emma couldn’t have convinced Elsa to come with them if she tried, because she wasn’t even able to try. The door slams in her face before she has a chance to get another word in.

 ~~~~

 His surroundings are barely visible before the pain sets in again. 

 It’s blinding, no matter what he does. Opening his eyes is painful. Keeping them closed is, too. 

 He doesn’t need to be awake to know where he is, either. The waves rocking the boat violently give away their location.

 “I think he’s waking up,” someone says with a voice he doesn’t recognize. “Get over here.” 

 “Mate,” he hears from Rob, his voice vaguely recognizable through the fog in his brain. “Killian, come on.” 

 “You shouldn’t have let him sleep. He probably has a concussion.” 

 “You try stopping him.” 

 “Shut up,” he groans, his lip cracking again as he speaks. Each of the men by his side laugh in relief. 

 “Killian,” he hears Robin breathe. “You alright, mate?” 

 He winces as he tries to take in a grounding breath, his ribs protesting vehemently. “Where is she?” he asks, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice. 

 “Who’s that? The one looking for me?” 

 “Emma,” Robin confirms, and Killian forces his eyes open. He only hopes that the look he gives his friend is enough to relay his fear and anger at him telling this stranger anything about the woman he loves. Doesn't he know she’s in danger already? “Don’t look at me like that, mate,” he says, although Killian can detect a hint of relief in his voice at seeing his open eyes. 

 “What did you do?” he asks, unable to expend the energy it would take to say much more. 

 “This is David. You, and especially Emma, might recognize him as James Spencer.” 

 Killian groans as he lifts his head, the crushing pain of his headache almost unbearable. Truthfully, he thought he would be worse off. Sure, he’s quite certain several ribs are broken, and he worries that he might have a fracture or two in his cheek from how many times Cassidy beat on him, but the pain isn’t quite as bad as he expected it to be. 

 It’s still bloody excruciating, though. 

 “Spencer,” he answers, looking at the familiar stranger. “The cop?” 

 He nods. “You’re girlfriend’s good. I’m with the FBI now, deep undercover. I thought we’d buried everything.” 

 “Of course she is,” he agrees, trying to take a breath deep enough to actually fill his lungs. He digs his fingers into the thin mattress and winces. “So, what now? Where is she?” 

 “She’s meeting me here,” Robin tells him. 

 “You left her alone?” he asks angrily.

 “You told her to round up Tink and Elsa. Begged her. I had to get you the hell out of there before they bloody killed you.” 

 “Why the hell would you listen to me?” he grumbles, rolling his eyes painfully. “How long has she been gone?” 

 Looking down to his watch, Robin answers, “About two hours. But she’s smart, she’ll get out of there alright.” 

 He can’t even answer, can’t even tell his friend how stupid it was to let Emma go off on her own, unprotected, before Nolan speaks up. “Your friend tells me you always seem to have a plan.” 

 “Give me some water and something to get rid of this damn headache and I’ll be much more amenable to talking.” 

 He can barely keep up with his surroundings, too disoriented and dizzy and in too much blinding pain to keep his eyes open or to form a coherent thought beyond his worry for Emma. He isn’t even sure how much time passes, how long it takes for the glass of water to appear in his hand.

 “I checked you out,” David says after what must have been a few minutes, the water finally washing away the taste of blood from his mouth. “I have field training. I think you have some cracked ribs, but I don’t think your face is broken.” 

 With a sigh and a roll to his eyes, Killian says, “Well aren’t I lucky.”

 The medication he gives him sets in after a few minutes more, numbing the pain slightly and making it so that Killian can finally breathe in enough oxygen to not feel like he’s drowning. Satisfied with the lessened pain, he takes another gulp of water and says, “Aye, I think I have a plan.”

 “Go on.” 

 “Peter’s on a rampage, ready to destroy whoever he can, but I’m assuming that if you’re here, the Kings of Elsinore must be close.” David nods in agreement. “He doesn’t know they’re coming. He planned to attack them first. Have your gang found the Lost Boy’s clubhouse yet?”

 “No.”

 “Good. We can tell you where to find them and you can set up a raid with the FBI, take both clubs down at once. On one condition.” 

 A particularly forceful wave rocks the boat again, the one that’s all too familiar to Killian, and sends David stumbling to the right. Killian’s stomach flips once more. “What’s that?” he asks once he gets his bearings. 

 Despite his pain, and his desperate need for some chapstick, Killian smirks. “You’re going to help us get out of this mess.”

 ~~~~

 It’s almost midnight by the time Neal finally falls asleep. His adrenaline and anger has kept him up, his anger directed at his plaything being taken from him rather than his girlfriend potentially being hurt before he finally crashes. He hasn’t even noticed her swollen, red cheek, too busy focusing on his rage. 

 She plays it up dramatically, acting like she’s relieved that he finally found out and got her out of the dangerous situation, while also terrified at the fact that it happened. Really, she knows she’ll be having a similar, but still drastically different, exchange with Killian the moment this is over. 

 She takes a final look around the apartment once he’s sleeping, looking for one thing and one thing only and unable to find it. She isn’t sure what he’s done to her only possession; the children’s book is the only thing she cares about aside from her friends' safety. But she isn’t surprised to know that he stole or destroyed it given his complete disregard for her well-being in any capacity. 

 She sneaks out the front door, content to never return, and creeps down the hall towards Olivia’s unit. 

 “It’s time,” she says once she gets there, her voice just above a whisper. 

 As they quietly tiptoe across the dock once they arrive, she briefly wonders how Robin will know of their arrival, before her question is answered for her. He pokes his head out of the cabin of a rather large yacht, and Emma scans the area before hurrying towards him. 

 “You made it,” he exclaims, taking her backpack and helping her onto the deck of the boat. “Where’s Elsa?”

 “Where’s Killian?” she asks, willing to ignore his question and put her out of her mind a bit longer. 

 “Below deck. He’s awake.”

 She’ll tell them about Elsa soon. Right now, she has more important things to worry about, and she can’t imagine bursting Killian’s bubble once again by telling him the truth. 

 Stepping down into the cabin is daunting. The boat reminds her of the clubhouse, weapons on display wherever they can fit. She wonders about how safe that can be, the clubs and knives and primitive looking tools bound to fall eventually with the way the waves are rocking the boat. 

 “Killian,” she exclaims, excitement to see him sitting up on his own taking over her resolve to stay strong for him. The tears are leaking from her eyes before she even realizes she’s about to cry, and she hurries towards him. The last time she saw him, he was so broken that she was worried she would lose him. 

 He breathes her in when she collides with him, wincing as she puts too much pressure on his ribs but not releasing his firm hold on her. 

 “You alright?” he asks her, his lips brushing against her neck as he speaks. Leave it to him to worry about her after he was beaten within an inch of his life. His hand reaches up to touch her cheek, the redness fading but evidently still noticeable enough, at least to a man who truly cares about her. “What did he do?” 

 “I’m fine,” she answers. She wants to crawl onto his lap and hold him in her arms for the rest of their lives, but she knows she can’t. They have to move. “Can we go now?”

 “Where’s El?” he asks, confused. 

 Robin interrupts, not letting Emma answer, and says, “we can’t go yet, unless we want to get arrested. Emma, meet Special Agent David Nolan.”

 Her eyes widen when she looks up and sees a man she recognizes, stunned to have his identity confirmed for her. “James Spencer,” she says, nodding her head. “So you are undercover?”

 “I am. Props to you for figuring it out, although it’s a bit disconcerting.”

 “I didn’t tell anyone,” she shrugs. The agent laughs. “Plus, I thought you were just a cop.”

 “Close enough.”

 “Emma,” Killian says softly, his hand closing around hers and squeezing again. “Where's Elsa? What happened to you?”

 She bites her bottom lip when she looks into his eyes again and is met with his painful stare. It’s unfair that she has to be the one to tell him this. That a woman he thought was his family should betray him like this and she has to be the one to pass the information along and to see the look on his face when she does. 

 “Killian,” she answers softly. “Olivia and I went to her and tried to get her to come with us. We told her we had a safe way out, that we would help her escape. But she wanted nothing to do with us.” 

 He touches her face again, the concern written across his face pulling at her heart. “What happened?” he nearly whispers. 

 “She said some awful things,” Tink tells him. “Emma told her she was being stupid, essentially-- ripped her a new one for selling you out-- and El gave her a good slap.”

 His fingers dance along her tender skin once more as he shakes his head in disappointment and disbelief. “She did this to you?”

 “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell you--”

 His lips find hers effortlessly, his touch gentle and delicate and careful not to let things between them get too passionate while they still have an audience. She’ll have to tell him about Liam eventually, but it’s too much right now. He’s so broken, and she worries that telling him that his sister-in-law knew about his brother's death could put him over the edge when he has to focus on healing. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I can’t believe she would--”

 “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we really should get moving. The SWAT team will be here soon.”

 “SWAT?” 

 “Love, David is planning a raid on the clubhouse. We’re going to give him the club’s location in exchange for our freedom and immunity during any investigations.”

 She lets her jaw drop in surprise, her expectations of their evening completely shattering before her. “Oh shit…”

 “Aye,” Killian confirms. “We just need to figure a way to get them all to the clubhouse. We need Peter to call another family meeting, but me simply being gone likely wouldn’t be enough of a reason.”

 “If I may,” David offers, Emma looking up from Killian’s distracting eyes at him. “Isn’t she the leader’s girlfriend?”

 “She is called Emma, and if you think she is going back there, you might as well just haul me off to jail right now because I’ll bloody beat--”

 “Killian!” she insists, placing her hand on his and squeezing to try and calm him down. “Just hear him out. He might be onto something.” 

 He turns to her, his cheeks flushed in his pain and anger. “I’m not sending you back there! You just left; I’ll die before I let anything more happen to you.”

 She rolls her eyes, but it’s only to protect herself. The fact is, he did almost die in favor of letting anything happen to her. “No you won’t,” she says definitively. She stands from her place beside him and looks seriously at the agent. “What did you have in mind?”

 “Emma--”

 She turns around sharply. “After everything you’ve been through today, don’t you dare tell me I can’t do something to protect you. We can end this, Killian. We won’t be on the run; we’ll be completely free to live the lives we want.” Turning back to David, she asks, “Right?”

 “She’s right,” he agrees, though he’s looking at Killian. “With all of your cooperation, I’m positive I can get you off scot free.”

 “Killian,” she whispers, sitting back at his side and taking his hand once more. “I can do this.”

 “I know,” he agrees immediately with a firm nod, a look of consternation on his pained face. “I’ve yet to see you fail. I just hate that I have to put you through this.”

 “You’re not,” she promises. “I am. And I’ll be fine. I can handle Neal.”

 “Aye, you’ve proven that much,” he smiles, his hand finding her cheek again. His eyes are starting to look heavier and heavier, whatever he was given for the pain taking over his consciousness again. “You’re a mighty strong lass.”

 “You sound so much more British when you’re high,” she laughs, leaning over to kiss his broken bottom lip softly. 

 “I just happen to know you like my accent,” he flirts, and she giggles in response, pecking the tip of his nose. 

 “Alright, my love,” she whispers. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

 ~~~~

 “Neal,” she whispers when she arrives in his bedroom. Their plan is a solid one, fully formed and ready to be put into action. That fact doesn’t make her any less anxious. 

 Killian gave David plenty of information on the club before she’d arrived. He told him about the millions in merchandise they’ve stolen, and where to find the pieces and the blueprints for evidence. He told them about the countless murders they’ve committed, including that of his own brother and where his body can be found. He told them about the illegal pornography business they’ve been running, and in exchange, David and his team will look past Olivia’s involvement. 

 Now, all that’s left is to gather the club for a family meeting and wait for the shooting to start. 

 She won’t be there, though. She and Killian made sure of that, making a plan just before he fell asleep and just after David left to make a call to his superiors. 

 “Neal, baby, wake up,” she says, appealing to his distorted senses and shaking his shoulders. 

 “What is it?” he asks grumpily, pushing her hands away. 

 “I found something.”

 He groans and snaps, “Just tell me what it is.”

 She clears her throat awkwardly and says, “I was able to pin Spencer’s last known location. He’s here, in Storybrooke. I think the whole gang is.” 

 He sits up suddenly, his eyes glowing meanly in the moonlight and making her shudder. “An attack,” he says, his tone definite, as if he’s the one who figured this out. 

 He doesn’t bother to even question how she found out, but she’s fine with that. “I think we should ask Peter to call a family meeting. This changes the whole plan, right?”

 “You’re right,” he agrees. “Come on, get dressed.”

 For once in her miserable relationship with him, she happily does as he commands. 

~~~~

~~~~

@courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly​ @donteattheappleshook @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay @xsajx​ @itsfridaysomewhere​ @alexa-fangirl-forever​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @qualitycoffeethings​ @rapunzelsghosts​ @spaceconveyor @badcats-andmice​ @batana54​ @sailtoafarawayland​ @deckerstarblanche​ @zaharadessert​ @xarandomdreamx @pirateprincessofpizza​ @captainswan21​

#Watch the Sunlight Fade #captain swan #captain swan fanfic #captain swan au #cs ff #once upon a time #sunlight ff #ouat ff #whump

[aggravatetheaxe]

Can I have some Nick x bo thoughts? 🥺🥺 I’m intrigued

Okay I decided to just throw spaghetti for this one, so it's in the form of a chaotic bullet point list

STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS THOUGHTS ABOUT NICK/BO:

i feel like there'd be little to no chance of him living without carly also being alive; if anyone was going to appeal to bo's little shreds of humanity - his sense of family - it would be a girl begging for her twin brother's life

also i just like carly so what would be the point if she wasn't there?

it would have to be rather earlier in the movie. like, there is no going back from the point they're at in the final battle, you know? no amount of begging would assuage bo and vincent from murdering them at that point

on the other hand, seeing how resilient carly and nick are is a big turning point in the movie. it's super important for not just the viewers but all the characters to see how well they work in tandem. i wouldn't want to take that away from them

so maybe the best of both worlds would be if carly and nick decided to turn the tables on the boys after they shoot bo and he passes out in the theater?

like what if when he passed out, they tied him up and used him to lure vincent, and there was some kind of tense bargaining situation?

or, ooh ooh ooh, what if: so bo has carly down in his dungeon and nick can't get her out, so instead he captures one of the sinclair brothers and that's the trade off? carly's life for bo's or whatever?

then carly and nick aren't in a position where they can leave ambrose, but the brothers aren't necessarily in a position to kill them either

idk neither of those are perfect scenarios, but suspend disbelief with me

this would be Slow Burn. HELLA Slow Burn enemies to lovers. which i love, so

bo would hate nick on principle because he's the one bastard they couldn't take down, and he's just some fucking guy from florida. plus he's a cocky asshole who has a problem with authority, and though bo kens that, it also drives him FUCKING INSANE when he is the authority figure

nick would hate bo because, well, it's obvious: bo killed some of his closest friends, including dalton, who nick may or may not have had romantic tension with; and wade, his sister's boyfriend. to say nothing of the fact that bo hunted, kidnapped, and tied up his sister with the intention of torturing her later

who would break first? i think bo would. bo's hatred of nick is the principle of the thing, an almost puerile anger that he was outsmarted; nick's hatred of bo is deeply personal

but! that would give bo some time to come to terms with being bisexual. nick doesn't need as much time to come to terms with that, so by the time they hooked up, they'd be on more or less the same page with everything

would it start out as hate sex? almost certainly. they're both so fucking frustrated they feel this way. it might even happen on accident tbh

bo would be completely oblivious to the fact that nick was kind of with dalton/had romantic tension with him. nick would have to be like "??? dude. that was basically my boyfriend what the fuck"

does bo feel remorse for killing people? no, not usually. does he eventually come to feel remorse for killing these particular people? well... yes and no. if he hadn't, he'd never have met nick. but it's a real pain in the ass for your boyfriend and his sister to hate you for killing all their friends, when someone else's friends woulda done just as well

god they butt heads so much. they're both have an extreme aversion to authority, though i would argue nick's is a little more combative. nick doesn't care what punishment he gets - he sees himself as above punishment, uncontrollable - while bo has been taught to fear punishment and has a strong sense of "respect." it is possible to make bo bend under your authority; i don't think it's possible to do it to nick, at least not in the same way

Florida Man. that's all i have to say on that

despite butting heads though, they also have a hell of a lot in common. they were both considered the "evil twin" at ages when they literally couldn't help themselves and needed help, love, and compassion. now they've grown to be men who genuinely do bad things because of the preconceived notions and perceptions of others

the difference between them, though, is that bo comes off as a nice guy but he's actually a MONSTER. nick comes off as a huge creep and a punk, he does shitty things to make himself seem hard and cool, but inside he's a good person. they're foils of each other and that's always sexy

their foil is all about redemption and presentation vs action but maybe i'm projecting

they are foils though so they have some core things in common: strong love for their family, specifically their respective twins; dedication and steadfastness; perseverance in the face of death; quick wit and cleverness, fast thinking; finally, a tendency to say mean things that they either regret later or don't actually mean, in an attempt to protect themselves from being vulnerable

i don't know if these two would ever be truly happy with one another - it would be a tumultuous relationship for sure - but they would understand each other in a lot of ways

and most importantly? bo might realize that, after everything he went through in his life, he made the choice to be a serial killer and torturer. things could have been different

whether or not anything would actually change, i'm not sure, but he MIGHT realize how deep a hole he truly dug himself

but he's too far in now, nothing to do about it, ya know?

if more people came through ambrose, nick and carly would be right there trying to help them escape. come hell or high water, no matter the consequences, they would try to help, even if they could never truly escape themselves

nick would bargain, beg, and steal to earn carly the right to go see their parents (or any other privilege). she should be allowed to be free even if he's not. he's very self sacrificing

okay so that was very chaotic but i hope you enjoyed some of my Thoughts!

#nick jones #bo sinclair #headcanon #nick jones x bo sinclair #bo sinclair x nick jones #house of wax 2005 #house of wax

[impossible-rat-babies]

tuesday, two in the afternoon

fallen hero / 2.1k words / chargestep (nb!sidestep + m!ortega) / cw: smoking

mostly below the cut!

--

“Why did you bring me down to the beach? It smells awful down here...”

Pollux kicks a rock across the barren sand, watching it roll into the lackadaisical waves lapping at the meager shoreline. The sand squishes beneath his shoes, water leaking through the crappy canvas.

It rained not long ago—almost caught the both of them in the downpour.

His head is still damp from the few fat drops that landed from between the slats in the boardwalk they used to take cover. He runs his hand across the fresh buzzcut, forgetting for a second there’s no curls to tuck behind his ears.

“I thought you liked the beach.” Ortega comes up beside him, keeping pace as they wander through sand and rock, passing by tiny tide pools refreshed by the rain. The sun will dry what the waves can reach soon, but for now they thrive under the cloudy grey sky.

“I don’t mind the beach, but it always stinks like garbage and wet dog down here after it rains.”

“At least it keeps the place private.”

“If you don’t count the seagulls.”

“They’re worse than the tourists.” 

Ortega smiles and Pollux turns to walk backwards, cocking a brow over his sunglasses. Of course Ortega is overdressed to be taking a walk on what passes for a beach these days—a fancy shirt and slacks and the watch he’s got on costs more than four months of rent on Pollux’s shitty apartment.

(Disregarding the sunglasses he’s toting around that are without a doubt the third most expensive thing he owns and even then they were a gift. From Ortega, obviously. He disregards the invading thought that the most expensive thing Ortega has won’t ever be his clothing or a watch, but his spine. Pollux thinks *if*—not *when*—he dies if they’ll pry it out and stick it inside someone else; a replacement for an accident of their own.)

Ortega is always dressed to impress, the silly man. Pollux it’s a habit, or he doesn’t have anything else to wear that isn’t something higher class or luxury, or if he genuinely enjoys silk shirts. The tailored slacks with fancy watches and Italian leather shoes. There’s no one to impress but Pollux and he hasn’t fallen for that trick in years.

“Worried about your shoes?”

“They’re...squishy.”

“You’re gonna ruin them.”

Ortega kicks another rock off towards the waves, stuffing his hands in his pocket as an answer. Pollux snorts, rolling his eyes, and he turns back around, falling into step beside him. He’s always been a fast walker--a faster runner.

Silence stretches out between them and apprehension feels like just another word for awkward, this gap between them. The few pointed inches—enough for static electricity to jump between them, for Pollux to anticipate Ortega’s touch and deftly pull away, leaving air beside his fingertips.

It’s still so hard to let him close.

“Why did you want to meet up here?” Pollux asks just to have something to say, anything to avoid Ortega looking like he’s going to throw his arm over his shoulder and pull him in to mumble something fond, or a terrible joke.

“Just to go on a walk?” Ortega tries and oh he tries so hard. More than he used to.

“Since when did you start walking for fun?”

“When you decide to come along with me. It’s fun, Lux.”

Pollux frowns—he knows this game. Ortega’s got this little tell of looking away just the right way.

“You just wanted to get me out of the house then.”

Ortega shrugs—he’s avoiding, nor is he saying no...

“Okay so I lied. I don’t have anything to talk about. But, if I just wanted to spend time with you then you would’ve said no.”

“True...” Pollux hates how he’s right more often than not. Asshole. “So you picked the beach?”

“I didn’t plan on it raining.”

Pollux sighs, tired of the sand and he wanders away--further out of reach--towards the rocks near the pillars holding up the promenade. 

It’s deserted right now, the rain and the fact that it’s two in the afternoon on a Tuesday keeping the crowds away. Give it a Saturday on a cool summer’s evening and it’d be packed to the gills; people screaming on the small roller coasters, the stink of fresh fried food and the lights--the dizzying array of red, blue and yellow. All the people and all the thoughts buzzing through his head; there were so many bombarding him--all of them, just as aggressive as the lights. He’s braved that terrible crowd--all because Ortega asked. 

He used to do that, do things because Ortega asked nicely. Because they were fun--he had fun. Does he still remember what that felt like? Being on that promenade, breathless and young, laughing like he knew how to laugh? 

They walked down to the very end once, away from the bright lights where it was just the ocean stretching out in front of them like a black abyss. All alone. Ortega asking him, pleading for one ride on the ferris wheel. “Come on Lux just one little ride.” Pollux calling his bluff, shoving his face away because it was all just a ploy for a kiss. Like this is some snapshot romance movie still.

It’s stupid to think about bygones.

There’s no temptation to jump into old times down here, just the water swelling against the rocks and the concrete walls. Trash hiding in the crevices, old green beer bottles that will break and turn to sea glass; left to wash up on the shores of Hawaii.

The beaches there are still nice--worthy of memories. Not this smog stained grey sand.It’s just a hop skip and a jump up onto the slick brown rocks smeared with algae and something that shines like oil. It stinks like it.

Pollux stops, shaking a cigarette out of the package and he cups his hand to protect the fragile flame, watching Ortega clamber up onto the rock beside him. He flops down on a relatively dry spot, free of the worst of the gross.

“What are you doing?” Pollux asks with a faint laugh and a cocked brow, letting his cigarette go unlit. It droops between his lips.

“What does it look like? I’m sitting down.” Ortega replies, smoothing a strand of hair back into the salt and pepper waves at his temples.

“Mr. Ralph Lauren is gonna be pissed you ruined your pants?” A raise of the brow and Ortega looks up at him with a look in those brown eyes.

“My shoes are wet, Lux.” Ortega whines and Pollux is *this close* to kicking him off their rock.

“I think you’re getting old.”

Pollux squats beside him, arms draping over top of his knees.

“Now you’re just being cruel...”

Ortega adjusts, grimacing when he inevitably puts his hand on a wet spot. He untucks his shirt, and he’s rather reminiscent of those “aged like fine wine” men on old magazine covers he found in shitty motel lobbies. He’d fit right on a sandy beach in Florida. These aren’t the right beaches for any of that anymore, still mostly rock. Their original glory immortalized in photographs on the fronts of travel brochures.

But they are healing—slowly. The sand creeps up the shoreline more and more each year.

“I’m not cruel. You just an oversized sun hat and a lounge chair. Maybe a nice hot beer.” Pollux teases and Ortega grimaces.

“It’s January.”

“That doesn’t stop people in Florida or Hawaii.”

“Have you even been to Florida?”

Ortega asks so harmlessly and Pollux pauses.

He’s been there half a dozen times before—fuzzy memories from over a decade ago. Rooftop gardens on top of high rise builds off the coast of Miami, galas with thousand dollar dresses and caked on makeup in the low light from crystal chandeliers. It was all for work, watching and scanning, nimble mental fingers coaxing and teasing truth from the mind’s eyes. He would watch, take in the sights and the sounds through other people’s minds. Take the truth and puzzle over the rest. Ask the dangerous questions: why and how?

He still believes the biggest mistake they made was allowing him to learn.

“I’ve watched movies.” He says instead of lying and he knows he isn’t getting away with it. “Besides, have you ever been to Florida? Or Hawaii even?”

“No, but I’ve watched movies before.”

Ortega grins and Pollux groans, resisting the urge to yet again so shove him off his rock and into one of the tide pools below.

“You’re an asshole.”

Pollux fishes around in his pocket and grabs out a matchbook, flipping it open and fuck he grabbed the wrong one. There’s nothing but the empty packaging in this one, uneven lines from tearing out matches without much grace. He flips it over onto the back and nothing--even the striker strip is shot to hell. Fuck. 

“Are you out?” Ortega peers over and he grumbles.

“Grabbed the wrong matchbook” Pollux huffs, about to grab his carton back out and stuff the poor cigarette back in.

“Wait, I still got--here.” Ortega pulls a small matchbox out of his shirt pocket, holding it out to him. It’s much nicer than his ten cent books he frequently gets for free from the gas station because the cashier thinks he’s cute. 

“You...still carry them around?”

His voice stalls in his chest: it’s meant to be more of questioning incredulity, but it comes out much softer. Forlorn and sticky at the front of his mouth.

Ortega sheepishly looks down at the matchbox, flipping it between his index and forefingers.

“Old habits die hard.”

He ran out of matches a lot, even the crappy little packages where the matches broke more often than actually struck. Ortega started carrying them around, little inch and a half boxes of matches tucked in his coat or shirt pocket. He doesn’t remember when the habit started. But it evolved into a habit of stealing them, seeing how easily he could sneak one away without him noticing.

Ortega protested whenever he caught him and the two of them scrambling for the box until Pollux tucked it away like magic, or Ortega tried tickling him enough times to get an elbow to the nose.

He got him back: a sufficient enough shock and Pollux complained about having a numb hand for the next week.

Pollux had a little stacked collection of them all lined up against the baseboard next to his mattress. He kept the fun ones, the brightly colored and eclectically designed ones--neon blue and mustard yellow. Held onto them until they were falling apart and he painstakingly cut them apart and glued or taped them in the pages of notebooks.

Even now, seven years later Ortega still carries them around and that tugs sharp in the back of his throat and deep in his belly—a sort of nausea that stings his eyes.

He blinks several times and fuck there’s the logo of the cigarette shop Ortega dragged him to once in a blue moon. The floor was some cheap old green motel carpeting--the windows covered in layers of advertisements and wood paneling everywhere else. But god it smelled fantastic--like a humidor stuffed to the brim with anything from cheap cigarettes to fancy and illegal cigars in glass cases. 

(Fuck, it was the best place to buy cigarettes--they still had the little machines with the tokens he’d pay five bucks for at the counter.)

“Yeah...” Pollux mumbles, tearing his eyes away. “Kinda literally, you know. Dying.” He chuckles bone dry and Ortega cringes.

“You still recognized the matchbox. I can’t call you a lost cause yet.” 

He looks over at him, salt and pepper black hair blowing in the breeze, the little white spots where the scars cut through his beard. The soft smile on chapped lips. Even with all the anger in the world rushing under his skin, he can’t be mad.

There’s just that wistful empty ache and he blinks, looking away. The distant shoreline etched on the horizon of a dark ocean and the patchy grey sky above. He lights the cigarette with a single match, the sharpness of the sulfur and the sweet menthol cloud of smoke the breeze dissolves into nothing. 

“Here...” Pollux offers the matchbox back to him.

“Keep it. You need it more than me.” Ortega says, pushing his hand back towards him and he pulls his hand away.

Pollux fixes him with a with a long look before he heaves a sigh and looks back out towards the coast and the ocean further beyond. Smoking the cigarette, filling his lungs on the menthol and tobacco until it burns out at the filter. Ortega sitting beside him, bouncing a leg but he’s quiet. And he doesn’t look over at Pollux.

The sun barely peeks in through the clouds and it looks like this is all the rain they’ll be getting.

#fallen hero #chargestep #fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero: retribution #fhr #owen writes #oc tag #oc: pollux #i tried to keep it under 2k but! we failed folks #anyway two fics in one week? WILD #i have more stuff i'm gonna spice up lmao but for now. there's this #the lets go to the beech beech fic lsdjlfsd #this is going in the queue hopefully it. shows up lmao

[ecto-american]

The Half-Dead Kids Club

Phic Phight Oneshot for bibliophilea: (AU) Tucker Ghouly was looking for a relaxing weekend with his boyfriend. Too bad the halfa versions of his boyfriend, his boyfriend's sister, and their other best friend crashed the party. [Danny/Tucker]

Also if you've read my Tucker Ghouly AU fic, this is set in the same universe/using the same logic and same eventual ship, and there is a spoiler for things I have planned for that fic too.

On FFN and AO3

-------------

Tucker sighed, doing a cheesy yawn and stretch as he put his hand over his boyfriend's shoulder. Danny rolled his eyes.

"You don't have to do that every time," he told him. Tucker grinned.

"Yeah, but you're a sucker for it," he replied.

"Can't argue with that," Danny agreed, returning the smile. "Your parents are gonna be out for a while, right?"

"Yeah, and Olivia's sleeping over at her friend's," Tucker replied. Danny's smile widened.

"Sooo…" he said slowly. He leaned in to kiss Tucker instead of finishing his sentence. Tucker happily leaned in too, only to stop when he felt that familiar electrical tingling in his head. He suddenly stood up. Danny stared before snapping to his feet too. "Ghost?"

Tucker nodded as he looked around, going ghost. Danny reached into his pocket for a screwdriver sized-handle, pressing a button that made it spring out into the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick (Mobile Version).

"Can you tell where it-AH!" Danny screamed as a semi-familiar figure came out of seemingly nowhere and crashed into the coffee table. Tucker also screamed, turning on his heel.

The figure was a motionless girl with short black hair, one of the sides of her head shaved to expose an ear with multiple piercings. She wore a dark purple sleeveless shirt and a black skirt, with purple and black tennis shoes. The girl was laying on the wooden pile of the now broken coffee table.

"Aw, man! My mom's gonna kill me!" Tucker cried out.

Danny took a few deep breaths, clutching his chest before nudging the girl with his foot. She groaned in pain. He squinted his eyes at her voice.

"...Sam?" Danny asked. He clicked the button, and the weapon folded back together.

"...Danny?" she moaned softly.

The couple immediately reached down to help her up, setting her on the couch.

"Sam! What happened?" Danny asked. He cupped a bruised cheek, taking note of what injuries she had. "I thought you were going to Florida with your grandma." Sam stared at him, confused.

"What? N-no. No, I….I'm sorry, but are you wearing eyeliner? It looks rad."

"...Yeah? I always wear eyeliner?" Danny said slowly. "How badly did you hit your head? And how did you get here?"

Tucker had watched everything silently, but now he had to say something.

"...This isn't our Sam, dude," he told him. Danny gave him a weird look, and Sam did too, only for her face to drop in surprise upon truly looking at him. "Our Sam would never shave her head." Danny glanced back at Sam, and he had to nod.

"...Yeah, my Tucker's not...glowing," she stated hesitantly. Tucker saw his hand, and he remembered that he was, in fact, still in ghost mode.

"Sorry," he apologized, and the rings formed, but he stopped as his senses went wild once more. Black mist escaped Sam's nostrils as well. "...Hold that thought."

"There's more?" Danny asked, standing up again. Fenton Anti-Creep Stick (Mobile Version) was once again sprung out.

"Whoa, sick!" Sam grinned. She got to her feet too, wobbingly a bit.

"You should rest, you took a nasty fall," Tucker insisted. He took her hands, causing her to flush a light red. Slowly but gently, he made her sit back down. He looked to Danny, leaning in to give him a quick peck. "Make sure she's okay, I'm gonna go investigate."

"Gotcha," Danny confirmed. Tucker jumped up, flying straight into the ceiling and out. Sam rubbed her upper arm anxiously.

"So...you and Tucker, huh?" she asked slowly. Danny nodded.

"Yeah, for a while now," he replied. He raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

"No!" she said quickly. "No! Uh, just kinda...weird to see, if I'm being honest. Um...So by now I'm pretty sure I fell into some kind of natural ghost portal to where Tucker's half ghost, and you two are dating….but um...where I'm from, I'm kinda half ghost, and I'm kind of dating Tucker. So! Uh!" She coughed nervously. "Just kinda...not something I'm used to seeing."

"Oh. Ah. Um...I see." Danny shifted from foot to foot before sitting down next to her. "Um. That's uh. Heh. Kinda funny."

"He also goes for the goth look," she continued. "Like, uh, like you. So. Um." She clasped her hands together, resting them on her knee as she crossed her leg. "Just uh...kinda weird." She paused. "Kinda really weird."

"Uh...yeah."

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Danny glanced over to her, clearing his throat.

"...Our Sam's dating Paulina," he suddenly blurted out. Sam choked on nothing.

"I'm WHAT?"

-------------

Tucker flew out of his house, and he immediately found what was looking for. Two figures, talking as they floated in the sky. A girl with bright blue hair, in blue and white, and a boy with white hair, in black and white.

"Hey," Tucker called out to them. They turned to him, and they stared.

"We're peaceful!" the girl called out. The boy elbowed her in the ribs, making her yelp.

"Who are you?" the boy asked.

"Tucker Ghouly, and you two?"

"Tucker Ghouly…" the boy repeated slowly. He glanced between himself and the girl. "...Wait. Tucker? Is that you? It's me, Danny."

Tucker blinked in confusion as he stared. He squinted, and he could finally sorta see it. If he dyed the hair black, made it a bit longer, added the signature eyeliner...this dude kinda looked like his boyfriend. Though of course, his boyfriend was of course much cuter.

"Danny...Fenton?" he asked slowly. The boy, Danny, quickly made a cut it out motion.

"It's Danny Phantom," he replied.

"And Jazz Phantom!" the girl pipped up. Danny put his hand on her face, pushing her back a bit.

"We're not related," he informed him.

"We kinda are!"

"Do you know where we can talk? Like in private?" the boy asked. Tucker gestured to his house below them.

"Come on, my house should be good."

The two followed him into the living room, and Tucker glanced between his boyfriend and the Not-Sam. His boyfriend had moved to sit in an armchair while Sam was whining and complaining about something he couldn't quite make out, sprawled out dramatically on the couch.

"What did you do?" Tucker asked. Danny shrugged.

"Told her she was dating Paulina here," Danny said, and Sam let out a dramatic shrieking noise. He nodded at the two ghosts. "So why aren't we kicking butt?"

"So, if I'm guessing right," Tucker said slowly, finally turning to the two ghosts that had been just standing there awkwardly. "Ghostly portal nonsense happened, and now we have a bunch of half ghosts here."

"Wait, what?" Danny spoke up.

"I think what Tucker's saying is that me, that Danny, and." Sam sat up, pausing as she stared curiously at the other girl. She cocked her head. "Jazz?" she guessed. Jazz nodded. "Okay, and Jazz, are all half ghosts from another timeline. We need to get back."

"Yeah, and like. Soon. My parents and little sister are gonna be back by Sunday night, and I'm already hiding one half ghost, me." Tucker gestured up and down at himself. "From a Guys in White agent."

"Whoa! Wait, hold up!" the Not-Danny said, holding his hands up. "Your dad's a GIW agent?" Tucker sighed.

"Yeah. He was a cop, but right around the time of the accident he got hired on with them," he replied. "Is your dad one too?"

"No! They're ghost hunters! They run and operate FentonWorks!" Not-Danny grumbled. Danny raised an eyebrow.

"Hey, my parents too," Danny spoke up. "Tucker got shocked when we were trying to troubleshoot it. We uh...we got it running."

Danny visibly sunk in his seat a bit. Tucker immediately turned human, walking over to the armchair. He sat on the arm, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and hugging him close. A reminder that it wasn't his fault.

"Yeah, I got shocked by Mom and Dad's portal too," Jazz finally spoke up. Since Tucker had gone human, she did too. She revealed herself to still be a redhead, wearing a light blue blouse and black jeans, with matching black flats. "My boyfriend, well at the time he was just my best friend, but Spike convinced me that I should check it out. So….I did."

"Spike?" Not-Danny echoed, staring at her weirdly. "Really?" Jazz nodded. "...Huh."

"Yeah, same," Sam nodded. She shifted to pull her legs to her chest. "I was trying to convince Danny to go into the portal, but he said if I was that curious, that I should just do it myself. So I got shocked to hell and back."

"Man, your dad's portal's really been fucking with us all," Tucker told Not-Danny. He made a bit of a face.

"Wait, are you two…?" Not-Danny finally asked. Tucker nodded, affectionately patting Danny's back.

"Yeah, for a bit now," he replied. Not-Danny stared for a moment, shaking his head.

"Kinda weird. I mean, just like, I'm dating Sam," he began, only for Sam to cut him off.

"God, I know right? I'm dating Tucker!" she exclaimed. "And he-"

"Sam looks a lot like me/him!" they somewhat finished the sentence together. Jazz snorted in amusement.

"Apparently halfas have a thing for goths," she joked. Everybody gave a small chuckle.

"But yeah, seriously, I need to get you all the hell out of here before my dad gets back," Tucker said. Sam frowned.

"How are we gonna do that?" she asked.

"Clockwork, duh," Jazz said, as if it was obvious. "We just go through the Fenton portal and find him. He'll put us back."

"Yeah, but um…" Danny paused. "My parents' portal is kinda...destroyed."

The other halfas immediately went into a frenzy of panic.

"WHAT?"

"How is that possible!?

"It's destroyed!? What!? How!?"

"Was it the ecto-filter? It was the ecto-filter wasn't it?

"What did you do!?"

"Hey, hey, hey! HEY!" Danny had to raise his voice to get everybody to settle down. "Look, they're still rebuilding from Uncle Nico destroying it. It's not going to be operational for another few months. I'm sorry."

"Uncle Nico?" Not-Danny echoed. "I don't have an Uncle Nico." Danny stared at him.

"Uh, you don't?" he questioned. "He works with Uncle Vlad?"

"Wait he's your Uncle Vlad!?" Not-Danny seemed to pale. Danny looked so confused.

"...Yeah? He's my godfather. My parents have known him since college, we have family vacations together. What's wrong with him?"

"He's a fruitloop!" Not-Danny nearly screamed, waving his arms dramatically. "He wants to marry my mom and kill my dad, and adopt me as his son!" He turned to Jazz. "Right?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

"I have...absolutely no clue what you're talking about," she said slowly. "Uncle Vlad's great. He bought my brother a car for his sweet sixteen."

"I don't even know a Vlad," Sam agreed. Not-Danny looked like he was going to have a stroke.

"Okay, okay then," Not-Danny scowled. "So who's the old half-ghost asshole that roams around trying to ruin your life?" The other three halfas all went "ohhhh."

"Oh, that's Spectra," Jazz replied, as if it was obvious. "She went to college with my parents. She got hit by the portal and became ugly as well as half ghost, so now she basically makes my life a living hell cause she's mad that I like? Have potential or something? She's my principal, Ms. Penelope Spencer."

"Mrs. Fenton," Sam nodded. "No ghost name. Cause, uh. Well. She got hit by the portal in college and hates herself for being a half ghost. Wants me for experiments so she can cure herself. Reaaal awkward to have dinner over there."

"Danny's Uncle Nico, or Technomancer." Tucker jerked a thumb at his Danny. "Vlad's business partner that got shocked while trying to fix their portal, is now pissy cause he thinks he's better than humans cause he's got ghosts powers. Wants me to join him and be my mentor."

"Okay, so." Not-Danny rubbed his temple. "This is really fucking weird and messing with my head. Can I just go home?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure my parents will start to worry about me soon," Sam agreed, looking at her watch.

"Does your Uncle Nico have a portal?" Jazz wondered. Danny shook his head no.

"He makes his own portals " he said, pointing to his wrist. "It's programmed into his watch."

"We need to take it," Not-Danny blurted out. Everybody stared at him. "What!? It's the only way to get home, I can't be crazy for suggesting that!"

"Uh, I think he might be right," Sam hesitated. "But I mean. This is your guys' world." She nodded to the couple. "Are there any other portals around?"

"Um. No? Not that I know of?" Danny admitted. Tucker thought hard.

"...Would Paulina have one?" Tucker asked. Sam visibly jerked in surprise.

"Paulina? Why Paulina?" she demanded to know. Tucker flinched.

"I uh...kinda ruined her life. So Uncle Nico...sorta...kinda...um...gave her weapons to use against me." He gave a sheepish grin. Sam gawked at him.

"...Paulina. Paulina is the Green Hunter. I don't get it, like. At all."

"Uh, Pink Huntress," Danny corrected. "But yeah."

"Wait, who the fuck could the Green Hunter be?" Not-Danny spoke up.

"Yeah, isn't it supposed to be the Blue Hunter?" Jazz seemed confused.

"No! Red Huntress!" Not-Danny scowled.

"Red?" Jazz raised an eyebrow. "Who's Red?"

"Valerie Gray?" Not-Danny stated as if it was obvious. Jazz had to think hard.

"You mean Danny's friend? Like my brother Danny? I barely know her." She shook her head. "No, the Blue Hunter's Mikey."

"Mikey!?" Sam snorted in amusement. "Oh my god, Mikey. He's seriously your hunter?"

"You never told us who the Green Hunter was!" Not-Danny pointed out.

"Oh! It's Kwan!"

"Kwan!?" Not-Danny was in disbelief. "But he's so sickeningly nice!"

"Oh my fucking god, we're going to be here all weekend if you guys don't stop comparing timelines!" Danny snapped. All the halfas stared at him, a bit guilty. They all murmured some sort of apology.

"So...should we try Paulina?" Tucker asked. Danny sighed.

"We know she has one, it's how she directly puts ghosts back into the Ghost Zone. So it's just a matter of if we wanna challenge Paulina or if we wanna challenge Uncle Nico."

Go up against a half-ghost billionaire tech genius or a weaponized high school cheerleader?

They all stared at each other.

The half-ghost billionaire tech genius was way easier.

-------------

Plan was in motion.

Danny glanced over his shoulder to look at all the halfas hiding (somewhat badly) in a bush outside of Nico's house. He had his messenger bag on his other shoulder, and a big tupperware container on his hip.

"So he's basically Technus?" Not-Danny whispered. Jazz elbowed him. "OW!"

"SHH!" she hissed back.

Danny rang the doorbell, and everybody waited. A minute passed before the door opened, and the familiar black man with long braids opened the door. He was wearing his dark green shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

"Hey Uncle Nico!" Danny smiled. "Are you free? I've been really struggling with this robot." He used his free hand to pat the top of the tupperware container. "Can you help?"

Nico grinned warmly.

"Course kiddo!" he boomed excitedly. "Come on, come on!" He moved to the side to let the teenager in. Danny thanked him, and they both went inside. Even from the bushes, Tucker could hear the tech genius talking a mile a minute in his outside voice.

"Okay. Danny's gonna try and get Nico into a position where he'll take his watch off, and when that happens, I'll grab it," Tucker told the others. "You guys stay here, I'll go get it."

"We should come with you," Sam Specter replied, trying to take a step forward. Tucker put a hand out to stop her.

"No, you guys really need to stay out here. Nico's got one hell of a ghost system, and he's incredibly powerful to boot. I know how to slip around it, and it's a very delicate procedure," he explained.

"Shouldn't we stick together?" Jazz questioned. Tucker shook his head no.

"No, trust me on this."

"Are you sure?" Not-Danny asked. Tucker scowled.

"Just! Stay here!" he said. He floated towards the property, turning human on the front steps but phasing into the building.

The other three halfas stood around in a semi-circle, staring at each other. Sam broke the stare to look at the ground, lightly kicking at the dirt. Not-Danny sighed impatiently. Jazz looked up at the sky.

"It's just Technus," Sam spoke up.

"Yeah! He's so easy!" Not-Danny scoffed. "He literally shouts his plans all the time."

"I can beat him with one hand tied behind my back!" Jazz agreed.

"So we'll just go in and strongarm it from him, kick butt, and go!" Not-Danny reasoned. Sam smirked.

"Yeah, of course! We'll just speed up the ass-kicking!" she said, punching her fist into her palm confidently.

"Tucker doesn't know what he's talking about," Jazz smiled.

-------------

All four halfas were spread out in Tucker's living room. Tucker was on the couch, arm over his stomach as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. Sam was face first on the floor, grumbling in pain. Jazz was curled up next to the armchair, on and off grumbling about chest pains. Not-Danny was in said armchair, mirroring his not-sister by being curled up and holding his head.

Danny came into the living room, balancing three pizzas on one hand with four sodas underneath his other arm. He frowned at the three strange halfas.

"Tucker and I told you to stay outside," he rubbed it in. Not-Danny groaned.

"Man, we get it," he complained. Danny rolled his eyes, setting the food on the impromptu coffee table made up of Amazon boxes.

"Well I hope so, cause now we gotta go through Paulina," he replied. He glanced over to Sam. "So hope you're ready to go on a date, Sam."

"Wait, what?" Sam pulled her face up to look at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"I am. It's the only way to get her guard down so that Tucker can get her watch so we can find Clockwork and send you guys home." Danny frowned at her. "I'm pretty sure I can make you look like our Sam. Olivia may have a cosplay wig you can borrow, so she won't question why her girlfriend suddenly shaved and somehow unshaved her head. You're going to be the only one who can convince her to take that watch off."

"How on Earth am I supposed to do that?" Sam frowned, rolling onto her back. Danny threw his hands up in the air.

"Figure it out," he scowled. "You guys got yourselves into this mess! We don't have to help you, you know." Sam made a face at him. Tucker reached up to grab Danny's hand.

"Babe, chill. They were just trying to help," Tucker sighed. Danny exhaled too, squeezing his hand.

"We warned them that Technomancer was dangerous," he frowned.

"What's done is done, let's just focus on Paulina."

"...You're right."

Tucker smiled at him, and Danny gave a half-smile back. He let go of Tucker's hand to open the top pizza box.

"Alright, who wanted what?"

-------------

That next morning, Tucker nearly forgot that he had three other random halfas crash that night in his living room. Jazz and Danny had decided that they could tolerate sleeping on the queen sized pull out sofa together with their not-sibling, leaving Sam free to have the twin air mattress to herself.

He didn't wake them up when he saw them though, instead silently making his way towards his kitchen to get himself a bowl of cereal. Not too long afterwards, he heard Danny come down the stairs and come into the kitchen too.

"Hey," he greeted warmly. Tucker smiled, feeling his stomach flutter a bit.

"Hey, morning," he replied. He held up his box of cereal. "Want some?" Danny shook his head no.

"Nah, I'm gonna raid your poptarts," he replied. He opened the cabinet for them, fishing a packet out to unwrap and toss into the toaster. "When Sam wakes up, we need her to call Paulina and invite her out somewhere."

"But we need to take her someplace where she'll not wear that watch," Tucker mused, opening his fridge for milk. He poured some into his bowl. "She wears it everywhere though. How's she going to get Paulina to take it off?"

"That's why we emphasised so fucking hard to them the other day that Uncle Nico was the better option," Danny grumbled.

"Hey, it's okay," Tucker tried to sooth.

"No it's not," Danny insisted. "They wouldn't listen to us!" Tucker put the milk away. "They said it ourselves, that this is our timeline, and we know our timeline, and we know our rivals. So why did they just ignore everything we said about how powerful and dangerous Technomancer is? It's frustrating, it kinda pisses me off still.

"It's okay," Tucker repeated. He took a step forward to be closer to his boyfriend. "They made a mistake. Our timelines are so similar that they probably just underestimated him. Especially if he's supposedly such a joke in theirs." Danny let out an annoyed huff. Tucker cupped his cheek. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

"...I know, just." He paused, sounding emotionally exhausted. "They should have listened."

"They'll listen now," Tucker smiled. Danny couldn't help but give a small smile back. "We'll likely be able to get them home by dinner at the latest, and we can go out."

"I guess…" Danny took a deep breath. Tucker leaned in and gave him a kiss, and he could feel Danny finally relax.

"Oh, whoa. Um. Sorry," Sam's voice made Danny tense up again, and the couple pulled away from each other. Sam was staring at them, standing awkwardly in the kitchen entrance, looking a bit flushed. "I was uh. Hungry. Um. Sorry, just that you look so much like my Danny and Tucker, and the whole um. Yeah. I'll just..." She reached for the sole remaining pizza box, quickly opening it and grabbing a leftover slice and hurrying out of the kitchen. Danny huffed again.

"This is our timeline," he grumbled, his frustrations turning into inaudible mutters. The toaster popped, making them both briefly jump. He grabbed his poptarts, and Tucker collected his bowl and a spoon. The couple went into the living room.

Not-Danny and Jazz were both awake by now, sitting cross legged on the pull out bed as Sam sat in the armchair.

"Okay," Danny began as he stepped into the living room. He pointed to Sam with his poptart. "You can use my phone to call Paulina and ask her to meet you today." Sam looked physically pained at the idea.

"Do I have to?" Sam whined. Danny frowned, taking a bite of his poptart.

"If, uh, other me, is right, you're the only one who's going to be able to convince her," Not-Danny spoke up. Jazz nodded in agreement. Sam dramatically slammed her head against the cushiony back of the armchair.

"...Fine." She held her hand out, and Danny pulled his cell phone out, pulling up Paulina's number. He put it in her hand, and Sam stared at the contact. She took a deep breath before pressing the call button. After a few rings, somebody picked the phone up.

"Um? Danny?" Paulina sounded confused. Sam gave a pained grimace.

"Hey...uh...baby?" Danny waved his poptart in the air in a what the fuck motion. Sam mirrored it back to him.

"...Sam? Is that you? I thought you were in Florida with your grandma this weekend? Why are you calling from Danny's phone."

"Um. No? I lost my phone," she awkwardly replied. Danny motioned for her to keep talking. "Uh, hey! Wanna meet up today?"

"Sure! Do you wanna go mall cruising?" Paulina asked.

"Uh yeah! Sounds fun! How about?" Sam paused to glance at the wall clock. "Say in an hour?"

"Sounds perfect! I can't wait to see you!"

"You...too." Everybody could tell that it took everything for Sam to force that sentence out. "Goodbye. I miss you."

"Byebye!"

Sam hung up the phone, handing it back to Danny. He was frowning at her.

"That was terrible," he told her. Sam scowled. "Come on. We need to get you looking like our Sam."

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"Ugh, why is there so much hair?" Sam complained. She pulled on the wig to adjust it some. Apparently the Sam here had long hair, and it felt so heavy. And this outfit was so...nerdy. This was going to be a terrible day.

"Stop pulling on it!" Danny hissed. "We can't afford to blow this twice."

"Here," Tucker spoke up. He handed her a watch. "Just try and switch the watches if you can." Sam hesitantly took it. She turned it over in her hand.

"Once you switch, give us some kind of signal," Not-Danny added.

"And we'll make a distraction," Jazz chimed in.

"Won't she notice if I switch it then?" Sam asked. Danny shook his head no.

"No, her bracelet is her ghost hunting gear, the watch is just a portal device."

Sam glanced between all of them worriedly as she pocketed the device.

"You got this," Tucker smiled. She reluctantly nodded.

"Pink Huntress, coming right for us," Danny said, nodding ahead of them as he lightly slapped Tucker with the back of his hand. Not-Danny and Jazz immediately rushed away.

"Good luck!" Tucker whispered to her as he and Danny grabbed each other's hand, quickly walking off to pretend that they just happened to be having their own date out at the mall.

Sam smiled weakly as Paulina bounced up to her. She wasn't in the dark pink and black attire Sam was used to, but a long sleeved light pink shirt with white shorts, hair pulled back in a long french braid.

"Hey!" Paulina greeted her warmly. Sam forced a bigger smile.

"Hey!" she replied.

"Where do you wanna go first?" Paulina asked, immediately reaching to grab Sam's hand. The halfa flinched at first, jerking away before quickly remembering, and she took Paulina's hand. The huntress raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on it.

"Uh, wherever you wanna go!" Sam replied lightly.

"Hmm," Paulina lightly mused. "How about Sephora?"

"Uh, sure," Sam agreed.

Thankfully Paulina was still chatty, and so Sam wasn't forced to make conversation, but simply just listen as Paulina talked on the walk towards the store. She mostly talked about her Starbucks job, since she had apparently come straight from there to the mall. Sam couldn't imagine her own Paulina actually working at all, but she guessed it seemed to make sense that this Paulina did. Sam kinda...fucked Kwan over, even though it was unintentional, and he had to take up a part time job at the Skulk N Lurk because of it.

The store came up, and Paulina broke away from Sam to excitedly hurry in.

"Ooo, Sam! Look!" She smiled, pointing out a display of bright pastels, primarily warm tones. "These are so pretty!" Paulina opened the display palette, looking at the colors. Sam came up next to her, studying the colors.

"Oh wow, those look so pretty," Sam had to admit.

"Yeah, but I don't know if they'd look too good on me," Paulina mused. She took the test brush, and she applied the color to her inner arm. Sam watched, and the idea hit her.

"...Hey, Paulina? Do you wanna take your watch off so you don't get makeup on it?" Sam questioned. Paulina glanced at it, thinking for a minute before nodding.

"Yeah, probably a good idea," she agreed. She slipped it off, handing it to Sam. "Can you hold it for a moment?"

"Of course!" Sam smiled. She accepted it.

Paulina returned her attention to the sample palette, and she began to swatch her arm with it. Heart pounding, Sam quickly made the exchange, putting the real one in her pocket and holding the fake one while Paulina was distracted. She glanced over to see Danny a few isles over, watching her from the corner of his eye as he looked at makeup. She gave a small nod. Danny gave a short nod back, and she saw him exit the store.

Sam returned her attention fully to her

A small beeping came from Paulina, and Sam raised an eyebrow at her. It was still...weird to think of her mortal enemy as being the hunter-er, huntress. Paulina glanced around worriedly.

"Uh, hey Sam? I totally forgot, my papa-," she began, pulling her phone out. Sam could see that obviously, nobody was calling, but she nodded anyway.

"Oh, don't worry! Go on, I understand!" she said. Paulina smiled in relief. Sam held up the fake watch. "Don't forget this!"

"Oh, right!" Paulina used one of the free wet wipes, quickly wiping the swatches off before putting the watch back on. "Thanks! You're the best!" she chirped. "Call me when you find your phone!"

Paulina exited the store in a hurry, and Sam followed. She saw her already near the exit of the mall, opening the door and leaving. The halfa jumped when a hand rested on her shoulder. She turned to see Danny.

"Hey, you get it?" he asked. She rolled her eyes.

"I gave you the signal, didn't I?" she said. She reached into her pocket to pull the watch out. Danny plucked it from her fingers, turning it over. He sighed in relief.

"This is it," he confirmed. "The other Danny and Jazz went to wait for us outside. Tucker's making a distraction, and once he's done, we'll finally get you guys home."

A rush of air blew hit them as Tucker Ghouly flew by. A feminine figure in pink, riding a skateboard style hoverboard, was close on his heels.

"...Assuming Paulina doesn't finally get him."

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"I'm so glad that's over," Danny sighed as they plopped onto Tucker's couch. Tucker gave a small hum. Luckily it took no time to find Clockwork and send everybody home.

"Yeah. Just gotta figure out what to do about this," he mused, pushing the Amazon box coffee table with his food. Danny waved it off.

"We can go to Ikea tomorrow," he replied. He held his hand out for Tucker to take, and the halfa immediately did.

"We also need to call Sam and let her know what we did in case Paulina asks," Tucker said. Danny grumbled tiredly.

"...We'll call her in a bit," he promised him.

"At some point we need to find a way to slip that bracelet back to Paulina."

"Problem for another day."

They sat in silence for a bit. Just resting. Just chilling, until Danny finally spoke up again. "...you know what's kinda cool?" Tucker brushed his thumb over the back of Danny's hand, giving a curious hum in response. "...It's kinda nice to know that it's seemingly meant to be. You know. Us. Halfas and goths getting together." Tucker grinned.

"Yeah, that is kinda nice," he agreed. He let go of Danny hand to stand up. "Come on. I promised you some food."

"Finally."

#phic phight 2021 #my phics #the half-dead kids club #tucker ghouly