#i know stores started using security tags and boxes

[indigomovn]

to all the kpop fans who go to stores like target, barnes & noble, and walmart to look at albums, only for you to rip them open and steal all the inclusions, shame on you. don’t act surprised when every store starts locking them with security tags and acrylic boxes, store them behind the counter, make them online exclusive or simply not sell them anymore because you rather commit a crime instead of purchasing one like any other normal person would.

#kpop #bts #txt #blackpink #twice #nct #nct 127 #nct dream #wayv #red velvet #aespa #itzy #stray kids #le sserafim #newjeans #enhypen #seventeen #fromis 9 #no cause who does this? #imagine getting caught stealing them 💀💀 #hella embarrassing #stealing is a crime but apparently it isnt when it comes to kpop #i know stores started using security tags and boxes #i heard other stores store them behind the counter or in stock rooms #but if this keeps up they’ll probably do the online exclusive method #i get that they can be expensive but please have some human decency and dont steal #rants

[bullet-prooflove]

Hey~~ I need my knight in shining armour Beau to save his damsel, so how about "But my love I won’t give up", please??

Tagging: @kmc1989 @justameresimp @agentorange9595 @lxaah11 @librarian1002 @imaginecrushes @flrboyd @areamir @b-bradshaw @adaydreamaway08 @crimeshowjunkie @inkandarsenic @caffeinatedwoman @tortilla-maria1 @lemmons1998 @dr-alan-grantler @dizzybee03 @burningpeachpuppy @penguin876 @deliriousfangirl61 @goosterroose @kishie8 @skyesthebomb @marshmallowflufffox @whateversomethingbruh @@4everademigod @notanotherpotter @yousigned-upforthis @silversprings-mp3 @sadboihours10101 @luckyladycreator2 @littlebadariell @toheavenwmydrms @buckysteveloki-me

Companion piece to Broken Buttons (feat: Harmon Rabb)- Beau discovers the real reason you broke things off with him.

It’s after ten when Beau makes it to your apartment in Washington. Rabb had managed to secure the two of them places on a transport plane that had been stopping to refuel in San Diego.

It had taken five hours to get here and the entire time all Beau could thing about was what Rabb had told him. He replays the series of events over in his head, each video getting worse and worse until he wants to wrap his hands around the General’s throat and choke him to death.

When you open the door he can tell that you’ve been drinking, your eyes are glassy and you still have the half glass of white wine clasped in your hand.

“It’s becoming a problem.” Rabb had hold him on the way over. “The suspension has knocked her completely off kilter, I don’t think she knows how to process what happened to her.”

You’re trying to escape it, Beau understands that. You’re used to compartmentalising, everything goes into a nice little box which you tape shut and store God knows where in your head. This event it’s triggered something inside your brain and now all the boxes are coming apart, their contents spilling out into your life.  

“Beau.” You say, your voice barely above a whisper, the apartment is shrouded in darkness behind you, the street light the only form of illumination.

“Ally.” He says quietly because he can already feel you slipping away. “Baby, let me in.”

He sees the indecision in you, part of you wants to close the door, block him out, block all of it out but you don’t. Instead you open it wider, allowing him access to the apartment. He flicks on the light and you wince against the harshness of it.

It’s a mess, one of the worst he’s seen because you, you like things neat and tidy. Everything has it’s place. There’s dishes piling up in the sink, the recycling is full of wine bottles and there’s unwashed laundry piled up on the floor outside the machine. If there was ever a sign you aren’t coping this is it.

You don’t say anything, instead you head into the bedroom leaving the door open behind you. He sets his duffle bag down before following you, he finds you sitting on the edge of an unmade bed and his gaze strays to the three empty wine glasses sitting on the nightstand.

You won’t look at him, you play instead with the bracelet on your wrist, the one he’d brought back from Germany.

“Will you…” You trail off before starting again. “Will you hold me?”

“Of course.” He says softly before he wraps his arms around you and cradles you close. You press your face into the curve of his throat and for the first time in months you allow yourself to trust someone to let them in.

“He raped me Beau.” You whisper into the fabric of his shirt. “General Klein, he raped me.”

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#beau simpson #beau simpson x reader #beau cyclone simpson #beau cyclone simpson x reader #top gun maverick

[anomalyhqs]

mornin’ folks ; another day, another dollar ! and by dollar, i mean the annual CHARITY GALA comin’ up this weekend ! heard together for daehan’s raisin’ the stakes this year, so you know what that means ! — ( ugh, you ever feel like their name is a mouthful ? ) — tickets to the gala are increasin’ by a whole 15% ! yikes ! what if i’m the charity, t4d ? ( nickname’s a work in progress… ) i wouldn’t worry too much about missin’ out though… ‘cause i heard evolution! movement’s coincidentally throwin’ a massive afterparty this year, same time at the BLUE HALL ! best part ? it’s free ! evo’s up to their old tricks again ; but can they top what t4d’s done so well for the past — i dunno — a billion years ? only time will tell… that, or the next student elections kickin’ round the corner ! dunno ‘bout you, but i’ll be checkin’ them both out — y’know, for an educated vote !

that’s all, folks ! see you on the next episode of ANOMALEAKS !

EVENT SCHEDULE

CHARITY GALA, 7.00pm - 11.00pm

a dinner and auction situation, muses will get the opportunity to wine and dine themselves while donating what they can towards t4d’s meal drives for the less fortunate. come with a full wallet or empty pockets, because the gala’s got just about anything you can bid on or donate! just try not to outdo last year’s record of two boxes of potatoes for a medium-sized sculpture from a second year undergraduate arts student. it’s semi-classy hors d'oeuvres, booze from the fancier convenience store, and evening wear or your approximation of it! and don’t leave early, because there’s going to be a lucky draw at the last hour of the gala! ( p.s.: muses who attend the end of the charity gala instead of going to the afterparty will definitely win something from the lucky draw that’s up to the writer’s choosing! )

BLUE HALL AFTERPARTY, 10.00pm - 4.00am

but evo’s got a roaring party hosted at the blue hall that absolutely can’t be missed if you want a good time! if you thought the house parties were wild, wait ‘til you see what they’ve got planned, because everything’s bigger and louder in evo! sure, there’s no dress code, the punch has been spiked by pretty much everyone, and someone’s passed out on the roof, but anyone who’s anyone on campus knows better than to miss out! it’s projected to be the party of the year — but a note to those who plan to be fashionable late in questionably formal attire: they’ve implemented a max party size for ‘safety reasons’, so make sure you get there before 11pm to secure a slot ( or try bribing the student bouncer? )!

OUT OF CHARACTER INFO

happy opening day! woohoo! to celebrate, we’ve prepared two totally optional events that you can use to kickstart your interactions! all the details are on the tin — feel free to interact with any part of either ( or both ) prompt(s)! you are free to start threads about this event from now ( 18 november ) to 9 DECEMBER! if you are planning on writing for this event, please tag it with #nm:charitycrash! thank you for your wonderful applications and without further ado, happy plotting!

#nm:event #nm:charitycrash

[sleepycatmama]

Furoshiki

I want to tell you all about furoshiki, and how we've moved away from paper giftwrap, and encourage others to try it.

One of the things I disliked about Christmas morning would be the growing pile of torn giftwrap, tissue paper, possibly paper boxes, etc. I'd try to have us passing around a trash bag to stay on top of it so that our living room wasn't a total mess by the end of it, but I disliked being distracted by that, and I felt bad having a full bag of trash at the end to throw away.

I read about furoshiki, which are traditional Japanese wrapping cloths. I really liked the idea, and started making my own. Had a bit of a worry this year when we hadn't found them in unpacking, so I started making a bunch more. (finished 3 large ones and one small one tonight. Tired now.)

The only thing that gets thrown away is little paper tags and strings for marking who they're for/from. At the end of the Christmas gift-giving, we shake them out a bit, refold them, and put them away for next year. If we spilled anything on one, we could toss it through the washer and dryer. We have some that are very Christmassy, but plenty of others that are more neutral, so we use them for birthdays and anniversaries too. Instead of bags of trash, we have what are becoming family heirlooms. I expect my grandkids and great-grandkids to use these. There are fancy ways to wrap with them (I love the one for wrapping and carrying wine bottles) but I generally just always use the same simple one.

(Amazon's gotten a bit into the reusable too - nowadays if you order something to arrive gift wrapped, it arrives in a reusable gift bags. We save those and use them each year too. In fact, the largest one we've ever gotten is what we use to store all the gift bags and furoshiki in.)

It is really easy to start getting into furoshiki. I have some very definite Opinions on how I want mine to be (this will surprise no one who knows me), but you can start simple. Simplest would be to check local thrift stores and look for large squarish scarves. You want them to be close to square but it doesn't have to be exact. One of my Opinions is I really prefer natural fabric, so mine are quilter's cotton fabric.

When I went to get more fabric, the Christmas prints were already on sale! Fat quarters are good for a small furoshiki for a small present - jewelry box or the like. Craft and quilting stores will usually now have racks of precut fat quarters, which are square and you don't need to wait for the employees to cut them for you. For larger ones, I've bought a yard and then folded it diagonally so I could cut a square out of it, or this last time I just looked at the width of the fabric and had them cut that. The Christmas prints were all 44" wide, so I had them cut a yard and a quarter of each.

You don't have to get fancy with making them. For a simple one, you could just have a square of a single layer of fabric, and trim the edges with pinking shears so that they won't unravel easily. Or a single layer and you zigzag stitch the edges in a sewing machine, for the next level of fancy and secure. Or a rolled hem, if you can do those - could even do that by handstitching if you don't have a sewing machine available.

(NOTE: there are libraries and maker spaces that have sewing machines - sometimes you can take one home, sometimes you can use one there. I haven't done this because I have my own, but I know it's out there.)

The way I do mine is to make them two-layered. I love getting the same print in two different colors, but you can use different prints and solids, just lay them across each other and make sure you like them together. I lay them right-side to right-side and stitch all around the outer edge, seam allowance doesn't need to be anything exact as long as you can stick to it and stitch fairly straight. I leave an opening around 4 inches or so partway down one side. Then I trim the seam allowance with my pinking shears to have less bulk when I turn it inside out. I reach in and poke the corners into place with my fingers, put coordinating thread colors in my top and bobbin spots, fiddle with it to get the edges laying flat, and go all around the outer edge with a middling size zigzag stitch, which both gets the edges to lay flat and closes the opening.

Here are some of my existing furoshiki, showing both sides:

And here are some already wrapping some Christmas presents:

You don't have to do it all at once either. If you make one or two, that's one or two packages of gift wrap not getting thrown away, and you can add more each year. I do them in big batches, but... that's me.

[cagedchoice]

IMPORTANT HEADCANONS TO CONSIDER

CAN THEY USE CHOPSTICKS: Yes, taught himself how to use them as a teen because he would often get Chinese food from places like Panda Express, P.F. Chang’s, or Chopstix for lunch or dinner with his friends. Caleb didn’t want to be the guy who doesn’t know how to use chopsticks and always has to ask for a fork

WHAT DO THEY DO WHEN THEY CAN’T SLEEP: Tosses and turns restlessly for a while, then gets up and if he’s alone, paces the room for a minute or two. if someone else was with him, he sits in another room so as not to disturb them. Sometimes he’ll sit outside and have a beer or smoke a cigarette (prior to quitting or when he’s extremely stressed out) to try and take the edge off, other times he might sort of pace/patrol the house to make sure it’s all safe and secure, or leave and go for a walk/drive to try and clear his mind. Sometimes all of these things may happen in the same night.

WHAT WOULD THEY IMPULSE BUY AT THE GROCERY STORE: Doesn’t happen all That often, but usually it’s the kind of candy that gets stocked right next to the checkout counter. Occasionally it’s a box of cookies or a pint of ice cream. Whatever satisfies that sweet tooth.

WHAT ORDER DO THEY WASH THINGS IN THE SHOWER: Starts from the top with hair and face to get it out of the way first, then works his way down the rest.

WHAT’S THEIR COFFEE ORDER: Black coffee, two sugars, vanilla creamer. About as basic as it gets, really.

WHAT SORT OF APPS WOULD THEY HAVE ON THEIR SMARTPHONE: Not all that much, to be honest. He doesn’t use his phone a whole lot aside from texts and calls, although he does have a few timeless puzzle games and social media although he’s not all that active on anything and mostly just keeps in touch with friends. when he’s single but ready to mingle he adds tinder to the list.

HOW DO THEY ACT AROUND CHILDREN: Oh, Caleb LOVES kids. So much. He’s naturally very gentle, easygoing and patient around them, not really bothered by what they do as long as they stay safe, so sometimes (especially when it comes to family) he lets them get away with doing stuff their parents or other adults definitely wouldn’t approve of because he’s got a reputation as the Fun Dad/Uncle/Cousin/Other Extended Family Member to uphold after all. But he can also be fiercely protective and a pretty stern enforcer of rules and safety IF the situation calls for it.

WHAT WOULD THEY WATCH ON TV WHEN THEY’RE BORED AND NOTHING THEY REALLY LIKE IS ON: If absolutely nothing good is on? I think he might prefer to grab a book at that point instead, but he might settle for a shorter movie (long ones tend to either put him to sleep or leave him feeling kinda bored and disinterested), put a classic music video channel on, or some kind of home improvement or car repair or cooking channel. or if all else fails... y’know. 

tagged by: @aworldofyou

tagging: let's just say my mentions are a little broken atm so i'm just gonna say steal it

#dash games. #* as soon as you stop running ; the rest of the world starts to catch up / MODERN. #* so it tells them who i am / HEADCANON.

[linde80langhoff]

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[yeojaa]

( DEVIL IN A NEW SUIT. )

Money’s something that makes the world go around.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag.  You don’t shame anyone for doing what they need to do.  

That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy that’s being suckered out of both his heart and cash.  You simply can’t let it go on.

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  idiots to lovers.  fluff, angst, smut.  the holy trifecta, babies!  explicit, obviously.  

tags / warnings.  mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole, a satin playsuit (very nsfw), kook does a 180, smut in the form of: a slight oral fixation, too much spit, overstimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (pls don’t be irresponsible).

wc.  12.2k of nonsense.  pure nonsense, i tells ya. 

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ did what she always does aka read through this and made me a better writer and @yeoldontknow​ dealt with my big dumbass and let me cry about my pea brain to her.  i love you both sm!!!  ✨💜

author note.  the long-awaited fic is here!!  i really hope you enjoy it.  if you do, please maybe leave a comment or something?  i swung back and forth between loving and hating this so it’d really, really mean a lot.  anyway, thanks as always for reading and i adore you!  stay safe and happy and healthy!

He’s a sucker.  That’s what you think of him, despite the fact you’ve never met him.  It’d be impossible not to, given what you’ve heard. 

His girlfriend - or something - is in every other week, flashing his black card like she has something to prove.  Sometimes, she’s by herself;  often, she’s with another gaggle of girls that fawn all over themselves and shriek a little too loudly for your taste.  They’re vapid, snooty in a way that makes you cringe every time they step into the boutique.  Still, you’re nice because this is your job and you have to be.  You can’t exactly tell a paying customer to get lost - even if you think it at least six times each visit. 

“He has no idea.”  It’s always the same thing, a story that pulls at your heartstrings yet has you scoffing in equal parts.  “I told him we were doing a girls’ trip but Hyunjin’s going to meet me on his way back and we’re spending the week at the Ritz.”

How can he possibly be this dumb, you wonder.  How can’t he see past the pretty pink lipstick and perfectly coiffed blonde hair?  It isn’t even that nice of a colour job - too icy and reminiscent of Malibu Barbie. 

(She’d bragged about it once - how she’d gotten an appointment at one of the most coveted salons in the city, spending hours in the stylist’s chair to get this “perfect shade”.  Her words, not yours.)

You figure he must be some lonely schmuck, some poor old sap who can’t possibly get what he’s looking for anywhere else.  Maybe he had some weird spoiling kink - if so, where was your man like that - or he just wanted companionship and found it in the arms of girls who paid him any sort of attention.  Truthfully, you thought a lot of things about him.  Kind of had to, given how often his girlfriend was in, rambling about her exploits and snickering behind his back.

You’d never expected him to be like this.

Jeon Jungkook shows up on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after lunch and with the dopiest smile on his face. 

Your colleague notices him first, nudging you to attention because you, unlike her, actually do productive things while you’re at work like go through layaways and make sure items aren’t sitting in the back gathering dust.

“He’s cute,”  she very poorly whispers, voice carrying because it always does.  She’s a younger girl - maybe a few years your junior, who’d gotten her job through pure nepotism - but she’s sweet enough.  Zero tact, though.  Never notices when she’s being just a little too forceful with her sales but her sweet smile and full rack seem to keep her from getting into any trouble.  You consider her a vaguely annoying sister, someone you love even when you don’t necessarily like her.

You glance up from the iPad balanced in your hands, disinterested.  “Who?”

There’s an older couple striding past the entrance, hand-in-hand with three Hermes bags.  (God, what awful taste.)  There’s another couple standing at the mouth of the Louis Vuitton boutique, bickering about which belt will best match the boyfriend’s tux best.  (The answer is neither, because those belts do not belong with a classic black tux.)

“Him.”

Yejin all but points him out, jerking her chin in his direction.  You don’t know how you hadn’t really clocked him in the first place.  Maybe because he’s so unassuming that you’d just brushed over him, noting his outfit before moving on.  When you look at him - really look at him - you can’t look away.

You think he’s handsome in that off-kilter kind of way, too-big teeth and too-wide eyes.  He’s terribly innocent looking, despite the fact that he’s wearing a gleaming gold Rolex and sleek black boots you recognise from Prada’s 2019 RTW.  Everything he wears is tailored, fitting him to the point you wonder who his seamstress  is.  

But then he speaks, and it’s not the suave, sultry voice you’d expect.  It’s featherlight and almost shy, bashful in its delivery.  

“I’m here to pick up a bag for my girlfriend?”  He upspeaks.  It’s stupidly adorable.

Bless her soul, Yejin throws a glance in your direction first.  A silent ‘yours or mine?’ that’s answered when you step forward, blindingly bright customer service smile in full effect.  “What’s the item and the name it’s under?”  You keep in mind he’s said girlfriend very clearly, even as you can’t help but trail your stare over his shoulders, the dimple that digs itself into his cheek when he speaks again.

“Oh, it’s under mine.  Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” 

You’re floored.  This is Jeon Jungkook?  This specimen draped in leather and fine Japanese silk is the poor idiot wrapped around Barbie’s finger?  You’ve got to be kidding.

You wonder whether the surprise is evident on your face.  It must be, given how quickly Yejin interrupts, piping up in that saccharine sweet voice of hers.  “I’ll grab it!  The Box bag in cloud, right?”

Jungkook can only nod dumbly.  He has no idea what he’s there to pick up - only that he needs to because his girlfriend is away on a trip with her two best female friends.  He tells you as much, chuckling at his own ignorance.  It’d be cute if it weren’t so sad, his eyes twinkling like the jewels set in your ears.  There’s so much love in his eyes it’s frankly sickening.  

It comes before you can help it, snapping off your tongue - an oil spill ready to drag him to the depths of hell.

“Oh - you’re Kiko’s boyfriend?  I thought you’d left for Hong Kong already.”  Your head tilts - the picture of innocence as you continue to spew things you shouldn’t, staining the innocence of his expression with each word that drops off.  “She said she was leaving on Friday.”  Even while you’re tearing this poor man’s life apart, you’re racking your brain for the off-handed comments she’d made.  “She kept going on and on about how she was so excited to be staying at the Ritz.”

It’s almost like you gain some sick sort of satisfaction in watching his face fall.  You’ve never seen someone crumble so quickly, every ounce of affection swept up and spat out in the time it takes you to take a solid, proper breath.  

You do feel bad.  Not for saying it, but for being the person to do this.  For hurting this stranger.  (At least he knew?)

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”  Gone is the sunny friendliness, the blissful geniality.  He’s very much uncertain, bunny teeth digging into the full swell of his bottom lip.  He’s pigeon-toed and round-shouldered, thick brows drawn neatly over his stare as he focuses on some indeterminate point somewhere by his feet. 

If Yejin were on the floor with you, she’d tell you to knock it off.  Chastise you for getting involved in something you had no business being in.  (She’d be right, but you’ve always been an advocate for tough love.)  As it stands, she’s still in the back finding that stupid girl’s bag and you’re here, shaking your head, weakening Jungkook’s resolve with the edge of your teeth.  “No, she definitely said she was going away with her boyfriend.  Did you maybe give us the wrong name?”

Maybe if he weren’t so upset, he’d be more offended by the insinuation he’s stupid.  Instead, he only falters further, head mimicking yours.  Poor guy.

“I—I think there’s been a mistake.”

Yeah, you dating that gold-digger, you want to say.  Instead, you meet his stare like you haven’t just dug a thousand holes in his foundation.  “Oh, maybe.  I’m sorry.”  The apology is honest, even if the meaning behind it isn’t.  That’s a thing, right?  Apologising to make someone feel better, even when you don’t necessarily agree with it?  

God, you’re an altruist. 

“It’s fine.”  When he stutters, adorable lisp coming out to play, you know it’s not.  You applaud him for his brave face, even if it’s very poorly offered - a makeshift mask you think you could tear off with just another well-aimed word.  (You won’t.)

“Here it is!”  Yejin’s back, bouncing out from behind the counter with the giant white bag in her hands.  If she notices the atmosphere, she says nothing.  You remind yourself to tell her good job once Jungkook leaves - and you know he’ll leave the moment he’s got those silk handles in his hand.  He looks about ready to cry - or ready to fight, you’re not sure.

Once the purchase is passed over, he nods his head furiously and you swear you see a tear go flying.  You don’t have time to ask before he’s hoofing it out of the store.  

He doesn’t even notice he’s left his wallet on the counter.

By the time you snatch it up and round the corner, he’s nowhere to be found.  Probably because running in stilettos is next to impossible and he’s gotten an embarrassed head start.  Well then.

“I guess we’ll have to call him,”  you hum, turning the Prada bi-fold over and over in your hands.  It’s practically brand new, stuffed with large bills, his driver’s license, and few credit cards, including a Hyundai black card.  The same one on file that his girlfriend - maybe soon-to-be ex-girlfriend? - uses shamelessly.

Yejin’s watching you carefully, silently.  You’re counting down how long it’ll be until she asks - because you can see the curiosity swimming in her eyes, practically bulging her cheeks with the effort of keeping her questions caged behind her teeth.

Finally, after a good three minutes, she’s at your side, bony point of her chin digging a grave into your shoulder.  It’s probably not the most appropriate thing but she’s never much been one for decorum.  (You either, but still.) 

“So… what was that about?”

You don’t bother to turn when you speak, back to running through order details and matching them with customers.  “What?”

“You know— that!”  She waves her wrist in a circle, gesturing toward the space Jungkook had occupied not five minutes ago.  “He ran out of here like he was scared for his life.”

“Scared of the truth,”  you correct. 

You hadn’t thought it was possible for her to get more pale - she’s already fine porcelain, perpetually slathered in sunscreen - but she somehow does, balking at your response.  There it is. 

“What?”  There’s a reproachful edge to her words, an uncertainty that tells more than the single syllable. 

“What?”  It’s mimicry and a challenge all in one, meeting her stare from the corner of your periphery.  You can read every emotion that runs through her expression:  shock, displeasure, confusion.  

She retreats a step, bottom lip caught between her teeth.  (She really does remind you of your little sister.)  “So, you told him?”

You shrug, a noncommittal gesture that disrupts the curtain of silk that falls over your shoulder.  You hadn’t laid it out for him but surely he had an idea now.  There was no way he didn’t. 

“I pointed out a few conflicting facts.  That’s all.”  You’re not ashamed about what you’ve done.  You’d want to know if you were him.  Consider it an act of goodwill. 

The silence that meets your ears isn’t surprising but you don’t pay it any further mind.  What’s done is done.  Now he knows, or something close to it.  The chips would simply fall where they were meant to. 

You have to admit - you’re rooting for him. 

Whatever Yejin’s thinking, she keeps it to herself for the rest of the shift.  She knows better than to berate you about something like this, not that she would anyway.  Obnoxious as she can be, you have an understanding.  It strengthens your not-quite-close-friends-but-more-than-colleagues relationship. 

It’s only at the end of your shift that she brings it up again, drifting over to you as you complete your cash count for the evening. 

She holds Jungkook’s wallet in her hand, mouth pursed thoughtfully as she taps it against the edge of the counter.  “You have to call him.”

You almost lose your count, finishing with a pinched expression.  “Whoever works tomorrow morning can call him.”  You’re not brushing off the responsibility - you really could care less - but simply passing it along to the next person.  Sensible. 

As it turns out, you’re the person who works the next morning, called in because another associate has come down with a cold.  

You’re two lattes deep when you remember the wallet, tucked neatly behind the counter with a yellow sticky note posted to the front.  You suppose it’s your responsibility now.  You know if Yejin comes in tomorrow and sees it, she’ll give you her childish brand of hell. 

The line rings twice before it picks up, that oddly familiar voice crackling through the speaker.  “Hello?”

“Jungkook?”  

There’s a beat of silence followed by a careful confirmation. “Yes, that’s me?”  Upspeaking again. How cute. 

“I’m calling from the CELINE boutique.”  You can practically imagine the look on his face, eyes as wide as saucers as he recalls the awful-to-him encounter.  “You left your wallet here and I wanted to make sure you got it back.”

“O-oh, uh—“  It’s like encountering a baby bunny - or deer or something equally adorable and vulnerable.  “Thanks.  I didn’t even notice.  Um, I can come pick it up today?”  There’s another pause, the sound of fingers over a screen, and then he’s back.  “Is that okay?”

Leave it to him to have lost his wallet and yet be worried about putting someone else out.  He truly was a sucker. 

“That’s fine.  We’re open until six tonight.”  

“I’ll be there before dinner.”  As if realizing how vague that is, he continues, words running headlong into each other like he can’t get them out fast enough.  “Before six, I mean.  Um, is around five-thirty okay?” 

You want to tell him to just come whenever, that it really doesn’t matter to you, but that probably isn’t going to help the situation.  Instead, you hum a quiet sound of confirmation.  “Of course.  We’ll see you then.” 

He hangs up immediately. 

The second time you meet Jeon Jungkook, he’s just as endearing as the last.  It’s actually surprising, if you’re being honest.  You’d thought he’d be resentful or mean or any other emotion better fitting someone whose entire world had turned upside-down.

As it stands, he’s just the right-side of anxious, a hundred little sparks of uncertainty flaring beneath his skin and lighting him up in neon.  You can see him from a mile away he’s lit up so bright, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin.

Your heart aches for him - and then it skips, almost trips over its own two feet when he wanders into the store with his hands dug deep into the pocket of his pants.

How he looks tonight is nothing like how he’d looked yesterday.  Somehow, you like it more.  The undone head-to-toe Balenciaga, the unruly curl of his dark hair.  It’s effortlessly chic - though you think it might have something to do with the fact that he’s just an attractive person.  (Good-looking people could get away with anything - even god-awful fashion faux pas.)

At the sight of you, he seems to further lose steam, eyes widening to such an extent you briefly worry for him.  Surely they’ll fall out of their sockets one day.  

“O-oh.  It’s you.”  The moment the words come, he’s blushing the colour of your red-soled shoes, horrified.  “I m-mean, just—”  He takes a deep breath, finds his footing and tries again.  “You’re the girl that helped me yesterday.”  Spoken like you, the exact girl who helped him yesterday, wouldn’t remember that fact yourself.  

“That’s right,”  you say evenly, expression neutral.  It’s almost as if that surprises him more - as if he’d expected you to shy away from the knowledge.  

The two of you stare at each other for longer than is strictly speaking necessary.  Well, you stare at him and he kind of bounces his eyes around the room.  You know he can’t be that interested in the croc stamp Belt bag behind your head or the selection of small leather goods in the glass case.  

He’s so awkward.

(You did kind of ruin his day though, so you can’t blame him.)

“So, um, my wallet?”  He’s made barely any headway, still lingering awkwardly by the front of the store.  You can’t help your smile - it’s more of a smirk - as you raise the item in question.  

“Right here.”

Jungkook glances from it to your face, then back again.  He makes the same trip twice more.  “Can I have it?”  To your surprise, he’s taken two whole steps toward you, brow furrowed.  He’s still terribly soft, rounded edges and innocent eyes, but he’s making progress.  Good job, you think.

“Of course.”  You mirror him, moving out from behind the counter.  Somehow, that’s not the right move, because his features are breaking and rearranging, big bunny teeth worrying a hole straight through his bottom lip.  You’d think he’d be more confident, more demanding, more… everything.  (You quite like that he isn’t - a complete anomaly - but you also imagine it’s also to his detriment.  Too much honey, not enough vinegar.)

This time, he closes the distance with three long strides.  It hadn’t escaped you how tall he was, the length of his gait - after all, you’d tried to run after him - but you’re still a little surprised when he’s in front of you, not a foot away, arm extended.  Palm out, he asks again, all while refusing eye contact.  “May I have it, please?” 

You hand it over with a soft laugh, pressing the grained leather into his hand.  You expect him to retreat immediately and he does - but then he turns and his expression is inscrutable.  Is he going to say thank you?  Berate you for what you’d done yesterday?

Neither, it seems.  “Why did you do it?”  There’s no anger, just an abiding sadness that laces his words, turns them the saddest shade of blue.

“Do it?”  You know what he means.  You ask anyway.

“Why did you tell me?”  Jungkook’s doing that thing again, alternating between biting his tongue and chewing his cheek as he stares at you.  You can practically see the melancholy rolling off him;  it shines dark on the depths of his irises, how his fist trembles just barely at his side.  For all his good looks and leisurely charm, you can see the effort it takes to hold himself together now.

Guilt ascends, starts somewhere deep in your stomach and turns stomach acid to butterflies.  It creeps higher and higher over your spine, locking each vertebrae until you’re immobile, unable to tear your gaze from his.  “I thought you deserved to know.”

“But why?” 

“What do you mean?”  

It’s almost comical, how both your expressions descend into bewilderment - like looking into a fun house mirror.  He’s trying to wrap his mind around your actions and you’re just trying to make sense of his confusion.  

You anticipate a response - can see it tittering on the tip of his tongue - but he seems to think better of it, shaking his head.  It dislodges a wayward curl from behind his ear, silver twinkling with the movement.  

“Thank you” is all he offers before speed-walking away.

You don’t expect to see Jeon Jungkook for a third time.  

He’s waiting for you when you end your shift on Thursday, standing somewhere between the two boutiques, loitering like some kind of gremlin.  (Except he’s dressed exceptionally well, slick black jeans and a Balenciaga tee shirt that rivals the cost of your shoes.  Of course he’d get away with hanging out in the store without being told off.)

“Excuse me.”  For once, he doesn’t sutter.  The lisp doesn’t present itself, either.  Was this the same Jungkook?  You’re not sure until you meet his stare - or try, his own skipping away the moment you make contact.

There he is.

“Yes, Jungkook?”  He flinches, as if he isn’t expecting you to know or say his name.  How can someone so big, so broad across the shoulders with a face that belongs on billboards, look like such a terrified rabbit?  It makes no sense to you.

“Can we talk?”  The stare he levels you with is unfair, too sweet and coaxing for you to even consider saying no.  You’ll still mess with him a bit though.

“We are talking.”

He sputters at that, hacks out a cough that makes you snicker openly.  It’s just so easy with him, like taking candy from a baby.  

“I mean like— talk talk.”  The set of his jaw gives away the whisper of frustration, the fleeting touch of exasperation that doesn’t allow itself to live anywhere else.  His eyes are still soft, round and glossy beneath the fluorescent storelight.  

“Sure, we can talk talk.”  

“Did you, um, want to grab dinner?”

You don’t mean to mock him (at least, not really) but he just makes everything so easy. You hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way.  “Are you asking me on a date?”  

“W-what?  No!”  Despite the immediacy of his response - the look of utter shock that cracks the careful facade - he’s burning bright, cheeks aflame with colour that licks up and over his ears.  “I just— I thought you’d want to talk somewhere else—”

“I’m kidding.  Let’s go.”

You move first, stepping past him and onto the elevator without a backwards glance.  He scampers after you, trails like a lost puppy in the wake of your shadow.  Even while you stand in the corner, waiting for the lift to meet the main floor, he keeps a careful distance, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.  

“So, what do you want to talk about?”  It seems you have to take the initiative, throwing him a curious stare as the floor number ticks down.  His gaze is trained on neon digits, unmoving.  You repeat yourself, glancing up at him, half-tempted to nudge him out of his reverie.  It’s almost like talking to a really hot brick wall.  “Jungkook?”

He tears out of his thoughts like a wayward bullet, head swivelling wildly.  “Huh?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  

“Um—”  He hesitates, not as if he doesn’t know the answer, but rather that he’s hesitant to speak it into existence.  There’s a tidal wave in the depth of his stare, a cresting wave that looks on the edge of breaking.  “—m-me?”

Brows furrow then amusement spills out.  “You want to talk about… you?”  

“That sounds bad.”  The shape of his grow prominent over his bottom lip, his mouth pulling and pursing with whatever maelstrom exists inside that pretty skull of his.  

“It’s fine.  We’ll talk at dinner.”  

He nods.  You think it means thank you.

Sitting across from each other in the Michelin-starred restaurant - a sought after spot that takes reservations weeks in advance - it’s easy to imagine Jungkook is just another guy.  Another bachelor with too much money and not enough sense, eager to sink his teeth into his next victim.  

It’s hilarious how far that is from the truth.

“What did you want to eat?”  He’s speaking into the pages of the leatherbound menu, half his face hidden.  Whether it’s a defense mechanism or just how he woos pretty girls, you’re not sure.  (You have a feeling it’s the former.)

“Whatever.”  Everything here is incredible.  You really don’t mind.

Jungkook’s face falls, folds in on itself like wet paper and you sigh a sound that further breaks apart the pillars keeping his composure in place.  His right cheek is hollowed, interior being shredded by enamel.  You take pity on him then, flipping open the menu with a great flourish. 

When the waitress - a lovely little thing whose gaze lingers on your dining partner for too long to just be polite - comes to take your order, you rattle off your usual order, doubling certain selections.  Soft-spoken as he might be, you have a feeling the size of his stomach makes up for all the mumbling and half-hearted glances.

“So?”  You level him with a stare over the rim of your glass, lavender and lemonade bursting across your tongue.  

He echoes you, wide-eyed and Bambi-like and stupidly cute.  “So?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  If you’d had a worse day, if you were a lesser person, you might be irritated by having to repeat yourself so often.  As it stands, you’re only curious, your inquisitive nature outweighing your naturally short temper. 

“Oh.”  Poor boy looks like he’s been asked an impossible question, like what’s the meaning of life or the secret to eternal youth.  He fumbles with the edge of his sleeve, turns the plaid over and over in his fingers as if it were a puzzle.  You stare at him the whole time, unflinching, unrelenting.  He’d asked you here so you damn well expect an answer.

You’re about ready to repeat yourself - fourth time’s the charm? - when he finally finds his voice.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

It’s not the answer you’d expected.  It whacks you in the face, smacking your usual confidence out of place and shooting your carefully threaded eyebrows into your hairline.  “What?” 

He’s terribly uncomfortable, unhappy with being on the spot.  You watch the flicker of emotions through his face, the ones that creep into the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the wobble of his bottom lip.  Try as he might, he can’t keep the light from his eyes - twinkling stars that bloom like newly minted stars.

“Thank you.”  It’s just that much harder when he repeats himself, edges he builds with his bare hands and a clearing of his throat.

You’re silent for a long while - long enough for the first few plates to be set before you.  You gather up shredded radish and perfectly charred beef with your chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully on the morsel.  Jungkook doesn’t move - doesn’t even reach for his chopsticks - and simply stares at you.  You might find it off-putting if it were anyone but him.

You get through half the bowl of green beans, well on your way to finishing it, when he finally begins eating, deftly transferring little bites to his bowl.

The only sound is crunching - king oyster mushroom tempura, ice from your cocktail - and you’re pleasantly surprised to find it’s not uncomfortable.  A little different, sure, but altogether nice.  Like dining with an old friend.

You finally answer when half the plates are gone, another three laid out in their wake.  You’re careful not to speak with your mouth open - you notice Jungkook doesn’t either - and take a long sip of your water.  “You’re welcome, I guess.”  

Something tells you you’re always surprising him - whether intentionally or not.  His eyebrows have a tendency to shoot up, making him look even more shocked than he normally does.  (Seriously, how big are his eyes?)  You find that funny but don’t comment on it, opting to pop a silken piece of black cod into your mouth.  Your stare never falters, trained on his face as you chew thoughtfully.

“What?”  He’s had enough of your quiet observation, apples of his cheeks reminiscent of the tree in your parents’ backyard.  

“What?”  You parrot back, shameless, dark eyes twinkling at him.

“Y-you’re staring at me.”  

“You’re sitting in front of me.”

The line of his mouth hardens then, tongue rolling against his cheek in a gesture that stands out.  It’s the first glimpse of something rude, something not doe-eyed and innocent.  Oh?

“You don’t have to stare.”  Said with a speared piece of sashimi, the end of his chopsticks assaulting the poor piece of bluefin tuna like it has personally offended him.  

You reach for the same place, knock ornate wood against his, and quirk a brow when he meets your stare.  “Does it bother you, Mr. Jeon?”  The inflection is drawn out, almost mocking, only softened by the smile you offer.  

“That’s not my name.”  The bite disappears past his teeth.  You expect him to continue three chews later but he only goes for another, filling his plate and then his mouth.

“Sorry— Jungkook.  Does my staring bother you?”

It feels a little like playing with fire - holding your hand too close to a flickering flame, curious what it’ll do.  Juvenile in a way but enticing in another.  You’ve never met anyone quite like Jeon Jungkook.

“It’s rude,”  he reasons, glossy eyes meeting yours for perhaps the fifth time that evening.

“Maybe I’m just rude.”

He shakes his head then - dislodges untamed strands from behind his silver-lined ears - and sets his chopsticks down.  (Perfectly matched up, propped against the provided rest.)  “You’re not.”

You can’t keep the surprise away, the emotion threading through your brows to tie them into a little knot of consternation.  He says it so readily, as if he knows you and this isn’t one of a handful of very short, very unexpected conversations.  He’s not even looking away, meeting your stare with a confidence that surprises you.  

It lasts for all of five more seconds before he clears his throat and sips at his tea.  Anything to busy his hands, you think.

“You don’t know that,”  you finally return, after what seems like too long.

“I do.”  He nods - almost to himself - and continues, matter-of-fact.  “You care about people.  You’re… hard around the edges but you don’t mean to hurt anyone.  You want to do what’s right.  Sometimes it means you have to do things that aren’t easy.”

For once, you’re at a loss for words.  Really and truly silenced, unable to articulate anything that might beat back the kindness he’s offering.  

How the tables have turned.

He likes waffles with chocolate syrup rather than honey.  He doesn’t like whipped cream or citrus-flavoured desserts.  He has a tailor he’s gone to since he was a child, the same elderly woman he sometimes calls halmoni because she’s watched him grow up.  He decorates his apartment with the most random things:  limited edition KAWs figurines and the guitars he still hasn’t had the most practice with, one of a kind paintings from the gallery one of his best friends curates.  He buys the most expensive bottles of wine at any given restaurant not because his palate is so evolved it matters, but because it’s what he’s been taught to do.

He’s been in four serious relationships in his twenty-five years.  All of them have ended poorly, though his latest with Malibu Barbie is the first where he’d been cheated on.  (Somehow, you doubt that but you don’t voice this disbelief.)  He tends to lean towards long-term relationships with women who baby him (your words, not his).  He scoffs when you call him a serial monogamist, insists he isn’t even as you list out all the facts pointing otherwise.

“I just… don’t like wasting my time,”  he insists from behind his coffee cup.  

“You mean you don’t like the potential to be hurt.”  

Jungkook blinks at you then, Bambi eyes so big and bright you almost want to laugh.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  He seems confused - as if his reasoning is solid, irrefutable. 

“High risk, high reward, Jungkookie.”  It’s something your father had taught you years ago, the crazy old sap.  It’s probably why he’s had three divorces since you were seven years old, but you suppose it’s worked out for him now.  He’s been happily married for the last ten years - the longest relationship he’s ever had.  Youngin is good for him, though.  You like her - even if you sometimes wish she weren’t young enough to be your older sister and not his wife.

“You say that a lot.”

“I mean it when I say it.”

He’s quiet then, shoving a corner of his croissant past his lips.  When he speaks - starts to, anyway - his mouth is still full and you level him with a look that silences him until all traces of the pastry are gone.  “Girls are scary.”

You laugh.  Cackle, really.  You can’t help it.  He says it with a pout, the expression so utterly at odds with the offensively revealing shirt he wears, the smooth unblemished skin of his chest almost too much for such a quiet afternoon.  He glares at you across the table, shoves another piece of the flaky golden treat into his mouth, and waits for you to speak.  He knows you’re going to give him a piece of your mind because you always do, rebuffing 99% of the things he says.  (Sometimes for fun, often with good intentions.)

“Heights are scary.  Death is scary.  Leaving your wallet at home when you’re low on gas is scary—”

“Don’t you have Apple Pa—”

“Don’t interrupt.”  He clamps his lips shut, folding his arms across his chest.  From anyone else, it’d be a defensive gesture;  from him, it’s patient.  “Girls aren’t scary.  Having real feelings for people is scary, but that doesn’t mean you should just stay with people who don’t deserve you.” 

“Not all of us have cheater-sniffing noses.”  

You suppose he’s right but the fact still remains that he’s too nice for his own good.  Too trusting, too lenient, too blind to all the red flags.  Like he’s living life in greyscale. 

“Well, that’s what you have me for.”

The look Jungkook gives you then is incredulous, screwing his pretty face up as if he’s about to sneeze.  Instead, he laughs.  “I’m not hopeless.”

“Oh, but you are.”  You’re adamant, insistent.  He’s more comfortable with you now - sometimes teases you in a way you’d never have expected weeks ago - but he’s still so soft.  An absolute marshmallow dressed in designer duds, a heart of gold wrapped up in a bubble gum package.  

You want to protect him, teach him to fly.  Be his wingwoman until he’s soaring the skies on his own.  

You know it’s not his pride that keeps him from saying yes.  He doesn’t have an abundance of that, far too gracious to ever deny help when he really needs it.  He’s just shy, doesn’t know what he wants until it’s staring him right in the face.  

“Fine,”  he agrees after you’ve stared at him for too long.  It’s one of his weaknesses - his inability to handle attention when it’s laser-focused.  It makes him sweat, prompts his nervous habit of chewing at his bottom lip, long fingers picking at the peach fuzz on his cheeks.

“You won’t regret it.”

Jeon Jungkook has gone on six dates over the last ten days.  You know, because you’ve helped him pick out outfits for each of them, seated at the edge of his bed with your knees folded and a bag of white cheddar popcorn in your grubby little paws.

It’s not that he isn’t stylish - you both know he is - but there’s a certain finesse to dressing for dates, to knowing the likes and dislikes of your potential partner and playing to those.  

He, to no one's surprise, does not have this finesse.  If it were up to him, he’d wear his favourite clothes every day, different jeans and joggers in medium-wash denim and impossibly soft cotton.  He’d swap his Balenciaga separates in and out and stick with the finely tailored Gucci suit he calls his lucky ticket (ew).  He’d live in those stupid two-toned sneakers and barely do his hair, allowing it to become a powder puff reminiscent of old Hollywood movies.

The girls would probably still love it.  (It’s easy to love him.)

“What do you think?”  It’s low-cut black, relaxed in the shoulders and flattering in the torso.  It holds him just right, hugging the muscle that threads across his shoulders like armour, coils around his upper arms and makes his tattoos stand in stark relief where the sleeves end, mid-forearm. 

It looks good— but then again, a lot of things look good on him.  He wants great.

You answer honestly, because that’s what you do and that’s what he has you there for.  To knock him down when his (admittedly small) ego gets a little too big, remind him of his hubris like the summer sun upon his candle wax wings.  “Not bad…”

You don’t even need to finish the thought for him to be tugging the shirt over his head, back flexed, ink-strewn fingers gripping the hem.  

Not for the first time, you’re reminded of just how unfair life is. 

How had Jungkook - bona fide dork, certifiable shy guy - been gifted one of the best bodies in human existence?  (You wish you were joking.)  It was utterly absurd, a complete waste on someone who’d only learnt to utilise his good looks in the last five months you’d known him.  

“This one?”  He’s grabbing another hanger, all but thrusting it into your face.  Medium-weight cashmere.  Probably too hot for a night like tonight but you’ve seen it on him before and it hugs him like a lover, displaying his best assets (titties) and drawing attention to the narrow shape of his waist.  It’s the equivalent of a little black dress.

“Look at you go,”  you tease, mouth full of mirth and popcorn kernels.  “Throw that Juun.J trench you have overtop and you’ll be set.”

Jungkook nods sagely, as if your word is law.  You suppose it is.

“Thanks, ____,.”  He says it in that sweet way of his, eyes lost to the weight of his gratitude.  

Your response is a shrug.  “Bring me back some dessert and we’ll be even.”  You don’t know where he’s going tonight but you figure it’s one of the many restaurants you’d recommended earlier in the week when he’d started lining up his various dates.  You know there’ll be something good on the menu.  

He promises he will as he slides the turtleneck on, tucking it into the dark trousers he’d picked up days ago, and redoes the slim black Rag & Bone belt around his waist.  You have to admit - you’ve done another great job of styling him.  Simple yet painstakingly attractive, playing at all the little bits of Jungkook’s best qualities without outlining them in bright red ink.  Understated but elegant, effortless yet seriously hot.  

Maybe you should quit your day job and become the female Hitch.  That was a viable plan, right?

You’re mulling it over when you realise your walking Ken doll is making toward his bedroom door, wallet clasped in one hand and phone in the other.  “Hey!  You’re leaving already?”  It’s polite surprise that colours your words, stare drawn to the screen of your iPhone.  It’s only 6 PM and the reservation isn’t for another hour.

There’s a sheepish look creeping over his features, painting itself in delicate strokes that you spy past the line of his smile, how the skin crinkles around his eyes.  For a moment, he’s the shy Jungkook you’d met in your store and not the one that now bleeds careful confidence, filling his little black book (read: phone contacts) with names as easily as he breathes.  “I was, uh, going to stop and get f-flowers.”  A silver-lined hand scrubs across his nape, dislodges the carefully styled waves he’s settled for.

Flowers, huh?  Well, that’s certainly something new.  Good for him, you think. 

“Jeon Jungkook, going all out.”  It’s heavy on the teasing, playful mockery lending a warmth to your words.  “She’s special.”

Which you’d figured, given he was seeing her.  Repeats were rare for him now that he’d learned how to weed out the bad seeds, held his hand a little closer to his heart (at least, sometimes).  Since he’d started dating again, this would be the first time he’d be going on a second date.  It’s a big deal. 

“Yeah—“  Nervousness sparks across his face, lights up his stare like the stars in the night sky.  “I guess she is.”

You smile fondly, like a proud mother.  “Go get ‘em, tiger.”  

“I will,”  he promises, looking so giddy it makes your heart swell ten sizes.  

You don’t even think anything of it as you follow him out of his room, bag of popcorn neatly rolled under your arm and your socks slid back into place.  It’s only when he levels you with a strange stare, pauses in the shrugging on of his coat, that you return his look.  “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“Leaving?”  

“Why?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question?  

You don’t normally leave, usually waiting here at home for him until he returns to give you a rundown of his date (and the promised appetizer/dessert/whatever).  It feels somehow wrong to stay, though, as if you’re taking up space that doesn’t belong to you.  He’s going on a second date, after all.  Soon enough, he won’t need your help picking out clothes or deciding on a restaurant.  You won’t get to curl up on your usual corner of his sectional, wrapped up in the obnoxiously soft blanket you’d convinced him to buy one night while online shopping.

But it’s fine.  Totally, one hundred and ten percent fine.  The two of you are friends.  You’d always expected - anticipated, hoped - this day would come.  Baby boy was growing up. 

“Y’know.”  You answer a second too late and he’s still wearing that odd expression, handsome face flooded with something that looks like disappointment.  It flickers in the bits of his stare you can make out past his fringe, partially concealed by the dark silk that you know feels as soft as it looks.

“I know?”  He never tries to read your mind - knows it’s utterly useless.  

You wiggle your hand dismissively.  “Second date and all that.”  

Jungkook giggles - the same deceptively sweet sound he always makes - and finishes tugging his jacket on.  It fits him so well it should be illegal, falling to his knees and ending just shy of the intricate laces of his boots.  “Just stick around.  I’ll drive you home when I get back.”

It’s something he always does - his way of saying thank you for putting up with all of his first date jitters, his outfit changes, his worrying over how to first approach a girl on Tinder - so you don’t doubt him.  “Fine.  I’ll stay.”

He beams, caught halfway out the door.  “Tell me to break a leg.”

“Go break her back,”  you retort to the sound of his laughter.

You’re almost asleep when your phone starts going off, the vibrations jolting you awake.  It rattles across the glass table, won’t shut the hell up until you’re slamming your hand atop it, glaring at the screen as it lights up with notifications.

It’s almost 2 AM and they’re from Jungkook.  This can only mean one thing.

from jeon jungkook:  Hey. from jeon jungkook:  I’m really sorry but I won’t be home tonight. from jeon jungkook:  If you want to stay over, I can drive you back in the morning. from jeon jungkook:  Please don’t be mad.

Leave it to him to apologise for getting his dick wet - to feel bad about having a successful second date.  It makes you laugh as you stare down at the texts, tap a quick response you know will have his heart racing.  (Even after months of friendship, it’s hard not to tease him just a little bit.)

to jeon jungkook:  i officially hate you

The typing notification gives him away immediately, but the moment you do the same, he stops.  Of course.  He hates confrontation - would rather leap off a cliff-face than deal with negative emotions.  (He’d told you that once, over a night of beer and fried tteok.)

to jeon jungkook:  it’s fine!  have fun! to jeon jungkook:  turn her world upside down 😏

He doesn’t answer after that but the read receipt pops up.  Good, you think.  About time he finds someone nice.  You wonder what she’ll be like when you meet her.  

Jungkook’s third date comes with another third - you.

He drags you along to dinner, insisting there’s nothing at all weird about the fact.  He has to repeat it at least four times during the drive there, head nodding like a plastic bobblehead as he weaves in and out of traffic. 

“I want you to meet her,”  he mumbles, like that makes it better.  As if bringing a friend along to a date with that reasoning means it’s totally acceptable and not on the list of Hard No’s When Dating.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”  He’s too focused on changing lanes to answer you, signalling before seamlessly drifting over.  (He’s an impressively responsible driver, but that’s unsurprising.)  You repeat yourself.

“It’s not… weird.”  But you have a feeling that he knows how odd the request is.  Knows and doesn’t care, unfortunately.  “She wants to meet you too.”

(When had Jungkook turned into this person who argued with you?)

You somehow highly doubt that.  No girl in her right mind would leap at the chance to meet her potential beau’s wingwoman.  It’s something reserved for official status, when the foundation is set.  Still, you play into his hand, level him with a stare he should recognise.  It’s the one you throw his way any time he’s too nice, gives a mile when he shouldn’t even offer an inch.  (It doesn’t come as often anymore, but it still makes appearances once in a while.)  

“What does she even know about me?”

“That we’re friends.”  His vague response speaks volumes.  The look changes - grows into a glare that has him furtively peeking at you from the corner of his periphery.  When he speaks, it feels like a dead giveaway.  “That I really value your opinion.”

You groan, a noise so loud it rattles around in the car and interrupts the ballad playing through the speakers.

“She’s trying to figure out if I’m competition or not!”  Of course.  It’s obvious.  She wants to know what she’s getting into it before things get too serious, determine if her Prince Charming is really all that.  (He is.)  “I’m not coming to dinner.”  

“You’re already in the car,”  he reasons.  

You note he doesn’t deny your first statement, mouth rounding into a pout that should crush your resolve.  Instead, it drives you mad, irritation bubbling in your throat.

“I just won’t go in.”

“____,.”  When he says it like that, it’s hard to deny him.  Jungkook might not utilise his charms often but when he does, it’s lethal.  Undeniable with those dumb Bambi eyes of his.

“No.”

“____,,”  he repeats, almost pleading.  You can’t look at him.  You won’t.  The moment you do, you’ll be sucked into the swirling vortex that makes up his stare - a million pretty little lights caught in the brown of his iris, so many possibilities you’d lose yourself trying to explore them all.

You last a whole ten seconds before his staring becomes too much, those round eyes tracking you in the rearview mirror until you’re relenting, softening in the way that only he can cause. 

“Fine.”  You hate how it sounds rolling off your tongue, terse and a little pissed off.  You’re not actually mad.  Just worried.  You’ve seen situations like this play out - not that you’ve been in this position before - but female friends and potential girlfriends just don’t go hand-in-hand.  It takes a very special kind of person to facilitate a meeting this early and you are not that person.  You’re ragged edges, uneven temperament, distrust that you can’t help.

Jungkook knows that.  Should, anyway.  You’ve grown close over the last nearly half a year.  

When he mumbles a quiet sorry, turns to rest his chin against his knuckles as he drives, you know he means it.  He’d never put you in this position if it didn’t mean a lot to him - if his own happiness wasn’t somehow also on the line.  (Truthfully, it’s your fault.  All that self-love encouragement was coming back to bite you in the ass.)

You grumble an obligatory acceptance as the streetlights fly by.  You’ve got a reputation to uphold. 

“You’re paying for my dinner.”

“Of course.”

How many times have you pictured this same situation, watched it unfold on your television screen as the protagonist gasps wildly, hand at their throat?  How many times have you laughed at the exchange, snickering into your palm as the romantic interest makes some wild declaration of love and wins the protagonist’s heart?

Answer:  you’ve lost count.

Still, it doesn’t prepare you to be thrust beneath the spotlight, half-dreaming and terribly confused.  

“What’re you doing here?”  At any other time, it might be as reproachful as you want, full of disapproval and sleepiness.  Here and now, it’s slurred speech and the lines of your pillow dug into the softness of your cheek, lashes dusted with sleep and breath freshly minted.

Jungkook’s oddly surprised, considering he’s appeared unannounced at your doorstep at the crack of dawn (not really).  “C-can I come in?”

You don’t budge.  It’s not because you’re about to say no, but because you’re still really tired.  So tired you stare at him for a moment too long, zoning out as you drink in his appearance.  He’s wearing the clothes from last night - the same animal-print silk shirt that hangs obscenely low and reveals too much skin.  You recognise it because you’d picked it out for his date.  

(The one where he was supposed to ask Jiwon to be his girlfriend, you fail to note.)  

You repeat yourself around a yawn, ignoring the way your vowels crash into each other and barely make it to the light of day.  “What’re you doing, Jungkookie?”

“Please let me in,”  the doe-eyed prince at your door mumbles, gaze bouncing somewhere beyond your shoulder, over your face, to the wayward strands that’re the result of sleeping too well.  Everywhere but your eyes.

“Fine,”  you huff, stepping back to allow him over the threshold.  You don’t miss the way he smells - his signature cologne and something else.  If you had to guess, it’s her perfume.  It’s distinctly floral, drawing you into a garden of roses.  You don’t know if you like it.

Without a second glance, you’re shuffling away from him, dragging your slippered feet into the kitchen.  

You move on autopilot, spooning coffee grounds into the Chemex filter.  You don’t bother asking whether your surprise guest wants any - assume he does, because the fiend somehow lives on caffeine - and settle against the counter as you wait for your kettle to whistle.

You’re still so tired you feel like you might fall asleep standing up but you think you do a good enough job of levelling Jungkook with a solid stare.  “So?”

“W-what?”  

It’s been so long since you’ve last heard his stutter that it surprises you, recentres your attention from your own exhaustion and has you frowning.  Something’s happened.  Must have.  There’s no other explanation for it - for how he looks at you, so uncertain like all those months ago when you’d smashed his glass house to pieces.

“What’s going on?”  You’re demanding, full to the brim with concern as you round on him.  He flinches away as if your words have burnt him, leaning into the stainless steel side of your fridge.  

(Silly Jungkook - that won’t protect you.)

“What do you mean?”

The early hour has, luckily, dampened your usual aggression.  He’s stalling, you can tell.  You hate when he does this.  You tell him as much, glowering at him as he tries to shrink his nearly six foot frame into something small.  “You’ve showed up at my house unannounced.  What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?”

He looks as if he’s on the brink of repeating himself, biting it back behind his neat white teeth when your expression grows darker, more frustrated.

It’s impossible to stay dressed in red, lethargy swathing you up like a cocoon and softening your edges.  You sigh heavily - perhaps a little overdramatically - and go about completing your coffee ritual.  Patience works best with Jungkook, you’ve learned.  (Though, he sorely tests your own sometimes.)

With a steaming mug in your hand and the other passed over to him, you gesture toward your living room.

He nods once - a small up and down of his head.  

“So.”  You try again, softer this time, warmed by the heat that permeates ceramic and settles your sleep-ravaged nerves.  You’re seated cross-legged on your couch, facing him with your back pressed to the arm rest.  He’s half-turned to you, coffee cup slotted between his thighs.  Feet turned in, mouth wobbling with the intensity of how hard he’s chewing into his bottom lip.

“I couldn’t do it.”  The words rush out too fast, tumble into each other in such a way you have to take a second to comprehend what he’s said.  Couldn’t do… it?

You stare at each other for a long while, you trying to understand and him refusing to meet your stare.  

When realisation dawns on you, you can only imagine how you look.  It must be terrifying by how Jungkook practically tries to crawl into the cushions of your couch, shoulders rising around his ears like a turtle.

“You didn’t ask her?”  It explodes out, a question that demands an answer. 

He’s staring past your head, unblinking.  You’d almost worry he was a robot if his voice weren’t so damned human, full of melancholy and rounded by his lisp.  “I c-couldn’t.  It was just…”  The shrug he offers is half-assed at best, not nearly good enough to excuse him.

“Just what?”  

“Just—”  There’s the wiggly hand gesture you do that he’s adopted, his ink-strewn hand waving through the air like a floppy chicken foot.  He thinks it’ll earn him a pass but your unrelenting glare indicates otherwise.  He deflates, hand falling back to his lap, clutching his mug like it's a makeshift security blanket.  “It didn’t feel right.”

What did that even mean?  Feel right?  

Love didn’t just appear, fully-formed and complete.  It took work and dedication and the understanding it could all come crashing down.  Didn’t he understand that?  Hadn’t you drilled that into his head?

You exhale through gritted teeth, push breath past enamel that acts like a solid steel gate.  

“Jungkook, it’s not going to just ‘feel right.’”  You’re air quoting, all tact thrown out the window.  “You like her, don’t you?”

You expect him to nod immediately.  He doesn’t. 

“Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” 

“You like her, right?”  

“I think so.”

You want to tear your own hair out.  Instead, you press the pads of your fingers into your temple - apply pressure in hopes of alleviating the tension that settles there.  “So, you like her.”  It feels a bit bad, condescending in a way;  you don’t mean it in any way but supportive.  You just want him to be happy.  “But you couldn’t ask her out because it didn’t feel right?”

“She’s not you.”  

He’s looking at you now, looks like he might have a heart attack if he does so any longer.  But he doesn’t tear his gaze away when you meet it, entire expression warped into something you don’t recognise.  Hope, maybe?  Fear?   

“What?”  You wish it were hard rather than feather light, almost lost to the cacophony in your head.

The hollow of his cheek is thrown into stark relief, the line of his jaw clenched tight.  He repeats himself even as you’re the one looking away, shaking your head as if that might will away the irksome answer.  (It won’t.)

“Don’t say things like that.”  

It’s hurt that flashes through his expression and strikes you right in the centre of your chest.  His face crumbles, brows knit together beneath his mop of shiny hair.  He looks so terribly sad - a kicked puppy, an abandoned deer.  Bambi, through and through.

“You asked why I didn’t do it,”  he reasons in a voice far more solid than he looks.

“I didn’t think you’d say something so ridiculous.”  It’s cruel.  “You’re making a bad choice.  You’re into this girl.  Don’t be dumb.”

His features rearrange, then so do his limbs, entire body lifting from his seat in jerky, disjointed movements.  “I’m not dumb.”  There’s a reproachful quality to his words, a distaste he doesn’t bother to mask.  It’s not something you’ve ever faced, surprising you enough to draw your eyes to his face.  

He doesn’t look like the Jungkook you know.  

When he leaves - sets his cup in the sink and storms out the way he’d come before you have time to stop him - you wonder if you ever knew him at all.

“Okay.  Spill.”

Yejin’s tired of your abrasiveness, tired of having her head bitten off every time she tries to approach you with a question.  You can’t blame her.  You’ve felt like shit the last week, sleep-deprived and generally pissed off.  

All because of a doe-eyed idiot.  

“What?”  It’s less snark, more sigh.  You’re counting down the minutes until you’re free, until you can curl back up in your bed and try to sleep like you’ve done the last four days.  

“What’s going on with you?”  

“Nothing.”  

“Bullshit,”  she hums, trailing after you as you move behind the counter.  “You’ve been in a bad mood all week.  I’ve never seen you this upset like, ever.”  She’s right, of course.  You’ve always been very careful to keep business separate, pushing the customer service agenda no matter what.  “Did something happen?”  

You grit your teeth.  An expletive careens off your tongue when you slam the tip of your finger within the drawer you’d just shut.

“____,”  she tries again, concerned.  

“Nothing happened.”

“See, I don’t believe that because like, look at you!”  She gesticulates wildly, adorned wrists clinking loudly.  “You look like hell—”

“Thanks.”

“—and you’re being clumsy and like, I think I know you well enough.  So just tell me?”

You hate that she’s right.  It doesn’t mean you’ll relent, too caught up in your own strange brand of strength to unload.  (Maybe it’d be helpful.  Probably.  But you’ve never found comfort in other people.  At least, not like this.)

“Yejin.”  Her name stops her in her tracks, hurried and insistent as you pull your coat on.  “It’s fine.  Really.”  You’re swallowing your pride - practically choking on it - as you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile.  “I just need to get some sleep.”  And figure out what the hell to do about Jungkook, but that’s a can of worms you refuse to open and certainly not here.

Maybe at home, over a glass of wine, fueled by liquid courage.  

The bottle of Côtes du Rhône has aided you more than you’d hoped, offered an armour that slinks over your shoulders and drives your fingers to action.  It’s prompted something - started the ball rolling.

(Idly, you think that might not have been a very good idea, but it’s too late to care now.)

“You’re here.”  You being him and him being Jeon Jungkook, hair damp and imposing frame draped in an oversized sweater.  He looks terribly uncomfortable standing in your doorway - more so than he had days ago - hands shoved into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, dumb sneakers pigeon-toed as if he’s ready to take flight.

“Y-you asked,”  he mutters, refusing to meet your stare.  At least, you think he’s refusing.  It’s a little hard to focus when there’s this fine film turning everything hazy, the bitter taste of wine heavy on your tongue.  

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy then, though he never quite meets your eyes.  It’s a smart tactic - level you with a look then immediately bounce it away.  It has you coming back for more, eager to refocus his fretful gaze until it’s locked with your own.

“Will you come in?”  You sidestep, give him enough space that he can enter without feeling suffocated.  He still hesitates, takes a second too long in deciding.  “I won’t bite.”

You don’t miss the better promise that comes under his breath.

“So.”  This feels oddly familiar, him backed into the corner of your couch again while you settle across from him.  He hums a noise but offers nothing further.  

This is how it’ll be then.  Fine.  If he wants to be this way.

“You like me.”

He sputters - doesn’t mean to, by how big his eyes go.  He hadn’t expected it to come barreling out of your mouth.  “I—  I don’t—  I didn’t say that.” 

If it were anyone but him, you’d take his reticence as rudeness.  

“Tell me why.”

The poor boy blinks, stares at you full on now.  Can’t look away, locked in the intensity of your stare.  

“W-what?”

“Tell me.”  You sip carefully at the liquid in your glass, swirl it ‘round and ‘round.  “You said that girl wasn’t me but you haven’t made a case as to why that matters.  What have I got that she doesn’t?”  

“You’re serious?”  

“As a heart attack, Jungkookie.”

The brunet swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.  You think he might say no, outright refuse.  You don’t expect him to start rattling things off like the list lives in his head, answers printed against the darks of his eyelids.  

“You’re funny.  You’re honest.  You speak your mind.”  You don’t mean to scoff but his reasons are so shallow - so easily found in other people.  He must read the doubt in your expression, pushing on to cut you off from doing the same to him.  “Y-you care about people even when you pretend like you don’t.  You’re just as scared of being hurt as I am.”  

For the first time in a long time - in years and years - you feel seen.  As if he’s pulled back the cover of your unpublished draft, memorised the redlines and notes in the margins.  

“I don’t—”

“You have this face you make when you’re proud of me.”  He’s turning his own fingers over in his lap, knuckles white from the strain of locking them together and undoing them again.  “When I do something you approve of or when I make you laugh.”  

There’s something thick in your throat.  

“You make me want to try.”  He clears his own, speaks so softly you have to strain to hear it.  “Y-you make things not so scary.”  

It grows heavier, harder to breathe as you stare at the man sitting across from you.  He’s focused wholly on his hands, too caught up in his words to help the way he plucks at his skin, fiddles with the silver chain that loops around his wrist.

“You know what I need, even before I know myself.  You make me laugh.”  He laughs, an almost choked sound that fizzles and rattles bashfully. “You look really, really good in your work skirt.”  You know the one he means - all black, pencil-fit.  Makes your legs look a mile long, despite the fact that they aren’t.  

You can’t help but join him, a little breathless, with a strange sensation behind your ribs.  Like sunshine on a cold day, filtering past the walls you’ve put up, streaming through the windows that’d replaced drywall when Jungkook had waltzed into your life with his fluffy hair and boyish laugh.

When you speak, you don’t even believe your own words.  They come of their own accord - a defense mechanism.  “I can’t.”

As if he knows - as if he’s got a polygraph going, Jungkook shakes his head, meets your eyes and holds you there with the intensity of his attention.  “Can’t or won’t?”

“I—”

“I’m not asking for the world here.  Just a chance.”  He’s got a peculiar look on his face.  “Don’t you think you owe it to me?”

“Excuse me?” 

All of a sudden, he’s close.  Closer than you’d expect, far closer than he should be.  There’s nothing beyond his expression, the way his eyes twinkle under the dimmed apartment lights as he stares you down.  The scent of his cologne is cloying now, the fading nectarine hint of his shampoo making your mouth water.  

“You kind of ruined my life.  I think this makes us fair.”

You sputter, gasp, make sounds that careen off your tongue and fill the air with nonsense.  You’d ruined his life?  (You’d made it better - made him see the light, you thought.)  You’re working to find your voice, ready to tear into him for this abrupt accusation.

Then he’s giggling, nose scrunched and delight filtering past his teeth.  

“I’m kidding.”  

It feels like whiplash.  You’ve created a monster.  

“But you do owe me, I think.  So why not?”

You only have yourself to blame when you say yes, conceding to his pretty eyes and sweet smile.

Dating Jungkook is easy - as effortless as breathing.  He’s a bona fide dreamboat plucked from your wildest dreams. 

He texts when he says he will and picks you up every night, stamping a kiss to your cheek the moment you’ve clocked out.  He holds your hand and refuses to let go, rubbing soothing circles over your wrist when you’re tired or stressed or annoyed.  He brings flowers to every date - insists on them even when you tell him they’re a waste of money.  He knows your coffee order, has learned the art of the pour over when he wakes up before you.  

You understand now, why he’d stayed with women who were terrible for him (to him).  If you were them, you wouldn’t have let him go either.  Would lock him up in an old tower like your own personal Rapunzel.

(You say that because you’ve been on a Disney movie binge.  He is, unsurprisingly, very into these sorts of things.)

“Open it,”  he pleads, pushing the luxurious pink box towards you.

You stare down at the lid, the Agent Provocateur label glaring back at you.  You can’t help how you laugh, sound bouncing around his bedroom.  “Are you trying to tell me something, Jungkookie?”

Your lover - not boyfriend, because you haven’t had the talk and it’s still new and you’ve never been this careful before - rolls his eyes, pushes the box closer with a huff.  It’s adorable.  

“Just open it.”

You finger the soft bow strapped across the top, play with the neatly cut ends.  You can feel the impatience radiating off Jungkook, feel those pretty doe eyes boring holes into the top of your head.  You take your time even more now, unravelling the ribbon with slow, measured twists of your wrist.  

Whatever you’d expected to find nestled among the tissue paper, this isn’t it.  

You’d imagined he’d be into something feminine, all pristine white lace and scalloped cups.  Something he could brush his cheek against, run his fingers over.  

Tucked within the box is something that doesn’t even earn the title of lingerie, a few flimsy straps bonded together.  Blush pink satin and dressed with buckles, you turn it over in your hands, trying to make sense of the way it all connects.  Surely there’s more to this.  Surely, darling innocent Jeon Jungkook doesn’t expect you to wear just this?

“Do you like it?”  You can sense the eagerness in his voice, that desire he has to please that seems to never go away.  

“What is it?”

“It’s a playsuit.”  

“A playsuit?”  You’re no stranger to experimenting in the bedroom but this— this looks like it’s meant to harness a dog in.  Would it even fit?  Soft as it is, it seems terribly restrictive, made for someone with model proportions and no body fat at all.

He nods, round eyes so bright, so hopeful, you can’t voice your concerns.  “Will you wear it?”

It fits you better than you’d expected.  Or at least, you think it does.  If Jungkook’s reaction was any indication, it’s heaven sent - the perfect gift wrapping for a present he’s been dying to claim. 

The buckles you’d studied earlier - that had taken you too long to strap together - dig into the tender flesh of your hips, the shape of his fingers imprinted along the metal.  He grips you so tight you think you might bruise, left with a reminder of his love for weeks.

“S-so wet,”  he groans, sound dropping into an almost whine as the swollen mushroom head of his cock brushes through your folds.  The satin of the playsuit has been long since tugged aside, stained with your arousal as it cuts into the softness of your thighs.  He repeats the motion once, twice, coats your clit in pre-cum that leaks out of the slit and adds another layer of slick.  “So ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod dumbly, drool around the two fingers he’s got slotted against your cheek, ring finger pressed down over your tongue.  

“Use your words, gorgeous.”  As if you can, as if you’re not riding the high of your last orgasm and about to come apart beneath his playful teasing.

The palm of his hand meets your overstimulated clit with a sharp smack, the cold of his teeth bared against your neck.  He doesn’t like when you don’t answer - much prefers to make an effort even if it’s indiscernible.

“What did I say?”  

Something garbled comes, a plea as much as a sob.  Another hit lands, just shy of the pearl that throbs with need and pain, landing instead on the sensitive, already red skin of your inner thigh.  He soothes it this time around, massages your own wetness into the roses that bloom beneath his touch.

When he speaks again, it’s so utterly sweet, tender as can be.  The Jungkook you’ve known for months and not the devil in disguise.  

“You like this, don’t you?”  His kisses are searing, laced with reverence that feels at odds with the way he forces your gag reflex, taps his curved cock against your pussy.  “You like what I’m doing?”

“Y-yes,”  you cry, spit pooling past the sides of your mouth, dripping lewdly across your breasts.  The hand cradling your chin is all but drenched, dark ink thrown into stark relief by the way it slides over his skin.  Jungkook hums against your cheek, licks a fat stripe from shoulder to ear.  

“Good girl.”  Two fingers spread across over your heat, pointer and index sliding over your lips.  You’re spread obscenely - can see it in the mirror that rests against the far wall.  Can see how the head of his cock peeks between your thighs, runs the same path over and over with each languid, slow roll of his hips.  “Such a good girl for me.  My perfect girl.”

Your shoulders shake with the effort you put into nodding, throat clenching on reflex when the three fingers in your mouth flatten over your tongue, hold you steady in place.

“Pretty girl wants more, doesn’t she?  Wants me to fill her up?”

He’s teasing you, the bastard.  Dragging his aching erection against your cunt as you writhe against him, desperate.  It’s amusing to him - you can read the delight in the reflection, see it shining bright like a beacon when he pulls his hand away and recentres it across your chest.  Digits tease at the already pebbled buds, swollen and sensitive from how hard he’d sucked them into his mouth earlier.

“Say it.  Say you want me.”

You do, without hesitation, without fear.  You know he’ll catch you.  “I want you.”  

He sinks into you the same instant the words fall, holds you tight against him when your entire body begins buzzing and threatens to do the same.  Your walls feel like a vice grip around him, greedily sucking in his cock as he slams home, ruts into you like a wild animal.  

Strong as he is, he’s weak to the noises you make - the broken sobs that spill off your tongue and make up the prettiest sound he’s ever heard - and how you feel absolutely perfect, wet and warm.  The muscle in his thighs strain, pleasure vibrating up the notches of his spine, setting every nerve ending alight with its ascent.

“B-be mine,”  he returns, practically begging as he spreads you wide, making you take everything he has to offer.  Heart and soul and stupidly huge, perfect cock.

“I am.  I am.  I am,”  you chant, tears welling along your lash line.  They fall when his rhythm stutters, when the heat overwhelms and you’re coming for the third time that night, crying his name like it’s the only word you know.  

They continue to pour, carve trails down your reddened cheeks as you reach nirvana, wait for moment he’s right there with you.  It doesn’t take long - a few more punishing thrusts into your fluttering heat - and then he’s found his bliss, crying into the silk of your hair, spilling inside you. 

It doesn’t happen how you thought it would - a shy question poised over dinner, sealed with a sweet kiss on the way to the car - but it means just as much.  Breaks you apart as it rebuilds you, fills you up as it splits your seams.

You’re his and he’s always been yours. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @shaybtsforever @we-found-wonderland-in-1989 @justanothergirlfromeurope @jalexad @bonnyskies @coffeeismylife28 @haeilove @purplespaceymermaid @sunsetsnsirens-blog @beingbeings​ @veronawrites​ @notmontae97​ @papillonsgf​ i’m really hoping i didn’t miss anyone e___e

#goldenclosetnet #magicshopnet #ficswithluv #thebtswritersclub #networkbangtan #heartsforbts #bts #bts au #bts imagine #bts fic #bts oneshot #bts angst #bts smut #bts jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook imagine #jungkook fic #jungkook oneshot #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #work.zip #oneshot.zip #devil.doc #jungkook.doc

[deanstead]

Stalked

Pairing: Kelly Severide x Reader

Requested by anon: Could I get 13 and 19 on the prompt list, please! Kelly x reader where the reader is a bartender at Molly’s and ends up with a stalker. Maybe a sprinkle of Jay helping out, too.

Warnings: mentions of stalking, anxiety, mild cursing

A/N: Prompts were meant for drabbles but…. It became too long to be labelled as a drabble so tagging this as a one-shot but I used the prompts! Just felt there needed to be a bit of a build-up for a stalker backstory. Hope you like it! Would also love to hear what you think!

---

You had been getting the feeling that you were being followed for the past few weeks.

There were just a few moments in your day when you felt that you were being watched. It started off at Molly’s when you were pulling your bartending shift, the hairs on the back of your neck had stood but you couldn’t pinpoint it in a crowded bar.

Yet during the past few weeks, it had progressively gotten more frequent. You hadn’t told anyone about it yet because there was nothing to tell. There wasn’t a stranger you saw frequently. Molly’s was usually full of firefighters from 51 or police officers and detectives from 21, or even the medical staff from Med. But no one jumped out at you so you didn’t mention anything to anyone.

You felt it again as you walked the short distance from Molly’s to your apartment building after finishing your shift but you shook it off. Maybe you were too tired.

You jogged up the stairs, squinting when you noticed a package sitting in front of your door.

You smiled. Kelly must have left something for you. You turned, looking up and down the empty corridor. The only thing that smelt a little funky was that Kelly usually left a note or stuck around.

You flipped open the box, frowning at the contents.

What the hell was this?

You stood in front of your door, picking up the stack of photos inside the box. Photos of you – laughing at Molly’s, at the store, at the pharmacy, photos through the window of this very apartment. Photos that you were now sure weren’t from Kelly.

The box dropped to the ground with a clang, the photos slipping from your fingers and scattering onto the floor. You took a shaky step backwards.

You didn’t even realise your hands were shaking until you fumbled with the clasp on your bag to try to call Kelly.

There were just two rings before he answered. “Hello?”

You swallowed, trying to steady your voice before speaking.

“Y/N?” Kelly’s voice again.

“Kelly…” You failed at keeping your voice steady, your voice breaking a little as you called out his name.

“Babe? What’s wrong?” Kelly had picked up on your shaky voice immediately.

“Kelly… something… someone…” Your brain was fogging up.

You could hear Kelly moving around. “Where are you?” When you didn’t respond immediately, Kelly pressed again. “Y/N, where are you?”

“Outside my apartment.” You finally found the words.

“Don’t move. I’ll be right there, okay? Stay there.” Kelly instructed before he hung up.

---

You weren’t sure how long it was you had been there. Once the line had gone dead, you had sunk to the floor, drawing your knees close to your chest, your head down. The box was lying open in front of you, the photographs scattered around. You only looked up again when you heard footsteps, followed closely by Kelly’s voice.

“Y/N!” Kelly called, making a beeline for you.

“You okay?” He demanded. You nodded your head but looped your arms around Kelly, pushing your face into his chest.

You felt Kelly reach over to hold you before you heard a third person’s voice. “Let me clear the house.”

You hadn’t even noticed that Jay was with Kelly.

“Kelly, we’re good.” Jay nodded, tossing your keys back to Kelly. You hadn’t even noticed that Kelly had taken them from you.

“Come on.” Kelly helped you up and guided you inside, Jay following close behind. Before long, Kelly was pushing a hot cup of tea into your hands as Jay pored over the box.

“No promises but I’ll try to pull security footage, maybe we can even dust for prints.” Jay said, glancing over at Kelly.

“Thanks for coming over with me.” Kelly said, getting up.

“Don’t sweat it, Kelly.” Jay smiled.

You looked up. “Thanks Jay.” You smiled.

“You hang in there, okay? I’ll do what I can.” Jay called, waving as he left.

“I can stay here tonight.” Kelly said, as the door closed behind Jay. You didn’t say anything but reached for his hand and he smiled, kissing the back of your hand.  

---

It had been a month and a half since the box had shown up on your door and then nothing.

The best Jay could come up with was that it was a white guy in his thirties, wearing a hoodie and baseball cap. The cameras caught nothing and there were no prints they could match him to.

“Everything’s been okay, though?” Jay asked, as you slid him his drink.

You nodded, “Yeah, it’s been quiet.”

Jay nodded. “Hey, you know if you need anything…”

You smiled, “Thanks Jay. Drink’s on me.”

He smiled, raising his glass in thanks as you wandered off to restock the supplies.

By the time you had finished tidying storage, Molly’s was almost empty, save for a few more people from 51. “Hey Y/N, you can take off early. There’s not much to do, I can handle it.” Herrmann called as you walked out.

“You sure?” You asked, scanning the room. “We’re not exactly closed yet.”

Herrmann smiled. “Yeah, go on.”

“Thanks Herrmann!” You called, going for your bag.

You dialled Kelly’s number but it went straight to voicemail. It still wasn’t late, technically Herrmann was letting you finish shift early. You sent Kelly a quick text to meet you straight at your apartment and calling out byes, slipped out the back door.

You were halfway to your apartment when your phone rang.

“Y/N, I told you I’d pick you up.” Kelly said, the moment you picked up the phone.

You sighed, “Kelly, I’m almost home. I’m just around the corner, I just…” You were cut off midsentence by someone grabbing you and you gave a short yelp before you dropped your phone and got pulled into the adjacent alley.

---

Kelly sighed as he heard you justify why you had left the bar early. He knew this was coming, he just didn’t expect it to be this soon. You had always been feisty and independent, so he knew you’d start to let your guard down soon.

“I’m just around the corner, I just…” There was a pause before you gave a short yelp.

“Y/N!” Kelly called but the line had already gone dead.

Fuck.

Kelly fumbled with his keypad as he ran down the street. “Jay, I think she’s in trouble, one street over from Molly’s. I need your help.”

Kelly pumped his legs, pushing himself faster down the street. It had always seemed like a short street when he had walked you home but now it didn’t feel so short.

---

You had the breath knocked out of you as you were thrown against the concrete wall in the alley, your head hitting the wall with a clang, stars dancing in front of your vision.

“Now, no one can tear us apart.” A voice drawled in your ear. You could feel someone hovering above you, his hot breath tickling your ear, as his hand found your neck.

You could feel the bile rise in your throat. You had no idea who this person was, or what they wanted. All you knew for sure was that he was the owner of that creepy box you had received and he was way too close to you.

You had a scream stuck in your throat and you struggled to get it out. You needed to get it out or Kelly would never be able to find you.

“Hey!”

You sank to the ground as you felt his hold on you loosen.

Kelly’s face contorted into a look of rage as he looked down the alley. Without pausing, Kelly pounced, pushing the man off of you. He saw you sink to the ground out of the corner of his eye but turned his attention back to the man in front of him.

Kelly could feel his heart pumping in his chest as he landed a punch on the man’s face. The man threw a punch, causing Kelly to stumble backwards but Kelly threw himself forward again, pushing him deeper into the alley, so as to put as much distance as he could between you and the man.

Kelly threw another punch, knocking the man off his feet. Kelly growled but this time heard footsteps.

“Kelly!” Kelly stepped backwards, avoiding a kick from the man who lay on the gorunf before Jay came running up. 

“Don’t move.” Jay snarled, taking out his gun.

Jay glanced at Kelly who was now holding onto this guy on the ground firmly, before holstering his gun and bending down to take over and handcuff the man. “I got this.”

Kelly nodded and hurried back to where you were sitting on the ground.

“Y/N?” Kelly approached, noticing the way you stiffened as he reached out for you. “Babe?”

You snapped your head up as you tried to shrink further backwards. “Y/N, it’s me. It’s me. It’s okay.”

You finally saw him, Kelly standing over you, his hand stretching out towards you. “Kelly?” Your voice shook a little.

Kelly bent to your level. “Baby, breathe. Just breathe, okay?”

You took a shuddering breath; a breath you didn’t know you had been holding as Kelly pressed you into him. “That’s my girl.” He whispered.

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” Kelly whispered, as you heard the sirens.

“Kelly, We’ll take him in. You think she’s up for a statement?” Jay’s voice now.

Kelly hesitated but you looked up. “I can talk to Jay.” You said, although you hadn’t loosened your hold on Kelly.

Jay nodded, “Kelly can stay with you. I just need an official witness statement, okay?”

You recounted as much as you could remember to Jay, glad that it was Jay who was taking your statement. A friendly face, someone you knew you could trust.

“Thanks Jay. I…”

Jay smiled, reaching in to squeeze your shoulder reassuringly.

---

Kelly had gotten you back to your apartment, and you were now sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket.

“Hey, you doing okay?” Kelly asked, coming down to eye level with you.

You smiled and nodded. “Now, I am.”

You reached for Kelly’s hand. Kelly took your hand in his and sank into the couch next to you, gently pulling you towards him and holding you close, planting a kiss on your temple..

“Can you stay? You make me feel safe.” You whispered.

Kelly didn’t respond immediately, instead just tightening his arms around you. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

You closed your eyes as Kelly shifted to make you more comfortable. “Kelly, I…”

“I know.” He whispered, “Me too.”

---

KELLY SEVERIDE TAGLIST

@keenmarvellover | @securityfriendly-jay | @winterberryfox | @bestillmystuckyheart​

If you would like to be added to a taglist, you may request here or send me an ask!

#kelly severide x reader #kelly severide #kelly severide imagine #kelly severide imagines #kelly severide oneshot #chicago fire #chicago fire x reader #chicago fire oneshot #resanoona request #kelly severide fanfiction #chicago fire fanfiction #chicago fire imagine #chicago fire imagines #fanfiction #oneshot #imagine #kelly severide x you #kelly severide x y/n #chicago fire x you #chicago fire x y/n

[plush-rabbit]

Writing Notes

Request: If you're still accepting requests, id love to see Dabi and Mr. Compress and how they would react to their S/O leaving them cute little notes and stuff just for them? Love your writing dear!!

A/N: I hope you like them!! Note writing is so cute and if I had the patience for it, I would probably take it up but alas, I have no one to write to so y’all are stuck with author’s notes and tags!!

-

Dabi:

Dabi is emotional, he wears his heart on his sleeve even if he won’t admit it or show it. To have you leave cute notes around his room- stuck between a book, under a half empty bottle of beer, or even placed onto the lid of his cream- he always seems to find them. He won’t ever admit it and he hardly ever brings up your little surprises, but he does appreciate them. They’re sweet. They’re probably the nicest things that anyone has ever done for Dabi in the time that he’s been alive. He’ll hold your note in his hand, the brightly colored piece of paper decorated with your handwriting and he takes a long time to read the note, lingering on each word, smiling when he realizes that you have different ways of writing the letter ‘e’ and how the note is free of wrinkles.

Your choice of pen changes with each day. One day it’s a glitter pen, the other, a fine tip, the next it’s gel, and it’s different everyday. The paper is neat- decorated with flowers in the corner and most of the time, there are small doodles. One day he got a note with a quickly drawn image of him, flowers and stars near him and it was soft, something so sweet and innocent that he stood for a few minutes wondering why you would draw him.

The notes are placed in a tin box, bent from the years and scratched from time, but still sturdy with a secure lock. He keeps all your notes safely tucked in. He can’t bear to fold them, and he’s tried to make origami with them, but the papers vary in size and he can’t bear the thought of folding them let alone to cut them. So, he lays them flat in the tin box that is clean and smells of rubbing alcohol. He doesn’t want anything to sully your notes, one of the few things that he has that is just for him.

He won’t ever reread the notes. He’ll keep them safely tucked away, memories and words of love etched forever in your writing that is kept safe in the dark. There are nights when you aren’t around that he’ll place the box beside him, a calloused finger that runs against the edge of the box and he’ll stare at it. He finds that going back to your words is something of a cheap thing to do. It’s almost selfish for him to do so. He holds guilt heavy in heart but resentment and anger will always win. But, when he stares at your words, when his memory starts to recall the papers written with lily white words, he doesn’t feel so bad about it, to taint the paper that you touched with his hands covered in ash and burning skin. He lies in bed with either you by his side or alone, the weight of your words echoing in his mind until he’s fallen asleep.

Dabi really enjoys the sentiment of you writing notes to him. It’s domestic, something that he’ll never have. He may hate himself, may wish for death and commit to the act, but he isn’t emotionless. He feels so much that it burns him and he is so starved for any type of touch that isn’t fists. His lips are scarred and skin is burnt, staples hold him together but his mind crumbles, and yet, your notes seem to ground him. Simple words written on a paper that leave him breathless and wistful to imagine a life where he can hold your notes in his hand again, where he won’t sully the words that you chose to give to him.

Sako Atsuhiro:

Atsuhiro loves the notes that you write for him. A romantic at heart, he holds them dearly to his chest. He’ll hardly read them in front of you, however, preferring to keep his expression a secret even if he does know that it’s you writing him such sweet things. He's a bit odd in this sense, wanting to keep his reaction so secret when he’s usually so expressive already. Although, he does have a good reasoning for this. He likes to take his time with it, to hold the note in his hand and let his eyes. He’s had relationships in the past, but they were never like this, they were never so vulnerable and filled with bits of something so sweet. It was always passionate, a spur of the moment where something so domestic could be waiting for him. And yet, here you are with a pen in hand and your lips against his cheeks.

He’ll think about the notes constantly, lean against a beaten down seat of the van, let his eyes drift to the opposite side of the wall and think about your notes. His eyes will grow soft, a smile on his lips and he’s thankful for the mask, keeping his emotions hidden from the others. It’s no secret how much you mean to him and how much he means to you, but there are some things that he wants to remain private and your words to him happen to be one of those. He’ll lean and close his eyes, fingers dancing against his legs as he wonders what to do with your notes. The thought of marbling them has come across his mind but he’s scared to lose something so precious for him. For now, they remain tucked neatly into a folder- something for the time being until he finds the perfect place to store them.

During bad days, rereading your notes to him makes him feel better. It’s days where the heat burns against his skin, where sleep calls to him like a siren and he’s reaching towards the folder, pulling out a letter carefully to read your words. Some of them are longer than others. Some tell him to simply have a good day and others remind him to drink water. There are a few- his favorite, really- that call him handsome and speak of his devotion and he holds those close to him. Not everyday is easy and he can’t have you beside him as much as he would like, but he has your notes. He’ll stay up late reading them, sleep dragging his lids down, tears in his eyes when he yawns and he’ll spend the night reading.

He’s tried writing you his own notes, but it always comes out lackluster. He adores you, he simply does, but for some reason, when trying to express his words on paper, they fall flat. Papers are crumpled up, thrown to the trashcan and he’s wondering what he’s doing wrong and why they won’t come out like yours. The pen is halfway used through its ink and your folder of letters sit at the table that he writes and he’ll sigh. He’s not giving up- he won’t admit that, at least- but trying to write like you feels foreign to him. Your love for him is best expressed on paper- it’s simple, something so small but so significant in his life that he’s grown so attached that he can’t bear to lose a single note no matter how “insignificant” it may be. Your notes are words that you don’t get a chance to say out loud, they’re something for him. His love isn’t like that. It’s louder and prouder, it’s him constantly having a hand on your and kissing your temple.

He adores them. They’re his notes, his reminder to take care of himself, his own thing that cannot be taken away from him; they are his love from you to him. He’ll sit beside you, hold your hand in his, and clear his throat. Atsuhiro will pull out the folder, clearing his throat and ask if you would read some of the notes to him. It’s embarrassing enough to know that you know that he keeps the notes but if he has to admit that in order to hear your voice read the notes, he’d do it again and again. His arms will wrap around your midsection, his head between your stomach and chest, and he’ll ignore your teasing laughter, and focus how your fingers twist around his hair and curl it softly. He’ll focus on your voice and murmur how a certain one is his favorite as you read to him. It’s a delicate moment where you’re with something so precious to him. You take delicate care to not let a paper crinkle under your fingertips. His lips will press on your stomach, and he’ll return to listening to you read the letters until he can hear you yawn.

#bnha #bnha imagines #bnha headcanons #bnha dabi #bnha dabi x reader #dabi x reader #dabi bnha #dabi headcanons #dabi imagine #bnha mr compress #mr compress #sako atsuhiro x reader #sako atsuhiro #atsuhiro sako x reader #atsuhiro sako headcanons #sako atsuhiro imagines #i just wrote for notes #not the stuff #i forgot the stuff!! #forgive me!! #for that and being incredibly late #i think i'll stick with this format for a while #it seems neater #just took me a year and some month to get it right huh

[zackcollins]

speechless || bo bichette

masterlist

Author’s Note: Hello! Everyone gets a treat of a second fic today because I was in a mood to write. Hope that’s okay. Idk man. When you’re in the mood to write, you write. And sometimes, you just wanna post right away because you’re too impatient to wait. Ya know? Anyways. GIF credit to glasnow!

Warnings: An anxiety attack. That’s probably it??? I don’t think there’s anything else. Feel free to let me know otherwise and I’ll fix this warnings section for you.

Word Count: 1.9k+

Title: Speechless by Dan + Shay

Additional: The reader should be gender neutral again! I don’t think I used any identifying language or pronouns or anything. If I did, it was accidental because I was hella distracted watching my dog while my grandparents went grocery shopping. As always, let me know how I did because constructive criticism is always welcomed!

Tagging: @whimsical-daydreams​ @donttelltheelf-x​

You had suffered from severe anxiety; it had been a part of your life for as long as you could remember. At this point, it had totally consumed you. You could hardly do anything anymore without your anxiety trying to take over in some form or another. It was the worst feeling in the world.

That's why it was like all your prayers had been answered when Bo waltzed into your life. For the first time in your life, you were able to open up about your anxiety with someone. There was just something about Bo that made you feel safe, secure, and like nothing would ever hurt you again.

You had been dating for about two and a half years before your relationship changed. It changed on what had otherwise been a quiet day in the middle of February. Snow was falling outside of your house, blowing around peacefully in the evening breeze. You were sitting on the window seat of the living room window, staring out onto the street while idly sipping on a mug of hot chocolate.

Somewhere outside, you heard a dog distantly barking. You found it odd because to the best of your knowledge, nobody in the housing community you and Bo lived in had a dog. Most of them had cats because they were easier for their housekeepers to look after when they were away on business trips or vacation. You quickly shook it out of your mind, though, thinking it only to be a dog that had wandered in from somewhere nearby. It wasn't entirely unlikely for that to happen because some of the people in the housing communities on either side had been known to let their dogs roam freely from time to time.

A couple of minutes later, you heard the front door to the house open. That snapped you out of thinking about the barking dog because you needed to know who walked in. Turning around, you heaved a relieved sign when you saw Bo standing in the entryway. You felt a little anxious, however, when you saw that he had placed a rather large box at his feet. Placing your hot chocolate on the windowsill, you walked over to Bo.

"What's this, sweetie?" You asked, walking all the way around the box. You wanted to see if it had some sort of label or marking on it that would hint at what was inside; it did not. All it had was a pink ribbon embossed with white hearts tied around it.

Bo smiled as he was undressing from his winter apparel. He tossed his hat into the closet. He unzipped his coat and carefully placed it on one of the coat hooks beside the door. Lastly came his boots. He slipped out of those and tossed them haphazardly onto the plastic boot mat you had bought specifically for the winter so snow wouldn’t be tracked all over your house. He ended up bowling over your boots and a spare pair of boots you kept in case of emergencies. You glared at him, crossing your arms over your chest. Bo raised his arms in surrender as he stepped forward and gave you a quick kiss. You relaxed, kissing him back as you wrapped your arms around his back. When you pulled apart, Bo stepped aside and motioned to the box.

 "If you wanna know what’s inside,” Bo produced a pocket knife seemingly out of nowhere because you didn’t know him to carry one. He handed it to you and motioned to the box a second time. “All you have to do is open it.” 

You walked forward and leaned over, carefully cutting the ribbon a couple of times so that it was easier to untangle from the box. Once you had all of the ribbon untangled and balled up, you placed it along with the knife on the console table next to you. When you looked back at Bo, he gave you an encouraging nod and a soft smile. You bit your lip nervously as you carefully lifted the lid off of the box. What was inside made you blink in surprise. Staring back at you was a beagle puppy. You had to blink a couple of more times, just to make sure that truly weren't imagining this. When you surmised that this was, in fact, a real dog sitting in the box, you lifted them out, cradling them in your arms. They even kissed you on the chin a couple of times. That was also all it took for you to be absolutely smitten with this puppy.

Just as you went to put the puppy down, the light from the chandelier made something on their collar glisten. At first, you thought it was name tags or the city registration tags. But, when you examined it, you discovered that it was an engagement ring. You turned to ask Bo about it. Much to your surprise, he was down on one knee, holding his hands out. You handed him the dog (who you could now see was a boy), thinking that was what he wanted. Bo chuckled as he scritched the dog behind the ears. The dog sighed, jackrabbitting his back foot in satisfaction. You huffed an amused breath, rolling your eyes and chuckling.

Bo carefully put the dog down and took the ring off of his collar. He gave him a few more ear scritches which made the dog flop on the floor and curl in a ball. Bo rolled his eyes before he looked up at you, holding the ring in your direction.

"Since I know I'm the best thing to happen to you and you're the best thing to happen to me," Bo paused, wiping tears out of the corners of his eyes, "I was wondering if you'd marry me?"

You clammed up. You felt your anxiety wash over you like a giant wave crashing into the surf. You fell to the floor, chanting a bunch of incoherent nonsense as you curled into a ball and clutched your knees tightly to your chest. You rocked back and forth, tears streaming down your face as you continued to death-grip your knees. It was then that you felt Bo wrap you in his arms. He cradled you, rocking you in time with how you were rocking yourself. Only, he was doing it softer, gentler. He was also mumbling some of his stats from last season, the stats from the hockey game you watched yesterday. Hell, he even started mumbling what you needed to buy when you went grocery shopping the next time. Anything mundane and boring because he knew that was what generally helped you out of anxiety episodes. The more boring the better. It gave a sense of normalcy and order that helped your brain to focus on the everyday parts of life as opposed to the falsehoods of meaningless compliments that people only said to you when you were in the middle of an anxiety episode.

Hearing about baseball and hockey stats as well as what groceries you needed to buy helped remarkably well. You calmed down relatively quickly given how badly this attack had started. You tilted your head, looking Bo in the eyes. Your eyes were full of a question that didn’t need to be asked but probably should be anyways. Bo, knowing how to read you by now, simply nodded. He met you halfway as you connected your lips. You shared a brief, albeit meaningful kiss. 

When you broke your lips apart, you held your hand out. "Of course I'll marry you."

You smiled, though it was a little awkward because you were still recovering from your anxiety attack, as Bo placed the ring on your finger. You moved your hand around, looking at the ring from every angle. It was a gorgeous ring. It was also simple and not very flashy. Which is something you had told Bo you wanted when the time came for him to finally propose. You weren’t a flashy or extravagant person so there was no need to have a flashy or extravagant ring. The thought of having an expensive or flashy ring made you really anxious. You were afraid that somebody would break in and steal it from you. And you didn’t want to live the entire rest of your life in fear that someone was going to break into your house to steal something from you. You had told Bo that that was no way to live. That’s why you were content with a small, simple ring. You didn’t have to live in a constant state of anxiety that some schmuck off the street was going to get the wise idea to break in one night and rob you of it. And the ring Bo had picked was exactly the ring you had been eyeing the last time you were in a jewellery store. So, it worked out even better.

Bo snapped you out of your thought by grabbing you by the chin with his thumb and forefinger. He tilted your face up so that you were looking at each other directly. Bo’s eyes flitted down to your lips and then quickly back up to look at you. You nodded as best you could with Bo holding onto your chin, a soft smile breaking out across your lips. Bo smiled back, dropping his hand away from your chin. He, instead, grabbed your hand and interlaced your fingers. You huffed softly before you leaned forward and connected your lips with Bo’s. Bo smirked into the kiss, bringing his other hand up and resting it against your shoulder. The kiss was far more passionate than the first and you swore it could’ve gone on forever and ever. The only reason you stopped was because the puppy weaseled his way in between you and licked both of your noses. Bo laughed and booped the puppy on his nose. You made an amused noise and scritched the puppy's chest.

Bo turned back to you after you both spent a few moments playing with the puppy. "Sorry for surprising you. I know how you hate surprises."

"It's alright, Bo. It would've defeated the whole purpose if you told me," you responded, moving in closer to Bo.

At that moment, the puppy plopped himself down in between the two of you. You both scratched him behind either ear. He made a soft groan of appreciation, before falling fast asleep. He was snoring softly after a few moments which made both you and Bo chuckle bemusedly.

"What do we name him?" Bo asked, picking him up and placing him in your lap.

"Biscuit!" You replied with excitement. The dog responded to that, briefly opening his eyes and snuffling before he went back to sleep. "See! He likes that name." 

Your smile grew wider as your leaned down and gave Biscuit a kiss on the head. He snuffled again, his tail wagging against your knee. You lit up significantly, almost forgetting that you had had an anxiety attack a few minutes ago.

“Scratch that,” you said, a smile beaming on your face. “He loves that name.”

Bo just shook his head, chuckled, and waved a dismissive hand at you. "You're such a huge dork. You know that, right?"

"But I’m your huge dork," you replied, pointing to the ring on your finger as proof of that claim.

"Yes, yes you are."

#bo bichette #bo bichette/reader #bo bichette x reader #bo bichette fic #bo bichette imagine #toronto blue jays #toronto blue jays fic #toronto blue jays imagine #baseball fic #baseball #baseball imagine #mlb fic #mlb #mlb imagine #not hockey #robin writes #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #gender neutral reader #tw anxiety #tw anxiety attack #imagine #self insert

[fairydollsteps]

Tsuyuri Kanao as Your Girlfriend🌸

Feel lucky if you were to date her. Kanao is a girl that won’t open up easily due to her harsh upbringing and often reserved from the other, except she trusts Shinobu.

So the though of her giving her heart to someone is quite shocking and it shows how important you are to her.

You are someone who is very patient and compassionate and those traits of yours are what makes her fall for you. You are the reason why can she feels emotion as you have restart her heart with your sincerity and Kanao would forever be grateful for your existence.

At the beginning of the relationship, Kanao would be very shy and awkward that is cute because she isn’t used to the feeling and the intimacy.

So be gentle and patient with her and she would eventually warm up with you.

Kanao would hide or step away or become a blushing mess when you are being affectionate with her but would start craving more for your touch and your affection as the relationship goes on.

Kanao may be a quiet girl but is quite protective over you especially when going to a mission. She would always insists to tag you along when you are assigned to a mission.

But when she has to be away to her own mission, she would give you a visible sad look and you have to give her comforting reassurance that you would come back.

You both would always be sending each other letter with the help of the crow when you both are away from each other. Kanao would always be excited when she received a letter from you and stops doing whatever she is doing to read it. She would also keep all your letters in a small box.

When you do got hurt from a mission, Kanao would be the first one to reach for you and quickly carry you to the Butterfly Estate to give you medical attention even you said you can do it yourself.

Shinobu finds the whole sigh adorable.

Speaking of Shinobu, she immediately approve Kanao’s relationship with you after finding out you have help Kanao become normal person. But she would be pissed if you make her cry.

Kanao is the type of girlfriend that would cook food for you. She would always wanted to know what is your favourite food and dessert so she can suprise you when you come back from a mission.

She feels happy when you compliment and appreciate her cooking, knowing that her effort and time is not wasted.

It also makes her feel fuzzy in the inside when you finish your plate, spotless and empty.

When you both are going on a date together, it would consist of shopping together or trying out the dessert from a sweet store and so on. You would get her to try wearing something like a pretty kimono and feed her with sweets from the store.

During the whole time, Kanao would try to hold your hand. You would take notice of her attempts then quickly hold her arms and skip happily while fireworks start blasting her in her stomach.

You both would also spend time together indoor as a date, doing domestic stuff together. Like cleaning up the estate, making medicine, cooking and feeding Shinobu’s fishes.

Indoors or Outdoor, it doesn’t matter for Kanao. All she wanted is to create sweet memories with you.

When Kanao has nightmares, she would go to your room, wanting to sleep beside you. You would be worry and concern for her and let her sleep with you cause you wanted her to feel secure.

Kanao would soon sleep immediately as your warmth has comforted her from the terrors of her dream earlier.

I am pretty sure Kanao’s love language would be Words of Affirmation, Physical Touch and Quality Time.

Words of Affirmation: Kanao seeks for your comforting and sweet words everyday. It puts her at ease knowing that she would always be loved and cared by someone. Even a simple greeting from you will make her day. She would also do the same for you.

Physical Touch: As mentioned before, she is a touch starved due to her tragic upbringing where she does not received any love or affection from her parents as they abuse her instead until she is rescued from Kanae and Shinobu. So she absolutely enjoys cuddling with you or just being by your side as she enjoys being at your warm presence.

Quality Time: Due to her working for the Demon Slayer Corps where she is assigned to a mission or trained other swordsmen, she has little time to spend time with you so she would always find every opportunity to spend time with you like accompanying you a mission or be the one to assist you when you got hurt and so on.

Kanao loves you very much. So please be patient to her since she is trying her best to say her thoughts to you. She would appreciate your effort to help with her emotions and stuff. Remember that she would always loves you.

Thank you for reading and have a Good Day!💖

#kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #kimetsu no yaiba headcanons #kimetsu no yaiba fluff #kny headcanons #kny fluff #kny x reader #kny x you #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer headcanons #demon slayer fluff #kanao tsuyuri x reader #kanao tsuyuri #tsuyuri x reader #tsuyuri kanao x reader #tsuyuri kanao headcanons #kanao headcanons #kanao fluff #tsuyuri kanao #kanao x reader #kanao x you #kanao x y/n #sfw #fluff #headcanons

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: III

“You can have me tonight or never

I thought you understood

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

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

—Wrong, Zayn and Kehlani

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

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

word count: 24.2k

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

///

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

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

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

Harry still hates clubs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very satisfied, yeah. Your help was greatly appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that so?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The name’s Styles. Harry Styles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not going.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lock the door on your way out!” 

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is, until she met Harry seven days ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing he notices is the dress. 

Fuck, the dress. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nice to see you again, Disco Ball.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far from it, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like your dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been thinking about you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It felt really nice.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t mind it, either.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, y-yes.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We do make quite the team, don’t we?

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

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

Alright, Watson. What time will you be home?

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

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

I’ll see you there, then. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fan came in. Wanna come check it out?

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

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

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

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

Sounds good to me, Sherlock. 

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

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

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

“Shut up.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I— I can’t. I’m—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hands off.” 

“W-What?”

“Hands off.”

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

“Ask for permission.” 

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

“Please what?”

“Please—can I—can I cum?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

///

The third week is when things escalate for the better. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry lays across his leather sofa with a large checkered throw cushion snuggled into his side, one of his hands slung across the backrest of the couch as the other remains submerged wrist-deep in a bag of Veggie Straws. His socked feet are propped up on his round marble coffee table, ankles crossed and posture anything but eloquent. The apartment is silent, except for the musical streaming through the speakers of his television set and the gentle pattering of rain just outside his glorified window pane, accompanied by the faint flickering of the city lights below. The atmosphere of the room is relaxed and cozy and it lulls his soul in a manner he can’t put into words.

Harry has always liked the rain. Ever since he was a child, he would sit by the small round window of the attic room he shared with his older sister, watching it fall from the sky in sheets of glittering sapphires, soaking into the dry ground and turning it into a slush of dirt he would later sneak out to play in. When he got older, he would prop his shoulder against the doorframe at the back of his father’s blacksmith shop and gaze at it, mesmerized by how it would trickle down the streets of the public market, washing away all the grime that came with a bustling city’s reputation. Sometimes he would stand in it, feeling its cool touch run down his arms and soak into the back of his sot-covered work shirt. He enjoyed how it would cleanse the sticky sweat from his face and neck, its gentle nature leaving him feeling like he could float through air. Then his father would call him back into the store and playfully scold him for allowing himself to get drenched, warning that his mother would kill him if he caught a cold. 

Harry’s changed a lot since then, he knows that, but it comforts him that his love for rain is the one aspect of his personality that two hundred years of Hell had failed to take from him. 

The melodies swimming out of his TV reign him back in from memory lane. 

Harry’s not really one to enjoy musicals, but back when Hamilton had first hit Broadway, he’d used his persuasive supernatural abilities to sneak into one of the first showings. He’d been curious as to what all the hype was about, and the play did not disappoint. The songs were catchy, the acting was good, and the characters were brought to life through raw emotion and comedy. He respected that. And the plot of the story itself resonated with him deeply, as well. A protagonist that rose from nothing, fell in love with the wrong woman, and made terrible life choices that seemed correct at the time, which would all eventually lead to his death. It hit a bit too close to home. 

If he had a dollar for every time he’s seen it since it had come out on Disney+, he could probably pay rent himself instead of compelling others to do it for him. 

The play is halfway through one of its most famous ballads when the monster’s phone dings with a familiar tune. A smirk is already etching itself across his face before he even unlocks his device. 

I need interior design advice. 

I’m still a little sore from our last help session. How’d you bounce back so quick?

Funny, but I need ACTUAL interior design advice this time. 

Harry’s brows furrow in mild confusion and slight disappointment. He draws his hand from the junk food container, dusting off the crumbs. Oh. 

Genuinely? 

Yup!

He guesses he’ll give it a go. He does have pretty exquisite taste; the modern gothic aesthetic of his condo proves that. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

Alright, shoot. 

Y/N releases the breath she’d been holding in. Thank God he’s agreed to help. As much as she’s ashamed to admit it, Harry’s really the only person in LA that she deems relatively close to a friend. She hasn’t managed to mesh well with her coworkers much, despite the fact that she’s been trying extremely hard. She just doesn’t wanna force herself into unfulfilling fake friendships for the sake of having people to flaunt. It’s not right and she knows she’d grow to resent it. 

So instead, she’d reached out to the one California resident who doesn’t make her skin crawl. 

Whew, okay, thanks in advance! So I went out yesterday and got a new bedspread and I wanted some help choosing a new accessory to go with it, which is going on my wall. 

Harry’s ears perk up and his back straightens at her statement. Could she finally, by the grace of fucking God, be getting rid of that shitty tapestry? 

Well, let me see it, then. Don’t keep a man waiting, I’m dying to play Property Brothers over here.

A picture comes through of the two new accessories Y/N is referring to and the way Harry’s face drops instantly is almost comical.

Which tapestry fits better? I’m thinking the Van Gogh style painting of a lighthouse. The blue goes well with the dark turquoise of the comforter. But then again, the forest canopy has those pretty exotic flowers that compliment the coral stitching. I can’t decide. 

The vampire’s face pinches in disgusted horror as he blinks down numbly at the image on his screen. He’s going to be sick. Those Veggie Straws are about to make a hideous comeback. 

…two new tapestries? Did the other one rip or…?

What? No!! I just saw these down at the thrift store and thought they were cute. Why? Are they really that bad??

They’re not just bad, they’re worse. He’s going to ask her to blindfold him next time he visits. 

They’re…kinda immature, dove. I just thought you’d go for something cooler this time, like a vintage painting or a couple vinyls to mount on the wall. 

Immature? 

Oops. He should have picked his words more carefully. Now he’s gone and offended her and she’ll probably bite down the next time he puts his—

Another message interrupts his spiraling negative conclusions.

I know you didn’t just call ME immature when you compared me to a cream-filled donut, Harry. 

The playful tone in the text delivers a wave of relief that is almost as pleasurable as what lies between Y/N’s legs. 

Can I speak freely for a second? Full disclosure, no consequences?

That preface makes me think you’re about to chew me out.

I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know it’s not our usual dynamic, but I’ll give it a go.

Y/N ignores the bristling across her cheeks. 

Alright, go head.

I just think tapestries are kinda stupid. They scream “confused teenager trying to find myself.” But that’s just my opinion. I’m only telling you so you know that I’m probably not the best bloke to go to with tapestry inquiries. 

Harry watches as a read receipt stares up at him for a few seconds. Just when he thinks he might have truly upset her this time, her message bubble pops up. 

So...the one I’ve had hanging in my room the last three times you’ve been over…

I had to actively restrain the urge to strangle myself with it.

Y/N breaks out into laughter. The image of waking up to Harry laying facedown on her bedroom floor, balls naked and mummified within a sunrise tapestry...It’s sending her. 

Well, you know what? That’s not fair! You can’t judge my house when I haven’t even had the chance to judge yours. 

Harry nods once to himself in surrender, reaching up to finger-comb a few rebellious curls out of his eyes. She makes a valid play. 

Fair enough. You’ll have to come over and give me your opinion sometime.

I’d be honored to. Now, would you be so kind as to put your own personal bias aside this once and help me choose which one to put up. I promise I’ll spare you any more tapestry-related problems in the future. I’ll remove it from my customer contract.

Harry sighs defeatedly. He can’t believe he’s giving up his integrity for sex. 

Fine. Send me a picture of both of them up on the wall. It’ll give some perspective. 

Y/N giddily obliges, deciding to send a video instead. That way, she can get all of the angles in one go rather than having to send multiple pictures. 

Harry waits patiently, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth as he taps his foot against the coffee table to the tune of Wait for It, which is playing in the film that has now become the backdrop of his night. When Y/N’s next message comes through, he’s mildly surprised to find it’s a video. He clicks play, watching intently as she circles the two pinned tapestries slowly, making sure to get a proper view from all sides. By the time the thirty second clip is coming to an end, Harry’s leaning more towards the tropical canopy painting. It’s not as loud and she was right about the flowers matching the stitching on the duvet. 

He’s about to tap back “the forest one” when something flashes across the screen that makes him choke on his snack, launching him into a coughing fit.  

It’s within the last three seconds of the video and if he had cut it off in order to text back, he would have missed it. But he hadn’t, and now it’s burned into the back of his eyelids, causing a buzzing sensation to string right to the area between his thighs.  

The last few frames of the video, Y/N had lowered her phone from the position she’d been suspending it, probably thinking she had already stopped filming. She hadn’t. And because of that, Harry gets a full frontal view of her body, covered in nothing except a pair of lace panties and a mid-thigh oversized Avengers t-shirt. The entire screen fills with bare, silky skin and raunchy lace and he can feel his fangs poke into his tongue. 

Harry’s not a pre-teen; he’s not going to drool over seeing a pair of legs. What really gets to him is the fact that it appears Y/N still has a few hickies across the inner area of her thighs, which have failed to fade as quickly as the others. They should be gone, given that anytime Harry feeds (like he had the last time they’d slept together), he always gives her a bit of his blood to heal. Meaning, normal bruises like that should be gone. Maybe he just hadn’t given her a high enough dosage, or maybe he’d marked her more than he remembers, but either way, the stains are there.

The vampire ogles at the paused image with a dry throat and wide eyes. Just seeing her like that, dressed in comfy yet effortlessly sensual attire with no bottoms on whatsoever, freely flaunting his love bites around her apartment, probably looking at them in her mirror, thinking about how his teeth had felt grazing her skin…

It’s enough to pop a stiffy into his briefs. 

Harry glimpses over the top of his phone, swallowing thickly at the large bulge beginning to tent his boxers. His socked toes curl as he feels a longing throb begin to swell at the pit of his clenching stomach. Great. This is just fucking perfect. 

He attempts to tap back a reply, but his hands have started quivering slightly, clumsy thumbs ruining his message to the point where he has to retype it three times.

The forest one. I agree with what you said about the stitching. 

Okay, thank you so much! Your input is highly appreciated, as always.

The immortal finds himself gnawing at the inside of his cheek, weighing on whether he should mention the little softcore porn moment she’d unknowingly shot, or if he should just let it slide and go take care of the issue that is literally weighing on him— he can feel it getting heavy against his thigh. 

His fingers seem to take on a mind of their own, printing out a quick sentence and hitting the send button before he can rethink his motives. 

Did you watch your video before you sent it?

Uh no...It looked pretty okay to me while I took it. Why, do you need a different one? Was the lighting too dark? 

The fact that she sent it by accident only adds to the appeal. She’s such a good girl. So fucking innocent and sweet, she could practically give him a toothache. 

Do me a quick favor and rewatch it all the way to the end. I think you’ll be surprised with what you find.

Y/N leans back against her bookshelf wall, chewing on her bottom lip as a sly grin ticks the corners. She doesn’t have to rewatch the video. She’s fully aware of what she had done, which had been completely on purpose. She’s only playing dumb to see his reaction, getting off on how flustered he seems to have become. Yes, her intentions for contacting him had originally been purely for his opinion on decor. But when she saw the chance, she decided to jump headfirst and take it. What are friends with benefits for if not for times like these, when you’re too lazy to come over but need a bit of relief? 

The human allows a full thirty seconds to pass, simulating that she’s watching the video, and then thoughtfully taps out her response.

Oh, whoops. Sorry for the indecent exposure.

Harry shifts in exasperation against his sofa, the radiating in his abdomen crawling up to his chest and down to his knees. He needs to take care of himself now.

It’s fine, babe. You just might wanna be more careful, cause this time around you got lucky that it was me and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Could go south if it were someone else. 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly at his scolding, but continues to play the clueless act, curious to see where it’ll take her. 

You’re absolutely right, I’m so sorry. 

Harry clears his throat, flinching as he feels a soft twitch run up the length of his cock. He exhales tightly, trying to steer the conversation into a lighter mood. He doesn’t want her to feel bad; it’s not like he’s angry about this. He’s hot and bothered and needy, but not mad.

I just think it’s funny you exposed the fact that you go around your house without pants. 

Oh, fuck off! No one ever wears pants around their own house, especially if they’re alone. It’s one of the laws of physics. No human resistance, no pants. 

Harry glances down at his body symbolically, where he’s clad in only his underwear, as well.

Touché.

Exactly. 

A pause befalls the conversation as both parties fish for something new to say. The situation’s become less lively and more intense now and neither are sure how to navigate without crossing a line. In a surge of courage, Y/N decides to just directly communicate her intentions, praying that he doesn’t take it the wrong way. 

I have an idea, just hear me out. For the sake of evening the playing field, I think that since you saw me pantsless, it’s only fair that I see you the same way. It balances out, right?

Harry’s jaw drops in an open-mouthed simper, impressed by her blatant suggestion, but also by how smoothly she had delivered it. He mumbles his next words to himself, voice amused and somewhat awed at how she had managed to spin this to her benefit. “You clever little minx. Bet it wasn’t even an accident.”

You did it on purpose, didn’t you?

Y/N purses her lips, shrugging her brows cheekily.

Maybe.

The vampire scoffs, taken aback not only at the ploy she’d pulled off, but at how unapologetic she is about the whole thing. It’s hot. 

Alright, l’ll bite. Tick for tack. 

The photo that comes through makes Y/N choke on her spit. It’s not anything too revealing, but it packs a lot. Literally. 

It’s a pretty casual picture, and she gets the feeling he took it as so just to be a tease. In the frame, all she sees is a snapshot of Harry’s lap, thighs straining against the flimsy material of a pair of crimson tartan boxers, the large tigerhead tattoo he totes somehow prominent in the low lightning. Of course it stands out, though. That’s to be expected; his thighs are thick in the most satisfying fashion and they’re one of his most defining features. She can also see the bottom half of his lean tummy, the cutoff being the crest of his belly button. His fern inkings are peeking out of from below the waistband of the Calvin Kleins, dark and matte on his lightly bronzed skin, and she spots the nonchalant position of his crossed ankles in the background. 

As appetizing as every little detail is, the centerpiece of the portrait is the obvious bulge pressing into the fabric of his briefs. The outline is so prominent, the picture borderlines on graphic. His cock looks pretty as ever, even when it’s covered; the thin underwear leaves very little to the imagination. 

Y/N has to bite down on her tongue to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

Wow, okay, well...Your picture was much more explicit than my video. That’s not fair at all. Throws off the equilibrium we were trying to establish. 

Harry chuckles aloud, shaking his head in amazement at how well she can bend the game to her will. Three weeks ago, when he’d first laid eyes on that shy girl at the club, he would have never expected her to be so bold. Now, she has him wrapped around her pinky like a string.

You’re absolutely right. My apologies. Maybe you should send one similar so we can even out the stakes. 

You read my mind.

Y/N’s next picture causes a hiss to stream through the cracks of Harry’s teeth, eyes glinting red.

It’s a picture taken on top of her bed, the angle set from above. She’s laying on her side, her torso twisted so that her backside is in the shot, her huge tee pulled tight against her waist so it creates an enticing cinching effect. Her thighs are clasped together, the collar of her shirt pulled away just enough that he can see where the valley of her chest begins to curve, and the cheeky lace panties are working utter wonders for her ass. He can’t stop staring. He physically can’t pull himself away, his eyes bouncing across every pixel, attempting to commit the picture to memory to keep it locked in the back of his brain forever. 

Y/N awaits anxiously for his reaction, biting into the pad of her thumb as the seconds list by, wondering if he had enjoyed the nude or if he was just sitting there judging all her flaws. It’s been so long since she’s sent a risky photo like that, she can’t help but stress. Sharing your body with someone digitally is almost as intimate as real sex and it comes with similar worries and insecurities. Was the angle good? Are her stretch marks unattractive? Are the dimples along her backside gross? Is he second-guessing their arrangement? Is he wishing they hadn’t met?

She practically drops her phone when it vibrates.

God, you look stunning. Like a proper fucking dream.

All of her concerns immediately disintegrate, replaced by an odd sense of pride. She’s happy that he enjoyed it, and she’s thankful for the caliber of his response. Most men don’t care to comment that nicely, if they comment at all, and Harry’s enthusiasm only excites her further. She wants to keep going. 

You look pretty fucking good yourself. Wish I could just kneel between your thighs, take you into my mouth, and make you feel good for hours. 

Harry struggles to get saliva down his parched throat, her words bouncing around the inside of his skull, sending a current of bliss directly to where he needs it. 

Hours? You want me down your throat for hours?

For hours, Harry. I’d literally just sit between your legs and let you fuck my face again. Let you use me to make yourself cum.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry’s broken whine echoes off the tall walls of his home, one of his big hands finding a path to his curls and tugging in desperation. He needs to keep composure. 

Harry’s next snapshot comes through and Y/N has to screw her eyes shut for a second to brace the bolt of electricity that zips down to her core. 

The boy’s thighs have parted wider, his feet now down from the table, knees hanging off the edge of the sofa. His free hand has delved below his briefs, pulling them up just enough to show a tad of the neatly trimmed area beneath. His fingers are cupped over his cock, hiding it from plain view, but the imprint of his knuckles on the fabric suggest he’s gripping it tightly. The longer she looks, the more she notices— specifically, a dark damp patch spreading at the middle of his boxers and she knows damn well what it is. The fact that she’d got him riled up enough that he’s leaking through like that...She can hardly breathe right. 

Shit, you look so good. How do you always look that fucking good? I just want to feel you stretch me out while you moan into my mouth. 

Harry slowly starts pumping his palm up and down his cock as he rereads her words, catching his lower lip between his teeth, his naked and flushed chest stuttering. He doesn’t want to be the douche that tells her to send another picture, but he really needs her to. He wants to see what she’s doing, how she’s fairing. Wants to know if he has her as fucked as she has him right now. 

It’s almost like they share a telepathic link because not even five seconds later, another beautifully filthy photo is decorating his screen. 

This time around, Y/N has decided to fully lay on her back, spreading her legs open and drawing her knees up slightly so that her thighs are not only flexing, but displaying all the love bites he’d left only a few days prior. They’re all different shades of purple and brown, scattered over the satin suppleness of her skin, painting a canvas of the heated night they’d shared. It’s art at its most prestigious, if he’s ever seen it. And she has her hand ducked below her panties, the outline of her fingers situated right over her clit. 

Harry’s own hand instinctively tightens around his length, pulling a weak groan from his parted lips. He throws his head back against the backrest of the couch, bucking into his palm and teasing his forefinger over his bubbling tip. He spreads the precum all over the sensitive head, whimpering when the draft from the air conditioning caresses it and sends a quiver toppling over his shoulders. 

Fuck, she’s driving him mental. There’s only one way to take care of this effectively, despite their distance. 

I’m going to call you.

Y/N gulps heavily, licking over her chapped lips and feeling her pulse jump at the realization that she’ll be getting to hear his throaty voice coax her through an orgasm. Not only that, but she’ll get to hear him cum, too. She’ll get to hear every shattered gasp and needy mewl, almost as if he were pouring all those sounds of pleasure right into her ears in person. 

The mortal’s heart hiccups when his contact pops up on the Caller ID, phone vibrating insistently. After a deep breath taken to ground herself, she slides her shaky thumb over the glass, slowly bringing the device up to her ear. Her voice is soft and timid as ever, a tremble running through its undertone. “H-Hello?”

Harry’s words come through the crackling speaker as dark and smoky as whiskey, pouring into her mind and intoxicating her as easily as the real liquor would.

“Flip onto your stomach and take off the lace. Now.”

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles smut #smut #harry styles series #vampire!harry #harry styles #1d fanfiction #1d fic #one direction fanfiction #one direction smut #one direction fic #1d smut #ysijwa #harry styles one shot #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty imagine #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles blurb #harry x y/n #harry x reader #harry styles au #vampire au

[batsandbugs]

The Great IKEA Game

Chapter 4: The Three Stooges 

AN: At least it hasn’t been two months again 😅. Let’s check in with the other batboys and see how they’re handling Damian and Marinette’s chaos. 

Chapter 1 Chapter 2  Chapter 3

Tim wondered when his day took a solid dive off the cliffs of normal and into the waters of weird.

It probably started when Dick dragged them out of bed at eight in the morning – on a Saturday – piled them into the car, and drove them an hour and a half out of the city to an IKEA. If they had actually been there to shop they would have either burned the store down or killed one another. 

Not that those things were off the table yet. 

Tim had work, actual work, that he could be doing. But no, instead he was playing a demented game of hide-and-go-seek, which was careening into an all-out war. The destroyed shelving units, shopping carts, and forklift were unmistakable evidence of that.

How had the demon spawn accomplished this in less than a minute?

Bruce would kill them, once he came back from off-world.

That is if Alfred didn’t get to them first.

“Uh, order 177? Shit, my pay isn't enough for this.”

The words shook Tim from his stupor. He walked over to the counter.

“Hi,” he said, flashing his most charming CEO grin. “I have a quick question?”

The server's fixed smile contrasted with his dull eyes.

“I need to know what way the boy who ordered this headed.”

“No.”

Tim sighed, “Look, it’s important. My brother-”

“I mean, no, it wasn’t a boy.”

Tim paused. “Huh?”

“It was a girl, a teen girl. Black hair, big blue eyes, French accent. She was sitting over there,” he waved at an empty table. “But I think she walked away before that happened.” Referring to the giant train wreck occurring a few aisles over.

“Oh,” said Tim. “Thanks.”

“Do you want the order?”

Tim held back an annoyed sigh.

“Sure.”

So that’s how he, Jason, and Dick, sat at the abandoned picnic table, staring at the abandoned meal bought with Damian’s credit card. Jason grabbed a couple of fries and shoved them in his mouth.

“That’s evidence, nitwit,” hissed Tim.

Jason ignored him, stabbing a meatball with the plastic fork. “What? It’s going to go to waste. Girlie obviously ain’t coming back for it.”

“We should be more worried about how a random girl used Damian’s credit card!”

“She could have stolen it?” offered Dick.

“Demon spawn would have broken her arm before getting pickpocketed,” countered Jason, eating another fry. Silence. A weird glint appeared in Jason's eye. He turned to Tim. “What did you say the girl looked like again?”

“Black hair, blue eyes, French accent.”

“Shit,” muttered Jason.

“What?”

“I think I ran into her earlier, about an hour and a half ago. Asked her if she had run into demon spawn – she sounded confused and tourist-like. But maybe…”

“Maybe she’s working with him?” offered Tim.

“Could be.”

“Damian? Working with another person? A stranger?” Dick shook his head. “Doesn’t sound like him.”

Jason shoved another fry into his mouth. “The brat’s a competitive little shit, if he thought teaming up would help him get ahead, he’d do it in a heartbeat.” He pointed a fry at Tim. “Can you look at the security footage?”

“I’m already two steps ahead of you,” Tim said, flashing his phone with the hacked in security camera footage on-screen. Jason and Dick huddled in close as a small girl walk on screen and stood at the counter.

“Yep, that’s her. Can you ID her, Timmy?”

Tim rolled his eyes, “This is a smartphone, Jay, not a laptop.”

“I thought Mr. World’s Second Greatest Detective would be prepared for anything.”

“Well excuse me for not having facial recognition software, on my phone.”

“Guys chill.”

“Shut up, Dick,” Jason and Tim said in unison.

The footage played out and they watched the girl order two meals and pay with Damian’s credit card. They switched to another camera when she left and sat at the picnic table. A few minutes later Jason and Tim walked into frame.

“Look, there! She tenses. Look at her body language, she’s panicking. She knows who you two are.” Dick looked shocked that, yes, Damian had teamed up with a partner.

They watched the girl panic, although she managed to keep her body from reacting too much. She placed her phone to her ear and walked away from her spot.

“Who is she talking to?”

“Maybe Damian was watching out of sight?”

“Shoot, Tim, she’s out of frame. Do we have another angle?”

It took another minute or so, but Tim found the right security camera catching the mysterious girl leaving the food court. As she walked away the image on the screen flickered, and a moment later the shelving units fell.

“Oh crap,” swore Jason. “Do you think she has magic? Fuck, it would be just our luck if demon spawn teamed up with someone dangerous.”

Dick shook his head. “It could be a coincidence. We didn’t see her do anything. The chaos could have been a coordinated effort between her and Damian.”

Tim wasn’t so sure. “Come on Dick, you’ve been in the game long enough to know just because something looks one way, doesn’t mean it's true.”

They watched the girl hurry out of sight, this time it was much more difficult to follow her progress through the store. She would randomly duck in and out of showrooms, coming out differently than how she came in. If the three boys hadn’t been trained in stealth and detection for years, they would have had a challenging time tracking her.

Jason whistled low. “Who is this chick? I’m impressed. She has serious skill.”

Finally, she ducked into a showroom and didn’t come out. Tim couldn’t find a camera giving them an unobstructed view, but it didn't matter. They had a destination.  

“This was ten minutes ago, they could already be long gone,” said Dick.

“Or they could still be hiding there,” countered Jason.

“We’ll find out when we get there.” They walked out of the cafeteria and past the closed aisles. The forklift that had been buried under the collapsed shelving unit was being unearthed by a flock of bewildered employees.

“Ten bucks says she has magic,” said Jason.

“Yeah, no.” Tim was good at math and the odds of everything happening just as she left was too big to be a coincidence. “I’m not stupid enough to take that bet.”

“Come on you guys, let’s focus here,” chided Dick.

Walking back through the showrooms Tim kept an eye out for any sign of his brother or his accomplice, but it was as if they had disappeared into thin air. Arriving at the last location they had spotted the girl, they waited for a touring couple to leave before descending on the tiny, boxed room like the detectives they were trained to be.

It didn’t take long to discover the lasered off vent.

“Shit,” groaned Jason. “They could be anywhere by now.”

“Tim can you-”

Tim had his phone in hand, “I’m already on it. I’ll have the vent layout in a minute.” He felt insulted they even needed to ask.

Jason peered into the vent, “Damn, I think we’re too big to follow.”

 Dick sighed. “I miss my vent crawling days; they just don’t make them as big as they used to.”

“That’s what she said,” snickered Jason.

“Focus you two,” Tim snapped. “I’ve pulled up the air duct plans.” He flashed the screen to his two brothers who settled down. “This particular vent runs a couple of places. We have one entrance at the back of the store in the storeroom. Then another veering off near the daycare center, and the last which comes out near the unloading dock.”

“I’ll take the one next to the daycare center,” said Dick. “I’m the only one who isn't demented,” pointing to Jason, “or sleep-deprived,” pointing to Tim.

“Hey!” exclaimed Jason.

Tim sneered, repressing a Damian-like growl, “I wouldn’t be so sleep deprived if you hadn’t dragged us out of the house at eight in the morning. I arrived in from patrol at three.” He hadn’t had coffee in hours, and the weight of his body pressed on him like a panini maker.

Dick ignored them. “Jason can take the one at the loading docks, and Tim you’ll be able to bypass security and get into the back the easiest.”

“Sounds good to me,” grunted Jason.

“Alright,” agreed Tim. “The second any of us spots them, text the group chat, will box them in from there.”

They nodded and headed off their separate ways. Despite the tiredness in Tim's bones, there was a heady rush of the hunt thrumming in his veins. Damian, and whoever he had decided to pair up with, were going down.

Tag List: (Closed, sorry!! I’m so glad you all like it though.)

@multplelifes @bluesimani @justhugefangirl @nik-nak-3@redscarlet95 @purplesundaze @incredulous-reader @k-poplunardreams @our-preciousss @blackmagicforever @vgirl-10123 @lozzybowe @wannajointhecrabcult @dast218 @chaotic-mess-of-a-life @fidget-eep @kawaiigiantjudgefish @queenmj10@tumbling-down-hills-and-stuff @crazylittlemunchkin @fandom-writer642 @nach0ava @ladybug-182 @sam-i-am-0222@spyofthenightcourt @how-to-fuction-properly@emotionalsupportginger @dreamykitty25 @tomanyfandomsonmy-mind @mystery-5-5 @theatreandcomicfreak @weird-pale-blonde-person @whatthechickenfriedfuck @myazael@pawsitivelymiraculous @urbanpineapplefarmer @karategirl119@consumeconstantly @hauntedstudent99 @ertyzeta @thornalchemist23 @iloveitwhen @animegirlweeb@byronsacademics @i-wanna-be-a-ninja @moonlitjiminie@iglowinggemma28 @constancetruggle @catgirlkittypryde @waffelyunsure @maskedpainter @lilkymilky @unhappyraspberry @avengerthewarrior @quotesandanime @tbehartoo @clumsy-owl-4178 @g-arya @chocolateherringtacofan @jalaluvsu @crazyrandomrebel @fatimaabbasrizvi @thenillabean @goblinwhoships @bluefyoto94 @nerinalith @loopingtangent @demonicbusiness @hecate-hallow @themcclan @tropestropestropes @paintedhope7 @whitetiger1249 @glitchon @vulpixmina @kitkat81804 @kissa-chan @beautiful-disasters-sunshine

[lvnatiq]

Modern!au Felix Escellun x tattoo artist!gn!reader | Headcanons

a/n: Hey!!! I’m back at it again with my beautifully fucked up request fill. I’m still working on three other things, while I make you wait I took it upon myself to not starve this fandom. So here you have it. Please reblog or comment so that I have a crumb of motivation to keep up.

Should I do a smutty pt. 2 ? Who knows lmao.

Your hand slipped through the pile of designs that your colleague (and your close friend) had sent you to choose and pick apart from.

Unfortunately you were spending the night at the beautiful library of your uni, trying to balance off your school work with your actual work.

You didn’t mind spending your time under the faint scent of books and the mere sound of wood beneath you feet, but what you ‘do’ mind is the fact that the library is way colder than you thought it would be after the midnight.

Good thing that the yearning for finishing your work and leaving as soon as possible made it easier to concentrate on the task at hand.

It also made it easier for you to not notice the presence of an unexpected company.

That was until you felt the warm floral yet musky scent invade your senses as you felt the weight of cotton drape around your shoulders.

You slowly turn your head towards the owner of the coat who’s already making their way out. Desperately trying to find a way to make them stop but failing to raise your voice because of the circumstances.

The last picture of the person buried in your head was their hair caressed by the wind and their quick steps.

Fast forward to a week later, going completely out of luck with finding a place to stay you decide to ask help from your friend whom interestingly has a lot to offer.

With things going a lot smoother than you expected you stopped by the tattoo shop to finish your appointments with couple of customers before you left to meet up with your possible candidate.

“Don’t bother I’ll just call him here so you could talk comfortably.”

Your work seemed to take a lot longer than usual. So you kindly accepted your friends offer as you wrapped up the leftover stuff, finishing up the last customer.

“Hey, oh-“

The sight of your guest tickled your memories as you kept glaring at the glorious figure in front of you.

Felix, completely avoiding eye contact, placed the fallen hair strand behind his ear as he kept his eyes on the table of the tattoo equipments.

You quickly got up as you grabbed his coat from the hanger and walked back where you left him.

“Thank you for the coat, you really saved me back there.”

“Oh- no problem.”

That day you two chatted and melted the ice in between. Deciding to rent the close by apartment and start your roommate era.

Your friend smiled to themselves knowing all too well that felix was completely crazy about you.

Your encounter at the library wasn’t a coincidence either, well don’t think of him as a stalker now, he just dumped a couple of coins in the fountain wishing that you would be there that night. That’s all.

As you two moved in together you realized that there were a lot of things to be ‘caught off guard’ about him but you were most baffled by the tremendous amount of books felix owned.

“Hey Lover boy ! Would you mind recommending me some of them ?”

Felix blushes terribly and you love it so much that you constantly bother him in order to catch a glimpse of his flustered state.

Unbeknownst to you, the pile that felix left on the doorstep of your room was consisted of the books that he thought of you as he read.

Felix, abandoning his night owl habit, decided to fix his sleeping schedule for the better. Definitely not because he wanted to see you at morning before you got off to the work.

Insisting on offering you a ride on your way back home with his nice car.

Nearly every single day.

He knows that it may annoy you but he knows how much you are devoted to your responsibilities so he at least wants for you to save a bit of energy before you dive into the work.

Speaking of his nice car, it tickled your curiosity so you decided to check the price tag on the web and... well...

“Felix... you don’t so some sketchy illegal shit for a living right ?”

“It’s nearly impossible for me to work at the moment because of my studies. Why did you ask ?”

“Your car costs more than the apartment we are living in right now.”

With that, you discover that Felix’s father owns one of the most prominent chains of pharmaceutical companies and that he basically flee from his fathers mansion because he was pressuring Felix to take over his position in the future.

Being his puppet was not a thing to be tolerated in Felix’s book.

That being said, your domestic life with felix was pretty soft to say the least.

Cleaning together, cooking while talking about how your day went or getting to enjoy his expressions while he spilled his frustration against authors that didn’t affect him well.

Occasionally noticing the new cooking books appearing out of nowhere

and the delicious smell of food welcoming you after work, quite often than you expect.

Finally, more skinship.

One day whilst you two got through the gates of your apartment block you noticed the open doors of the elevator so instinctively you held Felix by the hand and ran into the mirrored box.

What you didn’t notice was the fact that you didn’t let go of his hand as you two went up.

From that day on Felix used every single opportunity to sneak his hand into yours.

Don’t blame him, it’s just that your hands are warm and the feeling of security that radiates from your fingertips is his medicine.

You absolutely avoided to tease or point it out to him because you knew that he would never do it again so you went with the flow.

You really enjoyed it though.

Snaking your arms around his waist while he is organizing the bookshelf. Feeling him shutter into your arms.

Nights became more and more enjoyable once he started to accompany you.

Everytime you caught him slacking on the sofa, you used his lap as a pillow.

Felix is extremely easy to figure out, mainly because he can’t hide anything.

Also, well

He is ticklish and you use his weakness against him, a lot.

Diving your fingers down to the sides of his tummy you started to tickle every possible sensitive spot you could catch on.

“Spit it out.”

“I-I wan’t you to- give me my first tattoo.”

Telling his words apart from his adorable giggles, needless to say you were ecstatic.

“Alright. What do I get in return ?”

“Name your price.”

You thoughtfully stared at the ceiling, humming as you blurted out your very obviously well thought out response.

“I want you to show me what keeps you up all night.”

You can’t be serious.

If you asked for an organ, he would’ve been more compliant.

You didn’t know what you got yourself into.

You basically asked for him to show you his ‘masterpieces’ that he showcases on AO3. Something that you were already well aware of.

“Deal ?”

“No !”

“Good ! Let’s see what you got.”

Felix anonymously contributed to the community by writing some of the most famous slow-burn stories on the web.

Just so you know, his author persona blew up thanks to the mind blowing, earth shattering smuts he wrote.

Yeah you heard that right

Smuts

Well he is fucking panicking now.

Nonetheless days kept on going as felix prayed each night to every single deity that you forgot your ‘deal’.

The days go on even if his worries don’t.

Did I say that Felix is a whimpering, whiny mess ? he struggles to stay in one position as the needle drags upon his skin.

“If you plan to keep on moving, I might as well strap you down felix. 5 more minutes and then we are done. Please behave.”

When you put it like that how can he refuse I mean you made things worse he is internally screaming at what you just said but he is not going to refuse a command when it’s given by you.

In exchange for giving him a tattoo you decide to let him give you one even though he’s inexperienced.

He’s terrified because he thinks that something would go wrong, his hand would slip or something and he would scratch that pretty skin of yours with a horrendous tattoo.

But you assured him nevertheless and offered him to draw something very minimal and easy. He accepted eventually.

As it turns out Felix is a natural. His hand is extremely steady and the tattoo turns out great.

Throughout the process he’s constantly asking if you’re hurt because he thinks that he’s doing something wrong but in fact he’s very delicate and gentle with the strokes and his touch.

You decide to be evil and use it against him. After you touch up your tattoo you lean in very closely and turn your cheek towards him.

“What are you doing ?” He stutters.

“I can’t possibly ask you to kiss my freshly made tattoo, so won’t you give me a kiss so that it heals faster.”

If his hands were steady before they weren’t now.

As soon as his lips left your cheek you held him by his wrist and pull him back close again so that you can lean in onto his ear.

“Don’t think that I’ve forgotten our deal. I am excited to see what you have in store for me tonight.” You winked.

Then the worst thing happened

The “tonight” came.

Felix was running in circles around the living room with one hand on his forehead wondering what could get worse after this.

Maybe you’ll be disgusted or scared hell if he knows.

He wanted to do nothing to harm your relationship in anyway because you and what you two have is all he ever wanted.

...and he believes that he has a tendency to ruin things.

But what happened was beyond his expectations.

Your eyes followed every single sentence throughout the screen, the white light traced your expressions as your eyebrows raised up and down and the corners of your lips inched closer to your ears. Your lower lip became a victim of your teeth’s assault.

He was so confused. Still waiting for you to lash out or make fun of him, at least.

“I used to think ‘what am I gonna do with you’ when it comes to you. Mostly out of frustration.”

Yet here you were with the laptop closed shut and your arms behind your head as you closed your eyes and groaned.

Slowly the smile plastered on your face grew.

”Now I know what to with you.”

#felix escellun #fictif felix #last legacy #fictif last legacy #felix escellun x reader #felix x reader #felix fictif #nyx hydra #fictif #mc

[ughdontbeboring]

Highway to heaven

ok so uh…this is my first time posting something I’ve written, idk why this particular one keeps begging to be posted it’s antsy af and I hurt my own feeling, I wrote it monthsssss ago and just went back to add to it sooooo here yall go 😩 also no permission giving for anyone to reuse this in any form, but please reblog, like, leave nice comments all that good shit 😘

also written with PoC in mind (though the only mention of something specific is hair) and not really sure what warnings to tag so if any just let me know!

now let me go hide 😁😁😁

x

She stretched one of her arms out the window, Feeling the air rushed past it, pushing her arm up and down. Her smile completely contagious. She was the happiest she had been in the past few weeks and August knew it. He didn’t need to be around her that whole time to know, he always seen it the moment she saw him and her mind could process he was alive and back with her.

Since he came home less then 24hrs ago from his most recent mission, he hadn’t seen the smile drop from her face, he knew she could say the same about him.

Usually he drove but he couldn’t resist when she begged him to let her drive his super expensive white sports car. He obviously didn’t get to drive it much as he was always away, and when he was home he mostly spent it trapping her in their bed or away on a surprise vacation, like today. After hours of catching up and fucking her on every surface of their shared home he surprised her with a week away in a cabin. The cabin was his own and was well equipped to deal with anything that may arise, completely secured.

He knew he could be called back into work at any moment but he had good insight that he’d have at least a week where he wouldn’t have to leave her or the cabin. Maybe just for more champagne and her favorite dairy free ice cream depending on her mood during their stay but that was it about the only thing that could get August to leave.

Her laughter brought him back to the present moment. He smiled as he turned to her.

“Yes?”

“I asked if you like what you see Walker” she said throwing him a quick flirty look over her shoulder before focusing on the road. “Your staring at me all doe eyed” she giggled.

He laughed and shook his head, he was completely smitten and they both knew it. Anyone who spent time around them could see it was mutual. For as hard and cruel of a man as August was and seen as, she was his weakness. His weakness and strength actually, because he would do any and everything for her and that could be used in either way. She was the light in his life and she loved him completely, wholly.

“I love what I see actually” He answered staring at her again, watching her bite her lip as a smile took over her face. Her eyes caught his for a moment as she ran her hand down the side of his face, nails and fingertips leaving a tingling trail behind, as he stored this moment and everything about her in his memory, he would need it for when he left on this next mission. Bringing anything personal or that would lead anyone back to her was not an option for him. She was well aware of what he did and why she couldn’t call, only wait for his calls. He pushed it from his mind, praying it would be a while before he had to leave her again.

She hummed to the music as they noticed the traffic up ahead, must be road work August thought. His fingers tapped the car door as his arm lazily hung half in and half out. He noticed her head snap down causing her long box braids to sway. She looked toward her feet, her face confused when she looked back up ahead of them.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

Her stomach dropped and her skin turned to ice as she her eyes went back and forth between her foot and the traffic coming closer up ahead. She was unable to form words to tell him, her mind raced with what to do. Her face turned to him completely in fear, mouth slightly parted in a silent cry. August body went tense, rigid as a steel rod as he slowly grasped what he thought was happening, it can’t be.

The brakes

Someone cut the breaks

August looked up at the traffic in the distance that they were speeding towards, he had to push back the thought who and of when someone would have had the opportunity and focus on what was happening. His mind snapped out the fog when he heard her.

“August!”

She was trying to pump the break, willing it to start working as tears ran down her face.

“August it isn’t working!” She yelled.

August scanned the scene in front of them. Up ahead was dead stop traffic, and on their sides, woods and then metal railings dividing it from the other on coming traffic. There was no clear opening to drive into. The traffic would cause head on collision which had a high chance of death and the railing along the left sides of them also had a high death rate surprisingly. The trees and boulders of the right side weren’t an option either. He couldn’t eject them out of the car at this speed, especially with the traffic that’s following further behind them. Cars wouldn’t have enough time to stop if they didn’t notice their body’s on the pavement. Another sure death.

He looked up at her as her own eyes searched looking for an exit, an out point. Her face slowly succumbing to grief as she realized they had none. Every option a high chance of death with the speed they were going.

The knot in August stomach was a feeling he had never felt before. He had been so careful with her, to keep her out of the line of danger. Some how he had missed something and literally put her in the front seat of danger.

“Turn the steering wheel towards me and get down! By the time we make impact-“

“No!....No!” She yelled through her tears and sobs, she had realized what he was trying to do. He wanted to take the impact, he wanted his life on the line not hers.

“Please August! There must be another-“

“There isn’t!! Turn the wheel now!! We don’t have time!” He yelled as the traffic got closer. Their speed closing the distance fast.

Her eyes danced over his face for a moment, a dreadful feeling growing in her stomach and spreading through her body, it was completely unbearable. She couldn’t live life without him. It wasn’t possible, she loved him too much. She would die for him.

“I’m so sorry August, I love you” she said as she stared into his eyes, praying he seen everything she wouldn’t have time to say to him again. Her words were a wrecking ball into his very existence, it shattered his world.

His hands shot out to grab the wheel, as the understanding what she was saying hit him. It was too late though, she was turning the wheel and swinging the car in the opposite direction from what he instructed. If he tired to grab the wheel now he’d only cause the car to flip into traffic. He had no doubt her side would make impacted as the car swung and headed to slam into traffic.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him, she wouldn’t. She wanted him to be the last thing she saw even if it meant watching his desperate fight to save her. His eyes wild and full of fear, tears falling freely as he looked back and forth frantically before they finally landed on hers. Defeated.

She was a lively young woman she loved life before August BUT life with August was unmatched. So when she smiled at August, the kind of smile that told him she had been happier in the last 4 years with him then she had been her whole life, he felt his blood go cold.

No. He couldn’t give up. Not ever, especially not when she smiled at him like she was willing to lose it all to save him. She already saved August everyday of his life since he’s meet her. Saved him over and over again without even knowing it. When she snuggled into his chest late at night, barely awake, running her fingers through the lite fur of his chest hairs and lazily kissing the same spot she saved August, save him from night terrors of all the horrible things he’s done. When they swam naked in the Caribbean ocean off a secluded beach on that one vacation early on in their relationship and her wet body pressed into his begging for more kisses under the moonlight she saved him from ever wondering what life without love was like. What could life ever be without her? That kinda of world didn’t make sense to August.

August grabbed at her to pull her closer to his side, but her seatbelt prevented him from shielding her body with his when they felt the impact and then instantly the loud crash and breaking of glass completely over taking his senses before everything went black..

part 2 unknown

#august walker fanfiction #august walker x reader #august walker angst #Angsty august walker #henry cavill fanfic #august Walker fanfic #Henry cavill #august walker #August x PoC reader #Soft august #Soft august walker #UGHWRITES #UGHAUGUST

[marvelmusing]

Making Time

Mobius M Mobius x Reader

Part 4

My Masterlist • Series Masterlist

You’re stood waiting beside Mobius’s locker when you hear him and Loki approaching.

“Good enough for a face to face with the Time-Keepers?” Loki asks him.

“I didn’t say that.” Mobius replies with a chuckle. “One step at a time.” Loki nods,

“One step at a time, right.” Mobius pulls out a pair of knives, handing them to Loki who looks ecstatic.

“Just in case.” The moment Loki gets his hand on them, they’re pulled away from him.

“Absolutely not.” B-15 says, putting them away in her own locker. You can’t help but laugh, a sympathetic look on your face for Loki. “Gather round for a briefing.” She calls out. As you, Mobius, Loki, and the hunter task force gather by the Timedoors, B-15 begins the briefing. “Roxxcart is a vast superstore common to the era. It consists of a series of sprawling sections, including a large warehouse. This warehouse is being used by civilians as a shelter tryin' to ride out the storm. Remember, this is a class ten apocalypse. While the Variant shouldn't know we're coming, he could be hiding anywhere and should be considered hostile. So stay alert. Every time there is an attack, the Variant steals a reset charge. He's planning something. We just don't know what. So keep an eye out for the missing charges, and if you see a Loki, prune it.” You don’t like her word choice there, and you glance at Loki.

“The bad Loki, preferably.” He adds, and you smirk.

Taking a deep breath, you follow Mobius through the Timedoor in front of you. The rain is relentless, though you didn’t expect any less for such a horrendous disaster. You pull your raincoat tighter around you. Mobius keeps an arm around you, as you sway precariously with the violent winds.

“Anything?” He shouts to B-15. She shakes her head,

“Nothing. Move out!” She calls out, and you follow the task force as they make their way to the entrance to the store. The automatic doors open, and you quickly pull your hood down. You shake a little, trying to remove some of the water from your coat.

“So this is 2050.” You say, observing the inside of the superstore. “You know I’d be 54 now?” You tell Mobius, as you look out into the storm. You wonder where you are now. Where the right version of you is, who didn’t accidentally create a nexus event. Mobius looks down at you with a gentle expression on his face.

“Wow. You know I thought I saw a few grey hairs the other day-“ he starts, leaning to examine your head. You swat his hand away playfully, and he chuckles at you, glad to see you smile. B-15 clears her throat from nearby. You and Mobius turn to face her quickly.

“Take both teams and sweep the storm shelter.” She orders one of the hunters. “Loki and I are gonna check out the Green House. We'll meet-“

“No.” Mobius interrupts.

“No?”

“[Y/N] you go with B-15.” You look at him with wide eyes. “Loki stays with me.”

“How do we know he’s not going to run off with the Variant at the first chance he gets?” She argues.

“He's under my supervision.”

“This is my field op, Mobius. If he's not a threat, then it won’t be a problem-“

“Of course he's a threat. Remember the Time Theater?”

“Mobius...”

“I want him with me.”

“What if I run off?” You say suddenly. They both stop arguing to look at you. Mobius frowns,

“What?”

“If Loki ran off he’d be both in the future and on the wrong planet. This is both my timeline and my home. If anyone’s going to run off it’s me.”

“You’re not from Alabama.” Mobius states.

“I could get on a plane.” You argue.

“During a hurricane?” Loki steps between the two of you.

“Mobius, it's fine. It's fine. You can trust me. I understand I have to earn that, so I will.”

“Why is it the people you can't trust are always saying trust me?” Mobius says. “Okay, try to hang on to your Time Collar this time.” You and Mobius begin to walk in one direction, with B-15 and Loki walking the opposite way. The two of you follow one of the hunters until something attracts your attention. You pick it up and your face breaks into a wide smile. “[Y/N]?” Mobius calls out, concerned that you’ve trailed behind. He looks down at what you have in your hands. A Zoomer the Robot Dog. He sighs, “Is now the time for shopping?” You frown lightly at him.

“My sister had one of these.” You say, trying to sound nonchalant but you can’t help the feeling from creeping into your voice. He smiles softly,

“What did she name him?”

“Zoomer.” He nods, laughing quietly,

“Original.” You laugh too.

“Hey, it’s a cute name.”

“I guess.” He pauses for a moment, before adding gently, “You do remember we’re on a mission right?” You nod.

“Yeah, of course.” You set the box back down on the shelf. “Let’s go.” The two of you soon catch up with the hunters. You enter the storage warehouse, where there’s a huge number of civilians crammed inside, hoping to brave out the storm. Hunter D-90 pushes through the crowd,

“Check the bags for the reset charges. Could be any one of them.” A man approaches Mobius, asking him,

“You guys FEMA? National Guard? Well, hey, if you got a copter or other transport, now is the time to use it. We got women and kids, and that weather ain't playin.”

“No, I'm sorry. We don't.”

“Well, how the heck did you get here?” Mobius ignores him, moving towards D-90 who’s aggressively seizing people’s bags and rummaging through them.

“What are you doing? Hey! These people are scared.”

“They're about to die. They should be scared.” He replies, far too calmly. Mobius returns his state.

“Okay. Not of us. Take it easy-” One of the hunters returns, looking anxious as he calls out for Mobius,

“Sir!”

“What is it?” You and Mobius follow the hunter as he leads you to a security office. Once inside you see C-20, the hunter who’d been taken by the Loki, tied up on the floor. She’s muttering to herself, a far away look in her eyes as she repeats over and over,

“It’s real, it’s real, it’s real. It was real. It was real.” Mobius crouches down in front of her, and you sit by her side.

“What's real? What's-“ Mobius starts.

“She’s off the dial.” D-90 mutters. You shoot him a frustrated look.

“Look at me.” Mobius says to her. Her eyes meet his and she says,

“I wanna go home.”

“We’ll get you home, I promise.” You tell her. Mobius nods, turning to one of the hunters,

“Call the TVA, let the infirmary know-“

“No, no, no, I gave it away. I gave it away.”

“What did you give away?”

“The Time-Keepers. Where they are. I gave it away how to find them.” Mobius reaches forward, holding her arm gently. You begin to untie the bindings around her ankles. Once you get her free, you and Mobius head out to look for B-15 and Loki.

“Is it standard TVA knowledge to just know where the Time-Keepers are?” You ask Mobius as you make your way back through the store. “Would a Variant be able to kill the Time-Keepers? Why would a Loki even want to go after the Time-Keepers?”

“Look I don’t know okay!” Mobius sighs, he begins to walk faster in agitation. You nod, clearly your questions aren’t helping.

“Sorry. Let’s just find Loki.” As you’re passing through an aisle B-15 calls out,

“Mobius!”

“Where’s Loki?” You ask her.

“I lost him.”

“What happened?” She shrugs, seemingly lost for words.

“Looks like your favourite Loki betrayed you.” D-90 reamarks. You roll your eyes at your least favourite TVA worker.

“Just move!” Mobius orders as the four of you begin to run through the store. Your group doesn’t make it far before the lights go out. You stop running as you’re plunged into darkness. Then the amber glow of reset charges surround you, a chorus of chirps ringing in your ears as they change to purple. You’re preparing to get disintegrated, until the charges slowly begin to disappear, dropping down through tiny Timedoors. “Where are they going?” you hear Mobius ask. Your TemPad pings and you quickly pull it out of your pocket. With shaking hands you bring up the timeline, watching in horror as an increasing number of branches appear.

“I’ve found them.” Mobius steps towards you and you hand him the TemPad. You both share a terrified look.

“Where’s Loki?” He asks, and your group sets off running again. You look through aisle after aisle, the red lights glowing down on you. Then you spot him.

“Loki!” You call out. Mobius is beside you as you both run towards Loki. Loki stands beside a Timedoor, looking back at you. He seems to hesitate, as he hovers by the door.

“Loki! Loki, wait! Wait! Loki, wait! No! Wait, Loki!” Mobius yells as you race to him. Then Loki passes through the door. As you and Mobius reach for him, the door closes. The group stops, and you turn away in annoyance. You were so close. “Damn it!” Mobius cries out. You turn back to face him. Well that could have gone a lot better.

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