#I am really attached to the idea behind it so I hope it hasn’t been done before
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Working on a comic for WWX’s bday and hoping I have enough time between work and school to complete it in time 😭😭
#not art!#it’s six pages and I’m just barely starting the second stage of sketching#I am really attached to the idea behind it so I hope it hasn’t been done before#and if it has been then I hope it’s different enough to not be an issue 😭#hint: the only character technically present is WWX
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(Another idea I had for the demon!reaper x Jack au ~ Bambi)
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Jack: *been awake for several days of non stop torment from the demonic entity haunting his house, tiredly driving back home after travelling to the nearby town looking for work hoping someone would take pity and hire a desperate collage drop out* … *groans and blinks after minutes of trying to keep his eyes open, only to open them up to that fucking figure standing in the middle of the road* WHAT THE FU- *swerves driving his truck off into a ditch and smashing into the fence lining his property* ugh- *whimpers in pain thinking and wishing for a moment he was dead* … *looks in the rear view mirror towards the road to see the figure gone* …
*a few hours later*
Jack: *still sitting in his truck, trying to get any type of signal to call for a tow, too afraid to actually get out incase that thing is still out there*
*tap! Tap! Tap!*
Jack: EEEEEEK!! *nearly flings his phone at the window seeing a hand knocking on the glass before seeing it attached to a rather handsome young man* I-
Cole: whoops- didn’t mean to spook ya! Glad to see you’re alive, you okay partner?
Jack: *sheepishly opens the door* I-I- s-something jumped into the road and I swerved and…
Cole: Ah, most likely a deer, theyre real bad out here this time of ye- holdup ain’t you old man Morrison’s boy?
Jack: yeah… I-I am, They left me the farm so I… came home…
Cole: thought you looked like your pa, names Cole, I used to farm hand for him before he sold off all the live stock. Here you hop in my truck and I’ll give you a tow back to your place, sound good?
Jack: a-are you sure? I don’t wanna be a bother I was gonna call someone-
Cole: you’d be hard pressed findin signal out here… *looks up at the sky to see the sun setting slowly* and you really don’t wanna be out here after dark either…
Jack: …why not?
Cole: *looks him in the eye as if knowing what he’s seen* …Somethins real wrong with this place… *pats his arm* go on, hop in and I’ll get you home, Kay?
Jack: …s-sure… *climbs out of his truck and limps over to cassidys, watching over his shoulder the entire time to be safe that thing hasn’t pulled a fast one on him*
*a short drive later*
Jack: *quietly limping back inside after saying goodbye to his new friend, almost half tempted to run after him and beg him to let him stay with him instead, anywhere except here* … *sighs and turns on the light switch to see a message scrawled out on the wall in blood*
“GET. OUT.”
Jack: …LISTEN HERE ASSHOLE IM ALREADY IN CRIPPLING DEBT I CANT AFFORD TO LEAVE!!! SO EITHER FUCK OFF OR JUST KILL ME!!
*THUD!*
Jack: *Immediately crouches and shields his head with his arms as the lights suddenly go out* shit shit shit shit shi- *freezes looking at his feet to see two large cloven hooves behind them* … *slowly stands upright and shudders feeling hot breath on the back of his head and a body pressing in on his back*
Reaper: Do you know what I am?…
Jack: *sheepishly feels around behind himself and traces his fingers over curly and soft but oddly coarse fur* …A really ugly deer.
#overwatch#overwatch shitposts#cole cassidy#gabriel reyes#jack morrison#reaper76#reyes76#r76#demon!reaper
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Hello feooss!
Today is Sunday, September 3rd, 2023, I haven’t written since May. Humberto you just started the fall season of soccer and you’re actually liking it, it’s a pain in the ass for me, your dad isn’t very involved so it’s a bit stressful for me. I get off at 5pm rush home to get here by 5:30 and drive back to Anthem to make it in time for practice by 6pm, but you like it, and I think it’s good for you so I’ll do whatever it takes. You’ve also started Kindergarten, you’re first day was on August 7th, you’re not a fan of going to school. I try to motivate you but you just want to stay home and play. Your teacher is Ms. Perillo, and she’s awesome. Unfortunately dad hasn’t been around much, and there’s been a sad morning or two during this time. I dropped you off recently and you were sad that you hadn’t seen your dad in 2 weeks and I bawled my eyes out as soon as I got in the car. I wish I could make that better but I just can’t.
You’ve made some friends, Oakley and Greyson, you also go to school with 2 of your soccer teammates, he twins Grey and Grant. They’re also in Kindergarten. Now that’ you’ve made friends you barely touch your lunch, I can only assume it’s because you’re too busy talking. Stop talking and start eating little boy! You got punched in the eye by a little girl, Bobbie Martinez, because she was bullying your classmate Raven, you tried telling Bobbie that she was being rude and apparently she punched you. You forgot to mention it to me though so I assume it wasn’t as much of a “punch” as it sounds. I see how quickly you’re learning, and I’m so proud of you. More importantly I hope you’re proud of yourself. You recently volunteered me to bring snacks for your class “Pirate Booty” they’re puff chips, I’m so happy that you’re so confident in me that you volunteered me because to be honest I’m not even that confident in myself lol. This week we need to get you new cleats, your first game is on Saturday and we need you to be fast and comfortable to kick some ass! GO TIGERS FC!
Eva, where do I start with your bratty ass. You have so much sass and attitude! I am so amazed at your vocabulary, you’re the definition of 3 going on 13, and you’re fashion sense is unmatched, you have so much confidence, I hope you never lose it, and I hope you carry it forever, everywhere you go. I need to get you off the bottle because you have a strong emotional attachment to that “cold milk”. I have you on a waitlist for Gymnastics, it’s a bit difficult finding a gymnastics class that works with my work schedule and brother’s soccer schedule. I want you to try it and see if you like it. I think you’ll be good at it! The idea of dance is so cute, and girly but… I think in the long run gymnastics will be better. You’re a ball of energy, super independent, and very agile, and I want to take advantage of it. If gymnastics isn’t for you, we’ll try something else, but I’m not letting you fall behind on an extracurricular activity! You can count to 25 and you love to paint. You’ve got an artistic side, painting, coloring, singing, dancing, arts and crafts, doing your makeup and painting your nails! That’s what you’re into right now. You love all the Disney princesses and Minnie Mouse.
My little Beva, you have such a strong attitude, you’ve been getting in trouble a lot lately because Eva does whatever she wants even when I’ve told her not to. Parenting right now has been a bit challenging with you, you contradict me a lot! You’re very independent which sometimes leads to a little bit or a lot of a mess on your behalf. I know that attitude is going to get you far but right now I just need you to listen to mom a little bit more baby girl. You’re so easy to love, I’m the luckiest mom in the world to have you as my baby, both of you really. The hardest part is realizing that slowly you don’t need me as much anymore. I love seeing you grown but I also wish I could freeze time and keep you both this way forever. I know some day before I know it the stressful days of trying to get everything done for you both will be over, the mess will be less, and these baby faces and baby voices won’t be like this forever. I want to enjoy you as much as I can. There’s not enough time in the world to take you both in. I love you my babies, more than you can imagine, and I truly mean that. I love you forever.
Forever yours,
Mama
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Update
Hi - it’s been a while, hasn’t it?
I know I said I’d at least finish the requests I had before dropping off - my excuse is that, good god, this university year has been brutal. It’s just been a constant cycle of falling behind, and having to rush to catch up, because my tutors have been terrible at communicating how we’re supposed to approach various parts of our projects. I’ve been near-constantly stressed out/anxious about the idea of failing for months - so, as sad as I am to admit it, posting what remains on here wasn’t really at the forefront of my mind.
I’m afraid I still don’t have the time and energy to really come back yet (this uni year finishes at around the end of May) but I just wanted to let you all know that I haven’t disappeared off the face of the Earth, or anything!
Additionally, I do have just one thing to announce. There’s a oneshot on this blog which, while I love the idea behind it, I’ve come to really dislike how I actually approached it (most notably the narration style). While there are a couple others I’ve also come to dislike for different reasons, this is one I’ve decided that I really want to rewrite - so today, since I’ve found myself in desperate need of a break from uni work, I’ve started doing exactly that!
I can’t guarantee when it’ll be posted, though I have it mostly finished - I’m just going to give myself a little while to see if there’s anything else I want to change. Writing this has been easier than writing something from scratch, so it should be up soon! I don’t know how many people are still paying attention to this (version of the) character, but I hope they enjoy it. c:
That’s about all I’ve got, for now. I know this year’s been rough in a lot of ways so far, but apart from that, I hope it’s been treating you all well. And don’t be afraid to drop by to say “hi” whenever you want - I’m still active on the main blog that this one’s attached to, so I should see the notification.
I hope you all have a good day!
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Creepy Woods and Connection Shit
What is it about creepy woods that makes me feel so much? The feeling of a place that should be scary but totally isn’t. The feeling of fear being defeated. The feeling of being someplace empty and scary with Atom and somehow feeling completely safe and not alone. To be where you should only feel scared and alone, and not feeling that way at all because of a person who’s there with you. Someone to be with you in the loneliest, darkest places you could ever be in. That’s love. So creepy woods makes me think of love.
And the idea of being someplace beautiful and feeling love seems harder and further away to me. It’s probably been a long time since I’ve felt that way. But loved in a scary place? That’s the last way I ever felt loved anyway. It’s been so long since a place wasn’t scary to me.
So that means I associate love with fear. When I think of fear I think of love and vice versa. If only feeling loved cures my fears, then in my mind, that means fear is the biggest threat to love. They’re linked.
I have a problem attaining and retaining people/things I love. But I think that’s imagined.
When I think of the things I want and the things I love, I immediately feel fear. Because I know they’re so connected.
I always feel both and I prefer the ones that come with the least fear.
I’m on the couch with Susie on the other reclining side and Ruby pressed up against me laying with her face on the reclining part.
What am I afraid of with people? That I’ll lose them before I get them or I’ll get attached and THEN I’ll lose them.
PYUN
I commented this on a Facebook post for the director Albert Pyun since he’s apparently near the end of his life. So sad.
Albert, I very clearly remember my older brother showing me Cyborg when I was (way too) young. The opening shot of the bridge with the incredible narration, the door busting open to reveal a dirty, devastated city street, the shot of Fender and his gang approaching with the fire behind them - I’ll never forget the beginning of this movie. It will always be the first thing I think of when I imagine living in some sort of post-apocalyptic world. More than Road Warrior or the future war from Terminator, this familiar landscape turned terrifying is always what I picture it being like. The movie captured the despair of a world so dark, but carried a feeling of lawless freedom and how amazing love would be in a world that’s otherwise joyless. Maybe you didn’t intend any of that, but I always felt it!
Some years ago I was lucky enough to finally see Nemesis, which I had always enjoyed the ads for when I was young, but had somehow never seen it. I was immediately in love with the mood of the movie, the amazing broken down locations, the kinetic camera work, the larger than life characters, the impressive stunts, and your ability to take any location and make it (and the people in it) look cool and way more expensive than it probably really was. Nemesis is a mix of so many things I love, fueled by pure imagination.
I’ve read that you haven’t been able to finish some recent projects, but I hope you realize that you’ve already done great work that you should be proud of. I certainly would be if I had your filmography, if I had brought these movies into the world. People will love your movies for decades and beyond. Your movies will make people’s days and nights, they’ll show them to their friends and marvel at the characters and stories Albert Pyun dreamed up. People will love your movies forever, or at least until the future of Cyborg becomes a reality. And even then, if someone finds a copy of Nemesis in the rubble of the old world, it would become a treasure. An artifact from the time when giants like Albert Pyun walked the earth.
DENZEL
Just desperately wants to be in Goodfellas or something and be part of that crew and it’s completely insane that that’s difficult. Denzel with De Niro and Scorsese? That would be fucking insane and I can’t believe it hasn’t happened.
DOORS
Door closed means I’m not welcome. I believe I have to respect that. In recent years I’ve felt so many doors close in my face that I started closing my doors instead. Beating them to it. Peeled the bandaid off. When I have a problem with someone I worry about the door closing.
It wasn’t just that Atom drinking hurt me, it’s that him exhibiting the exact behavior I was against made me feel unwelcome. His behavior told me “you don’t belong here.”
I’m lonely. But I don’t wanna let anyone in and I don’t wanna ask if I’m welcome anywhere else.
CONNECTION
I feel incomplete. I feel loved when I’m connected. When I’m in sync with someone else. That’s why Susie or anyone else not meeting me in the middle on even small, unimportant things really fucks me up. I don’t feel comfortable on my own. I feel broken, empty, incomplete.
THE 99
I had fun being goofy at the 99 with Susie. What a silly, basic chain restaurant. She suggested going out for once and I suggested the 99 and it was as funny as we expected. People were doing trivia.
I’m sad all the time because I’m always trying to not think about the fact I lost Atom. I’m literally always sad about it and I’ve been this way since about 2018 when I realized it was gonna happen. That’s when I knew.
I’m always trying to be the person who didn’t need Atom’s love rather than the person who earned it. I forget that I’m not strictly the “person who didn’t need it.”
I feel sad, broken, and alone. And I have since 2018 and I’ve been working myself insane to avoid feeling this way. To deny it. To pretend I’m fine. To try to be Bond, John McClane, Jack Slater. But I’m not, I’m devastated and I’m broken. And I can’t believe it. I was supposed to never feel this way again. Because I was supposed to have Atom.
Growing up I felt like I had almost everything I needed. I had Atom to be my friend and brother, I just needed a girl. A partner. I just needed to be a boyfriend or husband as well as a brother. Then I thought I had both and it blew up. I just wanted both.
Now I don’t have Atom and sometimes I don’t even fully feel like I have Susie (not her fault, mine). I just feel so broken. What would I say to Atom if I could?
I miss you so much. Some days I don’t see the point in going on with such a lonely path ahead of me. But that’s the worst thing I could do to you. Throw away everything you’ve given me. And I need to believe that I’m NOT broken.
What would I want you to do if I had died? I’d hope you still love me forever. I’d hope you’d miss me but I’d want you to move on and be happy and alive and keep me alive within you. To remember me and the times we had and treat people well and show everyone how amazing you are. To enjoy your life. To realize you didn’t need me but I was so glad you thought you did. At least for a while. I’d want you to move on and keep fighting and I would legitimately WANT you to make your life even better than it was because I wouldn’t want to hold you back. I’d want you to have a happy life, full of everything you ever wanted. As long as you still loved me and missed me, and wished I was still with you, that’s all I’d need. Otherwise I’d want you to move on and live the most amazing life, the beautiful life you deserved.
And if it was me who died, I certainly wouldn’t have blamed you. I just would’ve wished I got to say goodbye and I would be so heartbroken I wouldn’t get to see you again and I’d feel bad for leaving you. For leaving you on your own. There would be no anger. No bitterness. I’d just miss you. I’d just hope you were okay.
Alright. I’ll try. But I’m gonna stop pretending I’m okay.
PAIN
I think I’ve been struggling because low self esteem is about avoiding pain. And I’ve been through so much pain over the last 5-6 years. Things I always believed were my best decisions, have also brought me so much pain. And I guess I don’t know how to handle that. Because I refuse to believe some of these decisions were mistakes.
But maybe that’s just the way it is. All the best things come with pain. It will always be a trade off. That’s not to say that some things won’t be easier than others. But no matter how easy, your greatest love will also be your greatest loss. Or you’ll be theirs.
I guess I just need to reframe my concept of pain. Because my hatred of it is what holds me back. My fear of pain.
What is the pain that I’m carrying around everyday? Let’s think through it.
I’M NOT WHAT I WANTED TO BE BY NOW. What specifically about that bothers me? That I feel like a failure and that I think everyone else can see it. But no one is aware of the full extent of my dreams but me. Other people don’t look at me and see me as a failure, they don’t think of me now in comparison to what I wanted to be. Only I do. And how miserable about that am I really? Eh. I guess I’m okay with it. I just hope I get to finally be comfortable in my body and make cool shit at some point. I’m not exactly upset that I haven’t done all that already, I’m just getting scared that I’ll never reach that point. I have control over that though. So remember those two things: you STILL CAN reach those goals if you want to, and NO ONE BUT YOU is looking at you and thinking you’re a failure.
I FAILED (AND LOST) ATOM. I didn’t fail him, although I realize I’ll probably always feel that way, he was my best friend and brother and we were supposed to look out for each other. But I DID look out for him, despite how much damage it did to me, our relationship, and my relationship with my friends and family. I fucking tried. I tried even though it was deeply painful. I tried to keep our relationship good while also trying to be a disruptor of his unhealthy lifestyle. An incredibly difficult balance. I tried to get other people to help me, and they failed that challenge, not me. Even if I DID fail Atom, I didn’t fail him as much as most other people in his life did. Also (and I apologize for this), I didn’t fail Atom as much as he failed himself. I’m sorry, I hate saying that but it’s true. And it’s a good point, because even though Atom failed to look out for himself, I know he did try and just didn’t have the proper tools. I don’t judge him for it, it doesn’t make me look down on him, it doesn’t make me think less of him or love him less. I just wish he had pulled through, pulled it off. Just like I wish I had. I guess it’s okay. There’s no true positive to a tragedy like this and it will always be a tragedy in my life and that makes sense. This is the hardest pain to work my way through but that’s by design. I love(d) Atom with all my heart and short of him deciding to fight for his future when it could’ve made a difference, there’s no way this was gonna have a happy ending. It’s just a tragedy. It is what it is and my pain makes sense.
NO FAMILY UNITS. This sucks, and the pain is completely reasonable, but I need to remember a few things: everyone failed me more than I failed them/myself. And that failure is a reflection on them, not me. I’ve always worked super hard to keep units together. Always. It’s not my fault if other people aren’t willing to invest as much as me. I want more, and I deserve more. I just need to find new units and I need to believe in them and believe I’m deserving of them. I deserve more and I can find more in this world. Stop blaming yourself for other people’s limits. And Scott and mom aren’t going anywhere. They don’t want to lose me either. Remember that.
I FEEL LIKE A FAILURE. Failure is fine, the problem is not learning from it. And just because you HAVE failed, that doesn’t mean you always WILL fail.
SO WHAT PAIN IS REAL? That you lost your best friend and brother. That will always be painful and it would be fucked up if it wasn’t. I’m allowed to be upset that things aren’t as I hoped they would be by now, but that’s not an indicator of my worth, and those things are still on the table. If I was truly miserable and unsatisfied with my life, I would’ve completely changed it by now, so obviously I technically like my life.
GREEN DAY THOUGHTS
Green Day makes me want to live. I always forget that. I forget that they were kinda the first thing I found “on my own.” The first thing that was just for me. No one showed them to me, no one suggested them, no one I knew liked them, they just connected with me perfectly. Their sound, their look, the visuals of their videos, their vibe, the subject matter of their songs. There’s a part of who I am that connects with all that better than anything and I always forget that. They kinda bring me back to a time when I felt like a whole person on my own.
Still Breathing is a pretty cool song too. Definitely about deciding to live again, and I should remember it when I need it. Not sure if BJ meant it this way, but it’s a valid point that “I’m still breathing on my own.” I’m keeping myself alive. I am capable of sustaining my own life, no one else is making me breathe, I am doing that all by myself.
HEAVEN AND HELL
Are metaphorical concepts from the dawn of time that humans have stupidly made literal. I’ve been in hell for years, and lately it’s been self-imposed hell. Suffering.
Your “sins” are whatever you did to end up in hell. Whatever you did that led to your suffering. Loving someone. Whatever.
Then you have to pay for your sins. Learn from them so you can get back to “heaven” (AS IN: a place of happiness with loved ones). If you don’t learn the right lesson, you get stuck. If you think the answer is to not love people, you’ll be stuck. I’d you think you’re still supposed to be learning that you’re a fuck up, you’re gonna stay there. Those are the lessons I’m stuck at.
I feel guilty. I feel bad about putting mom in this little space and I’ll feel bad either way. Either I force her to cram a kitchen in there or I force her to live without a kitchen.
And I’m worried that this will be like Atom’s hair. The flat out no. The impossible situation.
I’m wracked with guilt. Guilt that dad and Atom are dead and I get to keep living. That I may have a good life even without them. That I may be happy again. Guilt about moving mom and taking her house with Atom’s money. About being happy or doing well because of something getting worse for my family.
My actions have involved so much suffering that I don’t feel capable or deserving of happiness. It seems impossible to me. Even if I end up happy somehow, it’ll be at the expense of someone else and there goes my happiness. Guilt.
Food and movies are the only forms of joy I feel both capable and deserving of. Everything with any sort of resistance, I see as either beyond my reach or beyond my worth. That’s why I want an easy yes. I don’t wanna fight for something because that tells me I don’t deserve it.
Why do I always feel so guilty? Guilty as in responsible for pain. Either mine or someone else’s. I just always feel like I’m responsible for pain. Anywhere from annoyance to anguish, anywhere from myself to a stranger I talk to for 10 seconds. I just feel like I’m a dark cloud. Something just going around and spoiling things. Failing to do the right thing, easily succeeding in doing the wrong thing.
I think I haven’t been drawing because it feels weird to sit down and draw in a world without Atom. It feels wrong to be able to enjoy that when he can’t. Because I watched him do it and thought “I wanna do that.” He was my first hero. How can I draw when I lost my original inspiration to do it? Just seems fucked up. EDIT: It’s because I no longer see it as something that will get me connection and I’m having trouble finding a reason to do it for myself.
I’m glad I’m playing guitar and singing more though. This was always really therapeutic for me.
HAPPINESS
I think the problem in simplest terms is that I don’t believe I’m deserving or capable of happiness. If I DO achieve happiness, it’s at the expense of someone else. If happiness is available and no one would be harmed in the process, I fail to attain it.
Had a long talk with Susie. She’s right. I need to stop carrying the responsibility for other people’s pain, they’re not carrying responsibility for mine, even when they should.
I think it really comes down to this: I finally stood up to people. Said no when they wanted me to say yes. Fought for what I thought was right no matter how hard, and not only did Atom still die, but my family and Dan never joined me in the fight and still haven’t even acknowledged that I WAS doing the right thing and was doing it alone without proper support.
It feeds into my belief that fighting for myself/what I think is right will always blow up in my face. That it’s not worth it. That advocating for myself or the greater good just isn’t a good idea. I really wish I had won that one.
But instead I should look at it like this: I had my Captain America moment. All odds were against me, I was on my own and I still got up, dusted myself off, and kept fighting. I should always remember that about myself: I kept fighting. I didn’t tell people what they wanted to hear afterwards, I didn’t go backwards, I stuck to my fight and that is brave. It’s not about winning, you won’t always win. It’s about fighting anyway.
THE VOID IS NORMAL
Get comfortable with the void inside me. Because without Atom, it’ll always be there to some extent. Because he’s irreplaceable.
That’s the problem. I socialize to connect. To fill the void. And that’s tough. Instead, I should look at it like a normal person: “eat something, play some games, catch up and see how people are.”
HE FOUND SOMEONE
I think Atom died happy. He did find love and he died with it in his life. We’d both been avoiding saying goodbye over the last few years because I think we both saw it coming. That last day we saw each other, we were both avoiding saying it. I think during that phone call, we were trying to make sure we said the bare minimum just in case. At least say the important things: that I was sorry, I was happy for him, I supported him and wanted to catch up. That he was happy, that he supported me doing what was right for me, that he wanted me to draw more because I was good. That we loved each other. In a lot of ways, it makes sense. It seems like we knew somehow.
YOUNG SUSIE
Susie sent me this picture of her from a few years before we met. She’s drunk at her apartment in New Bedford with Dave and she’s so beautiful. She’s the living definition of love in a hopeless place, someone so beautiful and alive, surrounded by darkness. She’s like a True Romance character. Oh my god that’s how I see our relationship in a lot of ways. She’s Alabama and I’m Clarence. She’s the beautiful, strong, funny, determined girl who has survived so much and I’m the movie nerd who works at the comic book store and can’t believe she loves me and is willing to do anything to earn and protect that love. NOTE: Susie if you read this, I hope you see it as a compliment. I certainly mean it that way.
I think I saw True Romance and thought it was the most romantic thing I had ever seen, for whatever reason. That’s what I’ve always wanted I think. I think Susie may have been looking for Sandy and Kirsten from the OC (although she’s way better than Kirsten and I’m not quite to Sandy’s level yet but I’m working on it).
BEING BETTER
Do what you would do if connection wasn’t an option and disconnection wasn’t a punishment. I should find a physical activity I enjoy like boxing or rock climbing.
Growing up, I got to skip getting used to being alone because of Atom. So I’m resistant to the feeling. I hate the temptation of being around people but I’m removed from the “gamble” if I’m alone.
I’m obsessed with connection. I look at everything in terms of it.
Take connection out and focus on your other goals.
The things I want to do are the things I most associate with feeling connected: eating and watching things. Those activities have always worked for me so I go to them.
That’s why I always want Susie to want the same thing as me: so we can connect. That’s why I’m less interested if only I want something. I need to share. Because I was terrified of the world and having Atom showed me how much better and less scary the world is when you’re truly connected. So I only wanted that. I never had to get used to that kind of soul death that prevents you from having that spark of life. I got to feel alive and large because I had support. Settling for less is really hard.
But Atom and I knew we were disconnecting. Me because I was moving forward and wasn’t willing to adjust my path, him because he was standing still and didn’t believe he was able to catch up to me. It’s not that he thought what I said was wrong. It’s that he didn’t think I understood how hard it was from his end. He agreed with me though. We were both reeling from what was happening and trying to make each other understand. We wished the other understood. That’s why we lost each other. What was happening to me was happening to both of us.
My definition of happiness is sharing it with someone else. I don’t really know how to be happy on my own.
THAT’S when I felt most loved by mom: at dinner. She showed me love with food and paid attention to me and listened to stories about my day and I got to share the experience with Atom. When I couldn’t get that “full family” connection I ate and watched TV instead of sitting at the table.
I think I hated being alone. I was fine with keeping myself company but I didn’t like being alone in general. So when I WAS alone I focused on doing things I could ONLY do alone: masturbating, eating junk food. I always wanted to be connected. I hated getting my own room and no longer sharing with Atom. Then I started having nightmares and always wanted to sleep with mom and dad. My cat Flash was an attempt to make me feel less alone. I hated being alone. And I guess I still do.
And connection is like anything else: you have to realize you can’t have it all the time. You have to realize it’s supposed to be a bonus. Not a requirement of life. I mean, you need it, but it’s not like air. You don’t need it every second or you’ll die. You need it like you need food. You need enough to sustain your life but if you overdo it, you run into problems. A treat here and there is fine but excess causes problems. It’s different when you have a family because the whole family needs to connect in order to sustain that lifestyle. It’s mutually beneficial so you’re meeting a need and odds are you’re not doing it alone. The load is getting carried. My brain sees connection as life sustaining so I treat it like I treat food, which I treat like it’s air.
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Sugar, Spice, and a Heart to Entice
AKA: Jango Fett speedruns a romance with someone who should be his enemy. (It's okay. We know he makes bad choices.)
Note: Ahsoka uses the pseudonym "Ashla" in this fic.
Warnings: slavery, references to drug use, crude sex jokes, undressing of an unconscious person (for medical reasons)
----
The girl that they shove into the chains next to him is... worrying.
(Well, probably a girl--he'll adjust later if it turns out he's wrong.)
She's not that much younger than him, he thinks. It's hard to tell, with the way her skin is taut over muscle and bone, too little water and too little sleep, and probably not enough food for whatever labor she's been doing. He's also, admittedly, not great at gauging ages in the first place, and certainly not for Togruta. Still, he thinks it's safe to say that they're close in age, and that she's probably younger than him.
She's lucky, by some measure. The spice ship is terrible, but it's probably better than the fate tog girls are usually subject to in this industry. They're hazardous conditions, and violent ones, but Jango's yet to see a slave here stripped of their clothing for anything other than a whipping.
He thinks it's probably a matter of money. That kind of violation lowers the profit margins, he imagines. Spice is more lucrative than anything, and pain is a better motivator than... well.
So she's lucky, by that measure, and that measure alone.
They clap her in bindings before he even sees her, even though she's unconscious, and bring her sometime in the night cycle. Jango doesn't have a lot of pity left in him, but some goes out to her. He won't say she's too young for this, because nobody is ever old enough for slavery, nor do slavers have any compunctions about selling babes in arms, but Jango would wager she's already led a hard life.
She's fairly covered, but what little is visible shows enough old battle wounds that he can't imagine she's stayed off of battlefields. He knows how to read a Togruta's markings for stress history, too, and hers tell a story. Her facial marks are thin and delicate, and he'd say they're certainly more complex than the average; the striation on her lekku and montrals is thin and jagged, like marble. It's pretty enough, but it's also a sign of the fact that her life has likely been anything but easy. Some of it might be genetics, and he hopes it is, but with the scars he can see... he doubts it's much.
"Keep that one alive," the overseer orders, eyes on Jango and hand gesturing at the tog girl.
He leaves.
Jango isn't sure what they're hoping to get out of putting her with him. The room is built for four, yes, but they usually don't try to have anyone share with Jango. Maybe they ran out of room, or just assumed Jango was the most likely to know field medicine, or just figured there wouldn't be any trouble until she woke.
As he gets closer, his confusion grows. The tog's got burns all over, ugly ones that aren't going to heal cleanly without bacta. They're going to get infected, as likely as not. He hasn't got much besides water in here, but the overseer's left behind a box of what looks like bandages. If he's lucky, there's burn cream in there.
(He's not lucky.)
He works slowly, careful of every movement. He builds up a story in his head as he does, based on the wounds he finds and what he starts to notice of the clothing. He can't see all the details, not in what little light he has, but there's plenty to notice.
He hadn't realized, with how dim it is, but most of what she's got on as an outer layer is hardened leather, real leather, not synth. There are attachment points for armor at the shoulders and hips, and he thinks he sees signs of wear for vambraces and greaves. She's no Mando'verde, not with how he can see that the fabric at her torso and upper legs is intended to stay light and flexible and uncovered, but the crafting of the leather layers is familiar. He thinks she might have contacts among Mando armorers.
She might even wear beskar, if she's impressed the right person.
The wounds are recent, and unfamiliar, and he thinks she was probably fought into chains, rather than bought in them. She's a captive, not a purchase, or maybe... maybe they just found an unconscious woman, and decided that she was worth keeping.
He thinks she lost a fight, or won but with great injuries, and just... stumbled off and collapsed. He gets the feeling no one on board the ship could have fought this woman, except for himself. It's not based on much, not until he can see her move, but he's got good instincts for that sort of thing.
Jango keeps his assessment of her torso quick and clinical, not even bothering to mentally apologize for stripping her bare. This is medical, and he's not a doctor, not even a field medic, but he's professional nonetheless. Even though there's nothing in the box but bandages, not even the burn cream he'd hoped for, he'd still rather know if there's a broken rib to worry about. He doesn't want to wait for her to wake up and then find out she's got a punctured lung, even if he can't do anything about it. He finds bruising, but... he thinks that if anything is broken, it's hairline at most.
Lucky, he thinks again, in the unluckiest situations.
She doesn't wake that cycle. It's all he can do to get some water in her, dripped into her mouth in a trickle, but it's something.
----
When the Togruta girl wakes up, it's sudden. Jango is wiping down her lekku with a wet cloth in hopes of staving off a fever, kneeling next to the bunk. She opens her eyes, stiffens with a sharp breath, and then twists off the bed. Before he's fully processed this, her legs are up and around his neck, and then he's being wrenched to the side and onto the filthy ground, cheek grinding down into the grit. He feels a bony knee press into his spine, and the growl of a predator.
"Where am I?" the tog girl demands.
"Spice ship," he says, and oh but this place has ruined him for fights; he's having trouble breathing from whatever she's done to him, and she doesn't even have the use of her hands. "Deep space. You're in the slave cells. Don't mess with the collar, it'll explode if you try to remove it."
"Spice refinery?" she repeats, sounding completely baffled. He gives her a second to process, but she blindsides him. "Someone got me in their hands and they went for spice slavery?"
"As opposed to..." he really hopes she gets off soon.
She doesn't answer him immediately, and he can't get a look at her face. He gets his arms out to the sides, plants them to the floor, and shoves back. She doesn't fall off, but she does slide to the side to sit on the floor.
The expression she's got is best described as 'shell-shocked,' he thinks.
"You don't know me," she says, faint and confused. He shakes his head; he's pretty sure he'd have recognized her if he'd known her at all, given the time he's spent cleaning her wounds and trying to keep her alive. She laughs, breathless and a tad hysterical. "You don't--fuck. You don't know me. That's... great. Okay. Okay, I can work with that. Don't know how they missed it, but okay."
"Bounty on your head?" he guesses.
She smiles, thin and unpleasant. "Something like that."
"Thought as much. You're built like a fighter." He intends it as a compliment, but he doesn't think she takes it as one.
"I've never had a choice otherwise," she says, and when she next looks around, it's to find a place to sit. She pushes herself up to the thin mattress of the cot behind her, and Jango mirrors her on the cot across the room. It's not his bed, technically, but it's not like there's anyone to complain. She frowns at him; it's not a rude look, he thinks, but an attempt to put something unfamiliar in place. "What legion were you with?"
He blinks at her. He's been part of an army, but never one that big. "Legion?"
"Were you with special forces?" she tries again. "Or--wait, did you even get off Kamino before--"
"I'm not whoever you think I am," he tells her. "None of that means anything to me. I know what a legion is, but I've never had reason to be part of one."
"But you're..." she trails off, brow furrowed. "I guess just a similar face, then."
"To who?"
"The clones?" she hazards, as if that clears anything at all up. "I have no idea where we are; maybe the war holos never made it out far enough for you to know what they looked like..."
"Which war?" he asks, because he feels like he'd probably have heard of a war that used clones, especially one that had enough holos spread around for this woman to expect him to know what the clones in question look like.
"The... the clone war," she says hesitantly. "With the Separatists?"
None of that means anything to him.
It must show in his face, because her brow furrows, and her eyes go wide in a way he doesn't like. He can't tell if her skin's losing color or anything, but he's pretty sure the curl at the tip of one lek is a sign of anxiety. He's not sure how to help, but part of him already decided he liked this woman, just on the suspicion that she was friendly to Mandalorians.
(It's been a solid year and a half since Jango has had anything approaching a friend. He may be, subconsciously, a little desperate.)
"What's your name?" she asks, voice pitching in discomfort, and tight as a garotte.
"Jango Fett."
She closes her eyes, clenches her jaw, and... he can't see, can't know if she's trembling, but he thinks she is. She lets her head fall back against the wall, and breathes in sharply. It's a shaky breath, and he doesn't like that much, either.
"Fuck," she repeats. "No wonder--fuck."
He gives her a few seconds, but she doesn't elaborate. He asks another question instead. "Do I get to know your name?"
Her eyes crack open, and then she sits up straight and looks him over. Her lips purse, and she comes to some decision, though he's at a loss for what. "Call me Ashla. She/her, if you'd rather stick to Basic."
Fake name. Alright. She mentioned a bounty, so it's probably about that.
"Well met, Ashla."
She laughs, empty and painful. She swears in a mix of Huttese and Mando'a, and a few languages he doesn't even recognize. The Core accent on her Mando'a is strong, but he thinks whoever taught her might have been from Concord Dawn.
"How old are you, if you don't--"
"I'm twenty-one," she says. He was right; she's only two years younger than him. "At least... fuck, okay. What's the date?"
He tells her, and she screws up her brow and mouths something to herself. He's not entirely sure what.
"How long ago was..." she trails off.
"Was what?"
She presses a hand over her eyes. "I don't know what year it is."
Ah. Well, he can help with that much. He tells her that, too.
Ashla drops her hand. She visibly mulls it over, eyes on the underside of the bunk above her. He has no idea what she's thinking.
"Why aren't there other people in this room?"
"Weak ones couldn't sleep because I'm 'too intimidating,' and the rest kept trying to throw their weight around." He shrugs at the look she points his way. "I'm not dumb enough to start a fight with a bomb around my neck, but I'm not letting someone knock me around so they can earn a reputation."
She purses her lips, but lets it lie. "You let me take you down, then?"
"You had the advantage of surprise," he says, and doesn't bother to list every other advantage. She's better fed than he is, has spent less time in spice-suffused air, was unconscious and resting while he was awake to keep an eye on her fever. He's got the feeling she already knows.
When she speaks again, it's low and in fluent Mando'a, heavily accented though it may be.
"You'd get out of here eventually," she tells him, eyes half shut. "But you'll get out faster with my help, Mand'alor."
His stomach twists.
----
"They are either very stupid, or very cheap," Ashla mutters a day later, when he's supposedly helping her change some bandages. It gives him the excuse of leaning in close.
"Probably the former," he says.
She grins, and then stiffens and hisses out a low breath as he pours some of the stolen whiskey over one of the burns. It's not a real disinfectant, but it's the best they've got at the moment. Jango still isn't sure how she managed to get it from the overseers without them noticing, but he's quickly gotten the gist that she's a fair shot sneakier than he is.
"What did they do?" he asks, and she huffs out a laugh.
"I need you to promise you won't try to kill me," she says, and he stills.
She seems to be waiting on his response. Great. "That's not an auspicious start, Ashla."
"Eh, I've survived more than my fair share of people trying to kill me. No offense, bro, but I could take you," she says.
She's probably right in their current circumstances. "Let's hear it."
"I left the Jedi Order when I was seventeen."
The whiskey bottle slips from his fingers.
An invisible hand catches it, and it settles quietly on the floor of their cell. No guards will come running. It's a damning sight, for him.
A Jedi.
A Jedi who--who left.
Jedi committed Galidraan, but she left three years before that, but she was--was--
She has her back to him, trusting.
Or just arrogant.
She phrased it that way on purpose, phrased it so he'd know she left before he--before--
"I was framed by my friend for a terrorist attack," she says, and he can't find his voice to tell her to stop talking. "And sentenced to death by a non-Jedi military tribunal for it. By the time they figured out I wasn't guilty, I'd already been kicked out."
He forces his hands to his knees, grips at the bones that are too close to the skin, and orders himself to breathe.
Ashla turns on the spot, blinks at him. "I'm telling you this because it's how we're going to get out."
"Your people killed mine."
"I wasn't a Jedi when Galidraan happened," she says. There's more she wants to say, he's sure, but she keeps the words locked behind her teeth. That might be a good thing.
"And I'm just supposed to trust you?"
"Only for long enough to get out of here," she tells him. She shrugs, easy as anything. She's done this before, maybe. "Trust me, I have plenty of reasons to hate you, too, but I'm a little more concerned about getting this ship taken into custody, and having all the slaves freed."
"And you can just... make that happen."
"I told you, they're either stupid or skint," she says, with that same disarming grin. "I had lightsabers on me, and they kept them on the ship. They haven't drugged me since I woke up. They put me in normal cuffs, Jango."
He hates the way his name sounds on her tongue.
He hates the fact that he sees her plan already.
"You don't even need me," he points out, resisting the urge to try to kill her here and now. He doesn't have his armor. He doesn't have weapons. He's good, but she's got the Force and thighs that can crush a bantha skull.
"I'm not exactly... legit," she admits with a grimace. "Once you're back in Mandalorian space, you at least have an identity. People that will give you a place to stay. A chain code."
"And you don't."
She smiles, brittle. "Give me a week to scope out what I need and get us out of here, and maybe I'll explain."
A week. Fine.
And once they're out of here, and he has a blaster and a meal and a good night's sleep, he'll handle her.
----
He hates the fact that he likes her, still. People had already noticed, even just one day in. The first time someone notices he's giving Ashla the cold shoulder in the workroom, they joke at him about her not putting out. He's known her one day, and they think--
He stops the thought in its tracks.
Jango doesn't start fights here, but he is tempted.
"Oh, he wouldn't dare," Ashla simpers, sweet as spun sugar. "I bite."
She smiles, every pearly white tooth on display. The fangs near glint in the light. She eyes the speaker, squeezes the tool in her hand. Her tendons strain, but the metal bends with a creak.
The overseer shouts for them to get back to work.
Jango steps closer to her, lets his elbows brush against hers, and glares off anyone that tries to get too close.
"I don't need protection," she mutters to him from the corner of her mouth.
"I keep my word," he replies, hating himself for it.
He said he'd have her back. He may hate what she is, but... she left the Order. She's not a Jedi anymore. If he thinks it enough, he can believe it.
----
There's always a camaraderie in shared suffering. Jango is aware of this, and he feels his fondness for Ashla grow against his better judgment. They're both slaves on a spice ship, and he can't change that. It makes him tolerate her more than he sensibly should.
She acts like a Mando soldier, sometimes. She's not at all like Haat Mando'ade, but she knows some of the jokes that Mandalorians grow up with. She walks like a woman used to beskar'gam. She knows a drinking song or two.
(They don't waste the whiskey. It's for injuries, not intoxication.)
"I had brothers, once," she tells him, late at night. "A lot of them. They had a Mandalorian parent, sort of, but he'd never seen fit to really... let them have the culture. I lost them all, mostly to slave chips, and a few to just normal deaths, but... I learned what I could about Mandalore, after, for their sake. In their memory."
It's not a terrible reason, he thinks.
"Irony for you to end up in chains, then," he mumbles, and she barks out a sharp laugh.
"Tradition, more like," she says, and explains before he can ask for her to keep talking. "My... teacher was born a slave, and I... have a suspicion he ended up back in chains after we lost contact. His teacher was enslaved at least twice that I know of."
"Shitty tradition," he says, because there's nothing else he can think of.
"Could be worse," she tells him. This time, she doesn't elaborate.
----
He likes her more than he should.
----
He likes her so, so, so much more than he should.
----
She steals datachips when nobody's looking, using the Force instead of her fingers. She wraps dismissal around her like a cloak to access computer terminals without anyone but Jango noticing. She slips spice into the drinks held by guards and overseers.
She moves through the ship like smoke, in the dim lights of the false night.
Someone notices. Someone always notices, in Jango's experience, but they have no idea who's doing it. They lock down the cells for the sleep cycle, turn down the temperature, leave all the slaves shivering in their beds.
He pulls Ashla into his cot without hesitation, fits their bodies together to conserve heat, and ignores the rest. They're both soldiers; there's no shame in survival for those like them. The lekku at her back drapes over his neck like a scarf, and he almost wants to laugh.
He's pathetic. His men would be so damn disappointed in him, sharing bunk with a Jedi.
"You're thinking too loud," she mumbles, shifting somehow closer. The chill clings, creeping in through the thin clothes and thinner blanket, but he feels like it's bearable with Ashla here.
----
When they enact the plan, it's so much quieter than Jango would have run it. Ashla holds his hands in the early morning, before anyone is awake, and smiles. When she closes her eyes, sinking into a light meditation, the collar around her neck just... comes apart. Nuts and bolts and curves of metal float about her like a wretched parody of the mobile hanging above an infant's crib, and then land quietly on the nearest cot. When she opens her eyes, hazy and distant, she looks at his throat, and frees him with a thought.
It's a heady thing, freedom.
"Come along, Fett," she goads, almost crooning the words, backing out of the cell with his hands in hers. Nobody is awake yet, or at least they shouldn't be. Her words curl in the air like something cloyingly too-sweet, and he's sure it's her way of trying to piss him off. It's only working a little. "We've work to do."
Said work involves slipping past guards with a Jedi's timing, commanding them to sleep with a whisper and a poke to the forehead, and drugging the ones that she claims are resistant to Jedi tricks. The work is, as such, mostly hers to do. They hide the bodies, but the alarm goes off by the time they get to the weapons locker.
That's fine, because the weapons locker is where they were headed.
"Oh, hell yes," she hisses through a grit-tooth grin, and a matched pair of lightsabers float to her. Jango turns off the energy field by the time they reach her, and she hooks them onto her belt. Beskar plating follows, exactly the pieces that Jango had guessed from wear and tear. It's real beskar, too, not even an alloy, and Jango doesn't ask the questions on the tip of his tongue. She straps it on in practiced movements, without hesitation and almost without thought.
"See anything better than what you got off the guards?" she asks him. "Or did they all take the best blasters for themselves?"
"The latter," he says.
(His eyes trace over the armor she wears, and while she does wear it well... he's jealous.)
(He misses his armor.)
(Envy is unbecoming of anyone, but he thinks he can be afforded a little leeway.)
There are people in the hall by the time they exit, a dozen blasters at the ready.
The people in the hall are... not a problem.
Ashla had called it the Sword and Shield maneuver, when walking him through her experiences working in a Mando/Jetii team. He'd laughed, because the saber was the shield. She'd smiled at him, and he'd cursed himself for it.
If he'd had his armor, they'd have been able to move forward as a pair of unstoppable monsters. As it stands, they're... still doing that, really, just a tad slower.
"You're a Jedi!" one of them shouts. "You're supposed to be diplomats! You're not supposed to kill!"
Jango could laugh at that horrible, horrible lie.
"I am no Jedi," Ashla says, and the words cut through the air like something she's said a million times, and will say a million more.
Jango could do a lot with that line, tucked away in his memories for later.
There's a moment, though, where they're stuck at one end of a hallway, and the door to the bridge is just on the other side, and Ashla grins at him, a challenge in every inch of her body, and asks, "You wanna see something cool?"
He can't help it.
"You planning to show off, Jedi?" He can say the word without flinching, and it's... absurd. It's absurd. What in all the hells is she doing to him?
(He's been told that war makes for strange bedfellows, but he's long known that trauma does the same.)
He takes cover when she moves, and oh, does she move.
Ashla's a whirlwind, dangerous as anything and beautiful in her careful, precise violence. She knocks people out, more often than not, but there's more then one dead body left in her wake. It appeals to something in him. She flips and twists and throws people with the Force. She slices and kicks, and smacks people across the face with the blasters she lifts of their comrades. She headbutts at least two people, and then jumps to bounce off the ceiling and back down so she can land feet first on an enemy.
He hopes he'll get his common sense back when he's had time to put himself together, because the sight of those sabers doesn't make him flinch. After all he's been through, after all his nightmares, it really should. The sound alone should have him shivery and shooting.
Maybe there's just too much spice in the air.
A head drops to the floor in a different direction from the body it had previously been attached to. Jango's throat goes dry in response.
When Ashla stands at the end of the hall, a saber in each hand and the floor behind her littered in both bodies breathing and bodies bereft of life, she looks back at him over her shoulder. She deactivates her swords, and smirks. She's smug, and she makes smug look very, very good.
"So," she says. "Verdict?"
Fuck.
----
The bridge is easy enough to handle. They land the ship on a Republic planet, one with relevant authorities and at least some reputation for actually handling things with a degree of kindness and transparency. Ashla does the talking, letting Jango lurk behind her. She lies.
"Half-truths," she later tells him, in a low voice. The smile she wears is amused and self-assured, just a twist at the corner, and the slightest of pouts. He can't see it, when she leans in to murmur in his ear. "I certainly used to be a Jedi. They don't need to know this wasn't an officially-sanctioned infiltration."
Her breath hits lightly against his ear, and he wants--he wants--
"Have a comm code for any old friends?" Ashla asks, stepping away. Her face twists unpleasantly. Frustration, he's sure. "I've got credits, but no contacts."
He eyes the little pack she's got around her waist. "Stole that from the slavers?"
"We'll consider it payment for services rendered," she tells him, with an impish grin Jango wants to kiss off of her face, because apparently he's kriffing suicidal and wants to bed a Jedi. "I'll give you most of it, if you want. Call it the two years of backpay they owed you."
He snorts before he can stop himself. "Just one year, sorry."
"Oh, it's hazard pay," she insists, blinking innocently. "Dangerous conditions having been what they were, of course."
She presses a comm--probably also stolen--and a few credits into his hand, then loops her arm through his. She sets off at a lazy walk, ignoring the people who stare at them with distaste and disgust. "We'll find a hotel. We'll shower, with real water, and fancy soaps, and a little sonic just for the clothes. I'll run out and get you a basic outfit, and then we can go shopping, and once that's done, and you've had a chance to comm a companion, we can reunite you with your buddies, and you can go hunting for your armor, and I'll split and--"
"Stay."
She tilts her head at him, though she doesn't stop walking, and he feels his face burn. He hopes it's not visible. She hums lowly. He can't learn anything from it. "You hate Jedi, though, and I might not really be one anymore, but I'm still more Jedi than not."
"You wear beskar and speak Mando'a," he says. "You helped the Mand'alor. You're halfway to being one of mine already."
"One of yours, huh?" she mutters, eyes somewhere distant. He doesn't know what it is that she's seeing, but he's gotten used to it. "Alright, let's have this conversation again after you've had some sleep and clothes and a good meal, yeah?"
He can take that compromise.
----
"What do you mean, you're from the future?!"
#Jangosoka#time travel#Jango Fett#Ahsoka Tano#slavery tw#drugs tw#Phoenix Posts#I wrote this on a whim a few days ago but didn't get it edited until today#anyway have a nonsense
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24 Candles
Pairing: Jungkook x Reader
Words: 2.6K
Summary:
A smutty, 24-hour diary of Jungkook's 24th birthday.
Also, Jungkook has feelings.
You play with JK’s butt in this one. Find butt-free fics:
Here Here Here or Here
Tags/Warnings:
SMUT, BUTT STUFF, Happy Birthday to the LOML, 50 shades of JK, dom!JK, sub!JK, oral sex, quickie sex, desperate sex, unprotected sex, creampie, spitting, spit kink, conversational sex, butt plugs, toys, JK is deep and complex, JK has feelings, y/n is very in touch with JK’s emotions, strength kink, body worship, JK loves ARMY, JK loves you, fluff, angst, painstakingly canon compliant, not beta-read, trying to tame my shame but, WOW, also I am deviant trash.
*****
03:57 AM
You awaken to moonlight blinking through the living room curtains. The sound of a bag dropping and feet shuffling wake you where you lay on the couch.
He comes around to you right away. He kneels down to the floor beside you and pushes his forehead against yours. He leans up to kiss you as you take in his familiar scent.
“I told you not to wait up,” he scolds, gently. Seeing where you’d set up camp to wait for him to come home in the living room.
“I didn’t wait. I fell asleep,” you reply, coaxing yourself into awakeness. You look at the clock, almost 4 am.
“Happy Birthday,” you whisper and kiss his forehead.
He doesn’t say anything. He just leans into your neck for a greedy inhale.
“You smell good,” he says, hovering above you and squeezing your waist at his words.
You giggle at the tickling sensation on your neck. “Aren’t you tired?”
Still kneeling by the couch, his hands glide up under your loose sweater. He grips hard, pulling at your nipples with both hands. He latches his mouth to one of them and pulls his lips away until it pops.
“I was,” he says, dark and low. On his knees and pressing you to the couch, he sinks teeth to your neck, promising a mark.
You’re taken a bit aback at his rough nature but remember it’s been a few weeks, he’s probably pent up. His pace reminds you that you are too.
Soon, your gestures escalate from clumsy and quick to activated muscle memory, moving in fast forward.
You urge him to remove his shirt and toss it across the room. You can hardly see his face but the moonlight reflects off of him. You feel him angle your hips at the edge of the couch, pull off your panties and watch his silhouette lean down between your legs. The sensation of his warm spit spills down your folds, caught only by his fingers sloppily pushing into your opening.
You shudder at the intrusion. He spits again, this time audibly and more, your body not quite caught up to where his mind is.
“Missed you, baby,” he mewls.
He sucks and licks and laps at you, reacquainting himself with your pussy after a long time away. He uses 2 fingers to rub a path over your clit before they sink inside you. He repeats this, over and over, satisfied little groans fall from his lips before he removes his fingers and leans up to kiss you, desperately. Tongues and teeth bang together while hurriedly you tug at his belt and free his cock.
You use the lowered fabric to pull him to the couch, mounting him. He slides you onto his length and you both groan.
You grimace being stretched open by him after so long. Strong arms smash your laps together, Jungkook pushing up and grinding into you.
“Did you miss me?” he pants, between thrusts.
You keep your rhythm, circling hips around his cock.
“I missed you, Jungkook,” you say, tugging back at his hair with both hands.
He chuckles, enjoying the sound of his own name. Your bodies continue to move tantrically, shaking and panting, skin slippery with sweat. Feeling your orgasm coming, you start bouncing on his lap, trying to take in more of him.
He leans back to watch you, hands on your hips. He watches as you envelop his cock with every thrust.
When he feels you pulse around him, he grunts and groans and spills inside. When you catch your breath, you stand on wobbly legs.
He’s exhausted. You can see the sleep taking over his body. You urge him to follow you to the bedroom to clean up and sleep.
1:48 PM
It’s nearly 2 and Jungkook is still fast asleep.
They always do this to him. They work him to the bone until he’s so spent, they can’t get another day out of him. By the time he gets home, he sleeps for days.
You mindlessly scroll on your phone, occupying yourself next to him. You’re just happy to be with him. His side of the bed is so often empty.
He finally stirs.
“Hey you,” you say, dropping your phone to the bed.
He lets out a groggy groan and looks at his watch. “Ugh. I’m sorry,” he says, regretful about how long he’s been asleep.
“Don’t be,” you say before kissing his lips and brushing hair behind his ear.
He’s tired but it’s more than that. He looks rough and truly worn out, his typical brightness is dulled.
“What’s on your mind?” you ask. Although, you already know.
He says nothing.
He was devastated when they cancelled the tour. He told you over the phone and you could tell he was upset when it happened but the toll it’s taken on him now, is apparent.
“I’m sorry,” you offer.
“It’s just…,” he starts and sits up, wringing his hands, emotions bubbling. “I’ve always been tired.”
You sit up and face him, setting your undivided attention. “Yeah?” you encourage.
“I’ve always slaved away on choreo. We’ve always been busy.” He looks off, wrapping his arms around his knees that are still tucked under the bed sheet. That compromise is… for them. But, now, I can’t even see them. I don’t know when I'll see them again. I miss them.”
It’s heartbreaking. All you can do is continue to listen, allow him an outlet for these feelings. He continues.
“It's like I don’t know what it's all for when it’s like this. I knew before, when we were performing, it was very clear.”
He shakes the emotions from his head. “Sorry, I'm in such a sour mood.”
“Shhh... “ you kiss his forehead. just wishing there was something you could do.
“Thank you for telling me. I wish I could help.”
“I know.” He grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours.
You change the subject. “What do you want to do today?”
He positions himself so you’re face-to-face, sitting on the bed. He takes a deep breath. “First, I think I'll go to the gym. Clear my head. I'll make it quick”.
You shrug. “Take all the time you need.” You know it helps him.
The both of you stand up by the same side of the bed.
“And then...I’d really like to lounge around here with you if that’s ok?”
“I like that idea,” you reply.
“Maybe we can order in and…”
He kisses your neck.
“mmm...What do you have in mind?”
He presses his open mouth to yours, pressing his tongue inside.
“Some of that,” he teases.
You stand to your tiptoes and wrap arms around his neck, not wanting to let him leave again.
“And what else, birthday boy?”
This question, he opts to simply hold you tight. He hugs your body tight against his, inhaling at your neck again, planting a kiss on your lips.
“Maybe some toys?” He aims his gaze at the bedside table.
Your stomach flutters. “If you’re up for it,” you reply with a raised eyebrow.
He kisses you once more and heads out the door.
When you hear the door close, you collapse, flat on the bed and stare at the ceiling. You always look forward to when he gets home. But then you have to catch up with weeks of emotion, wishing you could’ve been there for the duration.
You can really feel the awfulness now. He was devastated when they postponed it 2 years ago. Now, after 2 years of holding on to hope just to have it cancelled and all other performances postponed indefinitely? He’s heartbroken.
When it was canceled you silently celebrated, knowing you’d have more of him to yourself. It’s not worth it if he feels this way.
On the other hand… concerts haven’t been happening for 2 years but the boys stay busy with packed schedules.
He always says it’s not the same without them. Jungkook has always been a bit more attached to fans than any other member, leaving his family at such a young age. Without ARMY, he seems very lost.
4:00 PM
Jungkook returns home in better spirits, wiping sweat with a towel from his forehead. He pecks your lips, walking through the kitchen.
“I'll take a shower and be right back,” he says, sweaty hair, clinging to his forehead.
“Can I join you?” you offer, as he walks by.
“I'll be quick.” he says, continuing to the bedroom.
You try not to think too much of it and shower in the other bathroom.
By the time you get out, his shower has stopped running.
You dress for your introverts-night- in in one of his t-shirts and perfume, nothing else.
The delivery food comes, you set it up at the kitchen counter and pour drinks.
4:30 pm
When he hasn’t come out in over 20 minutes, you lean your ear to the bathroom door and knock, concerned.
“Are you ok?” No noise is coming from the bathroom except his voice.
“Yes,” he replies, calmly.
“Do you need help?” you ask.
“No!” he exclaims, immediately. “I’ll be out soon.”
You return to where you sit at the kitchen counter wondering what he's doing? Is he hurting himself?
He follows behind a few moments later, casually kissing your lips before he sits at a nearby barstool.
“This is a ton of food,” he comments.
You say nothing and he gestures to clink your drink glasses before he starts eating.
You watch as he silently ravages. It always went this way too. He’s starved when he comes home. Most of the time when he’s working, he avoids eating altogether or can’t find the time.
He relaxes. You eat, drink and have conversation. He’s in better spirits, having taken some time for himself and away from work.
He seems comfortable, but squirms slightly in his seat.
He’s TOO comfortable.
You have a sneaking suspicion, now. One that’s not tied to his tough feelings about a cancelled tour.
“What’s up with you?” You query.
“What do you mean?” he asks genuinely. “Like, what we talked about this morning?”
“No.” You scan him. “You look like you’re up to something. Like you’re hiding something.”
Your tone is more serious but you try no to be accusatory.
“It’s nothing,” he insists.
You nod. “Ok,” settling. You continue eating though, conversation is lulled.
Out of curiosity, you open the app on your phone. It shows the plug is powered on and the vibrations are off.
You turn the vibe on, Jungkook nearly stumbling on his barstool. You approach him and he grabs the phone from you.
“I knew it!” You kiss him, standing between his seated legs, then, pulling back with sudden realization.
“That’s what you were doing in the bathroom?”
“Yeah. What did you think I was doing?”
You shake the thought from your head. “You got yourself ready without me?” you whine, disappointed.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“That’s so hot,” you begin to kiss his neck, no longer thinking about food.
“Well, can we finish dinner?” he says, with a mouthful of food.
You’re embarrassed by your own haste. “Of course.” You sit down calmly, patiently, and allow him to finish.
“What?” He questions as you eyeball him.
“Nothing. Just letting you finish,” you reply, sincerely.
He laughs and drops his utensils. “What, you can’t wait? You’re such a horndog!”
You scoff. “And who’s wearing a butt plug at the dinner table?” you tease, approaching to get your hands on him again.
“It hasn’t even been in for_”
“_So I’ll finish getting you readyyyyyy,” you interrupt, nearly pouting.
You slide your hands up his thighs, standing between them.
He hides a smile, you know he’s already caved in. Then, he lifts you up and you wrap legs around his waist.
He carries you to the bedroom, dropping you to the mattress. He undresses.
“Let me see?” you whisper, sitting up.
He slides face down on the mattress, burying his face. Your gaze follows his body. You straddle his legs from behind, caressing his back and groping at his muscled ass cheeks.
You pull his shy legs apart to expose the toy. You let your fingers drag over it, tugging lightly.
“You did this for me?” you ask. Ideas of what he was doing to himself in the bathroom flood your horny mind.
He nods, still mostly into the mattress.
“So pretty, baby.” You tug at the plug, sitting tight inside. You use the manual switch to set the vibe on. The low setting, like he likes.
You move the toy slowly at first until it glides in with ease.
“Is this what you did?
“Yes,” he moans.
“When you had yourself bent over the bathroom counter?” you assume.
“Mm-hmm,” he verbalizes and You push faster. He bucks back against the toy and your hand, his hole finally sliding open.
You settle him to his back, pillow propped underneath his hips and continue sliding the toy in and out of him.
He’s sufficiently opened, looking perfect.
He lays with legs spread, knees bent, eyes fluttering closed with every pump of the toy.
He fumbles your hands and pushes it all the way in to hold it in place and shudders, taking exactly what he needs.
You work the toy a little harder now., twisting and turning it along his walls, pressing against his prostate. Sweat drips over his body. Cum drips down his shaft and onto his abs. You lap at the cum on his body, cock and balls bouncing with each pump of the toy.
You make attempts to stroke him with your free hand and use your mouth on him but he shudders away each time, too close.
You’re not even thinking about coming, entranced in how beautiful he is.
He rolls you to your side, bracing a hand on your hip and slides inside from behind. He sets a pace and squeezes his own cheeks together on every thrust, clenching around his toy.
He buries his face in your neck and whines, his arms wrapped around your torso, tight.
He rolls you over and fumbles on top of you to pull another toy from the side drawer, powers it on, and holds the bullet to your clit while he pumps into you.
Precious ‘ah’s’ fill the air when he comes, pushing into you deep, feeling vibrations through his prostate and lower body. You buck against him when you come, too, shoving the toy away when it’s too much, but letting the waves flow through you.
Your bodies slow and Jungkook pulls the overstimulating toy out of himself. You drape your legs over each other, bodies tangled, and doze again.
03:52 am
He’s already gazing at you when you wake up.
You yawn and stretch, taking a hand and running fingers through his hair.
“Were you happy when you found out?” he asks, plainly, about the MOTS tour.
“What?” you stutter, suddenly awake. Guilt surges through your body. You hadn’t properly considered how it would make him feel the first time you heard the news. It’s different now.
He must understand that. It’s different now.
“I don’t want you to feel this way,” you start. “ I would do anything if you didn’t feel this way.”
He nods. “I know.” He grabs your hands in his. “Were you happy?”
You hang your head. “Yes. At first.”
“Good.” he caresses your cheek, lifting your chin. “I’m glad you were happy.”
The both of you doze again.
#jungkook smut#jungkook thirst#jeon jeongguk#jungkook fic#jungkook fic recs#jungkook x y/n#jungkook x reader#jungkook drabble#jungkook fanfic#jungkook x you#bts smut#bts drabble#bts oneshot#jungkook oneshot#not beta read#quick write#jungkook x noona
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MY bully !!!
genre; smut | bully!sicheng x bullied!reader
wording; 2.2k
warnings; sadist sicheng, unprotected sex, virgin!reader, bulge kink, slight marking, bruises (?)
you don’t understand why your bully, dong sicheng would go so far to bully you. he would always make fun of you, pinch you, pull on your hair, make you trip or pour some sorts of liquid in your hair.
it seemed like he enjoyed seeing you hurt, his eyes would always twinkle every time he saw you tearing up.
you’ve tried telling principals and counselors about your issue with sicheng before but they couldn’t believe you. “sweet dong sicheng bullying? are you sure?” they’ll always say something alike those lines.
no one knew about you being bullied, his friends had no clue and you had no one to talk to, your parents were rarely home and when they were they were sleeping. you were just alone.
and here you were, in his house on the floor of his room sheilding yourself from him. you two were grouped as partners for a project, but you knew once he willingly wanted to be your partner it would be bad.
other students and your teacher thought it was nice of him to wanting to be partnered with the quiet girl but you knew once you’re both alone it would be hell.
“i said stand up!” he yelled raising his voice towering over you. his jaw clenched and fist tightened like he would beat you up harder if you don’t do what he says.
slowly standing up to your feet you backed away hitting the wall. your uniform messed up, a few buttons ripped out of your blouse almost showing your bra, your shoes lost somewhere in his house and hair messed up.
you cried silently, “p-please sicheng stop!” you screamed, hoping your please would stop him. knowing him, it just made him more of a sadist.
“why? so you could go back to being a fat slut in school?” he got closer to you and pulled your hair, a loud shriek coming out of your lips. “who the fuck is going to put you in your place but me?!”
“please stop! i’ll do anything you want! please..” you cried in his face as your scalp continues to sting. “anything?” he asked, his voice going deeper then it usually is.
“yes!” his grip he had on your hair fell, the sting becoming less stingy. you thought this was it. ‘no more bullying for me..’ you thought thinking you were victorious.
“take your shirt off.” he demanded. “what?” you thought you must’ve been hearing things. “i’ll just do it for you, you’re so disobedient.”
even if he was already close to you, he came closer. his hands going up to your blouse to unbutton your shirt. “s-sicheng what are you doing..” you asked slapping his hand away from your shirt.
it wasn’t a good idea to do that since you saw his hand raise up and a huge sting went to the side of your face, he had slapped you. it’s not like he hasn’t done it before but it would always have you shocked every time he did it.
“do you want me to go back to beating you up?!” he screamed in your face. you shook your head as a couple of tears began to fall off your face.
“then shut up!” he yelled. his hand went back to your shirt, roaming his hands down your waist and back up. a small tingle came from between your thighs, wishing you actually weren’t turned on by your bully.
“besides, you said you’ll do anything i want.” he mumbled before attaching his lips to yours, not even giving you a second to think.
you stood there thinking if you should kiss back or not, you jerked up once sicheng pinched your stomach and groaned, giving you the sign to kiss him back.
you hesitated for a bit but once sicheng growled again you decided to not make it worse already. you moved your lips against his, a moan falling out of mouth, and his hands trailing to the buttons of your shirt.
he was slow kissing you, with every button he unbuttoned you could feel the the cold temperature touch you. his lips now moved to your neck, sucking and licking your neck till he found your sweet spot.
your shirt was already unbuttoned all the way down and his hands roamed your soft hips again. “oh my god..” you moaned throwing your head back one sicheng sucked down on a part of your neck.
“you like that?” his deep voice driving you crazy. you nodded your head, small gasps leaving your mouth after he sucked into your skin harder.
“so good!” you whined. one of his hands trailed down your your thigh and you already know what he was going to do. his hands made its way towards your inner thigh and you couldn’t help but anticipate.
“let’s check how needy you are.” he bent down on his knees and made you spreed your legs. he could see bruises from where he would hit you and it made the boner in his pants grown. “pretty..” he trailed his hand along your bruises.
his hands pushed your skirt down leaving you in your white panties, a wet patch marked on it. moving your panties to the side he stuck a finger between your folds making you let out another moan as he touched you.
he pulled his finger back out and watched him as he moved his finger towards his mouth and sucked it dry. “so fucking wet.” he got back up and pulled you to lay on his bed.
“take your bra off.” he demanded as he began to take his pants off, you followed in suit.
he only took his pants off and only let of his white blouse and boxers on, his big dick print showing. “dirty fucking girl.” his hands went back to your panties moving them to the side.
“you got the prettiest pussy i’ve seen.” his eyes glued to your bare wet pussy. his finger sliding up and down on your folds making you arch your back and let out gasps.
he stopped moving for a bit but before you could ask what happened a slight pain in your lower area hit. “so tight around my finger..” he began to pump his finger in a fast paste.
a smirk forming on his lips, “tell me have you masterbated before?” you shook your head no. “really? so you’re a virgin? right (y/n)?” “yes!”
you yelled as tears formed in your eyes, the feeling of being stretch out hurt you, but you knew sicheng was enjoying this. “it hurts!” you whined closing your legs shut.
“if you can’t even take one imagine my dick.” he spread your legs and took out his finger feeling nothing in your hole, till he pushed his finger back again adding a second finger.
a loud moan left your lips with other moans following behind. his two fingers pumping inside of you in a fast pase while stretching you.
“si-sicheng oh my god.” you gasped barely able to make out words. his long slender fingers going in and out of you making your legs tremble, feeling a sort of urge to pee in your lower area.
“im about to come!” you yelled and just when you were about to release he took his fingers out. you looked back at him raising your head from the mattress.
“huh?” you saw him lick your juice off his finger. a ‘hmm’ leaving his mouth. “taste so sweet.” he crawled on top of you and kissed you again, this time prepared to kiss him back.
tasting your own juice on his lips, his lips trailing kissed all the way to your thighs. “i’ll save this for another day.” he gave your pussy a peck before standing up and freeing his dick from his boxers.
his dick was huge, it was both long and thick with veins, his tip shaded with a pink color, it was the prettiest dick you’ve ever seen and couldn’t wait to have him in your mouth one day.
he jerked off a bit before he put his member near your clit and started going up and down. “wait— are you not going to put on a condom?”
“no.” you widen your eyes, he looked up from your pussy to see you stare at him shocked.“sluts like you don’t deserve shit, if i come inside you, you’re gonna take it like a good girl, you understand?”
your nodded your head shamelessly before your head fell back down on the mattress, letting out small gasp.
his cock teasing your entrance before slipping in inside you, you winced in pain and cried out. his tip was only inside you and it was making you feel like your insides were ripping.
“fuck, i should’ve used you sooner.” sicheng groaned before pushing all the way in and bottoming out. “ah!” you yelled in pain as tears started to fall out.
“shit.” he groaned. his eyes moved from your pussy to your face- eyes watery and your nose slightly red. his eyes lowering to your breast, they were a perfect size and he could wait to fuck you to see them bouce. his eyes going down to your stomach where his dick print was showing.
all things just made reasons for him to continue to fuck you.
his pulled out before slamming back in, repeating the movement faster every time making you clench around him. “hngg!” you cried as more tears ran down your face.
“so fucking good, am i fuking you nice slut?” he murmured keeping his eyes on your face. “it- it hurts!” you whined clenching harder than before.
“shh, you’ll feel nice in a second.” he ushered bringing one of your leg up to his shoulder hitting you deeper into your belly. the new position making you scream out, the neighbors probably heard you already.
‘hnng’ you moaned as the feeling of being stretch out faded. “fuck.” you mumbled closing your eyes feeling pure pleasure.
“sich don’t stop.” you help onto his hand. “whatever you say slut.” his thrust became faster in a inhuman pase. “do you see me in your stomach?” his hand made its way to your stomach seeing how his cock would make a pump in your stomach.
“yeah.. it feels so good.” a tear fell off your face, it was too good. the fact that your bully was fucking you so hard and rough almost felt like a dream.
you clenched around him tighter making him gasp of the feeling of your walls close around him. “i-i think im close.” your grip on his hand tightened.
“hold on im almost close.” his tip began ramming in and out of you, hitting against your cervix with every movement.
you yelped, “sicheng!” your legs shook violently around him, his breathing becoming ragged and a few curses in mandarin leaving his mouth.
“come (y/n).” he groaned before ramming back into you. sicheng grabbed onto your hips, digging his nails into your hips, surely leaving marks.
with a final thrust, you let out a loud moan clenching around him before releasing. your vision going white as you came.
sicheng followed behind you, spilling his seed into your hole, he groaned, his cock becoming soft inside you. he slowly pushed in and out of your trying to not hurt you while pulling out.
a trail of his come mixed with yours and a bit of blood spilled from you, messing up his sheets but you were sure he didn’t care about that.
sicheng pulled his boxers back up, walked out of his room and came back with something to clean you up. he pulled your panties back up and put your skirt back on while you just laid there.
he made you stand up from the bed and pulled your bra and shirt back on. his eyes stayed on your neck for a bit, looking at the purple hickies he had marked on you.
“hope you know you’re mine now bitch.” he mumbled before kissing your neck once more. “y-yes sicheng.”
he pulled you up from his bed and dragged you to the front door, where he’ll just let you walk by yourself.
“buy yourself some pills and don’t come to school with underwear tomorrow or else i’ll leave you with a broker wrist.” he opened the door and kicked you outside his house.
“yes sicheng!” you walked out of the house with your legs wobbly from sex. you thought he would just slam the door in your face but he walked closer to you and pecked your lips once more.
a deep shade of red showing on your face. “yeah now go!” he yelled again in your face before walking back in and slamming the door.
thankfully your house wasn’t that far from his but it was still hard to walk. you got home took a shower, ate, went to the closest pharmacy and went to sleep.
sicheng on the other hand layed on his bed with fresh new sheets thinking of what he’ll do to you if you made him mad again, usually he’ll jack off at this time while thinking of you crying or bring bruised, but he wasn’t feeling it today.
his eyes wandered his room to see your backpack was still there, a smirk fell on his face knowing he’ll probably use this as a excuse to return this to your house in the morning and fuck you in the living room before school.
or maybe in the school stalls you could suck him off to get your backpack back.
who knows what will happened after this.
#wayv#wayv smut#sicheng smut#dong sicheng#winwin#winwin smut#nct smut#nct 127 smut#kpop reactions#kpop smut#smut#kun smut#ten smut#lucas smut#xiaojun smut#hendery smut#yangyang smut#jaehyun smut#yuta smut#taeyong smut#johnny smut#haechan smut#renjun smut#jungwoo smut#doyoung smut#taeil smut#mark lee smut
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just to study | jjk
pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader
summary: your seat partner asks if you’re free after class, just to study.
genre: fluff, college!au, established friendship, flirtationship, mutual pining, they go to a ‘frat’ party together, also yugyeom! a sweetheart<3 we love him.
warnings: mature!!, mentions of alcohol + alcohol consumption, mentions of sex, strong language, SEXUAL TENSION, mentions of dick sucking??, hints of a wet dream on oc’s end, very strong urges to kiss each other but no kisses today </3, that’s pretty much it!
word count: 7.4k (i...kinda went overboard)
authors’ note: hello!! this is a pt. 2 to sleepyhead! it’s based a few weeks after so yeah <3 also the pacing is kind of weird but… i don’t really know how being drunk is so............(＞人＜) i’m sorry about that! one scene was inspired by this post haha it was just so cute to think about i had to do it. ALSO i literally haven’t taken anatomy since high school so i just used random terms from quizlet T_T pls excuse that as well! but otherwise, enjoy!!!!!!!!! (っ^_^)っ
(if u see any typos...ignore them pls T_T)
side note: imagine jk looking like this when he goes to the party lmao classic fboy look with the camo bomber and his piercings ugh <3
banner pic creds here ! <3
you made it to class on time today, woke to your alarm and even had enough time to eat breakfast before you came. in a particularly good mood, you made your way up the stairs to the row jungkook was sitting in, hoping that the seat next to him was empty (you didn’t have to hope, jungkook always saved the seat next to him for you, no matter what.)
“good morning, ___!” jungkook’s voice greets you the same as always as soon as you appear next to him. he moves his bag out of the way for you to sit down.
he looks especially cute today. his long floppy hair framing his face, his sweet smile beaming up to you. you wonder how dumb you looked drooling over him for a minute before you replied, “hi jungkook, how are you?” with the same smile on your face that you show him every time he sees you. it never changes, but it never fails to make jungkook’s heart skip a beat.
“i’m doing okay, you?” he answers while you pull out your laptop.
you didn’t have a chance to reply before your professor starts talking. informing the class about the test that’s planned at the end of the month, finals in two months, and then dropping the bomb that there’s a quiz tomorrow about the things you’ve learned in the past week. a slight panic takes over you, although you didn’t know why, you understood what he was teaching and you were retaining all of the information well. but when the professor pulls up all the information on the screen to review it all, all of the words and pictures overwhelm you.
to make things worse, jungkook is to your left, not paying attention to a word your professor is saying. instead, playing some game where he has to click his touchpad an obnoxious amount of times. your attention is split between jungkook’s erratic tapping and the notes that the professor projects onto the screen, even though his computer barely made any noise, his incessant movement was distracting you.
“jungkook, you’re taking notes and playing a game?” your voice comes out as a rushed whisper. there’s a snort that comes from him before he nods. you couldn’t be mad at him. “there’s a quiz on all of this tomorrow, you know?”
“i know,” he continues to tap and click, the motion growing incredibly annoying. you didn’t know why you couldn’t have just tried to block it out, but he was just so close to you and admittedly, you looked at his hands, a lot. the way that his fingers tapped against his keyboard and his veins that accentuate his already beautiful hands, it was free art you could look at, how could you not? at this point, you’re contemplating holding his hand to make him stop tapping.
you were in the middle of typing when he finally stops, leaning back and stretching his arms up into the air. you let out a sigh of relief, until he starts again. apparently he reached the next level on his game, tapping even faster, if that was even fucking possible.
quietly, you groan. turning your attention solely on him. you place your hand on top of his, the tapping ceasing almost immediately. “please, jungkook, you’re distracting me.”
he looks at your hand before he looks at you, his chocolate doe eyes wide to the action. he gulps, “sorry.”
you remove your hand, focusing back to the presentation. jungkook feels the heat from his cheeks travel to his hand. the feeling of your hand on his wasn’t something he was expecting to experience today, but he wants nothing more than for you to do it again. he exits the game tab and changes his focus to the lecture.
or moreso, you focusing on the lecture.
you look so cute. your cheek pressed up against your fist. he stares at the way that your forehead creases in concentration. he taps on your arm that’s resting on the table, “hey, you look like you’re stressed out.”
you turn your head slightly to look over to him. “that’s because i am,” you send him a quick smile before you go back to looking at the projection.
he furrows his eyebrows, “why? you’re smart, there’s no need to worry about what you get on this.” you were an a+ student, never anything less than that. jungkook knows that you ace every test that you take, so he doesn’t quite understand why you’re so stressed.
“because jungkook,” you groan. you expected a lot from yourself, sure b’s were okay, but a’s and a+’s were what you wanted and what you thought would make you feel satisfied. there was no way you could explain this without sounding like an overachiever. so you just sigh, “i’m just not really prepared.”
jungkook thinks of the perfect way to spend more time with you, snapping his fingers before suggesting, “we should study together after class, studies show that studying with someone else will give you an a+, guaranteed.” the confidence in his voice makes you smile, and helps you ease up a little bit.
you raise an eyebrow, a laugh creeping up from your lungs. “source for that statistic, sir?”
he taps his right temple, the gesture making you snort. “no but seriously, i’ll help you out,” he assures. his laptop turns towards you to show you all the notes he took, different words highlighted and colored differently.
you act like you think about it, staying quiet for a minute or so. but you know the answer was yes no matter what. “just to study?” you tease. jungkook raises his eyebrows in surprise, an amused smile on his face, “just kidding, we can go to mine? i owe you for the ride you gave me like two weeks ago.” you tap your fingers against your laptop nervously, your teeth taking in your bottom lip as you ask. you haven’t had a guy over to your apartment, not since you’ve moved in. there’s a certain anxiousness that comes with the suggestion.
jungkook nods, “sounds good.”
“okay, again.” you brush your hair behind your ears, preparing yourself once more for another pass of the flashcards. the two of you have been at it with these cards for the past hour or so, you were determined to get these right no matter how long it took. jungkook knew you were gonna get it down, you only had three more cards, these ones specifically stumping you.
“aponeuroses,” he looks at the card and then to you.
“connective tissue that forms a broad sheet which attach muscle to bone or muscle to other muscles,” you speak confidently. jungkook nods, moving onto the next card of the set of three.
“endomysium,” he reads the card. you hesitate on this one for a second, he plays with the corner of the card until you snap your fingers.
“that’s the connective tissue surrounding the… the— uh, oh! muscle fiber?” your brain works extra hard. jungkook rewards you with another nod, flipping to the last card.
“fascia.”
“dense connective tissue,” you begin, pausing to think of the rest of the answer. you start biting your thumb nail, knowing there’s more to it but it’s not coming to your brain quick enough.
jungkook just stares, watching your facial expressions as you search for the answer in your brain. this could be the worst crush he’s ever had, he thinks you’re cute when you’re just sitting there, thinking. he doesn’t remember ever liking someone this much, most of the time his crushes went away after a few weeks or so. but it’s almost been an entire year since he’s started crushing on you, and it still hasn’t stopped. you still manage to find a way to make his thoughts surround you.
“separates and holds individual tissues? it’s the one that extends into the tendons, right?” you perk up after a minute or so. your brain finally coming up with the answer. you blame jungkook’s presence for slowing you down. maybe you shouldn’t have accepted this offer to study together, because how could you focus when jeon jungkook is sitting right in front of you?
“you’re amazing,” he praises, setting the flashcards down onto the table. you blush at the compliment, jungkook takes notice, but he doesn’t mind, he thinks pink is pretty on you. he’s never wanted to kiss your cheeks as much as he did now, and trust, he’s thought about it many, many times. “all done?” he asks after staring at you for the longest time.
you nod, “just gonna highlight these terms to review them later so i can get it down 100%.”
jungkook watches as you diligently reread your notes and highlight them. an apple on the table taking his attention away for a second when he realizes he hasn’t eaten at all today. he takes a bite, the loud crunch noise seemingly startling the both of you. it makes you turn your head and raise an eyebrow towards him.
“sorry,” he chews, “hungry.”
your stare lingers a little longer than you wanted it to. his cheeks are full of apple, you can’t help but laugh a little. “there’s still the sticker on it,” you point out.
he turns the apple around to see the blue sticker. peeling it off, he holds it on his fingertip, an idea sprouting in his mind to see that sweet smile of yours again. so he places the sticker on your cheek, your gaze moving from your screen to him and then to the fruit sticker now stuck onto your cheek. “get it? ‘cause you’re sweet like this apple is,” he smiles.
oh my god. you blush embarrassingly, your entire face flushed pink as you hide your cheeks behind your hands. he laughs at your reaction. jungkook was feeling bold today, so he moves forward, gently taking your hands away from your face to see the cute pink tint he caused. he sits back, admiring your pretty face.
you feel yourself burning hotter and hotter the longer he stares, looking everywhere but his face, too scared to make eye contact. you look back to your computer screen, “um— there’s pasta in the fridge— if you’re hungry, i made it last night.” you offer, but he declines politely, telling you that he has to leave pretty soon because his friends are expecting him to join them today.
begrudgingly, you watch as jungkook packs his things up. he thinks about how content he felt hanging out with you today, and how he wanted to do it again, as soon as possible. a thought pops into his head before he opens the door to leave. he turns on his heel.
you weren’t expecting the sudden turn, accidentally bumping into his chest. “oof! sorry.”
“it’s alright,” he laughs, helping you steady yourself by holding your shoulders. “i just wanted to ask— uh, my friends are throwing a party tomorrow night, do you— do you wanna come?” his words come out jumbled, jungkook never fails to trip on his words whenever he’s near you.
tomorrow night...it’s a friday tomorrow, the quiz is tomorrow, why the fuck not? a stress reliever from all the studying you’ve done. “sure,” you answer after a minute or so of deliberation. you look up at him with a smile, suddenly realizing how close the two of you are.
your eyes flicker between his eyes and his lips, the close proximity makes you hold your breath. “great! i can pick you up? be your DD?” he quirks his head, a smile that matches yours on his face.
you nod, “yeah, i’d like that.” with that, jungkook takes a step back, widening the space between you both as his right hand goes to hold the strap of his bag.
“okay, i’ll text you the details.” before he turns around, turning the knob of your front door and letting himself out. before the door closes, he sends you a wave, one which you reflect as he pulls the door closed. you move up and lock the door, your forehead resting against the cold metal slab.
you wonder if this crush will ever advance into something more. neither of you really push the agenda, most of the time just cutely flirting with each other and only talking to each other during class. maybe this party will be a chance to further the bond the two of you have. you could only wish that you could drop this nervous shield that pops up everytime you’re around him, but jungkook is just so cool. the campus heartthrob, everyone wants to be him or be with him.
for the rest of the day, jungkook seems to occupy your mind, as he always does. when you get to sleep, the fantasies of jungkook’s lips on yours drift you into a deep sleep, one that eventually leads to a dream that has you rubbing your thighs together. his hands were all over your body, his cologne that you were so familiar with tormenting your nose, it all felt too real. so when you woke up to the sound of your alarm, sweat beaded at your hairline. you took deep breaths, cementing the fact that he isn’t here, and he certainly isn’t doing those things with you right now.
it was not helping that you dreamt of him sexually on the day of your quiz, the one that you were immensely stressing over. now, you’re gonna have to walk into class, act normal around jungkook even though your brain produced pornographic images of him, (it’s not the first time, but it’s the first time you’ve had to face him right after it happened) and ace this quiz.
you tried almost everything you could to have cleared your brain of your dream sequence. taking a shower, eating breakfast, studying once more, etc. but when you’re walking into the lecture hall, flashes of the dream and the sound of his imagined moan echo in your mind.
you walk up the stairs with your eyes down, not sure if you could make eye contact with jungkook without turning red. “hey, ___, good morning!” the familiar voice greets you.
“morning,” you reply, dryly. taking the seat next to him and silently taking your laptop out, waiting for the professor to start the quiz. jungkook seemed a bit taken aback by your cold answer, but he took into account that you’re probably just super nervous and stressed out because of the quiz, so he doesn’t take it too personally. instead, just sitting back in his chair and waiting patiently to take the quiz as well.
at this point, you were psyching yourself out, swearing that you already forgot all of the terms. if you were quizzed on the parts of male anatomy, specifically jungkook’s, then maybe you could ace it, but the terms that you were working oh so hard to memorize yesterday slip from your mind. when the professor tells you to separate and start the quiz, you start to bite your thumb nail again.
jungkook takes a look over at you, noticing the bad habit of yours. he gently takes a hold of your arm, pulling your thumb away from your teeth. the action causing you to make eye contact with him and his big doe eyes that hold so much love and light. you find yourself a bit speechless then, too many thoughts running around in your mind.
he whispers, “you’ll do great, okay?” the statement soothing your nerves. his voice somehow makes your body relax, even though you thought you would freak out if you made any sort of contact with him.
“you— you too, good luck,” you mutter. a half smile on your face. you were grateful that jungkook broke you out of your trance, his words of encouragement suddenly placing you in the testing state of mind. the images from last night's dream seem to put themselves away for now.
the next twenty minutes are complete silence. everyone focused on the questions before them. of course, you zoomed through the quiz, prepared for the trick questions and the harder ones that come up. jungkook finishes after you. it wasn’t a surprise, jungkook didn’t even have to try, you swear you’ve never seen him stress out before. nobody was perfect, you believed that, but jeon jungkook was the closest to it.
“okay, class! the quiz will be graded by tonight hopefully, you’re free to leave,” your professor alerts the class. jungkook waits patiently until you’re standing, following you down the stairs and out the door.
you decide to speak first, since you greeted him with such a dry response this morning. it wasn’t his fault that you dreamed of him on top of you, so why were you punishing him for it? “how’d you think you did?” you asked, turning to look at him.
he shrugs, “good i guess, i think i fucked up on one or two questions.”
“was it the striation part? i think i messed up on that one too.”
he shakes his head, “you know you aced that, don’t lie.”
you stay silent, the two of you walking to the campus parking lot. neither of you engage in conversation as you usually do. the images of last night’s dream slipping into your consciousness once again. you try to shake your head, to rid yourself of the thoughts. nothing else to distract you from them because jungkook was oddly silent the entire walk. you fear that he can actually read your mind and see all of your thoughts. if he could, he doesn’t mention it. not saying one word to you until he walks you to your car, greeting you with a ‘see you next class!’ before leaving to go to his car. not even mentioning the party to you, you start to wonder if he regrets inviting you. up until you heard your phone ring when you parked in the lot of your apartment complex.
[10:24 am] jungkook: hey! forgot to remind u about the party 😫
[10:24 am] jungkook: ur still down to come, right?
[10:28 am] you: hi! yeah :)
[10:28 am] you: is there a dress code or smth? haha
[10:29 am] jungkook: not that i know of 😂
[10:30 am] jungkook: u can wear anything u want
[10:30 am] jungkook: ur cute whatever u wear
[10:31 am] you: oh stop it jeon ur making me blush
[10:32 am] you: but tell me :( should i wear something casual? pants? a dress?
[10:34 am] jungkook: 😂
[10:34 am] jungkook: it’s kind of like a frat party…
[10:35 am] jungkook: so anything is okay
[10:37 am] you: ah okay
[10:37 am] you: i’ll surprise u then ;)
[10:40 am] jungkook: alright :)
[10:41 am] jungkook: i’ll come by around 9 to pick u up? sound good?
[10:42 am] you: yeah! gives me enough time to nap and get ready lol
[10:44 am] jungkook: great :) see u then cutie
you wake up from your nap around one, you had more than enough time for you to get ready for a party. so you decide to clean your apartment first, little chores to waste time before you get yourself dolled up. when you finished, it was around seven thirty. you washed your face, brushed your teeth, all that good stuff before sliding on a simple black bodycon that you got last summer. styling your hair and spraying on your favorite perfume before looking at yourself in the mirror. this wasn’t too much, right? lots of people wear stuff like this to frat parties, so you didn’t find it too fancy. the notification sound from your phone goes off, you move to check and see if it was who you were expecting.
[8:54 pm] jungkook: i’m here :)
[8:54 pm] you: ahh gimme a sec i need to pee haha
[8:55 pm] jungkook: take ur time cutie
[8:56 pm] jungkook: i’m right in front
jungkook only really had to wait about five minutes. the visual of you walking out of your apartment doors, looking the way you did, was breathtaking. his jaw drops, mouth slightly agape as he watches you walk up to his car through the passenger window. you are so gorgeous. it’s probably the first time jungkook’s seen you in clothes that really compliment your figure, most of the time you show up to class in hoodies and sweaters. so greedily, he takes in the way the dress hugs your curves deliciously. he shakes the thoughts from his head to get out of the car and open the door for you.
“what a gentleman,” you tease, getting into the car.
he joins you soon after, “you look...gorgeous.” jungkook doesn’t seem so shy now, his eyes taking in your beautiful self.
“thank you,” you blush under his stare. “is it too much?”
“no! no— not at all, all eyes will be on you tonight.” he smiles, turning the car on. now you were able to gawk over him. a simple outfit, all black with a black and white camo bomber. his side profile is perfect, his long hair draping over his face so gracefully and his piercings somehow sparkling in the dark of the car.
he doesn’t drive too far, somewhere in the suburbs where the big houses are. a huge iron gate in the front, seemingly too fancy for a frat party setting. jungkook rolls his window down to greet someone waiting in front of the gate with a couple of other guys.
“jeon! you’re late dude,” one of the guys gives him a handshake through the window.
“sorry man, i’m here now though,” jungkook laughs. the guy giving him the greenlight and opening the gate for him, jungkook parks inside on their stone driveway, decorated with a fountain and a beautiful garden.
“your friend lives here?” you inquire, impressed by the look of the place.
he nods, “fancy right? his parents are ceo’s.” makes sense, and it would also make sense as to why they were throwing a frat party here, rich sons always seem to stir up trouble whenever they’re bored.
he steps out of the car to open the door for you, always a gentleman. he takes your hand and helps you out, the two of you walking to the huge open double doors. as soon as you walk in, the smell of alcohol hits your nose, you try your best not to cringe. the blare of the speakers is the second thing you notice, along with the shouting of jungkook’s friends greeting him. “who’s this?” one of them asks, referring to you.
jungkook seems to hesitate at first, not really knowing how to introduce you. he settles by saying, “this is ___!” not attaching any ‘friend’, ‘classmate’, or anything to the introduction. his friend holds his hand out to shake yours.
you take it with a smile on your face, “i’m yugyeom, it’s nice to meet you!” a smile that reflects yours is on his face, it made you feel welcome. you were never really the type to go to parties, your time is spent working and/or going to school, but this interaction helps you ease up a little more.
“hello, yugyeom!” you reply, shouting over the music.
“do you wanna take a shot?” he asks. pointing to the enormous kitchen where they’re housing all the alcohol, you look to jungkook first who’s paying more attention to his phone rather than the conversation you were just having.
you shrug, “why not?”
yugyeom leads the two of you to the kitchen, jungkook following behind you blindly. he looks up from his phone, done with whatever business he was dealing with to ask, “where are we going?”
“taking a shot,” you answer, pointing to yugyeom who’s already pouring three shots.
“dude, i’m not drinking, don’t pour three.” jungkook tries to stop him before he fills up the third shot glass but his arm knocks yugyeom’s in the process, the bottle spilling the clear liquid into the third shot glass.
“i’ll take two,” you suggest, feeling a bit wild and down to venture out of your comfort zone.
yugyeom smiles at this, “i like her, jeon.” he hands you the two shot glasses full of vodka, jungkook stands next to you and watches as you down the first shot. your face cringing as soon as the alcohol touches your tongue.
“you didn’t even give her a chaser,” jungkook notices, scolding yugyeom who's already downed his shot and is sucking on a lime. “here, suck,” holding a slice of lime up to your lips. his choice of words disorienting you, especially since he was holding the lime up to your mouth instead of just handing it to you. your eyes flicker between the lime and his face, but nevertheless, you suck. sinking your teeth into the sour fruit. jungkook’s eyes zeroed in on how your lips wrap around the slice, slightly grazing his fingers. it’s not long before you’re making a cute scrunched up face from the sourness. “good,” he praises. you don’t deny the slight burn your lower belly felt when he said that to you. you swear he was making sex eyes to you, but you couldn’t tell. he broke eye contact with you soon after, throwing the fruit into the trash below the table that the alcohol was perched on.
yugyeom hands you another lime for your second shot, this time no jungkook to hold the fruit for you. the second shot burning down your throat with the lime chasing after, both yugyeom and jungkook cheer, congratulating you for being a trooper (even though two shots were their warmups).
the next hour or so, jungkook brings you around. he introduces you to his friends and making conversation with them. one certain group, you didn’t really enjoy. a group of five girls, clearly swarming jungkook as soon as he turned around from talking to another one of his friends. the girls ask how he’s been doing, all of the basic conversation starters. when jungkook tries to introduce you, they all turn to you and give you a little head nod before turning their attention back to jungkook. he stands there, conversing with them longer than he had with any of his other friends, and you found yourself getting, hm, jealous.
so you search around the room crowded room, looking for some way out. your eyes spot yugyeom in the backyard through the huge sliding doors, sitting on one of those lawn chairs with the one next to him empty. you decide to leave the group you were currently getting pushed out of and join yugyeom. he notices you when you step onto the grass, trying your best not to sink into the dirt with your heels. “you doing alright? where’s jungkookie?” he asks, sitting up.
you plop down onto the lawn chair next to him. “he’s in there,” you point to the house, “with five girls.”
the last bit of the sentence makes him laugh, a cackle where he holds his stomach because he was laughing so hard. “do you want a shot?” he offers after he recovers from his fit, pulling a tequila bottle out from nowhere.
but you agree, “two, please.” he fills the two shot glasses, but not completely like he did with the vodka earlier. there were no limes, or any type of chaser for you to take around, so you take the two shots like ripping off a band-aid, quick.
“you’re a funny girl,” yugyeom compliments when you’ve downed the shots.
“thanks?” you cough, the feeling of the alcohol still burning your nose and throat, “what did i say that was funny?”
“i think it’s because i’m tipsy, but that joke you made about jungkook being with five girls was hilarious.” he slaps his knee, almost making himself laugh up a storm again, but you weren’t laughing.
you raised an eyebrow, speaking with a serious tone. “it wasn’t a joke, he’s in there with five girls.”
yugyeom tries to collect himself, sitting properly on the lawn chair when he asks you to clarify, “you mean he’s fucking them? or he’s talking to them?”
you’re silent for a second before replying, why did you say it like he was in there fucking them? maybe it’s because he might as well be, so engrossed in whatever the hell they were saying to even notice that you were gone. “just talking to them,” you reply.
“that’s what i thought, jungkook isn’t like that anymore,” yugyeom nods his head, pouring another shot out for you.
“anymore?” you ask. he hands you the shot, you hesitate this time, starting to feel the effects of the first four shots you took. he doesn’t push you to take it. he just leans back onto the lawn chair as he sighs.
“you could say he’s retired,” he shrugs.
the term makes you laugh, “...a retired fuckboy?” you sit back into the lawn chair as well, looking up to the night sky. the shot glass forgotten on the table next to you. your body feels like it’s floating.
“yeah, he hasn’t really been doing stuff like that recently,” yugyeom spills. you stay quiet after he feeds you this information. yugyeom offhandedly telling you that you shouldn’t be jealous makes you feel guilty. why were you even jealous? jungkook was technically still just a friend to you. just because the two of you flirt every now and then doesn’t mean you’re together. of course he would be surrounded by girls, just look at him!
“there you are! i was looking all over for you,” jungkook interrupts your inner monologue. his voice comes from across the lawn, you look up to see him walking over to you and yugyeom.
“hi, jungkookie,” you smile up at him. the alcohol having more of an effect on you the longer you let it sit in your stomach.
he almost freezes up at the nickname, looking over to yugyeom and asking, “did you tell her to call me that?”
yugyeom holds his hands up in innocence, “i didn’t tell her to do anything, she’s like five or six shots deep though.”
you take the shot that was forgotten on the table and down it. “six,” you clarify.
“alright, slow down, iron liver,” jungkook jokes. yugyeom stands from the lawn chair, receiving jungkook’s telepathic signals to get the fuck up to he could talk and hang out with you.
“play beer pong with me later, ___! i’m gonna go look for eunwoo,” yugyeom points to you, giving you a thumbs up before leaving the backyard and moving into the house.
“feeling okay? think you might throw up soon?” jungkook asks, replacing yugyeom in the chair next to you.
“feel like i’m surfing, you know? like wavy,” you answer. the feeling was hard to explain, you weren’t dizzy but at the same time your brain was telling you to stop moving, even though you were completely still.
“ah, you’re getting there,” jungkook snorts. you didn’t have much willpower to answer, so the two of you sit there in a comfortable silence before a group of people coming towards, all greeting jungkook and you. they offer you a red cup, despite your current predicament. leaning against the chair and your droopy eyes, telling them that you’ve taken too many shots. a lightweight at her peak.
jungkook tries to deny it for you, but with a smile, you accept the cup. it was filled with the fancy mixed alcohol juice they had. “thank you,” you place the cup onto the table, “i’ll drink it.... later..” your words begin to draw themselves out. jungkook somehow finding a way to make the entire group leave, making it just the two of you again.
“give it to me, you’re starting to slur your words.” his hand is open, laying on the table and waiting for you to surrender the cup.
your eyes flicker from the red cup, to his face, then to his hand. a smirk on your face when you hold the cup up to your lips, tilting it back and drinking the cursed juice. you weren’t able to down it all, it was too much, you drank maybe ⅔ of it. you cough, taking in a deep breath as you try to steady yourself.
you weren’t sure if it was because you were drunk, but the way that his face looks in the moonlight was so pretty. so you just had to tell him. leaning forward, you speak, almost a whisper, “you’re so handsome.” you drag your finger across the expanse of jungkook’s hand. “did you know i have no gag reflex?” you smile, not your typical sweet smile that he’s used to, but a devilish grin.
jungkook’s eyes widen, his cheeks flushing immediately at your remark. “alright, you drank way too much.” he takes the red cup from your hands, dumping it out onto the grass in front of you both.
“hey, i wasn’t done,” you pout, but jungkook didn’t give you much time to mourn your spilled drink before he was holding your arm, lifting you from the lawn chair you were sitting on. “where are we going?” you ask, trailing behind him with your hand in his.
“gonna get you some water and something to eat,” he answers. the two of you move through the house, jungkook pushes through groups of people and makes sure you’re safe behind him.
“i have to pee.” you tip toe to tell him your emergency in his ear. he stops at the stairs, knowing a bathroom where no one else goes. his friend specifically telling him to use that bathroom when they have parties because the other ones get way too gross.
he brings you up the stairs to the guest bedroom, opening the door to reveal one of the biggest rooms you’ve seen. “the bathroom is there,” jungkook points to the door on the left. you nod, your wobbly legs making their way to the toilet.
jungkook sits on the bed patiently, waiting for you to finish. he hears the flush and the sound of the sink running, the door opens and you’re coming out of the bathroom, pulling your dress down. “are we gonna have sex?” you utter, slurring the end of your sentence. your alcohol poisoned mind taking over your ability to speak.
his eyes widen at the question. “no! no— oh my god, this is just the room with the cleanest bathroom, we’re not—“
you’re next to him now, “you don’t want to?” you pout. glassy eyes looking into his.
“no! i mean, yes, i want to but— fuck, just— just not now, yeah?” jungkook stumbles over his words, his face blushing a blood red. your pretty face peering up at him makes him even more flustered, his hands start to sweat.
“okay,” you nodded. your drunken brain deciding to stop the interrogation of jungkook’s desire for you. to which jungkook lets out a sigh of relief, taking your hand and bringing you out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the driveway. he brings you to his car, opening the passenger door for you. “wait, are we leaving already? yugyeomie wants me to play beer pong with him,” you complain, wiggling your hand from his grasp.
goosebumps appear on your arm when you make it outside of the house. jungkook notices when he turns around to look at you. without a second thought, he takes his jacket off and places it over your shoulders. the newfound warmth shielding you from the cold night. he didn’t mind the breeze, especially since he was still recovering from the stunt you pulled in the guest room.
“we can come back later if you want, let’s just go grab something to eat first so you won’t regret this tomorrow morning.” his explanation is pretty solid according to your drunken brain, so you oblige, moving to sit in his passenger seat.
he joins you in the driver’s seat not long after. “can we get mcdonald’s?” you ask as soon as he sits down.
a smile appears on his face as he starts the car, “sure.”
the drive made you feel a little dizzy, it makes you laugh. “you okay?” jungkook asks, but you nod your head. he’s so sweet, always asking if you’re okay, making sure you weren’t feeling too awful, etc. it only makes sense that you were falling head over heels for him.
“totally fine,” you look over to him with a smile on your face. he’s so fucking pretty, his side profile is something you could rave about for days. as he’s pulling into the mcdonald’s drive through, he’s talking into the intercom, ordering the two of you something to eat when you’re suddenly mumbling, “mcflurry, kookie, oreo mcflurry.”
he looks back to you, an amused smile on his face, “oreo mcflurry?” he repeats. you nod, “okay, anything for you.”
he reiterates the request into the intercom and the server gives him the greenlight. he drives forward and waits until the next car moves up, in the time being, he looks to you. your head laying up against the door and your eyes slowly blinking, warning him that you might fall asleep. so he reaches into his backseat, his arm looking for the water bottles that he usually keeps in his car.
“hey,” he taps your arm gently, “drink some of this first.” he hands you the water bottle, you blink slowly, trying to figure out what he was handing you. once you realize it was a water bottle, you take it, opening it and gulping some of the water down. jungkook is grabbing the food when you’re screwing the cap back on. he parks somewhere in the parking lot and tells you to start eating.
you grab your mcflurry first, the feeling of the cold ice cream on your tongue soothing your dizzy brain. “yum,” you think out loud.
jungkook laughs, taking out his hamburger while he takes out your chicken nuggets. “make sure to eat some of this, yeah? don’t want you throwing up and hating me.”
the thought makes you smile. jungkook was taking such great care of you. sure, he let you down the alcohol like it was nothing, but you never opposed to it, always taking the shot because you wanted to. now jungkook is here, taking care of you, because he wanted to. you knew that if it were anybody else, they probably would have left you at the party, letting you fend for yourself. the sudden warmth in your chest makes you want to tell jungkook everything.
with his jacket wrapped around you instead of him, you can see the bulge of his arm muscles peek out from the short sleeved shirt he was wearing. even drunk, your brain seems to travel back to the images from your dream. “you know, i had a dream about you, a reeaaaallllllyyyyy dirty dream, jeon jungkook.” you blurt out the confession before your thoughts catch up with you, the alcohol still very much blocking off the common sense part of your brain.
he tries his best not to overreact, but you had a dream about him? a dirty dream at that? it awakens something in jungkook, but he pushes it down, ignoring the feeling as he asks, “you did? what was it about?” he curious as to what you meant and what your dream entailed, but he didn’t want to push too far. especially since you were drunk and most likely just spilling everything because your brain doesn’t have the willpower to hold it back.
you stick your hand into the bag to steal some fries, stuffing them in your mouth. “oh, you don’t wanna know,” you chew.
jungkook quirks a brow, “well, was i good at least?” he jokes.
you scrunch your nose, nodding nevertheless. “too good, couldn’t even focus during the quiz because of it.”
jungkook is silent for a second. the conversation making him hot even though he wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore. so he clears his throat, trying to change the subject in a subtle manner. “is that why you were so mean to me this morning?” he pouts, connecting the dots.
you laugh at the question, “sorry, i didn’t mean to, i swear.”
with that, the rest of the time is spent eating. jungkook makes sure that you ate enough and drank enough water, the empty water bottle in his cupholder as proof. “do you want me to take you home now?” he asks, the two of you finished eating and now a silence takes over the car.
“are you going back?” you ask, fiddling with your fingers. he thinks you’ve started to sober up, or maybe have gotten to the point where you just want to sleep.
he shakes his head to your question, “honestly, i’m kind of tired, but if you want to go back, we can go.”
“no, i’m okay,” you decline the offer. jungkook laughs, starting the car again and driving back to your apartment complex.
you take this time to try to get yourself together. you know you’ll regret confessing to jungkook that you had a wet dream about him in the morning. but in the moment, it felt right to confess, (to your drunken brain of course). you tilt your head back, pushing your head against the headrest, and suddenly, you’re reminded of the stars jungkook has on his ceiling. you were silent as you admired the lights, jungkook takes a look at you when he’s stopped at a red light.
so cute, he thinks, staring up at his ceiling like it’s the real night sky. when he pulls up to your apartment complex, he wishes the night could be longer, that he could spend more time with you. he parks the car in the front, exactly where he picked you up. you’re looking to him now, your hands in your lap and your heart seemingly beating three times as fast as it usually does. it wasn’t the alcohol.
“did you have fun tonight?” he asks. his voice never fails to make you melt.
you nod, “i did.”
“i’m glad,” he smiles. there’s a small silence before he speaks once more, “also, y’know, you don’t have to stress yourself out so much, i know you might have expectations for yourself and stuff, but you should give yourself a break from time to time.”
the alcohol’s effects fading slowly from your brain when you start to realize that the entire reason jungkook invited you out was to help you destress. it makes you fall even harder, he was so thoughtful. even though a party wasn’t your scene, he invited you to give you a glimpse into how he has fun and hoped that it would help you loosen up a bit. you were grateful for the mental break he provided you.
you didn’t reply, purely because you were thinking about how much you want to kiss him right now, but it wouldn’t be right. when he speaks up again, there’s a nervous lilt in his voice, scared that he’s overstepped. “if you need anyone to help you— i don’t know, let loose? you can— you can always call me.” he scratches the back of his neck.
but you try your best to reassure him, smiling at the offer. “i will, thank you for tonight, jungkook, i really enjoyed it, despite being a lightweight.”
he laughs, staring at the way your face cutely scrunches when you giggle. he too, is fighting the urge to kiss you, because right now isn’t a good time. he wants to do it right. he doesn’t want to fuck it up with you. so instead, he hops out of the car and moves to open the door for you. helping you out of the car and walking you to your door, your hand in his.
“i’ll see you in class?” you turn to face him, squeezing his hand.
he nods, “yeah.” his signature bunny smile coming out to greet you a goodnight. “text me before you sleep?” he requests. you give him a thumbs up before he’s letting go of your hand and you’re sticking the key into your door, it’s then that you realize that you’re still wearing his jacket.
“oh!” you exclaim, taking the jacket off and handing it to him. but he holds his hand out to stop you.
“keep it, you can give it to me the next time we hang out, or something,” he suggests. you try to hide the growing smile behind a nod.
you hold onto his jacket, “goodnight, jungkook.”
he sticks his hands in his pockets, sending you another grin, “goodnight, ___.”
jungkook drives home, his empty apartment welcoming him. he plops down onto his bed, not even bothering to change out of the clothes he was in because he was that tired. the events of today running through his mind.
he hopes you don’t think he was doing anything with those five girls. he saw you walk away when you did, he tried his best to escape the conversation, but they kept pulling him back. he gave up after ten tries of trying to get away, standing there for a good fifteen minutes listening to them babble about how much they missed him. jungkook had never rolled his eyes so many times in a conversation.
the talk the two of you had after was another thing taking over his mind. your dirty flirting and your dream you mentioned in the car had his imagination running all over the place. he didn’t want to push you when you explained, but he was very curious as to what he did in your dream, and how good it was for you to have it run through your mind all day.
his phone rings next to him. he turns and opens it, a smile on his face when he reads your message.
[12:32 am] you: hi jungkookieeeeeeeee
[12:33 am] you: im sleeping noww
[12:33 am] jungkook: alright cutie
[12:33 am] jungkook: goodnight! again 😂
[12:34 am] you: goodnight <3
he turns his phone off after that. looking up to his ceiling with a dumb smile on his face. his mind thinking of you and only you.
#jungkook#jeon jungkook#jungkook fic#jeon jungkook fic#jungkook fanfic#jungkook fan fiction#jeon jungkook fanfic#writing#bts#bts fic#bts fanfic#jjk#jjk fic#jjk fanfic#jjk writing#jungkook writing#fluff#smut#jungkook smut#jungkook fluff#mine#jeongguk fic#jeongguk fanfic#jeon jeongguk#jeongguk#jeon jeongguk fic#bangtan#bangtan soyeondan#bangtan fic
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Hi guys! My apologies for this non danganronpa related post, but I’ve recently been getting into Cookie Run Kingdom and oh. My. God. THE LORE!!! I did not think I was going to get emotionally attached to COOKIES of all things!! And I had an angsty AU idea that popped into my head and I just gotta write it down! Also, I apologize that this isn’t any of the other fics I’ve promised to write. I swear once I get to Thanksgiving Break or Christmas Break, I’ll try to pump out as much as I can! Well… that’s all I’ve got! Hope you all enjoy!
Ps: There will be a hint of Vanilly (Pure Vanilla Cookie x White Lily Cookie) as well as a hint of Enchatilla (Dark Enchantress Cookie x Pure Vanilla Cookie) at the end.
Spoiler Warning for Cookie Run Kingdom. If you don’t really know the lore behind it or if you don’t know what’s going on, I suggest you play the game first!
Song that inspired this: Partners In Crime by Set It Off
Note: in this AU, Reverend Mother Cookie has technically been around much longer than any of the Ancients. So I guess you can say she is technically an Ancient herself, but refused to give herself that title in order to look like a humble, innocent Cookie in everyone else’s eyes.
Burnt and Bitter
“Lily?”
Pure Vanilla Cookie padded his way through the dark hallway of the tower Pastry Cookie was supposed to be guarding. He held tightly onto his staff as a gentle and warm light emitting from it guided his way. In his other hand was a letter he had received from an old friend of his;
My old friend,
It has been quite a long time, hasn’t it? Did you miss me? Probably not. But no matter. There is something rather important I would like to address with you.
Come to the Tower of Sweet Chaos at midnight. Do not tell the others where you are going. They don’t need to know about this. I trust you’d keep it a secret for your dear friend, right Vanilla?
Do not be late. I despise waiting.
- Your dearest friend, “Lily”
PS: Please stop calling me that. I despise that name.
“Lily? Where are you?!”
He kept calling out to his old friend in search of her. He wasn’t entirely sure why she wanted to see him.
Just him…
Not the others…
Maybe she wanted to apologize? Perhaps try and undo her wrongdoings?
Wait… no… that isn’t it… she wouldn’t have noted for him to stop calling her Lily if she really was sorry…
So… what was it?!
“Y-your… Highness…”
He heard a weakened cry of a fellow Cookie. A Cookie who was clearly in pain. A Cookie who… was this tower’s guardian…
“P-Pastry Cookie?”
His light eventually grew brighter as there was now a horrific sight presented before him.
Pastry Cookie was lying almost completely still on the floor. Her left arm missing… and blueberry jam and custard seeping out of the wound, creating a puddle underneath her. Surrounding her were presumably dead Sister Cookies, all torn to pieces and covered in their own fillings. Vanilla let out a gasp at the sight as tears threatened to escape his eyes. He rushed to Pastry and knelt beside her with his staff ready.
“D-don’t worry! I’ll heal you!”
“G-go back… save yourself…”
“I am not leaving until you are healed!”
He wiped away his tears as he began to recite his healing prayer. But just before he could finish…
“Grkh! Hnngh…”
“A-ah! Pastry?!”
Suddenly, a trident black as the night pierced through Pastry’s neck, causing her to weakly grumble and writhe in agony. Just before Vanilla could do anything to stop it, her head was slashed clean off, causing more jam and custard to gush out of her neck. He slowly looked up at Pastry’s killer, seeing a face he knew all too well.
The face of the Cookie that was once his best friend.
The face of the Cookie that used to be one of the kindest, most loving Cookies he knew.
The Cookie that used to be known as White Lily Cookie. As “Lily.” His most precious Lily…
“So… you actually came here alone? I’m surprised at you, Vanilla.”
Dark Enchantress Cookie.
“L-L-Lily…. What d-did you do?”
She scoffed as he looked up at her with tears glistening in his eyes. His tempting, heavenly eyes…
“I told you not to call me that. You know very well your ‘Lily’ is gone.”
Vanilla could only stare back down at Pastry Cookie’s bloodied, lifeless body. There’s no way… there was just no way his friend… his Lily would stoop to murder…
“W-why… why would you do this?! Sh-she—she didn’t do anything to deserve this! None of these innocent Cookies deserved this!”
“Innocent? Pfft! Don’t make me laugh!”
“W-what do you—”
“These imbeciles were blindly following their Reverend’s orders without question. Saying that I’m an unholy, blasphemous force that needs to be stopped. Honestly, the nerve of that wench!”
Vanilla winced as he heard her cuss out the Reverend in such a way. That wasn’t his Lily…
“You… you’re better than this. The Lily I know wouldn’t murder her own kind! Or any kind for that matter!”
“Oh, save your pitiful speech! As I have said before, your ‘Lily’ is gone. I am a completely different Cookie, whether you like it or not.”
Oh, how it hurt his soul to see his dearest friend act so cold and unkind in front of him. Still… he felt that somewhere, deep down inside the Enchatntress’ soul, Lily was still there. Calling out to him. Profusely apologizing. Trying to break free from her dark prison.
“Come back home, Lily. To me… to us…”
The Enchantress couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the poor fool slumped to the ground in front of her, crying over her massacre. A feeling she shouldn’t be feeling. Why should she care about him? His feelings mean nothing to her. All she was focused on was her plan. On why she had summoned Vanilla in the first place.
“You… you haven’t done anything to the Reverend… have you?”
She gave him a little smirk, leading him to assume the worst.
“Oh, don’t worry. I haven’t done anything… yet. That’s where you come in.”
“Wha… m-me? What are you—”
Without warning, the Enchantress held her trident up to the air and recited some sort of a spell in a language Vanilla couldn’t understand. A huge flash of red filled up the room and nearly blinded him. By the time his eyesight fully re adjusted itself, there was now another Cookie in the room, right next to the Enchantress.
Reverend Mother Cookie.
Vanilla was horrified at the sight of her. What was once a calm, peaceful Cookie, was now a shaky, crying, crumbly mess before him. All chained up, battered and bruised, and frantically looking at her surroundings. By the time he covered his mouth to prevent his sobs from escaping, the Reverend finally met his gaze, a slight look of relief forming in her eyes.
“Oh, Your Highness! Thank goodness you’re here! P-please, talk some sense into this Cookie! She’s gone mad I tell you! Her presence here is unh—”
Before she could finish her pleading, the Enchantress smacked her across the head with her trident in annoyance.
“That’s enough chirping out of you! You’ve done plenty of that before I even arrived!”
“Don’t you DARE hit her! Hasn’t she been through enough?!”
Everyone, including Vanilla in the room were all taken aback by the sudden rising in his voice. Then, the Enchantress smirked at him.
“Oh, yes Vanilla! I can already feel that dark energy brewing within you! Embrace it, dear friend! Embrace your true nature!”
“W-what are you going on about?! I-I hold no darkness in my heart!”
“Oh really? Funnily enough, there was a time where I’ve denied the darkness myself. But now I realize that it is an unavoidable force that can only be welcomed inside you!”
Vanilla couldn’t believe what she was saying. Welcoming the darkness from within?! There’s just no way he could do that… there’s no way SHE could do that!
“You’re wrong, Lily! There is nothing but light and goodness in every Cookie! Even inside of you! I know you’re still a good Cookie! You just need to look past the darkness!”
“Well said, Your Highness! Very well sa—”
The Enchantress smacked the Reverend across the head once more.
“Do not encourage his naivety, wench! He must learn the truth!”
“Huh? W… what truth do you speak of?”
She smiled at him as the question escaped from his lips. At that moment, he realized he didn’t want to know whatever this “truth” was.
“Tell me, Vanilla. Why do you think us Cookies were created by the Witches?”
Okay… he wasn’t really expecting that sort of a question… but he figured he should give her his answer. Maybe his answer would give her a push back into the right direction a little…
“The Witches created us to unite as one. To thrive as individuals, as kingdoms, and as one whole Earthbread. We were created to live in eternal peace and harmony. Not just as friends, but as a family. You haven’t forgotten that, right?”
The Enchantress simply cackled at his words as the Reverend looked up at her with pleading eyes. Not exactly the response Vanilla was expecting.
“Oh, you poor, simple minded fool! Did the Reverend tell you that?”
“Uh—y-yes… why do you ask?”
He watched as she walked over to what appeared to be a pool of some sort.
“Heheheh. Come hither, friend. Have a closer look.”
After a moment of hesitation, he slowly inched closer to the pool, feeling even more unsure as the Reverend begged him not to get closer. Once he was finally next to the Enchantress, he looked down at the sparkling purple substance before him.
“Th-this is—!”
“The Eternal Dough. The gateway from our world to the Witches. What you and I had been looking for eons ago.”
He remembered that he and Lily were once quite studious Cookies living in the Academy. Studying to find out the true origin of the Cookies. Before the Reverend pushed them away from their studies after telling them about why the Witches created them. Or… at least… her version of it…
“Y-Your Higness! Please don’t look anymore! I-I beg of you!”
“Lily… I-I don’t understand… what’s going on? Why is she telling me to look away?”
She put her hand over his shoulder and pointed her staff down to the Dough, ignoring the Reverend’s pleading and crying.
“Why don’t you take a closer look and find out?”
“Oh, Your Highness! P-please don’t—”
Curiosity had gotten the better of Vanilla as he examined the Dough more carefully, tuning out the Reverend. He eventually saw a seemingly delightful scene before him. An old witch was baking a tray of Cookies to life with what appeared to be her little granddaughter watching the magic in the oven happen. He smiled as he watched the little one jump up and down excitedly as the Witch gave her a warm and pleasant smile. It warmed his heart knowing that Witches, both old and young would be so excited to see the creation of life happening before their eyes.
Ding!
“Oh! They’re ready, Gretel!”
“Yayyy! Cookie, cookie, cookie!!”
“Be patient, dearie! They have to cool off first!”
Oh, what a wonderful thing it was, seeing the tray of Cookies glancing at each other excitingly, wondering what kind of decorations and toppings they would receive.
“This is beautiful…”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Vanilla. It gets worse from here.”
“Worse? Don’t be silly, Lily! What could possibly be bad about the creation of life itself?”
Another plea from the Reverend and the silence from the Enchantress gave him a hint that something was wrong. Just as he was about to ask the Reverend a question, he noticed the Cookies were all fully decorated and admiring each other’s attire. He saw how happy the little Witch looked to see all the Cookies…
“Can I have a cookie now, Granny?”
“Of course you can! Pick whichever one you like!”
“Ah, they must be choosing who to send into Earthbread first! What’s so bad about that?! That’s a wonderful thing!”
The Enchantress nearly flinched as he said this. A part of her regretted making her old friend watch this sickening scene. But, he had to know. He deserved to know the truth.
A sad look emerged onto her face as she glanced over at the starry eyed Cookie next to her. A part of her wanted that innocence to stay with him. But, to know the truth… sacrifices must be made…
Vanilla perked up as the little one picked up a Cookie dressed in an orange and yellow frilly dress, his face matching the excited look on the Cookie’s face. He watched as she was lifted off the tray. And… brought closer to the girl’s mouth?
Why is she—
…
…
“W-what…”
“W-WHAT IS THIS?!”
The Enchantress’ heart nearly broke as Vanilla’s once excited look was replaced with a look of horror as he watched the Cookie being eaten alive by the little girl, her screams echoing through the Dough.
“N-no… nonononononono! Stop it!! You’re hurting her!!”
The other Cookies on the tray now had horrified looks as they watched their comrade get chunks of her dough torn off of her as her orange marmalade filling oozed out of her. Vanilla nearly threw up at the sight of it. As he was shouting his pleas through the Dough, his eyes landed upon the older Witch, who was picking up a Cookie of her own.
“Oh, great Witch! Please, talk some sense into your little one! She doesn’t know what she is doing—”
To his horror, the old Witch began eating the Cookie in her hands as well, exchanging little smiles with her granddaughter.
“NO!! STOP IT, PLEASE! YOU’RE HURTING THEM! Y-YOU’RE KILLING THEM!!! HAVE MERCY!! STOP!!! STOOOOP!!!!”
He collapsed to the ground as the Enchantress patted him on the back.
“I know this is hard to watch, but this is what happens to Cookies who don’t leave the Witches realm right away. This is the true reason why us Cookies were made.”
He choked through his sobs and looked up at her confused.
“W-what do you mean?! Reverend Mother Cookie, what is she talking about?!”
The Reverend turned away from him, desperately trying to hold back her tears. The Enchantress gave him a sympathetic look and wiped away his tears as best as she could.
“My dear friend… it means that we only exist… to be eaten.”
Vanilla couldn’t believe what he just heard. Was that… truly the only purpose Cookies had? To sit still and look pretty and let themselves be eaten?! There was just no way…
“N-no… you’re… you’re LYING! Th-this is all a trick! The Witches are our Creators! They would NEVER put their creations through such pain!”
The Enchantress turned to look at the Reverend, her look of sympathy morphing into a look of coldness.
“If you do not believe me, then why don’t you ask our most faithful Reverend? Ask her if what you just witnessed was true!”
He looked up at the Reverend with pleading eyes, begging her to tell him it wasn’t true. That the Enchantress was making it all up.
“Your Highness… I am so sorry…”
…
…
“… no…”
“Please… tell me it’s not true! Y-you would’ve told me if this was true when I first arrived to Earthbread, right?!”
The silence. The silence was all it took to answer him. At that moment, everything that Vanilla thought he knew came into question.
If Cookies really were made to be eaten, then why did the Reverend pick and choose who to guide out of the Witches realm? Why did she ignore all the others? Why did he not know there were others suffering while he got to live? Why?
Why? Why? Why? Why? Whywhywhywhywhywhy?!?!?!?!
“Why…”
“Y-Your Highness?”
“W-why would you… keep that from us?!”
The Reverend shivered and sobbed as both the Cookies before her had their eyes on her.
“I-I just… I just…”
“P-please, Reverend… just say it…”
She cleared her throat and ignored her hot tears before continuing.
“I-I just… wanted to look for Cookies that I thought were special. S-so I would guide those Cookies out of the Witches Realm before the Witches could notice!”
“B-but… what about the ones that were left behind?! Y-you… left them… even though you knew what their fate was?!”
The Enchantress scowled as the Reverend continued to sob. Not because she actually felt bad for her wrongdoings. But simply because she was caught. Vanilla then turned to face the Enchantress with tears streaming down his face.
“W-what was the purpose of telling me to come here? J-just so you can torment me?!”
“Not quite…”
“Then why?! Why did you want me here?! Why did I even come here?! I-I shouldn’t have done this… I knew this was a bad ide—”
“Vanilla. Listen to me. For a moment, just… listen to me.”
Vanilla decided to stop talking and let her continue, tears still streaming down his face. The Enchantress let out a sigh before continuing.
“The reason why I have been doing this is to get revenge on those Witches. To let it be known that we Cookies will not tolerate the endless bloodshed of our own kind. But even with my own crew of Cookies and my Cake Monster army, other Cookies still refuse to listen to my message and join me in this fight. So… I need an ally. An ally I know all Cookies will listen to.”
“A-are you saying…”
“Yes, Vanilla. I am asking you to join me. Embrace your inner darkness. Teach that wench over there a lesson! Become my ally in this fight!”
He stared at her, shocked by the words that came out of her mouth.
“I… no!”
“What did you say?!”
“I said no! I am not going to join you! You think you’re helping other Cookies, but all you’re doing is hurting them! I mean—look at what you’ve done here! You’ve murdered these Cookies in cold blood, and you’re talking about preventing the endless bloodshed?!”
“They’ve kept the real truth from us! They knew there were Cookies being eaten alive! And they did nothing! All they did was come crying to their Reverend, only for her to say, ‘oh don’t worry about it! It’s all FINE! It’ll be a secret between us, okay?!’ They deserved what was coming to them!”
“That’s still not an excuse to murder them! You know better than this! Just… just stop this please… come back home. W-we all miss you, Lily…”
The Enchantress glanced over at the Eternal Dough, then back at Vanilla.
“You don’t wish to join me then?”
“I’m sorry, Lily. But you can’t ask me to join your cause. Not until you come up with a more peaceful alternative. Not until you come back home.”
She let out a sigh and lifted Vanilla up by the collar of his robe and over the Dough, ignoring the Reverend’s protest.
“L-Lily? What are you—”
“I am sorry, my friend. But you leave me no other choice.”
“Lily, no! Please, think for a moment—”
Ignoring his pleas, she let go of his collar and dropped him into the Dough.
“LILYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!”
“Your Highness!! NOOOOOOO!!!!”
The Enchantress watched as her old friend fell into the Dough and through the Witches Realm. He landed on a tray of what appeared to be unbaked Cookies. He also appeared to be in a different Witch’s house.
The oven was flicked on.
He could see a fire forming under the rack.
He tried to get up, but he and the unbaked Cookies were already forced into the oven.
The Enchantress winced at Vanilla’s screaming and crying as he was practically being burned alive. She felt her heart shatter as he kept calling out for her to help him.
As he continued calling out to his friend, he could feel his dough being charred and getting crispier. He never realized how hot it was in the oven. It was too hot. He was choking on his own ashes now, as the other Cookies were just coming to life.
The Witches… they’ve been eating all of Cookiekind even before the Reverend guided him to Earthbread. The Reverend… refused to help the other Cookies she didn’t think were special enough to live. That’s… such a horrible thing… the Witches… the Reverend…
They’re horrible.
They have continued to commit these awful sins, and they don’t plan on stopping anytime soon.
They…
They let his Lily be burnt alive.
They let his Lily become cold and distant from him and the other Ancients.
They… HURT his Lily.
His most precious Lily…
“Don’t… hurt her…”
“Uh… heyyy, buddy. You good?”
He felt one of the Cookies tap him on the shoulder. But he was too caught up in his own mind to answer their question.
“Don’t… hurt her! Ever! AGAIN!!!”
Suddenly, a flash of red light emerged from the oven and through the Witch’s house. The Enchantress and the Reverend watched in astonishment as the house burst into flames and the other Cookies and the Witch began screaming as the glass doors of the oven melted into their skin and dough. As the chaos was happening, Vanilla slowly emerged out of the Dough, his heavenly glow and attire now gone.
His dough was now as burnt and gray as the Enchantress, and his eyes were now a bloody shade of red. His pristine white robe was now as black as the night, and his Vanilla Flower scepter was now resembling a deadly, spikey mace.
“Y-Your Highness?”
He looked over at the Reverend with a scowl and moved closer to her. Just before she could say anything else, he pinned her to the ground and raised his mace over his head.
“You hurt my love. You nearly had her killed.”
“Y-Your Highness! Please, I—”
“You lied to me.”
“I-I’m so sorry!”
“I don’t like liars.”
“P-please, don’t hurt me! I-I can change! I’ll do whatever you want! Just please don’t—”
…
The Enchantress couldn’t help but grin as the pleading wench was now lifeless on the floor, her cream filling oozing out of the holes in her head. The new Vanilla then turned to face her.
“It is done, my lady.”
My lady… that had a much nicer ring to it than “Lily.”
“Excellent. Now, come with me. We have work to do.”
He gazed into her beautiful hellish eyes and smiled at her.
“Of course, my lady.”
And so, the two Cookies silently slipped into the night, leaving behind a tower full of corpses.
Perhaps now, the world will listen to Dark Enchantress Cookie with Pure Vanilla Cookie at her side…
Wait…
No… he is no longer Pure Vanilla Cookie…
His name…
…
Is Bitter Extract Cookie.
Yes…
The world will finally listen to Dark Enchantress Cookie and Bitter Extract Cookie.
#cookie run kingdom#pure vanilla cookie#dark enchantress cookie#reverend mother cookie#pastry cookie#white lily cookie#bitter extract cookie#evil vanilla cookie au
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Insatiable
Summary: The Mandalorian has a run in with some rather odd pollen while hunting for a quarry and you try to fix it
Rating: Explicit
Word count: 4.3k
Warnings: Automatic dub-con due to the pollen, penetrative sex, sex against a wall, Mando finds a loophole to take his helmet off but everything else stays on, the Child is sleeping don’t worry, little bit of cockwarming, soft ending
A/N: Me, posting fic during daylight hours? I’m just as surprised as you are, who am I
@damerondjarin @rzrcrst @okay-hotshot @beskars @acomplicatedprofession @huliabitch @pascalplease @darksideofclarke @thesefleshfailures @justawriterwithdreams @generaldamneron @criminal-cookies @someplace-darker @amarvelousmandalorian @roxypeanut @leahsafae @bunnyart-blog @duamuteffe @themandjalorian @hopelikethesun @dindjarindiaries @paniclana @winters-buck @pedropascalito @agentpike @hiscyarika @lesqui @mandadoration @the-huttslayer @poeticandors @tintinwrites @mserynlarsen @hystericalmedicine @queenofheavenandhell @himbopoes @qveenbvtch @bookshelvesandteacups @yougottakeeponkeepinon
Something is— something is wrong with the Mandalorian. The fact that he’s returning without the quarry is concerning enough but the way he’s moving, the way he’s hauling himself up the ramp and out of the jungle like he’s hurt is what sends your heart rocketing into your throat. You can’t see any chinks in the beskar even as he steps into the light of the Razor Crest and the rational part of your brain realizes that the lack of any outward signs of injury, that his armor is still in place, should make you feel better.
Instead what it does is make you swallow, makes you want to reach out and run your hands along the gleaming metal and the thick fabric between the plates, fingers probing for something to fix. “Mando?” You hate how your voice sounds even as it’s leaving your mouth, thin and shaking under its own weight and you feel the anxiety curdle in your gut.
You had just put the Child down for the night and thought it was funny, this odd turn your life had taken in these last months. Going from odd job doer to nurse maid and medic and whatever else a situation may call for. You didn’t realize how attached you’d truly grown to it until now.
The Mandalorian grunts and the sound is ragged at the edges, and you watch with wide eyes as he sits heavily on the cot as if his legs won’t support him any longer and he— he starts tearing at his gloves, at his arm braces. Any other time you’d be fascinated by the skin he’s showing you, normally only glimpsed through blood and bacta spray, but now it only makes your blood run cold.
“Something got under the helmet,” His voice is slurred, the words crashing into one another before they leave the confines of his mouth. He sounds like he drank an entire jug of spotchka by himself and your brain starts to prickle with realization. “Just— I feel so, feel so hot,”
You swallow, careful to keep your distance now when just moments before you had wanted to run to him. “Did you notice any smells? Any...strange tastes in your mouth?” You know enough botany to have dread settling low in your stomach, replacing the anxiety that had been threatening to overtake you. You don’t think this planet houses a lethal strain— uncomfortable, yes. Life altering, perhaps. But not lethal.
The questions make him pause, thank Maker, because this is the most skin he’s ever shown you and already the guilt is gnawing. You know his Creed, piecing it together from the stories you’ve heard about the Mandalorians and from his own mouth, and you are terrified. Terrified that he’ll go for his helmet next, that you won’t be able to stop him in time and then what? What comes after?
“It smelled...sweet, but, but more than that—” He doesn’t know how to explain how it smelled sweet and spiced and soft. As soft as he knows your hands are when you patch him up somewhere he can’t reach, as soft as he imagines other places are. He shakes his head hard to dislodge that thought but it’s already taken hold and now he can’t stop.
He’s having trouble remembering why it’s a bad idea to reach out for you, drag you into his lap and fill his hands and his mouth with you, gorge himself on sensation until he’s sick with it. He feels like he’s burning up, boiling from the inside out and his mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton but it’s watering for you.
His mouth. That’s right, you asked him if he tasted anything. He did— some strange, flavored heat having curled into his mouth and he can’t describe the taste, just knows that it was good and he won’t be opposed to tasting it again.
“I don’t know, something— something good,” The edges of his voice are fuzzed out by the vocoder but the rasp isn’t smoothed and his words skitter down your spine to settle low in your belly. You had spent months perfecting how you deal with the Mandalorian; friendly, compassionate, maybe a little teasing, but most of all understanding of his Creed and the Way and that meant ignoring the affection that had started to fester not long after you’d met. Ignoring the way your mind wandered at night or when you were alone, and it was all going to come crashing down because he’d had a run in with fucking adamari pollen.
If the circumstances weren’t so dire you think you’d laugh because this is ridiculous.
You swallow and raise your hands like you’re trying to placate something feral, show it that you mean it no harm. “We need to stay away from each other for the next few hours, alright?” You hate the way your voice sounds, thin and shaking underneath its own weight and you aren’t sure what you’re more scared of— him forgetting himself or you letting him.
He’s breathing harshly but he only tilts his helmet at you, not realizing what you’re trying to say so you try again, tongue flicking over your suddenly dry lips. “You’ve heard of adamari, right?”
That causes him to still right down to his labored breathing and you rush to reassure him the only way you know how. “This one isn’t lethal we just— you just have to ride it out,” Maker, did he bring any in with him? You can feel yourself warming, goosebumps rising on your flesh the longer he looks at you from behind that dark visor but that could just be the Mandalorian himself. It wouldn’t be the first time, not even slightly, but it most certainly is the worst time.
“It’s going to get worse, isn’t it?” The words rumble through the vocoder and you can only nod, seeing the way his hands fist atop his thighs and you swallow thickly. You know you can’t stop him, you know you won’t want to stop him once he puts his hands on you and that’s why one of you has to leave.
“Look, it’s probably going to last the rest of the night. At least,” You tack the words on as an afterthought, figuring you should warn him before he’s too far gone, remembering how depending on the strain and the dosage the effects can last anywhere between a few hours to a couple days.
You watch as the Mandalorian flexes his hands before he straps his braces back on, fitting his hands back into his gloves slowly as if the movements of covering himself back up are paining him now in some ironic twist of fate. “I’ll go.” The words are simple, brooking no arguments. Maybe they would have inspired more confidence if they hadn’t sounded like they were pushed through gritted teeth.
He hauls himself to standing, a mass of gleaming beskar and you hold your breath as he walks past you, not missing the way he pauses, the way his helmet cants towards you. “Take care of the kid for me,” It’s a forgone conclusion at this point but you understand his need to say it still and you nod, murmuring a simple ‘of course’ into the still air. He doesn’t resume walking right away, instead watching you for long, drawn out moments that make you feel like an ash-rabbit caught in a snare before he stumbles down the ramp, shaking his head.
You’re trembling as you shut the ship back up, not able to tell if your sigh is one of relief or disappointment as he keeps walking into the jungle.
Should you— should you activate the ground security protocols? You probably should in case something other than the Mandalorian tries to get in, but it almost feels like a betrayal as you do. You aren’t afraid of him, not really, and you don’t want him to think that you are. What you’re afraid of is you inadvertently causing his life to unravel because you can’t keep your eyes closed. You’re afraid that it’s the pollen to blame for this, that no part of him actually wants you.
You try to distract yourself by checking on the Child, sleeping peacefully in his crib and you hope he remains that way for the rest of the night. You press a button on the machine and the canopy slides back into place, blocking out all the lights and noises of the Crest and you almost wish you could join him.
You wonder if the famed Mandalorian discipline will be enough to keep away during the long hours of the night, that it will somehow overcome the effects of the drugging plant. Maybe he’ll get far enough away before it really slams into him.
You spend hours like this, unable to keep yourself from pacing around the Crest and jumping at every little noise, from the ship settling to the sounds of the jungle outside, and all the while wondering. Wondering how he’s faring, if it’s gotten worse yet. If he’s in pain and if it would have been a better idea to let him stay and help him. He might not have reached for his helmet like you’re so afraid of.
It’s the middle of the night and your nerves have started to dull, sleep beginning to pull on the edges of your brain. Nothing has activated the ground security protocols and you’ve found the rhythm in the noise of the nightbugs and the creatures and the groans of the Razor Crest. The Child hasn’t woken despite your pacing and nervous energy thrumming out, and all is well.
And then the lights go out.
Adrenaline surges through your body and your heart kicks into a relentless pace and you almost feel like you’re floating with the sudden onset of energy as you spring from your place on the floor. No alarms are blaring. There are no sounds you don’t already recognize and there is nothing banging on the hull of the ship, demanding to be let inside.
The Mandalorian has returned. The Mandalorian has returned and you can’t see a thing.
Arousal and anxiety clash in your gut, colliding until you’re shaking and you don’t know which is which. The dark serves as a loophole, but how strong is it? The urge to run wells up within you so strongly that you almost gasp, feeling your way through the dark as you try to figure out a place to hide.
What if he regrets it, afterwards? Thinks it’s shameful and can’t bear to be around you anymore? Even worse, what if it’s never spoken of again and you have to live with the knowledge of what he feels like, his skin against your own and buried inside of you and you won’t be able to do anything about it.
Your blood is rushing in your ears as you creep through the gloom, your mind racing. There are only so many places to hide in the Razor Crest and your first instinct is to hurl yourself into the storage closet he calls a bunk and seal yourself up in it but you know that would be asking for trouble. You think if you can make it to the ladder you might have a shot of scrambling up, sealing the hatch before the Mandalorian reaches you.
You’re pointedly ignoring the fact that he probably has some sort of nightvision equipped in his helmet and can obviously see better than you if he’s plunging the Crest into absolute darkness on a whim.
You don’t even think you breath as you move, barely picking your feet off the floor and somehow forcing yourself to go slow, to take your time so you don’t run headfirst into a wall. The goosebumps are back and the hair on the back of your neck is standing on end and you feel so thoroughly watched that you think you can feel his eyes on your like a caress.
You don’t know how far you make it before you feel a heavy hand on the center of your back, pushing you up against the wall and then the Mandalorian is pressing himself against you, trapping you between two layers of solid metal and you almost keen from the sensation of it.
“M’sorry, I— I tried, so hard, I’m sorry,” He slurs into your ear and all the breath you’ve been holding leaves your lungs in a gust because you’re not hearing the blurry, filtered voice through the vocoder anymore and you can feel his lips on your neck, mouthing at the delicate skin desperately. He’s taken his gloves off too and his hands are everywhere.
They slip beneath your tunic without warning and his skin is fever hot and rough, and you can’t stop yourself from shaking if you try when he grasps your breasts, cupping their fullness and squeezing, forcing a whine from your throat. He keeps mumbling apologies against your neck, soothing bites with his tongue and gasping for breath because there’s just so much of you he’s never touched, never felt like this and you’re so soft and warm and he’s losing his mind.
“S’okay, really,” You do your best to reassure him but you think the pollen is rubbing off you, it has to be because it’s like once he got you in his arms all that anxiety and fear that was festering and curdling in your stomach turned to pure heat in a single instant and you can feel the wetness already slicking the insides of your thighs.
His chin hooks over your shoulder and you think he’s trying to watch himself play with you— you have no idea if he can even see but the idea that he’s trying cranks you higher. Your other senses have heightened to compensate for the lack of vision and maybe that’s the reason why you almost cry when his fingers clasp around your nipples. He pinches and rolls the puckering flesh, and you’re unable to stop the sob of his name that leaves your mouth. “M-Mando,”
The sound of that word on your lips, little more than a gasping moan, is what breaks him the rest of the way. The words come pouring out of his mouth then and fill your head up until the sound of them and his touch are the only things that exist for you.
“Wanted this for s-so long and you— you’re—” You’re letting me, the thought finishes unspoken because he can’t believe it. You’re arching your spine and reaching behind you, clawing at any part of him you can reach and he loves it. He loves the way you taste and the sounds that are pouring from your lips and he’s never been this hard in his life.
His hands finally come unglued from your breasts and rasp down your side, his rough palms catching on your skin and the contrast has you both shaking. The Mandalorian doesn’t waste time, isn’t capable of it as he shoves his hand underneath the waistband of your pants and your underwear and— and he fucking chokes.
You’re so warm and wet that for a moment all he can do is groan, forehead dropping to your shoulder and his big body shuddering against your own. He drags a finger through your slit, in awe of just how wet you are for him as you rock in his palm. He can’t get over the fact that you’re almost sobbing for him now as he rubs the calloused pads of his fingers sloppily over your clit and he can feel your thighs quiver.
“Im-imagined this,” He can’t stop himself from talking, needing to get the words out, to let you know that it isn’t pollen that’s caused all this. It only sped up the timeline, pushing him off the cliff he’s spent the past months edging towards. “Didn’t know yo-you’d be this— this warm,” His voice cracks on the last word and he groans raggedly into your ear because at that exact moment he’s slicking two of his fingers into your weeping cunt and some part of him thinks this is a hallucination. This has to be a hallucination because there’s no way you’re this hot, there’s no way you’re drenching his hand and moaning for him.
He tells you as much, rasping right into your ear how tight you are, how good you’re taking his fingers. How he’s been dying for this.
You try to brace yourself against the wall as your hips bear down on his thick fingers, able to feel the dips and ridges of his knuckles while your free hand clutches at the arm he has wound around your waist to keep you crushed against him. Tears collect in the corners of your eyes and you already feel so full but you’re greedy, and maybe the pollen has rubbed off on you after all because as amazing as his fingers are spearing up into you, you want his cock more.
You try to tell him but when you open your mouth to do so the only thing that comes out is a whimper because the Mandalorian is pressing the heel of his hand hard into your pubic bone while his fingers work, grinding your clit against his hand. You can feel the bridge of his nose pressing into the line of your jaw, his breath huffing over your skin and it’s all too much.
You feel yourself clamp down on his fingers and your mouth hangs open and the only thing you can hear is the Mandalorian’s moan in your ear. He presses you harder into the wall and his hand stills, keeping the pressure on your clit and just curling his fingers within you. You don’t notice how your nails are digging into his wrist and the hand you have on the wall is shaking as it reaches back, blindly seeking the Mandalorian to pull him closer as your hips stutter and grind into his palm.
You don’t realize you’ve started begging him until the buzzing clears from your head. “Please, p-please, Man-Mando, just— I need your cock,” You sound as wrecked as you feel and the Mandalorian grunts somewhere behind you, ripping at his belt before the words are fully out of your mouth. You want to help him but your hands are shaking too much and you’re still trying to remember how to breathe properly when you feel a blunt pressure against your slippery folds.
Your head falls back onto his shoulder and you’re rocking impatiently on just his tip, whining at the feel of his hands now gripping your hips to try and hold you still. You still haven’t gotten used to the feel of his bare hands on you and it’s like each brush of them, every squeeze and and rub making you feel almost delirious. They’re hot against you, fingers digging in around the bone and somewhere in a hazy part of your mind you know you’ll have marks later, a roadmap of where and how he touched you and you can’t wait to trace your fingertips over them in the daylight.
Any control he’s managed to cling to is gone and he’s helpless not to buck his hips, filling you up in one decisive thrust that sends you lurching into the wall. You cry out from the sensation of his cock splitting you open, the stretch pinching just enough for the pain to put the pleasure into focus, sharpening it to a razor’s edge.
This is what he’s been hiding underneath all that beskar? The thought slides across your mind like a tendril of smoke, half formed and nearly transparent before it blinks out of existence as fast as it came into being because the Mandalorian is rutting over you, armor biting into the backs of your thighs as he tries to press as close as physically possible each time he bottoms out within you.
He’s barely pulling out, as if he can’t stand the thought of separating from you even just the few inches he needs for leverage, is something unbearable and it is glorious. The tears have spilled from your eyes and his hands are clutching you, arms banding around your front to keep you molded to his chest so tightly that your breathing is restricted from the pressure across your chest but you can’t manage to care.
You aren’t being granted any sort of reprieve from how deliciously full you are and you think you can feel every vein and ridge of his cock as it drags inside you, scraping heavily against that one specific spot that’s causing you to see stars in the darkness, pinpricks of light igniting behind your eyelids. His name is falling pathetically from your lips, your high pitched and needy and he just keeps going. His mouth at your ear, slurring how you feel around him, how well you’re taking him and how he never wants to leave your heat.
You use his voice, so much clearer without the vocoder, as a homing beacon and reach a trembling hand over your shoulder, sifting your fingers through the sweaty curls you find at the nape of his neck. He shudders and snarls when you give them an experimental tug and you feel it right down to your toes— so you do it again.
He digs his hips into yours in a rhythm that borders on brutal and you’re only able to last for so long because the arm around your stomach drops low and he’s pressing his fingers into your clit again, quick and desperate. And then, almost before you realize what’s happening, your vision is whiting out and your pussy is clamping down around his cock, your flesh pulsing around him as you hang, suspended time time and unable to feel anything but the pleasure as it rockets up your spine and covers your skin like syrup, thick and sticky-sweet. Your mouth is hanging open but no sound comes out at first and— and then you’re mewling some pitiful parody of his name because he’s fucking you through the first orgasm and on into the second if he doesn’t stop.
Which he doesn’t. You’re sensitive and shaking and he isn’t stopping, driving into you again and again before he stills, cock buried as deep as he could manage and he moans. The sound is broken against your shoulder, blunt teeth indenting your skin and you’re sure you’ve never heard anything better. Liquid heat fills you, makes you arch and writhe and feel almost like a lothcat in heat.
The Mandalorian doesn’t move away from you like you had been so afraid of just hours before, doesn’t rush to cover himself or start offering apologies. Instead you feel him panting against your upper back and he slackens his bite, laving at the marks he left with his tongue. He squeezes you tighter and nuzzles his face into the side of your neck, rumbling a single word that has you quivering all over again—
“More.”
Hours later you’re sprawled atop the Mandalorian, your cheek resting against the cool metal of his cuirass and his cock still buried in you. You have no idea how long you’ve been laying like that, his hand drifting across your back, tracing nonsense patterns along your spine with his bare fingers. He put his helmet back on sometime during the night and as much as you missed the access to his mouth, the sound of his unfiltered voice, you understood.
You’re drifting somewhere between being awake and unconsciousness, only aware of the feel of his hands, the hard lines of beskar pressing into your skin, and how full you feel, reminded of that in particular every time you so much as twitch.
You hum in sleepy acknowledgement when he calls your name, only raising your head when he squeezes your shoulder and gives it a little shake. You rest your chin on your hand and fix his visor with what you hope isn’t a look of lazy contempt, though whatever your expression may have been it melts at the first touch of his hand on your cheek and you can’t resist the urge to nuzzle into his warm palm. The Mandalorian is quiet for so long that your eyes are starting to drift shut when he begins to speak, soft and slow. “This, it— it started because of the pollen,” He lets the words hang in the air and you have the sense that he chose the words carefully. He doesn’t take his hand from you, letting you lean the weight of your head into his palm, thumb stroking the delicate skin underneath your eye so slowly you don’t know if he realizes what he’s doing.
You don’t answer him right away, instead you lift yourself up just enough for you to be able to reach his helmet, doing your best to ignore the way his cock drags along your sensitive walls and you can feel him tense right through the beskar. You don’t reach for it. You don’t even move your hands from where they’re braced against his chest. Instead you move slowly and carefully, leaning forward to press your lips to the visor in a soft kiss before you settle back onto his chest.
You hear his sigh through the vocoder, the tension seeping out from underneath you and you feel your lips pulling into a smile as you close your eyes. You’re higher up than you were before, just enough for your cheek to press into the softer spot between his cuirass and his pauldron and you want to hum with contentment. You know that you have to talk about this sooner or later, but for now you only want to bask in the afterglow, in the languid soreness that’s settling into your muscles.
#the mandalorian x reader#the mandalorian x you#din djarin x reader#din djarin smut#din djarin x you#mandalorian smut#star wars fic#star wars smut#first time writing mando and first time writing sex pollen we've got a double whammy folks
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Oh my beloved that was very pog-
Gib another part for the zombie apocalypse one pwease :3?
Anything for my Dear Smoggy, Love you!
if you wish for a part three you may, but you're gonna have to give me an idea :3
Warnings: Zombies (Which will contain death and some heavy subjects, be warned), Soft vore.
Words: 1.7K+
It was obvious that the growl wasn’t human, the tone sounded so inhuman that it scared Tommy, not only that but his eyes, they screamed pure anger. Despite the small time of knowing Wilbur, he’d honestly grown quite attached to the man fairly quickly. Wilbur being the only one to treat him with proper kindness since the outbreak.
Three months without anybody he loved, three months of torture, three months without touch…
He didn’t love Wilbur but, he believed he could. He knew no ordinary survivor would protect him like Wilbur was now, so it made him think. ‘Maybe Wilbur grew attached too?’.
…
Wilbur’s mind was fuelled by panic, he couldn’t think straight. His urges are too strong. Hunger demanding satisfaction. But not for humans. For the deaths of the zombies, his mind screamed at him to protect the boy.
He didn’t know how he had grown so attached, perhaps it was that he was lonely for so long? He felt pity for the boy. He couldn’t be sure, he wasn’t sure what he was feeling, what emotion was screaming at him. He just knew that whatever was left of his lungs breathed with anger and his ‘heart’ raced.
…
“STAY BEHIND ME!”. He growled and pushed Tommy behind him, “What are you doing?! Are you trying to get killed?!” Tommy yelled at the top of his lungs. What on earth was this idiot trying to get killed?!
“I’M TRYING TO PROTECT YOU!”. Wilbur’s voice was no longer that soft and soothing voice, rather a distorted, alien-like voice. As if a drainpipe was trying to talk. Wilbur took a step back as the zombies came in closer to them.
“Tommy, get to the back end to the alley. Now!”. Wilbur’s voice was desperate. Tommy ran to the back as fast as possible, his lungs screaming and his chest aching, tears stung his eyes. He was scared, he didn’t know what to do. There was no way out of the alley, and they were surrounded.
The sounds of the zombies gave him a headache, what was he supposed to do?! He couldn’t do anything; he wouldn’t even be here right now if Wilbur hadn’t saved him.
…
Wilbur let out a monstrous roar, angering the zombies further into attacking the two, Tommy screamed at him to get back, Wilbur could hear the teenager’s fear for their safety. It scared Wilbur to hear such a tone from a normally happy kid.
It was probably apparent to Tommy by now that he wasn’t inheritably normal, but Tommy still reached out to him. So, the kid had grown attached himself, the hard and closed off one of the two had grown attached.
The kid had been lonely, scared. Without anybody but himself to care about. Wilbur couldn’t really blame him for such things. He was just a kid after all.
…
Tommy stared in horror as Wilbur let out a monstrous roar, he yelled out. He was scared, he didn’t know what was going to happen or what the fuck was going on…
And that fear only increased and Wilbur fell to the ground on his knees.
…
His knees gave out from under him as he fell to the ground in pain, his muscles ached. He couldn’t say it was hell though, he’d grown used to it after a while of doing so.
He noticed his once human-looking hands quickly turning into sharp claws, sharp enough to tear through flesh. Normal teeth turning too sharp like canines, one bite sharp enough to easily kill. His size grew.
…
Tommy didn’t know how much emotion he could handle in a day, but he was sure he was way past his limits, if he wasn’t horrified before he definitely was now. Wilbur once a normal size, turned gigantic. As tall as the buildings.
He could see his teeth, claws. His beanie had fallen off during his transformation, exposing the part of his head where he had an exposed skull. It was obvious to Tommy now, how Wilbur easily evaded those Zombies, the puzzle pieces fitting together. He was a Zombie himself.
As much as his mind screamed to hide from Wilbur, he knew it was a death wish. Not only that but if Wilbur was capable of communication and compassion. He wasn’t a normal Zombie or the fact that he had mentioned he was trying to protect Tommy.
So, Tommy had befriended a Zombie, funny.
…
Wilbur turned to look back at Tommy, he could see the pure fear in the boy’s eyes. He wanted to apologize for scaring him but there wasn’t much Wilbur could do at the current moment. He needed to quickly keep them safe.
He knelt down over to Tommy, the boy stepped back on instinct. He reached out his claw, carefully embracing Tommy in a fist, giving a small squeeze to reassure the boy but all he got were his screams and cries.
Wilbur felt the Zombies trying to crawl onto his legs, he stood up and immediately stomped down, killing whatever Zombies were once there. Tommy screamed again in fear, he brought the boy to his chest protectively. Hoping that this was enough to comfort the boy for a minute as he continued to destroy them.
…
There were way too many Zombies than Wilbur expected, every Stomp only brought, even more, to deal with, it was getting annoying. Every growl just made Tommy cling to his chest further than before, he wanted nothing but to comfort the boy, but his focus was just on killing and killing.
He realized that he probably wouldn’t be able to win this battle as the Zombies kept on increasing. His instinct screamed at him to roar but he held back that instinct, for Tommy and for the case of not luring anymore Zombies than he already had.
As his mind raced for a plan, he came to a conclusion.
Run.
He ran past the Zombies, the ground shaking under him with every step. Rubble of buildings falling as he passed. Normally he was careful, but he had nothing to lose, besides the small human currently in his arms.
He was probably halfway across the city when he finally got away from the Zombies. The boy in his arms crying his heart out. Once he realized, they were safe, he stopped. Taking a second to finally breathe after everything that had happened.
He scanned around for Zombies and found none so he finally sat down, his body slumping against the building behind him, it was uncomfortable, but it would do as he was tired as hell.
…
Tommy stopped crying as the loud sounds had stopped somewhat, he didn’t realize how tightly he had clung onto Wilbur. All he could hear were the sounds of birds and Wilbur’s breathes, maybe even a heartbeat?
After a moment, he let go of the hold he had on Wilbur’s clothes and looked back at the claws holding him. He could tell they were sharp, Wilbur could just easily kill him, but he didn’t, and the fact he was being held in a way that the claws would bring no harm to him.
He looked up at Wilbur, whose eyes were closed. But it was obvious to Tommy he was still awake, you had to be during an apocalypse and especially what had just happened.
…
“W-Wilbur?”, his eyes opened to look down at the boy in his claw, Tommy seemed to shrink down at the sight of his eyes, he couldn’t blame the boy for being scared. “Yes Tommy?”, his voice still distorted but softer and calmer.
“A-Are you a Zombie?”. Tommy shrunk back even further into his hand. Wilbur took in a deep breath and after a moment answered. “Yeah, I am. A weird one at that”.
Tommy’s face turned to slight curiosity, “H-how’d you become one?”, “Dunno, I don’t remember.”. “How are you able to grow gigantic?", “The same answer, it just came naturally I guess”.
The boy stopped talking but the fear slightly lifted from the boy’s face much to Wilbur’s relief. “Are you okay?”, he asked with concern. “F-fine, just scared”. Wilbur hummed in reply.
“You don’t have to be scared; I’ll protect you”. He squeezed Tommy gently, in reassurance. Tommy picked up on it this time. He could see a small smile plaster the boy’s features.
…
Night soon came, as it was apparent that the two were really tired. Wilbur could feel the boy slip in and out of consciousness in his hand. “Tired, Gremlin?”. He got a half sleepish, ‘Mhm’.
Wilbur hummed and picked up the boy, bringing him closer to his mouth. He opened his mouth and breathed out. Warm breath brought the boy out of his sleepish state and went to alert as he saw Wilbur’s mouth coming ever so closer.
“W-Wilbur!? What are you doing?!”. He screamed out, Wilbur closed his mouth and stared down at Tommy in confusion. “I thought you were tired?”, “Course I’m fucking tired but what the fuck are you trying to do?!”.
“Eat you?...”, “EAT ME?!”. He yelled out, “What do you mean eat me?!”. “Uh, do humans not at each other?”, “OF FUCKING COURSE NOT!”.
“Oh…”. Wilbur stumbled, confused. Since when did humans not eat each other? He thought since he could do it himself it was also a human trait. Turns out it wasn’t. Turns out humans’ control quite control their stomach acids as Tommy explained.
“Well-“ Wilbur coughed, “You still need to sleep Tommy”. He then opened his mouth and gently placed Tommy in much to his complaints. He licked the boy, tasting dirt and other things. “Wilbur!”, Tommy yelled out but got no response as Wilbur tilted his head back and swallowed.
…
Tommy felt as he couldn’t breathe as muscles pushed against him, he had no room to move, it didn’t help his claustrophobia. Not only that but Tommy was terrified, his mind raced with panic. He knew Wilbur wouldn’t hurt him, but his mind yelled at him anyways.
He soon fell into a larger space, his stomach. He pounded at the walls, begging to be let out but the walls only pressed against him, a soft rumbling of Wilbur’s body around him. Wilbur’s purring. Not only that but there were soft reassurances from Wilbur.
Well, maybe it wasn’t too bad, he was honestly really tired. He leaned against the wall, which was warm. Something he hasn’t quite have for a while, it was oddly comforting. He yawned and fell into a deep sleep, mumbling a goodnight.
…
Wilbur smiled as he finally felt the boy sleep, Tommy had been through a lot and needed the rest. Now Wilbur had to figure out what was going to happen next…
Summary:
Wilbur: You need sleep Tommy.
Tommy: No
Wilbur: Yes *nom*
Tommy : AAAAAAA
Also Tommy: *Sleeps*
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you’re someone i just want around: IV
“I had a few, got drunk on you
And now I’m wasted
And when I sleep, I’m gonna dream of
How you tasted.”
— Medicine, Harry Styles
A/N: if i said i’m apologizing for the way i left off ch3, yes i did ❤️ no i didn’t ❤️ it was fun ❤️ as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!! and if you enjoy the piece, please reblog it!!! it keeps content creators motivated!! without further delay, hope you enjoy what’s in store for Sherlock and Watson this chapter cause it’s uhhhh quite a bit of uhhhh ~stuff~ 😌
harry’s condo : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : ysijwa playlist
word count: 26.4k
content/warnings: a mild addiction to sexting, some pretty sparkly lingerie, a very interesting photo, a strange but satisfying gift, rough sex and degradation, pillow talk about the validity of the men in Twilight, the satisfying gift being put to even more good use, Y/N going over to Harry’s apartment for the first time, mild mentions of blood, and an impromptu Hamilton re-enactment amidst more lemon blueberry pancakes
///
For the next three days, the sexting grows more frequent.
Harry feels somewhat humiliated by it, really. He’s an adult— a full-grown, two hundred and nine year old man— and trading nudes with a simple girl shouldn’t be getting him as worked up as it does. He should know how to handle his hormones better, and the thing is, he usually does. But no one in the last few centuries has made him feel as desperate as Y/N does; he hasn’t felt this helpless for someone since he was alive. The vampire just wasn’t prepared to handle the needy responses she so easily yields from his body and he’s horribly rusty on how to skate this thin sheet of metaphorical ice. It’s like he can feel it cracking and crunching beneath his feet, but he has absolutely no power over how to stop it. Any minute, it’s bound to take him under, and he has no choice but to allow himself to drown in it.
The following seventy two hours are full of so many dirty promises and explicit images, his phone might as well be a porno hard drive.
After coaxing Y/N into a few orgasms through the phone and receiving just as many in return, a dangerous game is set into motion that Harry knows is probably unhealthy not only for his self-worth, but for the sensitivity of his anatomy. He can only get off so many times before his joints are begging for a break.
He wakes up Wednesday morning with a stiff ache running along his inner thighs and ebbing across the underside of his balls, but there’s an undeniable contentment stewing behind it. He doesn’t truly mind the throb, comforted by the fact that Y/N is probably facing similar issues at the moment. He finds himself smiling coyly as he flips an omelette onto one of his marble-print platters, recalling the events from the night before.
According to what he’d heard on the other end of the phone, present throughout the array of shaky gasps, cracked whimpers, and wet sounds of pleasure that had echoed from the speaker, Harry had made Y/N squirt.
That was a tremendous stroke to his already huge ego. The idea that he’d been able to make her cum so hard that she’d soiled her brand new sheets had been circling around his head for the last couple of hours, fluffing his confidence. It’s a milestone achievement, to be honest. He’d done something that very few men have the skill to achieve in person, meanwhile he’d done it just by using his voice and extensive imagination. The arrogance he’s sporting right now is more than justified. His cheeks are starting to ache from how hard he’s grinning.
The vampire is so lost in his recollections that he nearly misses the chime of his phone, the unique ringtone that beeps out being as welcomed as ever.
Harry scoops up his device while spooning a piece of his green pepper and mushroom egg dish into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he swipes into Y/N’s text conversation. He smoothers the giddiness fluttering in his stomach; he’s not a child.
As it turns out, he’d killed those butterflies for no solid reason because the instant her message pops up, they come right back to life.
Morning! Thought I’d show you what I’m planning on wearing to work today.
Harry roughly swallows down his breakfast at the attachment following the caption, a shiver coiling down his spine. “Fucking hell.”
The photo is a mirror shot, taken in her tiny bathroom. It’s a full body image where she’s clad in a matching set of bra and panties, the material sparkly bright red lace. The bottoms are high-waisted, hugging her tummy and hips in a way he deems perfect, the lace decorating her skin beautifully. The bra is see-through, so he has an unrestrained view of her chest and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks he might love the way her breasts look in lingerie more than without it. Make no mistake, he’ll willingly drool over her no matter what, but there’s just such a refined beauty in seeing her figure in such an elegant piece. She’s like a present set out for him to unwrap, preferably with his teeth.
Then he notices the garters and the next forkful of food lodges in his throat. They hug around her legs deliciously, the bands settled midway down her thighs as the straps run up the sides and clip onto the hem of her panties. Yeah, he would definitely use his teeth.
After gawking at the artwork for a minute, Harry finally gathers himself enough to type back a decent reaction.
I’m pretty sure that outfit doesn’t apply to the workspace dress code.
Y/N shakes her head in amusement at his response, giggling softly as she finishes shimmying into her black skinny jeans, buttoning them over the skimpy lace.
I’ll cover up for the sake of the customers. But it’s just such a nice set, I figured someone else should get to appreciate it with me.
Harry sets his utensil down on top of his plate, omelet only half eaten. His appetite has molded into a very different type of hunger. He pads out of the kitchen, feeling the ten AM sunlight filter through the glass wall of his living room and warm his bare chest and back. He heads for the bathroom that branches out of the entrance corridor, coming to a stop right in front of its mirror. He begins to clean up his appearance, combing his bed head into a presentable state (he hadn’t slept, per usual, but rolling around his pillows last night while he indulged fantasies about Y/N had done his curls in something fierce), fixing his royal blue briefs along his hips and dragging the waistband down to show off the dip of his prominent pelvic bones.
Once the immortal is done, he taps back with eager strokes of his thumbs.
I can’t believe you’ve never worn that for me. That’s a criminal offense. Literally worth capital punishment.
Oh, really? Capital punishment? And who are you to decide my verdict?
I’m the executioner, obviously. I’m in charge of dispensing the verdict and I promise you, I’ll see to it that you get what you deserve. It’s my civic duty.
Y/N scoffs at his quip, tugging her navy polo shirt over her torso and quickly running a brush through her hair. She puts it up into a neat ponytail, sighing lightly as she stares at her tired reflection. She wishes she could ditch work for the day and entertain more conversation with Harry, but she literally can’t afford to.
Well, you’re gonna have to wait while I go perform my own type of civic duty. Making the world a better place, one grilled panini at a time.
Harry’s lips jolt. She’s so clever and witty, he doesn’t know how she could possibly be from such a dull, monochrome town.
I understand. Justice calls. But before you go, can I send you a picture of what I’M wearing today? Could use a few style tips.
That’s pretty ironic coming from someone whose last name is literally ‘Styles.’
I know, I know. But even fashion icons have their insecurities sometimes.
Fair point, nobody’s perfect. Lemme see your OOTD, then.
The outfit of the day appears to be no outfit at all, according to Harry’s picture. It’s taken on a mirror, like her own, and it depicts him standing with one hand holding his phone in front of his face while the other seems to be doing jazz hands down his body playfully. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of deep blue briefs (probably because he’d completely ruined the maroon pair he was wearing last night, if his broken moans and heavy panting had been any indication) and they hug his frame flawlessly. The fabric is bunched around his lean thighs, tiger head tattoo peeking out to accompany the rest of the collection, which includes all the inkings running the length of his left arm as well as the butterfly and swallows across his torso. His v-line is evident as ever, dipping below the elastic band teasingly. His chest is broad and his biceps are taut, despite the fact that he’s not even flexing. He looks like a Greek statue and Y/N is positive the higher powers designed Harry with that specific thought in mind.
Y/N doesn’t realize drool is gathering in her mouth until it tickles the inside of her bottom lip. She snaps her jaw closed, clearing her throat sheepishly. Over a minute has passed of her just ogling and she can feel heat layering across her cheeks. She knows Harry probably has the cockiest expression on his face at the moment, obvious in the tone of the next comment he delivers.
Damn, it’s that bad, huh? Guess I’ll have to change.
No, it’s perfect. Simple, but effective. Very professional.
Why, thank you!
My pleasure.
Here, take this as a token of my appreciation. Hopefully it can help get you through the day.
This specific photo is taken from an above point of view, as if Y/N were looking down at Harry’s body along with him. His pectorals and stomach muscles appear more defined, tattoos darker and skin more evidently sunkissed. Lower down, there’s the obvious outline of what lies within his boxers, snuggled up against his thick thigh and tempting her to let out a soft whine. Then, resting casually against his abdomen is his free hand, sporting a thumbs-up that gives a purposefully goofy vibe to the risky image. He’s such an idiot.
The mortal’s answer is just as silly and lighthearted as his gesture.
Thank you, I’ll keep it locked in my heart forever.
I wouldn’t want it any other way.
That’s the first interaction of many that further opens the door to their virtual sex life. Things hardly stay that innocent.
That night when Y/N gets home from work, they undergo another round of phone sex. It starts off the same: cheeky banter that leads to cheeky pictures that eventually leads to utter filth.
And that’s how they spend the next few days— taking care of each other’s needs digitally until Friday rolls around. There’s plenty of those encounters, but there’s definitely favorites.
A session during one of Harry’s self-care baths, when he puts her on speaker and she talks him through tugging one out while the scent of lavender salts— which he’d chosen because they smell like her— leave his heated skin feeling soft and supple. Another instance where he makes her orgasm while she has gotten bored watching a scary movie marathon on her couch, the screams of the horror film mere background noise compared to all the sweet nothings Harry huskily mumbles into her ear, his dominant voice filtering through her headphone and instructing her on how to make herself feel good.
Harry messages her at three A.M. at one point, wide awake as ever, all of his thoughts occupied by the concept of Y/N laying on her tummy between his thighs and sucking him off at a slow pace. He can practically see her small hands wrapped around his girth, stroking up to meet her pretty lips, her tongue lapping at his tip eagerly as she whines around a full mouth. She’s always just so eager. Even at the crack of dawn, she’s awake by some miracle, and happily willing to delve into that fantasy with him. Her soft, timid tone drifts across the shells of his ears, explicitly sketching out how she’d take him all the way down her throat until she gags, and how she’d kiss all over the head of his prick just to smear his precum over her lips to then lick it off, and how she’d rock against his lap fast and hard while he takes her nipples between his teeth. How she wouldn’t stop until he’s dripping down her thighs and groaning into her throat. How she’d let him fuck her as many times as it takes to tire himself out.
Harry obviously repays her, and it comes in the form of him painting out a scenario where she’s gotten home from a long day at the café. He tells her about how he’d be there waiting for her in nothing but his underwear, sitting back on his elbows in her bed, touching himself over his briefs just at the thought of pleasuring her. About how he’d lay her out and taste every inch of her body with his tongue, and how he’d run his teeth across her inner thighs tenderly while his fingers play with her clit, and how he’d have her ride his face deep and sloppy until she’s shaking and sensitive. How he’d tie her to the bed and toss her legs over his shoulders while he pounds her into the mattress, marking bruises across her neck as she sucks on his fingers and tightens around his cock like “the snug little thing you are.”
They even take their fun out of the confines of their houses and into public settings, just to give it an adrenaline high. Those situations are foreplay; it’s how they prep each other throughout the day for when they’re both finally alone and can truly help one another to the fullest.
It happens Thursday on two occasions.
First, to Y/N, who is sitting in the backroom on her lunch break, though she’s barely touched her food. She’s much more interested in what Harry has to say. Much more interested in how he says he wishes he could be there with her right now. That she could sneak him in through the back door of the restaurant and they could lock themselves in that tiny supply room, making sure no one would disturb what he’s about to do to her. That he would drop to his knees and drag her jeans down her legs, pressing damp kisses in the denim’s wake, biting hickies in the areas he knows she loves to receive them. He would mount her knees over his shoulders and bury his face between her thighs, looking up at her through heavy lashes as he licks into her desperately. He would have her grab onto his curls and guide his tongue just the way she likes it, and she’d have to bite into her cheek to keep from getting caught.
He talks about how he’d take her against the supply shelves, one hand clamped over her mouth while he pants praise into her ear, her body jolting roughly upwards against the surface as she clings to his back. How he’d hold her up with the other arm and slam her down onto his cock, cooing things like, “Gotta keep quiet for me, sweetheart. Can’t make you cum if we get caught.” and “Such a filthy girl, sneaking me in here just to fuck you. Baby just wants to walk around the rest of the day full of me, doesn’t she?”
That fantasy leaves her in a bothered haze the rest of the work day. It’s bad enough that she almost drops her tray three different times and has to ask multiple customers to repeat their orders.
Y/N gets back at Harry, though. That revenge is the second occasion.
The vampire had mentioned that he would be going out with his friends that evening to a bar and she takes full advantage of that. When the picture comes through, Harry nearly spits out his Manhattan drink.
He’s sitting in a booth surrounded by his entire group and he’d been talking shit with Niall about golf. The vampire doesn’t care for the sport, but Niall loves it, and Harry loves getting on Niall’s nerves, therefore it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Mitch and Adam join in, with Mitch obviously supporting Harry, when he randomly decides to check his notifications. Even in the shrunken little banner, Harry can immediately tell the photo is graphic. Xander asks if he’s alright, telling him he looks freakishly pale and to get his eyes under control because they're in public. Harry blinks the red from his irises, hurriedly excusing himself and clambering up from his seat, jetting across the restaurant towards the restrooms. It’s occupied, much to his luck, so he settles for simply pressing his back against the wall of the corridor, leaning his head against the bricks and taking deep breaths to calm the raging in his stomach. He gingerly opens the message and his knees nearly give out.
The image is taken from the back, probably using a timer. Y/N is wearing one of her big tees and another pair of cheeky lace panties, but this time around, they’re pastel peach and crotchless. She’s bent over with her ass up and spine arched, knees parted for balance, her shirt bunching downwards due to the angle. Her arms are pulled behind her back and her chest is flushed to the bed, wrists crossed submissively as she gazes at the camera over her shoulder. There’s an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes and he can tell she had sent this now on purpose just to fuck with him, knowing good and well that he was out and occupied.
The shot is more than he can handle and he has to swallow down the urge to stomp out of the bar, get into his car, race to her flat, and make her rethink her decision. Preferably, in the form of harsh spanks and overstimulation. He can see everything— the intentional rip at the crotch of the panties are meant for that sole reason. The closer he looks, he comes to realize that she’s wet, which in turn means she had been touching herself. She’d set this up perfectly, knowing that he’d easily be able to deduce that fact and that it would haunt him for the rest of the night.
The monster releases a quivering exhale, typing back slowly and carefully, sight bleary.
You’re going to regret that.
Pinky promise?
///
When Harry arrives at Y/N’s apartment the next night, as he has for the last three Fridays, he doesn’t saunter up to her door and bang on it angrily. He doesn’t grab her by her hair and drag her into her room, how he’d intended. He doesn’t even have a single cinch in his sculpted brows.
Instead, he raps softly on the door with one jeweled knuckle and waits calmly.
The human goes to answer, her stomach twisting in excitement at all the possibilities of what punishment she might face for her antics. A small, sly smile buckles the corners of her lips at the thought, her fingers trembling as they wrap around her cold doorknob. She expects to find a furrow-browed, intense-eyed, red-faced Harry behind the threshold, who would shove past her, nab her by the arm, and throw her onto her bed. She expects him to yank his belt from around his hips while a distinct darkness swallows his emerald irises, his mouth curling into a sinister grin. She expects him to roughly command she get on her hands and knees, his palm finding the back of her head to shove her face-first into the sheets while he rips her panties down her legs and drags the cool leather of his accessory over her backside tauntingly.
What she gets is something— and someone— completely the opposite.
When her door swings open, Harry is standing standing there, sure. But instead of looming over her with flaring nostrils and cruel intent, he’s decided to lean against the door frame with his arms folded casually. His body is completely empty of tension, his ankles are crossed offhandedly, and a small, bright red paper bag full of sparkly black tissue paper is hanging off his wrist. His expression is a relaxed facade of indifference, lips set into his usual signature smirk, no explosive emotions present whatsoever.
That startles Y/N. This has to be an act; it feels like the calm before a violent storm and it has her shifting in her socked feet. Did he...Did he forget what she did?
There’s no way he forgot. It was too brazen a move to dismiss.
Harry steps forward into her home, comfortable enough that he no longer has to wait for an invitation. Y/N moves to the side to let him through, hesitantly closing the entrance behind him, contemplating the man as if he were a ticking bomb. She does a quick sweep of his physique, looking for some other clue as to what he could be plotting, aside from the mysterious gift bag in his hand. He’s wearing a pair of flared denim jeans, a white tee with a royal blue cartoon bee printed in the center along with the words Enjoy health! Eat your honey! surrounding it, his white Vans, and an oversized colorful patch-work cardigan. The outfit is surprisingly domestic compared to his usual taste, but she finds it’s easily one of her favorite fits on him. He just looks so boyish adorable.
The human comes up with nothing suspicious, glancing back up to lock eyes with her guest. Harry beams at her innocently and she knows for sure he’s planning something, but she can’t place what.
“I got you this.” The vampire speaks up first, holding out the paper bag towards Y/N with his index finger, bouncing it encouragingly. “Take a peek.”
The girl accepts the gift gingerly, giving him one more hard look before breaking away to investigate what lies beneath the tissue paper. She pulls out a small cardboard box, her eyes squinting slightly as she reads its print and surveys the label. The image on the surface appears to be of five silicone finger gloves, each about the size of a thumbtack, tiny metal plates embedded into the pads. She’s voicing her curiosity before she’s even finished studying the container.
“What...What are these?”
Harry rolls his eyes jokingly, tapping the object for emphasis. “Read the fine print, love.”
Y/N focuses on the region he’d pointed out, reciting aloud. “‘Vibrating silicone finger gloves. For the use of personal pleasure or with partners.’”
Then it all clicks.
“Oh my God, you got me— what?!” Y/N’s head snaps up in shock, mouth parted and brows creased. “Harry, what?”
The young man laughs airily, gently opening the seal of the box in her hands, which she is now holding as if it were a weapon of mass destruction. It’s such a weird present to give in general, moreso all out of the blue, so she can’t be blamed for her reaction.
He uncaps the packaging, rummaging through its contents and pulling out two of the tiny rubbery gloves. They’re transparent and ribbed, obviously meant to deliver as many sensations as possible, and they’re about two inches in length. He slips them onto his index and middle finger, making scissoring motions for the purpose of symbolism, but mainly just to watch Y/N fidget. “I remember how you said you don’t have sex toys because you’d never really thought about buying any, so I went and picked these up down at my favorite shop. Jessi said they’re good for beginners.”
“Jessi?” Y/N’s voice is tight. She’s not sure how to respond to this; she’s never been in this situation before. No one has ever just given her a sex toy as if a were a candy bar. “Who’s Jessi and why do they need to know about my sex life?”
“She’s the manager.” Harry says matter-of-factly. He doesn’t seem to find anything strange about this encounter. “She helped me pick out my first pocket vag, so I trust her with my soul. Here, look. You just slip them on and—” He makes finger thrusting motions in the air, wiggling his digits playfully. “Big O. Not as good as what I can give you, obviously, but close enough.”
“Harry, you do realize this is a little…odd, right?”
The boy blinks at Y/N blankly. “What? Why? Sex is literally the basis of this whole thing.” He signals back and forth between them with his gloved forefinger. “It’s really not that weird at all, if y’think about it.”
“I just...it’s like…”
Her argument fizzles to an end the longer she stares at him. He has the most wholesome expression painted across his handsome features, his eyes glossy with excitement. He looks genuinely elated about the present and she can’t find it in herself to question him any further. As unorthodox as this may be, it’s the first true act of kindness anyone has shown Y/N since she had moved to California. It’s the first time anyone has given the girl anything without her having to request it. She comes to the realization that Harry really is the only friend she has at the moment, and she refuses to pick and prod at that, lest he retract from her on the grounds that she’s ungrateful. Yes, this is a little atypical, but so is their whole dynamic. In his own twisted way, this is how Harry shows his friendship.
The more she ponders on it, she starts to understand that this truly is something she should accept. He went out of his way to get her this gift, which solidifies their acquaintanceship. It’s sweet.
“You know what, never mind. Thank you! I love them.”
The giddy smile that cracks his face melts her heart. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”
Harry then softly grasps her hand with his, tugging her down the entrance hallway, his intentions set on her bedroom. His voice takes on a deeper sultry twang, the corners of his mouth twitching suggestively. “Because on my way here, I was thinking, yeah? And I figured: who better to teach you how to use these than the person who picked them out.”
“Of fucking course.” Y/N huffs in amusement, shaking her head but allowing herself to be guided forward. “I should’ve known you had an ulterior motive.”
“Heyyyyy!” Harry’s whine is offended, but the coy simper dimpling his cheeks ruins any defense he could possibly try to spin. “This isn’t an ulterior motive, it’s simply a supporting one.”
“Right.” Y/N states flatly, shuffling forward slowly as he backs down her corridor, momentarily glancing over his shoulder to orient himself. “Buying a fuck buddy a sex toy is totally selfless and mutually exclusive of the agreement.”
Harry takes a turn and crosses the threshold into her bedroom, releasing her arm and instead, he opts for wrapping his fist into the loose material of her large Transformers tee, twisting the fabric around his knuckles and giving it a sharp yank. She stumbles into his chest and almost drops the box.
The vampire gazes down at her with half-lidded eyes, long lashes tempting and plush lips the color of roses. “I never said it was mutually exclusive. I just said it wasn’t meant to be evidently inclusive.”
He takes the box from her grip, sliding it onto her nightstand so that any obstacles between them are eliminated. He beckons her closer with a flick of his wrist, feeling heat erupt across his chest as her palms slap down against it to steady herself. She’s always so warm, almost like a furnace. It’s a nice contrast to his ever-present coldness.
Harry’s cupped fingers nurse the slope of her jaw, tilting her chin up to level his, Cupid’s bow ghosting over her own teasingly as a grin threatens to betray him. His accent is thick, heavy with condescension. “Now do you want me to fuck you or not?”
Y/N gulps audibly, the sudden jump in her heart rate causing Harry’s cock to give a foreshadowing twitch in his designer jeans. Her eyes soften with a form of weepy desire, head nodding in his grasp.
Harry’s top teeth catch on his lower lip as he appraises her from over the crest of his defined cheekbones. “I don’t think I heard you, pet. Must be the AC draft.”
The mortal’s eyes fall shut as she composes herself, a shaky sigh faltering past her nostrils. She tips forward onto her toes, connecting her itching mouth to his. Harry allows it, listing his head to the side to grant her more access, his free arm roping across the dip of her spine and pressing her front flushed to his. The kiss is soft and heated, full of drunken tongues and muffled whimpers. It’s tame compared to most of the others they’ve shared, but Harry likes it. It’s sloppy and intimate; only the beginning of what he knows will be a long night.
Her words sting the ridges of his lips, hot and bated. “I want you to fuck me.”
Harry speaks into her mouth, tone gentle but packing a punch. “Get my belt off for me, will you? I’m tying you to the bed tonight.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice, a dark chuckle vibrating across his tongue when her fingers immediately begin to fumble with his belt buckle.
Once Harry has looped the leather tightly around Y/N’s wrists and has knotted them to one of the wooden railings of her headboard, he sits back on his heels to admire his work. Y/N is splayed out across her mattress with her arms suspended above her head, bare thighs clasped in anticipation as her t-shirt gathers around her waist. Her hands are curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she watches Harry leisurely shrug off his cardigan, keeping eye contact with her the whole way through. His tattoos stand out against the buttery light of the single lamp on the table, tanned arms flexing sinfully.
He shifts around, laying down onto his stomach and coasting his palms up her quivering legs, kissing over her kneecaps and along the crease of her inner thighs, bunching her shirt further up her body as he goes. As soon as he spots the first garter, he blacks out for a millisecond, vision washing red.
“Fuck, wait— did you…?” His voice is strained and desperate as he shoves the rest of her clothes up her torso, pulling her shirt over her head and letting it rest at her elbows. He hums appreciatively when he’s met with the full cherry-colored lingerie set from a few days ago, garters and all. “God, you did.”
Y/N’s gaze falls timidly, a sheepish smile brushing over her face. “I thought you’d want to see it in person, since you seemed to like it so much.”
“Mm...” Harry struggles to swallow, fingers hooking under the straps that clip to the hem of her underwear, pulling the fabric from her skin and letting them snap back into place. He revels in the tiny noise she lets slip, the pads of his digits now toying across the frilly bands encircling her upper legs. After a thoughtful heartbeat, Harry speaks up, wistful but vehement. “I’m going to make you soil your sheets again.”
Y/N bucks a tad at his promise, wrists stressing against the leather belt, but Harry’s practiced enough bondage in his lifetime to know she won’t be getting out anytime soon. He parts her knees open with his palms, dragging his silicone-covered fingers down her clothed clit and tutting when she lets out a stuttery gasp.
“Always so sensitive, aren’t you, angel?” The vampire pets at her core patiently, heat pooling at the base of his abdomen as he feels her panties damped with every stroke of his touch. “Christ, you’re already soaking through.”
“Want more.” The girl’s plead is strangled as she actively forces herself to keep her legs wide open, knowing that if she were to allow them to snap shut, Harry would only pry them apart again. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. Please.”
“All week?” Harry drags tongue across the inside of her thigh, nipping at the flesh tauntingly, the amber specks in his eyes glittering amidst his lashes. He continues to rub through her underwear, drinking up all the little noises streaming from her throat. “Tread lightly, dove. You’re swelling my ego.”
“I just…” Her hips give another jerk when he wriggles two rubber-clad fingers into the crotch of her bottoms, spreading her open just a bit and grinning against her skin at how wet she’s become. “I just need it hard tonight, Harry. Need you to leave me sore.”
“I always leave you sore.” The monster reasons mockingly, taking one of the garters between his teeth and tugging, releasing so it stings her like before. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
Y/N trembles out an exhale, gathering herself enough to give him what he wants. “I need you to fuck me like you hate me.”
Harry grabs onto either sides of her panties, slowly peeling them down her legs and then scooting closer forward, planting an open-mouthed kiss right onto her bare clit. She mewls in return, her restraints creaking the bed. He continues pressing messy wet pecks to her cunt, feeling her tense up each time his soft lips suckle her fervently.
“Is that why you sent that picture?” Harry wonders aloud, pausing his motions and raising one eyebrow at her. “Because you wanted me mad?”
The human nods, face wracked with guilt. It’s cute that she feels bad, especially because Harry had, in actuality, enjoyed her little stunt. Seeing her bent over like that, in a position that shows she couldn’t wait to please him— that she couldn’t wait until Friday came around so he could do to her whatever he deemed fit...It was the best form of edging he’s ever experienced. But for the sake of giving her what she wants, he’ll bite the bait.
Harry rises up onto his knees, parting her thighs further as he fits himself between them, the pads of his gloved digits dancing across the thick of her damp clit. He bends down until his nose smudges over hers, the breath of his low words hot against her parted mouth.
“Well, it fucking worked.”
Harry taps his index and middle fingers against his palm in one quick flick and the tiny metal plates situated along the tips purr to life. He sinks knuckle-deep inside of Y/N, cold rings catching on her folds as he curls upwards to get at that special spot that resides along the pit of her tummy. The moan she releases it so raw and broken, it sends a zip of lightning through his veins.
He fucks her like that for a while, with his strong chest poised against her heaving own as he marks love bites onto the cleavage spilling from her lace bra, his skilled fingers pumping into her at a harsh pace that has her legs shaking on either sides. He thumbs over her clit messily, the silicone molds sending waves of vibrations through her clenching walls as he relentlessly toys with her g-spot, her arms thrashing against his belt. Fragmented sounds of bliss freely stream from Y/N’s mouth without shame, his name intermingling amongst the whimpers as her head throws back against the headboard. Harry grips her throat in one hand, holding her to the sturdy surface as his other bobs between her thighs roughly, the bed groaning as a result of their intense actions. His wrist begins to ache from how hard he’s going, but the tears trickling out from the corners of Y/N’s eyes and the way she’s panting into his mouth are enough to keep him going.
“Look at me.” Harry squeezes her jugular tighter, garnering attention. She forces her eyelids open, inhales hiccuping when he braces his cool forehead to hers, his irises the color of a forest at midnight, pupils blown out of proportion. His teeth dig into her bottom lip just to feel it swell, a growl stirring the gravel in his chest. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Y-Yes.” Y/N boggles her head feverishly, glimpsing down over her sweaty cheeks to see the way his veins are chiseling along the forearm that is flexing between her drenched thighs. “Fuck, it’s so g-good.”
“Yeah? How about we go a little higher, hm?” Harry scrapes the pads of his fingers against that spongy place inside her, pressing the vibrators down and the motion clicks the toy into a higher level of intensity.
Y/N writhes in his grasp, back arching off the headboard as deeper, more concentrated rumbles lap throughout her body. “Harry— I— that’s— God, just please!”
Harry takes ahold of her jaw as he continues finger-fucking her without remorse, his short breaths warm against her burning lips. “That’s my girl. Taking it hard and loving every second.”
Y/N’s eyes lull back into her head. She doesn’t know why, but hearing Harry call her his girl satisfies her in a manner so deep, she didn’t know it existed. Just hearing him recognize her as his— as something he claims for himself, almost like an extension of who he is— stirs a foreign form of fulfillment in the back of her mind.
“I’m—” The girl chokes on her sentence, finding it difficult to concentrate with so much pleasure coursing through her system, as well as with Harry painting hickies across the side of her strained neck. “I’m gonna cum.”
The immortal’s voice is stern and authoritative. “No, you’re not.”
“I am, I can’t hold—”
“Yes,” Harry’s grip firms, pace sharpening into unapologetic slams, “you can. And you will. If you cum before I let you, you’re not getting anything else from me for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”
Y/N’s cunt tightens around his fingers, warning him that she’s about to peak. “Harry, I’m sorry—but— but I—”
“Do I make myself clear?”
Y/N has no hope that she can keep it in, but she adores the darkness swirling in Harry’s eyes at the moment and she’ll do anything if it means getting to witness it for a while longer. “Yes.”
“Good.” She winces when she feels his teeth skim her earlobe, his whisper dripping with arrogant amusement. “I told you I’d make you regret it.”
And he really does keep his oath. Minutes simulate hours as Harry continues to flirt her just along the seams of relief, pulling her back every time he sees her about to tip. Whenever he feels her begin to spasm around his slick fingers, he gives her a cautionary quirk of his brows accompanied by a testing, throaty, “Don’t you fucking dare.” or a simple, silent shake of his head. By some miracle, she manages to reign herself in every time, but each ruined orgasm makes it harder and harder to stifle the next. She doesn’t know how many times it happens; she stops counting after four.
After what feels like decades of torture, Harry finally releases his hold around her jugular, allowing her to properly gulp air for the first time in a while. He sits back against his heels, pulling his hand from between her thighs with a sarcastic sympathetic hiss. “Poor thing.”
He watches as a trail of her juices strings from his digits to her cunt, eventually snapping in the middle as he lifts his hand to study his work. Her release drips down his knuckles and palm, gleaming in the dim lighting. A mildly sadistic glint washes over Harry’s irises and for a split second, they look almost red, but Y/N dismisses it. Her brain is too fogged to trust right now.
The boy’s sight flickers past his hand to where Y/N lies limply, wrists bruised from the bonds, arms quivering weakly, and legs trembling in overstimulation. He’s never seen her look more beautiful than now.
He locks his bright eyes to her exhausted own, watching them shatter to pieces when he pushes his drenched fingers past his pillowy blushed lips. His lashes flutter as her taste washes across his tongue, sweet and decadent as always, a soft groan thrumming deep in his throat. God, he can only imagine how delectable her blood must be at the moment, honeyed by the plethora of endorphins he had repeatedly coaxed into her. He can't wait to feel its warmth fill his mouth later tonight.
Harry removes his fingers with a wet pop, licking across the back of his hand with finality and giving her a daring once-over. “Do you still want my cock? Or are you too sensitive for it, darling?”
He sounds so conceited and self-assured, it causes Y/N’s pride to flare. She wants to make him eat his stupid words.
The mortal licks her chapped lips, wetting her dry throat and clearing it softly, wiping away the sweat on her forehead with her shoulder. “I still want it.”
An impressed expression decorates Harry’s features. “You think you can take it?”
Y/N’s jaw clenches with dedication, her thighs spreading open a tad more and she wills herself not to flinch. Her chin cocks upwards. “I know I can.”
Harry’s brows kink challengingly, a borderline evil smirk sewing onto his face. “Let’s see, then.”
As it turns out, Y/N can take it. However, she knows for a fact she won’t be able to walk right for at least the next week.
Harry lowers his jeans and kicks them off, reaching into his navy briefs and tugging himself out, giving his length a few pumps for good measure as he shifts forward toward her. He flips the girl onto her belly as easily as he’d turn a sheet of paper, tying one arm around her hips and lifting them up as he slides a pillow below. He situates her accordingly onto the cushion, her ass slightly elevated to give him more range of depth. He pats at her backside lightly, telling her to part her knees and she does so obediently, gripping onto the leather strap around her wrists anxiously when she feels the bed shift with his weight. Harry lowers himself over her body, the tee covering his broad chest soaking up the thin sheet of sweat on her back. He moves all of her tangled hair to the side, burying his fingers into her roots and yanking her head back cheekily. He runs his nose across her damp cheekbone and chuckles when she jumps slightly at the feathery sensation.
“You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you?”
Y/N gnaws on her bottom lip as she struggles to swallow, throat taut from the angle he’s put her in. Her voice carries a confident bite, despite her compromisable position. “I like to think I am, yeah.”
“Well, you know what that makes you, right?” Harry murmurs as he lines himself up with her entrance.
“Mm-mm. What?”
The vampire presses a lingering kiss to the tittering pulse in her temple, feeling it thunder below his skin as he forms his next comment slowly with an ominous edge. “It makes you a brat.”
He feels her heartbeat trip.
“And you know what I do to brats?”
Y/N shakes her head as much as his dominant grasp will allow, body tightening in suspense.
“I fuck them until they break.”
Y/N learns that he’s telling the truth. The first thrust Harry delivers is swift, hard, and unbelievably deep; it causes her to let out a choked scream that no one else has ever drawn from her before, except for him. It’s like he can tap into certain aspects of her body she was unaware of; parts of her waiting for the right person to come along and reveal them. She feels that stroke rip into her tummy, but the pain of his size is something she’s become accustomed to in the last three weeks. She hardly feels it anymore; it had molded from a sharp throb to a dull ache, due to how often she’s experienced it.
Harry doesn’t waste any time, quickly picking up a sloppy, adamant pace that has her hips bouncing against the mattress. He twists her hair around his fist, mouth pressed to the side of her head as his hot pants of exertion send a prickling through her scalp. His other forearm keeps him anchored to the bed as he pounds into her with absolutely no hesitation, the sound of skin slapping, cracked whines, and raspy grunts filling the tense atmosphere of her chilly room.
“Is this what you were hoping would happen when you sent that slutty picture?” Harry grits out, short nails digging into the comforter beneath. “Wanted to get me all riled up just so I’d do your back in?”
Y/N mewls weakly in response, hands clinging to each other within the makeshift cuffs.
“If you wanted me to fuck you like I hate you, you could have just asked. I’m more than happy to give you whatever you want. You don’t have to tempt me.” The vampire gives a particularly deep slam, laughing breathily when the girl’s back instinctively arches forward, paired with a watery yelp of, “Oh!”
Harry’s tongue grazes across the shell of her ear, teeth catching the skin. “But since you did, I’ll give it to you just— like—that.” His thrusts match to each word, fingers coiling harder into her locks. “You deserve it. Especially when you had the nerve to act like such a spoiled little brat right to my face.”
Y/N’s not sure what emboldens her to speak, but her snarky remark is already halfway down her numb tongue before she can stop it. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”
Harry hums tauntingly, circling his hips in long strides that urge a series of fractured whimpers to scrape out of Y/N’s sore throat. “Say it again. Go ahead, say it. I want to see you try.”
She remains silent, spine shuddering as she bites down on her tongue to avoid making any more noises that might condemn her.
Harry roughly cranes Y/N’s neck to the side, buttoning their lips together in a filthy kiss that has her cheeks boiling. “That’s what I thought. The only thing that sharp tongue is good for is licking down my cock.”
She gasps against his mouth shakily, tears of sheer bliss gathering along her waterline. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
Harry can tell her comment holds no true malice behind it; she’s too sweet on him— too whipped on what he gives her— to ever mean it. She’d only said it to provoke him into a power dynamic struggle. But the thing is, Harry’s dealt with feeling powerless before, so he had spent years teaching himself how to win. How to always win.
“Am I, now?” His next line dismantles her entire plan. “Would an asshole let you cum?”
And just like that, her whole demeanor crumbles. “I take it back. I’m s-sorry.”
Harry releases her hair and nips at her ear mockingly, beginning to withdraw himself. “Oh, I think it’s a bit too late for that, minx.”
“No, no! Harry, please. I’m sorry. Genuinely. I promise I won’t say it again. Just…” She tugs helplessly at the belt restraints, trying to twist around to look at him directly. Her voice is wringed out. “Just please.”
The boy pushes a few stringy curls out of his eyes, pressing his tongue into his cheek coyly as he glances down, suggestively smoothing one hand over her ass. He gives it a firm squeeze, lifting his palm teasingly and feeling her tense in anticipation. “Do you want it?”
Y/N glimpses at his bejeweled hand with hunger, then back at his eyes. “Yes.”
“Tell me you want it.”
“I want it.”
“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten what ‘it’ was, exactly. Jog my memory, will you? What is it you want?”
Her irises harden in spite at his shit-eating comment. He’s well aware of how shy she can be when it comes to admitting she wants a spanking, and he’s playing that to his advantage. He’s swimming in the way she squirms.
“I...I want you to spank me.”
He tsks, shaking his head as he twists his HS rings around to face inwards. “You forgot something.”
Y/N’s fingers tighten into begrudging fists. “I want you to spank me, please.”
“There’s a good girl.” His low, accented purr sends electricity through her nerves. “You’re so cute when you beg.”
Harry’s hand comes down swiftly, digits fanned out so that all of his rings print across her backside. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough to leave a satisfying sting. He loves the way she jolts forward with a hushed curse of surprise, and he adores seeing the shape of his initials marked across her clammy skin. It’s poetic, almost.
“So pretty.” His mumble is wistful as he massages deeply over the region he had just bruised, but it holds unyielding authority. “Whose is it, doll?”
“Yours.”
“And don’t you fucking forget it.” The creature lifts one palm to do it again, pausing once more just to rev her further. He reaches forward with the other, shoving her face-first into the mattress to get her back to straighten out. “Look forward and don’t make a single sound.”
Y/N obeys, but manages to sneak a peek at his reflection through the waxy wooden surface of her aged bedframe. He looks so good perched behind her with bare heaving shoulders, looking down at her exposed figure over the crests of his sharp cheekbones, brows furrowed into a starved expression that gives away he’s enjoying this probably more than she is. Her voice comes out small and weak. “Yes, sir.”
Harry’s entire face tightens at the word and she feels him throb against her backside.
“Now beg me to let you cum.”
///
The next morning when Y/N’s eyes flutter open to the grey light streaking in through her curtains, the first thing she senses is a pair of eyes staring at the side of her face.
She turns her stiff body over toward where the sensation stems and sure enough, she’s met with a pair of sea glass irises filled to the brim with humor. Harry’s laying on his side with his hands tucked below one of her pillows, tousled ringlets sticking up in wild tuffs (thanks to the activities they’d engaged yesterday), he’s completely bare since he likes sleeping nude (though he’d had the decency to cover himself with sheets from the waist down), and his voice is slower and raspier than usual (a result of being dormant for the last eight or so hours).
“You drool in your sleep.”
Y/N tucks her hands against Harry’s cold pectorals, snuggling deeper into his chest and pinching at one of his nipples in playful revenge. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes,” he reaches up and shoos her hand away, proceeding to wipe at the side of her mouth, where dried spit had accumulated. He makes a theatrical gagging face, cleaning his thumb off across the collar of her t-shirt. “You do.”
Y/N sighs in exasperation, making a bold leap to a different topic to avoid talking about her embarrassing sleep habits. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring at people while they sleep is weird? Like, serial killer weird?”
Harry tucks a few matted strands of hair behind the human’s ear, thumbing over her cheekbone tenderly. He hardly ever indulges in such actions, simply because they’re typically reserved for actual couples, which he and Y/N are definitely not. But last night— after he had finally finished being a prick and allowed her cum along with him, and after she had fallen into the bed with exhaustion taking her under, and after he’d had his greedy fill of her blood for the week— he’d gotten bored of playing on his phone. He’d burned through three cold case documentaries on Netflix and played enough Mario Kart to memorize the race charts; it had grown old quickly, and he eventually just locked the device and placed it on her nightstand. He spent the next hour staring at her hideous ceiling, and the one after that fantasizing about taking down her tapestry and burning it in the oven. And finally, after hours of mindless daydreams and letting his eyes chase the city lights dancing across the walls of her room, he had settled onto his side and watched her sleep.
Harry did it simply because he had nothing else to distract him. He figured it would eventually bore him enough that maybe— just maybe, if he was lucky— he would fall asleep alongside her. But he didn’t, so he just ended up gazing at her slumbering face until dawn. He had been surprised by how oddly beautiful Y/N looked sleeping— how relaxed and tranquil, with her features soft and skin seemingly made of flawless porcelain. That intrigue had bled into the moment they share now, resulting in his touch drifting down the curve of her jaw and across the faint dimple on her chin. He follows the slope of her neck and admires the smoothness of her flesh with the ridges of his fingertips, hearing her breathing stutter ever so slightly. His heightened senses make it feel as if he’s running his digits over velvet and the only concept he can compare it to is touching forbidden artwork at an exhibit. It’s exciting, but he knows that if he keeps going, he could end up getting himself into a crock of shit.
When the pads of his fingers land on two prominent purple bruises he’d forgotten existed, he’s broken from his soft stupor. He retracts his touch as if she were made of iron, forcing himself to ignore the pout that automatically plumps her delicate lips.
He clears his throat awkwardly, a tight chuckle stringing his vocal chords. “Staring at someone in their sleep seemed to work just fine for Edward Cullen, though.”
Y/N snorts sharply, rolling her eyes up towards her headboard. When she sees his belt is still hanging off of it from the night prior, she hurriedly glances back down, pretending not to have seen it.
“It’s funny you say that because as I recall, he literally admitted to being a murderer. I believe his exact words were,” she exaggerates her voice into an angsty cry, grasping at her chest dramatically, “‘This is the skin of a killer, Bella!’”
Harry bursts into boyish giggles, falling fully onto his back and swiping his palm up his face, fingers remaining perched over his closed eyes as he laughs. He sighs airily, shaking his head as an afterthought. “What a moron.”
“Truly. His dad was hotter.”
“Way hotter.” Harry agrees passionately, burying his hand into his messy curls, attempting to comb out some of the tangles. “And he was a doctor. What a man.”
“Bella really fucked that one up. She had a midlife crisis over choosing between a sad vampire who looked like he had chronic constipation, and a yappy dog with a shirt phobia. All when Carlisle was right there. Brain damage, honestly.”
“A moment of prayer for the mentally incapacitated. Couldn't be me!”
“Couldn’t be me, either.”
“Fuck, yeah.” Harry throws his hand up, inviting Y/N to give him a high five. “To good taste.”
She gladly delivers. “Exquisite taste.”
An instance of comfortable silence suspends between the pair of lovers, filled with the soft thrum of the air vent and the distant chirping of birds outside Y/N’s windowpane. She traces her index nail over the wings of the swallow tattoos along Harry’s collarbones, seeming to be deep in thought. She then speaks up once again.
“Emmett was pretty hot, as well.”
“You know what? I’m happy you mentioned that ‘cause— full disclosure here— I’d ride him like a fucking bull.”
Now it’s Y/N’s turn to explode in a fit of giggles, nose scrunching and eyes crinkling shut as she loses herself at Harry’s graphic confession.
“Why are you laughing?!” The fact that he sounds genuinely appalled only spurs her sounds of glee. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take that chance if you got it. Like, okay, he’s an airhead, yeah? I’m aware. But fuck’s sake, look at his body. I’d happily let him beat me at arm wrestling if it means I get that celebratory dick afterwards.”
The mortal manages to calm down a handful of heartbeats later and Harry feels strangely proud of how he’d made her pulse spike.
“You’re valid for that, don’t worry. I couldn’t have said it—” A single giggle interupts her sentence, but she reigns it in before it can spiral. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Literally. There’s no way to express it better than exactly how you stated it.”
Harry smirks softly up at the ceiling, folding his free arm behind his head as the other wraps securely down Y/N’s back, absentmindedly rubbing in gentle soothing circles. “My mind. It’s amazing, innit?”
“It’s definitely something.”
Another span of cozy quietness fills the atmosphere of the room, longer than the last. Harry doesn’t mind. He finds it appeasing, and he continues to delight himself with running his touch up and down Y/N’s spine. He’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s aware that it’s probably a bit. His theory is supported by how he witnesses the beam of watery light that filters over the duvet gradually fade from silver to a sunflower yellow, indicating full daybreak.
Even then, he doesn’t say a word, too caught up in this innocent bubble of domestic bliss to pop it so suddenly. He just lays there and listens. Listens to the birds harmonizing with each other across the branches of the tree outside. To the steady breaths that fill Y/N’s lungs with cool air, faltering past her nostrils in the same manner and fogging the metal of his cross necklace. To the faint sound of footsteps trotting down the staircase outside her apartment, and to the vague spritz of the sprinkler system going off at the front of the complex. To the distant honking of car horns in traffic, and to a random conversation between two friends as they walk past the pavement just under Y/N’s balcony. He hasn’t felt this at ease in eons.
Harry just allows himself to grow in tune with the world around him— a world he’d been convinced was against him for the longest time. A world he was convinced stole his happiness and replaced it with the shackles of a blood-driven afterlife, for no other reason than because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong person. But now, he feels like he’s in the right place, at the right time, spending it with the right person— or at least a half-decent person— and he doesn’t want to let it slip between his fingers so soon. He wants to bask in it, even if he knows it’ll pass.
And eventually, it does pass, and Y/N is the one who brings it to an end.
The girl slowly peels away from Harry’s side, his lips dipping downwards slightly at the loss of the warmth she radiates. He thinks she’s about to get up to probably go use the bathroom or to make breakfast, but instead, she just bends her upper body over the edge of her bed to retrieve something from the floor. She comes back up with the box he’d brought her the evening before (which had ended up on the ground as a result of her bed rocking violently), setting it in the small space between their laps. She then returns to her place cuddled into his torso, looking up at him with an expression that Harry can only interpret as expecting.
The vampire glances down at the container and then back up to Y/N’s face, raising his eyebrows curiously, voice tinged with comedy. “What did I say about bringing sex toys to the dinner table?”
Y/N stares up at him flatly for a second, fighting off a smile. “I just wanted to thank you again. It’s nice of you to bring me a present, even as strange as this one.”
Harry sucks at his teeth, waving a hand dismissively, blinking down at her with slyness sparkling around his pupils. “What are friends for, if not for buying you vibrating finger gloves and then fucking you with them until you cry?”
Despite having been acquainted with Harry’s crude humor for three weeks now, it still manages to make Y/N’s cheeks sizzle. It could also be the fact that this is the first time Harry has openly accepted Y/N as a friend. It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned her name and that word in the same sentence, meaning that she can now shake a weight off her shoulders— a weight that had insisted he was only using her for sex, that he would eventually grow bored of her, and that he would throw her away once he was done. It’s good to know that’s not the case, and that the friendship aspect of their agreement is true to its name.
“Right.” Y/N’s smile is full of so much genuine warmth, Harry feels like she could outshine the sun. “What are friends for, if not that. Thanks, Harry.”
He wonders what she’s thinking, and he finds himself wishing that he had the one valid trait that idiot Edward Cullen possesses: mind-reading. But he doesn’t have it, so he simply returns her gesture and skates the conversation how he best deems fit. “You don’t have to call me ‘Harry’ all the time, you know?”
Y/N’s brows cinch in entertained confusion. “What would I call you, then? Sherlock?”
Harry scoffs lightly at the inside joke, shrugging one shoulder casually. “I mean, you could, if you want to. It might take some getting used to, but I think I can shoulder a full-time second identity. Just for you.”
“How chivalrous.”
“You ain’t ever met a man like me, sweetheart.” He boasts in an over-the-top American southern accent, prying another round of laughter from Y/N, similar to the one before. “But you could also just call me ‘H.’ It’s what most of my other friends use.”
“H.” Y/N repeats, getting a taste for the new nickname. It’s simple, unlike him, but it somehow fits. She then recalls something from a show she’d watched when she was younger and she can’t help but bring it up. “So, like, just your first initial? Like in Gossip Girl?”
Harry’s face immediately drops at the comparison she makes to the cringey teenage soap opera. “You know what, I take it back. You’re not allowed to use it. Illegal. Banned. By an official court. Gavel and all.”
“I’m just making a point!”
“Yeah, a shitty one.”
“Oh, whatever. You’re just mad I debunked your little hipster alter ego. ‘That’s a secret I’ll never tell. Xoxo, H.’”
“Restraining order.” Harry pinches at one of her love handles, an evil grin dimpling his cheeks when she squeals. “Actually, nevermind. We’re going straight to the electric chair. Immediately.”
“You don’t get to decide my punishment, remember?” Y/N slaps at his wrists, trying to ward off his attacks but failing miserably. “You’re just the—stop!— just the executioner.”
“That’s right. I get to strap you to the chair.” Harry finally lets up on the tickling, his lighthearted grin taking on a slightly seductive hue as he momentarily glimpses upwards towards where his belt is hanging. “Though you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Fuck off.” Y/N smothers her palm against his face, breaking eye contact as she feels her ears bristle with heat.
“Mm, exactly.” Harry gnashes at her hand playfully, but she manages to yank it away before he gets a bite in. “You can’t even admit you like being called a whore.”
“Hey!”
“What?” The vampire gives her a cocky look, wagging his head knowingly and then mimicking her voice in a higher pitch. “‘I’m just making a point!’”
“You’re a dick, you really are.”
“And yet you still ride mine, so who’s the one with the real issues here? Specifically, daddy issues.”
“I’m done with this conversation.” Y/N huffs, returning her attention to the box beside her thigh, muffling the twitching across her lips.
She takes the cardboard into her hands, tracing over the small flap used to pry the top open. Harry watches her with interest, pondering as to what could possibly be scurrying around her skull that she seems so caught up with the context of the gift. He’d gotten it because he knew they would both benefit from it. It’s as simple as that.
“You know,” she starts, but her gaze remains glued to the box, “I feel kinda bad ‘cause, like...You got me this gift, I have nothing to give you in return.”
Harry’s face contorts into a silly frown for a moment, tone humorous. “It’s fine, Y/N. You don’t have to give me anything back. I got it ‘cause I knew we’d enjoy using it together, and because this way, you have something to play with when I’m not around. And you can send me videos of said instances. It’s truly a win-win. A double-ended gift.”
“I suppose.” She mumbles softly, continuing to pick at the lip of cardboard sticking out. “But I feel like it’s only fair that you get to use it, too, don’t you think?”
And then the reason she’s insistent about this dawns on Harry. The way she’s avoiding looking at him directly, how her heart rate is slowly ebbing upwards, how she is gradually scooting closer to his body, how he can feel her thighs are clasped tightly below the comforter. How the scent of honey and lavender has intensified. How she keeps glancing towards where the sheets are crumpled messily around his hips in a haphazard attempt to remain civil.
When the monster speaks, it carries all the arrogance brought forward by his discovery. “If you wanna give me a handjob with the toy on, just say so.”
The human’s head snaps upwards, her expression one of utter alarm at his lewd comment, but he can see right through her act. It’s obvious that was her intention all along— the desire in her eyes is poorly masked. She looks so adorable, pretending not to know what he’s referring to, her palms gripping the box slightly tighter than before.
Harry twirls a strand of her hair around his finger nonchalantly, giving it a jesting tug. “I just find it funny how much of a horny menace you can be.”
“What—?”
“And it’s not even ten A.M. yet.”
“What do you—?”
“Y/N,” Harry sighs tiredly, giving her an omniscient look, “I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you want something. It’s written all over your body language and you’re pretty shit at hiding it in your eyes. Just admit you want to and I’ll let you.”
The faux shock slowly melts off her face, replaced by sheepish humiliation at being so easily sussed out. She chews on her bottom lip pensively, struggling to sew together the appropriate words to communicate the very inappropriate activity she wants to engage in. Harry has to withhold from leaning down and taking a bite from her tempting mouth.
She inhales a deep breath through her nose, puffing it out slowly and tapping her fingers across the box nervously. Her voice pipes up so softly, it’s almost inaudible. “I want to give you a handjob with the toy.”
Harry gently cards his fingers into the mussed roots along the back of her head, using that hold to guide her sight upwards until it meets his. He leans down, smearing his lips over her own, feeling static pass through the ridges of their skin. “That’s all you had to say, darling. Go ahead, then. Make me cum.”
Y/N swallows thickly, lashes fluttering bashfully as she pastes her mouth to his in a soft kiss. It’s a simple action with just their lips and nothing else. No tongue, no teeth, no sucking, nothing sloppy or desperate— not yet, anyways. He can tell she does it as a way to ease herself into this. She wants to, that much is arousingly obvious, but for some crazy reason unbeknownst to him, she’s still shy about it. That’s what happens when you come from a conservative raising: you get intimacy issues. He of all people— with his Victorian era background— would know.
The hand Harry has cupping the nape of her neck shifts over a smidge, ending up splayed across the side of her face. His palm rests on her cheekbone and his fingers in her locks, his wrist cradling the back of her skull as he patiently deepens the kiss. His chest begins to heave slightly, a familiar sensation already frothing at the trench of his stomach. Harry can feel Y/N’s clumsy movements as she unboxes the vibrators, digging through the packaging and trying to slip them on blindly, not wanting to break away from his embrace. The way he’s flirting his tongue along the inside of her top lip is just too consuming to leave.
After a few seconds of grappling and a string of annoyed curse words, Harry giggles lightly into her mouth, nudging the tip of his nose across the bridge of hers. The jade tint in his irises is waltzing with amusement, all at her expense. “Sometime today, love.”
“I know, I’m sorry, I just— I can’t— they won’t—” The mortal releases an irritated growl into their kiss, reluctantly splitting away when it becomes clear she won’t be able to get the rubber gloves on without giving the task her full attention. “God, I’m such a...Sorry.”
Harry rolls his eyes in mirth, pecking sweetly along the angry creases present over her forehead and between her brows. He thumbs over her cheek affectionately to soothe her nerves, his other hand scratching distractedly at the back of his neck. He filters curls through his fingers as he waits, bicep jolting in the process. “It’s fine, I’m just teasing. I’m not going anywhere, babe.”
“Thanks. Just give me—” The girl pauses her actions for a second, jutting her chin back up towards him and locking the vampire into another quick kiss, solely for the purpose of keeping him interested while she figures herself out. She breaks away again, returning to her mission. “Just give me a minute.”
Now that she can see, Y/N successfully wriggles all five of her fingers into their designated molds. She prods at them gingerly, copying Harry’s actions from the night prior, using that experience as a manual. The mini-vibrators purr to life, a buzzing sensation trickling down her fingers. She glances back up at an awaiting Harry, who gives her such an easy, good-natured smile, she instantly reaches up and glues their mouths together again.
“You’re so eager.” The boy grins into the kiss, jumping a bit when he feels her tittering fingers duck beneath the covers around his lower torso. “It’s hot.”
“I just want to make you feel good.” Y/N mumbles, one palm braced to his strong shoulder as the other rides down his bare abdomen. She can feel his grip on her hair tightening the closer she gets to his cock. “That’s all.”
“Guess I’m just the luckiest— shit.” Harry’s quip is interrupted when Y/N wraps her digits around his length, giving it one slow, testing pump. His jaw drops open and he begins panting into her mouth, the corners of his lips ticking upwards into a smirk as an intense pleasure swells between his thick thighs. “Jesus fucking Christ, that feels— fuck, that’s incredible, oh my God.”
“Yeah?” The human asks timidly, gazing up at him dreamily from below her lashes as his eyes lull back into his head. “Not too much?”
Harry loves how attentive she is— how she’s checking to make sure he’s alright before continuing. If he had a heart, it would surely be glowing right now.
Harry gulps down the lump in his throat, voice more strained and needy than she’s ever heard it. “No, I’m good, I’m good. Keep going.”
Y/N gradually sinks her palm back down to his base, feeling his cock twitch desperately as the vibrators work their magic. She slowly slinks back up to his tip, thumbing over it carefully, pressing the toy on her thumb pad right over his slit. The garbled moan that emits from Harry is a sound her ears will never forget. It’s a sound she wishes she could record and listen to on a loop.
“Fucking hell, don’t— please, just— oh—” Harry stutters through a plead, voice bleeding, naked chest now heaving wildly against her own. His hips buck forward into her hand, but she maintains a steady grip, keeping the vibrator pressed to the center of his cock’s head.
“Don’t what?” She whispers into his mouth, suckling at his Cupid’s bow and reveling in the little broken noises he pours onto her tongue.
Harry’s breaths are shallow and pained, the grip on her hair stronger than she thought possible as the fingers of his opposite hand yank at his own feverishly. He’s barely able to choke out his next sentence. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” Y/N begins to fish for a solid rhythm, her strokes setting into medium pace and gauging the receiver's reaction. “How’s that?”
Bright colors web across Harry’s eyelids and he feels like his soul is being torn from his body. “Y-Yeah, that’s perfect, baby. It’s so good— you’re so good.”
“I am?” Y/N swipes her thumb over his tip again, and when he whimpers brokenly against her lips, she does it again. It urges the same exact reaction, but more shattered. So she does it again. And again, and again, and again. And each time it happens, his hips jerk more violently, chasing her intoxicating touch. She can feel Harry’s precum drip down his length and leak between the cracks of her fingers.
“You are, you’re just so fucking good to me.” Harry’s spewing words at this point, brain half conscious, half floating in bliss. Whatever dam of common sense holds his mind together crumbles, all of his thoughts rushing out in the form of jumbled phrases and cracked whines. “You get me going like nothing else, pet. You get me going so easily, it’s embarrassing. You make me cum so hard, it feels like I’m touching h-heaven. And your mouth— God, y-your mouth. It’s the best I’ve ever had. It’s so soft and warm, and your lips are so pretty and silky. I could kiss you for hours. And your tongue— you know how to use it so well. You lick me once and I’m already on edge. And every time you get down on your knees, I think I’m gonna pass out.”
Y/N sighs shakily at Harry’s string of confessions, staring up at him with wide eyes as his own stay shut loosely, long lashes perched on his rosy cheekbones, handsome features slack with euphoria. She doesn’t halt her motions, continuing to pump him excitedly. The girl passes her thumb over his tip every time she gets to the top, and gives a hard squeeze every time she thunks down against his base, twisting her wrist as she glides back and forth between the two points of reference. That combination seems to work well, evident in the steady stream of vulgarities falling from Harry’s swollen lips as he thrusts upwards to match her pace. His groans splash across her tongue, traveling down her throat and burning into her stomach. She wants him to cum probably more than he does.
Y/N glimpses down, watching her sheets tent as she works Harry over, the outline of her knuckles pressing into the turquoise fabric. It’s such an erotic scene and she knows it’ll be branded across the front of her brain for years to come. She cranes her neck back up to look at the vampire, her breath catching in her lungs. He looks so pretty with his dark pink lips parted in pleasure, his damp ringlets matting along his sweaty hairline, his structured jaw ticking, and his usually sharp traits softened by ecstasy. She’ll do anything to make that image last.
“Tell me more.” Y/N murmurs, swimming in the praise he is so willing to dish out.
His eyes flicker for a heartbeat and in that instance, they look oddly darker than normal. Almost crimson, but she knows it’s due to the shadow of his lashes. The words that spill from his mouth next make her forget all about that occurrence, his voice melodic and dark, sticky against her wet lips.
“Your hands are one of my favorite things about you, I think. They’re smaller than mine and I love how your fingers don’t touch when you wrap them around my cock. I love how they leave my back raw with scratches, and I love how they look tied to the bedpost. I love it when they press flat against my chest when you ride me, and how you lean back on them when I’m on my knees with my head between your thighs. I love how they yank at my hair when you’re about to cum, and how they grip my upper arms when we make-out. I love how your nails dig into my thighs when you're going down on me, and how they look fisting at the sheets when I’m taking you from behind. And I love how they feel tugging me off, like you’re doing now. I just love how perfect they are— how perfect you are.”
Y/N is left speechless, Harry’s monologue ringing in her heated ears as he gazes at her intensely amidst heavy, barely-cracked eyelashes. His broad chest gasps for air and he takes it upon himself— despite his wrecked appearance— to smush their mouths deeper together, pooling moans across the roof of her own.
“I’m—” His breathing throttles, voice coming out softer than she’s heard it in the last three weeks. “I’m gonna cum.”
Y/N nods her head numbly, strokes becoming lazy and fast, eager for him to finish. “I want you to. I want you to cum for me so bad. Please?”
Harry’s hips writhe in a tell-tale sign that he’s about to tip. His whimper tastes sweet on her tongue, the meaning behind it pure syrup to her ego. “You’re the only one who makes me feel this good.”
The mortal whines gently in return, eyes falling shut as she feels him grow heavier in her palm. “You’re the only one I want to make feel this good.”
The knot of white hot pleasure in his belly begins to unravel, his entire spine shuddering as a result, all strain beginning to wash out of his system in spurts if blissful electricity. He can feel his orgasm racing up his prick, pulling his composure along with it. He gives one last jerk against Y/N’s cupped fingers, feeling her press her vibrating thumb over his slit one more time for good measure. When the first milky ribbon spurts out, that’s when he feels it.
Harry’s eyelids fly open in alarm as black veins protrude along the whites of his eyes, all his muscles contracting at once, defense mode activated. Y/N’s lips are on his neck.
His first instinct is to do what he always does and guide her away from that sensitive, highly forbidden area. His fist tightens in her hair and he’s about to yank her back up to his mouth when suddenly, the icy tension present in his veins disappears. It’s replaced by a soothing warmth, which travels through every crevice in his body and kindles his climax, his impulsive hatred for being touched in that specific region funneling away completely. He can’t remember a time where this has happened before.
Harry’s grip loosens hesitantly as he treads into this unexplored territory, allowing her to continue suckling along his throat. The sensation would usually garner a reaction similar to that of a molten metal brand being placed on his skin, but now— for some startling reason— he doesn’t feel any contempt. He just feels relaxed and cradled in the best way imaginable. The impact is pleasant this time around, and he finds himself wanting more of it. So, he lets her give him more. He lets this strange girl kiss and gasp and lick against his jugular while she finishes getting him off, his own desperate sounds of need bouncing around the brick walls of her bedroom. He lets her coax wave after wave of cum out of him, feeling it splatter against her bedspread and coat over her hand. He whines and grunts into the hair along the crown of her head, tears blearing his eyes as her scent of sugar and flowers clouds his mind. And when his release finally sputters to an end, he lets out an elongated groan so deep, it makes his chest ache.
“Fuck. You’re...You’re an absolute angel.”
Y/N draws her hand out from beneath the bed sheets, turning off the vibrating finger pads by pressing them against her palm. She looks down at the milky substance covering the toys and before Harry can make even a sound of encouragement, she’s already licking it off each individual piece. The girl looks up at the vampire as she cleans every trace of him off her fingers, swallowing it all down with a doe-like tint across her hazy gaze and murmuring a soft, “You taste good.” over a full mouth. Harry just watches silently, heavy breathing slowly starting to even out. God, she really is such a fucking godsend.
The next couple of minutes list by in a blur, all of his focus taken up by the feeling of unsettlement pricking at the back of his brain. Why had he let her touch him there? Why had he let her touch him in a place no one has since before his death?
Y/N puts the toys back in their box, putting them off to the side to thoroughly clean later. She reaches down, bunching up her bedspread in her hand and wiping Harry’s pelvis, thighs, and tummy down until he’s decently clean, as well as whatever is left on her hand. She then snuggles up to his side once again, laying her head into the crook between his arm and pectoral muscles, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully along with him. The irritating red tint across Harry’s chest, stomach, and neck gradually fades away, and he barely flinches when he feels her sponge her lips against his Adam’s Apple. She lulls the tip of her middle finger up along the vein of his cock one more time for finality, smiling slyly when he hisses in sensitivity.
The immortal tilts his head down to appraise her, sniffling lightly and allowing a weak, watery smile across his raw lips. His tone is feathery and detached. “That was…Christ.”
Y/N giggles softly, nodding along to his unspoken opinion. “It was fun. Really fun. We should do it again sometime.”
Harry splutters into a drunken laugh, mind still floating around the room. “I don’t think I could survive that again.”
Y/N grins up at him cheekily. “Pussy.”
Her friend breaks into an expression of utter offense, cheeks still slightly rosy. He shoves her head roughly as vengeance. “Hey! Piss off. Don’t blame it on me, blame it on the male anatomy.”
The girl shakes her head up at him, eyebrows shrugging mockingly. “Excuses, excuses.”
“Whatever.”
A moment passes, and then Y/N speaks up again, her index finger poking playfully into the center of his bare chest, right over the butterfly tattoo. “Also, you’re washing my sheets. Your mess, you clean it up.”
Harry grins against her forehead, scratching lightly at the back of her scalp. “Fair enough…Wait, is that why you wanted to do this? ‘Cause you knew I’d soil your sheets and you could force me to do your laundry?”
That hadn’t been her motive at all, and Harry knows that, but she plays along anyways for the hell of the joke. “Perhaps.”
“Wow. I feel used.”
“Too bad. Go do it. Now. Before it stains.”
Harry stares at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “I literally can’t walk right now! I can’t feel anything below my waist.”
Y/N lifts the comforter off her body, symbolically showing off the bruises his fingertips and rings had left the night before. “Well, neither can I!”
Harry reaches down and touches the marks, chuckling to himself. “How unfortunate. Who’s gonna make breakfast, then, if neither of us can even stand?”
“We could UberEats some iHop.”
“Who’s gonna get the door?”
“Well, I can’t solve everything on my own, now can I?!” Y/N slaps his hand away from her body. “Contribute! You’re the lead detective, after all.”
“I am, aren’t I?” Harry cocks his head to the side in recollection, remembering his role in their imaginary dynamic duo scenario. “And because I’m the lead, I say…” He ropes his lean arms around the human and buries his face into her warm neck, pulling her close and intertwining their legs together, trapping her to the mattress along with him. “I say we just bum around for a bit longer. Just until one of us can actually muster up the strength to leave the bed.”
Y/N makes an exasperated noise in the back of her throat, but makes no apparent attempt to leave his embrace. “Fine.”
“Mystery solved, then! Elementary, my dear Watson.”
“You’re so dumb.”
The pair stay cuddled for a bit, with Y/N’s hands loosely gripping Harry’s forearms, tracing across his mermaid tattoo absently. She wanders in her thoughts for a period of time, lost in the sensation of Harry’s warm breath fanning down her neck, his hot lips pressing small kisses behind her ear every once in a while. She likes their morning after routine; it’s innocent and fun and sharing moments like this makes it easy to forget her troubles. She wants more of this, and she finds herself trying to come up with ways to convince Harry to spend the night more often. This is only the fourth time he’s stayed until morning and she wants that number to grow.
An idea dawns on her and she’s voicing it before her inhibitions can kill it off.
“Do you...Do you maybe wanna stay over the rest of the weekend?”
Harry draws his face from the alcove of her soft neck, eyebrows poised in curiosity. “The rest of the weekend?”
“Yeah!” Y/N shifts her gaze up to look at him, hope swirling around her pupils. “Like, spend the rest of today and tomorrow over, and then leave tomorrow night ‘cause I have work on Monday. Does that, like...Does that make sense?”
“Yeah.” Harry says slowly, mulling over her offer, thinking back to his schedule. He doesn’t think he has any commitments this weekend that would require him being home— none he can’t cancel easily, anyways. He’d told Mitch he’d go see him play again at the pub later today, but it’s the same set as last time, so he doesn’t think his best friend would mind if he missed it just this once. Niall was planning a barbecue at his place on Sunday, but the Irish bloke does one almost every other week so it’s nothing Harry can’t make up. Plus, what type of idiot would pass up two day’s worth of amazing sex? The more, the merrier.
Y/N watches the vampire’s expression carefully, trying to interpret whether her request was out of their boundaries. She doesn’t want to make him feel like she’s trying to tie him down or suffocate him, she just wants to spend a bit more time in his presence, rather than through a phone screen. Her tone comes out dismissive, with just the tiniest hint of panic. “It’s okay if you can’t, though. Like, if you have other plans and stuff, I totally get it. Or if you just don’t want to, that’s fine, too! I just thought it’d be a fun little thing we can do since we already talk so much on the phone and everything, so I guess I just kinda figured you wouldn’t mind—”
“I get it, Y/N.” Harry interrupts Y/N’s unhinged word vomit, voice amused and nonchalant. “I think I’d like that, yeah.”
Y/N blinks in giddy surprise. “Really?”
“Well, don’t sound so shocked.” Harry laughs lightly, fingers toying with the pearls laying across his clavicle. “The sex is pretty fucking good and I’m more than happy to have it at my disposal.”
“Right.” Y/N gives him a deadpan look, shaking her head at his bluntness, reaching forward to fiddle with the chain of his cross necklace for the sake of having something to distract her from smiling like a fool. “Great, then. I have some old boxers that I know will probably fit you and an unopened pack of toothbrushes under the sink, so I think you’re set.”
Harry’s lips purse at the mention of the men’s underwear, brows creasing a tad. “You just casually have men’s boxers laying around?”
“They were my ex’s and I kept them out of spite. But don’t tell anyone, I don’t wanna get locked up for robbery.”
The tightness in his chest— which he hadn’t even realized had formed— melts away. “My lips are sealed.”
“Good, or else I’d have to kill you.” The girl states darkly, a theatrical seriousness to her appearance.
“Oh no.” Harry wails sarcastically, knotting a fist into her oversized tee and pulling her closer, connecting their lips and grinning into the kiss. “I’m shaking in fear.”
Y/N gives in without much of a fight, hands still clinging to his forearms, a smile of her own creeping across her cheeks. “Asshole.”
“The only thing I’m relatively afraid of is my dick falling off. You have the sexual drive of a rabbit.”
“Oh, like you’re any better?”
“I’m innocent in all this! You’re usually the one instigating. I’m just a mere pawn— a poor, unsuspecting nun led astray.”
“God, I can’t believe I let you fuck me.”
///
The following weekend, Harry officially invites Y/N over to his house.
It had been talked about in passing a while back, and he figures it's only fair considering all the time they’ve ever spent together has been solely at her place. Plus, he could tell she was curious to see what his living situation is like, which is valid. You can tell a lot about people through their home, and when you’re sleeping with someone on the regular, you want to learn as much about them as possible. It’s important to know who you’re getting into bed with. Literally.
Harry’s proud of his condo. He keeps it clean, he keeps it organized, and he keeps it styled in a manner that combines his Victorian gothic roots with modern day aesthetics. The floorboards of the apartment are made of waxed light-wash wood, most of the expanse of his living room covered in a furry dark grey rug. The lightness of the ground is contrasted by the matte mahogany walls, of which the largest is covered in Harry’s collection of first edition artwork. He had picked out every single piece himself throughout the span of the last two centuries, ranging from modern digital technique canvases to nineteenth century oil paintings, all arranged in neat alternating rows from oldest to newest. He can’t help that he’s such a stickler; his mom had raised him so.
Though his art wall is his pride and joy, the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline comes in at a close second. Harry loves the city, despite the fact that he was born in a seemingly irrelevant town whose only redeeming quality was the bustling public market. Urban regions are just full of so much life, excitement, and potential, which are all concepts he never really got to explore before he transitioned. Cities represent everything he wanted as a young man, when he thought he had prosperous years ahead of him and an entire life left to build; they represent diversity, unique experiences, and endless possibilities. When that was stripped from him, he began to bounce around different countries and cities all over the world, seeking a place that would fill the hole his dreams had left behind. Los Angeles fit that space like a puzzle piece.
That glorified window just means more to him than anyone could possibly know. Sometimes at night, he’ll just stand by it with his arms relaxed across his chest, watching the city gleam and glitter as individuals from all different backgrounds go about their business, blissfully ignorant to the beautiful concept that they all contribute to something much bigger— a concept that only centuries of wisdom could reveal. When he’s not wracked with jealousy and spite, looking out that window and witnessing the world change and evolve is therapeutic, in a way. It allows Harry to live vicariously through others who get to have what he never did.
Aside from his art collection and the glass wall, the chandeliers that hang from his cavernous ceiling are third on his list of treasured possessions. They’re special and no one on this earth owns anything like them; Harry made sure of that. They were created by a Swedish interior designer Harry commissioned about ten years ago, so they are custom-made in every aspect of the term. They took months to construct and finalize, which is hardly difficult to believe, given their grandeur. Each chandelier is made of two extensive layers of delicate golden chains, all arranged around a wire center, connected by light bulbs at each peak. It gives his home a chic, avant-garde atmosphere that mirrors his personality down to the last chain link.
The rest of his flat is tailored to compliment these three major determining factors. The wood paneling all around his apartment is carved with intricate, loopy designs, his two rounded coffee tables are made of the same marble that resides across his kitchen counters, and his kitchen sits directly under the second story ledge with elongated fluorescent poles embedded into the room’s ceiling, eloquently highlighting the creme walls and polished detailings of all his appliances. His sectional couches are made of an off-brown leather, covered in large rectangular couch cushions with a checkered print embroidered across the pillow cases, and weighted fleece blankets litter some areas of the elegant sofas. A wide staircase leads up to the second floor, made of grey glass steps and metal railings.
The top story of his condo is less Victorian era, more modern composition. The ground is dark maroon carpeting, and the ledge leads to one singular corridor that splits into two seperate rooms at either ends. One is the master bedroom, and the other is an accompanying bedroom which he uses for storage. His room isn’t anything extravagant, per se. It’s big, but his decor is minimalistic, covered in all different muted shades of blacks and greys, from the comforter on his king-sized bed to the tall dresser. A fifty inch flat-screen is mounted on the wall, but he hardly uses it since the one in his living room is larger; it’s only really there as an ornament. Starburst lights hang from his ceiling— smaller, downplayed versions of his chandeliers— and his walk-in closet stands parallel to the entrance of his bathroom.
The humongous bathroom was meant for two people, pretty obvious in the double-sink set up, but he doesn’t dwell on it much. He isn’t one for dating, and he’s just happy to have that luxury because it comes in handy the morning after one night stands. He has a jacuzzi-like bathtub, lined with water jets and all, and a big walk-in shower with a large overhead panel instead of a regular showerhead. The whole room is made of dark marble and porcelain, and he couldn’t possibly adore it more. Some of his best experiences had happened in this room, explicit and otherwise.
In the end, Harry has every right to be arrogantly proud of his apartment. It had taken him months to decorate, years to fill with fond memories, and an immortal lifetime to find. He loves it with every trace of his soul, even when others disagree. Namely, Niall, who had mocked his sophisticated relics and old-timey architecture from the first time he’d set foot past the threshold; “You went the dark gothic route? Really? Way to feed into the stereotype, Dracula.”
But no matter what anyone says, this is who he is, and he couldn’t be happier. After decades of migrating and aimlessly searching the globe, he’d finally found a place he could call home, and absolutely no one could take that from him. Especially not some Irish moron who doesn’t even know the definition of “foyer.”
How Harry manages to afford his flat is a whole other intriguing tale.
It had come up in a pillow talk conversation with Y/N once, and he had told her the story he feeds to any human who asks. He’s a regional manager for an offshore company and it’s mainly a lot of online work. Handling duties through business emails, videochat meetings, job portals, and things of the such. It paints a valid image as to why he’s home all the time. He also claims to be the company’s lone contact stationed in California, so he handles all of the responsibilities that would normally be bestowed upon three or four people. This paints a valid explanation as to how his imaginary position would tether such a high pay grade, which justifies his luxurious living arrangement.
That story is part of the truth. Harry does indeed have ties with corporate businesses. That is, ties to their CEOs’ pockets. It’s surprisingly easy to get past secretaries and security dressed in a nice suit and thousand dollar leather shoes, especially with the help of compulsion and Harry’s golden charisma. Thanks to those tools, he has managed to convince some of the biggest leaders in corporate California to quietly deposit generous sums of money into his bank account once a month. And with his persuasive supernatural abilities, he convinces them to write it off as regularly scheduled charity donations in their minds. That’s how he makes a living for himself— by scamming the rich. Xander likes to take the piss and call him a sugar baby, but Harry sees himself as more of a modern day Robin Hood, instead.
Mitch says his charade is unlawful, but considering how corrupt the business world already is, the vampire feels next to no guilt. The one percent have always taken advantage of those poorer than them— that was obvious even back in Harry’s time— and he doesn’t see anything wrong with taking advantage of them right back, now that he has the means to. How’s that saying go? “Fuck the bourgeoisie” and all that.
Everything taken into consideration, Harry’s pretty excited to show Y/N his condo. Watching people’s faces break into awe the second he turns the lights on always gives him such a deep surge of satisfaction. It makes all the hassle worth it.
The immortal is currently sitting in his vintage car, flicking through his Spotify playlist to find something to entertain him while he waits for Y/N to finish her shift. He had offered to pick her up, knowing that it’s what any courteous host would do, and she had appreciatively accepted, telling him she’d be out by eight P.M. It’s seven fifty-three now and Harry had arrived around seven fifty, taking the slot right in front of the cafe’s entrance so she can spot him as soon as she walks out. These ten minutes are the longest he’s ever had to endure, which says a lot considering he’s endured tons of patience-testing moments in his two hundred years.
Harry swipes his thumb down the glass screen of his phone, sampling songs left and right to see what will stick. After listening to the first few chords of an array of forties dance music, seventies rock and roll, and twenty-first century bubblegum pop, he settles for Rodeo by Lil Nas X. Harry has a very intricate taste in music— it’s one of the traits he’s most proud of— and Mitch often tells him he’s too snotty when it comes to his preferences. He’ll admit it freely that, yes, he can be a piece of work musically, but just because he thinks the industry peaked in the seventies doesn’t mean he hates modern music. He likes most of it, including rap, and Lil Nas X happens to be one of his favorites, much to everyone’s surprise. Most of the artist’s songs are eccentric not only lyrically but also instrumentally, to the point where it’s almost comical— who names a song Panini, of all things?— but the music is catchy and Harry can let loose to it easily.
The vampire also happened to meet the musician, on one occasion. He ran into him at a club and after a few drinks and some banter, somehow ended up getting invited over to a party at the celebrity’s Malibu mansion. That night is a blur, definitely due to the copious amounts of alcohol and psychedelics, but Harry remembers they had fun and that the guy was worth a listen. In fact, he was the genius that came up with the theme for the rapper’s Rodeo music video.
A light knocking on the passenger’s seat window brings him out of his memories. Y/N stands outside, hugging her arms loosely over her tummy, decked in her usual work uniform of a navy polo and black skinny jeans. When the two lock eye contact, she gives him a soft wave and a tired smile. Harry lifts two fingers in greeting, returning her polite gesture and swiftly lowering the window. He leans forward across the center console, his grin taking on a playful hue, voice carrying the same effect.
“Uber for Y/N?”
The girl snorts and rolls her eyes, but plays along, reaching forward and jiggling the handle of his black Cadillac symbolically. “That’s me, yes. Open up.”
“Eh, eh, eh.” Harry tuts, wagging a finger in her direction and then making a motion that tells her to back away. “I’m gonna have to see some ID. It’s one of our new safe driver policies. Gotta make sure you are who you say you are, miss.”
Y/N’s expression drops flatly, eyes half-lidded as he smiles up at her brightly, batting his eyelashes innocently. “Open the door before you end up sucking your own dick tonight.”
Harry’s shit-eating face falls so fast, it causes her to burst into laughter. A soft click vibrates through the handle below her fingers. “I’ll waive the background check. Just this once.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.” Y/N taunts, yanking the door open and ducking into the shotgun seat, gently tugging it closed behind her.
Once the human is situated in her spot, she releases a lengthy sigh, sinking down against the cushions as she grabs her seat belt and clicks it into place.
Harry puts his cell phone down into the cubby hole below the stereo set, setting the car in reverse and slinging an arm behind her headrest to get a better view as he backs out of the parking space. His gaze momentarily flickers to her slumped form as the car retreats slowly, tone curious. “Long day?”
Y/N glimpses over, giving him a quick once-over and taking in his olive green Nike jumper, ripped denim boyfriend jeans, and pastel yellow Vans. He looks so boyishly cute, which is ironic given the premise of tonight’s rendezvous. The shoes (which he had worn the night they’d met all those weeks ago) and the position he’s in (perched above her with his sharp jaw and neck flexing as he cranes his torso to look for oncoming traffic) flashes her back to the first time she had been in his car. They had been way less acquainted, she had been much less relaxed, much more nervous, but the encounter very much carried the same exact intentions. That recollection makes her lips quirk a bit. The pair had grown so comfortable with each other since then, that Friday evening feels like it happened decades ago.
“Yeah.” Y/N murmurs softly, gladly indulging a deep inhale of the vanilla and tobacco scent she had become familiar with, allowing it to soothe her nerves and wash away the stress of a hard day. “I’m just happy it’s over and that the weekend’s finally started. Wanna forget all about it.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here for, love!” Harry plops back into his seat, shifting his car into drive and gifting her his famous brilliant smile, dimples winking to life as he taps his ringed fingers across his steering wheel humorously. “I’ve made you forget your name plenty of times before; I’m pretty sure I can erase one shitty work shift just fine.”
Y/N scoffs at his pompous claim, reaching up and prying the hair tie out of her locks, looping it over her wrist and shushing her stiff roots. She tucks strands behind her ears, the corners of her mouth twitching in endearment at the giddiness of his aura. “Just drive, Sherlock.”
The mortal isn’t surprised to find that building in which the vampire lives is one of the tallest in the city, and that it’s basically smack in the center, as well. One look at Harry and anybody could immediately tell he thrives off being the center of attention, so of course his home is a direct reflection of that. Refined boy, refined personality, refined environment. It’s practically a law of science.
Once Harry’s car is parked and the ignition rumbles to a smooth stop, Y/N unbuckles her seat belt and goes to unlock the passenger’s side door. Right as her hand is wrapping around the handle bar, the door swings open of its own accord and she just barely manages to stifle a blood-curdling scream full of shocked fear. When her eyes focus, Harry is standing there holding the door open for her, features painted with cocky amusement.
“How did you—?” The girl whips around to look at the empty driver’s seat, eyebrows cinching in bewilderment as she turns back to face him. “How did you get around so fast?”
Harry shrugs his shoulders offhandedly, reaching one bejeweled hand down to aid her out of the vehicle. “I did track when I was younger. Made me a fast walker.”
Y/N hesitantly takes it, body language still slightly tense from the jump scare. With his help, she gradually climbs out, the door shutting behind her as she sweeps her sight around the parking garage in wonder. This is the first time Harry has ever invited her anywhere, let alone to where he spends most of his life. She doesn’t want to miss a thing. Even the simplest aspect can tell you a lot about a person.
Y/N jerks a tad when she feels her friend’s cold fingers slipping down her palm, sifting between her own. She glances down at their intertwined hands for a second, a warm glow bursting through her chest. She’s always admired how his are so much bigger.
Harry tugs her forward toward the elevator at the other end of the parking lot, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a sly smirk. “C’mon, Watson. Let me show you around.”
Y/N stumbles after him, allowing the boy to guide her to where she needs to go as he weeds through cars effortlessly. She suddenly chimes up from behind, asking a random question to fill the leftover silence their footsteps spare. “That car next to yours had such a weird license plate. What the fuck does ‘craic’ mean?”
Harry chuckles knowingly, perfectly aware of whose car she is referring to. “It’s this odd thing Irish people say. Utter rubbish, honestly.”
A comfortable quietness fills the air of the elegant elevator as it shoots up towards the twenty-fourth floor of the skyscraper, the only other sound being the gentle lullaby of a nameless tune wafting through the speakers above their heads. Harry finds himself studying Y/N as she looks out at the city through the glass walls, the lights of the exterior buildings casting a beautiful buttery gleam across her relaxed characteristics, along with a radiant glint over the surface of her glossy eyes. Despite the slightly smeared mascara staining her waterline and the inherent frizziness her hair carries after being pulled into a tight ponytail all day, Harry finds that she looks nice. Pretty, even.
The girl senses him staring, craning her head to return his gaze, the edges of her lips lilting upwards lightheartedly. He returns the gesture, peeling away to focus on something— anything— else. He deems the control panel a worthy replacement.
As the numbers on the dial drag by, Harry finds himself absentmindedly thumbing over Y/N’s knuckles. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind, so he continues doing it, massaging the crest of each bump and pressing down gently along the troughs. He enjoys the sensation of her silky warm skin heating his icy own, and he ponders whether she likes how cold his touch is, or if she hates it as much as he does. He expels that notion from his mind; he refuses to let such a stupid concept upset him. He just keeps caressing her hand, restraining his mind from ambling too far into its meaning. It’s just to pass the time.
He keeps the movements going until their ride skates to a joltless halt with a sharp ding! and then he steps out, having to give his full attention to leading her down the long corridor to his flat. Y/N is so caught up in drinking up her surroundings, she almost bumps into the creature when he comes to an abrupt stop in front of the entrance of what she can only deduce is his home. Harry drops her hand, much to her disappointment, fishing into his back pocket for his keys. He patiently filters through his keychain, picking out the right one and working it into the lock, a soft click emitting from the mechanism.
Harry pushes the door open with his palm, standing off to the side just outside the threshold and tilting his head towards it, posture bowing slightly. “Ladies first.”
Y/N thanks him quietly, taking a cautious step forward into his hallway. She can’t help the way her heart skips a beat at his gentlemanly tendencies; she rarely meets anyone as respectful as Harry seems to be and she finds his old-timey attributes to be refreshing. Helping her out the car, taking her hand to guide her through the parking lot, rubbing at her knuckles innocently, holding the door open for her— it’s all such an archaic form of chivalry she wishes she’d see more often these days. She doesn’t know if it’s a British thing, if he had just been raised like that, or if he simply does it to get laid, but she’s thankful for it either way.
With one last glance at her friend over her shoulder, she begins wandering down the dark narrow path unsurely. The sound of the door slinking shut behind her and Harry’s footsteps ease her.
She stops once she senses the corridor open up into a larger space, which she guesses is his living room. A soft gasp escapes her at the sight before her. The whole area is washed in darkness, the only source of light stemming from the large glass pane that stretches from the floor of the apartment to its tall ceiling. Dozens of buildings and cars glimmer below, the breath-taking image of the lively city looking almost like a snapshot from a professional movie. It’s absolutely gorgeous and she feels like she could stare at it for eons.
A chilly hand suddenly presses along the dip of her spine, ushering her forward an inch or two, Harry’s invisible voice and warm breath hitting the shell of her left ear. “S’cuse me, dove.”
The boy reaches behind her for the light switch and the condo bursts into radiance with one simple flick of his wrist.
“Oh...my God.”
Harry’s home is something straight out of a luxury catalogue. The light floorboards and the mahogany panels. The massive leather couches and hand-sewn cushions. The extravagant chandeliers and glass staircase. The marble kitchen and generously packed liquor shelves. The ginormous wall of priceless artwork, littered with pieces from all different eras of history. It feels like stepping into a decor wonderland.
“Not too bad, huh?” Harry pipes up playfully, anchoring her back into reality from the floaty stupor that had consumed her mind.
“Not too—? Are you kidding?” Y/N sputters incredulously, whizzing her head to the side sharply. “You were keeping an entire Four Seasons royal suite from me?!”
Harry belts out a bundle of childish giggles, the edges of his eyes crinkling and the tip of his button nose twitching. “I never thought of it much, to be honest. I’d grown to like your place.”
“Right. Because a creaky mattress and a kitchen the size of a broom closet is so much more satisfying than chandeliers and a fucking glass wall.”
The vampire glimpses around his flat indicatively. “Okay, I see your point.”
“Exactly.”
Y/N drifts forward, running the tips of her fingers across the backrest of the aged leather sofa and along the corners of the throw pillow, doing a slow circle at the middle of his home, taking everything in a second time around to make sure it isn’t a mirage. “Fuck, this is incredible. Is your boss looking for any more regional managers, by any chance?”
Harry follows after her, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his boyfriend jeans, chewing along the inside of his cheek to suppress a proud smile— a result of her explosive reaction. “I’m afraid my position is the one and only, sorry.”
Y/N droops her shoulders in exaggerated contempt, presenting a shitty English accent to tease him. “Bollocks.”
It garners the designated feedback, her tummy somersaulting at Harry’s exorbitant laughter.
The boy comes to stand before her, cocking his head to the side questioningly towards his kitchen. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Y/N glimpses over at his bar area, eyes dancing over his extensive array of fancy bottles. “Oh, please do.”
Despite only having known Y/N for a few weeks, Harry has gotten quite acquainted with her tastes, even outside of sexual matters. She doesn't like the taste of alcohol, but she likes its effects. And he likes them, too, if he’s being honest. Her blood always begins to smell more appetizing after just a few sips and the way her cheeks heat up so easily when she’s buzzed always makes his breathing trip.
He works his extensive skills, pulling from his liquor cabinet and mixing flavored liquids and syrups until he comes up with something that he thinks the girl will enjoy. It’s fruity, with hints of peach, lime, and strawberry, but also warm and fulfilling, with a rich whiskey and a few dashes of bitters. He plunks in a couple of ice cubes and mixes it together with a bar spoon, tapping it against the rim with finality and swiping it over his tongue in a quick taste test. He’s pretty happy with his concoction.
Harry glances up to where Y/N is leaning against the armrest of his couch, her legs crossed before her as she stares at one of the abstract paintings mounted on his wall. It’s an original, as are the rest of them, which he had purchased some odd seventy years ago from a barely known artist whose talent had gone to waste in the world. It’s a deconstructed sunflower, with the color palette inverted and the strokes of the brush uneven and jagged. Odd and complicated, but beautiful, nonetheless. Its complexity is what makes it significant.
The vampire slowly wanders over from his kitchen, holding her drink in one hand and a cloth napkin in the other. He takes the spot beside her along the armrest, speaking wistfully as if recalling a fond memory. “It’s a flower.”
Y/N nods slowly in recognition, peeling her gaze away with the corners of her lips jilting. “Mmhm, a sunflower.”
Harry’s brows jump in shock. Barely anyone ever guesses the identity correctly. He’s found that as time passes and humanity becomes more reliant on technology rather than cognizant knowledge, society in general has reduced to a more pea-brained state than ever. As a result, the amount of people who can interpret and understand the meaning behind complex artwork has greatly diminished, unfortunately, so he’s pleasantly surprised to find that one of the few who still possesses that talent happens to be the girl he’s shagging. “Wow, that’s a first. It’s so unusual, no one ever really gets it.”
“I guess I just have an affinity for the unusual.” His guest quips, giving him a jesting shrug of her eyebrows and a suggestive grin.
You have no idea.
“You underestimated me, Holmes.”
“That I did. My sincerest apologies.” Harry returns her joking simper, proceeding to then dip an index finger inside the stout glass in his grasp, bringing it up before her face. “Taste.”
Without breaking eye contact, Y/N parts her lips and allows him to coax the wet digit in, the tangy flavor of the mixture making her taste buds tingle. She encloses her mouth around his finger, lulling her tongue along it slowly with a mischievous glint shining across her irises.
Harry’s prominent jaw clenches as he watches the scene unfold, breath bated and a moan threatening to betray him. She truly wastes no time.
He gradually pulls his finger from her tongue, struggling to clear his throat, missing its texture already. “How is it? More syrup? More biters?”
Y/N gazes up at him drunkenly, though it’s definitely not from the liquor. Her lips quirk cheekily as a result of how visibly frazzled she’d gotten him. “It’s perfect. Better than anything I’ve had at a club, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah?” Harry taps his opal ring against the bottom of the lowball glass, trying to reign in his previous composure. “Think I could be a bartender?”
“You don’t hit me as the type of person who has the patience for it.” The girl remarks wittily, slinking her head to the side and biting back a giggle when Harry makes a face at her.
“You make a valid point, I suppose.” The vampire responds with an airy sigh, nodding in surrender. “The stupid blabbing from drunk morons and impending fear of being vomited on would be too much for me. I wouldn’t last a day.”
“You wouldn’t last a single night, let alone a whole day.”
“Alright, pipe down!” Harry deadpans, bumping her shoulder with his vengefully. “You’re bruising my ego.”
“It’s humongous,” Y/N snorts, shoving him in return, “it can take a few hits.”
The pair sit there in silence for a suspended moment, just taking in the expanse of the art before them. Harry then turns his torso towards her once more, bringing the drink in his grip up to her mouth. “Here, have a proper sip. Put my all into it.”
Y/N obliges, looking up at him with her signature doe-like air of trusting innocence, allowing him to tip the hem of the cup against her mouth. The cool beverage filters through her taste buds and down her throat, the sweet and sour mixture leaving an enjoyable tingle in its wake. A few streams of the liquid bead out of the corners of her lips and Harry impulsively gathers them with the side of his index finger, the napkin in his other hand completely forgotten.
As he goes to pull back in order to clean up, Y/N leans forward and traps his digit between her lips like before. This time, there’s a more insistent sultry hint sparkling around her pupils.
“Christ...” Harry pants, watching Y/N work her way down his forefinger with a silent groan hinging on his teeth.
He doesn’t deny himself from indulging the dirty action this time around. Her mouth is as soft and warm as ever, sending chills racing down his spine despite the sweater hugging his body. His mind slips for a second, reminiscing in all the other ways he’s felt the inside of her mouth before, a faint red tinge splattering across his cheekbones.
Y/N draws his finger out, kissing messily across its length and over the pad, looking up at him through tension-heavied lashes. She doesn't speak a word, but her intentions are clear in the electricity between them.
He can’t hold back any longer, his next comment coming out as a pained growl. “God, you’re such a filthy little thing.”
She hums softly in the back of her throat at his explicit compliment, suckling at the center of her bottom lip needily. “I like being your filthy little thing.”
Harry swallows thickly in order to keep himself somewhat tame, fangs suddenly pricking his tongue in warning.
The mortal scoots closer to him, sifting her fingers between his around the drink and bringing it upwards, downing the last couple of inches in one go. She draws the cup from his grasp, reaching over to set it down carefully on the coffee table before turning back and snuggling deeper into his heaving chest.
Harry scoffs in amusement, but he can feel a certain charring scratching at the back of his throat. “Drinks like that are meant to be savored, darling. You’re not supposed to just pound them.”
Y/N stretches her neck upwards, taking his earlobe between her teeth, lips wet and cold from the alcohol. His lashes flutter when her warm breath hits his skin, contradicting the sensations from before.
“Why don’t you let me worry about how I drink, and you can worry about a different kind of pounding.”
And that’s all it takes, really. That’s all it takes for Harry to completely drop any self-control he has left.
The creature jars his face towards her, large hand shooting upwards to grip her jaw firmly, holding her in place as he crashes their mouths together. It’s all tongue and clacking teeth, desperate whines and stuttered gasps. Y/N’s hands fumble for something to tether to while Harry takes it upon himself to grasp at her opposite hip with his free hand, yanking her onto his lap. She buries her fists in the cotton fabric of his jumper, balancing her knees on either sides of his parted thighs. The boy’s fingers coast from her jaw down to her throat, tightening ever so slightly. The action is minimal, but it reveals that flare of dominance Y/N has become addicted to.
“Do you want it here?” Harry rasps against her eager tongue, smirking into the kiss when he feels her start to rock along the bulge that is beginning to tent his denim pants. “Do you want me to bend you over the couch and fuck you, baby? With the chandelier making your skin glow? Where we can put on a show for the whole city to see?”
It’s a tempting offer and his words obviously have some form of impact, seen in the way Y/N’s grinding takes on a hungrier, deeper pace against his clothed cock.
“I want…” Y/N finds it difficult to voice her desires, the responsible party being the manner in which Harry glues cracked mewls onto the roof of her mouth. “I want it in your bed.”
She doesn’t know why, but she just wants him to take her some place where the moment they share is intimate, unseen by the prying eyes of others. She wants to christen his bed exactly how he had done hers; she craves that strange connection, for some reason. Y/N isn’t naive, she knows she’s not the only person Harry has had in his home and in his sheets. But she wants that experience, nonetheless, even if it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She knows she’s not his only, but at least she’s one.
Harry slowly breaks their kiss, brushing the tip of his nose across her own in a small comforting gesture. He blinks at her groggily, the copper specks in his eyes glitzing under the golden hue of the lighting. When he speaks, its soft and low, almost as if he doesn’t want to risk another soul overhearing. “Okay. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
Y/N almost doesn’t get anything she wants, given that she nearly kills herself on the trek up the stairs, courtesy of her weakened knees and wobbly ankles. Harry just barely manages to save her, but he finds the occurrence too hilarious to spare her the embarrassment.
“Stop laughing, it’s not funny!” She exclaims indignantly as he helps her up the last few glass steps, clinging to him like a scared puppy, her hands still shaking with adrenaline. “I could have died!”
Her shrieking only makes him laugh harder and he nearly keels over, palm clutching his stomach as if to keep it from popping. “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s just— your face when you— and how you tripped sideways— I—”
Y/N shoves him hard towards the corridor where his bedroom lies, but it’s hard to maintain an angry demeanor when the young man’s giggles sound like bells and when he looks so cute with his curls flopping across his forehead. “Dickhead.”
They’re almost at his bedroom door when Harry grabs onto her wrist, tugging her roughly so that she lurches forward into his chest. He plants a wet kiss onto the bridge of her nose, expression entertained. “Stop being such a bad sport. It was pretty funny.”
“Yeah, okay.” She huffs begrudgingly, glancing down impatiently at his plump lips as he walks backwards down the hallway with her in tow. “You can invalidate my rage once you have a near death experience yourself.”
The irony of it all.
Harry kicks the door open, ghosting his mouth over Y/N’s and watching her sight do a quick sweep around the area. “Welcome to my lair.”
The human likes his aesthetic. The room has different hues of the same color, so it all ties together nicely, and the hanging lights look like miniature versions of the two large ones downstairs. The bed is huge, which is a relief because for once, they won’t have to actively worry about accidentally rolling off the edge mid-fuck. “It’s nice. Very chic.”
“Thanks.” Harry reaches up and cups either side of her neck with his palms, dragging his damp lips over her chin and down the center of her jugular, smiling against her skin when he feels her shiver. “It doesn't have a bookshelf wall like yours, but I make due.”
“Yeah.” Y/N wisps out weakly, leaning her head back as he speckles his mouth across that sensitive point on her throat he discovered ages ago. “I bet.”
She feels Harry’s touch travel down her torso, cold fingers suddenly smearing across her love handles beneath her work shirt. His grip tightens at the hem with the intention of pulling the polo off, breath hot as it washes over her collarbones. “Wanna find out just how good I make it work?”
Y/N’s arms instinctively raise on command, her reply shaky and fragile. “Yes, please.”
Harry makes it work. He makes it work so fucking well. He doesn’t need crazy positions or any vibrating toys to make her feel good; he just knows her so thoroughly by now that he’s able to tend to every single one of her needs like it’s his sole purpose. The sex is missionary, with her splayed out across her back upon his mound of feathered pillows, her thighs clamped over his hips as he slams into her at a harsh, curt pace. Her calves are tied around the backs of his thighs, her nails are carving memories into the broad expanse of his shoulders, they’re both panting curse words and encouragement into each other’s mouths, and he’s cradling her to his chest as if he wants to absorb her heartbeat right through her ribs. If only obtaining one were that easy.
Y/N allows her head to fall back against the cushions, drawing away from the prolonged kiss only because she needs air to continue. Harry’s lips busy themselves elsewhere, running down the valley of her chest and toying with one of her pebbled nipples. Y/N’s back gives a sharp arch the second he brushes across the sensitive nub and the taunting coo he releases goes straight to her core.
“Liked that, darling? Like it when I kiss you there?”
The girl’s lashes have fallen shut, her eyes lulling around in their sockets as he maintains a steady rhythm between her thighs, ramming into her with so much force, the headboard is knocking into the wall. It’s loud and intense enough that Harry has to fit one of his palms between the railings, bracing the weight of the bed in order to prevent a hole from forming.
Y/N’s voice fills the dense atmosphere, so shattered and raw, she can hardly understand herself. “It feels so— so good, H.”
“I love it when you call me that. Sounds so pretty coming from your lips.” The vampire’s tongue flicks over her nipple a handful of times, dark veins momentarily webbing over the whites of his eyes at the cracked whimper she lets loose. “And of course it feels good. I always make you feel good, don’t I? Always make my girl cum so—fucking—hard.”
Y/N’s trembling fingers card into the curls along the nape of Harry’s neck as he thrusts to his words, twisting them around her knuckles and swimming in the throaty groan he pours over the clammy skin of her breasts. Her whisper sounds distant and dreamy. “Please...Please don’t stop.”
Harry gazes up at her through heavy lashes, lapping at her chest more fervently, accent thick and deep. “I won’t, baby. Not until I have you dripping all over my sheets.”
After a few more minutes of fractured moans bouncing around the panels of the room and the noise of wet skin slapping together, something catches Y/N’s bleary eyes. She wills past the blissful fog in her mind, focusing on the intriguing object hanging from one of the railings of Harry’s bedpost, swaying back and forth wildly due to his strong tempo.
“Are those...Are those handcuffs?”
Harry’s attention jumps to where hers is pinned, his powerful stride coming to a gradual stop. He’s heaving and shuddering above her, ringlets matted to his jaw and across his temples, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of cherry red. His Adam’s Apple bobs once and he gives a short nod. “Y-Yeah. I’ve had them for a while...”
The hope dripping from his voice is practically palpable and Y/N interprets it easily. She glances down at him as he takes quivering inhales against her chest, his eyes bleeding lust. Her mumble is so quiet and soft, he wonders how it’s possible for her to make some of the preposterously loud sounds he’s used to hearing whenever he’s buried this deep. “Use them on me. Please?”
Harry bends to her request without hesitation. He locks her wrists into the restraints, sponging a kiss onto each before giving them one hard tug to check for security. He then regains his rough slams, but with more fervor than before.
The monster sits back onto his heels, groping her waist roughly and working her against his thighs, watching welts form on her flesh along the pads of his fingers. Y/N unconsciously begins circling her hips to match his speed and the fractured groan that rips out of him makes her walls tighten. He looks incredible looming in front of her, head toppled back between his shoulder blades, bouncing to his every ram. His throat flexes with the weight, jaw taut and inked pectorals glistening with sweat under the dim lights dangling from his ceiling. “That’s it, pet, just like that. Love the way you ride it. You’re so fucking tight and warm and...and just— Christ, just fuck me.”
She wishes she could frame this moment in time and drag it out forever.
Harry swings his head forward again, blinking the blurriness from his vision to take in the image before him. Y/N just looks so fucking gorgeous like that, tied down at his beck and call, her chest bouncing pertly as her fingers bunch around the chain link, thighs clinging to his waist as she chews her bottom lip raw in an attempt to control her noises.
The vampire ducks down, connecting their mouths in a sloppy kiss that cajoles her into spilling all the moans she had been withholding. He feels them trickle down his lungs and diffuse into his bones, flames lapping across his insides as their foreheads bump and noses smudge, ragged breaths intermingling. “Let it out for me, hm? Wanna know how I’m making you feel, don’t care who hears.”
As if that isn’t enough, there’s an instance where Harry’s animalistic senses suddenly enhance and he comes to the realization that the metal cuffs have made a tiny laceration along her skin.
A thin trail of blood travels down her suspended arm, but she doesn’t seem to notice, too lost in the pleasure Harry is pounding into the pit of her stomach. So he simply leans upwards and licks the sweet droplet clean, feeling heat spark across every fiber of his being. He laps up the entire stream and then presses a tender kiss to her palm for good measure, grunting out a gentle, “There’s a good girl.” when she whines at the affectionate gesture.
The release Harry is getting from between Y/N’s legs mixes with the ecstasy her blood brings, and it shoves him over the edge in a manner he hasn’t experienced since that first time they slept together all those weeks ago. Since the first time he tasted what lies in her veins, while also simultaneously getting to taste the indescribable relief her body so readily brings him.
After all is said and done that night, something peculiar happens. After they both milk their orgasms for everything it’s worth, and after Y/N gives into exhaustion in his arms with her wrists bruised and a content watery smile on her face, and after he gets a heftier drink from her neck and heals the two little puncture wounds with his own blood...The most bizarre, unexpected event occurs.
Harry falls asleep soundly for the first time in months, and all he dreams about is how Y/N tasted.
///
Y/N wakes up the next morning to her body covered in Harry’s Nike jumper, to an empty spot beside her in the messy duvet, to a familiar tune tinging her ears from a distance, and to a satisfying ache between her thighs.
As soon as she cracks the bedroom door open, the smell of pancakes wafts in through the chilled morning air. Specifically, lemon and blueberry pancakes. Her grandmother’s lemon and blueberry pancakes.
A shiver runs down Y/N’s spine the second she sets a toe along the cold glass panels of Harry’s staircase. She takes a deep breath, pulling the extra length of the sweater’s sleeves over her fists and tugging the hem of the article downwards as if she could convince it to cover more than just half her thighs. She carefully works her way down the steps, flinching at the iciness that travels up her legs with every motion. When she finally thunks down emptily onto the light-wash floorboards, her body has grown accustomed to the temperature. As she pads across the furry rug in Harry’s living room, she finds herself wondering why everything connected to him is always so unusually cold— colder than any normal person could withstand. His touch, his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, his chest, even his thighs; everything is always freezing, and she doesn’t understand how he can bear it. It’s such an odd affinity to have.
The human gradually wanders into the vampire’s kitchen, peeking inside the room from behind one of the archway’s walls. What she sees throws her for a loop.
Harry is cooking breakfast, as she expected from the sweet scent she’d awoken to, but he’s doing it in a manner she never really expected from him.
Music stems from a portable speaker he has situated at the center of the marble kitchen island, blaring loud enough to fill the entire giant home with high notes, guitar chords, and acapella riffs. The young man is dancing across his kitchen as he cooks, clad in nothing but a set of black Calvin Klein briefs and a pair of fuzzy magenta socks. Y/N rakes down his body, admiring the crimson and purple love bites she had left on his chest and the raspberry red scratches zig-zagging across his back, the marks flexing with the movements of his muscles. They’re strangely faint, for some reason. Practically barely there.
She chalks it up to the fact that maybe she hadn’t bruised him as much as she’d thought.
Y/N forces herself to keep her mind from straying onto anymore explicit topics; it’s probably not even ten A.M. yet. She needs to get herself under control.
Grooving while in the kitchen isn’t necessarily weird (she’s guilty of it herself), but Harry’s dancing techniques very much are. The only accurate depiction of it is that for a boy in his twenties, he dances like an old geezer in his eighties. His moves are choppy and old-schooled, almost like what you’d expect to see in a nineteen fifties disco hall, and watching him ebb and flow across the tiled ground to choreography similar to that of Dirty Dancing and Footloose... It would send anybody into a fit of laughter. Especially since Harry is so tall and lanky, so how he manages to move in such a way is beyond her understanding.
Aside from that, his choice of music is baffling, as well. Not only because she recognizes the soundtrack, but because she would have never expected someone like him— with his cocky behavior and overly-confident caliber— to be into these types of songs at all. She always pegged him for the seventies rock and roll type.
“You like Hamilton?”
Harry’s actions creak to a halt and he whips around towards where the disturbance had stemmed, spatula clutched in one hand and a marble plate stacked with pancakes in the other. His face breaks into a bright smile, voice slathered with dramatic friendliness. “Well, look who finally got up! I was starting to think you were dead, Sleeping Beauty.”
Y/N narrows her eyes at him mockingly, walking over to the kitchen counter and propping herself onto her elbows, chin in hand as she watches him set down the platter of food before her. She tips forward onto her toes, taking a deep inhale of the homey, sugary smell, letting it wash over her in flashes of childhood memories. “Are these like the ones I make?”
“Lemon and blueberry, yeah.” Harry bobs his head casually, turning around to place his metal spatula down into the sink, as well as to retrieve a glass bottle of maple syrup from one of his cupboards. “They’re pretty close, I think. I’ve never seen you use a recipe or measuring cups or anything when you make them, so I kinda eyeballed it to the best of my ability. Hope I did your nan justice.”
He pours a decently-sized glop of syrup over the mountain of treats and Y/N watches excitedly as it trickles down all the layers. He then pushes back from the table, pulling open a drawer and rummaging through, continuing to whistle along to the tune of Satisfied as he bops the cabinet closed with his hip and sets down an extra pair of forks and knives beside the plate.
Harry cuts a neat triangle out of the pancake at the top, pointing at her with his fork as he shrugs his brows nonchalantly. “And to answer your question from before: yes, I do like Hamilton.”
“Hm. Interesting.” Y/N murmurs, going cross-eyed as Harry offers her the forkful of food in his possession, poking at her mouth playfully and getting maple syrup all over her lips. She opens obediently, allowing him to feed her the piece. “You don’t really seem like the type of guy— oh, wow, these are actually really good!”
Harry bites into his lower lip with his two front teeth, a proud smile dimpling his cheeks as the light draft from the air vent ruffles a couple of his sex-mussed ringlets across his forehead. “Yeah? You mean it?”
The mortal nods her head vigorously as she finishes chewing and swallowing, wiping away some of the leftover syrup from her top lip with her middle finger and sucking it clean. “Yeah! You hit it spot on.”
“Aces. I should be on The Great British Bake Off.” Harry makes a small, celebratory fist bump next to his hip and the childish gesture makes Y/N snort softly.
“Like I was saying, you don’t really strike me as the type of guy who would be into musicals.” The girl comments, watching her friend cut another triangle out of the first pancake and pop it into his own mouth.
The vampire chews thoughtfully for a second, lifting one shoulder offhandedly and swallowing fully before talking. “I’m really not, to be honest. But this specific musical is pretty good. The songs are catchy.”
He nudges the other pair of utensils across the counter for emphasis, silently inviting her to dig into the dish along with him. She accepts, slicing down the other side of the stack as he leans forward onto his elbows, mimicking her stance. He gives her a curious glance. “What about you? Do you like musicals?”
Y/N shrugs, poking a few chunks of food onto her fork. “Not really, but I had a major Hamilton phase back in college. That’s why I recognized it.”
Harry hums in understanding, picking a blueberry off and chewing it slowly, a sly smirk beginning to tweak the corners of his mouth. “So were you, like, a nerd back then?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say a nerd, but I had decent grades and was pretty quiet.”
He swallows down audibly, blinking impassively. “That’s literally the definition of a nerd.”
Y/N returns his flat expression. “Fuck off.”
Harry throws his palms up in peaceful surrender, but he still has that shit-eating grin present. “Alright, fine, fine...It’s okay if you were, though. You were probably one of those cute ones, y’know? With the clunky glasses and innocent goody-goody face.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, and with one of those short little plaid skirts?” He releases a pained groan, clutching his chest and closing his eyes for a second. She has no doubt he’s sketching some type of graphic image of her in his mind. “God, I bet you looked so good. Do you still have it? Can you wear it for me?”
“I said shut up!” Y/N reaches forward and stabs at his tummy lightly with her fork, ignoring the warmth crawling up her neck and across her cheeks. “Fucking perv.”
Harry smacks her utensil away with his own, giggling lightly as she tries to prick him again, continuing to fight her off. “I’m just asking a question! For science!”
Y/N twists her fork around his, trying to outmaneuver him into dropping it. “How could my fashion sense in college possibly contribute to science in any way?”
The vampire easily catches onto her play, slipping himself out of her grasp and trying to trap her makeshift sword down against the tabletop. He purses his lips into a simper, glimpsing up at her through his lashes and quirking his brows cheekily. “Biologically, of course. It contributes to my solo reproductive activities.”
“You are vile.”
“Really? ‘Cause you seemed pretty happy to help with said activities last night.”
Y/N drops her fork onto the brim of the platter, reaching up to massage at her temples and keep herself from swatting Harry’s eyeballs out of their sockets. “I’m finished.”
“Yeah,” the jade of his irises glimmers coyly as he sets down his utensil beside hers in a ceasefire, “you definitely finished.”
Harry chuckles boyishly as Y/N drags her palms down her face, trying to hide away how flustered he’s getting her. She decides to change the subject, not caring to steer the conversation smoothly at all, but rather jumping to another topic right away. “So does this mean you have all the lyrics memorized? Since you like them so much?”
“I do, yeah.” Harry taps his fingers against the marble counter to the beat of the song currently playing. “Do you?”
“I was obsessed, so of course I do.” Y/N reasons, her own digits following in tune with the immortal’s. “I think Non-Stop was probably my favorite to sing. It made for a good shower concert.”
“Well, it’s settled then.” Harry quips happily, reaching for his phone and tapping across the screen. “We’re duetting this. Right now. C’mon, Burr.”
Y/N’s motions stop, shyness creeping in from the back of her brain. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry. I never really—”
Her refusal is interrupted by the beginning of the arrangement mentioned, the notes blasting through the speaker as Harry purposefully turns up the volume to drown her out. He taps at his ear symbolically, mouthing, “Sorry, I can't hear you!” and he doesn’t even attempt to ward off the evil grin creeping across his face.
“Harry, I’m serious—”
But it’s already too late. Harry juts his hand out in front of him, pointing at his companion with a theatrical edge as he begins to serenade, picking up the slack of her part.
“After the war I went back to New York. A-After the war I went back to New York. I finished up my studies and I practiced law. I practiced law, Burr worked next door!”
He looks at her expectantly, urging her to jump into the next half as her assigned role. Y/N muscles down her hesitation and recites the lines timidly with her brows creased in hesitation, but at least she’s participating. “Even though we started at the very same time, Alexander Hamilton began to climb. How to account for his rise to the top?”
Harry joins her in the next stanza, grabbing her hand midair in encouragement, trying to shake her out of her rut. “Man, the man is non-stop!”
Y/N is surprised at how well they sound harmonizing together, and she can feel her discomfort slowly begin to melt. She watches as Harry freely boasts his solo with absolutely no remorse, making grand gestures as he slides down the side of the counter, his movements dragging her along.
“Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious, bear with me. Are you aware that we're making history?” The boy taps at his chin to symbolize that he’s thinking, acting out the story the lyrics construct. “This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation, the liberty behind deliberation.”
He points at Y/N once again and she does the supporting vocals, gradually beginning to gain more confidence. “Non-stop!”
“I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, with my assistant counsel—”
Harry doesn’t even have to cue Y/N this time around; she picks up her half immediately, falling into line with him flawlessly as if they’ve done this a million times before. “Co-counsel. Hamilton, sit down. Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness.”
Harry quickly rounds the corner of the kitchen island, giving her body a grand spin as he draws closer, coming to stand right before her. She gives him a fake exasperated look to match the attitude her character depicts, shaking her head in disapproval. “That's all you had to say.”
“Okay…” The creature yanks Y/N forward into his bare chest, leaning down and flirting his lips right over hers tauntingly, eyes half-lidded in amusement. “One more thing—”
“Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room?” The girl rolls her eyes dramatically, shoving past Harry’s shoulder and she finds it humorous how these lines fit so well, almost as if they were actually directed at him, calling him out on the arrogance he always seems to dote. “Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude may be your doom.”
Harry swivels on his heel, following her as she scurries outside the kitchen entrance, running into the living room.
“Why do you write like you're running out of time?” Y/N grabs onto one of the couch cushions, pretending to scribble over it with a fake pen. “Write day and night, like you're running out of time? Everyday you fight, like you're running out of time.”
Harry swipes at her from across the couch, trying to grasp onto the jumper she’s wearing. “Keep on fighting in the meantime.”
Y/N ducks out of the path of his grabbing hand, chucking the pillow forward and it bonks him square in the face. She sticks her tongue out at him as Harry scowls dully, climbing onto his sofa and scuttling towards her on his hand and knees.
She jumps just out of reach, diving across the other end of the furniture. The vampire throws his weight to try and tackle her to the sofa, but she just barely escapes. He ends up toppling over the backrest due to his over-abundant momentum.
“Non-stop!” Y/N waves her middle up at him triumphantly as he pushes himself up off the ground, giving her a challenging look as he takes off after her once again.
The pair continue to sing back and forth, with Harry chasing Y/N around the living room and kitchen as he belts out his part of the song, Y/N always somehow managing to slip from his grasp as soon as her turn hits. They’re a mess of giggles, silly faces, and boisterous actions as they reenact the play and neither can recall a time they had ever had more fun. There’s never been an instance when they felt so comfortable with another soul that they are willing to run around half-naked, screaming lyrics at each other in their underwear, not caring who sees or overhears. It just feels so second-nature.
A section of the song comes up where a woman is singing and Harry immediately takes up the part, placing his hand on his bare hip and standing in the most feminine fashion he can possibly muster, fanning at his face. “I am sailing off to London, I am accompanied by someone who always pays.”
The exaggeration makes Y/N bend over laughing and her distraction allows Harry to nab her. He pulls her into his embrace by her forearms, cackling through the following stanza as she wriggles and squirms to try and get free. “I have found a wealthy husband who will keep me in comfort for all my days.”
Y/N finally gives up on trying to thrash herself free, going limp against his chest and glimpsing up at him with begrudged annoyance, but a fond smile is unmistakably buckling her cheeks. Harry leans down, singing right in her face just to flaunt his victory, their noses brushing. “He is not a lot of fun, but…”
And then, there’s a shift in the ambiance between them.
Harry gazes down at her as she giggles up at him from his arms, full of so much genuine warmth and excitement, she could power the entire city if she wanted. Her shoulders are heaving slightly as a result of all the running, there’s still faint traces of black mascara smeared under her waterline and down her cheeks from the previous evening’s exertions, she has some acne scarring littering her cheekbones that look fairly recent, and her hair looks like it could nest a family of at least ten birds. But despite these imperfections, Harry finds himself feeling oddly endeared by it all. These flaws are all things he’s gotten used to and has grown to treasure in Y/N. They make her who she is. They make her witty, and they make her clever. They make her fun, as well as trusting. They make her likeable, and energetic, and kind. They make her a good friend and a generous lover. They make her... her. Harry gets the feeling that if she didn’t have all of these traits— if even one was missing— this little arrangement they have going wouldn’t have flourished the way it did.
Yeah, maybe he would have slept with her once or twice more just to scratch an itch, but he most likely would have let it fizzle to an end after the fact. Her personality paired with these small details— albeit, not all entirely attractive— that make up her existence play a key role in the dynamic they share. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything else— wouldn't trade Y/N for anyone else. Not anytime soon.
A warm surge travels through his chest, filling his veins like kerosine, heating him from the heels of his socked feet to the tips of his ice cold fingers. An unorthodox swelling sensation twists inside his ribs, right where his heart used to beat, and he finds himself reciting the next line in a soft voice packed with more emotion than he’s shown or felt in the last two centuries.
“There’s no one who can match you, for turn of phrase…”
Y/N seems oblivious to all of the unsettling experiences he’s undergoing, her amused expression not changing in the slightest. Harry allows the rest of the song lyrics to pass by, the lump in his throat too heavy to fight. Instead, he just keeps staring down at Y/N with brows frowning in confusion, his breathing coming out bated and shaky, and that knot in his chest continuing to tighten until it becomes painful. He gets the sudden urge to kiss her— to feel her lips press to his and feel her give into him the way she always does. The way she has for the last four weeks. He doesn’t want it to be sloppy or desperate or sexual; he wants it to be intimate, soft, and caring. He wants it to be special. Something they share. Something only they share.
Then, that moment passes. That flicker of weakness that had leaked through vanishes and Harry feels like he can breathe properly again.
He breaks their locked eyes, releasing Y/N from his hold and taking a swift step back, coughing awkwardly to try and rid the tickling sensation in the back of his throat. He scratches at the nape of his neck nervously, fiddling with his baby curls and attempting to piece himself back together after that unexpected and unwelcome intrusion of his innermost feelings. Though, he doesn’t know if that spectacle even files under the category of emotions; from what he remembers, they aren’t supposed to tangibly attack you in such a manner. It felt more like a violation— like someone had gone in and started poking and prodding at his subconscious with a metal skewer.
“Harry…?” Y/N inches closer to him, concern prevalent in her voice and across her features as she stretches her hand out caringly. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to be sick.”
“I-I’m—” His voice comes out higher than usual and quivering, so he coughs once again to get it under control, taking another step back. He's scared that if she touches him, that horrible burning sensation will come back. “I’m fine. Just...Just forgot the lyrics.”
“Oh, okay…” The girl doesn’t sound convinced with the answer, but she lets the subject falter anyways, her hand dropping back down beside her thigh. “Just checking.”
“Yeah, I got that. Uh, thanks. But I’m all good now.” He holds up a clenched first and juts out his pinky, wiggling it for significance. “Promise”
Y/N scoffs gently at his playful deed. “Alright, then.”
Harry eyes her attentively as she returns to her previous spot in front of the plate of pancakes, retrieving her fork and starting to pick at them like before, as if nothing had happened. As if Harry hadn’t just almost had a cardiac arrest, despite the fact that the organ responsible had crumbled to dust ages ago.
“Are you gonna eat anymore?” Y/N signals down at the stack of pastries before her questioningly. “Because if you don’t get some now, I’ll eat them all myself. Don’t think I won’t. They’re better than the ones I make and—”
The vampire suddenly feels like bile is rising up his throat and his words spew out before he can think to stop them, though he’s not so sure he would.
“Do you want to stay over the rest of the weekend?”
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It's Delicate: PART I
CHAPTER MASTERLIST
Summary: Spencer Reid finds himself at a gas station at 2:00 am, thinking he’s only leaving with a cup of crappy coffee. But something taped to the door catches his eye. Spencer leaves the gas station with more than he intended: the chance at a friend, and maybe something more along the way.
Word Count: 2.8 K
Content Warnings: Mention of NA meeting, some case talk, mild language
Author's Note: This is my first chapter fic! I've only written one shots before, so bear with me. I truly do appreciate all reblogs, likes, and comments. Thank you!!
It's Delicate
Spencer doesn’t really care for gas station coffee, but at 2:00 am it’s the only thing that’s open. He pulls into the parking spot and turns off his Volvo. The check engine light is on, he needs to get into a mechanic, but between his NA meetings and work, it’s difficult to even catch his breath.
So that’s what Spencer does. In the middle of the gas station parking lot at 2:00 am, Spencer sits in his blue Volvo and breathes. He takes deep breaths, the ones that he uses when he has to calm down victims when they’re rescued. It’s grounding, breathing like this he thinks. It’s the kind of breath that Spencer takes when his head is fuzzy from sleeplessness and the only thing that can keep his eyes from drooping is a steady stream of coffee.
He unbuckles his seat belt and gets out of his car. Shutting the door, Spencer surveys the rest of the parking lot. He sees a couple other cars in the lot, he supposes it’s the gas station attendants, but he feels his shoulders tense at the thought of trouble. The bell attached to the door rings as Spencer opens the door. It's a small convenience store, one that Spencer has been frequently at odd hours after the BAU’s jet lands. He’s grown to know the owner, Jeff, who for the past 4 years hasn’t been around all too often.
“I’ll take a regular coffee,” Spencer asks the young man behind the counter. He doesn’t say anything in return, but nods his head in understanding as Spencer hands him a $5 bill and tells him to keep the change.
“Night,” Spencer tells the man, who he’s never seen before, when he hands him his coffee. Again, the young man doesn’t answer. Spencer tries to salvage the awkward encounter by chalking up the man’s coldness by it being so late.
As Spencer pushes against the door with the sleeve covered part of his arm, a poster that’s eye level catches his eye. It’s one of those posters where you can rip off the phone number and contact the person. But instead of a 20-something looking for a roommate, it’s a book club advertisement.
Spencer, quickly for a normal person, but slowly for himself, reads over the sign. The book club is hosted at the local bookstore, Hooked on Books, that Spencer has always meant to check out. From what he can gather, the list of numbers are from people looking for what the poster refers to as “book buddies”. Spencer’s eyes scan the list. There aren't any names attached to the numbers, Spencer supposes that the idea behind that is so bias won’t come into play.
It almost seems like the perfect trap: rip off one of these little pieces of paper with a phone number and call that person with the intention of being their book buddy. It’s something that Spencer knows deep in his bones he’s meant to avoid. But it’s like there’s an invisible string pulling at him to rip the third piece of paper from the group and stuff it carefully into the safety of his wallet.
--
It’s been five days since Spencer visited the cold man at the gas station and took the number from the poster. In those five days, Spencer slept for two and was back on plane to the middle of Montana for the next three.
After a long day in the sun, Spencer relishes in the cold water from the hotel shower. Even though he had to crouch slightly, Spencer still appreciated the way the chilly water seems to wash him anew. He never sleeps well when the team is on a case, it’s like his mind can’t rest. Well, his mind can never really rest, since it’s technically always growing and changing, especially during sleep.
Spencer’s thoughts travel from his messed up circadian rhythm to the piece of paper that burns a hole in his wallet. He steps out of the shower and dresses in his pajamas. It’s cold in the hotel run, as JJ likes to sleep in the coldest temperature humanly possible. Spencer knows that she finds the weight of blankets comforting. He makes a mental note to put some of his pillows on JJ’s bed, so she can pretend it’s her boys and Will in the bed with her. Spencer can’t help but wonder what’s like to have a child or a partner that misses you. It must be so bittersweet: the promise of coming home, but the threat of having to leave them all behind at moments notice.
Letting his hair air dry, Spencer unlocks the door and enters his and JJ’s hotel room. Out of the whole team, Spencer likes sharing with JJ the best. She’s the most organized and usually, they’ll spend the night on FaceTime with the boys and Will watching a movie, depending on the time.
“You’re all good, JJ. Thanks for letting me get in first,” Spencer says, flopping down on his bed. He shuts off his light, essentially telling JJ that he doesn’t want to talk about the case, or Henry, or anything really.
“Good night, Spence,” JJ says, before shutting off the rest of the lights and heading into the bathroom.
For a couple of minutes, Spencer lays in the all consuming dark. He tries the breathing exercise that’s scientifically proven to make you fall asleep. He counts, one, two, three, four breaths in and holds for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven and let's go for one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
He tries it for a couple of rounds, but suspects thinking about numbers makes him think about the phone number. Spencer can’t exactly pinpoint why he’s nervous to reach out to the number. Maybe it’s his constant fear of judgement or fear of not being enough, he can’t tell.
Knowing that sleep is probably not coming anytime soon, Spencer rolls on his side so he faces the window overlooking the hotel parking lot. He can’t stop thinking about the case. The way the victim’s mother and father walk around the precinct with a lifeless look in their eyes, staying villgiant no matter how many times JJ tells them to go home and rest.
Spencer doesn’t want to think about the case, so his mind flits to another subject: Hooked on Books Book Buddies. He can’t really pinpoint why he didn’t reach out to his book buddy. But laying there in the bed, Spencer feels strongly compelled to do anything to get his mind off the case, so he climbs out of bed to reach for his phone.
It’s tucked away neatly in his go bag, unlike JJ, Spencer doesn’t have anyone that’s waiting for him at home. Sure he has his mother, but if she needed him, the home would wait until 8 am to call Spencer. He unlocks it and the blue light illuminates the room. Somehow, Garcia had convinced him to get an updated phone. Spencer hardly uses it, but does appreciate being able to get pictures of JJ’s boys and his mother.
He memorized the number in the ten seconds or so it took him to rip the little slip of paper from the poster and put it away in his wallet. Spencer punches the numbers into a new contact, but hesitates when he’s prompted to give a name. He doesn’t know the first thing about this person. Seriously, this is like FBI 101 on the do not listen, he thinks.
Spencer pushes the thoughts of serial killers, for what feels like the first time in ten years, from his mind when he hits the button to message his mysterious book buddy. He types out a message a couple of times, but ends up deleting them because he sounds so incredibly stupid.
Spencer: Hello. I do apologize for my late message. I work odd hours, but I came across your number at the gas station on the corner of Richmond Street and Connor Avenue in Woodbridge. If you are interested, perhaps we can have a conversation about Hooked on Books’ Book Club?
Spencer, realizing that the message he wrote is going to be as good as it gets, hits the little arrow for “send”. He watches as his message turns blue and the little gray delivered pops up. He doesn’t expect the person to send a message back yet. He’s all the way in Montana and they’re in Woodbridge, Virginia, presumably. If it’s 2:30 am in Montana, it’s 4:30 back at home. That’s a little too late for someone with a normal 9 to 5 to be up for work and a little too late for a person that’s joining a book club to haven’t gone to sleep yet.
Don’t profile them, Spencer.
“What’s got you glued to the phone, Reid?” JJ says, with a smirk as she walks out from the bathroom and climbs into her bed. She came in so quietly, or rather, Spencer was staring so intensely at his phone that he didn’t realize.
“Something with my mother, JJ,” he lies, and he doesn’t even know what he can’t tell her the truth.
“Okay, Spence. I just want to make sure you’re all good,” JJ says quietly, her back must be facing Spencer because her voice is muffled a little bit.
“Thanks, JJ, uh good night, now,” Spencer says, effectively ending the conversation.
JJ doesn’t say anything after that, perhaps she just understands that Spencer doesn’t want to talk. Spencer rests flat on his back and tries a couple more rounds of the breathing exercise, but nothing seems to make his brain shut off. Despite the way his eyelids droop and the way it’s almost painful to continue to think, Spencer can’t seem to fall asleep.
He thinks about his Book Buddy, whoever they might be. Spencer hopes that they are around his age. He can’t remember a time that he had a friend his age that wasn’t through work. He has people. JJ is the closest thing to a sister that he’ll ever get and he knows that Derek loves him like a brother, despite his teasing. Emily and Penelope are Spencer’s rock. And then there’s Tara, Matt, and Luke, though Spencer has really gotten a chance to know them all too well, he knows that they’re a team.
But Spencer has always dreamt of having a friend. As a little kid, he used to make up imaginary friends that would listen to his science facts and perform chemistry experiments from him. When he got to high school, his dreams were occupied by someone who’d reach for his hand after he’d been beaten down or strung to a football post. Sure he had Ethan, but that was something charged and electric that left Spencer longing for someone again.
Spencer hadn’t had dreams about a friend in a long time, but tonight he dreamt of coffee and books in a small café and a faceless stranger that would listen to him and laugh with him.
--
Even though he fell asleep relatively shortly after thinking about his Book Buddy, Spencer did not feel well rested. He turns around in his bed and notices that JJ’s bed is already neatly made. The bathroom is empty, so Spencer reckons that JJ and Emily must already be at the police station.
He wants to savor the last couple of minutes in bed, maybe chase a dream or two of strangers swapping books and making memories over expensive coffee and scones. But reality calls him back home. Spencer checks his phones for work updates (and maybe a message or two from his Book Buddy), but the only notifications on his phone is a Forbes article and a couple emails from Georgetown.
Spencer, heading to the bathroom, gets interrupted by a loud and persistent knock on his hotel room door. He opens the door, revealing an equally tired looking Luke. He waves Spencer good morning before slumping down in the desk chair in the corner of the hotel room.
“I’ve been sent by JJ to get you, she thinks you’re acting weird,” Luke says, expecting Spencer to explain himself.
Awkwardly, Spencer makes something in between a grimace and a frown. He rolls his eyes, but plays along with what he thinks Luke’s little game.
“Well I’m always weird, it would be weird if I wasn’t being weird,” Spencer says, heading into the bathroom with a pile of work clothes. He shuts the door, both literally on Luke and metaphorically on their conversation.
In the bathroom, Spencer dresses out of his pajamas and into a pair of well worn pants and a light purple button up. He forgot his contacts at his apartment, but luckily had a back up pair of glasses in his go bag. Spencer, looking in the mirror, never particularly carried for the reflection that looks back at him. It always seems like his hair is too messy, or his collar is all twisted, or his eyebags are too prominent.
At least the glasses can kind of cover up his eye bags, Spencer thinks as he shuts off the light and closes the bathroom door behind him. Luke, who still is slouched in the chair, looks at his phone.
“Waiting for Penelope to send you a picture of Sergio or something?” Spencer asks, the snark in his voice isn’t missed by Luke.
“You’re one to talk, JJ was telling me how you’re being kind of secretive for the last couple of weeks,” Luke counters.
“Yeah, that’s my work mandated therapist, Luke. You know from the time I was in jail,” Spencer shoots back a little harder than he intended. The look that Luke gives him is something akin to a hurt puppy and Spencer can’t help but feel a little bad for snapping at Luke’s teasing.
“Sorry, man,” Luke says, putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, “I get it, and you know I’m here for you, Reid. We might not be as close as you and Penny or you and JJ, but I’m here to listen to you,” Luke says, his hand on Spencer, who’s usually so hesitant to touch, is something Spencer never thought he would find comforting.
“Thank you,” is all Spencer can manage and somehow, Luke just gets it. They walk quietly to the parking lot where the SUVs are. The silence continues as they drive to the police station.
It’s still early, only 7:13 am. Spencer can only hope that they catch the unsub in the next couple of hours, so they can file the paperwork and be on their way to Quantico by 8:00 pm. Luke’s steady driving threatens to lull Spencer to sleep. His quiet presence, however, is interrupted with a buzz. Luke’s eyes dart to his phone that navigates them to the police station. He refuses to take direction from Spencer, who has a habit of being a terrible co-pilot.
“Check that for me,” Luke says, “it’s probably Penelope,”
Spencer raises his eyebrows and attempts to suppress a smirk at Luke’s blatant transparency.
“You know with updates about the case and whatnot,” Luke says, brushing Spencer’s teasing off and putting his attention back to the road.
“It’s not Garcia and for what it’s worth, Luke, I don’t see how she’d say no,” Spencer offers, genuinely wanting to see his two friends, who are so perfect for each other it’s almost ridiculous, get together.
Luke shuffles in his seat uncomfortably and pulls into the station. He shoots Spencer a lot, as if to say drop it. The last thing Luke wants is Tara and Matt to get wind of his excitement at Penelope texting him.
Spencer, who’s phone lights up alerting him that he has an unread message, feels a sudden surge in his heart. He’s so used to only getting messages from JJ about the cases or pictures of her boys, that a text not related to his work or his family leaves a smile to his face.
Spencer tries to not profile the message, but to just read it like a normal friend would.
Book Buddy (Y/N): Hey there😊! I can’t believe someone actually grabbed my number...I’m glad you’re interested in this. I’m Y/N and I don’t think you mentioned your name, I don’t make it a habit to meet up with strangers before not knowing their name.
Reading the message twice to make sure he can recite without any hesitation, Spencer’s face falls as he realizes that he forgot to tell them his own name. How could you be so clueless, Spencer, he thinks.
Quickly, because he knows that the rest of the team is waiting inside the police station, that is like a portal to the past, Spencer types out another message.
Spencer: My name is Spencer.
Spencer: I tend to be away for work quite often, so I do apologize for the late message. And for hiding my identity-- not that that was on purpose. Is it okay if we plan something when I get back to Virginia?
Spencer doesn’t expect a message right away, but he can tell that there’s going to be something Pavlovian about the way that little swoosh sound makes his fingers reach for his phone.
--
Thank You!! I love and appreciate all and every comments, likes, and reblogs. I love knowing what you think!!
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Broken Glass
a Quackity Oneshot
warnings: torture (non-explicit), blood, insanity, brief alcohol
i sat down at my computer, blacked out, looked up at 3 am and this was here. please enjoy. (idea from this one comment on this one tiktok that suggested that quackity uses the shape shifting powers some people hc him to have to torment dream. i’ll see if i can find the tiktok!)
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***
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Quackity knew what broken glass felt like. He knew how it felt slicing up his hands, his face, being kissed into his skin. But this was the first time he knew what it felt like in his soul. Yeah- that's what this feeling was.
Broken glass.
Quackity didn’t turn around when he heard footsteps getting closer. He knew who it was already. No one else would be in this wasteland he’d built, anyways. No one was ever here.
“Q?” The rumble of Sam’s voice was concerned, almost hesitant. Quackity grabbed a bottle from the rack. “Quackity- you said it was urgent. What’s going on?” He turned, and the liquor slammed onto the counter. He might’ve relished the way Sam startled, on a better day. Quackity’s hands found the shot glasses, twisted the cap of the bottle. The neon blue that sloshed from the cup reflected the thunder in his gaze.
“Quackity, it’s still early-” But he tipped his head, knocked back the burning liquor. This time, Sam didn’t jump when the glass crashed down next to his hand. Quackity splayed his palms on the cool granite and leaned across to level his gaze with Sam’s.
“I need to visit the prison, Sam.”
Sam had the good sense to nod.
Maybe this was the wrong way to deal with things. Maybe strapping on armor and sharpening his knives wasn’t a healthy way to process his ex-fiances showing up trying to- what? Apologize? Make things ‘how they used to be’? If that was the case, they really were just mocking him. Nothing would ever be the way it used to.
It ended in a fight, of course. It ended in his already cracking heart fully giving out, splintering into a thousand shards like shattered fvcking glass. It ended in him envying Schlatt, because at least when his heart broke down he got to leave.
Quackity’s stuck here, with this void in his chest that keeps him floating oddly outside his body as Pandora swallows him whole.
They don’t even bother signing the waivers anymore. It would be ridiculous, at this point, especially since Quackity’s fully decked out in armor and tools. He guesses Sam’s just realized Quackity won’t be the reason Dream gets out of the hell they’ve so carefully crafted for him.
Levers, keys. The threshold to the heart of the prison is as claustrophobic as ever, but Quackity embraces the suffocating heat. There’s not much for his mind to wander on, here. There is the wall of lava, and there is the rasp of his boots on obsidian, and there is the rough leather pommel of his sword. There is, on the other side of the fire, a sacrificial lamb. Quackity grins and it hurts as the lava simmers down.
Sam says nothing.
“Dream…” He leans on the butt of his axe, looming, and his ears are still ringing with screams. “Wouldn’t it be so much easier to give me what I want?” He kneels next to the ragged lump of man on the ground and grabs his chin, forces it up. “C’mon… I would leave you alone then, right? I wouldn’t come, wouldn’t have to hurt you- you would get so much peace and quiet… you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Quackity makes his voice honey, his hand gentle. Gods, he thinks he even sees Dream lean into the touch. It’s pitiful, what the admin has become. One of Dream’s acid-green eyes is bloodied and purple, swollen shut, and a cut on his face oozes crimson. His mouth is positively dripping with the stuff, courtesy of Quackity’s pliers and some molars that were just begging to be yanked. He can hear the ragged, wheezing breaths of the man in front of him and Quackity has never felt so sickeningly alive.
“Heh…” Dream flicks his working eye up to hold Quackity’s gaze. “No-” He coughs violently, wheezing and convulsing. The hacking subsides and he forces out; “No peace in death, Big Q. You’ll know that s-soon.”
Quackity’s lip curls. He stands abruptly, taking little satisfaction in the way Dream’s chin cracks against the obsidian.
“You’re pitiful.” This was supposed to help. He thought it did- when he funneled all the glass inside of him into the swing of his axe, the cut of his knife. When the voices in his head were drowned out by the screaming. But Dream was on the ground, bleeding and broken and still acting like he had the upper fvcking hand, and it turned out the glass had grown only sharper.
This isn’t working.
He paces to the back of the cell and yanks a tattered book off the lectern, flipping through it with a scowl. He’s about to chuck the thing in the lava--just to see if it’ll get a reaction out of its’ author--when a name catches his eye. Gingerly, he thumbs back to the page it was written on. Quackity feels so sick he grins when he finds it.
It’s not just one name. It’s hundreds. Some he doesn’t recognize, but most from this server. In fact- it looks like everyone who’s ever stepped foot in Dream’s land has been scrawled on the black-bleeding page. Quackity even thinks he sees his own name in there somewhere. They cover the page almost entirely in ink, written and rewritten and scribbled over each other.
George, Sapnap, Karl, Tommy. Tommy seems to be in there a lot.
Dream must have sat here for hours, scribbling the names of people he would never see again, alone in his personal hell. It’s sick. And something in the back of Quackity’s mind sparks.
“Dream,” He says, as the start of an idea appears. “How would you like to see your friends again?” He sees the confusion in the prisoner’s eyes and has to fight to keep from grinning. “Or… your old friends, I suppose. But I bet they still care about you, don’t you think?” He sets the book down, pacing towards the heap of blood-streaked orange jumpsuit with mock sincerity plastered over his face. His mouth twitches at the look in Dream’s eyes. There’s fear, suspicion, pain… but also, delightfully, hope. He can see Dream trying to crush it, but it’s there. Gods, Quackity could get drunk on that look. Maybe he already is.
“How do you think,” He leans over Dream, hands folded behind his back. “They would feel about you if they saw you now?”
Quackity really is grinning now. The axe wasn’t working, the knives weren’t working, the pliers only made Dream more determined. It was time for a new tactic. He feels that spark in the back of his mind and fans it, turning away from Dream as it grows. He hasn’t dipped into this ability for a long time--people don’t much like his kind--but the only person to see him now is barely human himself. Quackity closes his eyes as the fire washes over him.
When he turns around, he almost breaks character at the shock in Dream’s eyes.
“George?”
There’s so much raw hurt in his voice- gods, why didn’t he think of this sooner?
“Dream…” Quackity says in George’s voice. “Gods… what happened to you?”
“No… how- George-”
“I mean, everybody says you deserved it.” Quackity makes sure the revulsion is clear on his--George’s--face as he steps closer. “I guess you did… Still, though… this is a new low for you.” Dream is actually trying to push himself up now, trembling on wounded arms. “I mean, don’t you remember how things used to be? When we were all together? And now you’re… this. Not to be rude, Dream, but it’s kind of no wonder no one’s broken you out.”
“Stop, you’re… you’re not even real, I…” Dream screws his eyes shut, chest heaving. Aw. It looks like he’s starting to catch on.
“We were all happy, before.” He continues, letting the glass, the anger, slip back into his voice. “Like a family. And then you ruined it. All you’ve ever been is a parasite- it’s just amazing we didn’t notice sooner.” Quackity snarls with George’s face and he knows Dream can’t separate the illusion from reality. “You know what everyone says? They say good fvcking riddance.” Quackity--George--takes a step toward Dream with every word, until he’s sneering directly down at him. “I used to defend you. Down to the very end, I’d defend everything you did- all the wars, all the hurt, broken promises and broken hearts. I was loyal to you.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Not anymore. Now, I say good riddance with the rest of them.”
Quackity doesn’t know much about George and Dream’s history, but he knew they were close. And Dream, for all his boasting about cutting ties, has never truly let go. “I loved you, Dream. And look where it got us. You’re bleeding out in a cell, alone and powerless, and I…” Quackity turns. It’s a damn good thing he’s an amazing actor, or the look on Dream’s face might just make him lose it. It’s the same look he’s seen on just three people’s faces before; three people with worthless rings and broken promises to tie them together.
(“Didn’t you ever love us?”)
But Dream was right about one thing. Attachments are dangerous. And Quackity can wield them like a sword.
“I’m leaving. I don’t need you, Dream. And neither does anyone else.” His lip curls. “You’re worthless, Clay. I hope you rot.”
And the curtain falls.
Dream has pushed himself against a chest by now, heaving and trembling.
“Stop. Stop this, you’re not him, you’re not-” Another coughing fit seizes him and he hacks up blood.
“Wasn’t it a good performance, though? I think I was spot on, Clay.” Quackity leers, in his own voice now. Gods, that was exhilarating.
Dream rests his forehead against the chest, face contorted. “What do you want?” It sounds almost like a sob. Quackity’s smile drops.
“Oh, you know exactly what I want, Dream. You know exactly why I’m still here, and why you can barely stand.” He cocks his head, lip twitching up into a smile. There are a thousand names scrawled into that book, all of them knives sharpened to cut. Quackity’s just gotten started. “Let's see if someone else could encourage you more.”
Dream barely has time to look afraid before the fire has washed over Quackity again.
Lights, camera, action.
“...You always wanted to be remembered, huh.” Sapnap’s voice says. Dream closes his eyes, breath hitching. “You’d always play the hero, when we were kids. Make George and I be the villains every time.” His eyes have been on the ground, but he lifts them now, stares down the figure in the corner. “Look where that fvcking got us.” And this hurts both of them, Quackity knows- because he knows Sapnap’s voice, his mannerisms, the way he sounds when he’s devastated and the way he sounds when he wants to burn the world with rage. Slipping into his skin is as easy as breathing and feels like suffocating all at once.
“You promised me- you promised me this would be our world. That we’d stay together, that we’d finally be happy.” And it is too easy to let that heartbreak bleed into his voice, sprinkle it with the rage and hate of wasted memories.
(“You promised me we’d be happy together.”)
He paces towards Dream with a glare like wildfire. “Well guess what, Dream. I am happy now. This whole server is happier now.” Quackity yanks the man in the orange jumpsuit up by the collar and snarls at his whimper of pain. “Without you. Without your sick fvcking games, without your wars, without your broken promises!” He’s shouting now, and he can see the whites of Dream’s eyes, like a horse near a fire. Quackity drops him with Sapnap’s hands like a rat he’d been holding by the tail. “Do you remember the promises you’d make, Dream?”
And now Quackity feels himself shifting again, almost involuntarily. His voice pitches higher and demonic horns scrape the obsidian above them. “You promised me peace.” Quackity says in BBH’s voice. “You said we’d be safe, that we’d win the wars!” It’s almost sickening to take the form of someone whose mind he knows is long gone. Worth it, though, to watch Dream squirm. “Is this what peace looks like to you, Dream? I can’t even remember what your face looks like!” There’s desperation in his voice, though Quackity doesn’t even know if what he’s saying is true. For all he knows it could be. “I can’t remember,” He takes a step towards Dream, glowing eyes wide with horror “What my own face looks like.”
“Bad-” Dream’s voice is almost pleading. He doesn’t want to hear this.
Good.
"Every time I look in the mirror-” Quackity’s breath hitches, just for dramatic effect. “All I see is red. Crimson. I’m poisoned, Dream. Because that’s what this place does to people.” The fire is back, transforming him. Quackity doesn’t even try to control it this time.
“That’s what you do to people.” Ponk’s voice rings throughout the cell.
“You poison them.” Alyssa.
“You tear them down.” Fundy.
“You think you’re so powerful,” Punz.
“But in reality-” Skeppy.
“You’re. Just. A. Parasite.” Karl hisses at the god on the floor who bleeds red regret instead of ichor.
Quackity doesn’t know where the words are coming from, now.
(“This country- it’s like a parasite, Q!”)
His breaths come ragged. When the fire sweeps through him again, Quackity nearly burns away himself.
Sapnap’s voice is tired when he speaks with it.
“You were never the hero, Dream. Turns out, you were never even part of the story.”
And Dream is left a crumpled mess of grief and blood at his feet as the fire dies to ashes.
Quackity’s tired when he leaves the cell that evening. It’s the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from more than lack of sleep, and it drags at his limbs. Sam does not look at him, and Quackity wonders if he knows what horrors were used in that cell today. He somehow can’t bring himself to care.
It was cruel, he knows. He slipped into their skin and cut Dream to shreds with the broken glass at his fingertips, ripped open his soul instead of his flesh and took pleasure in just tearing something down. It was cruel, but so is (was) Dream, and so is the world he created. Everyone gets cut and everyone bleeds, and the only thing to do is hope that your weapon is sharper than theirs. He’s had that lesson seared into his mind and cut into his skin too many times. So today when Quackity leaves a trembling mess behind the wall of fire, he cannot see Sam’s eyes- but if he could, he thinks they would hold something like fear.
So he steps out into the night, and he smiles, sharp and painful as broken glass.
#oops i did it again#quackity#c!quackity#quackity dream smp#quackity angst#quackity centric#karlnapity#karlnapity angst#quackity tortures dream#dream smp#dsmp#quackity fanfic#dsmp fanfic#dream smp fanfiction#quackity lore#pandora’s vault#dsmp dream#c!dream#prison!dream#prison arc#dreamwastaken#dream smp fic#dream fanfic#haha imagine someone looking up that tag looking for like smut or something and they find t h i s#lmaooooo#sorry fckers#it’s me#the angst goblin#i show up every blue moon with 2k words and then i’m GONE#awesamdude
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Hi miss Kit! So um, I'm not the anon who had the idea about the Pokemon obikin AU but I saw that you're still looking for a prompt so I did some brainstorming?
Obviously Anakin is aiming to be a Pokemon Master which is why he'll have to fight the elite four eventually. Which is not an easy task despite what the games might imply! So what if, despite breezing through the gyms before, beating Team Rocket and having a team that is powerful and adores him, he still fails his first attempt at the league.
I remember Prof Oak telling your rival after you beat him in gen 1 that he lost to you because he doesn't love his Pokemon enough which is bullsh*t!! But must surely be a cutting remark.
So ofc he goes to caretaker!Obi-Wan afterwards because he is a former Pokemon trainer so how has he dealt with loss before? Does Anakin really not love his team enough? Bonus points if Obi has challenged the league before (and won??)
I just realized that this is way too angsty for the Pokemon universe >.< everything is nice and soft here
alright!!!!!! finally!!! here is that pokémon au, a bastardization of this prompt and @sinhalbutnoangst 's prompt "24: Right before a passionate/first kiss & 16: “There’s nothing to be scared of, okay? I’m right here.” For a Pokémon AU !!!"
I hope y'all both enjoy or at least find parts to be happy about!!!
(fair warning i don't know a lot about pokémon so who knows how accurate this is at ALL)
(3.3k)
(i've linked each pokémon name with their pokedex picture just so everyone knows what they look like. no need to read the descriptions or anything)(god knows i didn't half the time)
Obi-Wan is in the water, tending to a shy gyarados a trainer had left behind as a Magikarp a few months ago, when on the shore his flareon raises its muzzle and barks loudly. That’s her signal that someone’s arrived at the Daycare center proper. Obi-Wan furrows his eyebrows, as he strokes his hand down the gyarados' side.
“I always tell them to call ahead,” he mutters as the pokemon nudges closer for more attention. “Why do they never call ahead?”
Gyarados knocks him hard in the arm. It’s clear she wants more pats, but business calls.
“Would you mind terribly taking me back to shore, dear?” Obi-Wan asks politely. It’d be faster than swimming all the way there, and it would strengthen the Pokémon's connection with humans.
On the shore, Flareon bounds around in a circle, tail flickering back and forth. It must be someone she recognizes the scent of. A regular then. That means Obi-Wan can take his time getting back to the counter to greet them, but he probably shouldn’t show up dripping wet in only a pair of swim trunks.
Luckily, Gyarados gives him a lift, bellowing mournfully to be left alone again when Obi-Wan alights onto the sand. When her trainer comes back to pick it up, Obi-Wan has half a mind to offer to buy her from them. No one who actually cares about their pokemon would leave a magikarp to become a gyarados under the care and instruction of someone else.
But becoming known as the Daycare Runner who gets attached to Pokémon and tries to keep them is perhaps a serious threat to his business as a whole. And he’s already done that too many times.
No, the best thing to do is to wait for the trainer to come back and sit them down to give them a serious talk about their Pokémon’s emotional needs. They’re probably young. Most trainers are these days. On some level you have to be in order to have the energy to travel as much as you do, to sleep on the ground more nights than not.
Yes, they’re probably young, and more focused on gym battles than their Pokémons’ growth and happiness. It happens sometimes with tunnel vision like that. Too many advertisements for the Pokémon League, the Elite Four, the Gym badges. Obi-Wan had been the same way when he was a kid.
He gathers his clothes from the shoreline and slips on his shoes. Flareon tries to help dry him out by wrapping herself repeatedly around his ankles and cooing out gusts of warm air, but all it does is create a new and unusual tripping hazard.
Especially when she suddenly perks up, about halfway to the building and jumps forward into a run. Obi-Wan stares after her, confused, clothes held in a slackened grip until he sees a very familiar growlithe running fult tilt from around the building. It hops the fence with practiced ease that makes Obi-Wan inwardly despair at the lesson it’s unwittingly teaching all of the other Pokémon.
But he can’t deny the way his heart thuds when he realizes what its presence means. His flareon, embarrassingly enough, seems to be thinking along the same lines, as she bounds up to the growlithe and starts winding between his legs instead, rubbing her head over every part of black and orange fur she can reach.
Obi-Wan sighs and shucks on his buttoned shirt, shaking out the water from his hair. He doesn’t even really bother with pants, seeing as his wet swim trunks go almost to his knees.
It’s Anakin. Anakin’s here. Anakin hasn’t been here for four months when he left in the midst of a shouting match. Obi-Wan has been trying--unsuccessfully--to put Anakin out of his mind. And now Anakin’s growlithe is prancing towards him like it’s a special present to see him at all.
“Yes, hello there,” Obi-Wan murmurs, pausing in buttoning up his shirt so he can pet at the growlithe’s--what does Anakin call him again?--muzzle. For a second, the Pokémon nuzzles back, scenting his face and neck as territorial Pokémon are wont to do, before it moves quickly forward and grabs Obi-Wan by the shirt, swinging him up onto its back.
Out of shock and a latent survival instinct, Obi-Wan drops the rest of his clothes and clings to the Pokémon’s back. ��Shit!” is on the tip of his tongue the entire two minutes it takes to bound back to the fence, over it and through the welcome doors of his own Daycare.
Anakin is standing, back to the entrance, furiously tapping the bell on the desk, looking somehow both desperate and bored.
Growlithe barks once, twice, and shakes himself hard enough that Obi-Wan knows to let go before he gets rolled over upon.
It’s not the most graceful entrance he would have chosen after going months without seeing Anakin, to land on his back, partially dressed and smelling like the sea at the Pokémon trainer’s feet.
Anakin at least has the wherewithal to be both surprised and immediately worried. “Obi-Wan!” he yelps, turning around immediately upon his growlithe’s bark of victory.
“Yes, hello there,” Obi-Wan says dryly sitting up from his sprawl and combing a nervous hand through his hair.
“Where are your clothes?” Anakin asks shrilly, turning a very interesting shade of magenta and looking quickly away from Obi-Wan.
Obi-Wan couldn’t be more different, what with the way he looks at Anakin as if he’s starved for the sight of him. It’s been several long months since they last saw each other. The fight had been...awful, to say the least. Anakin had accused him of not really wanting him to succeed. Obi-Wan had accused him of the same tunnel vision he diagnoses most young adults to have.
Neither had been true. Obi-Wan hadn’t even meant it, but he’d been mad. He’d been mad that Anakin hadn’t even thought to listen to him more than a Gym Leader he’d just defeated.
Palpatine had urged him to go straight to the League. Obi-Wan had thought it prudent to return home to his mother, give his Pokémon a break, work his way to the island of the Pokémon League naturally as a means of bonding with and further testing his Pokémon. He has no idea who Anakin ended up listening to. It’s been something that has haunted him for weeks.
“Out in the back,” Obi-Wan grunts, standing and trying to pick up the shattered pieces of his dignity under the Pokémon trainer’s wide-eyed stare. Anakin’s grown older in the past few months, his face sharper. What is he now, newly twenty-three? Halfway to twenty-four? “Your Growlithe was quite enthusiastic to bring me here as soon as possible.”
Anakin flushes and looks down at his feet. He looks tired, Obi-Wan decides. Like he’s walked the entire continent just to show up at his door.
“Sorry,” Anakin says sheepishly. “I had--”
“Him out and walking with you, I know,” Obi-Wan finishes with a fond shake of his head. He buttons the last necessary button on his shirt and sweeps past Anakin to stand behind his desk. “You always liked having one of them out with you. How’s your Jolteon?”
“Twilight?” Anakin asks, sounding surprised Obi-Wan even remembered he had a jolteon. He tries not to feel offended. It’s an unfortunate truth that Obi-Wan remembers almost everything about Anakin, the trainer that used to hang around his daycare as though he couldn’t bear to step more than fifty paces from his front door. “He’s fine. A bit angry with me, I think.”
“Oh?” Obi-Wan asks, furrowing his brow as he looks up at his guest. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Anakin is quiet for a few seconds, and his hands clench down on the edge of the counter-top. When he speaks, his voice wavers. “Obi-Wan...do you think my Pokémon love me? Like, do you think I am a good trainer?”
Obi-Wan stares at him. This isn’t a conversation he should have without pants on, he decides. He slowly puts his pen down. “What happened, Anakin?” he asks gently, reaching out and laying a hand on the arm Anakin still has resting against the counter.
“I lost,” his favorite trainer whispers, looking down. Growlithe--Resolute, that’s what Anakin had named him--noses into the nape of his neck. Obi-Wan is not jealous. “I challenged the Elite Four, and I lost in the second round.”
Obi-Wan’s hand tightens completely involuntarily. He hates hearing that after their years-long friendship, the last few years where he’d thought perhaps they were on the verge of being something more, despite his reservations, Anakin had listened to Palpatine over him. Palpatine.
“Come around back here,” he instructs after a second’s thought. Somehow, still, after all these months, he thinks he knows what Anakin needs. “And release all of your Pokémon from their Pokéballs.”
“All of them?” Anakin asks, sounding so unsure Obi-Wan’s heart aches with the doubt of it all before he reigns that in. This isn’t about him.
This isn’t about him, but he can’t stop himself from asking, just once, “Yes. Do you trust me?”
Anakin’s fingers hesitate on the seal of his first Pokéball, and Obi-Wan’s heart jumps into his throat. “Yeah,” Anakin finally says gruffly, pressing the release. “Yeah, I do.”
His altaria pops out of her Pokéball with a trill and a flap of her cloud-shaped wings. He just catches a hint of the jolteon materialize into existence before he turns his back. “I’m going to put on proper clothes,” he tells Anakin over his shoulder. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’m sure your Pokémon will remember half the ones here.”
And all of the ones Obi-Wan calls his own, he doesn’t add. Anakin should know. Anakin’s known them since he was fifteen years old and surly over the fact that his mother wouldn’t let him go out and hunt legendary Pokémon until he finished schooling.
He finds his abandoned clothes quickly, and shuffles into them. Flareon noses around him curiously, with more than a bit of excitement. She probably smells Anakin on him. The thought doesn’t warm his cheeks, but if it does, he’ll blame it on the sudden amount of heat she’s giving off.
He leaves his shirt as is and doesn’t even bother with the vest or tie. He’s not here to be Professor Kenobi. He’s here to be Obi-Wan, Anakin’s friend. That’s what Anakin needs from him right now. A friend.
He fixes his hair anyway in a mad bout of nerves, but no one, not even his mienshao or flareon, obsessed with appearances as they are, are paying enough attention to him in order to soothe his sudden insecurities.
More than anything, he wants to be back in the sea, surrounded by the gyarados’ coils. He doesn’t understand humans as much as he would like to, and he certainly doesn’t understand Anakin. Not anymore. Perhaps he never did.
His flareon bumps at his wrist with the crown of her head and he looks down with a sigh. “Someone’s excited, I see,” he murmurs wryly, smoothing down the stuck-up fur of her hair and chest mane. She purrs. “Not the most excited though,” he adds with a huff as he sees a blur of white and blue from the corner of his eyes as the female Meowstic who spends most of her time strolling the parameter of the Daycare abandons her position to dart towards the backdoors where a newly emerged navy male Meowstic stands waiting.
They collide and curl into each other, two halves of one whole brought back together.
Well, that’s as good as any sign to approach Anakin, who has decided to collapse on the soft grass of the enclosure. Other than the Meowstic, his freed Pokémon have curled around him. The jolteon, Artoo, rests by his head, while his charizard, Mustafar, brackets the length of his body with his own. The growlithe sits watchful at his feet, while a new, unfamiliar pancham curls up on his chest. Finally, his gallade sits cross-legged to his side.
“Yes,” Obi-Wan drawls before he can help himself, “It’s very obvious that your Pokémon don’t love you.”
Anakin bolts upright at the sound of his voice. The pancham growls at him, a baby noise that Obi-Wan didn’t necessarily think the species capable of.
The Pokémon trainer hushes it quickly with a stern, “Vader, no.”
Obi-Wan comes to sit cross-legged in front of the man. “You didn’t have a pancham last time,” he says easily. What he really wants to ask is much more complicated. He wants to know everything. He wants to know how Anakin changed. When. Why. He wants to know what’s still the same.
It’s always complicated when it comes to Anakin. It’s never been easy.
“He was injured when I found him,” Anakin admits, stroking the top of Vader’s head. “But a fighter. I think I was injured when I found him too.”
The man seems so lost in his own recollections that Obi-Wan hates to interrupt. Carefully, Anakin’s jolteon, Twilight, noses his hand. When he’s not pushed away, he jumps into Obi-Wan’s lap with a trill. Flareon lets out a hiss, but acquiesces when the jolteon licks at her snout, accepting her ownership of Obi-Wan.
“I had just lost,” Anakin says slowly. “I wanted to come back here, rent a Lapras and just ride until I saw the shoreline I knew was yours. But I didn’t know what you’d say to me. How mad you’d still be.”
Obi-Wan bites his lip. He wouldn’t have been mad. He’d been worried, from the second Anakin left his property. But how to tell the man that? Would the other even want to hear it? Would he think Obi-Wan was trying to infantilize him, to protect him?
“I didn’t want you to be right.” Anakin whispers, arms tightening around the Pokémon. “I didn’t want you to be right and say that I wasn’t ready. And then I was in the forest, walking home, and I found this guy. He’d been attacked by a bug pokémon who was probably a higher level. But he was so angry still. I...I wanted him on my team. I needed that fire back.”
Obi-Wan suddenly thinks that there’s much more distance between them than there should be. He wants to be hugging Anakin, to be kissing his temple. These were allowances they had given each other before the fight, things that Obi-Wan had squirreled away, close to his heart.
He wants them back.
“But I keep thinking about how the professor who gave me my first Pokémon told this guy I beat in my first battle that he lost because he didn’t love his Pokémon right, and I...I’m just worried that’s why I lost.” Anakin stares down at his pancham, who puts his paws on his cheeks and pats a few times.
“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighs. He thinks it sounds too fond, too revealing, but Anakin looks up at him with wide, frightened eyes. “I’ve never known a trainer to love his Pokémon more, dear one.”
“Then why?” Anakin asks plaintively, scooting forward until their knees brush. “Why did I lose? The gym leader of Cinnabar Island told me I would win!”
Obi-Wan, quite maturely in his opinion, doesn’t mention the fact that the recently defeated Palpatine probably had ulterior motives for Anakin to challenge the league too quickly and then fail. “You weren’t ready, Anakin,” he says instead, placing his hand on the other’s knee and holding it even when the trainer jerks out of his grp. “Please, listen. It's about sheer time, training experience. It’s not about you or your relationship to your Pokémon. You have such an amazing, strong relationship with them! They love you. Anyone could tell. And you’re not lacking in skill either. I know your mind is sharp and ready for battle.”
Anakin looks at him teary-eyed. “I’ve been so worried that maybe they didn’t know I loved them,” he admits in a wavering voice.
Obi-Wan can’t resist moving impossibly closer to his trainer. “Oh, Anakin, of course they do. Pokémon don’t always express or interpret love the same way humans do, but they do have their own ways of showing it.”
“Like what?” Anakin sniffles, wiping at his wet eyes. If Obi-Wan had really been listening, he would have noticed the change in his tone. As it is, he continues immediately, too focused on trying to stop his trainer from crying to think of anything else.
“A fire-type Pokémon wil try to warm you if they think you’re cold, even if it means staying up all night to keep you in in its flame. And fighting-type Pokémon are capable of throwing a blanket over you if they think you need to rest. Psychic-types have been known to read their trainer’s emotions and either hug them or give them distance whenever they want. Ground- and bug-type have been known to bring berries to their trainers to get them something to eat, and electric--why are you looking at me like that?”
Anakin’s nascent smirk grows bigger at this interruption and he cocks his head to the side as he studies Obi-Wan’s face. “And what does it say about a man who spends all of his time around Pokémon, that he would do those exact same things for me?”
Obi-Wan at least understands enough to scurry backwards a few paces, much to the jolteon in his lap’s distress, who jumps away with a huff.
“I’m not sure I understand,” he says quickly.
Anakin inches forward, setting the pancham, Vader, aside. He really has grown in the past few months. The loss of the League, the months apparently spent on the road, have aged him so that he’s both recognizable and something new and wild. “What if I knew of a man,” Anakin murmurs, falling to his palms as he closes the gap between them. “One who warmed me when I was cold, covered me when I was tired, hugged me when I was needy, and fed me when I was hungry? What would that mean, in terms of Pokémon?”
Obi-Wan swallows nervously. His entire body is bracketed by Anakin. Anakin, who seems to have discovered his most-guarded secret in their months apart. Anakin, who is hovering over him now with a dark look in his eyes. Finally something in Obi-Wan gives way. This is it. He will give Anakin everything he asks for. Everything he needs. He’s always tried to do this exact thing.
“I suppose that would mean he loved you,” he whispers, closing his eyes so he does not have to see Anakin’s recoil, Anakin’s disgust.
Anakin hums instead. “Obi-Wan,” he whispers, exhale hitting his lips. “Obi-Wan, open your eyes. There’s nothing to be scared of, beloved. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”
At these words, Obi-Wan’s eyes jump open of their own accord. Anakin’s lips press down onto his in a movement just as sudden. He whimpers involuntarily and reaches up to clutch at the trainer’s hair, hold him to his mouth. Just as involuntarily, his lips part and Anakin’s tongue licks around the gap before darting inside. He moans. It’s shameful, the way he goes from scared to sucking on Anakin’s tongue as if he’ll die without the warm intrusion of it.
It hardly feels like the first time they’ve kissed. It feels like they’ve been kissing for years, like Anakin knows his mouth completely and utterly.
There are so many secrets left between them. Obi-Wan’s one unopened Pokéball, sitting on his belt. Anakin’s relationship with that last Gym leader. What he’s been doing these past few months. What Obi-Wan Kenobi made his fortune off of.
But none of it matters now. Not here at this moment. All that matters is showing Anakin that he’s been just as missed, just as wanted.
With that in mind, Obi-Wan rolls on top of his trainer and shoves his hands up inside Anakin’s shirt to trace along the muscles of his chest and back. This was his. His, his, his. He had come back to him. Everything else could wait.
#asks#pokemon au#the long awaited snippet!!!!#so i didn't get to all of obi-wan's pokémon teap#team**#and yes the 'unopened pokéball on his belt' refers to his being the trainer of a legendary pokémon#(zamazenta because i like that)#i really hope this is both a) readable to people who don't know shit about pokemon and#b) readable to people who do know shit about pokemon#because i am right in the middle#somehow i made this about love languages again but that's just me and my relationship with#obikin
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