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#it started with the maroon sweater for all of us

hearts4golbach · 3 months

Note

can you write a Johnnie x fem reader fluff?

Sweater Weather.

Johnnie Guilbert x Fem!Reader.

shorter one shot based on "Sweater Weather." By The Neighborhood.

johnnie gripped my hand tightly, dragging me as we ran through the rain. i was giggling like maniac, getting more soaked by the second. the umbrella was no use at this point. johnnies makeup smeared, dripping slowly down his face along with mine.

"god damn, why can't we just go to the gas station in peace?" i squeel, swinging open the car door and jumping inside. i quickly started the car, making sure to turn on the heater so we wouldn't catch a cold.

he slid into the passenger seat as water dripped from the tips of his hair. chills ran down his spine, "jesus, fuck."

"i know," i put the car in reverse and sped down the road.

johnnie quickly connected his phone to the car and put our mixed playlist on shuffle. my current favorite song, 'Sweater Weather' by The Neighborhood, came on. It also happened to be our song.

"all i am is a man, i want the world in my hands."

johnnies hand made its way to my thigh, gently running his thumb over my rough jeans. "the weather is so pretty," i mention.

"i hate the beach, but i stand in California with my toes in the sand."

he looked over, admiring my semi-concentrated face as i paid attention to the road. his eyes trailed over my body. he always loved it whenever i wore my mother's hand-me-down maroon sweater. "i guess, but now my makeup is all fucked up," he complained sarcastically. "i love it whenever we go on drives in this kind of weather."

"Use the sleeves of my sweater. Let's have an adventure."

as we got off the main road, i moved one hand off the steering wheel and onto johnnies. his fingers intertwined with mine as i hummed along with the song. "I'd hate to say I'm dreading the summer, but it's never like this then." i looked towards johnnie, making eye contact as he smiled softly at me.

"Head in the clouds, but my gravity's centered."

"You're beautiful," he interrupts. my face heated up as i turned my attention back to the road, stopping for a red light. he leaned over, kissing my cheek gently. his hand snaked under my chin and turned my head towards him before pecking my lips.

"Touch my neck, and I'll touch yours, you in those little high waisted shorts, oh."

the light turned green, and i kept driving. johnnies leaned on the center console, his hand making its way back to my thigh. he had a soft smile on his face, making me blush. "Your smile is adorable," i commented before singing quietly with the song.

"she knows what i think about, and what i think about: one love, two mouths. one love, one house."

he placed soft, sweet kisses on my neck. my hand met his again as i rubbed circles with my thumb.

"No shirt, no blouse. just us, you find out."

we stopped at the gas station to get fountain drinks. johnnie kissed my forehead as we walked out, drinks in hand.

"Nothing that i wouldn't wanna tell you about, no."

sitting in the passenger seat once more, johnnie sighed contently. "i love you," i hummed.

"cause it's too cold for you here. and now, so let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater."

"i love you more," he cooed.

#fanfiction #fanfic #jake and johnnie #johnnie guilbert x reader #johnnie guilbert #johnnie guilbert x you #oneshot #fluff #car ride #sweater #sweater weather #the neighbourhood

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rustedhearts · 9 months

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dazed and confused (70s!childhood best friend!steve x fem!reader)

summary: steve's been your best friend all your life. but friends aren't supposed to think about friends the way you think about steve.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the only living boy in indiana ✶ main masterlist

tags: 70s!steve, childhood bestie!steve, fluff, pining! we're pining!, tid-bit of jealousy from us, this is short but sweet. not edited as usual.

recommended listening: you're lost, little girl —the doors; sweet leaf —black sabbath

buy me a ko-fi! ♡

somewhere in indiana. october, 1977.

The slow riff of The Doors’ You’re Lost, Little Girl trickled through the cinderblock basement. The Strange Days album spun on Steve’s turntable, the right door left open to reveal his cautiously-crafted selection. An array of colors and bands, all organized into what Steve considered his “most prized possession.” A music man above all else, you sort of admired how much he cared for the craft of careful listening.

You wriggled your fingers through the gaps of one of the Harrington Afghan blankets, where an orange stripe turned to brown. Steve hummed along to the start of the lyrics—a low, rumbling sound. You peeked over the edge of the sofa, ratty and old and shoved down here when Mrs. Harrington bought something sturdier at the start of the decade. You remembered the day she instructed Steve’s father to bring the old one down here; it was the first time you wandered into a room alone with Steve. Just the two of you, other neighborhood kids neglected on the lawn down the street.

He asked if you wanted to stay over and play a game, and Mrs. Harrington brought a bowl of pretzels to share while you hunched over Monopoly. Now, the basement was your place—yours and Steve’s. Four walls of cinderblock and concrete floor, softened with a shaggy brown rug once found in the living room, and posters purchased at the record stores and concert merchandise stands, and seasonal decorations Mrs. Harrington rotated every few months.

When it didn’t smell like the linen and laundry beating against the pea green dryer, the stench of Steve’s Winston cigarettes took over. It was always cold, and always home. You often found yourself here instead of at your own.

“You’re lost, little girl,” Steve cooed lyrically, cigarette withering and smoking between his two fingers.

He was lying on the hard ground, one palm pressed over his sweater-clad stomach and the other held open against the air where his cigarette waited. The maroon red of his shirt made his hair look dark and luscious, and the paleness of his Midwestern-cold-season skin warm again. If he opened his eyes, now pinched shut to marinate in the song like he so often did, you knew they’d be soft and puppy-like. He only ever looked at you with a smile.

So how was it that you never kissed?

You found yourself asking that a lot lately. When he picked you up for class at the community college with a thermos full of hot coffee on bitter cold days. When he slung his jacket around your shoulders when you shivered at football games. When he popped a kiss against your cheek out of pure excitement and whirled away like he hadn’t just burned your skin in the most delightful way.

And that tingling delight only appeared this year. When he started to fill out his brown leather jacket until it creaked. When his voice started growling through you like a firework. When his hands grew rough from work on the Pontiac in the driveway, inherited from his father for his eighteenth birthday. He spent the summer fixing it up, and that first scorching day you came up the driveway and saw him slicked with grease…you were done for.

Now, you only ever thought about kissing Steve.

“Penny for your thoughts, little girl?” Steve mused from the floor. His eyes were open now, head tipped to catch you staring.

You jerked away, blushing into your knees. “Sorry. Just zoning out.”

You continued your poking ministrations in the blanket before tossing Steve a bewildered look. “And don’t call me that.”

Steve chuckled around his cigarette, growing smaller by the minute between his lips, puffing smoke with every sharp ejection of amused breath. His socked feet scuffed against the floor as he pressed up, sauntering toward the rear of the couch in his brown corduroy pants.

“Jeez.” He yanked the cigarette from his mouth and slung one leg over the back of the couch beside you. “Who pissed in your Cheerios today?”

You shifted away from him when he settled on the top edge of the couch, huffing as you went. Crowded against the padded and pillowed arm, you frowned into your fist propped under your chin and glared at the poster of Led Zeppelin ahead of you.

You hated your own body for betraying you this way—for making you ache for your best friend. It was wrong. Everyone knew that dating a friend never ended well. You knew too much about each other, had seen too much of the bad for the food to feel unadulterated and sweet the way it did with someone you’d known for far less. But you’d known Steve nearly all your life. Introduced as two curious and adventurous six year olds, you saw each other through elementary, middle, high school, and now college. You’d comforted all the bad dates and heard the rundown of every parental fight. You knew about the rash he had from a new laundry detergent last winter, and you knew he liked to jerk off with his left hand even though he was a righty because it “feels like it’s not even his.”

You knew too much.

So why did he look so handsome sitting next to you like that?

“Hey.” Steve’s voice was soft now, murmured just under the stereo. “Are you—you’re not mad at me or something, are you?”

"No," you murmured, eyes turned down toward your lap.

Steve watched you a moment, elbows on his knees, waiting for more to utter from your mouth. It was so unlike you to grow quiet in his presence. Your mouth was always running, spilling some secret you promised to keep with "the exception of Steve," or retelling some story with adamant vibrancy. If you were ever quiet, it was only so you could bathe in the peacefulness of your alone time together.

You had never been quiet like this. Well...not since that time in high school when your boyfriend dumped you.

"Well, hey, did I show you the Masters of Reality I found at the record store? It's sick, I've never seen this version of the cover before."

Steve hopped off the couch, stubbing his cigarette out in an old mug on the end of the coffee table as he went. He disappeared up the stairs with a rushed be right back, and you listened to his footsteps thump above your head. When he was gone, you dropped your head into your hands and sighed.

✶ ✶

You parted ways for the day a few hours later, the span of uncomfortable time in which you sat shoulder-to-shoulder silently watching The Price Is Right. You couldn't think of a thing to say to him, and he didn't know how to take your quiet.

On the trudge home, you scolded yourself for having such romantic thoughts about him. For wondering what his lips would feel like on your own, and how his hands might feel beneath your clothes. It was wrong. And you were certain that if Steve knew how you were thinking these days, he'd be appalled. You'd lose your best friend forever.

There's no coming back from unrequited love.

You spent the night tossing and turning and glaring at your Donna Summer poster in the dark, wondering why your brain wouldn't just shut up about Steve. Steve's hair and Steve's eyes and Steve's ass in those Levis. You slumped from bed the next morning (thankfully a Sunday) with scratchy eyes and a head full of Steve.

So pardon your irritation when you dressed and dolled yourself pretty for the few short paces down the street to his house, only to find the rear of a long head of auburn hair looking up at Steve. You skirted to a stop at the end of the driveway, nose already turning cold from the nip of autumn air, new brown boots scuffing on the pavement. The gurgle of Steve's radio could be heard even from there, winding up an eight track. The Pontiac windows were rolled down to stream out the sounds.

And there Steve was, propped against the hood, grease-stained rag thrown over his puffy-sweatered shoulder, gazing down at this short little thing like some new kitten. He had his arms crossed the way he does when he wants to be handsome—and Christ did it work. But they were on her.

Over her shoulder, Steve caught the edge of your coat. He swiftly shifted gears, pushing off the car to wave a hand at you. You watched his mouth move in a murmur toward the girl, who rubbed her hand along his arm as she sidestepped toward a goodbye. You still lingered, hands tucked and balled tight in your fuzzy pockets, waiting for some sort of instruction.

Steve always had girls around, but suddenly, while watching this tiny little inkling of a girl sashay her way away from your best friend, you felt like screaming. You wanted the girls to stop coming around.

"Hey, c'mere," Steve called through the distance, and with a start, you realized the girl was fading down the street, and you were just standing there.

You shuffled your way over, inhaling deeply as you went. As the gap diminished and you approached, you caught a whiff of sharp autumn leaves, and the smoke of a Winston recently put out. Somewhere underneath, the amber musk of his cologne. You'd drool if you bothered to open your mouth.

"Hey." Steve grinned, hands rubbing around the greased cloth. His familiar, heather grey sweatshirt looked soft, hood a bit rumpled at the nape of his neck.

Once, you fell asleep on a three hour road trip, and woke up on the edge of Ohio with your head in his lap. He was playing with your hair, and when you blinked up fuzzily and furrowed your brows, he soothed you awake like some sort of child. You could still feel the warmth of that sweatshirt.

"Hey," you returned, a little too sharp. "Who was that?"

Steve's sneakers whooshed over the pavement, kicking up gravel and crunching fallen leaves as he headed toward the tool box. He was polishing up, checking fluids and odds and ends. Sometimes, you thought he just liked standing next to his hot ride.

Steve glanced toward the end of the drive where the mystery girl disappeared to a few moments ago. "Who?"

You rolled your eyes, huffing. "The girl, Hair."

Steve scoffed at your ill-intended nickname, heading toward the driver side door. He hung halfway in, reaching for the knob on the stereo.

"Somebody, nobody. I don't know yet."

You kicked at a rock near your foot, frowning. "What does that even mean?"

Steve continued to fiddle inside the car. "It means, she could be somebody. I'm seeing where it goes, takin' my time."

You pushed your head back toward the sky, head shaking. Steve took the moment to look at you through the windshield, memorizing the colors and shapes of your outfit. Camel brown coat, chocolate brown boots, black turtleneck, purple corduroy jeans. You had lipgloss on today, and the color made your eyes beam.

Steve pulled out of the car and headed back toward the tools before he could look any more. You tipped your head back into place just as he slid under the car, the soles of his sneakers bared to you. His socks didn't match. Something about that made you smile.

"Why are you so cranky anyway?" he called from under the hunk of blue metal. "Yesterday, today—you havin' your monthly—"

Kicking his foot hard with the toe of your boot, you glared down at the portioned part of Steve Harrington you could see. "Don't finish that sentence, Harrington."

Steve jolted. "Ow! Alright, alright, Jes-us."

You pulled away, pacing the patch of grey ground in front of the car. You tight-roped the crack for a while, watching your feet overtake the severed cement, glancing occasionally toward Steve when things clattered.

"How'd you meet her?" you found yourself calling out.

Steve paused a moment. You continued to pace. He sniffled and rolled up his sleeves, shifting under the car. "Uh...record store. She asked my opinion."

Oh, you inwardly groaned. She was a cool girl. Trying to swallow down your frustrations, you sniffled away a cold drip snot and hummed.

"What's she listen to, ABBA?"

Steve shook his head, chuckling. "Yeah, actually. But I can't be a music snob, honey, that's not how I roll. Chicks can play whatever they want when we're doin' it, I don't mind."

Scowling, you thought about going over and kicking him again for good measure. But the poor kid just didn't have a clue, did he? He was handsome, lived in a two-parent home, his father still had a job, and he had a job waiting for him when he was done fooling around. It wasn't his fault he had everything.

You just wanted him to have you, too.

"Hey, grab my smokes for me? On the front seat."

Tapping your foot, arms firmly crossed over your chest, you spent a moment boring a hole into Steve's foot. Another kick? No. Your mind wandered to that Tuesday evening, straight after school your senior year, when Nancy Wheeler dumped Steve behind the gym during fifth period, and Steve came running home and did everything he could to stop crying—but you held him in your arms and told him he could cry all he wanted.

Steve didn't think "chicks" could "play whatever they wanted when they were doin' it." Steve didn't think women were playthings. Steve wanted to be loved.

You could love him well.

Huffing, you stomped toward the car, coat sleeves swinging with every bound. You snatched the crumpled back of half-empty Winstons from the leather of the front seat and rounded the square-nosed hood of the Pontiac. When you came into view, Steve slid out from under the car and sat up.

"Thanks—whoa!"

But you threw the pack at his head, heard the small clatter of cardboard against skin as it pinged off his brow and into his lap. His brows creased as you spun sharply on your heel and crossed your arms again, heading for the end of the drive. Steve scrambled to catch up, tripping over his feet as he went.

"Wait, wait—stop!" Steve rushed you, snatching you by the elbow to pull you to a sharp stop.

When you turned—or he made you, rather—you looked anywhere but his pretty face. Glaring at the collar of his sweatshirt, doing all you could to hold your breath and bring down the simmer in your cheeks. Suddenly, you couldn't speak. Suddenly, all those feelings were coming to a boil, flowing over and spilling out.

But you couldn't put into words just what you were feeling. You couldn't find it in you to open your mouth and speak.

"What's goin' on?" Steve chuckled, but his tone lacked the humor. "What did I do, what's wrong?"

Balling your fingers into fists again, frozen numb and trembling with a hungry ache, you tossed your eyes his way. Steve could see the anguish on your face, pinched in the center sourly. But what was wrong? Steve couldn't put his finger on it.

Stomping your booted foot, you gave a soft, petulant whine into the brisk air. And before Steve could laugh or shake his head at your childish antics, ones he's seen plenty of before when you haven't gotten your way—you smashed your mouth on his.

Leaning up on your boots, creasing the leather toes, creaking with your weight; planting your hands on his firm, bulging arms growing bigger by the day; squeezing muscle mass with an eager grasp. You pressed your mouth right to his and breathed him in. The stereo in the Pontiac gave a whir and a click, and then the hoarse cough of Ozzie Osbourne cut through the quiet of the street. Sweet Leaf slipped from the car and fueled Steve with a fire like no other.

So, when you pulled back with a sharp smack of spit and swollen cheeks, Steve didn't let you get far. A step back and to the side, a slow and incomplete rotation toward the front of the house—until Steve snatched you by the belt loop just above your ass and tugged you back.

"Hey."

You crumpled into him, arms caged against his chest—and yes, the sweater was just as soft as you remembered. His hands slid through the groove of your waist and down the round globes of your ass, squeezing with firm pressure and eager palms. Big biceps pressing you into him by the shoulders: pulling you in, holding you close. He tasted like Coca Cola, glass bottle now rolling into the grass, blown away by the wind.

If he asked, you were searching for more of in his mouth, parched from the cold.

Against your mouth, you felt the lines of Steve's lips widen. When he pulled away, it was just far enough to still feel his breath against your chin, close enough to see the flecks of jade in his eyes.

And he was grinning a half-cocked, handsome grin.

"About damn time."

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loveshotzz · 6 months

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A sneak peek of part one to make up for not posting today. 🎄coming 12/20

series masterlist

Moving with the flow of the crowd, the beginning jingle of Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ starts to play, and with the grand spectacle that the holiday decorations are every year, it’s hard not to feel all those emotions of nostalgia they’re trying to pull from you, making you roll your eyes singing along with her under your breath.

The big water fountain in the middle of the men’s department comes into view from the tops of bobbing heads, one of the many physical markers in this building you’ve had to use so you don’t get lost in the retail maze they’ve created letting you know that you’re close to your destination. Weaving through the sea of people, you try to gear up to break free from the human traffic jam, the signs pointing to the escalators in your sights. His panicked voice is what you hear first, an obvious friendliness still hidden underneath it despite the way it shakes every time you hear him say “excuse me?”

Your eyes search for the owner, and when you find him, regret buries itself deep in your gut when they land on his face.

A perfect mess of dark chestnut hair, with tips that look like they were dipped in honey sits on top of his head. The hints of gold hidden inside shimmer under the lights, as it curls wildly behind his ears. It almost looks styled that way, that is until you see his big hand run through it twice in the span of a few seconds. Warm brown eyes squint as he turns in a full circle glancing between his phone and the signs the point to the city street exits on either side of him. The hoards of people surrounding him completely ignoring his existence as he looks around painfully lost.

His nose is sharp, just like his jaw that’s dusted with the faint hint of a five o’clock shadow. The two prominent moles that sit side by side on his cheek stick out on his unseasonably sun kissed skin that seems to glow against the dark maroon color of his sweater. It’s snug across a broad chest, just like the washed out black jeans that fit a light too well around his thighs. His chocolate colored peacoat looks tailored to fit his biceps, with shiny gold buttons that match the buckle on his russet leather loafers, and the chain that dangles from around his neck.

You watch him try to ask a few friendly faces for help, only receiving a shrug and a half smile by the ones that actually acknowledge him. He mutters something that sounds sarcastic to himself as you get closer, his hands moving animatedly before he huffs pinching the bridge of his nose.

Maybe it’s the Christmas decorations, or the Mariah Carey, or maybe it’s just the fact that you’d rather take pity on a handsome stranger than go to your job. Whatever reason it is, you decide to make the stupid mistake to help him.

“Hey,” you greet timidly, getting just close enough to smell the cedar and cinnamon that seems to cling to the expensive wool of his coat, ignoring the way your stomach flips because of course he smells good right?

“Are you lost?”

He doesn’t hear you over the internal battle going on inside his head, not even registering that someone is finally stopping to offer the help he’d just been pleading for, quietly grumbling, ‘you wanted to move to the city, now you can’t even find your way through a damn store’ to himself.

You clear your throat before it can get anymore awkward, alerting him of your presence while letting your curious gaze wander up his tall broad frame. Those squinted brown eyes look big now as they meet yours, and you can see green inside them that you couldn’t before and it sparkles brighter than the tinsel hanging from the boughs behind him.

Yeah, you’ve made a huge mistake.

He blinks a few times, before a wide smile stretches across his face somehow making him even more handsome as he reveals a set of perfectly straight teeth. The smile pushes up his cheeks, and crinkles the skin around his eyes, and you watch all the aggravation from before melt off of his perfectly sculpted face and you wish you could go back those few minutes in time and abort the mission. This is no damsel in distress.

“Hi” is all that he says, peony’s painting his cheeks as he runs his hand through his thick hair again and it looks even softer up close.

“Hey,” You giggle, nerves taking over and you want to pinch yourself for it, “I just wanted to see if you needed some help, you look a little lost.”

You try to seem indifferent when you catch the way his gaze roams quickly down your body, thankful you did laundry last night and had on your tight fitting work slacks today that showed off your curves.

“So lost!” He groans, the blush on his cheeks deepening with the tips of his ears. “If I’m being completely honest with you, I don’t even know what floor I’m on.”

You try to hide the way you snort, slapping your palm over your mouth.

“Hey, be nice!” He laughs, trying his best to fight it to put on a hurt expression, “this is like, my first time here, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” you try to fight off you smile, “I didn’t mean to laugh at you —“

“Steve.” He interjects with a grin, those perfect teeth biting at his full bottom lip as he sticks out one of his hands for you to take, a gold band wrapped around his middle finger you didn’t notice before gleaming when it hits the light.

“Well, Steve,” You try not to laugh, which ends up being easy to do when you slip your hand into his and watch it disappear behind his long fingers when they wrap around it, “you’re on the first floor if you can believe it.

“That’s fucking embarrassing, wow.” He groans, letting your hand go to run his palm down his face, and you hate that you feel the loss in your gut, “sorry I didn’t mean to cuss.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” You tease with a wink, enjoying the way it only makes the color on his face deepen. “Where are you trying to go? I work on the seventh floor. I might be able to take you on my way.”

It takes Steve a minute to formulate an answer to your offer, still stuck on the fact a complete stranger was being so nice to him, and the silence between you goes on just long enough to make you second guess everything.

“Or I could just try and give you directions if that’s more comfortable for you.” You offer, adjusting the straps of your backpack nervously.

“I’m trying to get to the women’s department,” Steve finally blurts out, sensing the shift in your energy and quickly tries to recover with another card through his hair and a crooked smile, “specifically the handbags, and I absolutely think you should take me.”

His gaze narrows the color in his eyes darkening into something more flirtatious than nervous.

“Who knows how long it’d take me to get there without a beautiful, clearly smart woman such yourself to help me anyway.”

Your stomach does that thing that you hate again, and all the heat in your body licks at your cheeks like flames. You can’t remember the last time a man actually used the word beautiful. Hot? Absolutely. Cute? Sure. Pretty? Yeah, a few times, but never beautiful. It sits in your chest where it blossoms into another painfully big smile that pushes your cheeks up even more, and you have to look away from his face for a moment when he matches it with his own.

“O- okay, if you just, uh wanna follow me?” Words get lost on your tongue and it comes out more shy than you would’ve liked, but you turn on your heel before you can think too hard about it when he gestures you forward.

You hear him mutter ‘are you kidding me?’ under his breath as you lead him to the escalators just around the corner, making him realize how close they were this whole time and you wonder just how long he was actually looking for them. The smell of mint hits your nose as you pass the Frango chocolate stand and it mixes with the spice of his cologne as he trails close behind. Butterflies threatening to break from cocoons hearing the way his steps match yours.

He stops next to you as you come to halt to wait your turn to hop onto the moving metal steps. You look up at him and there’s an awkwardness that threatens to fill the small space between you that has you giving him a tight lipped smile that he returns with the kind of confidence that makes your palms sweat and you have to look away.

“I say we make our move after white puffer coat comin’ up here.” His voice startles you when it comes out low, close enough to the shell of your ear that you swear you can feel the whisper of his lips. Spearmint stings your nose from the gum that snaps between his teeth, and the heat of his breath makes goosebumps jump along the back of your neck.

Why did you do this?

You meet his gaze from the corner of your eye, letting him see the playful glint that dances in them before giving a curt nod of your head.

“On the count of three…” You play along, despite everything inside you telling you to stop flirting back and it makes Steve’s whole face light up, long fingers flexing at his side with the need to find yours again.

“One..” He starts, and your eyes meet ‘white puffer coat’ who’s now only a few steps away before finding Steve’s again who’s stare very obviously never left your face.

“Two..” You giggle trying to hide the way your body starts to buzz and if it wasn’t for Steve’s giddy expression you’d be more embarrassed than you actually are.

“Thre-“ His final count gets cut off by the feeling of your fingers wrapping around his, tugging him onto the stairs early with a loud cackle that has you throwing your head back and he swears the sound tilts his world off its axis.

His cheeks dust pink under the bright light looking down his nose at you with a wide smile that shows all his teeth. An expensive loafer sits wedged between your work shoes and the other on the step above, caging you against the side as you ride up to the next floor, and he’s close enough for you to see a smattering of more freckles that dot the bridge of his nose and the side of his neck, even one on the tip of his earlobe.

He’s still holding your hand.

#my writing #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagines

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cyripticchronicler · 5 months

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Ink and Destiny - Part 4

Maybe keeping a secret relationship with James is not as perfect as you think. Or, a whole lot of nothing, I need ideas plz.

A/N: Sorry for the wait, I hope everyone had a great Christmas! If you don't celebrate it then I hope you had a good day! Sorry this part is really bad, I need ideas, PLEASE give me ideas in the suggestion box please ily.

Part One Part Two Part Three

“Did you hear that James Potter is dating someone?”

“Do you think it’s Lily? He’s been crushing on her for years” “Of course it’s Lily. They’re going to have the cutest babies.”

You focus on the schoolwork before you, trying to block out the people next to you. You know James and you agreed to keep this dating thing private but you can’t help but feel sad, and jealous when people think he’s dating Lily.

You know James likes you, he’s made it clear. And you know that Lily doesn’t like James if the way she always rolled her eyes when he was around was any indication.

You’ve told Lily and Alice everything between you and James, as James has Sirius and Remus. Alice already knew since James asked her what your favourite book was, and Lily was shocked, disgusted and happy for you all in the span of five minutes.

The teacher dismisses the class and you rush out, bumping into Lily on your way to the girl's dormitory.

“You’ll come with me to the Quidditch game, right?” You ask nervously. You’re still nervous around James and Lily coming with you would help you calm down a lot.

She nods, hooking her arm with yours, “Yeah. Do you want to start getting ready? I’ll paint your nails.”

“Can you paint them red? I don’t know what I’m wearing yet, please help me.” you plead, sighing in relief when you reach the Gryffindor common room.

Scanning the room, your eyes land on James sitting on the couches in front of the fireplace, talking to James and Sirius.

Lily teasingly nudges me and you glare. “Stop it-” You stop at the sound of your name being called out and turn to face the speaker.

“Do you want to sit with us?” Sirius Black asks you from his seat, eyes swirling with mischief.

“Excuse me?” You squeak. From the corner of my eye, you see James smash his face against the couch pillow.

“The Quidditch game. Do you want to sit with Remus and me?” James lifts his head from the pillow, cheeks flushed as he mouths a silent ‘sorry.’

You nod, “Okay. As long as Lily can sit with us.”

It’s Remus who speaks, “Of course. We’ll meet here in an hour.”

You nod your head awkwardly, flashing them smiles then drag Lily up the stairs.

“I’m not ready to hang out with Remus and Sirius, what if they don’t like me? James values their opinion and if they don’t like me then who knows what will happen-” Lily cuts you off with her hands on your shoulders. “Calm down, it’ll be okay. You’ve worked with Remus before in Potions, remember? He liked you, and Sirius will like you too. Now cmon, let’s get ready.”

She leads you to a table in the corner, pulling out a deep red nail polish. You take turns painting each other's nails, Lily choosing to go for a dark green.

“What do I wear?” You ask, throwing everything out of your trunk in search of something cute. She joins you on the floor, rummaging through your trunk before holding a black skirt up.

“This is cute!”

“It’s almost winter.” “So? You’ll wear tights.”

It's pleated and lands mid-thigh. Hesitantly, you agree and you continue the hunt for a top. You chose to pair it with a maroon turtle neck sweater so you don’t freeze to death.

“Are you wearing cute underwear?” Lily asks as you get dressed.

“What? We’re not having sex!”

“Are you sure?” You send her a look. “Okay, but wearing cute underwear makes you more confident.” “Go away.” You can’t resist your smile as Lily laughs. You quickly do your makeup and hair, putting on simple black boots.

“Is this too much for a Quidditch game?” You ask self-consciously. Lily scoffs from behind you, “No. You look hot.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

—

Remus and Sirius are sitting in the same place as before, cheeky grins on their faces as they spot you.

“You ladies look amazing,” Sirius purrs, “You ready? I know James is excited to see you.” He winks, causing your cheeks to flush.

Ignoring Sirius and Lily’s laughter, you make your way to the field, Remus falling into step next to you.

“Don’t stress about getting him to like you. He already does. We all do.” At your confused face, he continues, “James has been so much happier since he found out you were his soulmate. And we like whoever makes him happy. So as long as you don't break his heart, we like you.”

“I’d never break his heart.”

“Good.”

—

“Potter! Potter! Potter!” The common room is deafeningly loud with almost everyone from Gryfindoor celebrating.

Gryffindor won, obviously, and the celebrations have been going on for an hour already. Besides a quick congratulations on winning the game, you haven't seen James since.

You and Lily were sitting alone in the corner before she got dragged away with a boy from her Defence Against the Dark Arts class, so now you’re sitting alone, nursing a glass of water as you try not to look too miserable. Parties have never been your thing, and even though you can’t exactly speak to James, you’d celebrate with him in spirit.

Perking up, you spot Sirius coming towards you with flushed cheeks, forehead lined with sweat. “Darling! James asked you to meet him in the boy's dormitory. It’s nice and empty for ya.” He slurs, stumbling over his feet.

Your cheeks flush red and you hurriedly thank Sirius before pushing your way through the crowd, breathing a sigh of relief when you make it into the dormitory.

It’s empty and you stand awkwardly in the middle, turning in a circle as you take in all the bits and bobs around the place.

There’s only one bed made, most likely Remus’s, and clothes are strewn across the floor.

“I’m sorry, I told the boys to clean up in here.” You almost jump out of your skin at the sound of James’s voice. Turning around, you take in his sweaty hair and flushed cheeks.

“It’s okay.” You mutter quietly, watching as he comes closer.

He goes to hug you but stops. “Sorry, let me have a shower.” He points to a messy bed, “Take a seat, I’ll be quick.”

The door shuts behind him and you do as he instructed, tidying his bed up a bit, first. Ten minutes later he comes barreling in, cheeks flushed from the hot shower.

He sits down next to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he places a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“I feel like I haven't hugged you in ages. How are you, Love?”

“I’m okay. How are you?”

“I’m amazing.”

He kisses you, it’s soft and gentle but you can’t get those nagging thoughts out of your head.

James notices, of course, he does. “You seem tense, you sure you’re okay?”

You tense even more and he pulls away slightly, brows furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay?” He asks again.

“I- We’re not going to have sex, right?” You blurt, wincing immediately.

He pulls away completely. “No. I just missed you, haven't seen you much tonight so I thought we could have some quiet time together, I know you don’t like parties. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, that wasn't my intention. I just missed you.”

Your cheeks flush and you shove them into your hands. “No, I’m sorry, I’m so stupid.”

He gently prys your hands apart, “Hey, no. I would’ve thought the same thing, too. But we’re not having sex until I become your boyfriend and we talk about what we’re comfortable with, okay?” “You want to be my boyfriend?” You ask shyly, a small smile forming on your lips.

“Of course, You’re incredible. Why wouldn’t I want to be?”

You hesitate, “I have a lot of insecurities, James, and I don’t want to burden you with them.”

He scoffs, “You could never burden me.” He lays down beside you, reaching out so you’re forced to rest your chin on his chest, legs tangled with yours.

You scoff, earning a stern glare from James.

You change topics, “So when are you going to be my boyfriend?” You question teasingly.

He sighs playfully, “Well, I was going to ask you on our next date.”

Your eyebrows raise, “Our next date?” He nods. “I’ll bring your favourite food if you promise to ask me to be your girlfriend, okay? "He smiles, “It’s a deal.” Returning his smile, you lean in for a kiss, relishing in his warmth. Neither of you notices the time go by, too captivated by each other.

Taglist: I have a taglist omg

@lilianelena39 (I didn't know if you still wanted to be tagged but if you don't just leave a comment!) @remussbitch @universallyblizzardlove @ropickle

Thank you all for your support! I promise the next chapter will be more interesting, hopefully.

#james potter fic #james potter x fem!reader #fanfiction #james potter #james potter fanfiction #james potter x reader #james potter drabble #james potter fluff #james potter imagine #james potter oneshot

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baby-yongbok · 8 months

Text

Poetry

Chapter Two - It's a Date

Hyunjin x Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff, dare I say slow burn? The type that tickles your heart.

Word Count: 2,661

A/N: Ya'll voted for a part 2 but I honestly would've probably made this a mini series regardless 😭. I love this story with my whole heart and I hope you do too. I decided that I'll be uploading the chapters for this series on Thursdays at 6pm EST. Anyway, Enjoy! Any and all feedback is appreciated!

Summary: That cute stranger that you met at your favorite bookstore cafe is anything but a stranger now.

Part One

✧Poetry Series Masterlist✧

✧Main Masterlist✧

(Reading part one before reading this is highly recommended)

“Six o’clock on the dot. We should start paying you for coming here.” Amanda, the cafe owner, joked as you walked through the doors of the small bookstore.

“Yeah? I think I’d like that, I could use the extra money.” You smiled at her as you clutched a stack of books to your chest. “Oh, these are donations by the way. All brand new, my brother is cleaning out his office and business management isn’t exactly my cup of tea.”

You place the stack of books neatly on the counter in front of Amanda and she flashes you a genuine smile. “This is why you’re my favorite customer. Here, your next drink is on us.”

Amanda hands you a coupon that you gratefully accept. You’ve learned a long time ago that declining her offers is futile. “Oh and I think that someone is here for you.”

She wiggles her eyebrows teasingly and you furrow yours. You turn around and a soft smile spreads across your face. Your eyes land on Hyunjin’s tall frame sitting cross legged at one of the free tables in the nearly empty cafe. An iced americano in one hand and a book in the other.

“He’s been here for thirty minutes.” Amanda whispers over to you and your smile spreads wider.

“Of course he’s early.” You shake your head, chuckling a bit. “Thanks for the coupon.”

You wave your goodbye to Amanda and start to make your way over to Hyunjin who seems to be completely engrossed in his book. You steal a glance at the cover and raise your eyebrows at his current literary choice.

“Life is so constructed, that the event does not, cannot, will not, match the expectation.” Your voice catches his attention causing him to sit up straighter as he takes you in with a smile.

“You’ve read it?” He asks, referring to your quote as he places his bookmark and closes the novel.

“I’m a bit of a Charlotte Brontë connoisseur.” You reply with a shrug. “I did my thesis on that novel for my senior year of college.”

“I’ll have to pick your brain about it once I’ve finished it.”

You watch him as he stands and stretches a bit. You take a second to drink in his appearance, his orange and black crocodile print sweater and black slacks fitting his frame perfectly. You have no doubt that it’s expensive just like everything else that he’s worn during your Thursday evening meetings. Once he’s satisfied with his stretch he pushes in his chair and circles the table to stand in front of you. He holds a hand out to you and you slip your fingers over his slender ones. He brings your hand up to his mouth and kisses the back of it gently, a grin pulling at his lips.

“You look lovely tonight.” He looks you over slowly, taking in the form fitting glory of your black pencil skirt and the contrast it has to your baggy maroon sweater tucked in just in the front.

“You say that every Thursday.” You playfully roll your eyes and Hyunjin smiles, shaking his head in agreement.

“Because you look stunning every Thursday. I can’t wait to see you on a Monday or a Tuesday.” You blush a bit, looking away from him in an attempt to hide your reaction.

The two of you have been meeting at this bookstore cafe, Adore, for two weeks now, today being the third. You’ve found yourself planning your outfit for this day of the week as soon as you wake up on Friday. Each time that the two of you say goodbye you can’t help but to think about the next time that you’ll see him and all of the questions that you’ll ask him. Hyunjin was no different, he found himself thinking about you like a teenager who just asked their crush to prom. His roommates started teasing him for the extra work that he’d been putting into his appearance. Every Thursday he’d spend an extra thirty minutes in the bathroom making sure that his hair looked just right since you complement it every time you see him. He’d gone on for about an hour asking his roommate Felix for his opinion on different colognes even though he normally doesn’t bother to wear any. He even took on an earlier work schedule so he’d be available for your meetings. Anything to see you again.

“Thank you.” You whisper and he nods in response. He grabs his bag from the back of his chair and packs his novel away before grabbing his drink.

“Shall we browse?” You nod your head, lacing your fingers together behind your back before taking a step forward. It seems that you both had the same idea since the two of you bump into each other softly. You both chuckle lightly and Hyunjin moves his free hand to the small of your back to guide you in front of him. “Ladies first.”

His words come out in such a whisper that you could barely hear him but that could also be due to your heart thumping in your ears as a chill runs over you. You shake your head trying to play off your reaction to the small physical contact but you can’t help it, his touch is electric. The two of you trail off into the poetry section and you know exactly what you’re looking for.

“I take it that you have someone in mind?” Hyunjin asks with a curious glance as you browse the shelves. You nod, your gaze never leaving the organized spines lined up on the shelves.

“There!” You reach forward quickly, plucking the book from the neat stack and holding it up to show Hyunjin.

“Rupi Kaur, I can’t say that I’m familiar with her.” Your face twists in disapproval causing a small chuckle to fall from Hyunjins blushed lips. “Why don’t you introduce me to her work.”

“ If you like R.H. Sin then you’ll love her.” You look down the aisle both ways to make sure that no one is around before kneeling down and sitting on the dark carpet. Hyunjin looks down at you with furrowed brows as you take off your bag and place it next to you. Once you’re settled you look up at him returning his confused expression. “Are you coming?”

You pat the carpeted floor next to you and Hyunjins confused stare quickly melts into a gentle look of admiration. He nods his head before joining you on the floor, sitting next to you with his back resting lightly on the book shelf. He glances over at you as you study the hardcover book in your hands, your fingers tracing over the embossed words. He takes in the steadiness of your breath and the way you hum ever so slightly when you notice a new detail on the cover. He doesn’t notice the grin that’s creeped across his lips until you look up at him, he looks away quickly as a blush creeps across his cheeks. You mimic his actions, blushing a bit yourself. A few seconds of quiet surround the two of you before Hyunjin breaks the barrier.

“May I?” He asks, gesturing towards the hardcover in your hands. You let out a deep relieved sigh and nod at him. You hand the book over to him, the tips of your fingers brush lightly against his and you both still momentarily at the contact. You both had to have felt that shock run up your spines right? The two of you decide to shake it off quickly, concluding that it was merely a case of static electricity. Hyunjin looks down at the book in his hands, turning it over and taking in the words on the back cover. He clears his throat a bit before reading the text on the back.

“This is the recipe of life, said my mother as she held me in her arms as I wept…” You listen closely to each word that his voice carries. Sinking into your own little bubble, this time that the two of you reserved every Thursday served as a calming ground for the both of you. Nothing else mattered right now, the only thing that exists is the two of you and the poetry that you shared.

“The sun and her flowers.” Hyunjin read the title as he flipped the book back over to its front. “I have to admit that I’m very interested.”

He opens the book to its contents and reads off the name of each section. “ Wilting, Falling, Rooting, Rising, Blooming.”

You nod as you look over the grayed out page with him. “Which section do you think you belong in?”

Hyunjin looks over at you, a bit taken back by your question. Your large doe eyes stared back at his shining narrow ones patiently waiting for his response. “Uh, I don't really know.”

You nod, catching on to his hesitance. You look forward for a second, your eyes mindlessly scanning the spines of the books in front of you before you do what you wanted to do last Thursday. Slowly and carefully you lean your head to the side gently resting your temple on his shoulder. You feel him tense a bit at the sudden contact but he quickly relaxes into your touch even leaning over a bit to give you better access to his shoulder.

“I think that right now I belong in falling.” You watch as Hyunjin silently flips through the pages before landing on the first page of the section you mentioned. He licks his lips before reading the poem.

“I notice everything I do not have and decide it is beautiful.” He lets out a deep sigh that he wasn’t aware that he was holding before shaking his head.

“I think that maybe I belong here too.”

His fingers run over the picture placed under the poem, imitating pencil strokes as he studies it. You turn slightly to look up at him, studying his slow blinks as his brown orbs focus on the page. The gentle air escaping his nose tickles your lashes as he exhales but you don’t dare blink, too afraid that you’ll miss a moment of him. What is this that you’re feeling?

“But I don’t think that I can say that everything that I don’t have is beautiful, not yet.” His eyes don’t leave the page as he continues to imitate the abstract strokes. “Well, there is one thing that I don’t have.”

His words come out in a whisper and his gaze suddenly shifts over to you. His brown orbs are looking deep into yours. Your breathing picks up slightly as you will yourself not to look away.

“And it’s definitely beautiful.” His gaze is intense yet soft as he looks over your features. You notice that his eyes wander over your lips a bit longer than everything else before meeting your eyes again. “I guess I have to convince myself that I deserve beautiful things.”

He lets out a light sigh and you can’t help but to bring your hand to lay on top of his.

“You are more than worthy of beautiful things, Hyunjin.” He grins down at you gently before tearing his gaze away from yours.

“Perhaps I am.” He whispers more to himself than to you. Suddenly he lets out a deeper sigh as he closes the book. “Have you eaten yet?”

You return his sigh as you lift your head from his shoulder. You can’t help but to wonder what he meant, why would he think that he doesn’t deserve to indulge in beauty? You shake the thoughts from your mind, not wanting to ruin your Thursday night with him. “I haven’t”

“Would you like something?”

“I can make something when I get back to my place, money is a bit tight for me right now.”

“My treat.” He hums out simply as he studies the spine of the hardcover in his hands.

“I’m alright.” You chuckle and he looks over at you with a bit of concern drawn on his features.

“Really it’s no problem. I know that I pay every Thursday but it makes me happy that I can provide you with something as small as refreshments every week. It gives me peace of mind.” You blush a bit at his confession, so he does think about you as much as you think about him.

“Well if it means that much to you..” He smiles down at you with a nod.

“It does.” He shifts suddenly as he moves to stand. He holds his hand out to you and you take it, allowing him to help you up. “They make an amazing tomato caprese sandwich here.”

“I’ll try it.” He nods at you happily before taking the lead out of the aisle. You follow closely behind him when suddenly you remember something. “Oh!”

You catch Hyunjin’s attention as you walk up a bit faster to stand beside him. You rummage through your bag until you find what you’re looking for.

“I have a coupon for a free drink!” You muse excitedly and Hyunjin can’t help but to laugh at your sudden elation.

“Keep it, I appreciate it but I’ve got this.”

“Oh come on! Let me help.” You pout a bit as the two of you reach the register and Hyunjin puts in the order for the two of you, he’s already memorized your drink order so little discussion is needed. Once your order is placed and paid he turns to your pouting face with a warm smile.

“You know what? There is a way that you can help.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks and you perk up a bit as you listen to him.

“Anything.” You smile up at him, wide eyed and eager to be of use.

“How about next Thursday we… meet outside of this place. Maybe I could take you on a date?”

A deep blush creeps onto your swarthy cheeks as his question sinks in. Your lips pressed together in a thin line and you shift the position of your feet slightly. Hyunjin looks down at the dark tile nervously as he waits for you to say something, anything. His nerves began to creep up his spine, spewing doubt into his mind. Just as he was about to retract his offer and apologize you let out a breathy chuckle.

“I’d really like that.” A toothy smile spreads across his face once he hears your response and you instantly wear one to match once you take in his reaction.

“Uh, great! I’ll text you the details.” He takes his hand out of his pocket, offering his phone to you. “I can’t believe we haven’t exchanged numbers yet.”

A shy chuckle escapes him as the two of you exchange phones and input your numbers.

“There you go.” You hand his phone back to him, your giddy smile still present on your red painted lips.

“Alright, well um, I’ll text you everything you need to know once I plan it.” He says as he stares down at your contact for a second too long, he bites his lip slightly to try and hold back his smile.

“It’s a date.” You both stand in front of each other smiling like enliven children at an ice cream parlor. “I’ll go grab us a table.”

Hyunjin nods at you as you turn on your heels and make your way to your usual booth. He watches you as you walk away from him with awestruck eyes. He allows himself to smile now that you aren’t looking, his eyes turning into shining crescents as excitement builds inside of him. He glances down at your contact one last time before locking his phone and stuffing it back into his pocket, He glances over at you before turning to face the cafe counter and whispers to himself.

“It’s a date.”

← Previous Chapter ♡ Next Chapter →

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mrsfrankadler · 4 months

Text

Who’s at the door?

ransom x reader [?] and jake jensen x reader

A/N: this is a little teaser for a series i MAY or MAY NOT start writing. let me know if you like it. also this was written on my phone so it could be bad 💔

Warnings: none i guess? it's only the first chapter people it's an intro, maybe Jake being sickeningly adorable 🤷🏾‍♀️

Summary: there’s a handsome stranger at the door.. are we even expecting anyone?

⋆

"Okay, so, were both just sitting on his couch and he's giving me this look right,"

"Uh-huh."

"You know, real 'fuck me eyes', right."

"Yeahh.." Jake continues listening, attentively.

"And then, when he opens his mouth to speak, i expect him to come out wit some killer line that would totally make me swoon," You continued, using your hands to paint the picture of just how high your hopes were.

"Mhm."

"And then he just comes out with, 'uhh, so are you gonna suck my dick, orr?'"

Your hands flatly drop to your sides and Jake almost jumps in shock, the utter disgust prominent on his face.

"HUH?"

"Yeah."

"WHAT?"

"YES!"

"I mean, Jay, who even says that." You sigh, giving a disappointed look. "Just so inappropriate." You added, kind of enjoying his dramatic reaction.

He just puts his head in his hands, trying to process why anyone would ever treat a woman — especially not an angel like you — like that. He just can't even comprehend it. He knows that if you ever let him get that close with you, he couldn't even dream of treating you like that.

First of all, he would start out focusing on you, not himself. Softly kissing you all over face and telling you how beautiful and precious you are to him before making his way down to your-

Ring-ring.

You abruptly rose out of your seat with a deer-in-headlights expression on your face. Jake just looked at you confused and suspicious. Who was that?

"Who's that?" He stood up with you, just watching as you practically sprinted upstairs. "Don't worry about it, JJ." He blushed at the nickname, "Just tell him to wait and I'll be right down!" You called down the stairs.

Jake didn't like this. 'Don't worry about it.' What's that supposed to mean? 'Don't worry about it.'

Fuck that, he thought, making his way to the door and peeking through the peephole. On the other side of the door, he saw a tall, seemingly quite built man sporting a brown cable knit sweater.

He looks like an asshole, Jake thought to himself.

Before Jake had the chance to walk away and start worrying about what you and this man were about to run off and do together, the man noticed there was someone on the other side of the door.

"Y/N? Y/N is that you? Come on baby, just let me in." He started knocking again. Jake shuddered at the pet name before opening the door. "It's cold out here-,"

"Oh." The man commented, bluntly looking Jake up and down before pushing past him and taking a seat at the table.

"Oh." Jake imitated, walking over to the kitchen where he had chosen to sit.

There was an awkward silence as the two men subtly sized eachother up.

"Uh, I'm Jake," he started awkwardly out his hand for him to shake before awkwardly shoving it back into his pocket when the guy just glared at it.

"Ransom."

"Oh, cool, nice to meet you." Jake was trying to be polite.

"Yeah." Ransom scoffed. He wasn't making it easy.

The awkward silence returned, while Jake started trying to think of ways to break the ice. However, his mind became occupied by other things. Like where was Ransom taking you at 5:30 in the evening? Why did you seem so nervous when he knocked on the door? Why did you tell him not to worry? Should he be worried? And why'd he call you baby?

You finally pulled him out of his stressful thoughts by announcing that you were ready to go and making your way down the stairs looking possibly the most beautiful he had ever seen you.

"Whaddaya think?" You did a little twirl as the two men in front of you stared in awe. You wore a maroon satin dress that stopped just below your knees, paired with some peep toe kitten heels that had a silver buckle.

Jake just stared at you star-struck as you slowly made your way to the table. "You look beautiful, sugar." Ransom piped up and Jake wanted to throw up in his mouth. Another pet name? "Thank you, Ransom." you cupped his face gently before turning to Jake who was sporting a rather defeated expression.

"Jayy..." You started, softly, "I'm sorry I forgot to mention that I was going out tonight, it was really short notice.. even I forgot!" You explained, earning an offended scoff from Ransom. "I'll be back before you know it, and i'll tell you every detail." You winked at him before turning back to leave with Ransom. Jake just slouched deeper into his seat at the table.

Does he really wanna know every detail?

⋆

YALL TELL ME WHAT YOU THINKKK!!!! part 2 is in my drafts babies 💋

#chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x you #jake jensen #jake jensen x reader #jake jensen x you #knives out #ransom drysdale #chris evans smut #ransom drysdale x reader #x reader #ransom drydale x you #ransom drysdale smut #jake jensen smut #x reader series #poc!reader #woc!reader #black!reader

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sage-green-matcha · 11 months

Text

MAROON - ETHAN LANDRY PT. 2 🍷🥀🔪

“Laughing with my feet in your lap, like you were my closest friend. "How'd we end up on the floor, anyway?" you say. "Your roommate's cheap-ass screw-top rosé, that's how" I see you every day now” - Taylor Swift

Content Includes: Alcohol, andddd I think that’s it!

PT. 1 of Maroon | PT. 3 of Maroon | PT. 4 of Maroon |

You found yourself in class the next morning, not sure if you should even be there. Tara And Sam were attacked last night and you knew it was only a matter of time before Ghost Face came after you next.

"Hey...you okay?" You jumped at Ethan's hand on your shoulder, the room empty. You didn't notice but you had zoned out the entire class, your mind on everything else that was going on. Nevertheless, you also had a headache, the alcohol from last night messing you up. "No...shit, I just zoned out for the entire class, I don't even know why I'm here right now" You picked up your bag, Ethan following behind you. "What did we go over...? Was it important?" "Uh yea... it's stuff that's gonna be on the final" "Shit..."

"You can borrow my notes if you want uhm, we can go back to my dorm...Chad should be there" You probably shouldn't be anywhere but in the comfort of your own home, but you agreed, desperate for any sort of company. Sam and Tara had been at the Police station all day and the loneliness was starting to get to you.

They were suspects in the case, which you thought was stupid since they used to be the targets of a closed one. They were there for hours, interrogated over and over but none of the facts changed. They brought out ghost face masks and DNA samples, getting finger prints and DNA from them just in case.

"I'm sorry, that this is all happening to you again. I didn't get it at first, but now that I'm kinda sucked up in it all... it's really scary" You looked down at the floor as you walked. "Yea...it never ends" You played with the sleeves of your sweater, Ethan opening the door for you to the boy's dormitory.

You weren't sure if you could completely trust Ethan, he randomly showed up one day but what would he have to do with Ghost face? "Hey uh, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable yesterday. I'm kinda unfiltered when drunk" You smiled up at him. "Oh...uh no it's fine I know you were just joking"

You got to the floor, Ethan struggling to open the door as you looked around. You knew boys were gross but seriously? “Sorry about Chad's mess...he doesn't clean" Ethan's side was nice and shiny, a map and small Polaroids hung above his bed. It didn't have any direction but it was cute, unlike chads side where there were unfinished takeout containers and water bottles that piled up on his desk.

"We went over quantitive analysis, he also made a slide show you can look at. Should be in your email" he hopped onto the bunk, helping you up the tall bed. "We didn't have notes but I took some anyways...better safe than sorry" "yea...thanks" You pull out your notebook, taking his into your lap and copping down the words.

"Uhm, do you want something to drink?" "What you got? Chad's beer stash?" "Well yea...he also drinks fancy wine which I find kinda strange" you laughed. "He drinks wine?" You scrunched your nose, Ethan nodding with a smile.

He hopped off the bed, kneeling in front of chads desk, pulling open the drawer to grab two wine glasses. You opened your mouth in shock. "Damn, Chads a classy man" Being with Ethan made you forget about everything, he was like the male version of you, shy and secluded till you got to know him.

After a couple of glasses of the pink rosé, you two were laughing on the floor, your feet in his lap as you cracked jokes about the friend group. "God, how'd we end up on the floor anyway?" He asked and you took another drink, pouring more of the beverage into your cup. "Chad's cheap ass rosés, that's how" you smiled.

"Also...random but I can't with Sam right now, you know I feel bad for her but it's kinda all...her fault" You had never admitted that to anyone. You knew it was her fault, but you defended her when anyone said it. She brought the killer to Woodsboro, to Tara, and all her friends. That included you.

"Really? But aren't you always defending her about that?... You've seen the rumors about her online right...? I mean it kinda makes sense" You turned your head, Ethan's eyes meeting yours. "Well, I know she didn't kill anyone, and I know she wouldn't unless it was to protect herself. But the people who got killed when Ghost Face was only after Sam and Tara...that's her fault"

Ethan couldn't believe you were opening up to him so easily, Chad told him you were closed off and quiet, but maybe he couldn't crack the code for you. But he did it, and he was gonna take advantage of that. "Yea...I guess" "Don't tell her I said that, she'll kick me out of the apartment" You rolled your eyes.

"Have you ever thought about being Ghostface...?" He was serious but the smirk on his face made you brush it off. "Me as Ghost Face? Yea no, I'm not gonna kill my friends. I literally have no motive. No one has a motive to be ghost face other than fame...which is dumb really, it's not like we're getting paid to get hurt" You were drunk and telling him all your thoughts, it was really dumb of you.

When you should be closed off and careful you're the opposite. But when it's safe, you watch your words and actions, making sure that you'll be fine. "What about you? Am I just casually hanging out with my potential murderer?" "I don't think I'd be able to, I mean killing anyone in general. It would haunt me forever"

"Oh my god yea! Like I am way too sensitive of a person to be carrying that on my back" you sighed, your head now positioned on Ethan's shoulder. "Thanks by the way, for making me feel included in the group...Mindy hates me and everyone trusts her so... I'm kinda in an awkward position" he played with his hands. "Don't thank me, I know what it feels like" You took one of his hands into yours, you could feel his heart beat faster as he looked at you.

You could feel his soft breath on your face, his lips slightly agape as he leaned forward. You waited for him to make the first move, your lips craving his. You always wondered what he would taste like, how his lips would feel. They looked so pillowy, so soft. He placed his hand on your neck, his thumb rubbing over your skin gently. The sky was a deep Maroon and orange, lighting up the room in its bold color.

"Hey! Oh..." you pulled away quickly, Chad with a case of beer in his hand, a shocked expression on his face. "Oh! I'm so sorry. Did I just cock block you?" "Chad!" "What? Quinn taught me...damn Ethan! My man!" You covered your face in embarrassment, standing up from the floor. "I'm going home, Thanks a lot Chad" you grumbled. "What! What? I'm sorry..." You swung your bag over your shoulder, giving Ethan a small wave before you left. "Ill see you tomorrow"

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dc-marvel-life · 4 months

Text

That Dang Snake

Pairing: Hermione Granger

Summary: Hermione starts to get the attention of an unlikely Slytherin girl

Word Count: ~1.9k

A/N: I see some people like this series so far. If you want to request a Hermione x reader, go right ahead. I enjoy writing this

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Hermione P.O.V

I finished getting dressed and walked down the stairs into the common room to find Ginny all ready to go to the quidditch game.

“Hey Hermione, you look nice,” Ginny says about my outfit which is just blue jeans and a maroon sweater. A basic outfit for me.

“Hey Ginny, thank you. You look nice too” I say back at her.

“So you are really going on a date with Ron huh? You looked awkward saying yes to him the other day” Ginny questions me.

“Yes, I am. To be honest I just froze on the spot when he ask me, and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to make things weird between us if I said no” I say to Ginny.

“It is okay to say no if you don’t really like him. Plus it will be even weirder if you start going out with him and break things off because you don’t feel anything for him. Plus he will get over it” Ginny says with a smile. She has been a great friend to me over the years and is always there for me.

“You are right. I just don’t know what there is between us yet, so today will be a great opportunity to see that”

“Well, that's good,” Ginny says and smiles. Then the boys come down the stairs to meet us.

“Hey girls, are you ready to go to the match?” Harry says and we nod at him.

“You look really nice there Hermione,” Ron says looking me up and down.

“Thanks, Ron,” I say shyly.

“Are you not going to bring a scarf, Hermione? It can get cold sometimes” Harry warns me.

“No, it says it is supposed to be warmer today so I will be fine,” I say and Harry nods at me. We all head to the pitch and get seats in the stands. It was a pretty day with the sun out with a nice breeze. We got there early to see the teams warm up. The first team to warm up was Hufflepuff. After a bit into their warm up the clouds started to cover up the sun and the nice breeze turn into a cold one.

Hufflepuff was done with their warmup and went into the locker room, then Slytherin came out of the locker room all cocky. Normally I would just turn away because I didn’t like to watch people be all cocky, but this time was different. I was staring at Y/N walking onto the pitch and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. Y/N and cocky just work well together. I guess she could tell that I was staring at her because the next thing I know we are making eye contact with each other. She smirked and got onto her broom and started to do warmup laps.

At this point, I would tell that she was showing off because she has never gone this hard in warms up, not even when she was going against Gryffindor. I could hear Ron and Harry talking about the formations that the Slytherins were doing but I didn’t pay any mind to them.

I was starting to get cold and shiver because of it. I wrap my arms around myself trying to warm up. Ginny took notice and nudge Ron a bit. He didn’t even notice at first so Ginny does it again but harder.

“Ginny, what are you doing that for,” Ron says annoyed. Ginny doesn’t say anything but points her head at me. Trying to show Ron that I was cold.

“Oh, are you cold Hermione?” Ron asks and I nod my head.

“See Harry told you that you needed to bring a scarf,” Ron says and goes back to his conversation with Harry. Ginny hits him upside the head. Ron looks around confused not knowing what he did wrong. I just shook my head and continue to look at the Slytherins warm-up.

I see that Y/N is right in front of us staring at me. She then goes to one of her teammates and whispers something to him. He nods his head and Y/N flies down to the ground and goes into the locker room. It was strange that she went into the locker room during warmup, but she could have had to pee really badly. After a minute she comes out of the locker with her house scarf.

She hops back on her broom and comes straight for us. She stops right in front of me and all eyes are on us.

“You looked cold there Hermione so I brought you my scarf. May I?” she asked in a soft voice. I say yes and she comes a little closer and she puts her scarf around my neck.

“There you go, you’ll be nice and warm now,” she says and smiles, “you look absolutely amazing in that outfit by the way. Also green looks really good on you” Y/N winks and flies away to continue to warm up. You can see Malfoy and a few other of her teammates scold her for her actions, but she just shrugs it off.

“That damn snake!” Ron yells and I look at him.

“The nerve of her to come over here and do that to you Hermione” Ron says and I look at him confused.

“What do you mean? She was just trying to be nice” I say in defense for some reason.

“Come on Hermione, how can you be so stupid? She is a part of Malfoy’s gang who likes to pick on us all the time. She is also a pureblood and a Slytherin, she is just bad news. I bet she put a hex on that scarf to get to us” Ron says and Harry nods in agreement.

“So I am stupid now huh Ron? I knew this was a mistake. Come on Ginny” I say and get up to sit somewhere else in the stands away from them.

“I can’t believe my brother said that. Don’t mind him, I will deal with him later” Ginny says and gives me a hug. We find seats next to the twin in another section.

“So what was that all about Hermione? I have never seen Y/N show any affection toward a girl in public” Fred says and my face goes red.

“Are you guys dating?” Greoge ask.

“No, we are not dating. I don’t know why she is doing this all of a sudden” I say honestly to the twins.

“Well I bet we can get some information out of her tonight,” Fred says. Ginny and I look at him confused.

“Y/N invited us and a few other students to the Slytherin after-party tonight. It is a true honor because Slytherin doesn’t really invite other houses to their parties, but who is going to say no to Y/N? She is well-liked and at the top of the Slytherin house,” Fred says and I nod.

I didn’t even notice that Slytherin was done with their warm-ups and about to start the game. I turn my attention towards the game and watch it begin. Y/N starts off the game strong getting the first 50 points on the board. Every time she made a score she looked at me to make sure I was watching, I was watching every move she made.

She made it look so easy out there playing that anyone could pick up a broom and start playing. She was just so graceful with it all. Even Greoge and Fred were impressed with her moves. The game went on for about an hour until Malfoy caught the snitch and the score was 460-210.

It was a blowout thanks to no other than Y/N herself. She really put in the effort like she said she would in the library. Both teams shake hands with each other and go back into the locker room.

We all start to get up to head back into the castle

“Y/N did really well today. If she keeps playing like that we don’t stand a chance against them” George says shaking his head.

“Don’t worry, we will kick their asses when we play them” Ron says coming out of nowhere.

“Hey Hermione, I just want to say sorry,” Ron says to me.

“Do you even know why you are sorry Ron or are you just saying that just because?” I say back to him and he stands there not knowing what to say.

“I don’t know to be honest. Y/N is a no-good snake like the rest of them and I didn’t want her to be around you” Ron says in defense.

“I can take care of myself, Ron. Thank you very much” I say and walk off. I could hear the twins laughing and Ginny yelling at Ron about how he doesn’t know anything about women. I started to hear someone yell my name but I ignore them not wanting to talk to anyone, but I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I turn around and I see Y/N all sweaty and out of breath still in her quidditch gear.

“Hey Hermione, didn’t think you could leave without saying bye did you?” Y/N says with a smile. A smile that could make anyone’s day better.

“I am sorry. I bet you want your scarf back” I say taking off the scarf and she stops me.

“No, keep it on until you get back to the castle. I don’t want you to catch a cold. You can give it to me another time. That way I have an excuse to see you” Y/N says and I start to blush. We stood there for a second without saying anything but just staring at each other.

“Do you want to come to a party tonight?” Y/N asks quickly.

“Slytherin always has a party after a game to celebrate or to get over a loss. I wanted to invite you to come. You can also bring Ginny, Ron, and Harry all in good fate. I don’t want you to feel alone. Even though the twins are coming and I know you know the twins. There are going to be some Ravenclaw, and-” I put my hand on Y/N’s shoulder to stop her and let her breathe.

“You are rambling Y/N,” I say and she takes a breath.

“Sorry, I ramble when I am nervous,” Y/N says and I smile.

“What got you so nervous?” I ask wondering what got her so nervous all of a sudden. She seems confident every time I see her.

“If I am being honest, you make me nervous. Have you noticed that I am mostly quiet when I am around you? I don’t want to say anything to make myself look like a fool” Y/N says looking me in the eyes, and things start to click in my head. I start to think back on things and Y/N never talked when I was around until this year.

“What change all of a sudden?” I ask wanting to know more.

“Let’s just say some stuff happen over break and now I am a different person,” Y/N says leaving some mystery.

“So I will see you tonight right?” Y/N ask.

“Yes, you will,” I say and Y/N jumps up and down.

“Perfect, I can’t wait! Dress casual by the way” Y/N says when walks off with a group of Slytherin players walking past. I go back to the castle with a huge smile on my face.

Taglist: @fanficaddictcore

#hermione imagine #hermoine granger #hermione granger x reader #hermione x reader #hermione granger #harry potter

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dw19791967 · 4 months

Text

That Type of Girl Part 3

Pairing: Dean x reader (Eventual), Sam x reader (Platonic)

Warnings: language, unrequited love, angst, mentions of torture, mentions of self-hate.

This is the third fic I have ever written, all mistakes are my own. Please be gentle on me!

______________________________

What does one wear to church? I wouldn’t know since I never really went as a kid and as an adult well, once you know who God really is, it can be hard to get past that.

I decided on a long oversized maroon sweater, black leggings, and boots. I never really was a heels girl. Sure, I could handle a wedge or boots with a chunky heel, but I definitely wasn’t the type to wear six inch heels. I decided to leave my hair in its natural state, but I did twist my bangs together and pinned them back. I can’t braid, no matter how many times I have tried to learn. So twisting two pieces together is my go to, especially to get hair out of my face. I applied my regular makeup routine. I do it for me, not to impress people. I may be overweight and unappealing in other aspects but my makeup is something I am proud of. Years of practice have helped make it easy, and quick.

I walked out of the bathroom ready to go. “Alright boys, let’s do this.”

__________________

When we arrived at the church not a ton people were there. There was a small group gathered. A few women, they seemed to be in their late 20’s and a couple of men who seemed to be around the same age.

“Ok Y/N you ready? Remember, Dean and I will be here if you need us. We are going to try to scope the place out a bit” Sam looked at me. I am glad he was confident in my people skills, cause right now I am not. I do fine talking with people I know and even strangers. But the pressure of trying to force a conversation can be a struggle sometimes. And since Dean didn’t seem too confident in my skills earlier, I have been dreading this. How is it that the man who is supposedly my best friend, doesn’t believe I am capable of doing something I have done a hundred times before.

“I guess.” I started heading towards the group of people.

__________________

We just arrived back at the motel. Sam sat down next to me “Well we found nothing, we checked all over the place. Nothing suspicious, no sulfur or EMF.”

“Yeah and all the single chicks were a bust too.” Dean smiled.

Of course he would be worried about chasing tail.

I sighed. “Ok, I talked to a group of people at the church. They mentioned a guy Sarah worked with, his name was Ryan not sure on last name (Sarah was the most recent victim). They also mentioned Sarah had a crush on a dude at the church, Marshall. And last one, she had talked to Rick quite a bit at the church. One of the ladies said Rick has just been in town the last 2 weeks. Something seems off with Rick, but I’m not really sure what.” I looked over the case files again. I always like to make sure I am not missing anything.

“Well since we are at a stand still, I say it’s time to hit the bar. We need a break from researching and thinking.” Dean stood up.

“Maybe you're right, we can take a break and come back to it later.” Sam looked at me. “What do you say Y/N?”

“I think I’m going to stay here, try to figure out what is happening. Something is wrong in this whole equation.” I kept reading the files. I am also not in the mood to see Dean flirt tonight. But I will keep that thought to myself.

“Well party pooper, call if you need us.” Dean patted my shoulder.

Maybe a break from the boys will do me some good.

I had just changed into a t-shirt and took my makeup off when there was a knock at the door. I figured one of the boys was back and forgot their key.

“I swear you guys can’t survive without me.” I headed for the door.

I cracked the door open. Rick. What the hell is he doing here?

“Hi Y/N, I hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I just wanted to check on you and see if you maybe needed anything.” He rubbed the back of his neck. A nervous tick maybe.

“Um, I appreciate that. How did you know I was here?” This is weird for sure.

“Oh my aunt owns this motel, so I checked with her and she said you were here. She also mentioned you had two guys with you. Are you going to let me in?” He smiled at me.

“Uh, I guess.” I grabbed my knife and stuck it in the back of my leggings. A girl can never be too safe.

“So who are the guys here with you, brothers?” Rick made his way into the room.

“No, just friends. They came to be supportive. Can I get you a beer or water?” I had told the group of people at the church I was a cousin of Sarah’s, since she had no family in town it was an easy lie.

“I’ll have a beer, thanks.” I handed him the drink. “So where are your friends?”

“Out, they should be back shortly.” I was getting nervous. Something was not right here.

“Oh I doubt that Y/N. You know Dean always enjoys working on his night moves.” Rick's eyes flashed black. Next thing I know everything went black.

Oh I am so screwed.

_______________

“Wakey, wakey sunshine. God, I can’t believe how stupid you are for a hunter. Who the hell lets someone they barely know into their hotel room?" Rick poked at me.

We were in an abandoned warehouse. I was cuffed to a chair. This wasn’t exactly how I planned on my night going.

“Well, what can I say? I’m prone to making stupid decisions. So why don’t we just cut the foreplay. What do you want? ” I smiled.

Whack. Damn. I almost had forgotten what it was like to get the shit knocked out of me.

“You know, all of the women I took. There was nothing exciting about them. I mean they wonder why they are single. Maybe it’s because they are so damn boring. But you, I mean besides being overweight and homely, there's a certain spark to you. And once I found out you were a hunter, well you had to be my next victim.” He smoothed my hair out.

“So are you doing this for shits and giggles or is there a bigger agenda you are playing into?” He made his way over to a table and brought back a knife. Great.

“Oh sweet Y/N, of course I am doing this for me. You see, I have played by all the rules and followed the main man's plan. But it’s time for me to shine and this is just the beginning. So whatcha say, are you ready to have some fun?” Rick started to slice into my arm.

Lucky for me, I have a high pain tolerance.

“You see, you were an easy target. Your self esteem is so low. Plus can’t forget your little crush on the elder Winchester. What makes you think he would ever look at you twice?” Rick now started slicing my thighs. “I mean you have a pretty face for sure, but you know Dean prefers his women slim. You will never be that type of girl ya know?”

“Screw you. You don’t know the first thing about me. I mean you do realize anything you say to me, I have either heard or said it to myself a thousand times before? Way to be creative.” I laughed. I have always been stubborn. I’m sure as hell not going to stop now.

“You know, you are really starting to get on my nerves. How about I find a way to shut that pretty mouth up. I doubt the Winchesters would even miss your annoying ass.” Rick punched me in the face.

I spit blood out of my mouth. I hope he gets this over with soon.

Tag List:

@hazel-eye-coffee-shop-girl-blog

@deanspinsterwitchs-readinglist

#dean winchester series #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #spn fanfiction #supernaturalfanfic

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y-so-hungry · 4 months

Text

Hungry Boy: Chapter 1

Summary: Joseph and Adam have had a mutual crush on each other for months now, though neither knows the other's feelings. Today, Adam goes to the diner that Joseph works at, hungry for dinner, and finds out that Joseph hasn't actually eaten all day... neither of their stomachs will stop rumbling either.

Notes: Hey everyone! This is a RP I did with someone, who wishes to remain anonymous, but was happy to share with you all our story! There will be 6 chapters, which I'm going to try and post one each day. They're all part of a single rp and I had to break it into chapters to avoid the story being WAY too long for one post. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

Tags (for the whole story, not just this chapter): hunger, stuffing, starved to stuffed, stomach growling, belly rubs, light bondage, masturbation, cooking, friends to lovers, M/M

Read on AO3

Adam walked into the diner after a long day at work, shivering from the cold wind and snow outside. He stomped off the snow on his shoes at the doormat, and his stomach gurgles at the smell of food permeating the small diner. There were a few other people inside, apparently also tired and cold from the day. He looked up at the bar and saw his favorite waiter, Joseph, standing there filling another customer's coffee. He smiled, and called out to him.

"Oi, Joey, ya got an open spot for me?"

The cup fills to the top, and Joseph immediately springs his head toward the entrance to see Adam grinning widely at him. Joseph smiles back, happy to see a familiar face.

"Adam! Come in, come in!" he calls back, leaving his first customer to enjoy his coffee. "We got a few empty tables, how many in your party?”

"Just one today. Just need to fill up before I go home," he says, patting his stomach underneath his maroon turtleneck sweater.

"Busy day today?" Joseph chats, picking up a stray glass and casually wiping it down with a cloth. "I know how that feels. Right now's the only time it hasn't been busy today, I haven't had much of a chance to eat anything since breakfast."

Adam frowns.

"You haven't? Jeez, love, you must be starving!" he says. A very faint blush colors his cheeks as he realizes he accidentally said 'love' to the waiter he'd had a crush on for months now, and also at the fact that Joseph admitted he was hungry. Something about hunger had always been... interesting to Adam, say the least.

Thinking the pet name as just a friendly gesture, Joseph bobs his shoulders in a little laugh. "You get used to it. Seeing so many people eating can kind of fill the gap, you know?"

Fill ...Joseph's eye catches another waiter walk to a table with a tray full of freshly cooked food; a few burgers and chicken tender sides, even a bowl of onion rings. The smell carries over to his nose, and he has to swallow before he starts drooling.

"Um- I'll be with you in a second!" he says in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. "I just- need to clean these glasses."

Adam raised an eyebrow, not entirely sure that watching people eat would actually “fill in the gap”, but didn't argue.

"No worries, take your time," he said with a laugh. He sat in his usual booth and considered the menu. His stomach rumbled at the sight of the food on it, and he couldn't help palming his belly again, rubbing it a little. He'd even eaten lunch, he could imagine poor Joseph's belly was practically howling with hunger... Part of him hoped he would be able to hear it when he came by for his order.

Placing the final polished glass with the others, Joseph turned toward Adam's table ready to take his order. Upon closer inspection, he can see Adam has placed his hand on top of his stomach, rubbing slow circles into it. He isn't sure if it's the hunger getting to him or something else, but the sight is enough to make his cheeks feel ever so slightly warm. It's probably just Adam, right? Joseph's been holding feelings for him for a little while now, it must be that. But it's specifically when he sees the attention on his stomach that...

Joseph shakes the thought from his head and takes out a notebook and pen once he reaches Adam's table. "Good day, sir. May I take your order?" he playfully asks in a faux-fancy voice.

Adam laughed.

"Mmh, I think the only thing that's been on my mind since I left work is getting the biggest burger on the menu," he says, sounding almost dreamy as he talks about it. "Side of fries, chocolate milkshake. Ooh and chicken strips. Carbs and meat are the goal right now."

His stomach gurgles quietly again and he rubs his belly more, licking his lips.

Joseph's breath catches upon hearing Adam's stomach. He can't deny that his listing of the food makes his own stomach cramp with hunger, his mind filling with images of all the items being cooked in the kitchen.

"Your stomach sounds like it agrees," he says, attempting to be teasing but unable to hide the small voice crack.

Adam's face blushed further and he pressed his fingers sharply into his stomach as he laughed.

"I'm starving, honestly. It was rumbling the whole drive here!"

Oh, geez. Joseph feels his heart skip a beat as Adam says that, the image of him sitting in the car with a rumbling, gurgling stomach during the entire drive filling his head. He doesn't need this now, especially when he's still got other customers to serve once this order is done.

"Hope it wasn't too distracting," he nervously chuckles, then takes a second look at the notebook. "Right, so- Number 3 burger, side of fries, chocolate milkshake and some chicken strips. Is that everything?"

"That should be it!” Adam answers. “Thanks so much, Joe, you're the best."

Joseph grins, his chest feeling warm. "Aw, shucks. I'll see if I can make the order come quickly, just for you."

He turns to leave, peeling off the order from the notebook, but is stopped by his stomach letting out a deep, hollow rumble, one that's not quiet either. He gasps, free hand flying straight for his belly in an attempt to cover up the sound. Damn dress shirt, it's not gonna hide anything.

Adam immediately feels his heart begin to pound, his breath catching harshly as he hears poor Joseph's belly growl. It was loud, loud enough that there's no way Adam could pretend he hadn't heard.

"Jeez, Joseph, was that your stomach?" he says, his voice sounding surprised but gentle, and also strangely intrigued. His eyes were trained on Joseph's belly, and the hand pressing into the area under his ribs.

Joseph feels every inch of his face cringe, his cheeks surely flushing bright red in embarrassment. Though he turns back around to face Adam, he can't bring himself to look him in the eye. He can only keep his eyes focused on his own empty gut, hoping it doesn't protest again.

"Uh...yeah. It was. Guess I'm hungrier than I thought, huh? H-heh..."

"Aw you poor thing. You really haven't eaten anything since breakfast have you?" Adam says.

Poor thing. Joseph's chest flutters as the words float around in his mind. Why does he feel like this? Why is he afraid of Adam finding out something he has no idea about? Why does this have to be happening in the middle of his shift?

"N-no, not really. Busy shift," he sputters as his eyes dart back and forth. "I'll go get your order ready- won't be long!"

He's quick to escape, hugging his arms tightly around his middle so as to not give anything else away.

Adam opens his mouth but Joseph has already sped away, off to hand the order to the chefs. Adam's stomach gurgles again, but he finds he's wondering more about how hungry Joseph feels right now, rather than himself. Poor guy has been running around all day on an empty stomach...

Suddenly Adam wonders if that was the first time his belly had rumbled in front of a customer, or if it had happened already today. That brought an odd feeling, wondering how flustered Adam got in front of other customers, wondering if his belly had been just as loud then. He could imagine him going off to rub his poor empty belly in private somewhere in the back, trying to get it to calm down before going out for the next order...

Jesus, Adam, quit thinking about that, getting riled up in a public restaurant is the last thing we want right now, he thinks to himself.

In the kitchen, Joseph hands off the piece of paper to a chef and makes his way back into the diner, wiping his forehead and taking a moment to breathe. What the hell was that?! he angrily thinks to himself. Getting turned on in the middle of the diner right in front of your crush- you're gonna make a fool of yourself! You got other people to serve, you moron!

Just then, he catches sight of another table glancing at him hopefully, waiting for their order to be taken. He clears his mind of any remaining dirty thoughts and makes his way over, notepad ready.

Adam watched as Joseph took a table's order, then came out a few minutes later holding a tray full of food for another table that had ordered earlier. Joseph gave a small smile to Adam before training his eyes back on the table, but as he came nearer, Adam could hear his stomach practically moaning with hunger. It wasn't as loud as before, but it was constant, grumbling all the way as he passed Adam's table. Immediately he felt his face flush and suddenly all he wanted to do was push his hands into Joseph's stomach and rub his poor belly, feeling it growl under his fingers.

The more Joseph works, the more his hunger grows, and the more his hunger grows the more he wishes he could be alone and take care of it, but he knows that that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Occasionally he’ll see Adam glancing at him, and his heart beats faster every time. Stop it, he tries telling himself. Focus on your work. You can eat later. Just keep going.

Not only that, he hopes that Adam’s order will be done soon so he doesn’t have to be hungry any longer. Even if the sounds are…kind of nice.

He really does look hungry, Adam thinks to himself as he watches Joseph continue on with his job. He can see the way his eyes catch on certain dishes, the way his hand absentmindedly settles on his middle when he's talking to a customer. Not to mention each time he passes Adam can hear small, telltale gurgles coming from his middle.

He supposed he could tell so easily in part because he was quite hungry too. His stomach would not stop rumbling, especially since the table next to him had been served a few minutes ago. The burger on that table looked so good, it made his mouth water, and his stomach gave another violent growl.

Eventually, most of the orders are taken and Adam’s order is finally ready. Joseph sighs as he picks up the tray with his food on top of it. So much for making it quick, he says to himself.

Back in the diner, he speed walks to Adam’s table, placing the tray down as quick as possible. “Hey, I’m sorry it took so long. There were a lot of big orders today. Is this everything?”

Adam's stomach gives a long, desperate moan at the sight of the food. It's so loud he can feel it shaking his ribcage, and he can feel blood rushing in his ears immediately. Both hands touch to his stomach but there's no use trying to cover the noise.

"Oh man, heh, sorry, yes I think this is everything, jesus..."

If he were a cartoon, Joseph swears that steam would be coming out of his ears at the sound of Adam’s stomach. He’s known him for years, he’s heard his stomach before…and yet it’s never been this ravenous before. He swallows to moisten his throat.

“Are you sure you ate enough for lunch? You sound starving…” he says. genuinely concerned but also a little intrigued.

"I thought I did, though I guess my job is fairly labor intensive, I'm on my feet all day helping customers, hauling around books, shelving them, but I didn't think I'd be this hungry after a day at the bookstore." He laughed and rubbed his belly as he popped a fry in his mouth. "MMMF, gods Joey, this is so good. Thank you, I swear I could kiss you."

Joseph felt his heart leap into his throat. Surely Adam didn't...mean that, right? Obviously not, they're just friends, he wouldn't actually want to kiss him...surely.

"O-oh, well, I'm- I'm glad you like it!" he stutters. "I'll make sure to send compliments to the chef, he'll-"

The smell of Adam's food wafts past Joseph's nose, and his stomach rumbles again. It's been consistently rumbling for the past hour, but Joseph's starting to reach his wit's end. Scowling, he gently smacks his notebook against his belly, as if punishing it.

"You're the one who sounds starved honestly, Joey," Adam says, sounding sincere, and yet his eyes were staring directly at Joseph's belly. "You haven't eaten all day, you must be damn near desperate now."

At this point, Joseph decides to give up on the attempt– no one in this diner believes he’s cool and collected about this– and takes a deep breath.

“God, yeah, I’m dying,” he exaggerates, gripping onto his belly. “Being around all this food is difficult on the easiest days but when you’ve barely eaten anything yourself? It’s like torture.”

His stomach lets out another long, rumbling groan. It’s enough to where he can feel it buzz against his palm. Despite his own words, his heart flutters at the feeling.

"I'm sure it is," Adam says. When Joseph's stomach rumbles again Adam's hand suddenly jumps up, Joseph's belly is so close Adam could touch it, but he quickly disguises the movement by tucking a hair behind his ear, unsure of how graceful it actually looked. "It really does sound empty, the poor hungry thing. Your shift ends in what, one, two hours?"

If he calls me a poor thing one more time– Joseph pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, attempting to hide the squirming in his legs. He feels like he’s going weak. “A-actually, I don’t have much left. I think I end in about half an hour? I’m tempted to order something myself if this keeps screaming at me.”

He gently prods his belly, which gives a small, agitated grruuu in response.

Jesus fuck it's like he's TRYING to make me lose my mind, Adam thinks as his face flushes thoroughly again at the sound. When Joseph mentioned buying something to eat however, Adam got an idea. A stupid idea, that Joseph would 100% turn down and would definitely think is weird but it's way too late Adam has already opened his mouth--

"Actually... I was wondering if maybe you would like to spend the evening at my place? You can eat there, we could talk... Maybe I could feed you?"

Thank you for reading! Chapter 2 will be posted soon!

#hunger #hunger kink #belly kink #tummy kink #stomach growling #hunger growls #hungry tummy #stuffing #inflated belly #empty belly #belly expansion #stuffed belly #belly rubs #hunger fic #hunger roleplay #stomach kink

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munson-blurbs · 1 year

Text

Kinkmas Day 4 (Billy Hargrove x Fem!Reader)

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, use of pet names, slight daddy kink

WC: 1.1k

A/N: Any Billy fic I write is written with him as a redeemed character who has apologized for and rectified his actions. We do not stan racist, misogynistic Billy in this house.

Kinkmas 2022 Masterlist

“Babe, what do you think of this–babe?” You could’ve sworn that Billy was just next to you as you thumbed through the racks of dresses, but he was nowhere to be found. “Billy Hargrove!” you hiss, scouring the department store for your fiancé. He was supposed to be helping you find a new outfit for your family’s Christmas party; you’d managed to bribe him to join you by promising a hot pretzel from Auntie Anne’s, and a little something extra at home.

You figure he’s meandered over to the lingerie section to pick out something for his reward, but he hasn’t made it that far. Instead, you find him gazing at a maroon dress hanging on a mannequin. The only problem was that the mannequin was sporting a sizable baby bump, which you most certainly were not.

“Uh, Billy?” you ask, biting back a laugh. “You good?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” he mutters, running a hand through his curls. “What do you think about this one?” He motions to the dress in front of him, brushing over the velvet material.

“I think you’re looking in the wrong section,” you tease, “like, maybe we can check the non-pregnant lady department?”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh, shit,” he chuckles lightly, unwrapping a piece of mint gum and sliding it between his lips. “Didn’t realize.” But he’s lying through his teeth, and you know it–there’s no way he didn’t notice the mannequin’s protruding belly. Still, you don’t have the time to unpack what’s unfurling in his brain, so you grab his hand and lead him back to the correct department.

It’s your first Christmas as an engaged couple, so you’re expecting to be inundated with questions about wedding planning. You were not expecting your family to hound you about starting a family.

“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes…”

“Any plans for a baby Hargrove or two?”

“Babies are such a blessing, you know?”

By the end of the night, you’re exhausted from fake smiling and trying to make up excuses to end the conversations. You flop on your back into bed, still in your clothes and full makeup.

“That was brutal,” you groan as Billy enters the room, unbuttoning his shirt and stretching. His rippling muscles provide a welcome distraction. “Ooh, shirtless almost-husband. Gimme.” He laughs as you stretch your arms out and make a grabbing motion with your hands, but he ultimately complies.

You tug on one of his belt loops until he climbs on top of you. “All right, doll,” he drawls, “I see what you want.”

“And what’s that?” you question mischievously, letting your lips brush against his.

Billy takes the opportunity to slide his strong hand underneath you, gripping the small of your back as he pulls your hips to his. You can feel him, already half-hard, and you smile before kissing him deeply.

“All worked up from just a little flirting?”

Billy brings his other hand under your sweater, fondling your breasts hungrily. “‘S more than that, mama,” he murmurs into your neck, and you draw back at this new pet name.

“What did you just call me?” you ask, bewildered. You’re used to him calling you doll, sweets, even sugar; but mama?

“Mama,” he repeats. “Thought it was, um, cute.” He smirks before continuing. “And it sounds like a lot of your family thinks it would be a pretty fitting name, too.”

You roll your eyes and push him off. “Okay, mood sufficiently killed,” you mutter, though it’s not true. The thought of having Billy’s baby stirred up something within you; something you didn’t even know existed. You didn’t think he would reciprocate those feelings.

“C’mon,” he protests gently, running his thumb from your belly button down to the top of your skirt. “Let me get you pregnant tonight.”

You feel a shiver shoot down your spine at his words, not wanting to believe what you’re hearing. “Billy, don’t fuck with my emotions like that.”

“I’m not,” Billy insists. “I want to see you pregnant with my baby. All round, tits swollen, because I came inside you.” He sneaks a nibble on your earlobe. “Y’gonna let me do that? Cum inside you and knock you up?”

“Y-yes,” you stammer. You should be used to his boldness in bed, but you always seem to be taken aback when he reveals something new. “Give me your baby, Billy.”

That’s all the permission he needs before pulling down your panties and starting to scissor his fingers inside your pussy. “S’wet for me, mama,” he growls. “You get this turned on thinking about me putting a baby in you?”

A guttural moan leaves your throat, resulting from his touch and his words. There are times when you want him to play with you forever, teasing you until you’re completely overstimulated, but tonight is not one of those nights. You only want one thing from him, and you want it bad.

“N-need your cock in-inside me,” your voice is a whining whisper as you’re clenching around his fingers.

“And you’ll get it,” he coos, pressing a gentle kiss to your clit. “Have to make you feel good first, right? I still gotta be a gentleman, y’know.” He wraps his lips around your sensitive bundle, sucking harder as your thighs tighten around his head. You finish on his tongue, legs trembling atop his broad shoulders.

“That’s what I’ve been waiting for,” he preens, kissing you so you can taste your pleasure on his mouth. “Now you’re ready for me.” He kicks off his pants and boxer briefs and resumes his position, pressing his torso to yours. His hard cock tantalizingly nudges your folds.

“Shit, your body is fuckin’ perfect,” Billy groans, pushing into you. You take each inch, feeling him fill you up with each thrust. He brushes your hair off of your face and smiles. “Wanna see your pretty face while I make you a mommy.”

The coil in your belly tightens, signaling that your second orgasm is iminent. “Fuck, Billy,” you whimper, bucking your hips into his, “‘m gonna cum. Want you to cum with me, please.”

He pistons into you, biceps bulging as he grips the sheets for support. “‘M cumming, too…all for you…you gotta take it all f’me, mama.”

“Yes, daddy,” you pant, and you feel his sticky release coating your walls as his thrusting slows. He’s breathing heavier than you are, but he stays inside you, unmoving.

“Don’t want any of it coming out,” he explains. “Tilt your hips up for me a bit…thassit,” he praises you, tucking a pillow underneath your ass. “Wanna make sure it takes.” He withdraws with a hiss.

You bite your lower lip suggestively. “And what if it doesn’t?”

Billy settles in bed beside you, placing his big hand over your belly like there’s already a baby in there. “Well, I certainly don’t mind doing this every night.”

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x f!reader #billy hargrove x female!reader #billy hargrove fanfic #stranger things #billy hargrove stranger things #fanfic #stranger things fanfic #kinkmas 2022

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righoul · 10 months

Text

Oh Honey, I'm the Big, Bad Wolf / Wolverine x Reader (18+ only)

Pairing: Logan (Wolverine) x Reader

Warnings: nsfw, smut, 18+, rough sex, creampie, missionary position, doggy style, roleplay, biting, ass grabbing

Word count: 2.3k

Synopsis: I wanted to try and write a Wolverine x Reader, but would it sound hot if Logan poses as the Big, Bad Wolf? Anyways, enjoy 😊

You have been trekking these snowy mountains for so long you have lost track in time. The sun was starting to set, and it would be dark very soon if you don’t find shelter. These Canadian mountains aren’t too kind those who don’t know their way, and the winter is just as harsh at night.

“Damn it.” You whined. “I don’t have enough time.”

“Ya lost out here, Red?”

You gasped as you heard a deep voice rumbled behind you. You turned around to see a man that is wearing only jeans, a wife beater, a flannel shirt, and a pair of boots. You took in his features. He’s tall and very broad around the shoulders. His hair is a dark brown, kind of shaggy looking but it’s well kept. He also had some unusual facial hair, something that you would see in a Civil War photograph. But what really strike you was his hazel eyes. He is very intimidating, but you thought of him to be handsome. At first, you were confused at the nickname that he gave you but then you remembered, you were wearing your maroon velvet trench coat.

“God, you scared me!” You gasped.

He let out a chuckle, “Sorry about that, darlin’. Why are ya out here all by yourself? It’s about to get dark.”

“I know. I was trying to find my relative’s home, but I seem to lose my way.”

The stranger looked around us and stared back at you. He rose an eyebrow at you.

“There’s not a single house around these parts beside mine.”

You crossed your arms at your chest. You straightened your back and you felt like you grew at least a few inches. “As you can see, I’m not from here.”

“I can tell, sweetheart.”

You wanted to sneer at him, but you didn’t have a whole lot of time out here. Winters are brutal in Canada.

“Can I at least get some shelter, please? I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

“Alright, follow me.”

~ ❆ ~ ❆ ~ ❆ ~ ❆ ~

After hiking through the snow, the sun just now made it to sundown, and you arrived at the stranger’s home. Your mother always warned you about going into stranger’s houses since you were a child. Ever since you’ve been going to do errands and making trips to your grandmother’s house. But this is the one exception that you can make. The stranger unlocked his door to his cabin and opened the door wide open.

“Ladies first.” He smirked.

You wanted to smack that stupid look on his face so badly just for being a cocky bastard and you also wanted to kick yourself for letting his charms get to you. You were feeling like a schoolgirl around this man, for God’s sake!

“Thank you. You have a lovely home here.”

You peeled off your trench coat and hung it on a coat rack by the door. You rubbed your arms, trying to gain some warmth. You were wearing an oversized sweater that had a v shaped on the back and the front, and it was coming off both your shoulders. The stranger was trying not to peek at your front since he can about see your cleavage. You took noticed at it, so you rest your arms at your chest.

He cleared his throat and asked, “Ya hungry?”

“Yes, I’m starving!” You beamed.

You followed him to the kitchen, and as if on cue, the soap that was sitting on the stove was ready. He fixed up both of your bowls and placed it on the table. You sat across from him and dug into your nice, warm meal. The stranger took in your features. He had to admit, you were very pretty. You had curves in all the right places and the way that you placed your hair on one side gave him a bird’s eye view of your impeccable neck. He licked his lips just thinking about placing bruises and love bites on that neck and other places as well. His pants were starting to feel too tight for his liking, but he had to take his time with her.

“I never got to know your name.” You spoke after a moment of silence.

“Logan. The name’s Logan.” He gruffed.

“Logan.” You mumbled to yourself.

He liked his name being rolled off your tongue. Almost as if it was second nature to you. He could feel his bulge pressing hard against his denim jeans and it was killing him. Not yet, he thought to himself. You leaned down to eat the last bit of your meal. As you did, Logan timed it perfectly to see the tops of your breast, noticing that you were not wearing a bra. If he keeps this up, he might explode. Just a little longer. If even though he doesn’t know it, you couldn’t help but lifted your eyes up as you saw Logan getting front row tickets to see over your sweater front. You slowly got up as you both finished your bowls.

“I’ll go ahead and do the dishes.”

“Wait. You’re a guest, I should do it. Make yourself at home.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

You walked over to the sink and began cleaning. Logan followed you. He grabbed your waist and turned you around to look at him. You let out an audible gasp, but Logan for once ignored the tightness of his jeans. You start to feel the wetness between your legs, and you were sure you show Logan gave a whiff. He cocked his smile, showing his canines. He knew he had you in his traps.

“I don’t know what game you’re playin’ here, but I’m starting to lose patience.” He grumbled.

You raised your eyebrow at him and sneered, “I caught you twice looking at my breast and I’m the one playing games?”

Logan grabbed your face and leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours.

“Y’know, that mouth of yours is gonna get ya a whole lot of trouble if ya keep that up.”

Now, you were testing him. By not pushing this guy’s buttons too much, you apologized like a scolded child.

“Atta girl.”

Logan let go of your cheeks and you couldn’t help but rubbed your face from how hard he was holding it. You peered up at him through your lustful lashes. You decided not to fuel the fire and walked past him as you were about to grab your coat.

“Thanks for the meal, but I should get g—.”

As you turned to face your host, he slammed his hand on the door right next to your head. You were surprised by the action, and you looked up at him.

“The weather is still bad out there, sweetheart.” Logan said, barely above a whisper.

“I’ll take my chances.” You challenged.

Logan leaned towards your face and was staring straight to your soul.

“I never noticed how dark your eyes got till since now.” I whimpered.

“Maybe ya were starting to piss me off with your stubbornness.”

You tried to swallow down your fears, but Logan knows you were not hiding it very well. God, why did he have to sound so hot?

“And your hands are so big.”

“All the more to grab on.”

Logan took his other hand and gave your ass a good slap following with a firm squeeze. You let out a moaning gasp and before you realized it, you covered your mouth hoping he didn’t hear it. Oh, he heard it alright. And how it sounded like music to him. He wanted to hear more from you. He was starting to enjoy toying with his little plaything. Logan leaned down, breathing into your neck.

“God, I could do so much to ya right now. Ya couldn’t even imagine.”

For once, you were at a loss of words. Logan took noticed of it and peer up at you.

“Cat got your tongue, doll?”

“Please.” You whispered.

“Please, what?” Logan taunting you.

To kiss you already? Take you here in front of the fireplace? Let you go? Your head was spinning. You didn’t know what you want. Logan was focusing back to the area where your shoulder was meeting your neck and was placing small pecks. Your knees were starting to grow weak, and you were breathing heavy. He then began to lightly scrap your neck with his teeth, but his sharp canines got the best of him.

“What sharp teeth you have.” You moaned.

You could feel Logan’s lips curled into a smile as he is nibbling your neck like he was savoring it.

“So, I could claim ya.”

Within milliseconds, Logan lifted you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist so you wouldn’t fall. He placed both his hands on your ass to help support you. He was now making long strides to his bedroom. Both lips were fighting for dominance, teeth scraping against one another, and your hands found its way to help loosen his belt buckle. You were starting to get frustrated, but you were determined. Logan chuckled against your lips, but he had a mission to carry on. You managed to unbuckle his belt as you both finally made it to his room, and he gently tossed you to the bed, causing you to bounce a few times. You peered at him seductively as he was tearing off his flannel and wife beater off, without breaking eye contact. You peeled off your leggings, only leaving you in your revealing sweater and black panties.

Logan’s eyes grown darker as he saw the show in front of him, in his bed, looking delicious as ever. He was starting to look like a starved man, and he couldn’t wait to take a bite out of you. He crawled towards you, placing slow kisses from your ankles to either side of your hips to your neck. To hold his weight, he placed both hands on either side of your head, caging you in. He leaned down to kiss you again, but you were refusing to let him in. He took noticed of this, so he slipped his hand underneath your sweater giving your breast a nice squeeze. You let out a moan, but before you close your mouth, Logan slipped his tongue inside, winning his dominance against you. Logan grew impatient and tore your sweater over your head and threw it somewhere in his room. You unbuttoned his pants and helped slid it off him as he did the rest and kicked it off him. Logan tore off your panties, leaving only your naked bodies pressing together. Logan let go of the kiss, leaving only a trail of saliva.

“Ya sure about this, darlin’? If I hurt ya, please tap me on the shoulder three times.”

“Please, fuck me.”

Logan cocked his eyebrow and gave you a smirk. That was all he needed to hear. He spat in his hand and gave his cock a few pumps before inserting it inside of you. He was pushing it all the way until he reached at the hilt. You grabbed onto both his shoulder as he was making fast pumps into you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, encouraging him to go deeper. He was fucking you hard and fast.

“Oh fuck, just like that.” You screamed.

“Ya taking me so well. Ya like it when I go rough on ya, huh?”

“Yes! F-fuck you feel so good!”

“Turn around for me, baby.”

You did as you were told and got on your hands and knees for him. Logan liked how obedient you were to him when it came down to sex. He’ll have to keep that in mind. Logan reentered himself inside your tight pussy and began pounding into you. Logan leaned down to your ear and started whispering dirty things to you. You were starting to see stars around you. He was basically fucking you stupid.

“Tell me what ya want, I’ll give it to ya.”

“P-p-please Logan! Cum in me!”

Logan couldn’t help but smile to himself. He loved hearing his name coming out of your mouth.

“Say my name again.”

“L-Logan! I’m about to c-c-cum!”

“Hold on. I’m right behind ya.”

Logan took his fingers and started rubbing circles on your clit. He knew you weren’t kidding when he could feel you clinching around his cock. His thrusts were starting to stutter, and his rhythm was out of sync.

“LOGAN!” You moaned out his name one last time before he began to roar into the sky as you climaxed. He thrust a few more times as he came inside your pussy. His thrusts began to slow, riding out his high. Both of you fell into the bed, coming down from your euphorias.

Logan got up to go to the bathroom to grab a wet rag. As he came back, he wiped you down first and then himself. He tossed the wet rag into the hamper and joined you in his bed. Logan pulled you to his chest and rubbed circles on your back.

“Y’know, I used to think that this whole roleplaying shit was gonna be a waste of my time, but damn was I wrong?” Logan chuckled.

You propped yourself up and gave his shoulder a little push, knowing it wouldn’t move him much.

“You see, I told you we need to spice up our relationship every once in a while.”

“God, I love ya.”

“And I love you, too, baby.”

You leaned towards Logan to kiss him a good night, but Logan had other plans. Before you could turn your back on him, Logan placed his hand firm on your chest to lay you still.

“This big, bad wolf could go for round two. If you’re up for it.”

#wolverine #logan howlett #hugh jackman #xmen #smut #fanfic #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader

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so-long-soldier-writes · 7 months

Text

Sweater Shopping

kai parker x bonnie bennett

summary: bonnie needs to buy a new sweater for the holiday season. kai, much to her annoyance, invites himself along.

tags: thanksgiving, autumn, not canon compliant, enemies to friends

word count: 2k

a/n: working on several different things, but in the midst of those, decided i needed a cheesy bonkai fluff-ish piece, so here's one

When Bonnie hears the passenger door shut after closing her own, she sighs. She does, however, thank the higher power above for getting her to the mall safely, considering her travel buddy has been known to attack people from the backseat of their cars.

The boy in question smiles at her as he approaches. He puts his phone in his pocket and follows her across the road.

Bonnie glances at him from the corner of her eye. “When I said I forgive you, I did not mean that we would be friends. And I certainly did not mean you could follow me around everywhere.”

Kai kicks a pebble across the pavement, but doesn’t answer.

“Why did you even come with me? The mall is the last place I’d ever think you’d want to be.”

“I don’t see it as a place you’d be, either.”

“I need a new top for the holidays. My mom wants me to come over for Thanksgiving, and all my sweaters are looking pretty rough.”

“Ah.”

Bonnie lets her feet carry her to her old favorite store. She hasn’t visited in ages, but she and Elena and Caroline used to go all the time together.

“So where’s your mom live? What’s she do?”

The girl turns to give him a sharp look. “Why do you care?”

“Damn, just curious, okay? You always talk about your Grams. I don’t know anything about your mom.”

“You don’t know anything about me, either.”

Kai clicks his tongue. “I know more than you think.”

“Ugh.” She turns back to watch where she’s going.

“Okay, look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.”

“Then stop talking.”

He opens his mouth again, but then promptly shuts it.

Satisfied, Bonnie turns the corner into the store. “If you’re gonna be here, stay close. Don’t need you wandering off and killing someone,” she mutters.

Kai nods, mouth still sealed.

For the next ten minutes as she browses, he lurks a good five feet away at all times. With time, though, he starts to pick up on what kind of sweater she’s looking for, and to her indignation, offers some options.

“Bon.”

“What?”

He lifts up a pastel blue one.

“No.”

“This?” A green with a frilly collar.

“No.”

“This?” Now, it’s a maroon with a lower neckline.

She sighs, ready to snap, but then kind of likes that option. “Maybe.”

Kai, smiling, loops it around his arm to keep for her.

After she’s collected five or six options, she searches for the dressing room. Kai follows her into the section, but when her hand reaches for the knob into the actual room, she turns to him.

“Stay.” Like a troublemaking dog.

To her surprise, he does.

Kai waits patiently, tapping his boot heel on the wooden floor, while she changes. His eyes are trained on the door, curious, but not daring to ask any questions.

Bonnie, meanwhile, stares at herself in the mirror. She isn’t sure how she likes the pink-ish, argyle fit, and crinkles her nose with uncertainty. She sighs, then snaps a picture to send to Caroline. For three minutes, she waits for a reply. After nothing, she caves.

“Hey,” she opens the door slightly and catches Kai’s attention.

His gaze is on her immediately. “Hi.”

“I need you to tell me how this looks. I don’t know if I like it.”

“Okay.” His heart races with excitement.

Bonnie opens the door wider to show him the whole top. Kai tries not to stare, and more importantly, tries to form an appropriate reaction that doesn’t include stuttering.

The sweater is cute, and matches the rest of her outfit well, but doesn’t seem like her style.

“I like the color, I’m just not digging it,” Bonnie explains.

Kai then nods. “It doesn’t seem like you.”

“Okay. Putting it in the ‘no’ pile.”

She shuts the door.

Two minutes later, she opens the door again. “Opinion?”

It’s a plain forest green, although with tiny green sparkles throughout it. Again, she looks beautiful, but it’s still not a match.

“I don’t like it,” she states.

“I don’t dislike it, but I think you could find something better.”

She gives a short nod. “‘No’ pile.”

By the third time, Kai’s expecting her. The first two times, he was caught off guard, but now he waits eagerly to see the next option.

“Red,” she announces. It’s more of a maroon, but Kai doesn’t correct her. “Might look good with some gold jewelry.”

He smiles in agreement. “I like it. Gold would match well.”

“It’s a little big in the shoulders.”

“I didn’t notice until you pointed it out. But it gives it kind of a comfy look.”

Bonnie seems to like that answer. She smiles a little before poking her head back into the room.

In a minute’s time, she presents another. “This one’s cool.”

Kai agrees immediately. This option has a criss-cross design across the top, exposing her chest just a little. Half of it is gray, but it’s an ombre into black at the bottom.

“Here’s the back.” She turns so he can see the ombre from the other side.

His breath hitches in his throat at how well fits her perfect body. The whole top is slightly cropped, too, showing off her tight jeans. “Um,” he stutters. He tears his eyes away as she turns back to face him. If he hadn’t known better, she did that on purpose.

“Opinion?”

“Maybe not to wear at your mom’s. But you should get it anyway because it looks really good on you.”

Bonnie looks in the mirror at her figure. “I see what you mean. Maybe I’ll just get it for fun.”

“You should.”

A small smirk tugs on the edge of her lips. She definitely did that on purpose.

“Okay. Two more choices.”

Kai’s foot taps harder against the wood as his mind clings to the image of her. She laughs to herself, having no idea why she decided to tease the boy, but is certainly having fun doing it.

“Alright, your pick.”

It’s one of the ones he lifted up for her. Another maroon option, though with a v-neck that’s slightly off the shoulders. It fits well, hugging her body, but not too much. There’s no pattern or design, but she kind of likes it that way.

“I think I already have a pair of earrings that would go with it.”

Kai smiles. “It looks nice on you.”

“It’s very soft, too.”

Unexpectedly, she steps out of the room for him to touch. He leans forward to feel the cashmere material. The softness of it makes him relax, visibly, as he stops tapping his foot.

“Comfortable.”

“Very. Alright, I have one more.”

Kai pulls his hand away, but can still feel the threads lingering on his skin. He waits patiently for the last one.

It’s plain black, again with the argyle design, but without any frill. Bonnie likes it, but it doesn’t stand out in the way the others did.

“Opinion?”

Funnily enough, Kai’s thoughts on it match her own. “Looks good, but I like the other ones better. Color suits you.”

That comment makes her smile. “Okay. So which of the maroons, then? The slightly baggier one, or the slight v-neck one?” Kai ponders her question for a moment. Meanwhile, she continues, “I like both, but with the first maroon, I’d have to buy gold jewelry. But with the second one, my bra strap shows a little.”

“So what?” Kai says without thinking. “Girls wear bras.”

Bonnie actually laughs. “Yeah, but I’m seeing my mom. Whom I don’t know all that well when it comes to her opinions of clothes.”

Kai bites his lip. “You look gorgeous in both of them.”

She searches his face, taken off guard by the comment, but finds complete sincerity. “Thank you.”

He only nods. “Which is more comfortable?”

“I like them both. Though that cashmere is tempting. And the price isn’t outrageous.”

“I felt like you’d like it because you seem to always wear lower necklines or v-necks.”

She thinks about that. “I do, yeah. I don’t like the feeling of clothes being tight around my neck.” She pauses. “Alright. I’m going with the second one. Plus I already have jewelry for it.”

“Are you still getting the ombre one for fun?”

Bonnie stops abruptly at his question. “How do you know what ombre is?!”

“I have a sister! I know these things.”

“Hm. Not a lot of boys would know terms like that.”

“Jo and I used to be close,” he reveals, “I remember some of the hairstyles and colors she used to pull off.”

The thought makes the girl laugh. She likes this more human side of Kai. A far cry from the sociopathic, alien-like creature she knew in the prison world. Maybe all it took to see it was for Bonnie to give him a chance.

“Alright, then.” She smiles. “And yes, I’m getting both.”

The next time she hears her passenger door shut, she finds herself glad that the little troublemaker came along. She got to see a different side of him, and actually enjoyed his company. He came in handy, too, with his opinions on the sweaters. Caroline hadn’t answered until they were in the check-out line.

“Mhhhmmm, pink’s kinda more my color,” her text said, “maybe there’s a maroon?”

Bonnie showed Kai the text with a smile.

She replied to the girl, “got a maroon one, thanks!”

What she neglected to say was that Kai picked it out for her. She kept that little tidbit to herself, as well as the fact that she had fun with him. To Bonnie’s knowledge, though, Caroline doesn’t even know the little weasel slipped into her car in the first place.

“So…” the weasel in question starts, “what day are you going to your mom’s?”

“Two days before the actual day of Thanksgiving. She knows I have Friendsgiving here on the actual day, and she knows my best friends are closer to me than she is.”

“Ah.”

“So I’m driving down that day, but then staying the night, then driving back in the morning-ish. She lives in North Carolina,” Bonnie finally reveals.

“Oh. Are you, uh, going by yourself? Like, Elena coming with you, or something? That’s quite a drive.”

“It is, but no.”

“Damon?”

“Hell no. She hates him. He’s the one who turned her.”

“Oh,” Kai repeats, then, quieter, “shit.”

“Yeah. So just me.”

“Can I go with you?”

“What?!”

“I don’t know, just asking. Keep you company.”

“I’m not sure, Kai…” Yes, she had fun today, but to spend a four hour drive with him? And to introduce him to her mom? She’s not sure about that.

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, “I get it.”

“I just…” She makes the mistake of looking over at him. His eyes look slightly sad, the skin underneath tinted with bags. His hands are clasped in his lap, unusually still. “Tell you what… we still have a good week and a half until then. If you are good, and promise to be on your best behavior around my mom, maybe I’ll let you come with me.”

“Wait, really?”

“Since you picked out such a nice sweater for me to wear,” she jokes.

“I promise I’ll be good. I won’t even bug Damon for fun.”

“You better not.”

Kai’s quiet, though internally very excited. Then, after a moment, he asks, “does this make us friends?”

Bonnie sighs. “Guess it sets us on the path to friendship. If you can promise to be good,” she reiterates one more time.

The boy smiles one more time. “Yes!” He mutters, lowkey fist pumping the air.

Bonnie watches him, hoping she made the right decision. Truthfully, he has been a lot better to her and her friends lately. Maybe he’s grateful for the accidental second chance he got when they realized they needed his magic to return from 1903. Or, maybe, it’s Bonnie seeing him in a different way now that he’s seemed to settle down. Either way, it would be easier to be friends, rather than enemies, with Kai, and maybe, she’ll learn she wants him that way, too.

#kai parker x bonnie bennett #bonkai #bonkai fics #tvd fanfiction #tvd fics #enemies to friends

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sunflowervolvimp3 · 1 year

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from eden: I

A/N: alright SO!! if you were around in summer 2020, then you know I started planning and writing a witchrry au that got pushed to the back burner when drea and I began collabing on you're someone I just want around. that fic quickly took over our entire lives, and every other story got put on pause, including this one. flash forward to present day, where after finishing one degree, moving, finishing ANOTHER degree, and beginning a career in my profession, I finally have a bit of time to write again!! I'm so excited to FINALLY be able to share witchrry with you, as well as my first OC on here. I haven't officially written in...a long time, so I apologize if I'm a bit rusty. but any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!! letting content creators know that you're enjoying their content helps motivate us to create more 💌 I really hope you enjoy this story and these characters, because I have a lot planned for them!! someone asked me yesterday if this story was going to be fluff or if it was going to get twisty, and the answer is always, ALWAYS twisty, so I hope you stick around to see it 💌 also!! i would like to give a big thank you to drea for creating this beautiful banner and story dividers (graphic design is not my passion)!! go give her a follow @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy if you haven't already!!

masterlist : askbox : read on wattpad

word count: 15.7k

content/warnings: YOU get mommy issues!! and YOU get mommy issues!!! EVERYONE GETS MOMMY ISSUES!!!!, an overwhelming use of hand imagery, the normalization of talking to pets as if they can respond, Harry doesn't understand how to use figures of speech, drugs: just say no, time to meet the man of your dreams (literally), Rowan "well mark me down as scared AND horny!" Frances, and the beginning of a journey to see how many references to Practical Magic (1998) can be made in each chapter.

When Harry first stumbles through the door of the shop, the rain pounding on the roof is reaching biblical proportions, and Rowan is convinced that the universe is playing some sort of cosmic practical joke on her.

If the day, which had just entered it’s thirteenth hour, hadn’t already been bad enough—if she hadn’t already spilled coffee down her front, staining her favourite ivory shirt and forcing her to change; if she hadn’t already misplaced her favourite pen, the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless inventory forms she has to fill out; if she hadn’t already knocked over a flower arrangement that had taken two hours to construct and two seconds to destroy, shattering the sea-glass green vase that she had waited three weeks for in the mail; if none of that was enough—she had forgotten to flip the sign on the door to say that her floral shop was closed for lunch (which, because of her rush this morning, would be her first actual meal of the day), and now there is a soaking wet stranger standing in her doorway, who is shaking out his sopping hair with an urgent glance around the store, and his eyes settling on Rowan with unspoken need.

The moment she heard the bell of the door tinkle from his disturbance, Rowan had turned toward the entryway, a strained smile pasted to her face before she even made eye contact with the stranger. “I’m sorry, sir,” She says, her voice barely meeting sorry, and edging more on irritation with every passing moment. “But we’re actually closed for lunch. You can come back at two, if you’d like.”

The man—who is dripping all over her freshly cleaned hardwood floors, she notes wryly—looks up at her with a raised brow, as if he’s surprised to find that there’s someone inside the small shop. Perhaps he’s just flustered from being caught in the storm, Rowan thinks, because it’s clear that the rain has soaked straight through his thin army jacket and maroon knit sweater, and is coating his entire being in ice, right down to his bones. The rain had come on rather quickly; Rowan recalls hearing the sudden thundering outside just after she had shattered the beautiful vase. It makes sense that the man looks like he hadn’t been expecting it. In fact, he still looks rather unmoored as he runs his ring-covered hand through his sopping wet chestnut ringlets once more, his hunter eyes darting another round over the store before refocusing on Rowan.

“I’m very sorry to disturb,” Rowan is surprised to hear the silky British accent that slips from his raspberry mouth, the hue matching the ruddiness of his cheeks—a sure side-effect of the freezing weather in which he’d found himself caught. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry, and I was wondering if you had any yarrow flowers.”

Despite her mouth already open to inform the man that, once again, her shop is currently closed, his incredibly specific request makes Rowan pause. Yarrow flowers are hardly a popular arrangement choice for someone who’s annoyed their partner—which she assumes this man has, given the hurry that he says he’s in. Normally, when men show up in her shop with a desperate look on their faces and urgency in their voices, they’re searching for flowers such as roses, calla lilies, daisies—things known to bloom for love. Yarrow flowers, with their small clumps of pastel petals offset by long, wiry stems, hardly match that description.

The curiosity peaking inside her chest, more than anything else, is what prompts Rowan to change the response that’s resting on the tip of her tongue. “I, um, may have some in the back,” She says slowly, as if feeling out the words as she utters them. “I use them as fillers, sometimes, in arrangements. I can…check for you, if you’d like.”

The man visibly breathes a sigh of relief, his face relaxing just the slightest bit as his shoulders slump beneath his soaked clothing. “That would be lovely, thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

Rowan nods again, giving the man one last look of pensive confusion before stepping out from behind her (messy as usual) desk to make her way to the back of the store to the workshop. As her shoes echo against the wooden floor, she wonders if this is a smart idea; should she be leaving a strange man with even stranger requests unattended in her shop? Should she be turning her back on him while walking towards a private back room that contains multiple objects of the heavy and sharp variety? Objects that she’d hate to see catalogued by a forensics team when her body is eventually discovered with a pair of gardening shears protruding from her chest?

Reaching the half-opened door of her workshop, Rowan pauses in the frame just long enough to glance back over her shoulder at the man. With her promise to check her inventory for his requested flowers, he’s allowed some of the tension to slip from his body, and is busying himself by extracting a leather journal from an inner pocket of his jacket to thumb through. No, Rowan decides as she studies his furrowed brow and focused gaze. The man, albeit a little strange, isn’t a potential 48 Hours suspect; he’s just a little frazzled by the unexpected events of the day, a feeling to which Rowan can relate. And perhaps, if she wasn’t as frazzled as she is, she would have noticed the peculiarity of the man’s entire person being soaked while the yellowed pages of his leather-bound journal remain completely dry.

Or maybe she wouldn’t have. After all, she’d spent her entire life ignoring the irregularities around her. What’s one more anomaly to turn a blind eye to?

Rowan doesn’t bother to close the door behind her, knowing that she’ll only be spending a few minutes inside her slightly chaotic workshop. The long wooden table and decorating stations are just as she left them an hour ago—meaning they’re covered in tissue wrappings and loose, wilted petals, with clipped leaves and discarded stems littering the floor below her—and she bypasses the mess to pull open the heavy insulated door that leads to her freezer.

She shivers as she steps into the refrigerated room, pulling her cable-knit cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she begins to scan the alphabetized shelves. Rowan’s eyes quickly scan one label to the next until she finds the little label that says “yarrow” in her neat writing on the lower half of the second metal shelf, nestled neatly beside a pile of violets. There are only a few of the little white flowers left in her stock, enough for about two small bunches, so Rowan removes both from the shelf before stepping out of the freezer and shutting the door tightly behind her to preserve the other flowers that are stocked away.

Clutching the two miniature bouquets in her hands, Rowan nudges the door of her workshop open a bit more as she passes back under the frame, picking off a few browning petals from the blossoms. She wishes the blooms were fresher—it wouldn’t be easy for the man to make amends for whatever he had done if he showed up with wilted flowers. Still, Rowan thinks as she flicks the dried petals to the ground, it’s better than nothing, and hopes that the small bouquets will be enough to appease whoever the soaked stranger had managed to piss off.

“I found a couple bunches, and I wasn’t sure how many you needed, so I brought both—” Rowan stops short as she enters the front of the shop again, expecting to find the man near the door where she had left him, but finds only a damp spot on the wood where he’d dripped after his entrance. “Hello?” Confusion settles into her voice as she tentatively steps forward again, her gaze sweeping the perimeter of her shop.

“Oh, thank you,” The voice emerges from around the corner and behind a shelf of succulents, making Rowan half jump in surprise, and a small and shocked gasp leaves her mouth as the curly haired man steps out from behind the greenery.

“Oh—!” She clutches the flowers to her chest, taking a deep breath and releasing a strained laugh at her own over the top reaction, the sound both an apology and a nervous tic that’s lingered from childhood. “You scared me.”

With his emerald eyes tinged with regret, the man offers a peacemaking smile that borders on a grimace as he peers at her from the aisle. “I’m sorry,” He says slowly, his voice accented with sincerity as he presses a tattooed hand to his soaked chest, as if needing to catch his own breath as well. While it’s the movement that originally catches Rowan’s eye, it’s the tattoo inked into his skin that keeps her attention—it’s a strange symbol, resembling nothing she’s ever seen before, and yet…something about the crossing of lines and gentle curves of ink seems familiar.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts with a quick jerk of her head, Rowan offers a smile to the man in return for his apology. “It’s fine,” She eases her tone to match the tilt of her lips, holding out the previously requested flowers to him. “Will these be enough for you?”

The man’s strawberry lips rise to mirror Rowan’s smile as he gives a gentle nod, relief and gratitude dancing through his sea glass irises. “Yes, thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Rowan waves off the praise with a casual flick of her hand before beckoning him back towards the counter, doing her best to ignore the strange spark of pleasure in her belly upon hearing the stranger’s praise. “C’mon, I’ll just ring you up at the front.”

The man follows her to the front of the store, his polished shoes squeaking against the floor with every step and keeping his presence in her peripheral thoughts—as if Rowan could forget it. Reaching the counter, however, provides her with a familiar sense of comfort that she didn’t realize she’d been craving until the mahogany bench is between their two bodies. It’s strange, though, she thinks as she curls her fingers around the edge of the counter, drumming them once against the wood before beginning to ring in the flowers on her tablet that’s housed on the front counter. Despite the distance bringing her comfort, there’s a distinct sense of lack that comes with the separation; her eyes flicker to the stranger in front of her once again as she sets the bouquet of flowers onto the tissue paper lying in front of her. The brunette man is searching for his wallet in his rain drenched pockets, extracting a misted phone and the surprisingly dry journal from his jacket in his vain efforts. His eyes flicker to hers in apology, his smile growing back into a sheepish lilt as he clutches the objects within one hand while still searching with the other.

“I know I have it—somewhere—” He mutters, his drenched locks curling into his eyes as his head drops back down to examine his clothing. “Sorry, I’m usually—a little more organized than this, I swear—”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Rowan offers the usual method of banter she employs with customers, in which she just agrees and relates to anything they say to put them at ease. It’s a little fake, to be sure, but what isn’t fake about customer service? It’s not like she can roll her eyes each time someone makes the “it must be free!” joke when her debit machine takes a moment to boot up. “It’s been a strange day for everyone, I think. I spilled coffee all over myself, knocked over arrangements…and then to top it all off, the weather began to act up, when it had been so nice for the last few days.”

Cocking his head to the side, the stranger considers her small talk for a moment—which is more than most customers have ever considered her in her life. The curiosity of his gaze ignites that unfamiliar feeling again, once more making her contrastingly thankful and remorseful for the mahogany barrier between them. “Yes, it has been strange,” Despite the lightness of his tone, Rowan doesn’t miss the way his eyes shift a hue darker as he speaks. “Certainly seemed to come out of no—got it!”

The florist watches as he triumphantly extracts a brown wallet embossed with a marking she doesn’t recognize (a brand logo, perhaps? For a company more luxurious than she’s used to?), tucking the rest of his items back into his jacket with one swift motion.

“Wonderful,” Rowan means every syllable of the word as she begins to key in the purchase on her tablet, her expert fingers tapping away as relief flows through her body, both from having a new center of attention, and knowing that she’ll be able to really take her lunch break soon. “I’ll ring those in for you—”

“That’s an interesting marking,” The man interrupts her focus with the offhand comment, and when her gaze snaps up to him once more, she finds him nodding to the door of the shop as his ringed fingers open his wallet. “Do you know what it means?”

Rowan tears her eyes from his flushed skin to where his own gaze rests, settling her sights on the top of the door frame, where a black hand painted symbol sits in stark contrast with the white of the walls. “Oh, it’s just something my mom used to draw all the time,” She explains with a shrug, dismissing the symbol as her eyes turn back from the familiar six petal flower wrapped in a circle to the questioning man in front of her. “She used to say it was for protection of homes, so when I opened the shop, I figured…well,” Rowan offers a sheepish smile in return for her superstitious explanation. “New York can be a dangerous place. It can’t hurt to have extra protection, right?”

Not for the first time, an undecipherable response flits through the man’s hunter eyes, but it disappears just as quickly as it appears, before Rowan can make anything of it. “Right,” He agrees quickly, his nod more serious than it had been a moment before. “You can never have too much protection.”

Although his words echo the very phrase Rowan just spoke, something about his cadence of voice gives the simple saying a double meaning. The florist ponders it for a moment, her eyes searching the stranger’s as much as she dares, but decides it’s best not to pry. It’s not her place, really. She doesn’t know this man, and she doubts he’d bother to recommend her shop to anyone he knows if she tries to interrogate him over his expressions.

Clearing her throat, Rowan decides it’s time to change the subject, and refocuses her attention to the task at hand. “So, um—” She glances back down at her tablet, forcing herself to remember her usual spiel with her customers. “I’ll just need your name for records—your first name, if you don’t mind. It just helps me with counting and keeping track of stock.”

“That’s no problem,” The tone of his voice flips back to something more casual with ease as he rakes a hand through his damp curls once more. “My name is Harry.”

“Harry…” Rowan quickly types the simple name into her inventory logs before setting her tablet down on the counter. With nimble and practiced fingers, she begins to wrap the yarrow flowers in tissue, but Harry interrupts her with a shake of his head.

“Actually,” He gives an apologetic smile—something he seems to do a lot, she’s noticed (not that she’s noticed much about him, she tells herself). “I don’t need any wrapping for them; I’ll be using them right away, and I’d hate to waste the tissue.”

“Oh,” Rowan’s movements pause at his request, and she removes the flowers from the wrapping carefully before handing the bouquet to Harry. “Are you sure? It’s still pouring, and the rain will ruin them…”

The stranger—Harry, she reminds herself—waves away her concern with an unbothered flick of his hand. “Yeah, it’s alright. I’m going to be pulling apart the blossoms anyway.”

“You’re—” Despite the majority of this interaction being the strangest she’s had in a long time, this is the first comment of the man that’s made Rowan pause completely. Were these flowers not a gift for someone, like she’d originally assumed? “What?”

“I needed yarrow blossoms for a little…project of mine,” The molasses-like speed at which Harry utters the words gives Rowan the impression that he’s choosing them very carefully, and the florist can’t help but wonder what explanation pertaining to flowers would ever need to be so carefully considered. “Normally I keep a stock of them, but I ran out last month and forgot to order more, and I was in the middle of my project by the time I realized…” As if realizing he’s beginning to ramble, Harry offers another shy tilt of his lips before laughing lightly at his own antics. “Well, anyways, I don’t need the wrapper. But I really appreciate the help; I know I kept you open past your usual hours.”

The strange—albeit rambling—explanation leaves Rowan speechless for a moment as she debates whether or not it’s worth questioning Harry more about his project—what kind of project would so urgently need yarrow flowers? What kind of project would be worth running out into this increasingly raging storm, soaking oneself clean to the bone just to retrieve the small bouquet currently clenched in Harry’s hand?

A project that’s none of your business, Rowan tells herself firmly. None of your business. “It’s—don’t worry about it,” She straightens her spine in resolution, mimicking his earlier action of waving off concern as he sets a twenty dollar bill down on the counter. “Oh—no, it was only twelve dollars, actually—”

“Keep the change. As a thank you.” Harry tucks his wallet back into his pocket, as if his soaked jacket could do much to protect the object from the rain. “Oh, by the way—” His jade irises brighten once more as he extracts his tattooed hand from his pocket, holding out an object to Rowan in offering. “I found this on the floor—meant to give it to you…”

Grasped between his long, lithe fingers (that she is not staring at. Not in the slightest.) is Rowan’s favourite pen—the one with violet ink that glides so delightfully over the countless information forms she has to fill out. Her mouth drops open as realization lights up her face, and she retrieves the pen from him with a new and genuine smile painted on her lips. “Oh, I’ve been looking for this! It’s my favourite.” Clicking it once as if to test if it’s working, Rowan regards the soaked man with newly warmed eyes. “Thank you, Harry.”

Harry’s expression molds to match her own the moment their eyes meet, and he tucks the flowers under his arm before sheathing his hands within his pockets. “No need to thank me, Rowan. I’ll be seeing you soon.” His shoes click against the ground as he retreats back to the front door, casting one last glance at the floral symbol painted over his head before pushing the barrier open. “Stay dry, alright?”

Rowan nods automatically, repeating the phrase back to him as she waves goodbye with her pen still grasped between her fingers. The moment the door closes behind him, her previous hunger returns with more insistence than before, turning her stomach and effectively erasing all aspects of the strange meeting with the reminder that she needs to walk upstairs to her apartment to find something to eat.

It’s not until she’s sitting at her kitchen table, her cat sprawled languidly across her lap as she takes a bite of her cobb salad, that she realizes she had never told Harry her name.

…

“Oh, Christ—Butternut!”

The ginger cat scatters from underneath Rowan’s feet as the girl manages to catch herself on the edge of the kitchen counter, using the fern green cabinets to support her weight as she regains her balance. With one hand still holding the cat’s plastic food dish, Rowan uses the other to push herself away from the counter with a roll of her eyes, and resumes walking to the corner of the small kitchen to set the food dish down in its regular spot as Butternut watches from beneath a kitchen chair

“There you go,” Rowan sighs in exasperation as Butternut scurries from his hiding spot to the dish she’s just set down, and begins to feast on his wet and dry mix while Rowan brushes her fingers over his soft auburn fur. “You have to learn how to be patient, you know that?” She murmurs with a quirk of her brow. “You’d think after ten years, you’d have figured that out.”

The cat meows in response at her between bites of his food, and Rowan smiles softly as she gives one last stroke to his plush fur before straightening herself up and grabbing her mug of tea from the kitchen counter. It takes her the usual three steps to reach the small living room of her apartment, and she sets her mug on its usual spot on the coffee table as she grabs her journal from the couch, where she’d left it that morning, just as she always does when she realizes she’s running late for work. She’d hoped that owning her own flower shop would have cured her of her perpetual lateness that had plagued her childhood, but it seems that her lack of punctuality is just one of the many traits she’d inherited from her mother, in addition to being one of her least favourite traits she’d inherited from her mother.

“What did you get up to while I was at work today, Butternut? Anything interesting?” Rowan asks, only half-rhetorically as she picks up her mug again once settled into the couch. “Any important business I should know about?”

Rowan receives the usual meow in reply, and she hums thoughtfully in the back of her throat as she takes a small sip of tea. The boiling liquid scalds her tongue just the way she’s grown accustomed to—another trait she picked up from her mother, who had had a habit of setting down her teacups and promptly forgetting their existence for the better part of an hour. Drinking the piping hot liquid immediately, Rowan had learned the hard way, saves her the disgruntlement that comes with discovering ice-cold tea three hours after she’s made it.

Blowing over the steaming mug, Rowan watches as Butternut continues to munch on his food. “I thought as much,” She replies to the cat seriously, giving Butternut a stern look as he continues to eat his food and pay her little regard. “I told you to stay away from Mrs. Piper’s cat, didn’t I? We both know Zipper is a bit of a heart breaker, and I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Butternut squeaks out another meow, this one sounding more indignant than the last, which Rowan greatly appreciates. It’s easier to talk to the cat without sounding crazy, she rationalizes (as she has hundreds of times before), when the cat’s responses vary in tone, as if he can actually understand her.

“You’re a glutton for punishment, you know that?” Rowan clicks her tongue as she opens her journal, reading over her messily scrawled entry from that morning that she had barely managed to finish. “I’m just trying to look out for your best interests, and—”

A tapping sound from outside the living room window interrupts Rowan’s one-sided conversation, and she twists her head towards the source of noise with curiosity sparking across her face. When the tapping occurs again, sharper and more insistent this time around, Rowan stands up urgently, nearly spilling her tea in her haste to set down the mug and walk the short distance to the window. Although she can’t see anything that could have caused the noise when she arrives in front of the pane, Rowan’s curiosity is still unsatisfyingly unsatiated, and she quickly flips the latch on the window in order to push it open, the half-rusted mechanics squeaking in protest as they always do before she leans out towards her fire escape.

With half her body now hanging out of her living room window, Rowan swiftly scans over the familiar view of Greenwich Village. Having lived in the Village her entire life, Rowan has to admit that there’s a satisfying, pleasurable comfort in her stomach every time she looks at the skyline of the neighbourhood. It’s a feeling of home, she thinks, as well as belonging, and she knows that she could never find anywhere else quite like it. There was a reason that her mother chose this as the place to settle down after moving from London; she had always told Rowan that the city called to her, even from across the Atlantic Ocean, like a siren stringing her towards her deepest desires. And when Rowan has the honour of watching the orange autumn sun sink down in the sky, staining the tops of buildings in a burnt glaze, she feels the same call. And, in a perhaps more easily explainable way, the Village reminds her of her mother. She’d never be able to leave it, even if she wanted to.

A now familiar tapping pulls Rowan from her admiration of the city she’s called home for her entire life, and the young woman cranes her neck to the left just in time to settle her eyes on the source of the sound, her brows creasing together in bemusement as she does so.

The crow perched on the edge of her fire escape has to have the blackest and shiniest feathers that Rowan has ever seen. The onyx tone of its wings is accented by the golden light of the setting sun, which sparkles in the creature’s knowledgeable eyes. Knowledgeable, Rowan observes, because the crows eyes seem to meet her own, both with purpose and some sort of recognition.

Rowan cocks her head to the side as she engages in the staring contest with the bird, her state of mind growing more and more confused and unsettled with every passing moment. Were crows known to be the kind of bird that stared back at you? She wondered, her mouth opening and closing as she pondered the question without speaking it aloud. And were they not skittish? Rowan had made enough ruckus as she opened her window that she would have thought the bird would have long flown away by now, and yet, its piercing black eyes continue to stare back at her own. It’s ridiculous, and she knows this, but Rowan can’t make herself look away. Who loses a staring contest to a crow? She scoffs internally, leaning a little further over the ledge of her window. She refuses to be the first to blink. Surely it’s not that hard to outlast a bird; after all, she’s the one with a brain bigger than a ping bong ball. She can outlast a bird in a staring contest. Not that any sane person would ever actually challenge a bird to a staring contest, of course, but Rowan is sure stranger things have happened. And, furthermore, she’s not the one who started this. If anything, the bird challenged her—winning the imagined contest is a matter of honour.

And then Butternut jumps out the window, effectively breaking her perfect concentration, and sets all hell loose.

If Rowan hadn’t been so distracted by the crow’s strange behaviour, she would have remembered the dangers that come with leaving her window wide open as she had. Part of the reason the old mechanisms had squeaked so much when she yanked the fixture open was that she—save the few times she’d burned something while cooking and had to air out her apartment from the smoke of her failed dinner endeavors—very rarely opened the window more than a crack. Just as Rowan has a long list of troubling habits, so does Butternut, and one of those habits includes jumping out of open windows and giving Rowan a heart attack.

The young florist had discovered this habit the first day she met him when she was twelve years old and found him wandering the streets of New York. His burnt orange coat had been speckled with mud and dirt, grown long from what seemed to be months of a lack of attention, but that hadn’t stopped her from scooping the surprisingly pliant cat into her arms and carrying him home to her mother. She’d been prepared to beg and plead on behalf of the animal and her right to keep him, but as it turned out, that hadn’t been necessary; all it took was one look at the poor creature, and Winnifred began to fill the copper sink with hot water and soap to bathe him. Rowan had been delighted at her mother’s acceptance of the new pet—until said pet jumped from the counter and out their kitchen window, which had been open to release steam from the soup Winnifred had been making. To this day, Rowan remembers peering out the window with horror as Butternut scurried along the ledge outside of their sixth floor apartment, and how she’d had to coax him back to safety with strings of shredded cheese. As terrifying as it had been, however, Rowan had learned her lesson—if Butternut is in the room, windows have to be closed. There had been a few close calls over the years, but never anything as bad as that first day, when she thought she would lose her new friend before she’d even had the chance to truly befriend him.

Until now.

The moment Butternut’s paws meet the rusted metal of the fire escape, he bounds after the crow, leaping for the ledge of the fire escape before Rowan can even absorb what’s happening. The crow, however, doesn’t have the same processing delay that she does, and flies away before the cat can sink a claw into his shiny feathers. Unfortunately, Butternut has always been determined, and by the time Rowan has scurried out through the window and onto the fire escape, Butternut has already begun bounding down the rusted metal steps and onto the street below.

“Fuck—” Rowan curses loudly, nearly tripping over herself in her hurry to clamber back from the window ledge and into her apartment. Grabbing only her keys from the catch-all table by her door, Rowan throws open the door of her apartment and slams it behind her, not bothering to check if it’s locked before hurling herself towards the stairwell of her building.

Brushing her chestnut hair out of her eyes as she rounds the corner of the stairwell, Rowan has to give credit where credit is due; for a cat that’s over a decade old, Butternut moves fast, and that knowledge only incites more intensity in the girl as she tears through the stairwell and onto the street. Rowan pants as she surveys the bustling crowds, scouring the bottom of every black and grey raincoat until she just barely catches the yellowish hue of Butternut’s tail disappearing around the corner.

“Butternut!” She yells loudly, receiving a scoff and a dirty look from an old lady whose ear she’d just accidentally yelled in. “Sorry, ma’am, I just—sorry!” Rowan offers one more quick apology before dashing down the street towards Butternut. “Come back!”

Although she does her best to avoid pedestrians around her in her pursuit of her pet, Rowan still manages to ram her shoulders into four different people as she runs through the crowded Greenwich Village street. She spits out speedy apologies whenever she does so, her hickory eyes flashing with what she hopes is sincerity and not annoyance, but she doesn’t stop to say anything more; already, Butternut is disappearing in a sea of New Yorker ankles, and she’s worried that if she doesn’t grab him soon, someone else will.

After five blocks of pursuit—how does an aging cat have better stamina than she does?—Butternut seems to disappear completely, his fluffy tail nowhere in sight amongst the throngs of people. Rowan slows her pace to a light jog, her legs aching and lungs burning in protest as she pants so loud that passersby keep giving her concerned stares. There’s a feeling of dread beginning to coil itself around Rowan’s intestines, and she’s not sure if it’s the fear of losing Butternut, or the oncoming asthma attack, but it nearly doubles Rowan over as she struggles to move breath in and out of her lungs.

“I need—to work—out more—” Rowan puffs to herself, folding one hand over her stomach as she continues to push her way through the crowded sidewalk at a reduced pace. “I—” Her eyes widen as she spies an amber tail among the crowds. “Butternut!”

Although her loud exclamation once again startles an old lady (seriously, just how many old ladies are wandering around the village right now?), Rowan doesn’t stop to apologize this time, and instead simply offers a flash of an apologetic grimace before jogging after the fluff of golden fur that she just caught ducking into the open door of a shop.

Still wheezing loudly when she reaches the storefront, Rowan manages to crane her neck up to catch sight of the sign above her. The white washed wood plank with dark green letters reads Verbena & Birch Apothecary, and Rowan only takes a moment to admire the craftsmanship that must have gone into carving the plant sprigs next to the logo before she remembers the reason she’s here, and yanks the wooden door open to run inside.

“Butternut?” She calls out, still breathless from her impromptu marathon down the streets of Greenwich Village. “C’mon, stinky—” Her eyes scan over the countless shelves lined with delicate-looking glass bottles, and a feeling of dread grows in her stomach as she tucks her wild locks behind her ears. All it would take is one pounce from Butternut to destroy everything on these shelves, something she wouldn’t put past the mischievous cat that just scampered down five city blocks. “You can’t be in here! Let’s go!”

Rowan pauses for a moment and listens closely for the sound of familiar paws against the wooden floor, or the usual indignant meowed response when she calls Butternut stinky, or any sign that the cat is wandering the breakable-filled store, but hears nothing save for her own laboured breathing. Bracing her hand against her heaving stomach again, Rowan lets out a groan, hanging her head and letting her hair fall into her face as she bends over, submitting to another cramp that’s working its way through her insides.

“Does he belong to you?”

The lilting British accent that rings through the quiet shop pricks Rowan’s ears with familiarity as she snaps herself back into more appropriate posture, her palm still massaging her belly over her shirt. “What—?” Rowan whips her head around, searching for the source of the voice behind the towering shelves surrounding her. A flicker of movement from the corner of her eye catches her attention, and Rowan turns slowly towards a tower of white candles organized in glass jars as the owner of the disembodied voice emerges from behind it.

The first thing Rowan notices—to her immense relief—is Butternut happily situated in the man’s arms, purring contentedly as he stretches out languidly, seemingly pleased by the stranger’s body heat. This odd response is the second thing Rowan notes, as Butternut has never had an affinity for those he doesn’t know, and usually prefers to claw at strangers rather than flop over within their grasps. The third thing that Rowan notices, however, might be the oddest thing of all; the stranger in front of her is, in fact, no stranger at all.

Or, at the very least, she’s met him before. Although his clothing isn’t soaked to the bone from a surprise thunder storm, his curls a bit lighter in colour and bouncier than ever when dry, and his cheeks displaying a tint of rosiness to them in the heat of the shop, Rowan recognizes Harry the moment she’s able to get a good look at him, even before noting the forest green apron with his name embroidered in the corner over his white t-shirt and tan cardigan. It’s his eyes, she thinks, cocking her head to the side as she appraises the familiar young man in front of her. The way his jade irises appear to swirl and shift in the light filtering through the storefront windows is so unmistakable that it’s branded into Rowan’s head from just their one brief meeting. And if the way those eyes are crinkling in the corners as his expression twists into a grin, Rowan can tell that Harry recognizes her, as well.

“Yes,” The florist finally replies to him, breathing a sigh of relief as she steps towards him. “Yes, that’s my cat. I’m so sorry, he just escaped from my apartment and ran all the way here, and I couldn’t stop him before he got inside—”

“It’s alright,” Harry assures her with a small smile that tugs at the corner of his reddened lips as he scratches Butternut behind his ears. “Worse things have stepped into this shop, I can assure you. And given how cute this particular intruder is, I can’t bring myself to mind it.”

Rowan’s upturned lips, while tentative, slowly lift to match the grin on his face as the full relief of knowing that Butternut is safe washes over her. “Thank you, really,” She reaches out and scoops Butternut into her arms, pressing the cat into her chest protectively while ignoring the burning feeling of Harry’s fingertips brushing over her own. “He didn’t break anything?”

“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” Harry says easily, waving one nail polished hand without an air of concern or notice of the contact. “No harm, no foul, and all that.”

“That’s a relief,” Rowan bounces Butternut in her arms absentmindedly as she glances around the shop, appraising the fragile wares more thoroughly than she had when she first entered. “His second worst habit after jumping out of windows is breaking things, and a lot of things here seem breakable.”

Rowan isn’t exaggerating for effect. Now that the relief of finding Butternut has uncoiled her stomach and she can take a moment to really look around the shop, she’s amazed that she managed to collect him without paying a small fortune for items destroyed in his wake. Every wall of the store is lined with a wooden built-in shelf, each one filled with an assortment of products, with the types of products varying from each wall. It’s much more organized than she’d thought at her first glance, and she allows herself a moment to sweep over each product with errant curiosity.

The wall to her left has shelves labeled with what she assumes are different kinds of teas, sorted by their uses, such as “awake and alive,” “blood pressure support,” and “happy tummy,” as well as sorted by flavour and blend. Another shelf is lined with small dropper bottles labeled with various types of oils, and the shelf to the right of that one is lined with small brown bottles labeled as various tinctures. The opposite wall to her right hosts a wide variety of salves and balms, also sorted by uses such as “super healing,” “anti-anxiety,” and “mood boost.” Along the back wall are rows of bulk bins usually found in the grocery store, except these bins are filled with large amounts of ground dried herbs, all labeled neatly to match everything else in the store. Despite the great quantities, however, there are also jars filled with unground herbs still attached to their host plants sitting neatly above the bins. The last wall, however, has the greatest variety of anything else in the store, and stocks row upon row of various crystals, stones, and minerals, all hosting neat labels with their properties and meanings underneath the names. And if all that product wasn’t enough—enough to pique her interest as well as her anxiety at the thought of Butternut roaming free in here—there’s stand-alone shelves throughout the store, displaying more tinctures, oils, and products, as well as candles, incense, and things that Rowan can’t even put a name to.

If Harry’s tone when he interrupts her observations is any indication, then her curiosity about the products is written clear across her face. “See anything interesting?” He asks conversationally, tucking his ringed hands into the pockets of his apron.

“I’d think it’s all interesting,” Rowan murmurs in reply, keeping a firm grasp on Butternut as she steps closer to a shelf of incense, squinting her eyes to read the—quite messy—handwritten labels. “What is all this stuff?”

“Well, they’re a wide variety of things, but to put it simply…they’re natural and organic products. I make them all here, in the back of my shop,” Harry untucks one hand to motion his thumb over his shoulder as he watches Rowan lean down to smell the incense, Buttercup meowing indignantly in her arms as she tightens her grip once more. “Well, except for the incense and candles. I have a supplier in Brooklyn that provides those for me, as well as some of the herbs. But all the oils and balms…I make those in house.”

Rowan doesn’t miss the hint of pride that lingers in the back of Harry’s voice, nor can she blame him for it. If she’d concocted all of this, she’d have more than just a hint of pride. “You make these?” Rowan repeats back in amazement, walking slowly to another shelf, this one housing a variety of creams and balms. Each row has a neatly labeled tester pot, and she runs her finger over the cool glass of the jars as she reads the labels out loud.

“‘Patience’… ‘prosperity’… ‘protection’…” Rowan tilts her head towards Harry and raises a brow as the alphabetized names fall from her tongue. “How does a cream offer protection? Protection from what? Dry skin?”

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch. “Well, yes. Among other things,” He strides over to stand next to her, picking up the tester jar labeled “protection,” and dips a jewelled finger into the surface of the light cream. “May I?” He requests, extending his other hand to her.

“Oh, uh…” Rowan shifts Butternut’s weight to her left arm, freeing up her right arm for Harry to take between his fingers. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Harry’s left hand grips her wrist with a warm and gentle touch, the curves of his fingers molding into the shape of her body easily. Despite feeling it a few moments earlier, Rowan isn’t prepared for the strange feeling that hums up and down her arm when Harry’s skin meets her own. Her walnut irises capture his own hunter pair, and the question that flashes through them quickly tells her that she’s not the only one noticing the buzz.

Harry, however, seems to be better at keeping his expression unreadable, because as soon as the question appears in his own eyes, it disappears again, his gaze returning to her hand. His fingers begin to dance over her wrist as he carefully rubs the cool balm into her skin, and Rowan watches the practiced motion for a moment before her attention slips to the strange tattoo that occupies the back of his hand, the one that she’d noticed in her own shop a few days before. It almost seems to dance over his skin, flexing and flowing with the movement of his muscles as he works the cream into her own palm.

If the smell of sage and sandalwood filling the air hadn’t distracted her, Rowan might have begun to center her attention on the lithe movements of Harry’s calloused fingers over her hand, and how warm and welcoming his touch felt along her body, which would have led to her thinking about his hands traveling up her arm, following the natural line of her body to her collar bones, and then—

“That smells so good,” She says quickly, struggling to keep her voice balanced and even as she allows the fragrance to fill her senses, rather than her thoughts, which seem to be getting away from her at the moment. “Is that sage?”

Admittedly, the smell is quite distracting all on its own, even without Harry’s tantalizing touch working the scented balm into her skin, but Rowan can’t help but think that the relaxed and tranquil feeling flowing through her body has less to do with aromatherapy and more to do with the way Harry’s fingertips are pressing between her knuckles. Despite her brief encounters with him, there’s a familiar feeling in the way they interact; when he touches her, it doesn’t feel uncomfortable or unfamiliar, like the touch of a stranger should feel. Instead, the sensation that hums over her skin and settles inside her chest reminds her of the warm burn of a hearth, as if her body were a home that has been waiting for him to arrive and light the fire for the night that will keep the dark and damp away.

“I’m glad you think so,” Harry’s low and lilting voice cuts through Rowan’s trance as he rubs the last of the cream into her skin. Although his fingers cease their gentle massage, he still keeps her wrist clasped within his hand, the pad of his thumb brushing over her knuckles absentmindedly.

“I make the oils for these myself. This one has some sage, angelica, clove, and sandalwood. I mix it with organic cocoa butter, organic coconut oil, and beeswax from my supplier in Brooklyn, and melt it all together while—” Harry stops talking abruptly, his poetry-like tone cutting off with a nervous glance and a sheepish smile. “Actually, I shouldn’t be telling you all this. S’a trade secret, you know. If I tell you, then you might tell someone else, and soon I’ll be boarding up my windows because everyone is cooking up their own balms in their kitchens. Won’t have any need for me anymore.”

Rowan, who had been more focused on the hypnotic cadence of Harry’s voice to process exactly what he’d been saying, offers a half-hearted laugh as she shifts Buttercup within her arm. “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” She does her best to reassure him, but it’s hard to sound convincing when Harry squeezes her hand within his own, because for some reason, Harry is still cradling her wrist, which only stokes the hearth within her chest. “I don’t really understand it, anyways. You said it…offers protection?” Rowan blinks at his simple nod of explanation. “Um…protection from what?”

Harry loosely lifts his shoulders into a noncommittal shrug. “Anything, really. Whatever the wearer feels like they need protection from.”

“Okay, but…if I felt like I needed protection from…I don’t know, a robber…” Rowan spins an imaginary scenario as she speaks, shifting Butternut in her arm once more as the cat begins to fuss (she should extract her hand from Harry’s. It would make holding him a lot easier). “How would a cream protect me from that?”

“It’s not so much the cream as what it’s made from,” Picking up the jar again with his free hand (despite his eyes flickering to the increasingly annoyed cat within her grasp, he still hasn’t relented his own grasp on her), Harry twists the container so that the ingredient list faces Rowan, leaving him to speak from memory as he recites it. “Sage, angelica, clove, sandalwood…all of those things have protective properties. Their aromas bring comfort and tranquility to those who smell them. Using them in a cream allows their fragrance to go anywhere with the wearer, so it can bring continual comfort. Think about that symbol above your door, the one you said your mum used to draw. That was for protection, wasn’t it? It’s the same idea.”

“Oh…” Realization sparks in Rowan’s mind as she glances around the shop again, taking in every item with newly opened eyes. “Oh. Like in a metaphysical sense, right? Like how lavender is meant to bring luck?”

Harry’s brows arch up in surprise at the connection as he sets the jar back on the shelf. “Exactly like that, yes,” He says slowly, his emerald eyes watching Rowan’s renewed examination carefully as he finally relinquishes her wrist. “How did you know that?”

Rowan clutches Buttercup tighter to her chest, and while the movement is easier with both arms at her disposal, she can’t deny that she misses the sensations Harry’s touch provided her. “It’s another thing my mom told me when I was a kid. She always kept a little lavender plant in a window box.” Her eyes settle on the glass bottle filled with lavender sprigs on the shelf nearest to her, the sight jogging memories she hadn’t played in her mind in quite some time. “She used to make me lavender and chamomile tea when I was a kid, because I had trouble sleeping sometimes. It always knocked me right out,” The florist shrugs lightly. “You know, looking back, she probably mixed in some Nyquil too, but…”

Although Harry offers a small chuckle at her joke, the sound that falls from his mouth is strained, and when Rowan turns her attention back to the man again, his face has shifted into an expression she can’t read. His previously relaxed brow has furrowed and creased, and his cherry lips have transformed from an easygoing grin to a thin pursed line. The dimples that had adorned his rosy cheeks have all but disappeared, and without them, Harry looks ten years older, and ten times more intimidating.

Rowan clears her throat in an attempt to ease the newfound tension. “That—that was a joke,” She mumbles with a weak laugh, stroking the amber fur of Butternut’s back as he fusses once more. “She, uh, she didn’t do that.” Turning back to the shelf of teas, Rowan scans over the labels swiftly to find one like she’d described. “You sell one too, huh? A bedtime tea?”

Harry gives a terse nod of his head as his eyes follow the gesture of Rowan’s chin, his gaze seemingly glued to every one of her actions. “I do, yeah. Would you—?” Although he cuts off the question before he can even ask it, he only pauses to run his tongue over his darkened lips once before beginning again. “Would you like to try some? I can make a little sample tin for you. Or…” When his irises meet her own, Rowan finds they’ve shifted once more, moving further and further from the brightness she’d first seen upon their initial meeting. “If there’s nothing here you’d like to try…I live above the shop, in the flat upstairs,” He jerks his chin upwards, as if the motion is supposed to convince her he’s telling the truth. “I’ve been testing out some new blends that you might like, if you want to try them…?”

The sudden invitation to come up to his apartment isn’t exactly unwanted, but still leaves Rowan taken aback nevertheless. It’s not so much the invitation itself, Rowan reasons, her fingers massaging down Butternut’s back lightly, but the way it was delivered. Every interaction she’s had with Harry so far has felt organic, as natural and easy as breathing. This, however…this request feels anything but. “Oh. Uh—”

“You’re under no obligation, of course,” Harry clarifies, straightening the jars on the shelf while his cheeks stain a darker shade of crimson. “I just thought—you may like to see more of—of some things I’ve made, or—”

“No, I would!” Rowan’s heart hammers in her chest as Harry stumbles over his words, the apparent anxiety in his strained explanation endearing him in a way she hadn’t expected. “I would, and it sounds wonderful, but…” She raises Butternut in her arms in lieu of an explanation. She’s not exactly sure what’s bothering him, but from the way he’s been fussing throughout their entire conversation—especially when he’d behaved so well while in Harry’s arms—it’s clear that there’s somewhere he wants to run to. Or something he wants to run from. “I should be getting this guy home.”

A sheepish look paints itself onto Harry’s features, dragging down his eyes and creased brow, and before Rowan can say anything else, an apology tumbles from his downturned lips. “Right, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—to make you uncomfortable—”

“I’m not uncomfortable!” Rowan assures him just as quickly, giving a firm shake of her head as reinforcement. “I—actually, I’m very comfortable with you, which is strange, given we just met—” Her own cheeks flush at the candid admission, growing to match Harry’s in hue. “But I just—I have to get Butternut home, but—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, it’s fine—”

“But if you’re free tomorrow afternoon, I’d love to come over for tea.”

Harry’s hasty apologies cut off before they can echo out of his throat, the unspoken words practically visible as they hang on the tip of his tongue. “You would?”

“I would,” Rowan confirms, the corners of her lips tugging up at the endearingly dumbfounded expression that sweeps over Harry’s entire face. “Maybe 2 o’clock, if that works for you?”

Tugging on his chestnut curls as his grin begins to grow once more, Harry gives a sharp nod of agreement. “That would be wonderful, yeah. I’ll see you here at 2 o’clock.”

…

At 1:59PM the next day, Rowan stands beneath the cream and hunter sign reading Verbena and Birch Apothecary, and re-evaluates her life choices.

She’d like to consider herself a smart girl. Her mother had raised her to be thoughtful, introspective, and aware of her surroundings, as well as the people in them. If she had a bad vibe from Harry, or believed him to be dangerous in any way, she would turn on her heel and march back down the streets of the Village until she reached her own apartment. Or, even more, she probably wouldn’t have left her apartment in the first place, and would have let 2 o’clock come and go without a second guess. But Harry hasn’t given her any reason to think that he could hurt her; if he’d wanted to hurt her, it would’ve been much easier to have dragged her upstairs the day before. No one had seen her quickly ducking into his shop, and she’d been so busy chasing Butternut that she hadn’t told anyone where she was going. Their meeting today, however, has been pre-planned, meaning that Harry could assume that she’s told someone where she’s gone, or at the very least, left a note in her apartment in case police search it after she goes missing. There’s no reason for her to be concerned.

Then again, Rowan remembers the stranger danger lessons given to her in elementary school by New York police officers, and is reminded once more that the decision she’s making is probably a stupid one.

It’s just… Rowan touches the stone pendant hanging around her neck. The shining tiger’s eye had belonged to her mother before she passed, and Rowan could remember her rubbing a worried thumb over the smooth surface any time something was troubling her. Rowan herself thumbs over the honey-streaked stone, her own brow furrowing. Just.

It’s just Harry. It’s just something about him, something coded within his emerald eyes that makes her question everything she’d been taught. Of course she shouldn’t be having tea with a strange man she’s spoken to for barely fifteen minutes over the course of two encounters. Of course she shouldn’t accept an invitation into his home as if she was a lamb volunteering for her own slaughter. But Harry doesn’t feel like a stranger. At least, he feels unlike any stranger she’s ever encountered before.

The minute hand of the watch on her wrist slips past the twelve, leaving Rowan with no more time to dwell on the matter. Taking a deep breath as she tucks her shoulder length waves behind her ears, she pulls open the front door of the shop and steps inside.

Harry is standing behind the counter, writing in the leatherbound journal she’d noticed on his person the day he stumbled into her own shop. Upon hearing the tinkle of the chime above the door, his head turns up, and his emerald gaze meets her own.

“Rowan, hi,” Harry smiles easily at her as he shuts the journal, looping the leather tie around the bindings with practiced ease. “Right on time.”

“For once in my life,” Rowan jokes in an attempt to hide her nerves. She slips her hands into the pockets of the worn trench coat she’d found at an estate sale the previous year, trying to curb her habit of twisting her rings around her fingers when she’s nervous. “Sorry, am I interrupting your work?”

Tucking the leather bound journal underneath the counter in one smooth motion, Harry shakes his head. “No, not at all. It’s been a fairly slow afternoon. Not much to interrupt.”

“Really? No stray cats have run into your shop today?”

The small laugh that falls from Harry’s lips is light and easy, and lodges itself somewhere deep within Rowan’s chest in a way she doesn’t quite understand. “No, but the day is still young.”

Harry steps out from behind the counter, and for the first time, Rowan notices that his outfit is devoid of the hunter apron he’d worn the day before. Instead, Harry is dressed in a chunky knit chestnut coloured sweater with green detailing around the cuffs and hem. His pants are olive toned, baggy in their fit, and pool just above his black vans. He looks comfy. Cozy, Rowan thinks. Like he could laze back on a couch in the evening, his hands a bit sooty from stoking the fire, but that doesn’t matter, because he’ll laugh and try to swipe a charcoal covered finger over her cheek, and leave fingerprints along her skin when he—

“So you said you live upstairs?” Rowan’s voice is breathless when she pulls herself from her daydream, and she fidgets with the tiger’s eye around her neck in an attempt to calm herself with the familiar motion.

“Uh, yeah, I do. I—sorry, is that…” Harry’s gaze drops from her eyes to her fingers, watching as she twists the pendant up and down the old chain. “Is that tiger’s eye?”

Rowan glances down at the pendant caught between her fingers. The honey-streaked stone is cut in the shape of an oval and set into a metal backing, worn smooth from two generations of Frances women habitually rubbing it. It’s pretty, to be sure, but it’s never drawn anyone’s attention so quickly. But then again, Rowan’s sure the stone is stocked on the shelves behind her; it’s no wonder Harry’s noticed it.

“It is, yeah. My mom gave it to me,” Rowan says, letting the pendant fall back against her navy turtleneck. Technically, her mother didn’t give it to her. In all actuality, Rowan had claimed it after her mother passed away five years ago. However, now didn’t seem the time to dump all her mommy issues onto a virtual stranger, no matter how familiar he felt. The death of your only parental figure is more of a second date conversation, she thinks.

Not that they’ve had a first date. This is tea. She’s just here to try tea that Harry’s made. This rendezvous probably falls more under the category of a sales pitch than a date, and Rowan’s not sure why that fact makes her stomach churn in discontent, but she’s determined to ignore it.

“It’s lovely,” Harry says, seemingly unaware of the debate that’s playing out in Rowan’s mind. “May I?”

He reaches his right hand towards her, and Rowan’s eyes once again focus on the strange symbol inked into his smooth skin. A shiver runs up her spine as the uncomfortably familiar feeling of deja vu settles over her. His words are identical to yesterday, when he offered her a sample of the protection balm he made. But underneath that memory, there’s something else, something that settles at the very edge of her mind’s eye, just out of reach of clarity. That same phrase— “May I?”— echoed in a lilting British accent, a flash of a ringed, tattooed hand tugging at blush coloured sheets, the dangle of her tiger’s eye pendant over a flushed chest that’s inked with tattoos she can’t quite place…

The hand in front of her pauses, and its owner’s eyes find her own. Harry flicks his eyebrows up as if to repeat his question, and Rowan realizes he’s waiting for her to give him permission to examine her necklace.

“Yeah, sorry—” She hastily reaches behind her neck to undo the clasp, brushing her bobbed hair out of her way. “Let me just—”

She cuts off her speech with a stuttered gasp as Harry’s nimble fingers find the pendant that hangs over her turtleneck, carefully securing the stone between his digits without touching her.

It’s not until this moment that Rowan realizes that Harry is standing close enough to her that she can see the flecks of gold in his emerald eyes, which are trained on the pendant in a focused manner. The tip of his nose is flushed the same shade as the strawberry of his mouth, and the hue also skirts along the apples of his cheeks, barely visible with the concentrated expression that’s painted on his face.

Rowan doesn’t know much about Harry, but she stocks this new knowledge—how he’s careful to ask for her permission to move towards her, but merges his personal space bubble with her own once that permission is given—in the back of her mind. It’s so familiar that it produces an ache deep within her chest that confounds her.

“It’s a beautiful necklace,” Harry keeps his eyes on the pendant as he twists it between his fingers. “You said it was your mother’s?”

Rowan forces herself to sound calm and collected when she answers. “I did, yeah. She used to call it her lucky charm.”

“Tiger’s eye provides protection,” Harry murmurs the words quietly as he lets go of the necklace. It falls lightly back onto Rowan’s chest. “It’s a lovely piece. She was very kind to give it to you.”

“She was, yes,” Rowan fidgets with the necklace, fixing its position around her neck. “She’s—she’s a very kind person.”

Rowan’s not exactly sure why she slips into the present tense to describe her mother. Sure, she’s already decided that the death of a parent is a second date topic, but she’s also already decided that this isn’t a date. From past experience, she knows it’s better to rip off the “my mother passed unexpectedly when I was twenty years old and it tore apart my life” bandaid sooner rather than later, but she also knows that most men tend to stray away from the topic of mothers when they invite women up to their apartments for tea.

Then again, Rowan thinks ruefully as she follows Harry behind the counter a moment later at his request, Harry hasn’t acted like most men she’s ever met before.

The small corridor that leads towards the back of the shop is dark, lacking the sunlight that illuminates the front of the store. Instead, the floor creaks under Rowan’s feet, accented by the click of the heeled boots she may or may not have worn to bring herself closer to Harry’s height.

Harry pauses before an open doorway, and Rowan can smell the room before she sees it— lavender and sage, lemon and cloves, cinnamon and rosehips, and a thousand other scent combinations that Rowan can’t name. She peers over Harry’s shoulder to see a cluttered workbench, not unlike her own, covered in little glass bottles, bunches of greenery, and the familiar petals of yarrow flowers that she’d sold to Harry previously. Along the back wall, under a small window, is a row of bottles with different oils inside, and to the left is a gas range with two separate pots set on top. One of the pots is still steaming, the vapor coiling lazily above its contents, despite the range being off (Rowan checks with a flick of her eyes).

“This is where I make most of my inventory,” Harry says with a motion of his hand. “I had to add the range myself when I bought the place, but the butcher’s block and the work spaces were already here. I got pretty lucky.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Rowan replies, and she pauses a moment, waiting for the invitation to step inside and explore. When the invitation doesn’t come, and Harry turns his attention to the door to the left of the corridor, just before the entrance to the back room, Rowan can’t deny that she’s disappointed. However, part of her understands; she hates when anyone steps into her backroom. The organized chaos is always just one stray hand away from descending into madness, and what she stores in her workroom isn’t nearly as breakable as what’s inside Harry’s.

Instead, Rowan turns her gaze to the door that Harry’s unlocking with a key from his pocket. The key itself is small and brass, with a tarnished, well-worn handle and a detailed head. The object resembles something Rowan would expect to see in a movie set in the early 1900s rather than on the keyring of someone around her age, but it fits perfectly into the lock on the inconspicuous door. As Harry slips the weathered key back into his pocket, Rowan notes that it’s the only key on the keyring. She can’t say she’s surprised that there’s no car key present— hardly anyone she knows in New York has a car, much less their license. She’s one of the few of her friends that does, and that’s only because her mother had insisted she learn when she was eighteen. However, she is surprised to see no key to the shop on the ring. Rowan has three separate locks on the door to her own store, and keeps all the keys jumbled together with her apartment set.

“Like I mentioned, I live just above the shop,” Harry interrupts her pondering as he nods up the steep set of dark stairs. “Follow me, and try to watch your step. These stairs tend to trip people the first time they climb them.”

“Right, okay,” Rowan does as Harry says, following his practiced steps at the pace he sets. She lasts about three stairs before stumbling, and grabs hold of the worn railing to catch herself before she falls forward.

Harry turns around as much as the small space lets him, and the look on his face is concerned, but not surprised. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just regretting my choice of shoes right now,” Rowan laughs airily, hoping the darkness of the stairwell hides the blush she’s sure is working its way over her cheeks. “You really weren’t kidding, huh?”

“No, I wasn’t,” A set of fingers brushes over her hand that clings to the railing, and there’s a moment of hesitation before Harry tugs her hand away from the railing and grasps it gently within his own. “Here, just go a little slower. I’ll help you.”

It’s clear that Harry’s dashed up and down these stairs hundreds of times, because he has no trouble navigating the steep flight with his body turned sideways to guide Rowan to the top. His hand stays locked around hers, comforting without being controlling, until he pulls her onto the cramped landing at the top of the stairs.

“There we go,” He grins at her, his dimples barely visible in the dim light as he releases her hand. “You made it.”

“I did,” Rowan hopes the embarrassment isn’t detectable in her voice. “Only almost died once.”

Harry laughs, low and melodic, as he fishes in his pocket for something, and pulls his ringed hand back out with the same key he used to unlock the door to the stairwell. He presses the key into the silver lock on the door, and Rowan is surprised to hear the click of the lock two seconds later.

With a quick twist of the squeaky doorknob, Harry pushes open the door and leads Rowan into his apartment.

Although she’s only known Harry for a short time, she can’t really say she’s surprised by anything she sees in front of her. Harry’s apartment is big by New York standards, with exposed brick walls and greenery draped along every shelf. There’s a large set of windows along the far wall that sends a spark of jealousy down Rowan’s spine, and a velvet emerald-coloured couch that turns the spark into a flame. The scent of incense floats through the air, evidenced by the multiple holders she sees scattered along the living room, and pressed against the left wall is a bookshelf that holds multiple aged books set in leather and embossed with gold.

Harry’s apartment is earthy, and centered, and quite possibly the most beautiful space Rowan has ever seen.

“This is gorgeous, Harry,” She says breathlessly, her hand rising of its own accord to touch the frame of a print hung in the hallway by the door. “How long have you lived here?”

“God, about…eight years now, maybe? To tell you the truth, I think I’ve lost count,” Harry toes off his vans, and Rowan follows suit, tugging off her own boots and thanking her past self for deciding to spend the extra time to find matching socks this morning. “Can I take your coat?”

“Sure, thank you,” Rowan begins to slip the trench coat over her shoulders, unsurprised when she feels a second set of hands help slide the fabric down her arms. She’s adjusting to Harry’s easy way with touch— revels in it, actually, which is new for her.

Harry hangs her coat on the stand just beside the door, and that same dimpled smile is on his face when he turns back around. “The kitchen is just through here, I’ll show— Jesus—”

Rowan nearly slams into Harry’s back as he comes to a quick stop in front of her, his arms braced against either wall in the small front hallway. Before she can stumble more from the sudden pause, his hand reaches behind him, finding her waist and steadying her.

“Harry?” Rowan’s skin feels as if it’s burning underneath her sweater, the sensation warmest at her core where Harry is touching her. “Is everything—?”

“Yes, sorry, it’s just—” Harry lets go of her with a sigh, stepping over what appears to be a large smoke coloured furry pillow in the middle of the hallway. “It’s just Clint.”

Rowan regards him with confusion, her chestnut eyes searching his own emerald for an explanation. “Clint? Who’s Clint?”

“That’s Clint,” He nods down to the furry pillow and nudges it with his sock covered foot. The pillow twitches, stretches when provoked, and Rowan suddenly realizes it’s not a pillow at all, but in fact—

“You have a rabbit named Clint?”

Harry’s already walking towards the kitchen, unconcerned about Clint’s nap spot that blocks the entryway of his apartment. “I do.”

A million questions flood through Rowan’s head, a million different things she could say about this new tidbit of Harry trivia. But instead of asking how owning a rabbit works in a New York City apartment, why said rabbit seems to have an infinity for inconvenient nap locations, or if tripping over him is an everyday occurrence (which, based on Harry’s exasperated sighs, she thinks it might be), the comment that leaves her mouth is, “Clint is kind of a weird name for a rabbit.”

Harry pauses his movements in the kitchen, one hand frozen on a mahogany cabinet while the other holds a jar of a dried tea blend. “You think so?”

Rowan flinches inwardly, still stuck frozen behind the rabbit in the hallway. “I— shit, sorry, that was rude. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. It is weird, I know,” Harry laughs, and the sound immediately drains the tension that had seized Rowan’s entire body. “But he likes it, and refuses to change it, so…yeah. Clint the rabbit. You can just step over him, by the way,” Harry says as he notices Rowan has yet to leave the entryway. “He’s pretty used to it, because he’s also stubborn about where he takes his fifteen daily naps, the lazy bugger…”

Stepping carefully over the rabbit as instructed, a smile plays on Rowan’s lips as she makes her way to the kitchen. “Damn. Sounds like Clint really needs to start pulling his weight around here.”

Harry snorts as he picks up the copper kettle located on his stovetop and fills it with water. “Try telling him that,” He says, flicking the gas range onto high and setting the kettle on the burner. “Even Atticus contributes more to the household, and I hardly have to feed him.”

Rowan leans over the stonetop counter, her eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Who’s Atticus? Another pet?”

“No, not a pet. More like a…friend…” Harry’s voice is barely above a murmur as he looks between the jar of tea in his hand, and the multiple jars lined up in his open cupboard. “Sorry, just…trying to choose what blend to give you.”

Tapping her index finger against the knuckle of her other hand, Rowan watches as a crease of concentration forms between Harry’s stern brow. “I can try any blend,” She offers, hoping to help with the indecision that seems to be plaguing him. “I’m really not picky.”

“No, but I am. I don’t want to give you the wrong one.”

“The wrong…?” Rowan tilts her head to the side, her own forehead creasing identical to Harry’s. “How can a tea blend be—?”

“This one,” Harry says triumphantly, swapping the jar in his hand with another stored at the very back of the cabinet. “I’ve been tweaking this recipe lately. I think you’ll like it.”

Harry opens another cabinet full of dishware, and grabs a midnight blue teapot with white detailing along the sides. After he sets the teapot on the counter, he pulls out two teacups with the same white detailing over midnight paint.

It’s fascinating to watch the practiced ease with which Harry brews the tea. He’s added a few scoops of the blend into the diffuser that’s set inside the teapot by the time the kettle starts to whistle, and once he’s taken the kettle off the heat and poured the boiling water into the teapot to steep, he immediately reaches for a glass container that’s set on the counter. From her vantage point, Rowan can tell that it’s filled with honey.

Harry doesn’t ask her if she takes cream or sugar in her tea, and Rowan doesn’t interject to say she prefers one scoop of sugar and a dash of milk. Instead, she lets Harry dictate exactly how she’ll test out his own blend, observes carefully how he fills each teacup almost to the brim, but leaves enough room to add a few drops of honey with the glass wand that he keeps inside the matching jar. It’s clear that all of this is a science to him, from the amount of golden liquid added, all the way down to how he carefully stirs each cup before setting the drink down in front of her with a shy smile.

“Keeping with yesterday’s theme…” He says quietly, turning the cup so the handle faces Rowan for an easy grip. “Tea for protection.”

Rowan slowly lifts the delicate china to her mouth, blowing over the boiling liquid before inhaling the steam. “I smell…cinnamon, I think? And a little bit of lemon?”

Harry’s smile grows until his dimples flash at her. He’s still leaning over the countertop, mimicking Rowan’s curved posture. When she inhales again, she can smell the light scent of Harry’s cologne mixing in with the vapours of the tea.

“Good catch,” Harry praises her easily, tapping his ringed fingers against the countertop. “The base of the tea is a black tea blend, but there’s cinnamon and lemon balm in it, along with a few other things. A little cardamom, clove, nutmeg, ginger…a couple other spices. But they all do a really good job of keeping away things that could hurt you.”

Rowan doesn’t bother to inquire about how lemon balm can keep away something that could hurt her again; she doubts she’d get an answer that she really understands. Instead, she just blows over the surface of the tea one more time before taking a small sip. The flavours Harry listed rush over her tongue at a just below scalding temperature, swirling in her mouth before running down her throat and leaving a pleasant warmth behind.

Harry watches intently, his body still leaning across the countertop towards her. “What do you think?”

Rowan takes another small gulp of tea, more mindful of the heat this time. “It’s really good, Harry. The honey in it, too…adds just the right amount of sweetness.”

Rowan hadn’t realized the amount of tension that had strung itself between Harry’s shoulders until she watches it roll out of him. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it,” He says, straightening up before grasping his own teacup to take a sip.

“Were you nervous I wouldn’t?”

Harry’s answering shrug is just on the edge of sheepish. “Maybe a little. I’m always a bit nervous when someone tries one of my products for the first time. I want them to like it, you know?”

“I get the same way when I design custom arrangements for clients,” Rowan confesses, swirling the tea in her cup. “There’s this moment, right before I show them their arrangements, when I swear I can feel my heart in my throat. I used to get so nervous that I felt like I was going to pass out.”

“Really?” Harry raises an inquisitive brow. “How did you stop it?”

“I started using this trick my mom taught me. Right before I show the arrangement to a client, like right before, when I’m getting it from the fridge, I picture what I hope their reaction will be. Excitement, surprise, happiness, things like that. More often than not, clients usually react the way I imagine they will. It helps keep me calm.”

That crease appears between Harry’s brow again, but smooths out a moment after Rowan takes notice of it. “Your mother is a smart lady.”

“She…yeah,” Rowan clears her throat and takes another sip of tea, the temperature more comfortable now. “And she keeps coming up in conversation, which is probably pretty annoying. Sorry.”

It takes all of Rowan’s self control to stop herself from pressing her thumb between Harry’s brows as that damn crease comes back. “Why are you sorry? I like hearing about your past. It makes it easier to understand you in the present.”

The sincerity in his tone brings a flush to Rowan’s cheeks. “Is that something you’re having difficulty with? Understanding me?”

Harry hums in consideration as he brings his teacup to his lips. One of his rings, the one set with a red stone— a garnet?— flashes under the light. “It’s becoming progressively easier the more I’m around you. But there’s still so much that seems…clouded.”

Rowan can’t suppress the shiver that runs down her spine at his words, but tries to disguise it under a humorous tone. “Well, we only just met. I’d be a bit concerned if you knew everything about me.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to know everything about you; I said I wanted to understand. You don’t have to know every facet of someone’s life to understand who they are,” Harry argues in a tone that borders on defensive.

“And is…understanding people something you’re good at?” Rowan asks after a moment, fighting to keep her own tone light.

“Usually. It’s easier to understand some people than others.”

“Where do I place on that scale?” Rowan pitches her voice lower than she means it to be, as if she’s whispering something in the dead of night. As if she’s afraid to be heard. “In, like, terms of difficulty…if one was the least difficult person to understand, and ten was the most difficult. Where do I sit?”

“The difficulty of understanding you…” Harry trails off, and for the first time, Rowan realizes that understanding is a placeholder word for Harry. It’s a word that’s almost synonymous with what he means, but doesn’t carry the same intention. It’s a verbal facade, disguising what he’s really trying to say behind a half truth.

But the thing about half truths? They’re always half lies, as well.

“I don’t know,” Harry says after a weighty moment, his tongue swiping over his lips. “I can’t quite place you yet.”

This time, Rowan detects the half lie right away. But she doesn’t push it. In all honesty, she’s a little afraid of the answer. There’s something in the way Harry’s jade eyes regard her, the way he leans into her space, both mentally and physically…she’s almost convinced that if Harry were to tell a whole truth instead of a half, the answer may break her.

Which is dramatic, and unfathomable, and even as Rowan repeats that to herself over and over internally, she knows that only half of what she’s repeating is true. A half lie, born of her own mind.

“Well,” Rowan drops her eyes to the contents of her teacup as she lifts the drink to her lips. “Let me know when you do.”

If Harry’s aware of the charged nature of her words, he doesn’t say anything. The two of them finish their tea with casual small talk, rather than more evaluations of the other’s character. Rowan reveals that she’s a born and raised New Yorker, while Harry tells her about growing up in London (Rowan mentally pats herself on the back for restraining her instinct to tell Harry that’s where her mother grew up). Harry talks little about his family, mentioning an older sister who’s married, a mother who passed away when he was a boy, and a father who still lives in his childhood home. When Rowan asks when Harry last visited the country of his birth, his eyes drift a shade darker, and his tattooed hand drifts upwards to his chest, rubbing the area with the same subconscious movement that drives Rowan to fidget with her necklace. The tone of his voice when he says that he hasn’t been back since his move brings her to drop the subject altogether.

The two of them learn that they both share the same love of the first snowfall of the season, and a sense of melancholy when it rains. Both Harry and Rowan experience deja vu frequently, as well as knock on wood to prevent themselves from indirectly jinxing things they say. They both record their dreams in a journal, both sleep better with the sounds of the city as a lullaby. And by the time Rowan stands up to leave, they’ve both agreed to see each other again.

As per Harry’s request, Rowan types her number into Harry’s cell phone as he carries their used teacups to the sink. When she hands him back his phone (her number is saved under the name Flower Shop Girl, which Harry had confessed he thought of her as before he knew her name, and the admittance brings so much warmth to her chest that Rowan forgets again to ask how he knew her name during their first meeting), Harry has a small satchel in his hands, which he gives to her in exchange.

“This is another new blend I’m working on,” Harry’s fingers just barely brush over hers as he slips the satchel into her hands. “It has chamomile and lavender in it, so I recommend drinking it before bed.”

Rowan brings the satchel to her nose, inhaling deeply at the pleasant scent. “I can smell the lavender, and…cinnamon?”

A small smile plays on the corners of Harry’s lips as he walks her to the door (he takes Rowan’s hand to help her step over Clint, who’s still asleep in the entryway). “You’re good at that.”

“Thanks. I guess spending pretty much all my time around flowers is useful for…scent identification,” Rowan flinches internally as she slips her boots back onto her feet. Who the hell says shit like scent identification? She switches the topic back to the satchel in her hand, hoping she doesn’t sound as awkward as she feels. “Is it meant to help with sleep? The tea, I mean.”

“It can, yeah. It’s, uh…well, it’s meant to help with clairvoyance,” Harry slides Rowan’s trench coat off the coat rack and holds it open for her to slip on.

Goosebumps prick up along Rowan’s skin as she slides on her jacket. “Clairvoyance? What do you mean?”

“Just…someone’s perception of things,” Harry shrugs nonchalantly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “It helps clear the mind, keep it open, that sort of thing.”

Rowan looks down at the unassuming satchel still clutched in her hand. “There’s not, like, magic mushrooms in here, is there? Because I had a really bad experience once in university, and I’d rather not—”

Harry’s laugh is loud and rolling, echoing enough through the entryway that Clint’s ears prick up. “No, no psychedelics. Not in this blend, anyways. But I’d love to hear about your experience with shrooms, if you’d like to share.”

“Maybe some other time,” Rowan rolls her eyes as she tucks the satchel into her pocket. “We can swap embarrassing intoxication stories another day.”

“We could, yeah. Maybe over dinner?”

There’s a note of hopefulness in Harry’s voice that fans that flame inside her chest. “Yeah. Maybe over dinner.”

Harry’s shoulder brushes against hers as he reaches past her to open the door. “It’s a date.”

…

In her dreams, Rowan is in Central Park.

At least, she thinks it’s Central Park. It’s pitch black, with the only light to illuminate her path being the shine of the full moon above her head. Rowan knows the trail through the park like the back of her hand, having walked them most of her life. However, she’s never traversed through the park in the dead of night, let alone by herself, and there’s a sense of uneasiness resting over her.

She wants to turn around. She wants to find her way back to the busy streets, and hail a taxi that’s surely still cruising through the city that never sleeps. She wants to make her way out of the freezing cold of the night, and retreat back into the comfort of her tiny apartment. She wants to be anywhere but here.

And yet, her feet keep taking measured steps forward, further and further into the only forest in the middle of a suburban sprawl. When she was a child, she’d been fascinated with photos of the park from above, by the stark contrast of nature and industrialization. She’d often dreamt of being a bird, and flying over the city so she could make the comparison for herself.

Dream, Rowan thinks, and her steps pause. This is a dream. She doesn’t need a taxi; all she needs to do is close her eyes, and think about being back home, and then—

A hand wraps around her waist from behind, and before Rowan can scream out in surprise, another clasps itself over her mouth. Fear courses through her body, freezing her limbs more than the bitter winter air ever could, and she shudders as a pair of lips brush over her ear.

“It’s okay,” A voice says in her ear, and the low British lilt is familiar to her now, as easy to place as her own. “It’s alright, love. S’just me.”

Rowan relaxes in Harry’s arms, but only by a fraction. She tries to mumble against his hand, but he keeps it pressed tight over her mouth, careful not to obstruct her nose as well.

“You need to listen to me, okay?” Harry’s breath is hot on her neck. While Rowan typically finds sensations to be dampened during dreams, the feeling of his breath rolling over her skin is so pleasurable that her knees almost buckle. “Nod if you’re listening.”

Rowan nods, the urgency in Harry’s words being just enough to keep her from succumbing to the newfound desperation supplied by his proximity.

“Good, that’s good. I don’t have long, so you need to listen carefully.”

Humming against his hand, Rowan knows that Harry senses her meaning: get on with it.

“When you get to this night— this night, this specific night— you need to pause when you reach the fork in the path, alright?” Harry’s thumb strokes over her cheek as he murmurs the instructions in her ear. “Look up to the sky. Do you see the moon?”

Rowan’s chocolate eyes tilt up to the sky as she hums her understanding. It would be so much easier to communicate if he would uncover her mouth. Why won’t he uncover her mouth? She could talk to him if he did, tell him she understands, tell him what the feeling of him pressed so tightly against her back is doing to her, tell him to bring his lips just a bit closer to her skin…

“It’s a full moon. Memorize what the cold feels like against your skin,” Harry’s voice reaches hypnotic levels as he commands her. “The smell of pine in the air. You need to remember this moment, okay? Remember this night, remember this dream, and remember to pause when you get to the fork in the path.”

“Harry…” Rowan tries to whisper his name from underneath his hand, but the plea comes out muffled, barely audible over the whistling of wind through the trees.

The hand over her mouth tightens reflexively, rings pressing so hard into her skin that Rowan thinks it’ll leave an imprint of the metal band once she’s released. The thought sends a ripple through her body.

“You need to be quiet, love. It’s almost time, and it’ll hear you,” Harry squeezes her body tighter against his, almost like an apology. “I have to go in a moment, before it knows I’m here.”

The sound that falls from Rowan’s lips is involuntary, and strays so close to being considered a whine that she’s glad Harry’s grasp on her is muffling her words.

“I’m sorry,” There’s a new note in Harry’s voice, a tone of distress just barely straining his normally soothing speech. “I wish I could tell you more. I wish I could explain, but I can’t. Not yet. Just— just remember what I said. Pause when you reach the fork in the path. Promise me you’ll do that.”

Rather than try to speak incoherent words behind Harry’s hand, Rowan raises her own and brings it to her mouth. With her index finger, she draws two lines over the back of his hand, hoping he gets the message.

Cross my heart.

The sigh that Harry heaves blows the hair around her neck in separate directions, and Rowan’s eyes flutter closed for a moment as the sensation rolls over her.

“Good girl,” Harry breathes the words into her ear, and the breath that Rowan pulls into her chest is shakier than ever. “I have to go. And you need to wake up.”

Rowan shakes her head as her hand settles on top of Harry’s, keeping his palm pressed over her mouth. It feels so good, so much better than she ever could have imagined. It’s been so long since someone’s touch has made her feel like this, like she’s falling into their heat without a second thought. She doesn’t want to leave this moment.

“You need to wake up, Rowan,” Harry’s voice grows more persistent in her ear, more urgent. The wind picks up around them, whipping her hair around her face as she leans into him more. “Wake up!”

…

It’s still dark outside when Rowan jolts upright in her bed.

For a moment, she thinks she’s still in her dream. She reaches behind her for Harry, but instead of finding the warmth of his body, she encounters the smooth cotton of her pillow. There’s a movement to her left, and she whips her head around, almost expecting to see Harry there, his emerald eyes intent on her. Instead of emerald, she finds ochre, and sees that Buttercup is watching her, clearly awoken by her own abrupt start.

Finally accepting that she’s in her bedroom, Rowan flops back into her pillows, ignoring Buttercup’s meow of indignation at being jostled. She pulls the cat into her arms, and the familiarity of his fur against her skin calms her racing heart.

It was a dream, she tells herself. It was an incredibly vivid dream, one that brought to life desires that she didn’t even know she had, but a dream nonetheless. With a sigh, Rowan glances at the mug of tea on her bedside table, still containing liquid that’s turned icy cold while she’s slumbered. She hadn’t even finished half of the brew before it knocked her out. Rowan wonders if it’s possible to ask Harry if the tea contains anything that could cause strangely vivid and…Christ, she can’t deny it— arousing— dreams without giving away the fact that he was the star of them.

Buttercup purrs against her chest, and Rowan sighs again, gently moving him back to his preferred spot next to her before curling onto her side. She can worry about her weirdly touch-centered dreams in the morning, she decides, when she’s more fully awake to process them. It’s been a long day, and Rowan is tired. She needs some rest, proper rest. She’s too exhausted to think right now.

And too exhausted to notice the imprint on her lip that resembles the band of a ring.

#harry styles fanfiction #witch!harry #witchrry #witch!harry styles #witch au #harry styles au #harry styles fic #harry styles x oc #harry styles x original character #one direction fanfiction #one direction fic #one direction au #harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff

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