#speaker for the eight million gods
Text
what a feeling ; 이민형
pairing idol!mark x female!reader
synopsis it’s not easy keeping your relationship with your idol boyfriend a secret, especially when he’s halfway across the country and would do anything to hop on a plane and get you in an instant. but little does he know that you’ve already beat him to that idea.
genre established relationship, a teeny tiny bit of angst, reader uses she!her pronouns and is described in a feminine way, so so so much fluff, mutual comfort, slightly suggestive.
wc 1.6k
song : what a feeling by one direction
mark: i would do anything in this world to be w you baby :(((
you: i knowwww but these next few weeks will go by so quick!!! we will be back together in no time<33
you quickly turned off your phone and adjusted your outfit for the hundredth time in the bathroom mirror. “i feel like i’m going to puke out my breakfast!” you leaned your back against the sink, facing one of mark’s staff members you had grown to befriend over your time as being mark’s girlfriend.
“it’s going to be fine. i promise you, he’s been doing nothing but talking about how much he misses you and begs his manager every chance he gets to let him fly out to you.” the words made you drop your head to avoid anyone seeing your flushed cheeks.
you and mark had been dating for awhile now, but it was your first time flying out to see him and see him perform outside of your home city.
what if he doesn’t want to see you?
what if he’s too stressed to see you?
“what if-“ you’re quickly cut off with multiple dings chiming from your friend’s phone. she quickly read the notifications and grabbed your arm.
“okay, they’re almost done running this last set, and then they’ll be back here.” she quickly drags you out of the hallway bathroom and into a new room.
a big white table sat against the wall with various foods, makeup, hair tools, and pieces of clothing scattered about. you noticed an oversized black and gray stripped hoodie that belonged to none other than your boyfriend. resisting the urge to grab it to warm your cold body, you hid behind the big white door, listening for any sound of the boys.
your heart began to race once you heard the hoots and hollers from the very familiar voices of mark’s members. talks of dinner and after-rehearsal plans hung in the air with no notice of mark’s voice.
the guys had already been informed of your plan, so when they greeted you with small hugs and smiles, you shouldn’t have been shocked. but there was no sign of your boyfriend anywhere among the eight men in front of you.
reading the puzzled look on your face, johnny answered, “he’s still working on his solo stage. the dumbass insisted he do it again, even though it’s perfect."
“if only he knew she was back here… man, he would forget all about being a perfectionist then.” yuta laughed as he joined johnny next to you.
“can you take me to him? i cant deal with the wait anymore.” you pouted, leaning against the wall, as you felt the wave of clattering butterflies begin to build in your stomach.
without a word, the two boys led you to the side of the stage where you could see mark sitting in a black chair, mic in hand, and body slouched back as he rapped smoothly.
it took everything in you to not run across the stage and pounce on him that instant, but something about the words coming out of his mouth and the vibe he carried in his subtle but sharp moves made you become entranced by him, as he always did to you.
“okay that was good, mark. we can rehearse more tomorrow!” a deep voice came over the speakers as the song stopped, leaving mark exhausted against his chair. your heart broke into a million little pieces, seeing the evident distress and exhaustion stitched in his figure.
“i think it looked perfect.” your mouth moved before your brain, not able to resist your boyfriend anymore. his head quickly snapped to your figure, which emerged into the stage lights only a few feet away from him.
“oh my god…” his voice came out quickly as his face pulled into an expression nothing less than shock, shooting up from his chair and bolting his body to yours.
his body slammed into yours before picking you up and spinning you around as his hands gripped onto you for dear life. “oh my fucking god” he let out again into your neck as you giggled and weaved your hands into his sweaty, messy hair.
“surpise!” you smiled so hard that you felt like your face might get stuck as you pulled back to look at mark, only to find him with the same expression.
“h-how… what? when did-“ his stuttering was quickly cut off by your lips on his. he slowly let your feet touch the ground and arched your body slightly as the kiss deepened quickly due to all the pent-up feelings the two of you shared for each other.
you couldn’t help your smile, teeth clanking slightly, before you pulled back to look at mark once again. “i couldn’t do the distance anymore. i had to see you.” your breathing came out ragged due to mark practically taking your breath away.
“you have no idea how close i was to flying out to you, baby” he said, swaying your bodies slightly, forgetting about the fact that you two were in the middle of a giant stage and had many people observing you.
“beat you to it though,” you sassed before a small ‘whatever’ left your boyfriend’s lips right as his fell onto yours again.
“this is so cute and everything, but can we please go eat?" haechan whined from one of the wings. the words made you two pull back in giggles, lacing your fingers together before following the guys off the stage.
“see you two lovebirds later!” johnny waved while you and mark got out of his car. “and be safe!” haechan added quickly. before mark was able to slap him for his suggestive comment, the brunette locked his passenger side door swiftly.
after the last few goodbyes, you and mark made way to his airbnb he rented for this multi-day show.
“i can't believe this,” you breathed, swinging your joined hands enthusiastically. “believe what?” 
mark turned his body, quickly switching his hands so that he was still interlocked with you, but was now walking backwards facing you. a dopey smirk grew on his lips as you visibly reddened.
“this. us being here together finally.” you pulled him closer by his forearm, stopping the two of you directly in front of his door. not even reaching for his key, mark leaned down and kissed your lips for the thousandth time that night, but this one held a much greater weight than the rest.
his free hand perched itself on your lower back, warming the cool, exposed skin between your top and jeans. no matter how many times you and mark kissed (and maybe it was the prolonged distance causing this effect), this felt like the very first time.
chills blooming through every pore, heat taking over your body, brain melting into a mark-shaped puddle. he took over every sense, and you did the same to him.
“i love you so fucking much. i don’t think i can take this distance anymore.” he pulled back, lacking breath from your lips moving feverishly with his.
you two stood for a few heavy seconds, just staring at each other. if it weren’t for the dim light perched by the door, you wouldn’t have noticed the way mark’s eyes glossed over and how his lips pulled together into a straight line.
“i don’t think i can either.” you choked out, reaching for him again and pulling his body flush with yours. your hand raked itself in his hair, and the other wrapped its way around his broad shoulders. soft sniffles filled the now silent night, aside from the crickets chirping in the grass.
“i love you too.” you wiped his tears running down his soft cheeks and kissed them quickly before deciding to head inside.
the events following were slow and thoughtful. even if you both didn’t want to face the distance again, you knew it was inevitable.
you and mark were entangled in his bed. his head rested on your chest as he drew random swirls on your forearm while your other arm fell beneath his head. hand scratching his scalp repeatedly.
“i’ve never had this feeling before.” mark spoke into the silence. you moved your hand to tilt his head up level with yours. “what feeling?” you asked, assuming he was on the verge of falling asleep.
“just being beside you right now, holding you in my arms. it has me on fire. i’ve never felt this way about someone before."his eyes searched your face in a way that made you want to duck under the covers, but with his body practically on top of yours, that became undoable.
“me too. you make me feel things i didn’t even know were possible.” your words came out softly, embarrassed to be so vulnerable. "well, you could just say i’m amazing in bed but… i’ll take the more poetic version i guess.” you pushed his head away from you in annoyance at his dirty words.
“not like that, you freak!” the both of you giggled. mark pulled his body up to trap you beneath his arms. before you could even recover, he began littering your face with kisses.
“what a feeling!” he pulled away with a big smile on his face, teeth and all. it made you want to squeeze his cheeks from the sweetness of it all, but you resisted the urge.
“what a feeling!” you echoed, a smile pulling its way on your face in the same fashion as mark’s.
a few more kisses and loving gestures were exchanged before you two eventually fell asleep. consumed with this indescribable feeling rushing through your body, making you fall more and more in love.
if that was even possible.
© martiniblues | do not copy or translate my work!
note: 1D x nctdream is TOO GOOD. i’m seriously debating on making this a little series w the dreamies (let me know what songs you think of with what member!!!) anyway, love you lots and please leave a like or reblog if you enjoyed!!
#nct#nct dream#nct dream fic#nct fluff#mark lee#mark lee fic#mark lee fluff#mark lee imagines#nct 127#nct 127 fic#mark lee x reader#mark lee scenarios#mark lee angst#mark lee x you#nct mark lee#nct mark
812 notes
·
View notes
Text
I Wanna Bake It With You (A Bucky Drabble)
This is just a bit of fluff that's been kicking around my head. Not part of any story, really. No real warnings, just super fluffy headcanon-type thing. Fem!Reader, though no description listed.
Summary: Bucky's a secret baker. A guy who throws down cupcakes like it's going out of fashion as a way to handle his anxiety and nerves. And he's nothing but a ball of nerves where you're concerned.
You're friends, besties even, but oh, what he wouldn't give for something more.
Summer afternoons on the weekends in the Tower were incredibly slow.
Outside of folks on missions or at training, most everyone had made themselves scarce, out enjoying life beyond the walls that constrained them.
Which is what made Bucky feel safe enough to do what he wanted to do.
Oh, he could get out of the place if he wanted. A million and one destinations he could wander off to, curiosities he could sate, but those involved seeing people, and that was not what he wanted. at all.
No, for the last three weekends or so, he'd had the same routine on Sunday afternoon. He'd get up and train early, watching as his friends and compatriots vanished into their own little worlds, one at a time, until he was free.
Free to indulge his secret without any pesky prying eyes.
After training, he went back to his quarters and cleaned up. Throwing on the comfiest t-shirt he had, a loose pair of basketball shorts, and his slides, he tied up his hair before gathering his supplies to head downstairs to complete his mission.
So the communal floor had the largest, most decked out kitchen. State of the art, and built to accommodate feeding an army, or maybe eight average humans, two super soldiers, a shapeshifter or two, and the occasional gods or Hulk.
It was in this kitchen, he indulged one of his newest hobbies: youtube cooking.
So many recipes and different kinds of food that were available now that hadn't been when he'd been coming up with Steve, and he wanted to experience it all.
Ideally, he'd love to cook for you, but he was self-aware enough to know he wasn't anywhere close to doing that yet.
The most important part to him, at least right now, was that he got to make it himself.
It was a little thing, but just having the chance to do something that required precision and focus, that created something instead of destroyed it, brought his soul a good bit of joy, so he went with it.
Setting up his ingredients on the counter and the video on his phone, he went to work, stopping halfway through the dry ingredients to ask a favor of Jarvis.
"The usual, Sergeant?"
"If you would, please."
"Of course."
The music from your 'Yacht Rock' playlist flowed from the invisible speakers around the room as he carried on with his culinary endeavors. Mellow and gentle, it wasn't something he would have normally gravitated towards, but he'd heard it enough times that it had really grown on him. The music, and the loving sentiments it expressed, were all intrinsically tied to his feelings for you.
It was one of the (many, many) things that he enjoyed about your friendship. From the moment you'd been introduced to the team, he'd enjoyed your company. You were just a joy to spend time with. You were shy, in a lot of the same ways he was, so while everyone else could be out being extroverted, you were the two hanging back and observing. And the best part was that you could do it together.
Truthfully, you two did a lot of things together, late nights watching movies neither of you had seen, reading books, and just catching up on life in this century at his pace. Spending time with you was as easy as breathing. You made it easy.
He sighed happily as he thought about it. You made everything easy for him.
That he'd been crushing on you forever wasn't exactly a secret, regardless of how much he would have preferred it was. Stevie knew, and of course Sam and Tasha had figured it out with no prompting. Wanda, of course.
At this point, it seemed like the only person who missed his terminal case of heart-eyes where you were concerned was, well, you.
Which wasn't so bad, really, he mused as he pulled the snickerdoodle cupcakes he'd made from the oven and set them on the rack to cool. He knew he wasn't ready to take that leap and tell you anyway.
He was mixing up the frosting when one of his personal favorites came on. It was one of those little synchronicities in life where the lyrics to the song exactly encapsulated where he was emotionally.
So that was how you found him, singing into a pastry bag, belting out the chorus to Arthur's Theme. Wisps of hair were escaping the confines of his ponytail, he had flour on his cheek and swiped across his shirt, and your heart had never felt fuller.
Sometimes the best that you can do is, in fact, fall in love.
A/N: Okay, so this was a shameless little drabble that I've had in my head forever. I have this vision of Bucky baking and belting out Air Supply songs at top volume and it just brings me fucking life.
#bucky fluff#bucky fanfic#bucky barnes#bucky barnes fluff#bucky barnes headcanon#lexie's musings#sebastian stan#fanfic#marvel fanfic#beefy bucky#beefy bucky barnes#beefy bucky barnes headcanon#beefy bucky supremacy#bucky x reader#bucky barnes reader insert#bucky barnes x you#bucky x female reader#bucky x reader fluff#bucky x you#bucky barnes x reader
161 notes
·
View notes
Text
Superman is a excellent case study indeed a body boastful of a God, super human abilities and a legions of fans Galaxy wide.
Lex Luther watches this special in a state of rage pacing back am forth in bud luxe jail house setting.
Arms cross behind his back he pounds the floor in disgust at what he saw but more importantly he is lost.
“How can they worship him? He is a alien threat to human kind.” Lex yells throwing his tray of food.
He stops when the television screen goes off for a minute turning back on he can see a static.
“Lex, stare in to the screen open your mind to me not even you can resist me that’s it walk to the television.” A voice says with two arms propel forward and yank him in.
It’s precisely eight eight pm upon Lex’s eyes pops open and he awakens in strange room filled with far too many familiar faces for his taste.
“What is this some sort of trailer trash theme park for the bizarre?” Lex says with a hardy laugh.
The elevator pings resoundingly pulling their attention back to the shaft as it opens up to reveal a new comer.
The man say not single word digging into his pockets to retrieve a unimpressive remote control with a single button.
In the light of day it is clearly fully dark gold plated just like Lex expects of someone with a ego equal to his.
A finger presses the button signaling white nose sound emitting through the speakers and four massive window shades to rescind.
“Is that Superman? This cannot be possible in a million years.” Lex demands.
“ A man of your intellect denies what he sees?”
“I demand of know how you managed to do this.”
“So bossy! Simply put he took the bate.”
“Your ego is your downfall.”
“Every plan you make is so elaborate.”
“Super pussy is a Boy Scout”
“He is compulsively running into danger”
“Give him what he wants”
“I certainly did”
Lex marvels at the sheer brilliance and the ingenuity of my invention whirling around the mass that forms that Kryptonian mass.
The Man of Steel riddling with pain as estim lace with Kryptonite burn his skin at touch, a vr head piece adorns his head.
His clothes strip to pieces, a cow milking cup and machine get to work growing him hard and cunning consecutively.
I can hear his voice in rinse cycle of lust, pain, and joy continuously it is almost sickening.
His arms, and legs are held down with steel kryptonite lace to hold him down for the foreseeable future.
Inside the mind of Clark I begin a long lust filled journey taking a video gaming wand of controller in hand and go for it.
Pressing play I place my goggles on taking over the body of Clark Kent to my awe and
shock.
I signal my crew to enter the room locking it down they face my fellow rogues ensuing a attack and chain them down.
They are left to only see the man they once feared as a hero, the one who always came to defeat them fall.
“Well, well Clark let’s take a journey”
“Your subconscious! Lovely”
“Lois, and family.”
“Ugh!”
“Sheesh”
“Fuck this!”
“Time to do some damage”
“After I do some meditation”
“You will see things my way! Mwahahaha “
Lex and crew are in for a treat as the floor is beginning to spin out of control the platform rose upward.
“I am Lex Luther! I do not condone this”
A huge container drops from above closing in on them locking in place they continue to lift up.
“What was your plan all along to kill us?”
“Mwahahahahaha “
“Well done!”
Lex is perplex as a bomb starts to trigger in a ticking fashion blowing up consuming all of us.
“Nnnnnoooooo!”
“You see Clark! You are weak, unworthy, you are unable to save the rest.”
“Lex? Toy Man? Brainiac?”
“Nope! All gone! Mwahahaha”
“You are insane!”
“Maybe or maybe not “
“The point is I am in charge now”
“You are my captive Superman”
“I will make you squeal and beg for freedom”
The door opens to the room culling Clark’s heighten senses to focus on me with ears to turning.
“Your powers are still working”
“I will get loose and then”
“Then what? I thought so! Whatever!”
My hand goes flying smacking him hard as his head swings to the other side in pain not so strong.
Digging my hands in to his head I grab the stringy hair tightly would pulling him up and flick the switch.
“You see Clark, I am here, there and everywhere.”
“You cannot escape me bitch”
“Inside your mind I am remapping you, out side on the exterior we are refocusing you.”
“Shall we begin?”
“Stop fighting the brainwashing and milking “
“You are enjoying it, oh you are hard”
“Admit it!”
“Nnnnoooo! I want to so bad”
“Increase the pressure and the estim”
“Where did I put those scissors?”
“Ah here we go? First though”
“One injection and that should do it”
“Nnnoo! Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh -zonk”
“Knocked out like a light”
“Will just let the four things play a part “
Scissors get to work from his legs up I cut his uniform to smithereens in delight they crumble in the floor.
“I am gonna enjoy fucking you”
“Raw and real”
“Feel the pain with each thrust”
“The pleasure with release”
“Succumb”
“It’s been hours man”
“Give in”
“Aaaaaahhhhhhh uuuuuuhhhhh”
“For fucks sake geez”
“Took you long enough”
“Sweet release Master”
“I know! Mwahahahahaha”
The end
18 notes
·
View notes
Text
Chapter 2: Greñas
I arrived in El Paso for the first time on a morning flight in February, 1981. The weather was brilliantly sunny and unseasonably warm compared to San Francisco, where it was raining and cold. Brian and his wife Melea met me at the small, provincial El Paso airport in a perfectly restored pastel pink 1963 Cadillac convertible with the top down exposing a pristine white leather interior. As I climbed in the back seat, Melea and Brian greeted me with that Texas accent that was at once subtle and disarming. “Ya’ll are from California,” Melea said excitedly, “We love California. We’re out every year to San Diego. Where ya’ll from?”
I told Melea that I lived on the southern coast in Mendocino county, part of the “Emerald Triangle” north of San Francisco where the best cannabis in the world was grown. I explained that I had concealed a small sample that illustrated the quality of the product grown there, eight ounces of a new genetic hybrid from Northern California, transported using new, odor resistant packaging techniques, in my luggage. I explained that Brian had asked me to save four ounces for our project, but that she was welcome to the rest.
“Thank you, Honey, but we’ll smoke that in a week.” “Oh my God,” Melea said, “we love California home grown here in Texas. How soon can you bring me some more?”
After we had driven a short distance from the airport, I passed a pre-rolled joint I had packed separately to her and Brian from the back seat. The samples I brought were long manicured branches with huge flowering tops that looked like small baseball bats. Glistening with trichome resin, and with a pungent skunk aroma, they looked and smelled impressive.
Melea was a striking figure, a statuesque woman with long, waist length blonde hair and light blue eyes. On any day, at any time, she would be wearing at least a quarter million dollars’ worth of traditional and contemporary New Mexican or Native American styled jewelry, necklaces and belts, with precious stones, diamonds, and sky blue turquoise. She had unique custom Rolex models not available to regular clientele, dripping with large diamonds, and, always, one of her Hermes Birkin or Kelly bags. She always mispronounced Hermes, but no one corrected her. “I’ve got to have my Her-meees,” she would say. She combined these affluent decorative accents simply with Wrangler jeans, silk blouses and exotically skinned cowboy boots. The accumulation of Melea’s wearable art created the impression of an African queen from one of the groups that emphasized long necks piled with gold rings as the standard of beauty and as a display of wealth. After taking a hit Melea announced earnestly, “Honey you and I are definitely new best friends.”
The Cadillac was equipped with a technologically advanced sound system and the Bobby Fuller Four ballad, “I Fought the Law and the Law Won,” played at top volume as we smoked and drove to Brian and Melea’s home. I would come to discover that Bobby Fuller was a son of El Paso. The song had just the right combination of country and rock and roll to frame my first trip to Texas. The Cadillac’s audiophile grade sound system was completely invisible. Apparently, Melea had hidden an array of extremely small speakers in every vent and possible hiding place while still preserving the original white leather interior. Part of the trunk was devoted to a couple of large hidden amplifiers that drove the speakers to create a dazzling ambience effect like a concert hall.
As I walked in the front door, I saw that Brian and Melea’s traditional adobe styled home was built around an expansive inner courtyard with a garden of Hibiscus, Bougainvillea, Orchids, Bird of Paradise and palms. Melea had designed the home’s interior to reflect her interest in the Santa Fe architectural style. The rooms had thick adobe walls with the spines of Saguaro cacti along the plastered white ceiling.
Melea excused herself and retired to let us discuss business privately. After we sat down in the living room, Brian explained that we would be going to Ciudad Juarez that afternoon to present our proposal to bring genetics and cultivation techniques that would improve the yields and quality of the fields of the major Mexican cartel and smuggling organizations on the border. We would be meeting with “El Greñas”, Gilberto Ontiveros Lucero. Later, Gilberto told us that the nickname "El Greñas", or “Mophead” was given to him by "an Indian who worked for me cultivating marijuana" in reference to his distinctive Rasta inspired hairstyle. During his impoverished childhood in Mexico, he sold popsicles and worked as a carpenter, but he managed to finish high school and went to the United States, where he lived for several years and studied business administration while selling cars. Brian described Greñas as a young up and coming cartel leader who presently controlled all of the smuggling traffic in the El Paso/Juarez corridor.
Conventional historical accounts of the early years of Juarez cartel organizations identified Amado Carrillo Fuentes, as the leader and founder of the Juarez Cartel, but he had actually acquired his leadership position from Pablo Acosta Villarreal, the “Fox of Ojinaga”, when he was killed during a raid by Mexican Federal Police in the small village of Santa Elena, Chihuahua on the Rio Grande. Villareal was widely credited with instructing all of those in leadership roles in the cartels with the arcane knowledge of how to properly conduct a drug smuggling enterprise. Villareal’s exploits were celebrated in the famous narcocorrido, a traditional ballad celebrating drug traffickers, by Los Tigres Del Norte, called “El Zorro de Ojinaga”.
Although Villareal began as a key founding member of Juarez smuggling, he fell out of favor with Miguel Félix Gallardo, who had formed the Guadalajara cartel, the first major attempt at organizing all of the Mexican regional traffickers into a syndicate. After Villareal, it was Amado Carrillo Fuentes “El Señor de los Cielos”, the “Lord of the Skies”, who acquired his nickname from the fleet of thirty Boeing 727 and Falcon jets he used to smuggle drugs, who took full control of the Juarez organization. By removing passenger seats and baggage compartments in the fuselage, Fuentes was able to outstrip his competitors who only used small private planes that carried five hundred or at most one thousand pounds. Fuentes used his modified planes to transport up to nine tons at a time. Brian explained, however, that it wasn’t only Fuentes but actually a number of other drug traffickers who were also instrumental founders of the Juarez cannabis cartel and plaza in the 80s.
According to Brian, the key, but more covert organizers of the Juarez Cartel were Rafael Aguilar Guallardo, Rafael Muñoz Talavera, and Gilberto Ontiveros, the latter who would later be considered the first cartel supervisor of the Ciudad Juarez plaza. This largely ceremonial position was accorded to the individual who would deal directly with the brokerages who purchased cannabis at the main transit points in Texas. It was occupied by an individual who was expendable if the US government leaned on Mexico. The individual occupying this position provided a sacrificial shield that allowed both Mexican government officials and highly connected families who actually managed the drug trade to remain behind the curtain.
As his wealth and influence increased, "El Greñas" began to collect mansions, ranches, and luxury cars and purchased hotels like the Rodeway Inn in Casa Grandes and had begun construction on the Palacio del César luxury hotel in Juarez. He was always surrounded by bodyguards while traveling in his bullet proof Rolls Royce limousine. Sometime later, during the festival celebration of Saint Buenaventura, when horse racing and cock fights were held, Greñas, who had a passion for horse racing, bet a million dollars on his horse to win a short distance quarter horse race. When the municipal authorities determined that drug traffickers were participating, they tried to stop it, but armed cartel guards allowed the race to proceed. Greñas entered his prize sorrel red horse but shrugged it off when he lost.
Greñas had the backing of the capitalizing principals of the developing Sinaloa cartel, like Rafael Muñoz Talavera and his brother who were just beginning to construct the Colombian cocaine trade. Greñas handled cannabis logistics for Rafael Caro Quintero, known as the originator of industrially produced sin semilla (seedless) cannabis of consistent quality in Michoacan. When Quintero’s cannabis operation at Rancho Bufalo (the Buffalo Ranch) in Chihuahua was finally destroyed by the Mexican army, it contained 540 hectares or approximately 1200 acres of high grade cannabis. A large proportion of it was cannabis from my Indica genetics sourced from Northern California. The ranch was later discovered by Enrique Camerena, the DEA agent who was subsequently killed by Quintero in retribution. The army netted approximately six thousand tons, worth billions, in the raid.
Greñas also worked with Miguel Angel Felix Gallardo, “El Padrino”, the “Godfather,” and former official of the Mexican Federal Security Directorate (DFS), who organized the small trafficking organizations into the collective smuggling powerhouse that became the Guadalajara cartel. Gallardo was credited with creating a seamless drug highway from Colombia to Guadalajara to Juarez using a “plaza” system in which each municipal organization would hand off responsibility for a drug shipment to the next geographically in line. He forged a relationship with Juan Matta-Ballesteros, who introduced him to Santiago Ocampo, his connection to the Cali cocaine cartel in Colombia. As time went on, I was to form a close association to all of these progenitors, inviting them to dinner at my home in Tiburon and parties at the best restaurants in San Francisco and Beverly Hills.
Greñas was outspoken about the cannabis that was cultivated under the direction of Quintero in Michoacan, and competed to represent those sources as producing the highest quality to his Texas brokers. Referring to me, Brian had told Greñas that he had a university professor who was an expert in both the genetics and cultivation of cannabis, whose guidance and genetic products Greñas could use for his own or for Quintero’s fields in Chihuahua. Greñas wasted no time bragging about the new technology and expertise he was to acquire, saw an opportunity to use these new agricultural advances to distinguish his cannabis production, and to show Quintero and Gallardo that he could produce a better crop than they could.
After we finished talking, I got the samples from my luggage and met in the garage where I got into the back seat of Brian’s Mercedes. I put the two baseball bat sized branches, still in their plastic packaging to prevent the odor from permeating the entire car, into a paper sack. I had just arrived in El Paso for the first time and we were already going to Mexico. I had some apprehension, but Brian had assured me that everything was safe and we enjoyed the cartel’s protection.
El Paso and Juarez are separated by a bridge over the Rio Grande. In the middle of the bridge is a sign marking the border between the two countries. On the day we approached crossing to the Mexican side, there was a traffic jam of cars on both sides of the border. The line of cars entering Mexico was moving much more quickly, hardly stopping at the customs booth. I began to get nervous with the paper bag of cannabis baseball bats sitting on my lap. As we approached, Brian turned around to the back seat. “I hope ya’ll have that hidden. They might inspect us.” It was later that I learned Brian was always joking. We were the next car in line and my palms were sweating. Then, miraculously, we sailed through without the Mexican customs agent even taking a look at us. Brian turned around and smiled. “You’re as safe as you would be in a pot field in Mendocino,“ he said laughing.
We drove for about an hour into the suburbs of Juarez and finally entered a private street with only three houses on it. We pulled up to the house in the center of the block. It appeared unusual because it had a two story water tower on the lawn in front of it. I began to notice that everyone milling around seemed to have a specific job. The water tower was being guarded by large heavy set individuals in suits and ties wearing sunglasses and carrying AK-47s. We were approached by one of the guards who recognized Brian and used his radio to announce our arrival. We were escorted into the bottom story of the water tower where I saw more armed guards and a group of individuals sitting in a circle in chairs around the periphery. One of the guards protected the stairway while another silently indicated an empty chair for me. Everyone was waiting their turn to see Greñas and he was keeping them waiting at his pleasure. There was a stream of workers entering, steadily carrying U-Haul boxes up the stairs to Greñas’ office. Brian leaned over and whispered, “ Those boxes are filled with money.” We were at Greñas’ counting house.
I sat down next to a small older man with a dark complexion, dressed in the traditional style of Mayan campesinos, in a starched white shirt, white drawstring muslin pants, and wearing a flat brimmed hat with beaded artifacts dangling from the brim. It was an iconic style with which I was familiar from the ethnographic fieldwork I had done among the Mazatec and the Zapotec in central Mexico. It was a common belief that the ritual beads dangling on the brim of his hat would protect him from supernatural harm or avaricious competitors. I silently wondered why he thought he needed that protection.
I began a conversation in Spanish, but I could tell that his native language was Mayan, judging by his accent. He introduced himself as Don Pedro, master agronomist. I introduced myself and told him I was an anthropologist, a professor, and in the vernacular, a maestro or teacher. He nodded and told me that he was also a maestro. He said that he was in charge of all of Greñas’ cultivation projects, that he was the farmer of farmers, as he put it laughing, the Minister of Agriculture for the Ciudad Juarez cartel. He had been trained personally for his job by Rafael Caro Quintero and that he managed all of the seeds and genetics Greñas used as well.
I looked at Don Pedro and thought to myself, I guess now is the time. I told him that I too had an interest in agronomy and that I studied the genetics of “marijuana”. In fact, I told him, I have something with me that you, Don Pedro, would be interested to see. I had used a razor blade to open the sealed odor barrier bags in the car and had been holding them shut to prevent the overpowering terpenes from filling the room. Now I opened them and with one swift move, and pulled the two baseball bats of cannabis out of the paper bag. The skunk smell was overwhelming. Everyone turned around to look. Don Pedro’s eyes got big and he stood up excited.
“Please, pardon me,” he said as he stood up. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just be a moment.” He turned back. “May I?” he asked, indicating the large cannabis stalks I was holding. I offered them to him. He turned abruptly and walked to the stairs. The men with sunglasses and AK-47s respectfully parted and Don Pedro hurried past them. There was a brief commotion, a lot of walking overhead, and then Don Pedro returned, gesturing for us to come upstairs. The guards with sunglasses and AKs were brushed aside and we were taken upstairs to the corporate offices of El Greñas.
Greñas was up and animated behind his huge antique wooden desk. He was wearing a starched white shirt, tooled cactus belt and turquoise belt buckle, exotic boots and jeans in the elegant “Sinoloa” style adopted by narcotrafficantes(drug traffickers). He was pacing, shuffling through bags, talking in staccato machine gun bursts. “Just a minute, you’ll see,” he said, “where are my pinchi (derisively small, inadequate) buds?” One of the guards tried to help him. “Where the fuck are my fucking buds,” he yelled. He had a number of black garbage bags strewn around his desk and he was madly searching through them all for something. He opened one, reached in and stopped. He seemed momentarily satisfied. He pulled out a small cannabis bud. “See,” he said, “See. My buds are every bit as good as your pinchi buds. See, look.” He held up his small thumb size bud and compared it to the baseball bats. “See, every bit as good as your pinchi buds.” As he held the flowers up for comparison, he hesitated, but we remained silent. He seemed to momentarily come out of his drug induced fog and come to his senses. There was a fleeting moment when I believe he suddenly became aware of the sexual connotation that his flower was small and the machismo inuendo that it was inadequate compared to the one I brought.
In that moment, his mania ebbed enough for him to get some clarity. “Ok, let’s talk,” he said sitting down in his office chair and swiveling around to face us. After he sat down, he took a few more verbal swipes at the pinchi buds, “Fucking pinchi buds. Big fucking deal, my buds are just as good.”
As Greñas talked he began an elaborate ritual. He took a single Marlboro filter cigarette out of a new pack, and rolled it so the contents fell out to produce a small pile of tobacco. He took a baggie out of his shirt pocket that appeared to contain cocaine base, its smokable form. He continued talking, making disparaging comments, while he combined the tobacco and the base powder. Then he carefully loaded the mixture back into the flaccid filter cigarette, tamped it in using a toothpick, and then sat back in his chair with his feet up and lit his newly constructed cigarette. Greñas would spend the rest of the meeting lighting cigarette after cigarette. How does he stay even moderately coherent I wondered?
Surprisingly calmer after his smoke, Greñas seemed to relent at this point. “Ok, my gringo friends, I want you to supervise my cultivation. I will offer you five percent of the entire load which you must split with your Texas partners. I will deliver the marijuana to your buyers in New York and California. I will handle all the transportation, all the cost of crossing the border. Just bring me those fucking pinchi semillas.”
Greñas stopped talking and looked at me intently for several seconds. “If you fuck me on this, I will cut your nuts off and feed them to you. I will control all of the seeds and cultivation knowledge that you bring. We will begin by using your knowledge to improve my fields in Chihuahua as proof. Only then will we make this available to Rafael (Quintero). Brian has already explained to me how your plants are completely finished in two months. This will give us a tremendous advantage.”
“I want to show you where you will be growing,” Greñas said and he went to his file cabinet to pull out some Polaroid pictures. “Here,” he said and laid them out on the table. In the photographs, one could see vast fields of bright green cannabis, growing in a white, sandy soil, extending far beyond the limits of the foreground image. The most unusual aspect of the photographs was the appearance of Mexican army vehicles and soldiers in full dress uniforms in every picture. There were Mexican army soldiers guarding Greñas’ fields of cannabis, Mexican army half-tracks driving up dirt roads circumnavigating the fields, and Mexican army helicopters parked next to the growing weed. He noticed my surprise. “Yes,” he said, “we have the army under our control. We have the full protection of the Mexican government, the PRI. They will take down our competitors fields, but mine are always protected.”
Greñas discussed the current transactions he had underway with Brian, but there was certainly an increased sense of respect. Greñas knew that he was the one who had the fucking pinchi marijuana.
On the way out I chatted briefly with Don Pedro. “I assume we will be working together, my friend,” he said and bowed in my direction. “I look forward to that day with great pleasure.” I said and thanked him for his help. We were escorted from the compound by the guards who saw us all the way to the car.
I left the meeting feeling extremely satisfied. I would have all the money I would ever need and would have the opportunity to pick phenotypes from one of the largest cultivation projects in Mexico. Greñas would deliver to my buyers. He would handle crossing the border. I looked at Brian. We both knew we had it made. What could possibly go wrong?
0 notes
Text
WutBJU found this little gem in the 1968 Vintage.
John Stormer was a featured speaker at Bob Jones University's Bible Conference in 1968. It's BIBLE CONFERENCE. And who does BJU invite?
A fear-monger that could be a model for Ron DeSantis' 2024 Presidential campaign.
The Greenville News reported on it. A transcription with commentary will follow.
"Forty eight hours ago a man was shot down by a sniper's bullet in Memphis, Tenn. Since then, at least 20 people have been killed in violence in 46 cities of the United States. As we meet here tonight (Saturday), troops have the White House and Capitol surrounded to keep mobs from burning it to the ground. We live in a troubled land; we live in a land which is in trouble."
Well, yeah.
Stormer's speech in Rodeheaver was on Saturday, April 6, 1968.
Anybody remember what happened on April 4, 1968? Martin Luther King was assassinated.
Does Stormer mention MLK ever? At all?
Of course not. He's just "a man." Can you even believe it? THE Martin Luther King, Jr. is nothing but "a man" in this Klandamentalist account.
These were the opening remarks Saturday night as John Stormer, author of "Note Dare Call It Treason," spoke to an audience of more than 4,000 at Bob Jones University.
He said that within the last four years more than 150 people have been gunned down in the streets of America; thousands of others injured, more than a billion dollars worth of property burned or otherwise destroyed. "What is behind all the unrest and violence?" Stormer asked.
Oh what could it be? :/
He answered the question by saying that the President's Commission on Civil Disorders says that poverty, lack of economic opportunity, prejudice, and White racism are responsible. "Others, including, J. Edgar Hoover, grand juries in cities wrecked by violence, and police officials, have made it plain that Communists and other subversives have played upon the discontent, which stems from some of these conditions, to provoke the actual violence."
Here's a place to start reading about the Kerner Commission.
But the real problem in 1968 is, of course, a Red problem!
He quoted Hoover as saying that Communists and other subversives and extremists strive and labor ceaselessly to promote racial trouble and take advantage of racial discord in this country. Such elements were active in exploiting and aggravating the riots; for example, in Harlem, Watts, Cleveland and Chicago.
Stormer said that all the rioters are not pro-Communist or anti-American. He quoted the Negro writer Louis Lomax, who after the Detroit riots, said that once the organized revolutionaries break open stores and get the violence started, then the human element begins to play into the hands of the revolutionaries.
And look at Stormer here. Does he sound any different than every white supremacist for the last three years?
Continuing, the conservative author said, "Men and women move in to satisfy their lusts for free cigarettes, free clothes, free booze, and anything else they can carry away. I have studied the cause for riots in the last several years, and I was puzzled for a long time, We have always had poverty in America; there has always been discrimination against any group as they have come to America."
Going back to the depression days, Stormer mentioned that during that time more than 15 million people were unemployed; the communists had a thousand members working actively to promote a revolution; and there were no riots. Why?
"There are two principle differences between then and now," he noted. "In the 1930s it was a certainty that if trouble would break out and looting start, the government would move quickly and forcefully to put down any trouble. This is no longer the case."
Ah, yes! The good ol' days during the Great Depression!
There is a second element, as well. In the 1930s there was still a general acceptance among most of the population that there was at least a possibility that men would have to answer to God for his actions even if he weren't caught by the police. In the 1930s Christians, both black and white, and their churches were still faithful in proclaiming the message of God's judgment to come for all men. This puts a restraint on the natural wickedness of the heart of man.
Stormer told his audience that the function of the Christian was that which Jesus Christ referred do when he told his disciples, "Ye are the salt of the earth." "In the Lord's day," continued Stormer, "salt was used to preserve or to keep meat from getting rotten. If the Christian is serving his function in society, he tends to hold back corruption."
In conclusion he said "Because Christians are not functioning as the salt of the earth and have lost their savor, Christians in all society are being trodden under the feet of men."
Have they ever changed?
1 note
·
View note
Text
Life Without Colour {PART ELEVEN}
Soulmate AU: Your vision is in black and white until you meet your soulmate. You and your boyfriend, Steve Rogers, aren’t each others soulmates but you love each other. He introduces you to his friends, the Avengers, and a very odd thing happens.
Characters: Steve Rogers x Plus Size Female Reader, Bucky Barnes x Plus Size Female Reader
Note; this is 10,000 words long! Hope you like it!
Warnings; Reader experiences self-consciousness in changing room, talks about self in a negative light, Reader has what resembles a panic attack, mentions of anxiety/stress, angst, swearing
Taglist: @domainoflostsouls forgetthisbull handon-h-art yourspecialcrush giulsgotmusic mrsbarnes-rogers luosymekawa linzeyzarcone forgetthisbull calamityreads talgra marina-darling btsforlif lamoursansfin classic1985 lovesicksofi fandomsfallnomore thebivirgin classygladiatorcupcake lowlyapprentice mishafaye cececolbert trenchcoatedwhiskers janetgenea scoobertdoobert2 vivalakatee buckybeefybarnes @distinguishedgardenroadbonk
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN
PART EIGHT
PART NINE
PART TEN
The next morning, Natasha woke you up with coffee at around 10am. “Oh, it’s late,” you realised as you sipped at the coffee as she perched on the edge of your bed. Usually you’d be awake earlier than this but today was different.
“Yeah, I thought I’d let you sleep since you’ve had an emotional couple of days,” Nat said with a shrug, “Plus I heard you having a late night phone call…” She eyed you curiously. You didn’t know why you think you hide these things from her, she was Natasha bloody Romanoff; of course she would find out! She nudged your knee with her elbow, “Who was it?”
“Who do you think it was?”
“Bucky?”
“Steve.”
Her eyebrows rose. She really hadn’t been expecting that answer, “Go on.” You relayed the conversation from last night back to Natasha. If her eyebrows could be raised more, they’d be hitting the ceiling by now, “He wants you to talk to Bucky?!”
“That was my reaction!”
“Wow, he’s either really confident in your relationship or really fucking stupid… Are you gonna call Barnes?”
After thinking about it last night, you decided that you were going to give yourself some breathing room for a couple of days, just to process everything and to breathe. The last four weeks had been extremely intense and my god, all you wanted was to pretend things were normal again, at least for a few hours, “Not right away,” you shook your head, “I just need some time to breathe, Nat, you know?”
Nat knew how overwhelming this situation had been for you and she knew exactly what would help. She grinned behind her mug and you immediately knew that she had a plan, “Finish your coffee and then put a cute outfit on. We’re going shopping.”
“Fury told me to keep a low profile,” you said with a shake of your head.
She rolled her eyes, “So? I’m not scared of him. Hurry up.” She scampered off, probably to get dressed. Honestly a shopping trip with Nat sounded exactly like what you needed right now. Some retail therapy with your best friend sounded perfect so you did exactly as she told you to, you finished your coffee and put on a cute outfit.
Getting past what seemed like a million SHIELD agents was difficult, they asked so many questions and tried to keep sending an agent with you but with Natasha there to bullshit some excuse and to put them in their place, you were granted permission to leave your apartment complex. The fresh air on your face as you left the building gave you new life, it twirled into your hair and breathed cold in your lungs. You ignored Nat’s comment of ‘jeez, it’s like you’ve never been outside before’. It just felt good to be out, to not be reminded of Steve or Bucky every two seconds.
Nat let you pick the music and of course, of course, you had to put on some cheesy songs. The redhead couldn’t help but laugh as the Backstreet Boy’s ‘Everybody’ boomed through the speakers of her car, “Everybody, yeah, rock your body, yeah!” The two of you sang loudly without a care in the world. There’s something special in moments like this; being free with people you love, being free with your favourite people in the world. The two of you sang the whole way to the mall, singing loud and completely out of tune but laughing all the while. You’d probably always remember this moment, as you glanced over at her as she hit a high note, relishing in the way she smiled and the way she laughed. She was incredible.
“Nat,” you said turning the music down all of a sudden as she pulled into a parking space, “Thank you.” You couldn’t really find the words you wanted to say. You’d wanted to tell her so much, express so much gratitude towards her but all you could manage were those two words.
Nat knew. It was the same two words uttered in that very same tone when she thanked Clint for helping her out instead of killing her; it was the words of someone who was stuck being pulled out and helped along by a friend. She smiled, “You can thank me by buying me breakfast.”
The mall was pretty quiet which you appreciated, you couldn’t have coped had it been busy, you preferred it quiet. You let Nat lead you into a shop and immediately, you were just ambushed with colour, “Holy shit,” you whispered. Nat looked at you curiously, “I’ve been so wrapped up in everything that I forgot about colours,” you beamed, “They’re so bright and colourful!” You ran your hand over a rack of brightly coloured t-shirts, “I can’t even tell you what half of these colours even are!”
Natasha laughed at how excited you were getting. She could see you falling back into yourself; turning back into the old you, you from four weeks ago, “Colours are pretty incredible, aren’t they? Now you don’t have to message everyone asking if an outfit goes together!”
You couldn’t help but laugh as you pulled things off the racks and into your arms, “I feel one million times better already.” Nat smiled, “What’s your favourite colour?”
Natasha thought for a moment before answering, “This colour,” she said, pulling out a deep red dress, “Red.” You asked why, “I feel like I love it and hate it. It’s the colour of blood, reminding me of the people I killed, it’s also the colour of love; it reminds me of my mistakes and my weaknesses but reminds me of my heart and my kindness… Also it helps that red looks fucking great on me.”
“True.”
“What’s yours?”
“I like red too,” you said as your hands fell on a long sleeved blue t-shirt that resembled the first colour you saw, “but blue is my favourite.” Deep blue. Bucky’s blue. You didn’t tell her that though, you just left it at ‘blue’.
Nat picked out a couple of items for you, things that you didn’t think would be that flattering on you, but all she had to do was smile at you and you’d cave to her demands. She’d picked out a brown leather skirt for you that clung to your curves and a slightly oversized cardigan to wear with it. You stood in the changing room staring into the mirror, hands on your stomach trying to pull the fat up and out the way, trying to morph your appearance to look like the models… No use. You had a stomach which hung over and protruded. You sighed heavily. Being plus size was something you’d come to terms with, you liked it and you liked your body but there was something about standing in a changing room after thinking an outfit would look different on you and you try it on and you notice your bumps, lumps and rolls and you just feel… disappointed? In your childhood years of growing up plus size and thinking something would fit you different would usually end up with you crying in the changing rooms, something that you refused to do today but it didn’t mean you felt confident in everything you wore. You felt bad for feeling badly about yourself but insecurities crept up on you like that. You liked the outfit that Nat picked but you just wished that you liked it on you.
“You’ve been in there for ages, show me,” Nat said from the other side of the door, breaking you out of your thoughts.
“I…” you faltered, “I’m not going to get this one.”
She could tell that there was a twinge of something different in your voice, “There’s no one else out here, just me and you,” she said quietly, “I bet it’s not even half bad. Show me and maybe we can workshop it.”
Knowing that she wouldn’t give up until you showed her, you opened the changing room door. Nat grinned, “You look amazing!” She saw you roll your eyes and frowned, “I’m being serious. Look at the way it hugs your hips highlighting your waist looking like an hourglass up in here!” You turned back around to look in the mirror when she gasped, “And your ass! Perfection.”
“I hate the way it shows off my stomach,” you frowned, taking a deep breath in and sucking your stomach in, “Just… doesn’t look nice. It’s hard because I try so hard to be kind to myself and to love myself but sometimes… sometimes I just wished I looked like you.” It was true. Self-love was a journey that you’d be on for the rest of your life. There would be times you’d be content with your appearance and other times where you wouldn’t be. It was hard to say the least.
The redhead’s frown deepened, “You know, I have things that I don’t really like about myself all the time too.” Her voice was quieter and you could just tell that was being open and honest, “I used to really hate my scars, sometimes I still do. The shiny smooth ones are fine but some scars are fucking ugly, they stick out and they’re still pink even after years. Sometimes I’m like ‘fuck yeah these tell a story’ and other time I disgust myself… We’re constant works in progress and that’s okay.” You took a few seconds to soak in her words, “Just know that I think you look fucking incredible in this outfit and I know that a certain two other people would absolutely agree with me if they were here.” Would they? You thought to yourself as you looked in the mirror again. She was right, your ass looked great it in and the way it hugged your hips and waist looked great… “Why don’t you get it and try being kinder to yourself? If you really hate it in a week then you can take it back.”
“Okay,” you said with a nod, “I’ll take it and I’ll work on being a bit kinder to myself.” You weren’t 100% in love with it but stepping out of your comfort zone was the only way that you might gain some more confidence.
Nat grinned, pulling you in for a half hug, “You look amazing, you deserve to feel that way… Let’s go check out and then you can buy me breakfast because I am starving.”
Two days had passed since your shopping trip with Nat which meant it was four days since Steve had left your shared apartment. Not much had happened really. You’d been working on self-love and you kept the skirt even though you still weren’t absolutely sure yet. Steve had messaged you yesterday to check on you, the conversation was short and sweet pretty much checking in and that was it. You didn’t need more like the first night, you had accepted the ending of things and had accepted that you both needed some space. For now, that was okay. Having Natasha stay made a huge difference and you truly didn’t think you would’ve gotten through the last few days without her. Natasha had stayed for the last two nights, offering sarcastic advice, hugs and some crappy chick flicks.
You’d been sitting eating breakfast when she got a phone call from Fury to ask for her help on a mission that started immediately. She’d be on the mission with her two favourite guys (as she put it) and she was pretty happy about that, you’d smiled when you saw her face light up. “I love seeing you happy,” you told her as she grabbed her bag to pack it.
She smiled at you but after a second it turned sad, “I miss seeing you happy.”
“Right now,” you said, taking a long sip of coffee, “I’m happy. I have you, coffee and blankets. What more could I possibly need?” Humour could only mask your true feelings for a short breath of laughter before Nat grew serious.
“Are you going to be okay? Do you want me to call Steve or someone?” She frowned, wrinkling her forehead with worry lines.
You swatted the air with your hand, “Stop worrying about me. I’m going to have a day of self-care and I think… I think I might call Bucky.”
She blinked, “There’s a development.”
With a shrug, you said, “I can’t stop thinking about what Steve said. He told me it would be good to call Bucky, to clear the air and to talk about everything.”
“If you do, let me know how it goes.”
“You’ll be the first one to hear about it,” you laughed as she finished packing her things, “I hope your mission goes okay, you better text me in a couple days to let me know you’re all safe.”
“I will, I promise.” Nat wrapped you in a tight hug, unusual for her to be so affectionate but with you it was different, “Whatever happens, I support you and your decisions.” She pulled back, smiling, “I better hear all the details of this phone call and if it leads to anything else…” She waggled her eyebrows with a laugh making you roll your eyes.
“Get outta here, Romanoff. Go make out with your man instead.”
“Oh, my pleasure.” She turned before she left, “If you go out with Barnes, wear that skirt. Trust me.”
You spent the rest of the morning doing what you’d said you’d do (aka self-care) and trying not to think about the other thing you said you’d do (aka calling Bucky). You had showered, washed your hair, done a face mask, dried your hair and even cleaned the kitchen top to bottom. All of this was to avoid calling a certain dark haired super solider. You’d been forcing him out of your thoughts all morning, feeling a pit of guilt in your stomach. You knew that Steve wanted you to do this, you knew that you wanted to do this but still it made you feel terrible.
With a sigh, you decided that it was now or never. You wanted to fix things with Steve so you were going to call Bucky and prove to yourself that there was nothing there, that you wanted Steve more. Once you’d done that, life could return to how it used to be when you lived a life without colour. Tapping your foot nervously, you scrolled through your contacts and pressed on ‘Bucky’, hesitating to lift it to your ear. As it rang, you held your breath, anxiously waiting.
He picked up on the second ring, “(y/n)?” Without even meaning to you visibly relaxed upon hearing his voice, “I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you again.” He couldn’t contain his surprise. After the hospital, he really genuinely believed that he wouldn’t see or hear from you again. Steve had reached out again to apologise and to check up but Bucky didn’t think you’d be calling him. Bucky was used to people just shutting him down so he thought that’s what you were doing and he had made peace with it. So when he saw your name pop up on his phone, he was rather taken back.
“Bucky...” You didn’t know what to say. To be honest, you hadn’t planned out what you were going to say. All you knew was that you were going to phone him but you had no idea what you were actually going to say.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah... no...” You rubbed your hand against your face in anguish, almost wishing you hadn’t called him.
“Which one is it?” He teased.
You squeezed your eyes shut as you told him, “I ended things with Steve.” He had to know, this was the whole point of this. You had to get to tell Bucky and get to know him more, get your head sorted out.
“Oh.” There was a long pause before he spoke again, you waited with bated breath, “How... How are you?”
“Confused,” you said with a frown, “Really fucking confused.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, (y/n).” He meant it. He really was sorry to hear that you and Steve had broken up. He couldn’t imagine that It would be a particularly nice feeling to go through so he felt for the two of you, “Can I ask what happened?”
“Can you come break me out of Fort Knox and I’ll tell you over a cup of coffee?” What am I doing?! Did I just ask Bucky Barnes to take me on a coffee date?! Your heart hammered in your chest as you waited for his response.
Bucky gave a breath of surprised laughter, “I, uh, sure. Yeah, my pleasure. I’ll be there shortly, okay?”
“Yeah, thanks Buck.” You hung up, smiling despite yourself, “Oh fuck!” You realised, almost dropping your phone, “What do I wear?!”
Rushing to the bedroom to dig through your closet, you tried to ignore the bubble of nerves that was forming in your stomach. This needed to happen; it was the only way forwards so you’d need to get through the uncomfortableness and just talk to the man. Those three weeks with him, you became something more than strangers and that meant something to you so you knew that you could open up and be honest with Bucky. If he didn’t reciprocate or if you didn’t feel it then that would be settled and you could move on. If he did reciprocate and you felt more for him then… you’d cross that bridge if you had to but right now, you focused on just getting through the day. You remembered what Natasha had said and you looked to your bed where the skirt and oversized cardigan were. Closing your eyes, you mentally gave yourself a talking to before putting the skirt and cardigan on. When you looked in the mirror, a part of you wanted to immediately take it off but after having a rather lovely few days with your best friend, you decided to listen to her and ignore yourself. You would wear the skirt and the cardigan and that would be that. You’d put some tights and boots on with it, a jacket and that would be the outfit complete. Natasha had assured you that Bucky (and Steve) would love this outfit, you were interested to see if he did love it as much as she predicted. You’d styled your hair earlier but gave it one last brush through to make sure it was okay and it was then you realised that you weren’t just nervous to see and tell Bucky what you needed to tell him… No, you were nervous for him to see you, for him to tell you his side of things… You were nervous about what he was going to say and how he was going to react.
Before you could really get anxious about what was going to happen, you heard a knock but it wasn’t from your front door. Peering out of your bedroom, you realised that it was coming from the living room window where you could see a metal arm knocking at your window with Bucky crouching and looking in. “Unbelievable,” you whispered as you laughed and shook your head. You rushed over to the window, laughing as you pulled it upwards, “What the hell?”
“You wanted me to rescue you from Fort Knox, aka your apartment complex, and I gotta tell you, I don’t feel like a million agents questioning where we’re going and what we’re gonna do,” Bucky said with a shrug, “so I climbed up your fire escape.”
“You realise that there’s no way I’m getting down there. The bottom floor’s ladder’s been broke for months and it’s a story drop down. No way. We’ll go through the agents.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, “You forgetting that I’m a super solider?”
“So?”
“So it means I can jump and land without any injury. I’ll carry you, c’mon.” He stuck his arms through the window but you leapt backwards.
“No way!” You swatted his hands away, “Barnes, most people pretend to not notice when I mention it but I’m heavier than your average woman in New York City. I’m not tiny and light, I’m fat and heavy. I’ll go through the agents, you can jump.”
Bucky had to admit, the way you were and how you acted was a breath of fresh air. He stifled a laugh, “I don’t give a damn about your weight, (y/n),” he said, raising an eyebrow, “Finest woman in all of New York. Now will you just let me carry you down? I have super strength but even without it I’d still be able to carry you. Have you seen my muscles?” He flexed though through his leather jacket you couldn’t see his muscles but you could see the bulge in the material. God forgive me.
You were a little taken aback by not only his bantering but what he said about you. Finest woman in all of New York. Was he flirting with you? Didn’t matter if he was because you were not about to be lifted by him, no way. Bucky frowned, seeing something behind your eyes change, “(y/n)?”
“I… I hate when people lift me. Always makes me terrified they’ll comment on my weight.” Your mind flashed back to when you were younger with a boy you fancied the hell out of and he’d went to give you a piggyback ride when he started making all sorts of comments about how heavy you were and how much you weighed and telling you to go on a diet. It hurt you more than you expected it too and even now, totally comfortable with your size and happy with yourself; it still affected you. When you’re a kid, those things stick and you weren’t sure if they’d ever become unstuck.
Bucky’s face softened, “You can go that way if you want but I promise you, I’m not going to drop you. I promise I can take your weight, it’s nothing to me, I assure you. I promise I also won’t comment on your weight or anything like that. We’ll jump down, I’ll let you go and I’ll drive us some place.” After a moment’s consideration, you nodded, “Yeah?” Bucky asked, a smile slowly forming on his lips, “You trust me?” Again, you nodded.
Carefully, he helped you climb out of the window and cleared his throat as you stood in front of him, “How do you want to do this? Piggyback or..?” He reached his arms out, suggesting that he just pick you up. You shrugged and Bucky took this as a sign to just go for it. In one swift, smooth motion, he’d crouched, put his hand under your knees and the other on your back and easily swept you off of your feet.
Shocked, you let out a string of curse words, grabbing onto him tightly and hiding your face in his chest, “You need to warn me first!” You exclaimed, voice muffled by his chest.
Bucky laughed, shaking your head against him, “That was much more fun. Let’s go.” You held on tight and Bucky gave you one last gentle reminder, “I’ve got you, you’re okay.” You appreciated that he had been so gentle with you, easing you into it but not forceful in the slightest. You were also impressed with how easily he could pick you up. You took a long breath, secretly enjoying the smell of his cologne and the feeling of his toned chest pressed against your face. You’d almost forgotten about what was about to happen until you felt the wind flying through your hair and your stomach dropped at the sensation of you falling. Without realising, you let out a high pitched yelp, gripping onto him tighter and within a second, you felt the impact of him landing on solid ground.
“See?” He said, “Not so bad!”
Slowly, you released your grip on his shoulder, looking up at him and shaking your head, “Never again.” He had to admit, he enjoyed holding you like this. He enjoyed the closeness of the two of you, enjoyed the way you hid in his chest, the way as he jumped he got a whiff of your perfume, hints of fruits and florals was a smell that almost intoxicated him. The way you looked up at him was something that made him smile.
You realised that the pair of you were just staring up at each other not saying anything and not doing anything. You cleared your throat, feeling your cheeks burn in embarrassment, and Bucky nodded curtly before bending and putting you back on your feet. “Over here,” he said gruffly as he led you to his car.
It was awkward as he drove. As you glanced over at him you couldn’t help but be taken back to around four weeks ago when he was taking you away from your picture perfect life and driving into the unknown. So much had changed in that short space of time. Your hands fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan, Bucky noticed and shifted in his seat, “Anywhere you wanna go in particular?” He asked after a few minutes, “Or do you just want me to pick?”
“Wherever,” you said with a small smile, “you pick.”
Once again silence fell. Closing your eyes, you leant your head against the headrest and just let yourself get lost in your thoughts for a bit. Your thoughts kept bouncing back to the words he’d said, ‘Finest woman in all of New York’, you wondered if he meant it. Bucky glanced over at you and he instantly knew that you were deep in thought. Bucky observed a lot more than he said usually. He knew that you were thinking by the way your brow furrowed and you gnawed at your bottom lip, a habit he saw you do when living in the safe house. He turned his attention back onto the road.
“Did you mean it?” You blurted out, catching him by surprise, “What you said?”
“Uh, what did I say? Jog an old man’s memory.”
“When I was talking about my weight and you said, ‘finest woman in all of New York’, was that about me? Did you mean that?”
It took everything in Bucky to hide his smile and to focus on staring ahead at the road. Inside, he was throwing a party in his head. Something he’d said stuck with you, it struck a chord with you, it had you thinking about him. Bucky loved to know that you were stuck in thought, mulling over his words from ten minutes ago. He loved that you were thinking about him. He’d stopped denying his feelings for you to himself, there was no point in hiding them anyway since the whole world could practically tell just by looking at him when he was near you. He knew that what he felt for you ran deep and true. He wasn’t sure if you had feelings for him but hearing you ask him if a compliment he paid you ten minutes prior was truthful, it sparked some hope in Bucky’s heart that maybe you thought about him just as much as he thought about you.
He nodded, glancing over at you to find that you looked absolutely mortified as you waited for his answer. You were scared of what he would say, if he didn’t mean it then you’d feel like an absolute idiot for doing this, “Yeah,” he said, eyes scanning over you as his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick his lower lip, “and I meant it. Hell, I’d go so far to say you’re the finest woman in the world.” He turned back to the road but his attention was on you. He watched you from the corner of his eye, watched as your jaw dropped open, watched as your cheeks tinged pink and the way your eyes widened. Hope had never burned like this inside of him.
“Okay,” you murmured quietly, “good.”
He wasn’t finished, “And don’t get me started on your outfit,” he said with a slight chuckle, “It suits you so well, hugs you in all the right places… You look gorgeous, doll.”
Fuck. Fuck.
You couldn’t hide the smile that tugged your lips upwards and you could barely control your racing heart. Bucky could practically feel the heat radiating from your cheeks, he smiled, “I… Thank you,” you said quietly, unsure of what to say or how to react; all you could do was smile like a lovesick schoolgirl.
Once again, silence encapsulated the two of you but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable, it’s pleasant which is a weird change of pace but not a bad change. It’s not long before Bucky’s parking the car and you both climb out. You know that you’re downtown but you’re not exactly sure where you are. As you get of the car, Bucky appears in front of you, “We can grab some coffee and walk around?” He suggests, “I know some nice places we can walk through.”
Bucky leads you through the car park and after a few minutes of walking, you come across a street vendor, “Ah! Bucky!” The vendor, a middle aged Italian man, grins, clapping Bucky on the shoulder, “Usual?”
“Make it two, Antonio, thanks.” Bucky turns to you, “Best coffee in New York City right here.”
“Who is this?” The man called ‘Antonio’ asks with a knowing smile as he prepares the coffee.
Bucky rolls his eyes, “This is my friend. (y/n).”
“Friend, hm,” Antonio smirks, “Pleasure to meet you, (y/n).”
“You too,” you say with a small smile, feeling a little awkward.
It doesn’t take long before Antonio is handing you and Bucky a coffee, “Try it,” he encourages. Bucky laughs at him, murmuring an apology for his intense Italian coffee vendor friend.
You take a sip and immediately take another, “This is so good!” You gape, “It’s so rich and creamy and I need more.” You take another long drag.
Antonio smiles, satisfied with your answer, “She’s a keeper, Bucky,” he teases, “See? I have the best coffee in New York. You’re always welcome to come back for more! This man does.” He gestures to Bucky who hands him ten bucks and tells him to keep the change, “Don’t be strangers!”
“This really is so good,” you say as you and Bucky walk away from the vendor, “How’d you find out about it?”
Bucky takes a sip of his coffee before answering, “I asked him for directions and he enticed me with his world class coffee. I go there most days to get more coffee from him actually.” You walk together and your hyper aware that your elbow keeps bumping into his. Even though the two of you have jackets on, knowing that no skin is touching, it sends your mind and heart into a frenzy. Holy shit, what is going on with me?! Calm down, (y/n)! Bucky notices it too. He notices that your elbows keep bumping with every four to six steps, he even counted the steps. He breathes deeply through his nose knowing that he’s doomed; he’s too far gone and he knows it. All he can do is hope that you’re right there with him.
“Back in the 30s this was just a flat bit of land,” he says after a few minutes gesturing over to an area which is now home to skyscrapers, “The fair used to come to town every summer. I remember going on the Ferris Wheel with Steve,” the mention of his name doesn’t send a zap of guilt through you, it’s nice actually, nice to know that you can mention him. It’s not like He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it’s comfortable knowing you can talk about your now ex-boyfriend without it being too weird, “he was so skinny I thought he was gonna just slip right out from under the metal bar. He was having a great time.”
“But you weren’t?”
He grimaced, “Was sick as soon as I got off it. I dunno, heights have never been my thing.” He pushes the memories of falling off of the train away, he doesn’t need to talk about that today. He’s alive and he’s here with you not in an awful memory.
“Must be pretty weird seeing the city change so much, remembering how it was to looking at how it is now.” You’d had a similar conversation with Steve about a week into your relationship. Steve missed how it was, he always did.
“Eh, it’s not so bad anymore,” he shrugged, “It’s a reminder to me that change is necessary.” Steve spoke about the past like it was an old friend. Bucky spoke about the past like it was a stranger, like it was something he was trying to outrun, “I don’t like to dwell on the past too much, only the good stuff.” You completely understand. From what you’ve heard from Steve about Bucky’s Winter Solider days, it sounded completely horrific and you understood completely why he’d want to run from the past. He was always trying to outrun his past in a society that constantly reminded him of his past.
It's not long before the two of you walk through a public park and find a bench to sit on. It reminds you of a couple of weeks ago, sitting on the bench at the duck pond. Bucky thinks the same, “A lot’s happened in four weeks, huh?” He asks quietly.
You scoff, “You can say that again.” You pause before continuing, “I wouldn’t say it’s all been bad though. I mean getting kidnapped and having to move to a different country with a stranger and then having to nearly kill a guy was pretty rough…” The two of you let out a quiet laugh over your shared trauma, “but yeah…” your knees graze against each other’s, “it wasn’t all bad.”
Bucky’s eyes are staring at you so intensely and you feel your breath catching in your throat. There’s your secret favourite colour, the first colour you ever saw, Bucky Barnes’s eyes. You want to kiss him, you want him to kiss you but not here. He wants to kiss you, god the pull is so fucking strong and he doesn’t know if he can restrain himself this time. That is until you announce, “I want to go.” What the fuck, (y/n)? Your announcement shocks the pair of you. You close your eyes and shake your head as Bucky immediately recoils, peeling away from you, “I-I… I need to talk to you but not here.” You look around and then back to him, “I want to keep hanging out though I didn’t mean that-”
He cuts over your nervous rambling, “Where do you want to go? Back to your apartment?”
Quickly, you shake your head, “No, it’s…” Full of memories with Steve, “got a million SHIELD agents surrounding it and I’d rather not.” Half-truth, “Can we go to yours?”
Bucky feels a bubble of what feels like nervousness build in his stomach but he’s always been good at repressing shit so he pushes it down, stamps on it mentally until he can’t feel it anymore. He nods, “Sure, let’s go.” He’s colder, not icy but just a little colder. You’d offended him, you realise, as you walk back to his car, dumping your empty coffee cup in a trash can. Well, shit.
The drive to his apartment is silent and you’re mentally scolding yourself for how you’d reacted. You’d panicked and it was the first thing out of your mouth, it came out before you could think about it. You hoped that you could explain yourself back at Bucky’s apartment. Bucky’s not mad at you, hell he’s not even offended, but that bubble of nerves that he tried to stamp away is back and it’s bigger and it’s growing.
Truth is that Bucky’s terrified. No one, not even Steve, had been inside Bucky’s apartment. When Steve came over the other day, Bucky kept him at the front door before moving to the bar across the street. No one had been in Bucky’s apartment and it terrified him that you were about to see it. Showing you his apartment made Bucky feel vulnerable, made him feel weak and he didn’t like that. He wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable, it was an unnatural feeling that he hadn’t felt in decades… Though, he realises, if he was going to feel vulnerable with anyone it would be with you.
The drive back doesn’t take long and before you know it, he’s pulled into the apartment carpark. Quietly, you take a long breath, trying to calm down your racing heartbeat. You’re only going to his apartment to tell him why you and Steve broke up, it’s not like anything is going to happen… You’re nervous but you’re hopeful that once you’re in Bucky’s apartment your nerves will die down.
Neither of you speak as you leave the car and head into the apartment complex. He leads you to the elevator and your foot taps impatiently as you ride up to his apartment floor (he lives on the fifth floor you learn). Bucky’s too busy dealing with his own nerves to realise that you’re shit scared as well. The elevator dings and the doors slide open and Bucky takes a breath, “Let’s go.” It’s the first two words uttered in twenty minutes and you barely notice.
You follow him along the hallway until he stops outside of a door with the number 532 on it. He takes his keys out of his pockets and unlocks the door. He opens it and holds it open for you to go in first. Once you’re in, he shuts the door behind you, twisting the lock, and flicks on the light switch. His shoulders are tense as he looks to you for your reaction.
Bucky’s apartment is… bare. His kitchen is at the front and beyond that is his living room which has a small sofa, one dining chair and a small side table – you take a few steps into the living room, eyes falling to one item in particular, “You kept the blanket.” Your voice is a mere whisper. On the floor to the left of the couch is a makeshift bed much like the one you’d seen Bucky sleep in during your time in Estonia. You glance at him, almost teary eyed, “You kept the blanket,” you repeat, voice a little louder so that he can hear you.
He frowns, crinkling his forehead, as he tries to figure out your reaction and how you feel. You’re in awe, staring at him in complete awe and he’s not used to it; he’s never had someone look at him like that, “Yeah,” he nods, voice quiet, “It reminds me of you. Helps bring me back down after a nightmare.” The atmosphere shifts.
Oh, Bucky.
You didn’t say anything, you didn’t really know how to respond so instead you sat on the couch. Bucky shrugged off his leather jacket exposing his arms to you, one normal and one metal. He was fucking buff. You couldn’t help but notice the way his chest flexed as he draped his jacket over the singular dining chair. The way he looked at you, so expectedly and waiting for you to tell him what you needed to tell him, stressed you out. Fidgeting with your fingers, your heart beats hard inside your ribcage. How were you supposed to start this conversation? Your mind was racing with one hundred different thoughts. What am I supposed to say? What if he reacts badly? Instead of just starting at the beginning, your anxiety got the best of you and you blurted out, “Why don’t you sleep in the bedroom?”
Bucky knew that you were nervous, he was nervous too but he could sense your uneasiness, your inability to communicate your thoughts effectively; he could read you pretty easy and this whole blurting out things abruptly was just your nerves. He raised his eyebrows as he fought the urge to laugh at the abruptness. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. He cleared his throat, “I, uh, you can go into the bedroom, it’s got a wardrobe and a mattress on the floor. I tried sleeping on the mattress a few times but being in there, being away from the front door… I get paranoid that someone’s going to barge into my apartment. If I’m sleeping here, on the floor in the living room, I mean it’s not a pretty set up but if anything was to happen, I’m right here.” You understood. That first night back in yours and Steve’s apartment was tense, you’d had your eyes on the bedroom door almost the whole time. You understood why he’d set his apartment up this way.
“Sorry I didn’t mean to…”
“Word vomit,” Bucky mused, a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Yeah,” you said with a small laugh, “exactly.”
“Since you asked a question, I get to ask one now,” he said as he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, “What happened between you and Steve?”
Even though you knew exactly what he was going to ask and yet it still feel like he’d knocked the wind right out of your sails. You decided to just be honest with him, the truth would come out eventually and although in the moment you were terrified to tell him, you knew it was better to be honest, “After the meeting with Fury after hearing and seeing the way Steve reacted to you and how explosive he got… Steve’s just not like that, you know better than anyone that Steve is usually so calm and collected about everything and seeing that… It scared me.”
“He scared you?” Bucky asked with a frown.
“I mean… yeah? Not him, I knew he wasn’t going to hurt me but I thought that he was going to hurt you.” Bucky had to admit that hearing you say that you were worried about him, it was pretty damn sweet, “I…” You took a breath as you tried to control your racing heart, “Even though I know that you and Steve are fine, I know that he apologised and your friendship is okay now but it… He was annoyed at you over me, you both fought because of me and I couldn’t- I can’t risk breaking up your friendship.”
Bucky shook his head quickly, “What happened with me and Steve it was nothing. I don’t think anything could split us up.”
“I just couldn’t but… it wasn’t the only reason I ended things with him.” Bucky’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly as he waited for you to continue. He felt that unfamiliar feeling of hope in his stomach as you spoke, “Before we met, I was so happy with my life with Steve. I could easily see myself marrying him and spending the rest of my life with him, you know?” Bucky nodded. It hurt him to hear you say that but he understood, he knew how serious yours and Steve’s relationship was.
“Has that changed?”
“… Yeah, it has.” You shifted in your seat finding it too difficult to look Bucky in the eye so instead you focused your attention to your fidgeting hands, “We got closer in Estonia, didn’t we?” Closer meaning that I fell in love with you…
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“And there’s no point in denying it since we can now see colour. We’re soulmates, Bucky, and that means something.” He licked his lips, watching your every move. He drank in the way you looked right now, speaking from the heart though absolutely terrified, he loved the honesty that poured out of yourself right now, “I can’t speak for you, I don’t know how you feel but… ugh.” You rubbed your face annoyed that you couldn’t find the right words, “Let me start again. Before we left for Estonia, Steve gave me a letter.”
You were too busy trying to explain the situation to Bucky that you never realised his expression changing. A look of shock and realisation transformed Bucky’s face, raising his eyebrows and parting his lips ever so slightly, “A letter?” He asked. You nodded, “What was the letter about?” He knew. He knew but he needed you to say it. He hadn’t realised at the time that the letter is what you carried out to the car after HYDRA broke into the safe house, he hadn’t realised it was a letter from Steve.
“Steve had told me to only open the letter if…” You felt sick. You couldn’t say it, the words just wouldn’t come out of your mouth.
It was your turn to be shocked when Bucky took his wallet out of his pocket and pulled out a creased and crumpled envelope, “He told you to open the letter if you developed feelings… for me.” Raising your head, you finally looked at him. What the fuck? You noticed the letter in his hand and he continued, “Yeah, Steve gave me one too. He told me to open it if I… if I developed feelings for you.”
You stared at the letter in his hands, trying to figure out this curveball, and then you realised something else. The letter, albeit crumpled and creased having being folded and crushed inside his wallet, was torn open at the top, “It’s-It’s open.” What does that mean? You knew what that meant but honestly, you didn’t believe it. Steve hadn’t told you that he’d also written a letter for Bucky. You wondered what his letter said, what things Steve would talk about in Bucky’s letter.
Bucky looked at it, remembering exactly when he opened it and remembering the relief and comfort those words held for him, “Yeah, it’s open… What about yours?” Part of him doesn’t want to know in fear of rejection but when you nod and tell him that you opened your letter as well, the relief that floods through him is insane. The hope that he’s been trying to ignore all day burns bright and makes him shift in his seat. What did it all mean now? It was pretty clear and yet neither of you could fully comprehend it. You’d both just told the other that you had feelings for them, though never using those words but you’d both just admitted it and now… now you had no clue what to do.
You felt sick. The stress and the nerves of it all was just too much for you. You took a long breath to try and calm yourself down. It was Bucky who spoke next, “So… you ended things with Steve because of the fight me and him had and because…”
“Because I have feelings for you.” There it was. The admission made you stand up and run your hands over your face, “Wow, it’s hot in here.” You felt as though the air was sucked out of the room, like the panic you’d felt all day was consuming you and taking over your entire body and being. As your breathing increased, Bucky could tell that he had to do something, he had to calm you down before you had some sort of attack. As you flapped your hands in a motion to cool down, Bucky stood and walked to you.
“Hey,” he said softly catching your wrist gently, “you’re okay, just breathe… You’re going to be okay, (y/n).” His hold on your wrist moved down until he was holding your hand, giving you a reassuring squeeze. You stared at it, finding that it provided enough of a distraction to focus on him, “Copy my breathing,” he said, purposefully breathing deeper for you to copy him.
“I-I can’t…” The panic surged, filling you to the brim with dread and anxiety.
“Yes, you can,” Bucky said, voice strong, “You’ve done it before, you can do it now. Focus on me, focus on my voice and my breathing. You’re safe here, (y/n), you’re safe with me.” Bucky lifted your free hand and put it on his chest, “Feel me, feel my breathing.” This had been the second time this scenario had happened and each time, Bucky’s composure remained strong and comforting. He never buckled under the stress or never made you feel like you were alone. He was there with you, in it with you just as much as you were in it. Focusing on the way his chest moved slowly, you tried your hardest to do the same. After a few deep breaths, the panic began to clear and everything began to slow. He continued to give you soft reassurance until it was five minutes later and you were completely calm.
You really didn’t know where to go from here. The two of you were still standing in the middle of his apartment, one hand holding his and one hand on his chest, “Are you alright?” He asked quietly.
“Yeah,” you whispered, “just… It’s just a lot of emotions… Thank you.” Part of you wanted to pull away but there was a burning desire deep within you now that you’d finally accepted the truth.
The room shifted again as Bucky realised that you hadn’t pulled away. Now or never, he thought to himself, “I ignored my feelings for you for a while before I accepted them. It was the night that I read The Hobbit to you and you fell asleep, snoring and drooling in my bed, that I really admitted to myself that I didn’t just have feelings for you but… (y/n),” he used his thumb to tilt your head upwards so that you were looking into those ridiculously blue eyes, “I’m in love with you.” In that moment, all of the fear, the worry, the panic, the anxiety, the stress and the overwhelming emotions faded. Everything negative faded and all you could do was stare up at him and stare into those deep blue eyes. Bucky moved forwards, closing the gap between the two of you, pressing against your body. This was it. The way he looked at you made your stomach flip with excitement. Your hand that was on his chest moved round to hold his bicep as your eyes moved from his eyes to his lips. The desire to kiss him was stronger than anything you’d ever felt. Every single nerve in your body, every atom and every single part of you could feel the pull, could feel that soulmate pull that everyone always told you about.
Bucky’s touch was light and delicate on your cheek. He hadn’t touched a person in this way in decades, hadn’t felt the gentle touch of someone else in decades and it took everything in him to have some self-control and to not lose control here and now, “Can I… kiss you?” He breathed out as he cupped your cheek with so much care. He couldn’t take his eyes away from your lips. His thumb reached over, touching your lips, gently parting them before he raised his eyes to meet yours. You couldn’t speak, the words just weren’t coming, so all you did was nod and slowly, so painfully slowly, Bucky began to lean down towards your lips.
It was then that your phone, which was in your jacket pocket, began to ring loudly. Immediately, you and Bucky jumped apart getting a fright from the harshness of the ringtone. With your cheeks feeling like they were on fire, you turned away from Bucky and took out your phone seeing the one name you dreaded seeing ‘Incoming call from: Steve’. Pressing the green button, you held the phone up to your ear, “Steve,” you said trying to pretend to be happy despite the guilt and the shame felt like it was eating you alive, “Everything okay?” At the mention of Steve’s name, Bucky let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face and through your hair. So close.
“Yeah,” Steve said from the other end of the phone, “I just got a phone call from Agent Hill, she said that some SHIELD agents went up to the apartment to check on you but got no answer so they went in to check you were okay but you’re not there. They said that you hadn’t passed them so before they started a man-hunt, I suggested calling you to check. Where are you?”
“I…” You didn’t want to lie but at the same time you didn’t want to tell Steve the truth. You didn’t want to hurt him but you and Steve had came to a conclusion to be honest and truthful with each other so even with the risk of hurting him you decided that the truth would be better, “I’m okay. Nat left this morning and I needed out of the apartment so I called Bucky.” You glanced over your shoulder to see Bucky watching you, you shared an awkward small smile.
“Oh.” It didn’t hurt Steve as much as he thought it would, he had been preparing himself for this since telling you to reach out to Bucky, “How’d you get out of the apartment though?”
“He… We jumped.”
“You jumped?” Steve asked astounded, “Wow okay. I’m sorry for interrupting, I just needed to check before they sent a search party around New York. Where are you just now?”
You closed your eyes, “At Bucky’s apartment but, uh, I should probably be leaving soon.” You were glad that he couldn’t see you and that you had your back to him. Bucky audibly sighed and you felt like curling into a ball and hiding forever. You didn’t really want to leave, you had wanted Bucky so strongly and so completely but after talking to Steve, you didn’t really feel comfortable with staying at Bucky’s any longer. Bucky felt like the hope he’d had earlier, the hope that burned so big and so bright had been crushed and stamped on until there was nothing left of it. He wanted to tell you to stay, wanted to hang up the phone and kiss you. Deep down he felt that if you kissed him, you’d realise how deep and true your feelings were but he couldn’t. He couldn’t force you to stay, couldn’t force you to get over Steve and pick him, he had to let you make your own decision so he just let it be.
“You need me to get an agent to pick you up or will Bucky drive you home?” Steve asked. You knew that if you asked Bucky to drive you home of course he’d say yes but right now, you didn’t know how comfortable that car ride would be so you accepted Steve’s offer of asking sending an agent to pick you up. Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, everything was falling apart; all of his hopes were being washed away and replaced by disappointment.
Steve told you that he’d get an agent to come over and that they’d be there shortly before you both hung up. Slowly, god so painfully slowly, you turned to face Bucky, “That was Steve,” you said even though Bucky knew that, “Apparently SHIELD were about to send out a search party all for me… Steve’s going to send an agent to pick me up.”
Bucky nodded, “I would’ve driven you home.”
“I know, I just…” You trailed off unsure of what to say next, “I should probably wait downstairs for him.”
“Hey,” Bucky said softly, catching your wrist again. He didn’t want you to go but he knew why you were leaving so he thought he would try to salvage some sort of moment. You didn’t know why but tears filled your eyes as you turned to face him. Your mind was racing and you just didn’t know what to do. You had almost kissed Bucky, you’d been so close and you’d completely forgotten about Steve and then… you remembered and the guilt was ten times worse than it ever had been, “Hey,” Bucky whispers as he tries to wrap you in a hug, “What’s going on?”
Shrugging out of his gentle grip, you shake your head quickly, “I… I- We can’t do this, Bucky.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s too complicated,” you whimpered as tears dribbled down your cheeks, “It’s all just too much.”
“Oh.” Once again, you couldn’t look at him. If you looked at him you’d end up staying and right now, you didn’t know what you wanted or what to do. All you knew is that you needed to go back to your apartment and just be away from Steve and Bucky, “Why are you doing this?” Bucky asked and it completely broke your heart, “We were finally getting somewhere.”
“I’m just…” You didn’t know how to answer his question, you didn’t know how to deal with his emotions, “We just can’t do this, Bucky.”
“No, no, not we,” you could tell by his slightly bitter tone that he was angry. Rightfully so, you’d wasted his time, you’d led him on today for no good reason, “You can’t do this.” He was right, it wasn’t Bucky’s fault that you couldn’t do this, it was your own fault. You were the one pulling the plug on this relationship before it even started.
“Yeah you’re right,” you sniffed, “I can’t do this.”
Bucky scoffed and rolled his eyes, “Run back to him,” he said with venom dripping from his voice, “Run back to Steve.”
“I-I’m not going back to Steve. I just… I just can’t do this.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Bucky’s demeanour had changed completely. He was good at shutting off emotionally, turning cold and distant when things were going poorly and that’s exactly what was happening here. He couldn’t show you his true feelings, he was too proud of beg you to stay, so he shut you out. He would rather you hated him than he show you himself being vulnerable again after having you reject him. Your phone chimed, signalling that you’d received a text, “That’ll be your ride.”
“Bucky, I’m really sorry…” You opened the door, refusing to look at him.
“Yeah, whatever,” he repeated. There was nothing else you could say so you stepped out and let the door swing shut behind you. As you walked down the hall, you could only stay strong until you got into the elevator before you broke down, sobbing into your hands. You’d fucked everything up. Waves of guilt washed over you; guilt over Steve, guilt over Bucky… It was horrible. You managed to pull yourself together a little bit before getting in the agent’s car.
Bucky ran his hands through his hand letting out an annoyed yell before slamming his hands onto the kitchen counter. He was angry. God, he was so angry. He hated that he’d almost had you, you were right there and then as soon as Steve called… you were gone. It was ironic. In the 30s, Bucky was always first and then Steve was second best but now? Now it felt like he was second best and he hated it. Bucky wanted you, he wanted to be with you and he had been so close and then you pulled away from him and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t do anything but watch as you pulled away and back into the arms of Steve. He’d confessed his true feelings for you, he’d told you how deeply he felt about you and you’d been so close to doing the same.
With a long sigh, Bucky thought that maybe New York wasn’t the place for him any longer… maybe leaving Wakanda was a bad choice. If he’d stayed, he wouldn’t have met you but he wouldn’t have caused all of this drama and you and Steve would be happy. He didn’t like seeing you so stressed, anxious and confused with the whole situation so maybe it would be better if Bucky decided for you. Maybe it would be better if he took himself out of the equation completely. Maybe it was time for him to leave.
#one shot#plus size reader#plus size series#steve rogers x reader#imagine#steve rogers x plus size reader#steve rogers#steve#steve rogers imagine#marvel#marvel imagine#marvel one shot#avengers one shot#avengers#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x plus size reader#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes x reader x steve rogers#steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes#steve rogers/reader#bucky barnes/reader#reader insert#os#life without colour#lwc
258 notes
·
View notes
Text
Prompt: OMG. Love the Taza imagine! If you're OK with that, would you be OK with a Bishop one? I'd love to see him jealous!
A/N: Uhm. Yeah. So. This is now a thing. This one is a little different, in more ways than one. (I have a feeling I’ll be doing a second part). I should warn about some ugly language in this one, just in case. I want to wish you a happy read, and to apologize, at the same time.
Title: Bottom of the Bottle
Teaser: Your world has gone on, as normal. You just haven’t included Bishop in it.
Two days.
It’s been two days, Bishop reminds himself. Two days since he’s heard from you. Two days since you left his bed, his home, his life. It’s dramatic as hell, and he knows so, but the bottom of his bottle is whispering ugly thoughts in his face.
(Y/n)’s cheating.
(Y/n)’s dead.
No, (y/n)’s definitely fucking another man.
Groaning, Bishop pulls the bottle away from his mouth, and scrubs his free hand over his face. “This is insane,” he growls, snatching his phone from his nightstand.
Two. Fucking. Days.
Opening up his recent calls, Bishop stares at the screen. He’s made fifteen calls, in the last forty-eight hours. Two to Taza. One to Marcus. The other twelve all have your name on them. All twelve, no answers. All twelve, unreturned voicemails. He scowls. He’s sent more text messages than that, even. Those haven’t been returned, yet, either.
Fuck, he has it so fucking bad.
You’re fine, he knows that much. He’s been by your apartment, more than once. The cat is fed, and content. Litter box has been changed. There are clothes all over your bedroom floor, coffee mugs on the kitchen counter. Mail hasn’t piled up. Your world has gone on, as normal.
You just haven’t included Bishop in it.
He doesn’t understand it. What went wrong? He can’t remember being that big a dick to you, before you left. He’d teased you about the smudge of mascara under your eyes, from the night before, but that was it. You’d given him a kiss, and one of your brightest smiles. There was no indication, not that Bishop can see, that you wouldn’t be coming back.
See you soon. That’s what you’d told him. See you soon.
Forgive him. He doesn’t consider fifty-four hours, and some change, to be soon.
Heaving a sigh, Bishop abandons his stare-off with his call records in favour of a swig of vodka. He can’t call, again, he just can’t. It’s getting pathetic. He’s getting pathetic. He can’t remember the last time he was like this, even before his divorce. Lovers come, and lovers go, in his life. That’s just a part of the life. But, you… God, you’re something else, entirely. You don’t intermingle with the Club, very often, but there’s no tension (that he’s aware of) over how he earns a living. It’s refreshing, he has to admit, both halves of his being playing so nicely, together. (It’s so damn close to harmony, he won’t look at it, too closely, for fear of disappointment). He can work the whole day away, and come home pissed off, and worn out, and ruin every damned plan you have for the night… And, somehow, you adapt. You. You. Bishop swears, there’s nothing you won’t alter. A nicely-set table becomes plates in front of the television. A night out drinking becomes shots at home, cards and conversation filling the spaces between. And, on those rare nights he’s too tired to pleasure you? He hasn’t heard a peep about it, by way of complaint. You just accept that he’s going to shower, and hit the hay, and that’s the end of it. Sometimes, Bishop feels like he takes advantage of your good nature.
Oh, good nature, hell, you’re a fucking Saint.
He really should have seen this coming, this all blowing up in his face.
Is that it, though? Has he really driven you away, by not paying attention to your needs? He hasn’t seen the signs. You’re such a damned sweetheart, there probably haven’t been any signs to miss, at all. You’ve just smiled, and smooched, and carried on as normal, until it got to be too much.
That’s it. He’s forced you away, and that’s why you’re ignoring him, and fucking another man.
A low roar forces its way from Bishop’s throat, and, a second later, glass is shattering against the bedroom wall. Shards are sticking up out of the carpet, vodka streaking down the wallpaper. Fuck, he hates that wallpaper. He can’t remember why he put it up, to begin with. He’s been asking you to pick a colour to paint over it with, any colour that isn’t white, and you’ve been finding it in yourself, each and every time, to remind him why he shouldn’t paint over wallpaper. Sometimes, he brings it up, just to make you laugh. Just to hear the explanation, on repeat. Now, he’s never going to hear it, again.
Fuck, he needs a fucking cigarette.
And, of fucking course, the pack is empty. Crumpling the paper in his hand, Bishop tosses it to the carpet, beside the growing vodka patch. He’s in no condition to be driving, a rarity, these days. (He won’t admit it, under pain of death, but he’s been drinking considerably less with you around, too). Probably why he’s two steps from sloshed, now. He should just stay home, yes, he should. There’s no need for cigarettes, not at this hour. He should keep himself calm, and go to bed. Wait for your call.
Standing to his feet, Bishop grabs his keys, and his wallet, and heads for the door. Without you around, what is he saving himself for?
*
Well… Okay, so, that’s decidedly not the convenience store.
Bishop stares at the apartment building – your apartment building – in something akin to wonder. He has no recollection of how he ended up here, parked in front of the entrance. It’s been twenty minutes, easily, that he’s been staring up at your living room window. The lamp beside the couch is on, the soft glow almost inviting to his impaired senses.
He really should go knock on the door.
He really should have stayed home, too.
So, you’re definitely home. Looking around at the parking lot, he doesn’t see your car. But, you never leave lights on, not on purpose. Whether you’re paranoid about fires, or worried about an expensive light bill, Bishop can only guess. Right now, he’s thankful. It gives him something to focus on, something to calm him… Something to entice him closer to your front door. Step by step, he tries to talk himself out of it. But, he can’t stand this, living this way, not knowing where you are, or what you’re doing, or who you’re doing, if it’s not him. It’s distracting, and he truly can’t afford to be distracted, not even by you, not like this. He has to go up, he just has to. He has to know, to figure this shit out, face-to-face.
Knock, knock, knock. Bishop finds himself comforted by the solid connection of your door against his knuckles. He could use his key, but it doesn’t feel right, not now. He could scare you, or piss you off, neither of which is on his list of desires. You’re a civil person, peaceful to a fault, so he might get away with it, sure, but… But…
This has to go right. He has to do this right. Whatever he did, or hasn’t done, Bishop’s confident he can fix it. You two have a good thing going. Sure, he’s got a few years on you, and there are gaps in understanding one another, every now and again. And, yeah, you’ve had a spat or two, in the last few months of your relationship. He’s always seen that as a sign of things getting comfortable, though, not a warning of bigger problems. Your arguments aren’t dire, anyway.
Who the fuck is ‘Nicki Minaj’, and why is she on my speaker system?
Why is your toilet paper on the roll, the wrong way?
How the hell can you be a Mets fan?
No, I’m serious. Who the fuck is ‘Nicki Minaj’?
That’s not enough for you to be screwing around on him, right?
As your door opens, and Bishop gets a good look at what’s been going on… Well, apparently, it’s enough.
“Who the fuck are you?” Bishop spits out, before the man at the door can even get out a greeting. Not exactly his nicest choice of words, but all Bishop can see is young, and tall, and handsome. If this motherfucker is a day over thirty, he’ll go vegan for a fucking year. Well-dressed, smells decent (he’s close enough to tell, okay?), without a frown line, or a speck of grey on him.
He’s not insecure. He’s not fucking insecure.
Handsome smiles, albeit a bit forced. “Oh, ah, hi! Are you looking for (y/n)?” He’s so polite, it stings. This kid – kid – is the poster child for Ivy League education, for all the right things in life. So clean-cut, his creases have creases. Meanwhile, here Bishop stands, in yesterday’s jeans, boots, kutte, and a wrinkled shirt he can’t swear is fresh.
He can’t stand this, either. As a result, in the blink of an eye, he has Handsome backed against a wall, hands fisted in his now-not-so-perfect shirt.
“Hey!” Handsome shouts, trying – and, failing – to shove Bishop off of him. Bishop can’t really fathom how, must be from sheer force of rage, probably fueled by his liquid indulgences. He can’t help it. His heart is in his throat, rhythm a little sketchy, at the thought that this is what you’ve chosen, over him? This? Some kid with a million-watt smile, and fucking Dockers? What fucking year is it, anyway?!
The idea forces an extra shove into the wall. Bishop hopes something cracks.
“What the fuck are you doing, here?” He hasn’t raised his voice, not a bit. If anything, it’s probably dropped an octave, settling into a low, dangerous growl. He’s two steps away from redecorating that perfect little face, just for the sheer joy of it, make it something you definitely won’t like, anymore.
That’s when he hears it.
“Obispo!”
It’s you. Even through the deluge of seething rage threatening to consume him, Bishop knows your voice. He looks over his shoulder, finding you standing in the still-open doorway. There’s a duffel bag slung over your shoulder, a bag of groceries in your other arm. You look surprised, but who wouldn’t be surprised to be caught, red-handed?
“What are you doing?” you ask, setting your bags down.
“I could ask you the same thing!” Bishop finally shouts, hands still twisted in your little boyfriend’s shirt. “Where the fuck have you been?”
Your confusion seems to be growing. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He sneers. “You know what I’m talking about. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for two days!” Bishop points back to your unwanted visitor, ignoring the way his hand shakes. “You ignore me, to whore around with this prick?!”
“The fuck did you just say?” Bishop nearly has a coronary, as a second guy steps into the doorway, behind you. Where the hell did he come from? This one… He’s just as tall, but he definitely doesn’t miss a day at the gym. If Bishop tries to put this one against the wall, he’ll find himself pile-driven into the floor. His arms may be full of groceries, but the look on his face is threatening bodily harm, and worse.
Doesn’t stop Bishop’s mouth from running, though.
“Oh, wow,” he chokes out, forcing a laugh from somewhere that feels wrong, cut-up and bloodied and wrecked. He shifts his eyes from Muscles, to you. “You running a whole thing outta’ here? Taking ‘em, two at a time?”
Muscles puts his bags down, advancing on Bishop, who lets go of Handsome, and takes a step back. Muscles puts himself between Bishop, and everyone else. Defensive. Protective. And, does that ever fucking hurt. If this guy is so ready to go to bat for you, he’s known you a lot longer than two days.
How did he fucking miss this?
Again, Bishop’s eyes find yours, and the sight of your beautiful face completely destroys the bravado. He feels his shoulders droop, chest deflating, defeat slowly creeping in. He’s still angry, he’s still hurt, but the devastation, the thing he’s worked so hard to avoid having to feel, in his life, ever again, is beginning to win.
“How?” he asks, arms spreading out to either side of him. “How could you do this, (y/n)?” He shakes his head, slowly. It’s been so good, everything has been so damned good. He’s trusted you, all this time. How could he be so stupid? “No, you know what? I should’ve known.” His words are blending with his thoughts, a little mismatched, but he doesn’t much care. A finger is suddenly pointing your way. “You’re full of shit, just like every other cunt out there.”
Instantly, he knows he shouldn’t have said it. He can’t take it back, no matter how hard he prays on it. Your expression is one he’ll remember for the rest of his days, coming back to haunt him in his darkest moments. Hurt, betrayed… Heartbroken… Oh, but, your words. The quiet murmur that follows that look, voice teetering on the edge of tears, will put the final nail in his coffin.
“This… This is my cousin, Alexander…” You gesture to Muscles. “And, his husband, Curtis.” A nod to Handsome.
Those… Those names sound awfully familiar. A recent conversation, if memory serves. And, shit, as he thinks about it, you did mention them, didn’t you? Which means that, all this… The last two days, no calls, no texts… It means that you were-
Is it really possible for blood to ice over?
“We just got in from that music festival…”
Music festival. The one Bishop hadn’t wanted to go to. The one you’d had your heart set on. Who the hell went into the desert to listen to music? How the fuck did instruments even work, in that much heat? He remembers asking those questions, remembers telling you to go with whoever you wanted, but to leave him out of it. You… You’d laughed, thanked him for his permission. He’d found your snark so damned cute.
Now… God, now, there’s nothing he won’t do to get that wet shimmer out of your eyes.
He just can’t get a single word to come out of his fucking mouth.
Silence stretches on, uncomfortable, no one knowing what to say, what to do, and with good reason. As the tension reaches its peak, you clear your throat, gently. “Sit down, Obispo…” You instruct, quietly, before he can even try to offer anything. You’re already heading for the kitchen, not looking at anyone, any longer. “I’ll make everyone some coffee.” You want him sober up, and he knows it. Won’t let him drive back, so obviously drunk, even after what’s just transpired. A Saint, to the fucking end.
Fuck, what has he fucking done?
Masterlist | Request | Tag List
#mayans m.c. fanfiction#mayans m.c.#Bishop x reader#Bishop x you#obispo bishop losa#anonymous request#fanfiction requests#ask box fic#Jealousy Thursday
88 notes
·
View notes
Text
Accidental Family
Hey folks! This is one of two fics for the six month celebration of this blog! Woohoo! Blood on the Ice is one of the most popular series I've written, and expanding it into Josie’s (@prohibitionincurls ) Winging It world with her was unbelievably fun. Disclaimer: one of the OCs has ADHD and it is a central theme of the story--while Josie based some of his characteristics on her own experience, we both recognize that this is not a one-size-fits-all situation. Thank you again for six amazing months, and I hope you enjoy!
Lots of love,
Eve <3
TW for mentioned injury
“Oh my god, they’re gonna kill me,” the kid whispered in a wavering voice, sounding much younger than he actually was as he left the penalty box.
“They’re not going to kill you,” Bowie soothed, still watching the tunnel where Remus had disappeared mere minutes earlier. From what he saw, there had been a bit of blood, but the bruising didn’t look too bad. Then again, there had barely been enough time for anything to visibly swell before he was whisked away.
“Can I just stay in the box?” Felix cast a look toward the Lions bench and his voice cracked. “They can’t yell at me in the box, right?”
“Hey. Look at me, Marty.” Bowie took him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. “The Lions are good guys. They’re not going to hurt you, but you did just fuck up one of their best friends. What would you do if someone hit me in the face?”
“Come on, man, I’m a terrible fighter. I don’t know how well I’d be able to defend your honor after something like that. It was an accident. Do you think they know it was an accident? Should I go tell them?”
“I know. They know. Loops definitely knows. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re a little cold at first.” He ruffled the rookie’s hair and turned back to the game; the Lions were moving fast and brutal, slicing right through their defense for yet another goal. Shit. Felix clearly felt bad enough already--losing the game wouldn’t make him feel any better.
They ended up losing the game.
Bowie had figured it might happen; he would have had the same fire if it had been his teammate that got clocked like that. Hell, he used to have the same fire when he and Remus had played together, so he completely understood.
That did not change the fact that once they got home, Felix was still borderline inconsolable. The 18-year-old wasn’t technically billeting with them, but the apartment he was renting just so happened to be in the same building, on the same floor, and right across the hall from his and Simon’s. This led to an informal adoption of the rookie and he was around their house at least five times a week, if not more.
Felix Martin was a good kid, and that idea was confirmed when Kronk immediately took a liking to him; the cat loved nobody but the three of them. Bowie was grateful that he and Simon were there to quell some of the homesickness that came from moving out to a new city on his own for the first time. The transition was always tough, but they could provide a little support.
They parted ways from the team when the bus got back from the rink and drove to their building in silence. Once they made their way up the stairs and down the hall, Felix moved to go back to his apartment.
“Nope,” Bowie said immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder and steering him through the door to his and Simon’s place. It wasn’t a good idea for Felix to be alone right now--there was nothing to do alone after a loss aside from beat himself up about it, and Bowie would be damned before he let that happen.
Simon and Kronk were perched on the couch, but they both moved into the kitchen as soon as the door clicked closed. Simon took one look at the pair and carefully wrapped his arms around Felix; the kid practically melted. The three of them stood there for a moment until Simon pulled back a bit and tilted his head toward the living room. Felix nodded and Bowie followed the two, sharing the couch with Simon while the rookie curled up in the large armchair diagonal to them.
He...well, if Bowie was being honest, Felix looked like hell. He chewed his lower lip like an anxious beaver and fiddled with the loose threads of the closest armrest; everything about him screamed discomfort. Bowie caught Simon’s worried glance in his periphery and let out a slow breath, trying to relieve at least a little of the tension in the room.
“You don’t have to relive it if you don’t want to. I saw the game. But if you want to talk about it…” Simon trailed off with a significant look.
Felix sighed and his shoulders caved in a bit. “It was just one of those moments. All of a sudden, I didn’t really have a grasp on what was going on, which feels like shit because I’ve been doing pretty well so far. I dunno. It was just...bad.”
That was it. Bowie knew Felix had seemed a little off. When Felix mentioned he had ADHD at the start of the season during one of their ‘getting to know your neighbor’ chats, Bowie hadn’t thought much of it. But as they grew closer, he began to notice when Felix forgot to eat or drink, or got overwhelmingly excited about something, or when he suddenly spaced out. It wasn’t just Felix being Felix.
The whole team stepped up and became intensely protective, of course. They not only helped him remember meal times, but also scheduling, directions, and everything in between. Bowie felt especially responsible for reasons he didn’t entirely understand--there was just something about the kid’s sweet heart that struck a chord.
He also knew that Felix was highly emotionally intelligent, but had no concept of whether people liked him or not. He was someone who assumed the worst, all the time. So, Bowie decided to do the only thing he knew would work: after a few more beats of uncomfortable silence, he pulled his phone out, tapped a few buttons, and pressed ‘call’.
“Hey, Remus, are you alive?”
An amused snort came from the speaker even as Felix blanched. “Hello to you, too, Bowie. Jeez, you’re worse than Sirius. I’m one hundred percent alive, just a little swollen. Your rookie’s got a helluva shot, but maybe tell the kid to hit the puck and not my face next time.”
Felix flushed red and put his face between his knees, though hearing the laughter in Remus’s voice and knowing that he was okay clearly took some of the weight off his shoulders. Bowie whooped internally and shot him a quick, reassuring smile.
“Yeah, the kid’s got spirit, but he’s also got ADHD. He’s great most of the time, but sometimes under extreme pressure he can’t figure out where the fuck he--or anything else around him--is. Something about focusing or neurons firing the wrong way, maybe? Either way, it’s why he’s a terrible fuckin’ driver.”
Felix flopped back against the chair with a groan. “How the hell am I supposed to know how far away the cars around me are based on the mirrors? And how am I supposed to park?!”
Remus’s laugh echoed once again. “Don’t ask me, kid, I’m not allowed to drive, either. Not because I’m ADHD, but because I’m terrible at it.”
“You can say that again!” a muffled voice called from behind Remus.
“Please excuse my fiance,” Remus said politely. “He’s a jackass who’s trying to make me lay down again.”
Felix smiled, though it was a bit pained. “I didn’t get a chance to apologize earlier. That stick was totally on me. And--I mean, I heard some of the guys talking afterward and it sounded like you got pretty banged up, so I’m really sorry. Like, really sorry.”
“Hey, woah, you’re fine,” Remus soothed. Bowie recognized his ‘talking to newbies’ voice and hid a smile in the cuff of his hoodie. “It’s the name of the game, after all. Did Bowie ever tell you about the time I accidentally checked him into a wall? Or when I broke his visor with a puck? For context, this was when we were on the same team.”
“Or that time you kicked my legs out from under me and sent me sprawling across the ice during practice.”
“That one was on purpose.”
Bowie glared at the phone, but Felix was snickering and his grin was genuine. It calmed him a bit. “Thanks, Loops.”
“No problem, kiddo.” Remus paused for a moment, then mumbled something inaudible to someone in the background before clearing his throat. “Bowie.”
“Yes?” Remus had never been a wild card, per se, but he certainly had a knack for asking strange questions out of the blue.
“Did you accidentally adopt a child or do my ears deceive me?”
Bowie was about to laugh at the absurdity of it, but then he took a moment to think, looking back and forth between Simon and Felix. “Fuckin’--maybe I did, Re, but he’s ours now. And if that’s the case, I’m going to formally request that you tell your fiance to quit being mean to my son.”
Remus laughed on the other end of the line. “Will do. Felix seems like a sweetheart, I’m glad he’s got you two.”
Bowie nodded with a slight smile, even though Remus couldn’t see him. “So are we. I can practically sense Sirius hovering, so go let your boyfriend fuss over you for a little while.”
An offended noise came from Remus’s side, followed by a lower laugh and the click of the call ending.
Simon looked Felix dead in the eyes. “I’m seconding the ‘kid’ thing. You may just barely be a legal adult, but it doesn’t mean we can’t adopt you. Congrats on your new gay dads.”
Felix’s bright laugh sent a wave of relief through Bowie. “You guys are only, like, eight years older than me.”
“Silence, spawn,” Simon said, pointing a playful finger at him as his grin widened into something sweet and lopsided. “Now both of you need to come eat something. I made cookies while you were getting pushed around for a living.”
Bowie was still worried about Remus’ face--he made a mental note to call the next day to check in--but all his concerns disappeared as Felix scooped the cat up for a snuggle and followed Simon into the kitchen. They may have lost the game, but he would lose a million Cups to keep that moment forever: his Simon fussing over them both, his cat purring in pure bliss, and his kid settling into place at last.
#remus lupin#sirius black#bowie#felix martin#simon#sweater weather#coast to coast#lumosinlove#coops#hockey#adhd#blood on the ice#found family#prohibitionincurls#collab#fanfic#my fic
180 notes
·
View notes
Text
you’re someone i just want around: VII
Sunflower, my eyes
Want you more than a melody
Let me inside
Wish I could get to know you
Sunflower Vol. 6, Harry Styles
A/N: okay so this part was so much fun to write!! it originally was going to have four more scenes but uh. as we all know. i am very wordy. so the other scenes I have planned will have to be split into what will probably become two more parts and you guys will just have to deal with getting another two chapters 😌 but this part is really exciting because we are getting a lil bit of angst mixed in with harry’s general dumbassery!! love to see it love to hear it!! and please if you like what you are reading here!! reblog it!! leave reactions in the tags (we read every single one)!! send a message to andrea and i!! feedback and interaction is what keeps content creators motivated to keep cranking out nearly 30k every one to two weeks!! and that’s a general rule for all content creators not just us!! we do this for free so a lil love note is always appreciated 💌 alrighty now that that’s out of the way!! let’s dive in!!
ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : ysijwa playlist
word count: 26.6k
content/warnings: another good dose of denial, Fajita Friday with a side of blended margs, waking up on the wrong side of the coffin, brutal analysis of niall’s non-existent love life, ribeye!y/n x rotisseriechicken!harry, a horrible impersonation of Bob Barker, “are you there, God? it’s me, harry,” degradation, the violation of worksafe laws through the improper use of a ladder, mild pain kink, alexa, play ‘kiss it better’ by rihanna, and the rise of kinkrry (dir. j.j. abrams)
As Harry climbs up the stairs to Y/N’s apartment the next Friday night with a bag containing tequila, orange liqueur, and limes clutched within his jeweled hand, there are two thoughts flickering through his mind.
The first, which weighs more heavily on the vampire, is if Y/N prefers her margaritas blended or over ice, as Harry feels that tells a lot about a person, and it would be such a disappointment to realize now that Y/N isn’t a fan of the blended beverage. The second, which should weigh more heavily on his mind if he had his priorities sorted out, is how Y/N had managed to convince him to let her cook dinner for the two of them.
In reality, it hadn’t actually taken much convincing on the mortal girl’s part at all. When she messaged him on her lunch break earlier that day, asking what he was up to that night, Harry had sat up on his couch, drawing Niall and Xander’s attention to him in a confused manner. He’d stared at the message for only three seconds before opening his phone and pressing on her contact name. The action had come so easily to him that he didn’t even think about hiding his eagerness to speak to her, and instead pressed his phone tight to his ear as the other line rang three times before she picked it up.
“Harry?” Her confused voice rang through his phone speaker, the sound of the bustling cafe apparent in the background. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, love. I just, uh…just wanted to talk to you, s’all.” Harry had replied, shushing the questions he could see hanging off of Niall and Xander’s lips. “How’s work today? Busy?”
“As busy as it always is on a Friday afternoon.” Y/N answered with a sigh, and a small smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s lips as he heard a loud slurp through the phone, leading him to picture a stressed out Y/N sipping the last remnants of her iced latte. “But I’m over halfway through my shift, at least, so… it’s all downhill from here. In a good way.”
Harry had nodded slowly, as if the mortal girl could see him through the phone. “I’m glad to hear that.”
His friends, however, seemed to be less glad to hear it, and paused the golf tournament that was playing on TV to stare at him with incredulous expressions on their faces.
“Who are you talking to?” Niall had demanded, kicking his foot into Harry’s calf with more force than what was necessary. “We’re going to miss the first swing!”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Xander snickered to the Irishman next to him, a devious smirk lighting up his face. “It’s that human he’s been obsessed with for the last, like, two months. His little plaything.”
Harry had stood up then, flipping the pair off with a pointed glare before turning towards the kitchen, intent on finding some peace and quiet where he could carry on his conversation without having to worry about Y/N overhearing something she shouldn’t.
“I don’t want to take up too much of your break,” He murmured, resting his elbows over the cool marble countertop of his kitchen island that was nearly the same temperature of his skin. “But calling you seemed easier than texting. I’m free tonight—” He always kept his Friday nights free for her; had she not realized that by now? “So I was thinking I could be at your place around eight? Or nine? What works for you?”
And it was then that he had heard it, breaking through the cafe ambient noise that caught Harry’s inhuman ears, and the inquisitive whispering of Niall and Xander in the other room. As clear as if it were really right in his ear, Harry had heard the sharp intake of breath, the slow exhale that followed, and the melodic voice that he’d become so familiar with, shaking ever so slightly.
“I was, um, actually thinking you could come over a bit earlier.” Y/N had replied, the tapping of her fingertips against her back room’s linoleum table reverberating around Harry’s head. “I got groceries yesterday, and I was going to make fajitas tonight, and I realized I had enough food for two people, and so if you don’t have anything else planned—”
Harry hadn’t meant to cut Y/N off— listening to her nervous rambling is one of his favourite things, and he’d never purposefully forfeit the opportunity to hear it (and that fondness aside, cutting off her speech would be rude)— but shock overtook his body and triggered the response before he could stop it. “You want to cook me dinner?”
“I—” The speaker crackled again, and Harry could practically picture the hesitation wrinkling across Y/N’s face, the caution in her tone a clear indication of how hard she was working to stay upright on the tense tightrope known as their relationship. “Yeah, I do. I’m not a chef or anything, but my friends and I used to cook for each other all the time, and Fajita Fridays were one of my specialties, so—”
“I would absolutely love it if you cooked for me.” A slow grin had spread over Harry’s face, pulling the dimples from his cheeks in a way that he’d recently noticed only she could. “What time should I be over? Do you want me to pick you up from work?”
“No, that’s fine.” Y/N had assured him quickly, the breathlessness in her voice leading Harry to picture the light rush of heat that was probably working its way over her cheeks. “You can come over around six, if that works for you…?”
Harry had checked the Rolex hanging off his wrist, which displayed the time of 2:33PM back to him. “Six is perfect.” He’d replied with an airy yet firm voice, nodding to himself once again. “Can I bring anything? Is there anything you need me to pick up?”
“Oh, uh...no. No, you don’t need to bring anything. Just your appetite; I make a lot of fajitas.” The surprise that echoed in Y/N’s voice and the small laugh that followed had drawn an pleasurable ache from Harry’s dormant chest in a way he couldn’t explain. “Thank you for asking, though. So… I’ll see you at six, then.”
“Sounds good, love. I’m looking forward to it.” Harry had smiled again, despite no one being around to view it, and continued to smile even after he had hung up and made his way back to the living room, where his two friends had greeted him with an array of exaggerated vulgar motions and kissy faces.
He had waved them off, and though he’d glowered at them hotly and shrugged off their prodding questions, he couldn’t find it in himself to stifle the grin that the human girl’s offer had left behind on his cheeks. She wanted to make him dinner. Just the two of them. It’d been so long since anyone had gone so out of their way for him like that, he hadn’t been able to help his giddy reaction.
As he reaches the final stair leading to Y/N’s floor of her building, a tired sigh falls from Harry’s pink lips. He should’ve known better than to call her with his friend present, he thinks, as his footsteps echo around the empty hallway. The moment he’d plopped back down on his couch, Niall and Xander had ignored his dismissive attitude and proceeded to continue to bombard him with a million questions about her, and a million more digs at his ego when he had later excused himself from their tournament to get ready for the dinner. Although he’d normally be able to ignore their obsessive inquiries without so much as a second thought, he’d berated himself throughout his entire shower and get-ready routine, the harsh judgement ever-present in the back of his skull as he’d picked up his favourite ingredients for margaritas from the grocery store. He should’ve known better.
It’s bad enough that he’s toying around with Y/N’s feelings just for his own selfish needs, but every time the topic of Y/N came up around his friends, it ended with the exact same question, just as it had earlier that day.
“So when do we get to meet her? Like, officially meet her, and not just hear her moaning through your wall.” Niall had asked as he took a sip of his Guinness beer, layering a childish snicker on top of his curiosity.
“Yeah, I’d love to see the girl that domesticated you. Always thought she’d be fictional, actually.” Xander’s laugh had matched Niall’s as the two of them watched Harry slip a fresh t-shirt over his head.
A tightness had developed in Harry’s chest then, so tense that it had nearly stopped him from smoothing the shirt over his inked chest. “You don’t get to meet her.” He had replied curtly, shooting the two vampires a stern look. “She’s not something for you two to gawk at, she’s—”
Niall had interjected then, the mirth in his eyes refusing to bow despite Harry’s seething. “Your girlfriend?”
Harry had stared witheringly at the Irish immortal. “No. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend I have an arrangement with. An arrangement that will become much more complicated if she starts hanging out with other vampires and notices that there’s something… off about us.”
“Off?” Niall had questioned, grinning cheekily with a flash of his fangs, his blue irises dying blood red. “I have no idea what you’re referring to, mate.”
Pausing in front of Y/N’s front door, Harry takes a moment to swipe his hair back from his face, tousling his curls until they fall into just the right place. His chestnut locks are beginning to get a little long again (they curl around his ears and tickle the nape of his neck now), but he can’t quite bring himself to cut them just yet; Y/N has a habit of reaching for them whenever he goes down on her, and the sensation of her tugging on his hair is too satisfying to let go of so easily. As for the rest of his look, Harry has opted to keep it casual tonight, wearing a blue and pink flamingo patterned button down over his Chicago Cubs t-shirt, paired with a rust-coloured pair of corduroy pants and his white vans. If their usual routine is any indication, then Harry will be staying the night, and he’s learned over the years that it’s much comfier to leave the next morning in loose clothes than trying to yank on a pair of tight leather pants in a stranger’s bedroom. Not that Y/N is a stranger; in fact, he could probably get away with bringing an overnight bag now. But there’s something so presumptuous in showing up to a dinner date with a bag, and in a shocking— though fleeting— change of heart, the last thing Harry wants is to seem presumptuous.
Harry raises his jeweled knuckles and raps on Y/N’s door in a rhythmic pattern, straightening his back and leaning against the frame as he waits for the door to open.
Even through the wooden barrier, Harry can hear the old music floating through the bluetooth speaker that he knows sits on Y/N’s kitchen counter, the sizzling of peppers and onions in a pan, and Y/N singing to herself softly under her breath, the latter of which pauses as soon as Harry knocks. Instead, it’s replaced with the soft padding of bare feet against the laminate floor, the click of a lock, the removal of a door chain, and the turning of a knob as the door swings open.
And then Harry sees Y/N, and the sight of her catches the breath that he doesn’t really need. It lodges in his lungs and at the back of his burning throat, causing an odd sensation to churn the pit of his tummy as a sudden wave of heat pours into his cheeks.
If Harry’s pride wasn’t as steadfast as he likes to portray, he would openly admit that it truly is frightening how just one glance at her can make his entire nervous system flare.
It’s obvious that Y/N’s been at work all day; her mascara is slightly smudged beneath her eyes, and the ponytail bouncing at the top of her head is loose, with wisps of hair falling out and framing her face. Her clothing, however, has been changed from her usual work polo and jeans to a cotton bralette that clings to her chest and displays a strip of her stomach that makes Harry’s mouth water. Her black leggings have mesh cutouts on the side, and while that detail would normally draw Harry’s eyes by default, it’s the multicolour patchwork cardigan hanging loosely off her shoulders that really catches Harry off guard. Or, more specifically, it’s his multicolour patchwork cardigan that catches him off guard.
“Hi.” Y/N smiles up at him warmly with the edges of her eyes crinkling, her hands grasping the side of the door tightly. “Six P.M. on the dot, Holmes. I’m impressed.”
“Solving mysteries isn’t my only speciality.” Harry matches his grin to hers, his dimples making an appearance as his expression grows. “Although speaking of mysteries… I think I just solved the case of my missing cardigan.” With his free hand, Harry reaches forward and tweaks a button on the article of clothing, his fingers brushing against Y/N’s bare tummy when he pulls away.
A wispy giggle falls from Y/N’s cheeks as she opens the door wider to invite Harry in. “Right, that case. I was about to call you about it, actually. We got a big break-through last night.”
“Did we?” Harry raises an eyebrow as he steps into her apartment, shifting the fabric tote bag in his right hand to his left as he squeezes into the narrow corridor beside her. “And what was the big break, exactly?”
Y/N wraps her arms around Harry’s neck as he snakes his now free hand around her waist, clutching her close to his cool body. “Well, I was trying to go to sleep, and I was cold, so I went searching in my closet for an extra blanket, and found this tucked in the back from when you let me borrow it last weekend.” She explains lightly, twisting her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Case closed. Elementary, my dear Holmes.”
“I thought that was my line?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as fond amusement dances through his emerald eyes, his cold palm giving one of her love handles a playful squeeze. “First you steal my cardigan, and now my catch phrase. What’s next?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” Y/N says with a shrug, her smile growing wider with every passing moment as she nudges his chin teasingly with the tip of her warm nose. “I could steal a kiss, I suppose? That’s a very you thing to do.”
“Not quite. Usually you’re the one trying to steal one, and I make you ask for it. Beg, even, if I’m feeling a bit meaner than usual.” Tilting his head to the side and shaking it slowly, Harry lets out a long sigh. “You’re losing your touch, Watson.”
“Tragic.” Y/N matches his sigh as she begins to untangle her hands from his hair, but when she tries to extract herself from Harry’s grasp, he just holds on tighter.
“But for the sake of tradition…” Harry’s eyes fall to the mortal’s lips as he wets his own with his tongue. “How about a hello kiss?”
Despite the usual iciness of Harry’s touch, heat begins to blossom through Y/N’s chest as she tilts her head up to meet Harry’s mouth. The kiss, unlike many they’ve shared before, is tender, and only lasts for a brief moment before Y/N settles back down on the balls of her feet.
“Hi.” She whispers, her hands curling around the fabric clinging to Harry’s muscular shoulders.
“Hi.” The vampire replies easily as he finally releases his grip on her waist, taking a step back from both Y/N and the bashful instance they’d found themselves in.
He allows her to lead him down the entrance hallway and into her living room, drifting behind her towards the kitchen and glimpsing over all the ingredients she has scattered around her counters.
“You look beautiful in my cardigan, by the way.” Harry throws out casually, admiring the way the article hangs off her figure in the most adorable oversized fashion. “If I didn’t make that clear enough before. And,” the monster takes a sudden deep whiff for emphasis, “it smells delicious in here. Seems like Gordon Ramsey doesn’t have shit on you, huh?”
Although the initial compliment brings a flush of pleasure up Y/N’s spine, she chooses to focus on the latter half of Harry’s comment. “I’d like to think so, yeah. Dinner is almost ready, if you want to take a seat at the table. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Actually…” Harry holds up the bag in his hand and bounces it jestingly, fully bringing it to Y/N’s attention for the first time. “I thought I’d make us margaritas to go with the fajitas. Really commit to the theme, y’know?”
All of the previous drinks that Harry has made for her float through Y/N’s mind, and her mouth salivates at the thought of drinking another of his incredible creations. He really does have such a wise talent with liquor that she finds herself subconsciously wondering how that had come to be. “Of course; we can’t do Fajita Fridays halfway, now can we?”
“No, we can’t.” Harry agrees with a firm nod, setting the bag down on her small kitchen tabletop and unpacking the ingredients he’d toted with him. “Do you prefer your margaritas over ice or blended?”
The correct answer immediately rolls off the mortal’s tongue. “Blended— I’m not insane.” She states with a scoff, picking up her spatula to stir the pepper and onion mixture on the stove as she bobs her head towards the cabinet at the far end of the room. “The blender is just up in that cupboard there.”
The corners of Harry’s pink lips tug up at her response, and he nods to the girl as he drifts over and reaches for the cabinet she’d motioned to. “Gotcha.” He says, pushing back a few decorative serving platters before extracting the blender sitting on the back of the shelf. “Oh, this’ll do nicely.”
His comment is met with a quiet snort from Y/N, who glances at him from the corner of her eye as she turns her attention to the sautéing chicken in her skillet. “Oh, it will, will it?” She asks sarcastically, her lithe fingers adding pinches of seasoning to the dish. “Are you a blender connoisseur, then?”
“Of course I am, angel. Y’have to be, to make a half decent margarita.” Setting the kitchen appliance in the counter, Harry studies it with a keen eye, running his fingers over the smooth glass and slightly worn buttons. “It has a little bit of wear and tear, but that’s to be expected; the rest of it seems to be in decent condition.” He unwraps the cord from the base of the blender, plugging it into the wall before pressing the pulse button a few times to make the machine roar to life. “Listen to that engine purr… A blender like this could bring a man to tears.”
“That’s good to know.” Y/N snorts again, shaking her head at Harry’s antics as he begins to prepare his ingredients. “If you need a knife for the limes, there’s one in the block there. And ice is in the freezer—”
“That’s good to know.” Harry mimics her prior reply with a shit-eating grin on his face, his hand wrapped around a bottle of Don Julio he’d snagged from his bar shelves. “I was about to check the cabinet again.”
With a shake of her head, Y/N steps past Harry to open a cupboard and fetch a serving dish. “Alright, smartass.” She bumps her hip against Harry’s as she passes him, the motion sending a jolt of electricity across the vampire’s pelvic bones. “Keep it up and you’ll lose dessert privileges.”
Although she tries to step away, Harry twists a cool arm around Y/N’s waist, pulling her back against his chest as he smudges a kiss over her pulse point. “‘M sorry.” He murmurs, keeping his voice low in an attempt to hide the smile brewing on his face. “I’ll be nicer, then. I’d hate to lose dessert—it’s my favourite part.”
With his lips over her neck, Harry can feel the exact moment Y/N’s heart rate increases, his ears pricking with the now familiar and adored sound. Her warm hand cups his over her belly, fingers tracing over the knuckles of his icy touch.
“I know it is.” Y/N tilts her head to the left, trying to provide Harry with more access to her neck as his mouth continues to ghost over her skin. “So I’d hate to take it away.”
The human girl’s familiar and achingly sweet honey and lavender scent fills Harry’s nostrils as his nose brushes against her jaw. When he refers to her as dessert, Y/N doesn’t know how genuinely Harry means it. “Alright. I’ll behave.” He relents, but he squeezes her tummy tightly as his teeth graze her skin one last time before pulling away. “For now.”
When Y/N detangles from the cage that is Harry’s arm, she busies herself with cooking again, doing her best to hide the light sheen of sweat that is beading her forehead. It’s almost embarrassing, really; despite only being here for five minutes, Harry’s already pulling reactions out of her that she didn’t even know she had. If she doesn’t get a hold of herself soon, she’ll be on her knees for him before he’s had a bite of dinner.
With that thought in mind, the mortal forces herself to focus on the tasks at hand, continuing her banter with Harry while making sure to keep the subject matter PG as she plates the food and Harry blends drinks for them. Her tiny table, which she’s already set for two, is soon filled with dishes containing sautéed vegetables, chicken, and other various toppings, and Harry pours his margarita mix into two glasses before sitting across from her with a curious air.
“So this is what you and your friends used to do back home, is it?” He asks, crossing his arms and resting them on the table as he regards Y/N with a tilted head. “Fajita Fridays? Taco Tuesdays? Meatloaf Mondays?”
“Meatloaf Mondays sound depressing.” Y/N shoots back with a scoff, her hand wrapping around her margarita glass and lifting it to her mouth to take a sip. “We weren’t that pathetic.”
Harry exhales a sharp but quiet breath from his nose once—the beginnings of a laugh— before offering a dry reply. “No, it doesn’t have a very nice ring to it, does it?” He says, watching eagerly as her eyes widen at the first taste of the drink rolls across her tongue. “Do you like it?”
Y/N clears her throat as she lowers her glass from her mouth. “It’s...strong.” Y/N replies slowly, taking another gulp and smacking her lips in an exaggerated fashion. “But yummy. This is a repeat recipe, I think.”
The praise warms the pit of Harry’s stomach as he raises his own glass, motioning to the girl before him before bringing the edge of the cup to his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He murmurs, setting his drink back down after taking a sip and letting his eyes roam over the food before them. “So how did you and your friends do this? Everyone would just reach in at once, or—?”
“Oh, well, we—we used to say grace first, actually.” Y/N admits after a moment, her eyes momentarily flickering to the gold cross dangling from Harry’s neck. Although his usual cross earring is absent tonight, his pearls out of sight as well, and he’s only wearing his opal and lionhead rings, that familiar cross necklace is present as ever. “And then we’d move everything around the table clockwise from the person who actually led saying grace.”
Despite Y/N previously mentioning that she’d been a regular church goer in her hometown, this new information sparks an interest in Harry’s mind. “Really?” He quirks an eyebrow as the human girl reaches for a warmed tortilla and begins to spoon her toppings inside. “But you don’t do that now?”
“Nope.” Her lips pop on the final consonant sound of the word. “Did you say grace growing up?” She asks curiously, nodding to the chain around Harry’s neck. “You always wear that cross, so I was just wondering…”
“Oh, uh—yeah. Yeah, we did.” A crease furrows the space between Harry’s brow as he selects his own tortilla, keeping his eyes glued to the food. “My father used to lead it every night.” Although he could leave the comment there and be done with the topic, more words of explanation spill from Harry’s mouth without him realizing how much he’s actually saying, his gaze remaining trained on the way he’s filling his tortilla, almost as if it’s a monumentally difficult task that requires his utmost attention. “I liked to listen to him say it. My father had a very calming voice; he could be loud and boisterous when he wanted to, but at home, he always kept cool and collected. It was comforting.”
Y/N notes the use of past tense when discussing Harry’s father, but doesn’t comment on it. With the knowledge that his mother had passed away in her mind, she assumes the same has happened to his father, and the realization twists her heart in a new and aching manner. “You speak like that, you know.” She tries to steer the conversation into a lighter direction, registering the sadness in his emerald eyes when he discusses his family. “When you’re telling stories about your life. Your voice is low and even, quieter than usual. It sounds a bit like a…lullaby, I guess. Or like— like an audiobook, like someone’s reading some old poetry, or—” Her cheeks flame beneath her skin as she drops her eyes to her plate. “Sorry. That, um, that sounds strange.”
The outpouring confessions from the girl across from him brings an awed expression to Harry’s face. He had always assumed his voice was more of a siren song than anything— capable of luring his victims into a false sense of security before he showed his true monstrous form. But if the stuttering of Y/N’s heart and the brightness in her eyes is any indication, maybe that isn’t quite the case. She described him as a lullaby, yes, but she didn’t sound betrayed at the thought of him spinning stories in order to keep her pliable under his grasp. If anything, her words give the impression that she enjoys it.
“I’ve heard stranger.” Harry murmurs after a moment, his unusually bare forefinger rubbing over his lips pensively as he waits for Y/N to raise her head again. “Thank you. That’s a compliment, really, saying that I sound like my dad used to.”
“Well, I mean, I’ve never heard your dad speak, so take it with a grain of salt—” Y/N forces out a laugh, despite her cheeks and neck still feeling uncomfortably flushed, “—but I imagine it’s similar. After all, he raised you, didn’t he?”
Harry nods slowly, his mind so wrapped in his own memories that he doesn’t even think about the incriminating answer about to fall from his lips. “He did, yeah, but it’s been a while since I’ve been able to speak to him.” He admits, pinching his chin between his thumb and index finger as he lifts his left shoulder in an empty shrug. “Memories fade over time. Things change. People change.”
Although she can feel that they’re beginning to breach a more serious topic, Y/N doesn’t pull back like she did in the restaurant. She rationalizes this action to herself as she sips her margarita and collects her thoughts, saying that it’s just because it’s easier to be honest in her apartment than a brunch restaurant. But the truth of the matter is that the longer she spends with Harry, the more Y/N wants to know him. Really know him, outside of their usual arrangement.
“That’s true,” She agrees with hesitancy etched into her voice, keeping a measured glance on Harry’s body to read his reaction. “But you can’t have changed that much since you last saw him. When…” Her words trail off when Harry locks his emerald eyes with hers, but she takes a deep breath and finishes her question in determination. “When did he pass away? How old were you?”
In the immortal’s mind, the answer forms without any delay. His father had been the first to go in his family; the combination of breathing in smoke from the forge and his age being four years his mother’s senior had stopped his heart before hers. The news of his death reached Harry a few days after it had happened, and he had just made it back to Holmes Chapel in time to watch the funeral service from afar.
Despite his appearance being frozen at twenty-six, as it always would be, Harry was nearly twenty-nine to the day of the funeral. Gemma had been thirty-three by then, standing with their mother and a tall man by her side, who whispered what her brother hoped were reassuring words in her ear. His sister's eyes had been nearly a perfect mirror of Harry’s, with the exception of a few crow’s feet beginning to show around them. And his mother had been dressed in widower’s black, a veil pulled over her weeping face to allow her the bit of discretion that was expected in Victorian times. Harry had been distressed when he saw the veil, despite expecting it to be there; he’d hoped he could get one more glimpse of her eyes before he had to leave that day. He had entertained the idea of walking over, expressing his condolences, and compelling her to forget she’d seen her lost son, but the thought had twisted an ache into his chest that had nearly brought him to tears, and—
“I was twenty-one when he passed away.” Harry spits the sentence out, and the familiar lie burns his throat in an entirely foreign way than the thirst he’s used to. “He had lung cancer.” At least, that had been Harry’s assumption after he read up on the disease years after his father’s undetermined passing. It made sense, given that all the grit and soot from the coal and metal grime had found its way into the air of the blacksmith’s shop, and after slaving away for years in order to keep food on the table, it had also eventually made its way into his father’s system… “It progressed quickly.”
As he watches sympathy glaze itself over Y/N’s eyes, all he can think about is how undeserving he is of it. Even though he’s compelled the mortal girl in front of him, gained her trust, been invited into her home, and is kindling a connection with her, all for the simple act of drinking her blood, Harry thinks that this might be the most monstrous thing he’s done yet— paint himself as a victim of circumstance, hiding all the wrong-doings he’s ever committed, and allowing Y/N and her softly-beating heart to feel sorry for him.
The conversation moves to an lighter tone after that, which Harry does on purpose; the less he needs to tell her about his fabricated sob story, the better. And, truth be told, he’d much rather hear about Y/N’s day-to-day life. It’s been so long since he had human concerns, and when he did, his concerns certainly didn’t have anything to do with being betrayed by customers because the cafe wifi was down. It’s almost amusing to him, listening to her rant about all these insignificant people, and he can’t help the way his dimples begin to peek out of his cheeks as she raises her voice at imaginary customers.
“So I told him, in my most polite voice, that we were aware the wifi was down, and that we’d called the provider to let them know, and that they were sending someone as fast as they could to fix it. And do you know what he said to me?” Y/N widens her eyes in incredulous disbelief as she takes a bite of her fajita, chewing and swallowing quickly to continue with her story with more emphasis. “Do you know what he said?”
“No, I don’t.” Harry shakes his head in endearment, hiding the laugh forming on his rosy lips behind his margarita glass. “What did he say?”
“He said—” Y/N twists her face to mimic the customer’s expression, dropping her voice down five octaves lower as she speaks with a ridiculous tone. “‘Oh, well, can’t you just fix it? You work here, don’t you? What else do you get paid for?’ Can you believe that?” She states the last phrase in her normal voice, scoffing at the memory as she crosses her patchwork covered arms across her chest. “Like, I’m a waitress! I don’t work at an internet company! I’m trained to bring you water and sandwiches— which are more cucumber than anything with actual substance— so it’s not my responsibility to figure out why you can’t load Candy Crush on your phone!”
A snicker finally breaks free from Harry’s throat as he watches Y/N angrily stuff a piece of chicken into her mouth. “Sounds like you had a rough day today.”
“That’s pretty average for me, honestly.” Y/N sighs again, rubbing her hand over her forehead as she polishes off the rest of her second margarita. “Ugh, it pissed me off. I wanted to shove his phone right up his ass and ask if his wifi connection got better.” A small smile breaks out across Y/N’s lips in spite of herself as Harry stifles another giggle at her witty comment. “But I’ve talked about it enough. How was your day? What did you do?”
“I did a bit of work in the morning, nothing too noteworthy.” Harry replies, deliberately keeping his answer vague as he twists his lionhead ring around his finger. “And I was about to watch a golf tournament with Xander and Niall when you called.”
Harry thinks nothing of mentioning their names, but is surprised when Y/N’s brow cinch in thought. “Which ones are Xander and Niall? Is one of them the long haired one?” She asks curiously, pulling her (his) cardigan off one shoulder as the tequila begins to course through her veins and heat her body.
“The— no. No, that’s Mitch.” Harry says slowly, cocking his head to the side in confusion. “How did you know that?”
Y/N feels a spike of embarrassment in her stomach, and shyly avoids Harry’s eyes as she answers. “There was a photo of you with a group of guys in your apartment, in the living room.” She mumbles, tapping her fingers against her newly cleaned plate. “One of them— I think he was next to you in the photo?— had long hair. Another had blue eyes, glasses… and brown hair, I think? I don’t really remember the rest…”
Harry hums in the back of his throat, quiet and low. “That was probably Niall.” He guesses, finishing his own margarita and setting the glass down gently. “If I’m thinking of the right picture, then Xander was the one standing next to him.”
Y/N pictures the faces in her mind’s eye, imagining the two brunette boys in the clothing from the photo, slumped next to Harry on the couch of his stunning condo, knocking back pints of beer and plates of nachos as they watch golf on TV. It seems strange to picture Harry doing something so… normal. She forgets, sometimes, that he’s a regular twenty-six year old man. In her head, when she thinks of Harry, regular is the last word that comes to her mind— even when he’s sitting across from her in a casual outfit, doing something as simple as eating dinner while he asks her about her day, Y/N struggles to remember that this man is just that: a man.
Maybe, she ponders, as Harry stands up with the explanation of making more margaritas falling off his lips, it’s because she’s only ever really been alone with him. With the exception of the club where they met, and his friends interrupting their weekend a few weeks prior (her cheeks flame at the recalling of the embarrassing memory), Y/N has only ever seen Harry in her own context.
As the blender whirs to life behind her, the human twists in her chair to catch a glimpse of the object of her thoughts. Even beneath his opaque shirt, she can see the muscles of Harry’s back flexing as he bends down to slice a lime, squeezing the juice into the top of the blender while holding his jeweled hand underneath to catch any seeds. When Harry is around her, he’s charming, cocky, self-assured, and— on the extremely rare occasion— vulnerable. What’s he like around his friends?
Just as cocky, Y/N is sure; she can’t picture Harry letting go of his signature smirk so easily. But does anything else about him shift when exposed to different company? Is there different vocabulary that slips from his mouth? What about his tone of voice? Does that change, too, like Y/N’s used to when she was around Bradley, or when she’s with customers? He mentioned earlier that he’d been watching golf, and that was the last sport she'd ever think he’d have an affinity for, let alone one he’d enjoy enough to make a day out of watching tournaments. What other personality traits and pastimes is he keeping from her? If she were to be a fly on the wall while he was with his friends, would she see someone completely unrecognizable in his Gucci boots and translucent shirts?
The sudden lack of noise from the blender snaps Y/N from her thoughts, and Harry detaches the pitcher and carries it to the table, filling her empty glass with a smile.
“There you are, miss.” He winks at her quickly before filling his own cup and standing back from the table with a grin, his free hand folded behind his back as he straightens his posture. “Now,” He begins, his accent slipping into a more posh tongue as he bows his head lightly. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
Despite her worries, a soft laugh rolls from Y/N at his impersonation of a server. “Yeah, actually.” She drops her voice lower again, plastering an angry expression onto her face as she reaches into her cardigan pocket and retrieves her phone. “Your wifi is down. What kind of restaurant doesn’t have wifi? Can’t you fix this?”
A loud snort echoes from Harry’s mouth as he sets the blender back down on the counter before sliding back into his seat across from her. “Sorry, love,” He laughs, his regular accent back in its place. “That’s a bit above my paygrade. I can, however, offer you some compensation.”
Wrapping her fingers around the icy margarita glass, Y/N leans forward, resting her chin on her free hand as she appraises Harry with a kinked brow. “Is that so?” She replies in her regular voice as well, her interest piqued. “What kind of compensation?”
“It’s part of our Friday Night Special,” Harry slides his hand across the table and pushes the baggy rainbow sleeve of Y/N’s cardigan down her arm in order to brush his cool fingers up and down her bare skin. “And it features bottomless margaritas paired with cunnilingus from our most handsome waiter.”
A fluttering warmth begins to knot itself around Y/N’s core, but she does her best to keep her composure as she straightens her spine and glances around the apartment. “Sounds intriguing. So where’s the handsome waiter?”
Harry’s pillowy lips plunk down into an exaggerated frown as he presses a hand to his chest, his other hand continuing to stroke over Y/N’s forearm. “Ouch, Watson. That hurt. Might need you to kiss it better.”
“Oh yeah?” Y/N challenges, lifting her drink to her lips and sipping it slowly. “Where exactly does it hurt?”
Instead of answering her query, Harry simply stands from his chair and rounds the table to stop in front of Y/N, extending his hand to her. She lays her fingers inside his cool grasp, allowing him to pull her from her seat. He’s closer than she realized, she thinks, as her chest brushes with his and the intoxicating scent of his cologne fills her senses, only getting stronger as Harry nudges her nose with his own, his lips just barely gliding over her own. The copper specks around his pupils glitz under the muted lighting, electric from the alcohol, from the sensation of her close proximity, and from the ever-present intention of getting between her legs.
When Harry finally speaks, his thick cadence washes over her just as much as his tequila-scented breath, his free-hand tugging suggestively at the waistband of her leggings. “If we go to your bedroom, then I can show you.”
“Mm, is that so?” The girl gives in to his gesture, stepping forward as the vampire begins treading backwards towards their new— though entirely familiar— destination. “You’re gonna show me, then?”
“I most certainly am.” The boy keeps their bodies close, making sure that his lips continue to just barely graze hers as he moves, teasing her nerves into a frenzy. “I plan on showing you over, and over, and over…”
Y/N can’t bring herself to resist the offer. She’s only human, after all.
///
The next morning, Harry wakes up tangled in Y/N’s sheets to two surprises: the sheets on Y/N’s side of the bed are cold and bare, and that Harry is actually waking up.
Although he remembers falling back onto the scattered sheets the night before (after coaxing three orgasms out of Y/N and her coaxing two from him in return), he doesn’t remember drifting off into the sleep he so rarely needs, and because of that, Harry feels disoriented and groggy in a way he hasn’t in a long time. He does his best to blink the haze from his usually sharp eyes, knuckling at them with his cool fingers as he attempts to get his bearings.
His sleep-fogged mind struggles to recall what had happened after Y/N had fallen asleep. She’d drifted off easily and quickly, her sweat-soaked body tucked into Harry’s with her head resting in the crook of his neck. That noted detail sticks out in his memory because it had made Harry pause before biting her. She’d been so comfortable next to him, and in such an inconvenient position that Harry didn’t want to shift her to drink. After debating with himself for a few moments, he’d eventually decided on an alternative and had lifted her fragile wrist to his lips.
Even half awake, Harry’s lips quirk up at the hazy memory. He recalls the feeling of her hummingbird pulse thrumming beneath her delicate skin, practically vibrating against his lips as he stamped a kiss over her vein before biting down. Her blood had a weaker flow there, but that was alright; he’d just sucked a little harder to coax the liquid from her body, feeling his mouth overflow with her welcomed taste as well as with the supernatural chemicals that inject into her system and dull any pain his feeding might cause. He’d been careful to gauge his consumption by the strength of her heartbeat, and when he’d finished, he’d sealed the wound with a bit of his own blood, as usual. He’d made sure Y/N was healed and settled back in his arms before relaxing into the pillows to listen to her breathing, the soft pillows and her radiating body heat feeling more soothing than usual. Somewhere between counting the movement of her lungs and the sun rising, Harry had fallen unconscious.
It’s strange, being up after Y/N. Harry has grown used to rising before her and making breakfast, or even just coffee, and there’s something disorienting about being in her bed alone, without her inherent warmth and soft skin, and only the ghost of her sugary scent left behind. He briefly wonders if this is how she feels when she wakes up to cold sheets and no one beside her (although Harry suspects the lack of his frozen body would make the bed a more comfortable temperature), and thinks that maybe he should begin to lay in bed with her a little longer; if he’s going to fake a relationship with her, it should be a relationship where her partner wants to be around her, and isn’t awake before the sun.
And that’s another thing. The golden orange light of the rising L.A. sun is just beginning to stream through the closed curtains, so what time is it? It can’t be any later than seven— on a Saturday, no less— and at such an early hour, Harry would expect Y/N to still be dreamily dozing in bed. What had drawn her away from her comfortable position in Harry’s arms?
As the sun continues to rise, the light begins to streak onto Y/N’s empty side of the bed and, instinctually, Harry begins to reach for the beam, craving the warmth she took with her when she abandoned the sheets. Instead of the expected touch of heat, however, Harry is jarred by a burning sensation ripping across his icy flesh.
The vampire yanks his hand back in a flash, his face screwing in silent pain as he bites back a yell of anguish, but the damage has already been done. The tips of his fingers are puckered with red blisters, which throb as he flexes his hand in the safety of the shadows. Harry digs his sharp teeth into his lip harder, forcing himself to inhale slowly through his nose and exhale shakily through his mouth.
It takes a few moments for him to collect himself, breathing deeply with his eyes closed as he does so, and as he counts his own breaths like he’d counted Y/N’s the night before, what should’ve been an obvious thought enters his mind: why had he burned? He’s wearing his lionhead ring, which has eyes made of those precious crystals that protect his inhuman skin from sunlight, and as long as he’s wearing it, the sun shouldn’t be able to…
Harry’s sight snaps completely open as he jerks forward in bed, his head throbbing from the sudden movement. When he’d first awoken, he’d attributed his grogginess and dry eyes to sleeping for the first time in weeks, but as Harry’s jade gaze settles upon his uninjured hand, he realizes the truth. That disorienting feeling isn’t from sleep, but from the sunlight that had begun to seep through the curtains and affect his body, bouncing off the glossy walls of Y/N’s room and reflecting off her picture frames and furniture. What would normally not be an issue suddenly becomes the bane of his existence, and what usually isn’t able to affect his body immediately does, obvious in the agonizing sweltering writhing through every single one of his dormant arteries. And all because his lionhead ring is missing from its rightful place.
Granted, Harry hadn’t worn most of his rings to Y/N’s apartment the night before, seeing as how they planned to spend the night in, but he’d kept his mother’s opal and the lionhead securely on his middle finger and pinky, just as he always did. The former brings him memories of his mother, and helps him keep a piece of her— and who he once was— with him in this strange modern time. The latter had been a rebirth gift from a family he’d rather forget, and if it didn’t keep him from flambéing himself every time he stepped into the sun, he wouldn’t wear it at all. In all honesty, he probably would’ve chucked into Hell, if he could.
But the reality of his afterlife is that Harry needs that ring. So why is it missing from his hand?
Cradling his blistered digits to his bare chest, the wounded vampire tosses back the covers, careful to avoid the streaks of sunshine beginning to light up the small room. His icy chest soothes the burn in his fingers, which are taking longer to heal than Harry would’ve thought, but if the grating itch of his dry eyes is any indication, the effects of the sun aren’t just limited to direct physical harm, but are also stopping his body from healing itself as quickly as usual.
Harry presses his good hand to his dizzy head and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet onto the ground as firmly as he can to center himself, refusing to cripple under the extraneous circumstances. He fishes his grey boxers from their signature spot on Y/N’s floor, slipping them on slowly as even the smallest of movements seems to strain his muscles beyond reason. As the elastic band snaps around his hips, another frightening possibility seizes his body: his mother’s ring could also be gone. He yanks his hand away from his head, and it takes his eyes a moment to focus on the opal ring. At least he can breathe a sigh of relief about one thing— if his mother’s ring had disappeared, Harry’s not quite sure what he would’ve done.
And that thought brings his spinning mind back to the present. His lionhead ring is gone, and he can’t so much as step into sunlight without undergoing intense, insurmountable pain, so how is he going to find it?
Another groan falls from Harry’s mouth as he rests his forehead in his palm, propping his elbow against his knee so he can shield his eyes from the sunlight by hiding in between his legs. Daylight talismans are extremely rare; he can’t exactly waltz into the nearest Wal-Mart and pick one up. The crystals that give vampires such cherished immunity all date back to the medieval era, when vampires were considered mythical legends instead of just plain myths, and what few of the crystals are left are hidden deep within old ruins in the remote wilderness of Europe. If Harry hadn’t been given his shortly after he was turned, he’s not sure he would have been lucky enough to own one. He remembers Niall telling him how he had to search every night for months before he found a crystal hidden inside a ruin in Wales, and Xander had once recounted the story of stealing his from the vampire that turned him. Even Mitch had struggled with the crystals before; although his ring had originally been a gift from the vampire that transformed him, he had to crack the crystal in half and set it into a new ring for Sarah when she had met her untimely demise.
Vampires have been known to beg, lie, cheat, and steal in order to get their hands on a daylight crystal, so if someone managed to sneak in and take Harry’s lionhead ring while he and Y/N were sleeping, then Harry is going to have a fucking hell of a time trying to get it back.
As the thought enters Harry’s dazed mind, a chill runs down his back, crawling across his spine and down his tailbone in an unsettling shiver as he slowly turns back to Y/N’s empty side of the bed. If someone— if another creature just like him, who would be the only other person capable of recognizing such a treasure— got into the apartment and took his ring, and found an unconscious mortal girl with the sweetest honey and lavender liquid pulsing through her veins, then…
The sheets and curtains of the room blow in a breeze as Harry jets off the bed, forgetting to control his inhuman speed as he throws the sliding door open and stumbles into the hallway. More sunlight streams through the windows of the living room, and it’s taking all of Harry’s dulled concentration to avoid the beams as he staggers towards the kitchen.
It’s not until the immortal smells Y/N’s familiar fragrance and hears the beating of her heart, in tune with her quiet humming, that the fear Harry hadn’t realized had tightened his chest flows out of him in one fell swoop. He does his best to force even breaths in and out of his lungs, watching as Y/N raises her coffee mug to her lips and blows on the hot liquid before taking a small sip.
She’s dressed in his multicoloured patchwork cardigan again, buttoned up to provide her with warmth and modesty, but it slips down her bare shoulder in a way that allows Harry to see she’s wearing nothing underneath it. Although the cardigan pools around her silky thighs— which are marked with bruises from the night before— Harry can see the tiniest peak of her panties beneath the fabric, and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might’ve noticed how they’re not the pair she wore last night (that pair had been ripped right down the middle in his frantic attempt to get them off). However, Harry’s eyes quickly settle on Y/N’s hands, which, after she sets down her coffee cup, pick up Harry’s lionhead ring and begin turning it around in her fingers.
When he sees the ring in her delicate grasp, a wave of sheer rage begins to rumble through Harry’s chest, and it takes every fiber of his undead being to keep it at bay as he approaches the mortal girl. “Y/N,” Harry rasps lowly, voice heavy with the exhaustion that his newfound vulnerability has stacked onto his shoulders. He stands in the one spot of shadow near the kitchen counter, trying hard not to glower. “What are you doing?”
When Y/N turns her head to look at him, her sleepy face smiles softly, eyes nearly as bright as the infuriating sun. Maybe that’s why, Harry thinks, it feels like it burns.
“Morning,” She says quietly, her own voice just as sleepy as Harry’s as she picks up a grey cloth from the table and begins to run it over the ring with precision and care. “How did you sleep?”
It’s a simple, innocent question, and Harry knows that, but his mind can’t think in simple and innocent terms right now. As the light filling the room begins to pound his head even more, Harry’s thoughts revert back to his most instinctual behavior— rough carnal impulse. “What are you doing?” He asks again, his voice lower than before. He sounds dangerous, and he means to. How could she possibly think that taking something from him without his permission is fine?
“I’m polishing your ring.” Y/N keeps that good-natured smile on her face as she replies, but Harry can see the smallest waver in it as she begins to sense his distorted energy from across the room. “It was tarnished, and I have a polishing cloth, so I thought I’d—”
“Give it back.” Harry doesn’t mean to snarl the phrase, but he can’t stop himself from doing it as he thrusts out his hand expectantly; it’s taking all his concentration to keep himself from baring his teeth and letting his eyes bleed red.
Y/N doesn’t fight him on it, and drops the ring carefully into his awaiting hand without letting her warm skin meet his. She watches with confused eyes as Harry slips the newly shined lionhead ring onto his finger, a breath of relief sighing from his red lips the moment the metal meets his skin. He finishes twisting it into its designated spot, and he feels like he can actually breathe again.
The human girl waits a moment for an explanation from Harry, some spoken word or action to justify the hostility rolling off of him as he clutches the jeweled hand to his chest. As the moments pass, however, Harry offers no explanation, or anything at all as he takes deep and measured inhales through his nose, as if he’s trying to relax.
“I’m sorry.” Y/N offers the words quietly, turning in her chair to properly face him with sincere eyes. “I just noticed that it was more tarnished than your other jewelry, and I thought I could—”
“You can’t take my rings from me.” Harry answers in a harsh voice, his face reflecting about as much warmth as stone on a winter’s day. “I thought I’d lost it. You can’t do that.”
“I’m sorry.” Y/N repeats the phrase again, gentler this time as she wraps her hands around her steaming mug. She had guessed that the opal ring was his mother’s, but like Harry’s ruby ring and initial rings, she’d deduced this lionhead decal was more for decoration than anything. If it was something important, one would figure that he’d take better care of it. But it seems she’s not as adept at reading Harry as she’d like to think, because his explosive reaction had been totally unexpected. For the first time since she met him, Y/N feels uneasy in his presence. Had she really offended him that much?
The truth of the situation, unbeknownst to her, is that Harry’s reaction is no more purposefully malicious than Y/N’s intentions. Although the ring is back on his finger, and the crystals are beginning to protect him again, Harry’s thoughts are still muddied as he glances around the apartment, carefully surveying the circumstance like the top predator he pretends not to be. There’s still a throbbing in his skull, and his eyes remain painfully dry, despite the fact that his healing has kicked in and mended his blistered fingertips. In this moment, Harry feels weaker than he has in centuries; if someone were to attack right now, he wouldn’t be able to react quickly enough to protect himself. How could his aching head afford him any clear plan of attack? How could his burning eyes show him every approaching danger? How did he let himself become so relaxed— so stupidly lax— that he didn’t notice a mere human slipping off his most precious and needed object as he slept soundly in her bed?
“I really am sorry, Harry.” Rising from her chair with her quiet speech, Y/N steps towards him, hand outstretched to touch his inked forearm. “I didn’t know—”
Her hot fingertips against Harry’s frozen skin jar the vampire, triggering his fight or flight instincts as he tenses beneath her touch. “No—” He wrenches his arm away hurriedly, the searing graze reminding him of the sunlight that had harmed him just seconds ago, his wild eyes meeting Y/N’s in a feral frenzy.
Although her chest barely moves, Harry can hear the stuttering breath that the girl sucks in through her teeth, her eyes widening at the severity of his actions. “I’m sorry.” She whispers the phrase again, her fingers jerking back from Harry’s arm in shock. “I…”
The more time passes, the more Harry regains control of himself, and as Harry melds his shattered composure back together, he can see the fear beginning to stain its way onto Y/N’s face. The uneven beating of her heart pricks his ears, as does the scuff of the floor beneath her bare feet as she takes a step back from him. When that uncertain fear reaches her irises, Harry is suddenly flashed back to their first date, when he’d been worried that she might be scared of being alone with him, and how delighted he’d been when he realized that wasn’t the case. And now, as a sick feeling begins to settle in his stomach, he knows he’s blown it.
Inhaling deeply through his nose, Harry urges himself to relax.
“No, I’m sorry.” He softens his voice as much as he can muster in order to apologize, rubbing his charred eyes with one hand, hoping they’re still the canopy green Y/N is familiar with. “M’just half asleep still, and I was worried that— I’m sorry.” Harry extends his ringed hand in invitation, desperately craving the warmth of Y/N’s touch now that he’s leveled out, but not wanting to take it unwillingly. He wants her to feel safe enough to give it to him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
There’s a moment of hesitation that flickers in her eyes, but it quickly passes as the mortal lays her hand within his. “You didn’t scare me.” She reassures him, but Harry can hear the falseness of her response immediately, and that guarded demeanor only intensifies the nausea rattling inside him.
Is she lying to save his feelings, he wonders, or to make herself look tougher? No matter which may be the truth, Harry hates that she has to feel the need to lie. He’d been upset, yes, but he should know better. And he should know that she doesn’t know better. She thought she’d been doing something nice for him; she has no idea about the torturous results his ring protects him from. And she doesn’t know because Harry refuses to tell her— because he refuses to subject her to that perverted knowledge. This is his own doing.
“I did. I did frighten you, and I was rude, and I’m truly sorry.” Harry sighs heavily, dragging his fingers through his sleep-tousled curls. “My ring is just— it’s very important to me, and I don’t really like to take it off, so maybe just—just ask next time, yeah?” He murmurs the words in a soothing tone, his thumb sweeping over her knuckles in a poor attempt to make up for the way he’d berated her. “I know you didn’t have any bad intentions, and I’m not angry with you for taking it, but it just scared me when I woke up and it was gone.”
“I’m sorry.” Y/N repeats yet again, and although Harry can feel her melting into his touch, there’s still a hint of uncertainty lingering beneath her words.
Harry forces a grin on his chapped lips, which he wets with his tongue before speaking again. “S’alright, dove. No harm, no foul. And no more apologies, yeah?” He brushes a finger over her cheek, trying his best to put on a lighthearted front for the girl. “It was rather tarnished, actually— needed a good cleaning.”
A shy smile finally creeps its way onto Y/N’s face, and Harry has to stop himself from breathing an audible sigh of content at both the gesture and the lack of prying about why that ring was dirtier than the rest (the answer to said question is just as simple as it is complicated: it reminds Harry of someone he’d rather forget, and if he didn’t need it, he’d drown it in the deepest ocean he could find— keeping it clean is the least of his concerns).
“How about breakfast, hm? It’s early, but we could make some pancakes, or—” Harry glances at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, reading the time with surprise before his gaze travels back to Y/N with a confused look. “It’s not even seven yet. What time did you get up?”
“Around 6:15? 6:30?” She lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug, and Harry’s cardigan slips down her arm with the motion. “I don’t really remember.”
With his other hand still squeezing her own, Harry rugs the sleeve of the cardigan back up her shoulder, smoothing it over her morning-cooled skin. “It’s a Saturday, darling. What were you doing up so early?”
Despite her heartbeat having not quite returned to its usual tempo, Y/N nuzzles into Harry’s touch as he pulls her closer to him. “Couldn’t really sleep, I guess.” Tucking her face into his neck for a moment, Y/N indulges a penetrating inhale, enjoying the remnants of his mahogany and vanilla cologne before stepping back and past Harry to the cabinet.
Standing on her tiptoes, Y/N opens the door and retrieves a pink flowered mug before sliding down the counter to her coffee maker. “Want some coffee?” She asks, touching the glass of the carafe lightly to make sure it’s still warm. “There’s butter in the fridge, I think, if you want to make your disgusting drink.”
Ignoring the dig at his beverage of choice— which Harry has explained to her, multiple times, has many health benefits (not that he needs them) and just tastes better than coffee with cream— the vampire leans his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his bare chest as his brow furrows over his darkening eyes.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” He questions, his attention glued to Y/N’s actions as she seems to deliberately avoid his gaze. He analyzes the dark circles under her eyes, apparent even from just her side profile, and a spark of concern ignites his chest. Could this be his fault? Is drinking her blood beginning to take a physical toll on her body? His blood has been healing her bite marks, but what about her iron levels? Is her circulation being affected? Mitch has told him multiple times that drinking from humans is okay once or twice a week, as long as there’s a grace period in between feeding, but Mitch has also never had the same human for as long as Harry has had Y/N. Have the weeks they’ve spent together begun to unravel her?
When Y/N simply shrugs in response to his question, and offers no other words of explanation, a tired sigh falls from Harry’s lips as he steps towards her, taking the now-filled coffee mug from her hands and setting it down on the counter. He wraps his arms around Y/N’s shoulders, hugging the girl into his chest for a moment to get a gauge on her body’s response. Her heartbeat stutters, yes, but that’s a usual response to being wrapped inside Harry’s embrace, and it returns to normal after a few beats. Her body feels just as warm as it usually does, and her chest is rising and falling just as it should be. Nudging his face into her hair, he breathes in deeply, filling his lungs with her fragrance. No, nothing smells out of place, and her blood had tasted as delicious and as strong as ever last night. If she’s having trouble sleeping, the cause isn’t anything tangible.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Harry mumbles the words into her hair before lifting his head up, extracting the girl from his arms just enough so that he can see her face. “If something is bothering you and keeping you up, then you can wake me up, too.”
Y/N worries her pillowy bottom lip between her teeth as her eyes become entranced by Harry’s rosemary gaze. “I know I could, but I didn’t want to. You—” She swallows hard in an attempt to clear the thickness from her throat as her cheeks begin to burn. “You were sleeping, and I never see you sleep.” Y/N’s voice retreats into a sheepish tone at the admittance, her eyes falling from Harry’s stare to the floor between them. “You always fall asleep after me, and you’re always awake before me. You need rest, too, H.”
While Harry would normally laugh at that simple phrase— at the fact that Y/N doesn’t know how wrong she is— Harry’s dimples remain dormant as he focuses on the concern in her voice. “I—” His voice catches in his throat, and he has to clear it before he can say anything else. “I sleep just fine. Better, in fact, when I’m with you.” He confesses, his thumbs brushing over the exposed skin of Y/N’s neck.
And after Y/N has extracted herself from his grip to take a sip of her coffee, after she teasingly groans while watching Harry drop a pat of butter into his own steaming mug, after he begins to crack eggs into a pan as Y/N starts to lay bacon on a baking sheet, after all that, Harry finally realizes what lodged in his throat. It dawns on him just as Y/N slips a pink apron over his bare, faintly hickey-bruised chest to protect him from splatters of grease, giggling to herself as he poses with his hand on his hip and makes a vulgar joke about how this looks like the setup to a cheesy porno.
The vampire comes to the realization that Y/N takes notice of him.
She notices when he doesn’t sleep. She notices his exposed skin that could potentially be burned while cooking. She notices the expressions on his face, reads the tone of his voice, knows when to press a matter and when to leave it be. And she’s concerned. She’s concerned about not seeing him sleep. She’s concerned about him accidentally getting hurt. She’s concerned about the swings in his moods, the shortness of his answers. And while Harry knows her real concerns should be about allowing herself to be in such close proximity to someone— something— like him, he can’t help but feel a warmth in his chest at the thought of her worrying about him.
As much as Harry likes to pretend otherwise, he knows he’s not easy to be around sometimes. He can be vain, self-centered, self-serving, and inconsiderate. He can be selfish, dishonest, and manipulative. His mood can teeter at the drop of a hat, and he changes his mind like the weather on the best of days. And on his worst of days, sometimes Harry wonders if anyone could care for him, or even stand to be around him, if it wasn’t a necessity.
Although he’d never admit it, when Harry reflects on his friendships, he can feel a degree of insecurity in the threads that tie him to his crew. He’s fairly certain that if he and Mitch met under different circumstances— circumstances when both of them were human— they would likely still be friends. Maybe not as close as they are today, but friends, at the very least. When it comes to Niall, Xander, and Adam, however… he’s not so sure. Yes, he cares for them more than he’ll ever care for anyone again, and his loyalty to them is unwavering, but on his worst days, Harry can’t help but wonder if they would be friends if their connection hadn’t been forged on the basis of what they are, and understanding something that no one else can. If being vampires hadn’t placed them in each other’s lives and sealed them in a bond of venom and blood, would they even have given the others a second thought? Would any of them have wanted Harry in their lives? Harry wants to think yes, but it’s not a question of what he wants; the truth is, Harry is uncertain.
But when Y/N sits across from him with a smear of ketchup on her bottom lip, smiling softly at Harry as he wipes it off with his thumb, and he can’t stop himself from smiling back, he realizes something that’s never occurred to him before. He’s able to be cared for by someone who is drawn to him for all the reasons humans are normally drawn to each other, and not because they have a mutual understanding of what it’s like to be an other.
Of course, he knows there’s a certain degree of falsity in that; part of his charm and addictive qualities come from what he is, and Y/N, like any other mortal, isn’t immune to that. But instead of allowing herself to be driven away by the usual uneasiness that pairs with being so close to a vampire for so long, Y/N is leaning closer to him, laughing as he cracks a bad joke, kissing him over their breakfast, and showing evidence that she— against all odds— wants to know him. And the thought sends a fluttering below Harry’s ribs.
He wishes, just for a moment, that he could be capable of feeling the same. He wishes he could have the decency to give this girl the proper relationship she wants, or even the decency to break her heart quickly before she gets too attached to someone incapable of seeing her as anything more than a takeout meal. He wishes he could get to know her— truly get to know her, without any ulterior motives.
But Harry is vain, self-centered, self-serving, and inconsiderate. He’s selfish, dishonest, and manipulative. And he has his fangs too deep in this mortal to let her go.
///
“Are you sure I can’t pick you up?” Harry slides his phone between his ear and his shoulder in order to snag his keychain from his pocket, fumbling for the right key before inserting it into his locked door. “I can just drop my groceries off and then swing by your cafe, love. It’s no trouble.”
“No, really, it’s fine, H.” Y/N insists from the other end of the line, her voice nearly drowned out from the roar of L.A. traffic around her. “I already left work, and I’m nearly home. I’ll be over at your place within, like, forty-five minutes, I think? I just have to change out of my uniform.”
With his front door now unlocked, Harry grabs his phone from its perch on his shoulder before pushing open the door with his hand full of groceries, stepping inside his apartment and nudging the door shut with his foot. “I know, but it’s a long walk to my place, isn’t it?”
“It’s, like, twenty minutes— practically nothing. And besides, I have to stop at the post office and mail a letter to my parents.”
The corner of Harry’s mouth quirks up as he rounds the corner to his kitchen, setting his grocery bags on the island before leaning his hip against the kitchen counter, his now free hand braced against the cool marble. “You still send your parents letters? Can’t you just call them?” He asks, tapping a ringed finger against the stone.
“If you knew my parents, you’d send letters, too.” Y/N sighs into the speaker, and Harry’s inhuman ears can hear the jangling of her keys in her hand. He can picture her searching for them like she did the night they met, digging into her purse until she’s elbow deep, her tongue tucked between her teeth in concentration.
Despite the distinctive sound of a lock turning, Harry can’t stop himself from asking about her well-being. He’s so used to doing it with his other friends, it slips out on impulse. “Are you home now? Made it alright?”
There’s a hint of exasperated amusement in Y/N’s voice when she responds. “Yes, I managed to walk home all by myself. Didn’t even get murdered.” There’s another thud, and Harry imagines her shutting her door, pushing her weight against it to lock it properly. “I’m pretty good at taking care of myself, you know. I have good instincts.”
If she’s allowed him to get this close to her, Harry thinks, then her instincts aren’t exactly the caliber she imagines them to be, but he bites his tongue to stop himself from correcting her. “I’m sure you do, darling.” He murmurs the reply as he opens his fridge to begin stocking it with the items he’d purchased earlier. “Oh, by the way, make sure you’re wearing comfortable shoes, yeah? We’re going to be doing a bit of walking later.”
“Right. And you’re not telling me where we’re going because…?”
“Because surprises are fun.”
When Y/N huffs in response, Harry pictures the girl with a scowl on her face, her arms crossed tightly over her tummy as she gives him an endearing glare. “Not when you’re the one who’s being surprised.”
Still, despite her protests, Harry hears the rustling of clothing as she pulls off her work polo, followed by the clanking of her belt, the snap of a button, and the familiar rustle of her jeans being peeled off her legs. “You just worry about undressing yourself, alright? It must be difficult, since you’ve grown so used to me doing it for you.”
“Uh huh. I’m hanging up now.” Y/N deadpans into the phone, but Harry can tell there’s a lingering smile underneath her flat words. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Alright, doll. See you soon.” Harry sets a carton of eggs in the fridge before closing it, hanging up the call and slipping his phone back into his black slacks.
It takes Harry a few more minutes to put the rest of his groceries away in his pantry. He made sure to stock up on all the ingredients needed to make pancakes at the grocery store, as well as picking up a carton of the fancy pomegranate juice that Y/N had mentioned she was fond of. In fact, as he was wandering the aisles of his local Whole Foods, he’d found himself seeking out the snacks that he’d seen in her cupboards. He knows that humans need to eat much more often than vampires do, and seeing as how all the activities Y/N engages in at his condo are rather exhausting and energy-burning, he thought she’d need proper fuel.
After he folds the reusable cloth tote bags he’d brought to the grocery store and puts them back in the pantry, Harry climbs up his glass stairs to his bedroom. He takes a moment to evaluate his appearance in the full length mirror hanging on the back of his door, sweeping over every detail with a careful eye. His outfit is alright for what he has planned, he decides; his black slacks and scuffed white vans are comfortable, but more importantly, his white t-shirt embossed with a Hollywood Bowl print that clings to the muscles of his inked arms and broad chest, which Harry knows Y/N will enjoy. His curls, however, need a bit of tending to, and Harry slinks into his bathroom to add a bit more product to his chestnut locks, getting rid of the little frizz that had developed in the L.A. heat in order to fix his curl pattern.
As for his jewelry, he leaves on his usual rings: his gold initial pieces, his mother’s opal, his ruby, an engraved band, and his lionhead ring, which shines under the bathroom lights thanks to Y/N’s careful efforts the week before. Once those are secure, he fastens his pearl necklace around his neck, and fixes the clasp of his cross before slipping a plain gold hoop into his pierced ear. Once he’s satisfied with his accessories, Harry spritzes his favourite cologne across his body, giving his appearance one more look over as he leaves his bathroom and passes the full length mirror in his bedroom again.
The Rolex on his wrist tells him that Y/N is due over any moment, and he’s just making sure his Gucci wallet is securely tucked in his trouser pocket when Harry’s ears prick up at the sound of two pairs of feet stomping into his condo downstairs. It only takes him a moment more to identify the intruders based on their step patterns, and a frown tugs at the corner of his mouth as he checks the time again before sauntering down the stairs.
“And just what do you two,” Harry calls to his unexpected friends as he rounds the corner of the stairs, his eyebrow quirked in question as he steps down from the last platform, “think you’re doing here?”
“We wanted some change in scenery.” Niall quips sarcastically, emerging from the end of the entrance corridor with his hands in his pockets, shoulders shrugging casually. “And I told Xander you might be shirtless, which got him to tag along. But you’re not, much to his disappointment. Though I do think the way you’re about to burst out of that tee suffices. Isn’t that right, Xanny?”
“That’s not true!” Xander snaps hotly, his cheeks blazing and glare electric as Niall cackles boyishly, stepping around him and towards the kitchen, like he always does when he walks into Harry’s apartment. The tanned man glowers at the other vampire as he makes a beeline for Harry’s refrigerator, slowly pinning his gaze back onto the owner of the condo. He clears his throat awkwardly before offering a solid explanation for their sudden visit. “Adam cancelled on pub trivia night, so we thought you might be available instead.”
Harry shakes his head with a sigh as he makes his way into the kitchen, as well— mostly to make sure Niall doesn’t reach for any of the expensive liquors he has arranged on his bar shelves; they took too long to collect for him to just allow a single person to down one bottle like a shot— and leans both elbows against the marble island. “Sorry, mate. I’ve got a date with Y/N.”
“So bring her.” Niall pipes up from the fridge, a stolen bottle of Harry’s favourite beer already in his hand. Harry doesn’t complain— it’s a better substitute than his forty year aged scotch. “She went to uni, didn’t she? She must be smart.”
“I’ve got better things planned for us than pub trivia with two obnoxious knobheads.” Harry retorts, his lips tugging into a smirk at Niall’s responding eyeroll. “That’s not very romantic, is it? Taking her on a double date with you two?”
“And that’s not very nice, H. I’m offended you wouldn’t go on a double date with Xander and I.” The Irishman sniffles with fake sincerity, biting the bottle cap off his beer despite knowing that Harry keeps a bottle opener in the kitchen drawer to his right.
Xander watches the spectacle with distaste, his nose wrinkling as Niall spits the cap from his mouth into his hand. “And I’m offended you’d think I’d date someone who does that.”
“It’s not like you have standards.”
“Hey!”
“But then again, no one sets a bar the way I do.”
“The only bar you set for me was potential alcoholism.” Xander mutters spitefully.
“I’d make a great boyfriend.” Niall interrupts with airy confidence, ignoring his friends bickering and taking a deep swig of his beverage, smacking his lips appreciatively. “But humans are too fragile to keep around for long, and most vampires are fucking psychotic. Unfortunately.”
“What about Charlotte?” Harry suggests nonchalantly, hooking his index finger into the cabinet beneath him and fishing for a coaster. He shuts the drawer and skims the item across the top of the counter towards Niall, just in case the man wants to put his glass container down. This is real marble, after all. “She seems pretty tame.”
Niall glances at the coaster, but doesn’t make any conscious effort to set his drink down. Harry should’ve known; Niall isn’t one to put a pint down until it’s empty, but the possibility is there, nonetheless. It’s not his fault he likes taking care of his home.
Niall sighs through his nose dismissively, following it with a light rattle of his head. “Charlotte’s too...smart. She’s a bit out of my league, and I feel like she’d get bored of me easily. Also, how would you know if she’s tame or not? You rarely hang out whenever she’s around.”
“That’s because she hates me.” Harry states flatly, as if it should be obvious. And it should, considering the young woman had not held back on expressing her strong dislike towards the curly brunette. Harry has thick skin and words never hurt him, but Charlotte has a surprisingly vicious vocabulary; if he hadn’t been amused by her anger, she would have come pretty close to genuinely chipping his ego.
Niall chortles softly. “Well, I mean, you can’t really blame her, can you? You’re kind of a prick.”
“A proper asshole, actually.” Xander chimes in, drumming his digits against the table’s surface and giving Harry a bright, innocent smile.
The immortal momentarily casts his eyes towards the ceiling in mild annoyance. “Yeah, well, that’s just the way I am. If her and Miss Billy Ray Cyrus can’t handle some dark humor and dirty banter, that’s not my problem. Everyone else seems to like me just fine.”
“That’s debatable.” Xander corrects.
“You’re just mad I fucked you once and decided that was enough.”
“Anywho,” Niall interferes, waving around his beer in order to catch his friends’ attention and prevent a catastrophic World War V, he proceeeds to swivel the topic back onto himself, “like I said, I’d make a great partner. I’m funny, I’ve got a whole shelf full of PS4 games, I like to think my oral skills are pretty decent, and—”
“Have you ever made a girl wet her sheets?” Harry prods with entertained curiosity, cocking an eyebrow questioningly.
Niall pauses mid-sentence with his drink perched to his lips, eyes flitting around thoughtfully as he shovels through cluttered memories of drunken one night stands and fleeting relationships. He relents with a sheepish scoff, shoulders sagging. “...No.”
“Then you’re not as skilled as you think.” Harry remarks passively, titling his head to the side with finality. “And I’m willing to bet Mitch’s next stock of O negative that eighty percent of your hookups probably faked it.”
“Oi, bet, then.” Niall snorts, grinning around the spout of his beverage as he finishes his sip. He wiggles his brows playfully, squaring his shoulders proudly. “You can’t fake a leg-shake, darling.”
“A leg-shake?” Harry inquires carefully, pursing his lips to keep from sputtering into pompous laughter. “You mean like this?” He then proceeds to dramatically buckle his right leg, immediately debunking Niall’s ridiculous theory. “Just like that?”
The Irish bloke’s face drops into a scorned scowl as Xander and Harry break into a round of mocking giggles. He draws into himself with childish pettiness, narrowing his eyes pointedly. “Piss off.”
“Unless she couldn’t walk right afterwards, you didn’t really do what you think you did, Ni.”
“It seemed pretty real to me!” The blue-eyed boy rebuttals sharply, cheeks tinging bright pink in embarrassment.
“That’s the point.”
“This is precisely why I’d never entertain a relationship with you, even as a joke.” Xander pipes up towards Niall, smirking cruelly at his friend’s bruised ego. “I like my orgasms to be real, and I’m not willing to put up an act to spare your fragile masculinity.”
“Your dick’s probably small, anyways.”
“Bigger than yours.”
“Is that a challenge? I’ll pull it out right now, I don’t give a fuck.”
“Well,” Harry cuts in loudly, not necessarily keen on watching two grown men compare penis sizes in the middle of his home, “it seems you two have some issues to work out, so the double date is a moot point, anyways.” His jade eyes flicker to his watch again; Y/N should nearly be here, and he doesn’t want these two goons present when she arrives— especially not with their balls out. That wouldn’t be a decent introduction, despite being an unforgettable one. “So I’ll talk to you two later, then. Thanks for stopping by.”
“Hold up, I practically just cracked my beer.” Niall whines in return, holding up the chilled bottle in protest, leaning his backside against the marble countertop with a decisive motion. “Y’can’t kick us out yet.”
Harry laughs once, the noise sounding more strained than he would like. “Seeing as how I didn’t invite you over, I think I can.” He retorts, tapping a jeweled finger against the table.
“The blood bag isn’t even here yet,” Xander reasons as he pulls out a chair from the kitchen island, taking a seat and making himself at home as if Harry hadn’t just told him to get the fuck out. “So what's the rush?”
The hair on the back of Harry’s neck prickles at the crude nickname, and the older vampire shoots daggers at the younger as he pushes himself off the marble counter. “There isn’t one, except I think hearing herself be referred to as ‘the blood bag’ may make her a little suspicious, don’t you?”
“We’ve referred to her as worse.” Xander shrugs offhandedly, kicking his feet up onto the bar stool next to him.
Harry’s brows furrow as he pushes Xander’s shoes off his furniture, dusting the leather cushion off. “Referred to her as what? And when?”
Although Xander lifts one shoulder again as a vague answer, Niall smacks his lips loudly once again as he swallows the rest of the beer, and answers in a matter-of-fact tone. “In Vegas, after you ditched us to get your dick wet. I think Xander called her a fuckable slab of kobe beef, and—”
“I said ribeye, actually. Nice flavour, but a little chewy.” Xander corrects the Irishman, but has the decency to look halfway embarrassed when he catches Harry’s stony glare. “And it’s not like we’re wrong, right? That’s all humans are.”
Niall gives an affirmative nod as he sets his empty bottle down on the marble counter, completely ignoring the coaster Harry had slid to him. “Don’t take it personally, H. Xanny refers to his own dates as McDonald’s Happy Meal Twinks— at least a ribeye steak is expensive.”
“I’m not taking it personally.” Harry mutters the words in a low voice as his jaw twitches, tensing under the sunlight streaming through his floor-to-ceiling windows. “But comments like these are why you pricks need to get out of here before she shows up, or else I’ll be feeding from one of you tonight.”
A beat of silence falls between the three vampires as the palpable tension flowing off of Harry thickens the room. Xander and Niall glance between each other and Harry, hardly able to hold the latter’s eyes, before Niall offers a small comment.
“I don’t think Xander would mind that, really—”
“Out.” Harry points a jeweled finger at the entrance corridor with a firm motion. “Both of you. Go bother Mitch.”
He can see the disappointment and frustration that lingers on Niall and Xander’s faces, but neither of them fight him as they rise from their perches in the kitchen and walk dejectedly to the front door. Harry briefly entertains the idea of walking them out, but decides against it; there’s a strange buzzing sensation rising through his ribs, and he’s not quite sure what he’ll say as he bids his friends— he has to remind himself that, yes, they’re his friends— goodbye. It’s safer, he thinks, if he stays where he is and cleans up the mess that they managed to leave behind in their short visit.
He comes to regret that decision, however, approximately three milliseconds after he hears the front door creak open, and a familiar but unexpected voice echos down the entrance hallway.
“Oh— hi. Sorry, I may have the wrong apartment…?”
Harry freezes with Niall’s empty beer bottle clutched in his hand, his grip contracting so hard that he hears the thick glass begin to splinter.
“No, no, this is Harry’s apartment. We were just leaving.” The grin on Niall’s face is audible underneath his Irish accent. “You must be Y/N.”
“I am, yeah.” Harry can hear the tiny thread of surprise at him recognizing her in the human’s words, and the even tinier thread of pleasure that undercuts it. “And you must be...Niall, I think? And Xander?”
Niall’s smug reply grates against Harry’s frozen skin, even from down the corridor. “Harry’s told you about us, huh? Only good things, I hope.”
“Oh, I—”
Harry forces his legs to move with inhuman speed, the beer bottle not even having hit the marble counter by the time Harry appears at Niall and Xander’s shoulders. “Hi, darling.” He says through a strained smile, digging his stony fingers into the back of the two vampire’s arms, an unspoken warning of behave. “Y’made it alright, then?”
When Y/N shines a warm— albeit, slightly confused— smile in his direction, Harry wishes that he’d been faster in shooing his friends out the door, because the action nearly knocks the unrequired breath from his chest.
She’d dressed in comfortable and casual clothes, as per his suggestion, and is standing just outside the doorway in light washed denim overalls, with a black and white striped t-shirt layered underneath, and her familiar cotton candy pink vans on her feet. But the detail that digs its way to the forefront of his mind— more so than her satin lips, her heated cheeks that are appled with her smile, and the tousled locks that are pulled back from her face in a low ponytail— is the shining silver cross pendant that hangs on a chain around her smooth neck.
It’s a new addition that Harry has never seen before, and while he knows he shouldn’t be surprised— after all, she’d told him how she grew up in a religious town, how she’d attended church, how she used to say grace before dinner with her friends— the jewelry still piques his curiosity.
“I did, yeah. It’s really not that long of a walk, H.” Y/N replies, flicking her eyes between Harry and his two friends, who are still watching her every move as if she’s a specimen to be observed. “Sorry, am I interrupting…?”
The Irishman with glasses— Niall, Y/N reminds herself— opens his mouth to respond, but Harry quickly cuts him off as he pushes past his mates to take Y/N’s hand and step outside the apartment, fetching his keys and yellow sunglasses from the small side table by the door in one smooth motion.
“Not interrupting anything, doll. Niall and Xander were just on their way out.” Although Harry is smiling at her throughout the comment, the mortal can’t help but feel like the last phrase was aimed at the pair still lingering in the doorway.
“We were just stopping by to see if we could steal Harry for a last minute trivia game, but he said he was already booked.” Niall answers with an accepting shrug, glancing at Xander next to him, who’s still yet to say anything to Y/N, though he is carrying an unreadable empty expression as he gives the girl a calculating once-over. “Apparently, whatever he’s got planned for you two is more interesting than a few beers and watching Xander struggle to remember all the battles in World War I—”
“That’s not fair,” The brunette finally chimes in, breaking his attention away from her body to meet the blue-eyed boy’s gaze. Y/N is surprised to hear an American accent fall from his lips. “I’m the only one who wasn’t there, so how would I know—?”
“And you two are already arguing,” Harry cuts over his friends’ bickering, shooting them an annoyed glance as he wraps a cool arm around her waist, cautioning them to watch what they’re saying. “Which will only get worse once you get alcohol in your hands, and that is why I’m not going to subject Y/N to a headache-inducing night of torture.”
Y/N looks up at Harry with innocent interest swirling in her eyes. “I don’t know, H, it could be fun.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth as a crease forms between Harry’s brows. “Don’t you think?”
Niall catches Harry’s eye, taking advantage of Y/N’s distraction to cheekily flash him his crimson irises for a split second, voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm that only he can detect. “Yeah, Harry. Don’t you think?”
Jaw tensing, Harry bends down to brush his lips over Y/N’s ear, dampening his irritation down into a smooth and silky tone. “Don’t try to spare their feelings, love. I’ve got something fun planned for us, I promise.” His teeth graze against Y/N’s skin, and he nearly drags his lips down towards her neck until he remembers her stuttering heartbeat can be heard by the other vampires in their presence.
The two creatures gawk at the image before them, utterly baffled at Harry’s unusual tenderness. It’s very out of character for him, that much is obvious. In all the decades Niall and Xander have been acquainted with the Victorian era immortal, neither have ever seen him be so gentle and touchy with another soul, let alone a human. It feels as if they’re looking at some type of warped parallel universe version of the normally stand-offish young man.
Xander is the first to clear his throat, throwing Harry an annoyed grimace before pulling Niall out from the condo’s entryway. “We’ll see you later then, Harry. C’mon, Ni.”
The Irishman offers a quick goodbye, gifting the strange girl a frail wave and a parting smile before being half-dragged down the hallway by Xander. Niall wrenches himself free and shoves Xander’s shoulder playfully as they round the corner to the elevator, their quiet voices— no doubt spinning juvenile gossip— fading out of earshot. The look in Xander’s eyes had been concerning, Harry thinks, but nothing he needs to worry about right now. If anything, he wants to forget that encounter as quickly as possible, and needs Y/N to forget it, too.
“So,” he pastes an easygoing grin onto his face as he locks his front door, turning to the mortal with a giddy twinkle in his forest green eyes. “Shall we be off, then?”
There’s a lingering look of confusion reflecting back at him, but Y/N doesn’t press the odd encounter as Harry intertwines his icy fingers with her own warm digits.
“Alright.” She agrees, raising a questioning eyebrow back at him. “And just where are we going?”
///
“The Los Angeles Antique Mall.” Harry announces proudly when he opens Y/N’s door, extending a ringed hand to help her out of his low-riding car. “Twenty thousand square feet of vintage collectables, artwork, furniture, and anything else you could possibly want.”
Y/N stares up at the massive building in front of them, observing the worn wood facade and the collection of what seems to be (half faded) stained rocking chairs adorning the wraparound porch. There’s also an impressive amount of wrought iron planters with various greenery scattered between the furniture, with groups of people milling between them as they enter and exit the giant mall.
“You brought me antiquing?” She asks, an bemused look in her eye as she turns to Harry for an explanation.
Wrapping his large grasp around her smaller one, Harry nods enthusiastically as he begins to lead her towards the door. “Yeah. It’s fun, actually. I’m always up for a bit of a treasure hunt, and I thought, since you’re still furnishing your apartment…”
“You know, now that you mention it… I could use some new curtains for my living room. Maybe a nice side table.” Y/N allows, stepping over the wooden stairs to the door as Harry tugs her along. “But I’m surprised you like antiquing. Doesn’t really seem like your thing, if I’m honest.”
A mischievous glint flits through Harry’s jade eyes as he treats her to a grin that’s all teeth. “I’m actually quite fond of antiques, truth be told. I’ve got a good eye for vintage collectables. And…” He lazily tugs on the handle of the door to open it, stepping to the side to allow Y/N to walk through first. “Maybe we’ll find a nice painting to replace that god awful tapestry in your bedroom.”
A scoff of indignation falls from Y/N’s mouth as she turns on her heel to punch Harry’s sturdy upper arm, nearly getting too distracted by the ropes of muscle beneath his tight sleeve to give a response. “I like that tapestry! And, seeing as how you’re either sleeping or fucking me when you’re in said room, I’m a little offended that my tapestry is the thing you focus the most on.”
Harry bites his bottom lip between his teeth. If only she knew how much time he actually spends staring at it.
“Well, there’s certainly other things I focus on…” He replies with a casual air, slipping his hand into the back pocket of Y/N’s overalls to cup her ass suggestively, guiding her along the aisles of antiques. “But nothing ruins a post-orgasm glow like poor interior design, sweetheart. S’a bit of a buzzkill, y’know?”
“So is being patronized.” Y/N deadpans, extracting Harry’s hand from her back pocket as a hot flash begins to creep up her spine. “You keep mocking my interior design choices, and your orgasms are going to get a lot less frequent.”
The vampire belly laughs as he throws an arm around her shoulders, the action as natural to him as breathing once was. “I don’t believe that for one fucking second.” He replies gleefully, smudging an open mouthed kiss to Y/N’s temple.
“You don’t, huh?” The human girl raises an eyebrow, cocking her head to scan the towering racks of oddities all around them. “I wonder if we can find you a vintage fleshlight here?”
“Already got one, doll,” Harry rolls his eyes as he brushes his cool fingers along Y/N’s exposed collarbone, his eyes catching the cross pendant again and brimming with curiosity. “And it’s just the tip of the iceberg that is my toy chest, y’know that—”
Y/N feels Harry’s arm suddenly tense around her, his muscles contracting as his touch jolts away from her collarbones, his hand flexing beneath the open skylights of the building. “Everything okay?” Y/N asks, all her teasing fading away, replaced with concern as she pauses her steps toward the shelves.
“I—” Harry flexes his fingers again, slowly removing his arm from her shoulder to examine his hand. The tips of his fingers are a bright red, crimson burns contrasting against his pink skin, and although it only takes a few moments for the marks to fade, the uneasy feeling bubbling in Harry’s stomach lasts. “Yeah. My, uh, my hand just cramped. But it’s fine now, I think.”
Who the fuck, he wonders as he cautiously slings his arm back around Y/N’s shoulders, wears a cross made of, not silver as Harry originally suspected, but polished iron?
Iron jewelry had fallen out of fashion a century ago, and Harry had never been more thankful than when it did, given how his flesh scorches at merely brushing the metal. When he took his family’s trinkets as a way to remember them before he had to leave, Harry had snuck into his father’s forge in the dead of the night to dip the jewelry in gold that he’d stolen from a local merchant who cheated poor peasants out of their valuables. It had been a tedious task, and rather dangerous due to the threat of being caught, but it had also been necessary; if he hadn’t taken the risk, he wouldn’t have his sister’s cross earring, or his father’s matching cross necklace. His dad’s pocket watch, luckily, had been made of silver, and didn’t need a golden bath, but everything else had to be encased to protect Harry’s skin.
Iron jewelry had been a deterrent to him in the years to come after he was turned; it wasn’t uncommon for him to find a pretty young girl from a village and sneak her away for a night of fun, only to discover an iron chain dangling from her neck when he leaned in to take a bite. It wasn’t a permanent problem, of course, as there were plenty of other soft places he could sink his teeth into, but it had been an annoyance then, and it still annoys him now.
Harry does his best to push the irritation to the back of his mind, he really does. He shows Y/N around the twisting maze of antiques, and does his best to showcase one of his favourite hideaways in L.A. He points to anything and everything that could interest her, and doesn’t hesitate when she asks him to reach something heavy perched on a high shelf, even if she just wants to examine it out of curiosity. Harry pulls out typewriters, vintage cameras, tarnished cigarette lighters, and a pastel yellow bicycle with an attached wicker basket from 1941, presenting all of the objects with the enthusiasm of a showcase model on The Price is Right, spouting falsified information about each product in the best impression of Bob Barker he can pull off (“This ancient, rusted bicycle— once owned by the Queen of England herself— can be all yours for just one easy payment of $8.99! Taxes and shipping not included.”).
And although all of that incites multiple tinkling laughs from Y/N, and lights a glimmer in her eye, and compels her to walk closer and closer to Harry until she lets him sneak his palm back into the backside pocket of her overalls, the mystery of her necklace still eats at the far end of his brain. And it’s that insipid, insistent pest of a thought that causes Harry to readjust his grip on the framed Monet print he’d spotted in the racks (Y/N had tried to deny how much she liked it in order to thwart Harry’s triumphant smirk, but she still asked him to grab it for her with a grumble) and spare another glance to the innocent looking cross resting atop her clavicle.
“That’s a pretty little piece.” Harry slips into a nonchalant tone with ease, nodding towards the necklace as he navigates the two of them around a corner. “Why have I never seen you wear it before?”
Y/N brushes her fingertips over the iron cross with a gentle motion. Her fingers don’t scorch with a mere graze of the metal, Harry notes scathingly. Not that he expected it from someone like Y/N.
“Because I don’t wear it often.” She replies, lifting one shoulder without a second thought. “It was my grandmother’s— not, like, originally, but she’d owned it, and gave it to my mom, who gave it to me, so I guess it counts as a family heirloom, huh?”
“Guess so.” The vampire murmurs in agreement, prickles of wonder still coasting against his skin. “So what made you drag it out today?” Did you subconsciously realize that your neck needs protection when I’m near? Harry tacks on in his head, his brow furrowing at the troubling thought.
And at that question, Y/N’s eyes drop to the floor, as if her bubblegum pink vans need an audience for every step they take. “Uh, I was just a little homesick, that’s all.” She mumbles the reply, her shoulders sagging as a dark shadow passes through her usually dazzling eyes.
Homesickness. The one human feeling that Harry can still relate to. “I’m sorry to hear that, darling.” He removes his hand from her back pocket to wind it around her shoulders again, mindful of the jewelry in question. “Did anything in particular happen, or…?”
Y/N lifts her shoulders once again as she tucks her hands into her pockets, her posture closing off more and more with every passing moment. “Not really. I don’t know, I— normally I’m fine, but when I addressed my letter to my parents today, it took me a moment to remember my ZIP code. It’s the same ZIP code I’ve had all my life, but… I nearly forgot it.” She glances at Harry from the corner of her eye, and Harry realizes that dark shadow is guilt. She feels guilty. “I’ve been in L.A. for less than six months, and almost forgot my parent’s ZIP code. I didn’t think that could ever happen.”
Harry hums low in his throat, a noise of understanding and finality. It’s homesickness, that’s all. That’s explainable, and understandable, and should be enough information to silence the gnawing irritation in his chest.
And yet...
“Do you believe in God?” The question escapes from Harry’s mouth before he can even think to censor it, his own eyes widening on his behalf as his grip on the Monet print nearly releases from the surprise.
“What?” Y/N stops in her tracks, although she nearly stumbles forward when Harry’s sturdy arm catches behind her shoulders as her eyes boggle at him. “I don’t— what does God have to do with antiquing?”
If Harry didn’t have to worry about digging himself out of the whole he created, he’d laugh at the incredulous expression on his lover’s face. “I was just curious, s’all.” He struggles to keep his voice casual, steadying his feet against the wooden floor in an effort to ground himself mentally. “I know you were raised with religion, but you don’t really go to church here— not that church equals a belief, but—”
“Um, I don’t…” Y/N extends her arm to let her fingers graze over the shelf of old lunch boxes next to them, feeling each dip of every embossed cartoon character. “I don’t know. I don’t really believe in, like, a concept of God— at least, not the one I was raised with. But I believe in…” She trails off as she attempts to gather her thoughts, chewing on her bottom lip absentmindedly as she searches for the right words. “Something. I don’t really know if it’s a deity, or an energy, or just coincidence, but… I think there’s something out there that guides us.”
“So you believe in souls.” Harry’s mouth presses into a flat line, his jaw clenching for just a moment as he grits his teeth and then reiterates her previous point. “The thing that allows us to be guided, that is.”
Or allows her to be guided, Harry thinks bitterly, casting his eyes towards their path ahead of them to avoid Y/N’s prying gaze. That’s really the only reason he’d brought up this entire religion conversation— the only reason he ever brings it up: he wants to know if she believes in souls, because in order to be guided by whatever higher power supposedly exists, one needs a soul. And Harry’s fairly certain his was stolen from him in 1837.
“I suppose.” Y/N allows, tracing the embossed lettering of a vintage Wonder Woman lunch box. “A soul, an energy, an aura— they’re all kind of the same thing to me. The thing that keeps your heart beating. I don’t think it needs to be tied to a religion; there’s so many different religions, but everyone has a heartbeat, you know?”
Harry nearly laughs out loud at the irony, but manages to stifle the sound into a non-committal hum. “Does your something include heaven and hell, or is that too based in Christianity?” He asks, half out of curiosity and half out of necessity. “If someone were to lose their soul…” He knows he sounds insane asking the question, but it bubbles out of him before he can choke it back. “Would you think them damned?”
The mortal girl stares at him blankly for a moment, her mouth just barely open as she considers his words. He shouldn’t have asked, and he knows that— he knew it the moment the first question fell from his lips. But the more they discussed the topic, the more it nagged at him. Y/N, with all her good nature, her listening skills, and her soft heart, are most certainly bound for whatever good lies in store when a soul actually leaves a body. Harry, on the other hand… If the monster’s conscience were to ever leave this Earth, he knows it’s not for the metaphorical pearly white gates. And for some reason, that notion bothers him more right now than it has in the last twenty decades.
“Um…” A nervous laugh echoes from Y/N’s mouth, the smile curling the edges of her lips not quite reaching her eyes. “Okay, this topic is way too serious for me to discuss sober. Can I take a rain check on the damnation questions? I’m getting Sunday school flashbacks, and living through that once was bad enough.”
Harry wills a smile onto his own face, but the expression is more apologetic than anything as he grips Y/N’s hand in his to tow her down an aisle of antique kitchen equipment. “Yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you with such heavy questions. I guess I just wanted to get to know my partner in justice a bit more.”
Y/N takes it in good stride, just as she usually does, her smile relaxing the moment she sees Harry’s dimples peek out from his cheeks. “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock. I’d expect nothing less from such an established detective.”
As the pair pass under another skylight, Y/N’s cross glints at Harry as if to mock him.
///
Y/N isn’t lost.
To the untrained eye, the mindless path she takes through the towering and twisting rows of the antique mall may seem like the wandering of someone who has no recollection of where they came from, nor where they’re going, but Y/N is adamant that she isn’t lost. She isn’t, because when she split from Harry to take a trip to the washroom, he’d warned her not to get lost in the internal maze of the mall. And Y/N, with a glare in her eyes and a scathing remark on her lips, had assured him that she, a grown woman, would be able to find her way back after she was done, and “Honestly, H, just wander a bit. I’ll be able to find you easily.”
So Y/N isn’t lost, because she refuses to prove Harry right. He’s already a cocky asshole with a huge ego, and she couldn’t bear seeing that ego enlarge as a triumphant smirk paints over his face the moment she calls him on his cellphone, admits defeat, and asks him to come find her. She’ll do a lot of things for that man, but that isn’t one of them.
With that in mind, she turns down a corridor of the labyrinth of collectables, trying to find any discernible items that she could use to pinpoint her location in the labyrinth. The yellow bicycle, maybe, or one of the vintage cameras Harry had pretended to photograph her with, or even the strange five foot carving of Bugs Bunny that she and Harry had agreed is probably possessed by a demon. A haunted Bugs Bunny could lead her to her destination— or kill her, truthfully, but either option seems preferable over the solidifying future of having to call Harry.
After another five minutes of aimless ambling, Y/N retrieves her phone from her pocket, a grimace crawling its way onto her face as she opens her contacts to click on Harry’s name. Her finger hovers just over the phone icon, mere millimetres from humiliation, when a few out of place piano notes float by her ears and catch her attention.
Y/N tucks her phone back into her overall pocket as her curiosity takes over, urging her ears to strain towards the distant melody, as well as for her legs to follow. It’s not long before Y/N is walking with purpose again, albeit a different purpose than before. As the music gets louder, Y/N begins to pick out more details— how the piano notes that prick her ears are slightly out of tune, how the player begins and stops and begins again, dragging out different phrases, speeding through others with no clear intention. The minor key of the piece makes Y/N feel like she’s walking into a memory as she wades through the shelves of long-forgotten belongings, old photographs of deceased people in Victorian fashions watching while the young woman falls back in time.
The music grows louder as Y/N reaches a dark corridor with wood paneling lining the walls, and a painted sign saying “Music Room” beckons her down the passageway. She follows with slow steps, and while she knows that maybe leaving the main mall area and losing her way down here isn’t a smart idea, the music that’s beginning to grow impossibly sweet pulls her forward. Y/N rounds the corner to find the oak doors to the music room swung open, and when she lays her eyes on the figure sitting at the mahogany ground piano, she recognizes the silhouette of Harry’s back and shoulders immediately.
Y/N’s gaze falls from his flexing shoulder blades to his inked hands, the jewels on his rings catching the low light of the room as his lithe fingers dance over the dusty ivory keys. He coaxes a melody from the instrument without any difficulty, as if the music had been simmering beneath his skin for ages. Maybe it has, Y/N thinks, as she watches from the doorway with quiet wonder, and although she plans on silently observing for as long as she can, Harry only completes a few more phrases before the music drifts to a halt.
“I was beginning to wonder if you’d find me.” He murmurs, clearing his throat of the rasp that had settled in his vocal chords as he played. “Thought I’d be getting a scared phone call any moment now.”
The human girl steps into the room slowly, gliding around to the cut out of the piano and leaning across the lacquered wood. “I wasn’t scared. And I would’ve found you sooner if you’d stayed put. I said wander a bit, not all the way across the building.” She retorts jokingly, trailing a finger along the smooth edge of the piano. All of the sarcasm in her voice melts right out, replaced by intrigue. “I didn’t know you played piano.”
“I, uh, I don’t. Not much anymore, anyways.” Harry runs his digits between the keys again, using only enough pressure to dust the top of the ivory covers. “I wasn’t sure I’d remember how, honestly, but this…” He lifts an index finger to brush the dust off the gold embossed brand name. “It looks like the one I learned on, so…”
Y/N takes a seat on the wooden bench next to Harry, her shoulder bumping against his as she leans in to smudge a kiss across his cheek. “It sounded beautiful.” She assures him, noting the hesitation in his explanation. “What’s that piece called?”
“It’s one of Chopin’s Nocturnes, in C-Sharp Minor.” Harry curves his fingers over the keys, as if he’s about to begin again, but then relaxes the digits as he exhales harshly. “I don’t play it as well as— as the person who taught me.”
There seems to be a hidden story beneath those words, but Y/N doesn’t press it; if Harry wants to tell her, then he’ll tell her. If not… Well, she’d rather not drag a sour memory from him in the middle of an antique mall. Instead, she drags her fingers over his thigh, rubbing just above his knee in a comforting manner.
“How long have you been playing?” She asks softly, tracing over a black lacquered key with her free hand. When she pulls away, her finger is coated in dust, and she wonders how long it’s been since the piano has been touched by someone else.
The corner of Harry’s lips twitch, as if her question is particularly humorous. “A while.” He answers simply, and he tilts his head to the side to press his face against the top of Y/N’s head, inhaling the scent of her favourite shampoo.
“A while?” Y/N repeats the vague answer to prompt further explanation, but when she gets none, she switches to another inquiry. “Can you play me something?”
The moment she utters the question, Harry shakes his head adamantly. “No, I— no. I’m not that good, love, and I don’t really play for people.”
Surprise colors Y/N’s voice when she replies, lifting her head from Harry’s shoulder to look him in the eye. “This isn’t the time for false modesty, H.” She says, tapping two fingers against his knee as punctuation. “Since when have you been humble?”
A bark of a laugh escapes Harry’s chest in spite of himself, and he curls his fingers over Y/N’s to move her hand further up his thigh. “I’m not modest! Don’t insult me like that, darling. S’not nice.”
“Prove it, then.” Y/N massages over Harry’s inner thigh as she issues the challenge, baiting the vampire’s ego with ease. “Play me something. Show off a little bit.”
Harry squeezes Y/N’s hand once as a quiet groan twists his lips into a pout. “You’re getting pretty good at manipulating me, y’know that?” He mutters, poising his lacquered fingertips back over the instrument. “Fine. Do you want something sad or happy?”
Y/N ponders the question as she leans her head back onto Harry’s shoulder, her lips finding the edge of his jaw and pecking his cool skin for just a moment. “Both.”
“Both.” Harry repeats with a snort, shaking his head in exasperation as his hands drift to a new position on the keys. “Indecisive little thing, aren’t you?”
The mortal girl lifts her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug, scratching her nails along the fabric of Harry’s pants. “Just play me something. Please?”
It’s the simplest request with the most complicated implication, but Harry can’t find a good reason to refuse it.
“This is, um, another Chopin piece.” He feels clumsy in his explanation, struggling to remember the details that he’d once memorized in an effort to seem impressive. “Another Nocturne, in E-flat this time.”
Harry’s fingers begin to dance over the keys, and Y/N listens in amazement as a melody that is both happy and sad begins to spiral out from the body of the piano, wrapping her inside the warmth of the music.
Not every phrase is even— the more Harry plays, it seems, the more the music phrases, bending and shaping itself around his elegant fingers, rolling with his every movement. As the music begins to get sadder, however, Y/N notices the change in Harry’s face, and how each phrase begins to get choppier as his fingers stumble their way over the keys.
Y/N smudges another kiss against Harry’s jaw when his fingers trip up again, squeezing his knee with reassurance. “Keep going.” She murmurs, rubbing his leg lightly as the music stutters again. “It’s nice.”
“I—” The music halts with a jerk of Harry’s hands, which he retracts from the keys as if the ivory burns him. “I don’t remember the rest.” He mumbles, laying his stubbled cheek against the top of Y/N’s head. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I really liked it.” Y/N trails her own fingers over the keys, pressing a few of the lacquered notes with idle interest. The melody she spins out isn’t nearly as nice as the one Harry played, and she laughs at her own expense. “I’m not nearly as good. I took a few lessons as a kid, but begged my mom to let me quit. I wish I’d stuck with it.”
“That wasn’t too bad.” Harry’s dimples wink at her as he smiles boyishly, nodding to the keys with false reassurance. “That little tune sounded a lot like Mozart.”
“Uh huh.” The mortal girl rolls her eyes at the lie, bracing her palms against the polished wooden bench before rising from her seat. “Despite that praise, I don’t think I’ll be adding this piano to my shopping cart.”
“Hm. Too bad.” Her lover trails his fingers after her, reaching for her hand and intertwining her grasp with his. “It could make a pretty addition to your apartment, I think.”
“It would take up my entire apartment, more like it.” Y/N scoffs as she raps the fingers of her free hand against the side of the piano. “I don’t even think I could fit this in my living room. Your apartment, however…” She raises an eyebrow as a grin works its way over her face. “You could fit it easily. You should buy it.”
Harry rolls his eyes as he lets her hand fall from his palm, touching the keys one last time before shutting the cover over the keyboard. “I’m not buying the piano.”
“Why not?” Eyes widening in surprise, Y/N leans onto the instrument, gesturing with her arms the same way Harry did earlier as she shifts her voice to mimic Bob Barker. “It’s made of genuine mahogany, was once played by Beethoven himself, and can be yours, for the low, low price of—” She reaches around the side of the instrument to grab the tag tied around the leg. “Eight hundred and—holy shit, are you kidding me?”
Harry hums in response as he rises from the bench, shrugging his shoulders before crossing his arms around his tummy. “That’s actually a fairly good price for a used piano, you know.”
Y/N blinks at him, her mouth opening and closing as she struggles to find words. “I— okay, yeah. Sure. So you should get it, then, if you consider that a ‘fairly good price’.”
“I could,” Harry agrees, his muscles flexing beneath his tight t-shirt as he reaches to pick up the painting leaning against the instrument. “But I won’t.”
Her brow wrinkling in confusion, Y/N watches as Harry begins to examine the other objects in the room, turning his attention to the book-lined shelves and antique lamps. “Why?”
The man sighs as he fingers the tassels hanging from a— in Y/N’s humble opinion— particularly ugly lamp. “Because I already have one—”
“You do?”
“—but it’s been in storage ever since I got to L.A. And while I usually love things in excess… alcohol, statement jewelry, orgasms—” He flashes a toothy grin at Y/N. “I don’t think overly-heavy instruments fall into any of those categories.”
“Why is it in storage?” Y/N asks, bemusement laced through her voice. Before Harry began to stumble through the piece, there was a look on his face that Y/N hasn’t seen very often; a serene air swirled through his eyes, hiding something beneath it that Y/N couldn’t quite make out. And she wants to.
“Because I don’t have any interest in playing anymore. Honestly, darling, I haven’t thought about it in years.” Harry laughs in a nonchalant manner, moving from the antique lamp to the creaking rocking chair in the corner. “Y’can have it, if you like. Probably do you more good than me.”
Y/N rolls her eyes at the deflection, turning her attention away from the topic at hand. “I’m good.” She responds dryly, drifting over to the floor to ceiling bookshelf bolted to the wall.
Her eyes trail over the exposed spines of the books, reading over the variety of titles with piqued interest. The amount of genres she sees is countless, ranging from trashy paperback romance novels to timeless classics embossed in gold. The farther up Y/N glances, the older the books appear, and she gets more and more curious as she glides her fingers over the rippled covers of the books within her reach.
While the novels climb up the height of the bookshelf to the ceiling, Y/N can only manage to reach halfway up the length she needs to, even while stretching on her tiptoes. She settles down on the balls of her feet with a pout playing on her lips, her attention turning to the wheeled ladder that runs along bars bolted to the bottom of the shelving unit. It looks rather old— like everything in the antique mall— and Y/N isn’t quite sure it’ll support her weight, despite her test of gripping a rung and pushing on it.
“Harry, c’mere,” She calls over her shoulder, hands gripping the sides of the dusty ladder as she balances a foot on the bottom rung.
Upon her beckoning, Harry saunters over, the painted print she’d selected still grasped in his ringed hand. “Yeah?” He asks, raising an eyebrow in question. “What is it?”
“Can you help me climb up the ladder?” Y/N nods her head towards the far-reaching shelves, biting her bottom lip with pleading eyes. “I want to see what’s on the top shelves.”
Harry’s gaze follows Y/N’s gesture towards the top of the library wall, a look of trepidation flickering through his eyes. “Is that really necessary?”
“Yes,” Y/N answers curtly, lifting her other foot onto the bottom rung before moving from her original step to the next. “And it’ll be a lot easier if you help me.”
Despite his protests, Harry sets down the framed print and complies with the request, grasping Y/N around her waist with firm hands as she scurries up the rickety ladder. She can feel his fingertips pressing into her love handles over the denim, and it would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy it, but she refocuses her attention onto reading over the embossed titles that she couldn’t see from below.
“Y’know, on second thought… take all the time you need, dove.” Harry calls from below her, the smirk evident in his voice as he squeezes her hips once with a laugh. “I’ve got quite the view from here.”
Rolling her eyes, Y/N releases one hand from the ladder to tug a novel off the shelf, examining the half exposed cover before sliding it back into its place. “I bet you do.” She retorts, wiggling her hips just enough to tease him without losing her precarious balance on the ladder.
Although the motion is meant to be a joke, Harry can’t stop the flash of genuine fear that ignites in his chest. Humans are fragile, he knows, and a fall from the height that Y/N has climbed to could sprain her wrist, or injure her back, or crack open her skull like an egg, or—
“Careful there, Watson.” Harry attempts to disguise the worry in his voice behind a lighthearted joke as his grip on the human girl strengthens. “Wouldn’t want an accident to happen, now, would we?”
“That’s why I’ve got you, Holmes.” A tinkling laugh falls from her lips as she risks a glance over her shoulder at him, her eyes alight with amusement, before turning her attention back to the old novels. “You wouldn’t let anything happen to me, would you?”
There’s a nervous truth hidden underneath her words, and Harry knows it, but that doesn’t stop it from making his skin itch as the casual phrase sinks into his body. In all his years, however, Harry’s gotten quite good at hiding his emotions, and this is no different.
Instead of giving a sincere answer, Harry hardens his reply of “F’course I wouldn’t, pet. Y’can never be too careful.” by letting one jeweled hand drift from Y/N’s hip to her backside, cupping it gently to support her, and taking delight in the way he can feel her body tense beneath his new touch.
It takes Y/N a moment to find her breath again, and when she does, all she can muster is a hum in the back of her throat. “Mhmm.” She sighs, trying her best to refocus on the books lining the shelves in front of her as she climbs higher. “Is that why your hand is grabbing my ass, you pervert?”
“Y’know, that seems to be your favourite nickname for me.” Harry’s smirk deepens as he contracts his hand, squeezing her fleshy backside after she takes another step higher. “I wonder why that is?”
“I wonder.” The flat response echoes from Y/N’s mouth as she pulls another book from the shelf to examine it before replacing it a moment later. “Maybe— and this is just a suggestion, so take it with a grain of salt, but— maybe if you didn’t act like a pervert, you’d get a nicer nickname.”
Although Y/N’s retorts are droll and to the point, Harry can hear the way her heartbeat begins to stutter each time he massages her, and it’s that fluttering rhythm that encourages him to grasp the sides of the ladder with both hands and pull himself up a couple rungs.
“A nicer nickname, huh?” He breathes in her ear, pressing his chest to her back both to be close to her and to give her more support on the ladder. “Like ‘slut’?” Harry stifles the groan that nearly rolls from his throat when he feels Y/N stiffen. “That’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?”
“I—” Swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat, Y/N grips the sides of the ladder tight between her hands, her skin stretching over her tense knuckles as Harry’s breath begins to hit her neck. “Maybe. I...I suppose.”
Harry laughs quietly as he takes another step up the ladder, keeping himself braced against Y/N as he begins to smear kisses along the side of her neck, mindful of the iron cross that still hangs there. “You suppose?” He repeats, his tone slightly mocking when he hears the mortal shudder. “What about your other favourites? Y’like when I call you my pretty little plaything, don’t you?”
The honey and lavender fragrance wafting over Harry intensifies as Y/N’s blood pumps faster and faster, the only sound emerging from the human girl being a quiet whimper from the back of her throat.
“There’s another one, though… another nickname…” Letting his teeth gently graze her earlobe, Harry whispers directly in Y/N’s ear, keeping his voice low and throaty as he does so. “It’s on the tip of my tongue, baby...” He suckles sloppily along her pulsing neck, delighting in the taste of her sweet skin in his mouth. “Remind me what it is?”
Already, Y/N’s breathing has grown ragged, and he waits a moment for the aroused girl to form a response, encouraging her with every nip of his teeth. Just when Harry is about to ask again, she manages to choke out a reply.
“Whore.” She whispers, the embarrassment in her voice overpowered by the lust running through her veins. “I like it when you call me your whore.”
“That’s my good girl.” A satisfied smile tugs at the edge of Harry’s lips as he stamps a gentle kiss to Y/N’s jaw. “That’s another one, too. My good girl. And because you’re my good girl…” Harry snakes his right hand from the rung of the ladder to the buttons of Y/N’s overalls, deftly undoing the side snaps and gradually slipping his hand into the space between the denim and her clammy skin. “You’re going to keep looking for your books while I have some fun.”
Y/N lets out a broken gasp as Harry’s fingertips graze over her cotton panties, and her grip on the railing slackens as a rush of heat falls between her legs.
“Careful, baby.” Harry cautions her, his left hand wrapping around hers and resetting her grasp on the ladder. “Can’t have any fun if you let go, hm?”
“We—” She twists her head to the side, straining to look over her shoulder and towards the entrance as Harry’s digits dance over the dampening spot on her panties. “Someone could walk in, Harry—”
Of course someone could, Harry thinks, but exhibitionism is so much easier to indulge when one has inhuman hearing that can detect the pounding of an approaching heart from fifty feet away. He doesn’t disclose this information to Y/N, however, for a number of reasons, and instead chooses to scrape his teeth along the shell of her ear once more, his ruby lips soothing the marks instantly.
“You let me worry about that, alright?” He murmurs lowly, sliding Y/N’s cotton panties to the side and dragging his index and middle finger through her dripping folds, enjoying how she shivers against his chest. “You just focus on finding the book you want and being a good little whore for me, princess. Let me take care of the rest.”
When Y/N reflects on this moment in bed tonight, her clammy palms twisting around the sheets as she inhabits the memory of Harry’s mint-scented breath swirling around her as he massages two fingers around her throbbing clit with a teasing touch, one specific detail will stick out to her. She won’t focus on how her heart is pounding so hard that she feels her chest might burst, or how her fingers shake as she reaches for another book on the shelf, per Harry’s quiet but intent instructions. The thing that Y/N will remember in wonder and— on some level, self consciously— is how quickly the anxiety that spikes through her veins at the possibility of someone walking in and finding the two of them in such a compromising position bleeds into a high like no other.
Y/N likes to entertain the idea that she’s fairly adventurous, and has been open to a lot of things, especially since meeting Harry, but this— allowing him to finger her in a music room at an antique mall, where any customer or employee could discover them— is something so outside of her character that Y/N can’t think straight. When Harry first slips his long middle finger inside her slick center, the girl nearly collapses, and Harry’s broad chest braced behind her is the only thing that keeps her upright on the ladder.
“Y’like that, doll?” Harry’s hot breath rolls over her neck as he purrs the words, adjusting his grip on the side of the ladder as his other hand skillfully toys with the human in slow and deep strokes. “Filthy little thing, you are, letting me play with you like this.”
The sinful remark draws a mewling moan from Y/N’s mouth as her head dips back onto Harry’s sturdy shoulder, her hands dropping all pretense of searching for a book and clutching the ladder like she normally clutches her sheets, or the headboard of whoever’s bed Harry has tossed her onto. “H-Harry…” She whimpers, her eyelashes fluttering as he circles his thumb around her clit. “Fuck…”
“You pretend to be so sweet, but you and I know the truth, don’t we?” The vampire sponges another kiss along her throat as he delights in the wet sounds his fingers make, which easily become drowned out by the quiet noises of bliss leaving his lover’s mouth. “You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”
Y/N nods fervently as she allows her weight to fall back against Harry’s sturdy chest, trusting him to support her as he thrusts another finger inside her. “Anything, H, I—” The desperate proclamation is cut off as Harry curls his digits, bumping against the spot in the pit of her tummy that sets her entire nervous system on fire. “Shit, right there, baby, right there…”
Harry’s smug voice rings in her ear as he slows his stride, dragging his fingers in and out of her hot core at a pace that’s nearly criminal. “Y’don’t need to tell me, I know.” He pushes himself forward again, flushing Y/N between his chest and the ladder with just enough room to continue his activities. “I know what you like, how you like it, where you like it… Know my girl so well.”
As Y/N adjusts to the newly close proximity, the bulge in Harry’s slacks grows more apparent, rubbing against her backside over and over with each plunge of Harry’s fingers. She lets out a strangled whine at the feeling, carving her teeth into her bottom lip in an effort to keep herself quiet.
“You feel me, don’t you, minx?” Harry moans into her ear, catching his teeth along the shell before dragging them down her jaw to settle his lips just above her throbbing pulse point. “You feel what you’re doing to me? How just a single whimper from those pretty lips, and one touch of your soaked cunt makes my cock ache?”
Despite her best efforts, a ragged sob breaks through Y/N’s self-imposed gag order, and her chest heaves within Harry’s tight embrace as her head lolls to the side. “I-I want it.” She pleads, her half-lidded eyes struggling to find Harry’s emerald irises in her haze.
Those sea glass eyes, darker than she’s ever seen them, widen with fake surprise as his mouth curls into a smirk. When Harry replies, his normally soothing dulcet voice is filled with insincere mocking. “Oh, you want it, do you? You want me to fuck you in here?” Dropping his voice to its usual low resonance, Harry growls the next phrase in the human’s ear. “I know you want it, you fucking slut. But you can’t have it right now. So if I’m going to let you cum—” The conditional phrase pulls a sound of protest from her throat. “—then you’re going to have to do it around my fingers.”
The begging girl cries out against his neck as her walls clench around his touch, the stifled pants that she gasps into Harry’s ear urging him to speed up. Instead of giving her what she wants, Harry curls his fingers inside her, pressing deeper into that spongy spot to elicit another broken whine from her. When he receives it, however, it’s accompanied by an unexpected blinding burn.
The iron cross that hangs so delicately around Y/N’s fragile throat has slung to the side in her writhing pleasure, finding its way from her flushed collarbones to the base of Harry’s icy neck. The vampire grinds his teeth as he feels the brand begin to form, choking back the sound of agony that fights its way out of his mouth. His left hand clenches around the ladder, his knuckles stretching white as the waxed wood nearly splinters under his palm, while his right hand stutters its pace inside his lover, prodding harshly at her G-spot as a single grunt makes it past the cracks of his teeth.
Harry knows he needs to remove the cross from his skin, but he has no way of doing so without alerting Y/N to his discomfort. If he lets go of the rung, both of them will tumble off, and Y/N has made it obvious how much she trusts him to keep her safe; that option is hardly an option, Harry thinks, struggling to keep his mind present as he fights through the pain. The other option— the only one, really— is to retract his fingers from between the mortal’s thighs, feign some excuse as to why, and do his best to keep her from noticing the cross-shaped burn mark on his neck that will surely disappear within a few moments of the iron being removed. It’ll be jarring, he knows, to pull Y/N from the subspace he can tell she’s beginning to slip into, and Harry hates it, but there’s nothing to be done. His hand contracts inside her, desperately massaging her walls one last time before he retreats to—
The sharp action drags a mangled whine from Y/N’s throat, the sound more shattered than anything Harry has ever heard from her before, and it pulls Harry’s attention from the charring sensation of the cross branding his skin to the overwhelmed girl in his arms. As Y/N lets her entire body fall against Harry’s chest, her eyes completely shut as she gives into the pleasure bubbling in her tummy, a realization dawns on Harry, searing him nearly as much as the metal on his inhuman flesh: he can’t let go of her. He’s in too deep— literally, obvious in the way she tightens around his fingers— and if he were to stop now, Y/N would go into a sensitive daze that he can’t deal with in a public space. If he lets go of her now, he’ll lose the connection he’s spent the last two months making. She might get over it, given that it’s just an orgasm, but subconsciously, there’s a possibility she could resent him for it. Especially in the extremely delicate phase she’s in at the moment.
He knows it sounds stupid, but he can’t risk that. He just can’t. He’ll take burning agony over that any day.
When Harry reflects on this moment in bed tonight, his jeweled fingers carefully combing through Y/N’s knotted locks as she shifts in his arms, the bite mark on her neck freshly faded to a light bruise, her chest rising and falling gently with quiet breaths, one specific detail will stick out to him. He won’t focus on the blinding pleasure of Y/N grinding against his hardened bulge, her body moving of its own accord as she gives in completely to the sensations Harry pulls from her. He won’t focus on the explicit moans that show she’s given up on attempting to quiet, her voice reverberating in Harry’s mouth as he inhales every desperate breath she exhales. When Harry reflects on this moment, the thing he’ll remember the most is how the second he accepted his fate— that he’d have to bear the pain in order to keep Y/N happy, and he feels like there’s probably some deeper subliminal message hidden beneath that realization, though he refuses to indulge it— the mortal girl tilts her head to the side and begins to kiss Harry’s neck, soothing the scorched mark with her silky tongue.
The relief is so sweet that Harry nearly cries out a fractured mewl, letting his head fall forward into Y/N’s shoulder to hide his desperate expression. She continues to whimper into his skin, smudging kiss after kiss on his marked neck as if she knows how badly he needs it. Even as her orgasm begins to rise in her belly, consuming her every thought, she continues to suck bruises onto his jugular, dragging her tongue over his cool skin repeatedly after every action. Although the iron still stings, the sensation of Y/N’s textured tongue swiping over it turns the pain to pleasure, and it’s not long before Harry has himself centered once again, refocused on the task at hand.
He speeds up the movement of his fingers, focusing on curling them inside her as his thumb rubs quick circles over her throbbing clit. The sounds bouncing around the room are so lewd that Harry almost wishes someone would walk in, even if only to see how good Harry is capable of making his lover feel.
“Y’can cum for me, baby. Cum all over my hand.” He mutters in her ear, his teeth scraping against her fragile skin in desperation. “I know you have it in you. Show me how good you are.”
Y/N feverishly grinds against his hand, all of her senses overwhelmed by the immortal as she licks across his neck. “So—so close, Harry—I—”
“I know, I know you are.” The vampire soothes her in a tone more gentle than he thought possible, palming her soaking cunt with as much pressure as he thinks she can stand. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
The reassurance is the final thing Y/N needs to fall apart, and once she knows that she can, it happens with an intensity that shocks even her. When the coil inside her belly snaps, a guttural moan tears from her mouth, and she grasps the pole in front of her as tightly as she can while collapsing back into Harry’s chest.
“Fuck, there we go, yeah? Shhh, keep it down for me, angel. Don’t wanna have to stop until you beg me to.”
Her grip on the ladder does nothing to support her, but as Harry’s hushed words ring in her mind, she knows she doesn’t have to worry about that. Harry’s arms and chest are strong enough to do it for her, allowing her to sink into her pleasure as much as she needs to.
When Y/N slumps in his arms, her neck finally shifts enough that her cross falls back into its designated position between her collarbones, providing Harry with relief from the scorching pain he’d been beginning to adjust to. He can feel his skin begin to heal itself the moment the iron leaves it, and with that small fear tamped down, the creature can turn all his attention to the girl in his arms.
He slowly and carefully retracts his hand from her panties, shushing the weak squeak that rolls from her lips at the motion. “Good girl.” He mumbles into her ear, kissing her temple softly as her breathing begins to regulate itself. “Shh, you’re alright. Y’did so well for me, darling.”
The comforting praise comes easily to him, and as he continues to hold Y/N as she regains her previous headspace, Harry begins to wonder just how far he’d be able to push her before she reaches her limits. How far into subspace can she go before she hits the point of no return? Could Harry successfully guide her there and lead her back? Could she ever trust him enough to submit fully to his every request, taking solace in the knowledge that he can take care of her as well as— or better, even— she can take care of herself? Harry wants to think yes, but he can’t dwell on the idea any longer; Y/N’s beginning to shift against him again, and he’ll never be able to earn that wholehearted trust if he doesn’t tend to her now.
Lifting his hand to his own lips, Harry wraps his tongue around his drenched fingers, lapping at the sweet wetness that coats them down to his rings. He hums in appreciation, stippling another tender kiss to Y/N’s neck when he retracts his fingers from his mouth.
“Taste so sweet, y’know that?” He whispers, the question half a test to see how aware Y/N is as her head begins to clear. “C’mere, I want you to taste.”
Y/N lazily tilts her head to the side, a small smile playing on her lips as they meet Harry’s for a slow kiss. Trailing his fingers down her side, Harry skillfully buttons the side of her overalls again, adjusting the fabric to lie comfortable against her skin.
“How are you feeling, hm?” He murmurs, rubbing his large hand soothingly over her belly as her breathing begins to regulate again. “How was that?”
“I feel…” Y/N struggles to make sense of her swimming head, resting it against Harry’s shoulder as she tries to form a coherent response. “Good.”
Harry sighs with relief, smearing a quick kiss to her cheek as he grins. “Good. That’s good.”
With his right hand still wrapped around her middle, he carefully lowers himself and Y/N from the ladder, keeping a tight grip on the girl until he knows her feet are planted firmly on the ground.
As the afterglow of her climax begins to fade, a heated flush begins to crawl up Y/N’s spine to settle on the apples of her cheeks. “I, um—” The corners of her lips tug upwards with a bashful tone, and she twists around in Harry’s arms to shyly meet his canopy green eyes. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“You didn’t do anything. It takes two to tango, pet. And, honestly…” Harry flashes a boyish simper at her as he yanks her closer to him by her hips. “I think I did most of the work.”
“That’s true.” A breathless laugh stutters from Y/N’s chest as she curls her hands around Harry’s bulging biceps, steadying herself from the after effects of her orgasm, which are turning her legs to jelly. “I could, um…” She flicks her eyes from the door to the prominent bulge in Harry’s black slacks before capturing his gaze in hers again. “Return the favour?”
Harry snorts as he gives a quick shake of his head, his teeth catching on his bottom lip while he runs his hands down the back of her rumpled shirt. “Not here, baby. How about we wait until we’re back at my place for you to show me how my sweet girl sucks cock, hm?”
“So it’s alright for you to distract me from my book search to finger me in a public area,” Y/N fakes indignation to distract herself from the ache that’s starting to pulse in her core again at Harry’s proposal. “But the moment I want to suck you off, you say ‘not here’? What kind of double standard is that?”
Lips twitching in amusement, Harry stifles a laugh as he turns the girl in his arms, pressing her back to his chest once again before wrapping his arms back around her waist. “You’re right. I distracted you from your book search. How rude of me.” He coos, nodding up to the shelf as he grazes his teeth against her pulse. “Think I see a pretty copy of Sense and Sensibility up there. Y’think you can reach it, or do you need me to do it, sweetheart?”
The shuddering of Y/N’s heartbeat contrasts with her heated reply. “I can reach it just fine if you behave yourself.” She shoots back, smacking the hand that’s beginning to wander towards her center again. “Or is that too difficult for you?”
“It’s extremely difficult when I’m near you.” The reply, while truthful, sends a quiver down Harry’s spine, and he presses a chaste kiss to the human girl’s shoulder before releasing her from his grasp. “I’ll get the book.”
Y/N tugs the hair tie from her locks, shaking them out before pulling them back again in a neat manner. “You know, I never thought I was one for antiquing, but today was fun.”
“Well, it doesn’t usually involve getting finger-fucked on a ladder,” Harry states bluntly, glancing over his shoulder with a dimpled smile on his face. “So I’m not really sure if today can be the marker for an average antiquing session.”
Y/N’s face boils at the brazen comment, and she tucks a strand of loose hair that she’d missed behind her ear as she swallows hard. “No.” She replies with a soft and timid laugh, shaking her head gently. “I suppose that’s true.”
Harry hums in reply as he snags the old copy of the Jane Austen novel from the top shelf, climbing down the ladder effortlessly and landing back on the ground with a soft thud. “But I’m glad you had fun.” Harry steps towards Y/N with a satisfied air, gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger as a teasing smile plays on his ruby lips. “And I’m even more glad we found a replacement for that terrible tapestry of yours.”
Y/N rolls her eyes as she smacks Harry’s hand from her chin before snatching the novel from his hands. “Stop being mean to Amanda! You’ll hurt her feelings.”
A snort boasts from Harry’s throat as he recalls the day she had told him what she’d named the piece hanging from her wall, and he bends down to scoop up the Monet print while shaking his head impassively, clutching it in one hand as he snakes the other around Y/N’s waist once again. “Well, I hope Amanda doesn’t have feelings, because I’m going to burn her.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not, because I’m going to hang her over your bed, just so you can stare at her while you fall asleep each night.”
Harry groans loudly as he guides his lover from the music room and back to the open space of the antique mall. “Please. If anything is going over my bed, it’s a mirror, not a college freshman’s poor excuse of an attempt at interior design.”
Y/N wrinkles her nose at the comment, shaking her head at the crude suggestion. “A mirror? That better be a joke.”
“It was, but now that I’m thinking about it…”
“You’re disgustingly conceited.”
“Oh please, you lo—” Harry catches himself just before the word love rolls off his lips. Though he’s said it before when referring to certain aspects of their sex life (like how he loves the way her mouth feels, or how she loves the way he stretches her out), it just seems oddly repulsive to say at this very moment. Too intimate, almost.
Therefore, the creature bites back the offensive phrase and tugs her closer by the waist, covering up his sudden hesitation with his signature smirk. “You like that idea, don’t you, dove?”
Y/N keeps her face neutral as they pass by an older couple examining a grandfather clock. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t.” Harry laughs sharply, nuzzling his face into the top of Y/N’s hair and pressing a casual kiss to the crown of her head. “Need I remind you that your request for my interior design skills is what started this whole thing?”
“And if you had suggested I mount a mirror over my bed, this whole thing would’ve been over before it even had a chance to start.”
“You say that now, but if you were to see the way my cock looks while it slams into your—”
“Harry!” Y/N hisses, blood rushing to her cheeks as he guides her around a corner stacked with porcelain dolls.
“Fine. No mirror.” Harry relents, a disappointed sigh falling from his lips as he palms Y/N’s waist closer to himself. “But the tapestry needs to be burned.”
“No.”
“Thrown away.”
“No.”
“Folded up and tucked under the bed?”
“Possibly. And that’s as good an ending as you’ll get.”
That night, after Harry has satisfied his craving for both Y/N and the sweet liquid that pumps through her veins, and has settled in for his usual nightly routine of rhythmically caressing her back to lull her into a deep slumber, and as he counts the breaths the mortal sighs between nightfall and sunrise while her soft snoring sings a lullaby to his ears, he can’t help but think that…
That yes, this really is as good an ending as he’ll ever get.
#harry styles x reader#harry styles x you#harry styles x y/n#harry styles imagine#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fanfic#harry styles fic#vampire!harry#vampire!harry styles#harry styles blurb#harry styles smut#harry styles fluff#harry styles angst#one direction fanfiction#one direction fic#harry styles au#one direction imagine#one direction blurb#ysijwa#vampire au
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
100 ways to say I love you - TimKon edition:
Number 48: “I’ll do it for you.”
Enjoy! :D
The slamming of the mug startles Kon out of his sleepy haze. He jerks upright, narrowly avoiding not throwing his coffee everywhere, and looks around wildly for the cause of the noise. He’s still in the process of waking up so his mind is taking a little bit longer to comprehend everything that’s going on.
Once his mind has caught up he realises that he’s watching Tim storm up and down the kitchen, yelling into his phone, while he’s half dressed in a work suit and how there is coffee spilled over the kitchen countertop which is now dripping onto the floor.
Tim is livid. He’s yelling a large variety of curse words into the phone’s speaker, certainly giving the receiver an ear full as his free arm flies around all over the place while he yells. Kon wonders what’s caused his boyfriend to become so worked up at seven in the morning.
Knowing there isn’t anything he can do he stays quietly sat at the island and drinks his coffee as he watches Tim pace the kitchen. It’s a good thing they don’t have neighbours because they would’ve most definitely woken up by now considering how loud Tim’s shouting. He’s going to wait until Tim has finished on the phone and has calmed down a bit before approaching him about what’s going on. Kon’s also going to wait until he’s stopped pacing before clearing up the spilled drink, he doesn’t want to get in Tim’s way and get trampled in the process.
“The next time I see you, I swear to god, I will decapitate you and then proceed to present your head on a silver platter with an apple shoved in your jaw.”
Kon’s eyes widen and he stares at his boyfriend in shock. What kind of threat was that? With how venomous Tim’s tone is Kon’s pretty sure it’s not a threat but a promise. Now he really feels sorry for the guy on the other end of the phone.
Trying to remove that explicit image from his mind he focuses back on Tim in time to see him hang up and slam his phone down on the kitchen counter. Dead silence fills the kitchen and the atmosphere becomes thick and heavy. Kon’s not entirely sure how he should break the tension in the room without getting snapped at by his boyfriend. Tim on the other hand stands in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, his head hanging towards his chest as he takes long deep breathes clearly trying to calm himself down.
Thankfully it isn’t Kon who breaks the ice because Tim turns around and faces him, he sends him an apologetic look as he drops his hands down by his side. “Sorry about that and for the mess, I’ll clean it up in a moment. It’s not even eight o’clock and I’m already done with today.”
Kon makes a face. “That was heavy. What poor soul has a silver platter with their name on it?”
Tim waves a hand dismissing the question. “Just some incompetent moron, don’t worry about it.”
Kon raises an eyebrow, he’s still curious but is also now slightly amused at the whole situation. Pretty much anyone under the sun could come under that category. “You know, you sound Damian saying that. That threat also sounds like something Jason would say.”
Tim pauses. After a moment he sends him a horrified look. “Oh my god, I’m turning into my brothers. I’ve been spending too much time with them.”
“I’m pretty sure violent tendencies run throughout your family Tim, it was only a matter of time before you got corrupted too.” Kon snorts. At least Tim seems to have calmed down now, while Kon is curious to what the whole thing was about he knows better than to bring it up and start Tim off again.
His boyfriend takes a deep breath and shakes his head with a little huff of laughter at the idea of it. Unfortunately the tranquillity of the moment doesn’t last long as it’s broken by the shrill of Tim’s phone ringing. It’s probably more incompetent morons, especially people Tim doesn’t want to be dealing with if the resigned sigh is anything to go by.
Tim glares at the phone, not making a move to pick it up, long enough for it to stop ringing. The two of them don’t get a chance to enjoy the silence it brings as the device immediately starts ringing again, clearly whoever is trying to get hold of Tim is determined.
This time before Tim could do anything, Kon jumps up from his seat, moves around the island and stands in front of his boyfriend. He reaches out and puts his hand on top of Tim’s phone to stop him from picking up the device. When Tim pulls back and shoots Kon a look, Kon meets his gaze head on.
“Ignore this for now,” he tells him gently but firmly, “whoever it is can wait. Why don’t you go and finish getting yourself ready and then deal with it once you’re at the office. It’s seven in morning, I’m sure they can last an hour without you.”
Tim looks like he wants to protest. He bites his lower lip and stares at the phone under Kon’s hand with narrowed eyes but otherwise doesn’t move. Kon takes initiative and reaches out with his other to press it against Tim’s shoulder, gently nudging him backwards away from the counter.
“Go. It’s not going anywhere.”
Tim shakes his head and sighs in defeat. He takes a step back but instead of heading for the door he moves towards the kitchen sink. Grabbing a cloth he says, “Okay but first I’m going to clean that mess up.”
Rolling his eyes, Kon follows Tim to the sink and plucks the cloth out of his hands. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it for you. Now go and sort yourself out.”
His boyfriend stares at him incredulously like he couldn’t believe how pushy Kon is being that morning. Kon stares back, giving him a look that tells him he isn’t putting up with any bullshit.
After a moment Tim chuckles lowly, shaking his head as he does. Before Kon could question him on what’s funny Tim suddenly turns to face him with a mischievous look on his face that has him pausing.
Tim nonchalantly leans back against the sink, turning his body invitingly to Kon. “Before I go and get ready there’s something I really have to do first.”
Feeling exasperated, Kon huffs. “What? What could you possibly need to do right now?”
“This…”
Suddenly Tim’s lips are covering Kon’s own. Without any warning Tim had grabbed the front of Kon’s t-shirt and yanked him forward and started to kiss him. Kon let out a noise of surprise but relaxes into the kiss, letting Tim swallow any noise he makes. His eyes flutter close and he automatically tilts his head to accommodate Tim’s, allowing their bodies to press closer together and their lips to move more freely against each other’s.
A noise gets caught in the back of Kon’s throat as Tim takes his bottom lip between his own. After a second Tim lets his lip go and repeats the motion with Kon’s top lip. Just as Kon begins to reciprocate Tim pulls away which has him chasing Tim’s lips, searching for more because he wasn’t ready for it to end.
Tim grants him his desires because seconds later their lips clash again, this time with more passion and insistence than before. Tim requests entrance to his mouth and Kon willingly opens up for him. He lets Tim control the kiss as he gets lost in all the sensations that is his boyfriend.
An unknown amount of time later they separate and each take a breath as they calm down. Kon pulls away from Tim to get a good look at his face, which is now slightly flushed with slightly swollen lips. “So that was something.”
Tim hums in response.
“If that’s your way of ignoring calls then I can’t say I’m exactly against it…”
“I wanted to kiss you so I did.” Tim tells him like it’s the simplest thing in the world. And doesn’t that just make Kon’s heart beat a million times faster than before.
Kon leans in close, giving Tim’s waist a squeeze with his hands. “Well why don’t we continue that later on? Once you’re finished in the office you can come back here, turn that damn phone off and then you’ll be nothing but mine the whole night.”
Tim closes his eyes and grins. When he opens his eyes again Kon could see the lust in them as he stares back. “Sounds perfect. Now I have an entirely different reason why I want this day to be done with already.”
Kon snorts and presses a chaste kiss to Tim’s lips before moving away from him. “Now go and finish getting ready. You don’t want to be late.”
“Yes sir.” Tim mocks and finally exits the kitchen, leaving behind a very smitten Kon at the sink.
#timkon#Tim Drake#Kon-El#100 ways to say i love you#kissing#making out#annoyed tim#smitten kon#humour#colourful threats#idiots in love#comfort#fanfiction
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
all that matters is the light in you and i | denny | 2.3K | based on that ty olsson cameo because i will never stop thinking about it...
***
Since it happened, Dean’s been having trouble sleeping. It doesn’t make much sense, really, since everything is over now. There’s no Chuck anymore, just a bunch of humans trying to figure out what the hell happens next. Maybe nothing, maybe everything, but probably anything, which could be why he can’t sleep.
Dean takes to wandering around the Bunker at night when the walls of his room start closing in. He and Sam explored when they moved in here, a little, enough to find the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen. Then there were the storerooms and the dungeon and the server room. But the place is friggin’ huge and they just never got around to it, or they never had the chance to get around to it.
One of those nights, Dean’s coming back through the library. He just discovered the attic, which you can only get to by climbing up about a million stairs, with the added bonus of having to go back down them too. But all the stairs wore him out, so that’s okay. Maybe he’ll actually catch a few hours of bone-tired shut-eye, then Sam can have a field day sorting through all the shit up there tomorrow.
He almost doesn’t notice the message light blinking on one of the old phones they’ve got charging all the time in, what Jack calls, the Bridge. (The kid just discovered that there’s about a million versions and episodes of Star Trek). It’s really just a table and chair with an extension cord and all their old phones (and some of Bobby’s) in the back corner of the library. No one’s been back here in a while, or at least Dean hasn’t. They haven’t had any reason to. Things have calmed down, way down, since it happened.
The phone that’s blinking isn’t labeled, and he doesn’t recognize the number that pops up in the missed calls log from a few weeks ago. Still, might as well listen to the voicemail while he’s here.
“Hello, Dean,” Benny says, and the phone slips out of Dean’s hand and cracks against the floor.
“Fuck!” Dean grabs for it, praying to nothing, to everything, that it isn’t broken. His hands are shaking so badly he nearly drops the phone again. The screen is shattered in one corner, cracks spider webbing out from there, and he feels it nick his cheek just next to his ear. But Benny’s voice is still playing from the speaker, rich and low, lower than Dean remembers.
“- picked a fight with God -”
Dean starts the message over with trembling fingers. This is a trick. It has to be. A shapeshifter that’s still running around, or a crocotta maybe, hell, even a siren. Or it’s just Dean hallucinating from lack of sleep. It isn’t real because it can’t be. Because this is just the brand of fucked up figment that comes from Dean’s fucked up imagination.
“Hello, Dean. Been a while. The rumors of my early demise have been greatly exaggerated.”
He thinks of Purgatory and that Leviathan. His heart dropping like a stone and the ticking clock that left him with no time to breathe, let alone grieve, for days, for weeks, until it was over and that was the only thing left to do.
“I ain’t never seen a dogfight you couldn’t win. Go give ‘em hell, brother. I miss you buddy.”
The message ends, but all Dean can hear is “I’m topside again” on a loop, the low rumble of Benny’s chuckle.
“I’m sleepwalking,” Dean says to nobody, to the empty library in the middle of the night. “I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.” His voice shakes as badly as his hands as he presses redial. He scrubs a hand down his face as it rings, and realizes he’s crying. “It’s gonna ring out,” he whispers, not knowing if he wants it to or not, not knowing which would hurt less.
“Hey, chief.”
***
Dean is nearly to Wichita by the time he realizes he’s not wearing any shoes. He’s never driven barefoot before in his life (it would be an insult to Baby, to all other cars, and to every human with sense), but hell if he didn’t tear out of the bunker like someone lit a fire under his ass.
Benny, what might be Benny, what’s probably Benny, is driving up from New Orleans to meet him outside of Fort Worth. Eight hours on the road, three of them gone already and he’s just now realizing he’s in his socks. The sun is peeking out over the horizon, painting the sky in pinks and oranges and golds as he flies along the highway that’s nearly empty this early in the morning. Dean Winchester will drive without shoes on when Hell freezes over, he thinks wildly and laughs out of his open window.
Sam calls an hour or so later, after Dean has gone through a drive-thru for coffee that he hasn’t touched. He’s running on no sleep, but he’s wired and shaky as it is. The coffee that’s turning tepid perched between his knees would probably make things worse.
“Where are you?” Sam says by way of a greeting.
“Just crossed into Oklahoma.”
“What - Oklahoma? Dean, what the hell?”
Dean zips by an eighteen-wheeler. There are more cars out on the road now, but it’s still mostly just open road. Four hours of open road between him and Benny. Less if traffic stays like this.
“We woke up and you were gone, Dean. Why are you going to Oklahoma?”
“Not going to Oklahoma, Sammy.” Dean puts the call on speaker and tosses his phone onto the bench seat so he can drum his fingers against the steering wheel. He’s buzzing with energy or nerves or both. “Do you know, are there any shoes in the trunk?”
“Shoes?” He can just hear Sam pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Dean. Where are you going?”
“Fort Worth.”
“What’s in Fort Worth? You catch a case or something?”
Dean is quiet for a moment, passing another eighteen-wheeler. If he tells Sam he’s hauling six hundred miles worth of ass because something that probably isn’t but might be Benny left him a voicemail three weeks ago, they’ll fight. “You won’t like it.”
“Dean, you better tell me what the hell is going on. Right now. You think I don’t know something’s up with you?”
“It’s -” Dean sighs, lifts his eyes to the sky that’s brightening into clear blue, sunny and cloudless as far as he can see. “Look, Sam -”
“Don’t ‘look, Sam’ me - “
“Fine, okay,” Dean says. Lukewarm coffee sloshes over the lid of the coffee cup perched between his knees. “It’s Benny.”
On the other end of the line, Sam is quiet. “Dean,” he says quietly, and there’s pity there. “You know Benny’s - I mean, it’s been years.”
“I know.” Dean steps on the gas, like it will speed this conversation up. “Man, I know, okay? He - I got a call, a voicemail, a few weeks ago, but I didn’t see it until last night with...you know. Everything. I’m not stupid, Sam. I’ll be careful, but I can’t - I have to -” He bites at his lip, thinking of a brightly-painted alley, of a forest in Maine at night, of an unmarked grave. He thinks of scrubbing blood out of the trunk, and of biting into his lip so hard new blood mingles with what he’s trying to scrub out. Of cranking up the radio loud enough that it echoed through the garage and he could choke out a sob without Sam hearing. “I just need to see if it’s him.”
“Okay,” Sam says finally. “Okay, but Dean, let me meet you there. Or Cas. You shouldn’t be alone, you know, in case…”
In case it isn’t Benny. In case it’s some monster, or some other monster, or the monster is actually Dean’s lack of sleep or his grief, or it’s just him and he’s finally cracked. “No,” Dean says. “I mean it, Sam, no. I need to see if it’s him, and I need to do it on my own.”
“Dean -”
“I’ll call you, if - I’ll call you.” Dean reaches over and hangs up before Sam can protest anymore.
***
They don’t end up meeting in Fort Worth. Having too many people around makes Dean itchy under his skin, in his bones, and Fort Worth is crawling with them. They end up meeting in Crowley, of all places, just outside of it anyway.
Dean gets there first, probably because he took the last hundred miles at least twenty over. There aren’t any shoes in the trunk after all, so he just stands there in his socks on the side of a dusty road, fiddling with the silver knife and the flask of holy water, leaning against the hood, then the trunk, then the driver’s side door, then sliding back behind the wheel. He realizes too late that he’s tracking dirt onto the floor and gets back out. He pours the rest of his untouched coffee out into the grass.
A crappy old truck pulls up after twenty minutes or so, not as crappy as the one Benny used to drive, but crappy and old all the same.
And there’s Benny, who smiles slow and bright as he approaches. He’s got his cap pulled down low over his eyes, but they’re alight with life. “Hey, brother,” Benny says, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
“You know I’ve gotta -” Dean’s voice shakes and he swallows, gesturing with the flask.
“I know.”
Except then Dean actually has to do it, has to walk over to Benny and hold his arm steady while he -
“Dean,” Benny says, reaching towards him. He almost takes Dean’s hand to steady it but stops just short, which is probably for the best. If maybe-not-Benny were to touch him now, Dean might shatter.
"Okay." Dean watches as if from outside his own body as the silver knife slices a thin gash in Benny's forearm and a splash of holy water washes away the blood that wells up there. "Benny?" he says, heart cracking open with something like grief or relief or longing.
Benny steps forward again, but Dean puts a hand up. "My turn," he says. The cut on his arm stings in the dry air, a bead of blood dripping onto his sock.
And then it doesn't matter because Benny is taking him into his arms and it's just like Dean remembers. Benny smells like something long-forgotten, something newly remembered. Dean can feel Benny's breath on the side of his neck, the too-slow beat of Benny’s heart against his chest, where his own pulse is racing. He pulls away first, keeping a grip on Benny's shoulder to anchor himself. "How -" he starts, shaking his head.
"Where are your shoes, chief?" Benny says with a laugh and thumbs a tear from Dean’s cheek, lets his hand linger there, solid and warm in the sunlight. “And what happened here?” He runs a finger over the cut Dean had completely forgotten about in his mad rush out of the Bunker last night. Early this morning. Whatever.
Dean just shakes his head against Benny’s hand, unable to get the words out. I dropped everything and ran. I can’t believe you’re real. I missed you. I need you. I -
“How are you here?” he says instead, lifting a shaking hand to grip Benny’s wrist before he loses his nerve.
Benny shrugs and strokes over the shell of Dean’s ear with the pad of his thumb, which makes Dean go a little weak at the knees. “Figure it’s because of the big fight. I ain’t complaining, though.” He looks Dean square in the face, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I missed you, brother.”
“Yeah?” Dean lets his breath out in a rush.
“Yeah.”
Dean rocks forward, just a little. Just enough to tip his forehead against Benny’s, nudging that stupid beautiful newsboy cap off to the side. He’s still holding onto Benny’s wrist, but he slides his other hand to curl into the short hair at the nape of Benny’s neck. He lets his eyes close. This is safe. Here, he’s safe and grounded, missed and forgiven and loved. Benny breathes slow and even, and Dean finally does too. In, out. In, out. Dean opens his eyes to see Benny gazing at him, full of wonder.
“I wasn’t sure if - it’s been a long time,” Benny says, choosing his words carefully, staying firmly in Dean’s space. Or maybe it’s Dean, crowding up against him, unwilling to let go for fear of waking up or floating away entirely.
“Too long,” Dean says. “Too damn long.” His gaze flicks to Benny’s mouth like it has a hundred times before, a thousand, too many times to count, really. Except it feels new. It feels tenuous and fragile with all the time lost between them.
Benny moves in slowly, brushing Dean’s nose with his own, stopping when they’re only a breath apart for one agonizing moment. He runs his thumb up and over the cut on Dean’s cheek, his ear, and Dean shakes from the tenderness of it. “Je t’aime, cher,” Benny whispers into the space between them.
They meet in the middle and it’s gentle and sweet and everything Dean remembered, except better because God is dead and they can have this for the rest of their lives, if they want. They can have this, and this, and this, and Dean breaks away with a laugh even as Benny wipes another tear from his cheek. “I love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world because here, now, standing in his stupid socks in a patch of gravel on the side of a road outside Crowley, Texas with their future, his and Benny’s, as wide open as the bright blue sky stretching out above them, it is.
tagging: @joharvele | @contemplativepancakes | @fluffiestlou | @never-forever-more | @emblue-sparks | @tearsofgrace | @hallowena | @chaoticdean | @radiantdean
let me know if you want to be added/removed/only tagged for specific things! 💖
#title from wide open sky by the well pennies#i just......love them..........#let them be in LOVE#mine.fic#denny
156 notes
·
View notes
Text
Stray Kids ‘unlock’ pandemic-hit stage with virtual concert
K-pop boy band Stray Kids held their first virtual concert “Unlock: Go Live In Life” on Sunday, connecting with global fans online amid the virus outbreak.
Streamed through Beyond Live -- a livestreaming platform on Naver invested by the group’s agency JYP Entertainment -- the online concert picked up from the group’s first world tour “District 9: Unlock” which kicked off last November and had to be halted due to the global COVID-19 pandemic.
“Although we’ve been working hard with other stages, as soon as we kicked off tonight’s opening stage, I realized, yet again, that a concert stage is incomparable to any other,” Seungmin said, after the members started the night’s show with their most powerful dance hits “District 9”, “Victory Song”, “Question” and “Side Effects”.
“We even felt abstinence symptoms from the lack of concerts,” Han said jokingly. “We missed concerts so much that we would dance to ‘District 9’ in our rooms. It’s been so long since we’ve felt this thrill inside.”
The band performed to “Double Knot” during which they showcased perfectly synchronized dance movements. Switching the atmosphere in no time with their ballad track “M.I.A”, their dreamlike voices rang through the stage.
Unit performances followed, with the dance unit -- comprising Lee Know, Hyunjin and Felix -- dancing to “Wow” in stages filled with water, while the vocal line members -- Seungmin and I.N., joined by the group’s rapper Changbin – sang to “My Universe”.
The show’s energy climbed high with the group’s best hit song “God’s Menu”, during which the eight members performed Nanta -- a nonverbal drumming percussion -- to the beat of the song.
With the song becoming the group’s first music video to reach 100 million views on YouTube, soon followed by “Miroh”, Changbin gave a shout-out for fans, saying, “It was thanks to you guys that we could hit 100 million.”
A special gift was presented just for the fans that night. Revealing the first stage performance of the Korean version of “All In” -- which had originally been released in Japanese -- the members spontaneously announced the repackaged Korean version will be dropped on Nov. 26.
Not only the performances, but the dynamic visual effects filled with top-notch technologies wowed the fans watching the show through screens. While the stage changed shape into of a huge wooden ship during “Mixtape #4”, the floor turned into a burning pit during “Hellevator”.
Throughout the two-hour show, the eight-piece act performed to a total of 22 songs, including “Blue Print”, “Back Door” and “We Go”.
I.N. showed deep regret in holding the concert virtual, saying, “I was personally very sad to be not able to hold the scheduled global concerts. I even felt depressed sometimes. Although I was sad myself, I was even more worried about Stays around the world who would have been disappointed.”
Taking pictures of the fans’ screens surrounding the stage, Hyunjin said, “It was shameful for us to hold only one concert and I’ve been waiting to show everything we had prepared back then. Hence, as this is (a part of) our first concert, I’m just honored and grateful to share everything through Beyond Live.”
“While excited, I was also worried as we thought about how we could deliver the thrill of a live concert. Although we are all in different time zones and places, we wanted to empower you guys through this concert. We really wanted to return all the love and support Stays had shown us,” Felix said.
The members actively invited the fans to engage with them, making eye contacts through screens and calling out for the fans to shout out screams. Although limited, the faces shown through fan cams and their screams ringing out through the speakers were enough to make the bandmates and their fans feel connected.
As Lee Know asked why the fans were not eating anything, fans started to show chicken, pizzas and fruit through their cameras and waved food packages to show that they were all enjoying the virtual concert. “Oh I see some dumplings as well,” Lee Know said, laughing awkwardly.
“I feel like I’m speaking on video chat with my best friends. It’s like I’m showing you guys what I have prepared and asking you to comment on it ahead of a big show,” Han said, looking around the screens in wonder. “I feel more nervous speaking to you guys like this, more than when I was performing. Let’s treasure this moment forever.”
It was not only the members who had surprised the fans, but the fans had also prepared a special event. The fans unanimously waved their phone screens showing the message “Stray Kids + Stay = Family,” silently cheering for the members.
“Wow, so you guys communicate with each other. You have so many friends,” the members shouted out.
“I’ve always felt our concert is like a special, cozy place for just us and Stays, and I’m getting that warm feeling again with this concert ‘Unlock,’” Bangchan said, adding in English, “Looking at you guys from here, you guys are all beautiful and all really amazing. Thanks for coming here and being at our very own special place.”
Source: The Jakarta Post
84 notes
·
View notes
Text
Being in Love & Working at the BAU
Spencer Reid x Female Reader
GIF Not Mine.
Click Here For Masterlist.
Word Count: 2,817
Warnings: none that I can think of.
Summary: Y/N realised she was in love with the boy genius of the BAU about six months ago, and she’s been working hard at keeping it under wraps since. Problem? She works with profilers.
When JJ began dating Will it had been obvious to the team from the get go, though the blonde believed she’d done a wonderful job at keeping it from us. At that point, I’d sworn to refrain from hiding anything from the team, because chances are they knew before I worked up the courage to tell them, and also I hated keeping secrets from those I loved.
However, from the moment I realised that I was developing feelings that most definitely were not platonic for a certain member of the team, I found myself taking back my original vow and amending it to the following: be honest about everything but this. And it was difficult. I was constantly monitoring my expressions, my body language and my words whenever I was around him. It was exhausting and stressful, but on the plus side I was almost certain the rest of the team had no idea what was going on.
I blinked, bringing myself back to the present, seeing as I was at work, focus was key. Though to be fair, almost all of the team had retired to their hotel rooms at that point, so I wouldn’t actually be penalised for getting lost in my thoughts for a minute or two. My eyes flickered over the clear board covered with pictures from the three different crime scenes, and individual pictures of each victim. I always wondered what they were thinking in those photos, they always looked happy and it seemed almost wrong that their happiness had to be in the same vicinity as the gruesome images that portrayed their murder.
With a sigh, I grabbed my now empty coffee cup and headed over to the small kitchenette in the station. My gaze fell onto Spencer as I filled my mug and I found myself reaching for a new one to pour him a beverage without even thinking about it.
‘Hey Spence,’ I murmured, my voice soft to avoid startling him too badly as I gently placed his steaming hot beverage in front of him.
‘Hey.’ He returned my smile, his brown eyes shining with exhaustion and warmth, ‘what are you still doing here?’
‘Oh, I—.’ I broke off with a sigh, the genuine concern in his eyes made it impossible to lie to him, especially when it was obvious he already knew the truth, ‘I couldn’t bring myself to leave.’ My eyes fell on the clear board again, and lingered on the happy smiling images before I forced myself to look into the warm and comforting eyes of Dr. Reid, ‘I knew if I did I wouldn’t sleep anyway, so I guess I just didn’t see the point.’
‘I understand.’ His eyes fell to the mug he was now holding between his hands as he spoke, and then lifted to meet mine when he was finished. I felt my heart skip a beat in response, as it always did when his beautiful oak eyes were focused on me.
‘We’re quite the pair, huh?’ I chuckled, running a hand through my hair and fighting back the yawn that wanted to escape my throat, ‘how have you been sleeping?’
I saw how hard he fought to keep the exhaustion from his expression before he admitted defeat and let me see it.
‘Spence,’ I murmured, my hand reaching out and grasping his left one. He removed it from his cup and turned it over so that our hands were linked together, ‘is there anything I can do?’
He’d confided a few months ago that he’d been having really awful, vivid nightmares that kept waking him up throughout the night. Eventually, he avoided sleep all together out of fear of what his unconscious mind was waiting to torture him with. I’d offered some tips that had helped me when I’d gone through the same thing: camomile tea, warm baths with lavender oils and playing a soothing playlist to fall asleep to. Since then he’d been sleeping better, but I’d noticed the familiar dark circles starting to form underneath his eyes again.
‘I do have an idea, but if it would make you uncomfortable then I understand.’ He said, biting his lip and subconsciously holding my hand tighter.
‘Okay, what is it?’ Unable to be unaffected by the anxiety that was practically pouring out of him.
‘I read a study that found those who slept in the same bed as their partner reported a higher quality of sleep and no nightmares.’ He spoke so softly that I had to strain to hear him, and when I did, I had to take a minute to process what he’d suggested.
He wanted me to sleep in the same bed as him. I felt different emotions start to I whirl inside of me, each generating a different answer. The anxiety told me that it absolutely was not a good idea. I already had romantic feelings for Spencer, what if doing this made it all the more complicated and more difficult to hide? Another part of me was determined and demanded that I took the opportunity to comfort him, because I loved him and how was I supposed to turn him away when he needed me to help him? But when I looked over to Spencer’s expression I felt the inner turmoil inside my mind fade away—he looked tired, vulnerable and hopeful. All I felt then was a strong desire to help him get a good nights rest and hopefully keep the nightmares at bay. I couldn’t be selfish with him, and if he needed me I was going to help him, even if it meant me being exposed to the feelings I’d been trying to suppress for months now.
‘Okay, but I warn you— I’ve been told I cuddle in my sleep.’ I said, keeping my tone light to diffuse the tension that had formed between us.
He chuckled, the sound was wonderful and I found myself joining him with ease as we both stood to head back to the hotel. According to the clock in the station it was ten thirty, so hopefully we’d get at least eight hours of sleep. As we made our way to the elevator, I wondered how much one night could alter a dynamic between two people.
//
I woke to the sound of my phone ringing, emitting Garcia’s personalised ringtone—‘Baby girl’ by Bryce Vine. My hand went to reach for it, but I stopped short when I realised I couldn’t move. Before I had the chance to panic, Spencer’s familiar scent invaded my nostrils; I could smell the mint smell of his shampoo, the faint remnants of his woodsy cologne and the vanilla from the hand lotion he’d borrowed before bed. He was spooning me from behind and I was helpless to stop myself from melting further into his warmth and turning my head to further take in his comforting scent. I was just on the precipice of falling back into the most peaceful sleep I’d had for years when the phone started to ring again.
Spencer stirred this time and grabbed it, groggily promising that he’d be in soon before hanging up and tossing his phone onto the carpeted floor.
‘Was that Garcia?’ I asked, clearing my throat in an attempt to remove the sleep from my voice.
‘Yeah, they have a lead and want us in as soon as possible.’ He sighed, his grip not loosening from around my waist, ‘that was the best nights sleep I’ve had in... god I can’t even remember.’
‘It was for me too.’ I admitted softly, fighting the emotions waging a war inside my head.
I was insanely comfortable in his arms, as if I belonged there... as if I was home. But I was sure to remind myself that the feeling was one-sided—Reid didn’t feel that way about me, and why would he? I was his colleague and a friend they trusted enough to confide in about his sleeplessness. Now was not the time to get lost in my own feelings, this had been about him and I refused to allow myself to get lost in my own head.
‘We should get going.’ I murmured, reluctantly easing from his grip and heading for the bathroom to get dressed.
By the time I emerged, Spencer was gone and I tried to ignore the way that made my stomach drop to my feet. I sent a thumbs up to the text he sent me:
Headed to the station, I’ll see you there. Thanks again for last night. Spencer.
When I arrived at the station I headed straight for the coffee before joining the others at the rectangular table in the conference room. I noticed Emily’s surprised look when she noticed I hadn’t bought a mug for Spencer but I ignored it, unwilling to focus on how I was feeling. Right now I had a job to do, there was no time to deal with the rejection and abandonment coursing through my veins.
‘Garcia found a link, each victim was registered to a chat room discussing different fantasy novels.’ Hotch announced from where he was stood at the head of the table, his head down as he flicked through one of the case files.
‘And each agreed to a face to face meeting the night before their death with someone by the username Red Youn. I tried tracking the IP address but he’s a smart cookie and re-routed through about a million different servers.’ Garcia revealed from the speaker in the centre of the table.
‘Red Youn is an anagram for your end.’ I thought aloud, ignoring a certain pair of eyes I could feel boring into the side of my head, ‘what if he sees himself as the antagonist in his own version of a fantasy novel?’
‘That would explain the similarities in victimology.’ Morgan commented, talking about their almost identical appearances.
‘But how would he know that before meeting them?’ My lips pursed, ‘were any of the women in contact with anyone new before they died?’
‘Ahh, sugar you always ask the best questions.’ Garcia praised, ‘yes all three women spoke to a man with the same number on the days leading up to their death. This included sending photographs and discussing their favourite villains in different fantasy novels. I’m sending you the name and address of the person this number is registered to.’
‘Garcia you are wonderful.’ I said, a genuine smile forming on my lips, it was small but it was the first sign of happiness I’d shown since I’d left my hotel room this morning.
‘Aw, tell me something I don’t know.’ She teased before she hung up and we all geared up and headed for the unsub’s residence.
We had a suspect to arrest.
//
We’d managed to apprehend Jacob Kerwoski successfully and we’d all decided to celebrate with a meal prepared by Rossi at his humble abode. After we’d finished the food we all separated off for different activities— Derek had challenged Garcia to a game of darts, Rossi and Hotch were talking in the library and sharing stories of past cases, Emily and JJ were sat outside each holding a glass of wine and whispering about something they had to keep their voices low for. Reid and I were sat in the living room, I was personally too full to move so I was slowly sinking further and further into the soft cushions around me.
I was grateful that my stomach felt like it was exploding, it provided a distraction from the elephant in the room. I hadn’t directly spoken to Reid since this morning and I didn’t know how to break the awkwardness that existed between us now. I knew it was partly due to my inability to hide my rejection this morning after I’d returned to an empty room once I’d dressed. But it wasn’t his fault that I’d taken it so personally due to my romantic feelings for him.
‘Reid?’ My voice was soft and tentative.
‘Y-yeah?’ He stuttered, surprised that I’d broken the silence in the room.
‘I’m sorry how I’ve been acting around you today. I just wanted you to know that it’s nothing to do with you, it’s my own issues that I need to deal with.’
He was silent for a long moment after I spoke, his eyes just staring into mine as if he were debating whether or not he should say something. It was a look I was used to seeing on his face— Spence often had thoughts, facts and information swimming around in his head and he had to filter himself. But his next words took me by surprise and had my heart beating out of my chest.
‘I know how you feel about me, Y/N.’ His voice was soft that I questioned if I’d heard him correctly, but the serious expression on his face assured me that I had.
‘H-how do I feel about you Spence?’ I asked, nervously clearing my throat.
‘For the first few years of us knowing each other, you cared for me as a friend, but that changed about six months ago. I don’t know why, and nothing obvious changed in your behaviour. You still bring me coffee, still hug me when I need it, still offer to help me with anything and everything when I need someone to rely on. But the way you look at me now, it’s... softer and warmer. You didn’t used to look at me that way before.’ He said, his voice slower than it usually was when he explained something, his calmness made my heart stutter in my chest.
‘The way you look at me now, it’s the same way that JJ and Will look at each other, except more intense.’ He scooted closer to me on the sofa, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, ‘I noticed it because I’ve been looking at you the same way for the past year.’
I blinked and my mouth fell open as my brain short circuited with the new information. Spencer had been looking at me the same way— how had I never noticed that before? I’d been so concentrated on not revealing my feelings— that I’d apparently sucked at doing— that I hadn’t noticed a change in Spence’s behaviour like he had in mine. I’d say I was a terrible profiler but I knew that I never would have noticed regardless of anything else, because I’d always believed he deserved better than me.
‘Y-you love me?’ I breathed, the emotion in my voice rendering me incapable of speaking higher than a whisper.
‘I do.’ His smile was soft, his eyes sparkled with an affectionate warmth that simultaneously made my heart melt, and breath catch in my throat.
I’m not sure who moved forward first, or if we both moved at the same time, but the next thing my mind registered was his lips moving agains mine. It started out tentative, but as Spencer’s hand slid in my hair and pulled me even closer to his chest, the kiss deepened. My hands went to his shoulders and slid up to his scalp to curl into his tousled hair. I felt him moan into my mouth when I gently tugged on the strands, and when he started to guide me to lay back onto the sofa I went willingly, pulling him along with me.
It was hard not to get too lost in the kiss, or to take it further than we should, because finally being with him just felt so right and natural. But eventually we pulled away, reminded that we were at risk of someone walking in on us when Garcia and Derek started cheering in the other room.
‘That was...’ I trailed off, my brain still too lost from the electricity of the kiss, ‘wow.’
‘I-I ugh couldn’t agree more.’ Spencer murmured, his hand sliding from my hair so that he could wind his arm around my shoulders.
As I melted into his side, we chatted quietly for the rest of the night, our voices no higher than a whisper as it wasn’t necessary and it allowed us to revel in our own little bubble. It was much later, when we were both on the cusp of sleep that I nuzzled my face into the side of his neck and murmured the words I’d been holding back for six months now.
‘I love you Spence.’ My eyes fluttered closed and just before I fell into unconsciousness, I heard my genius return the sentiment.
I fell asleep with a smile on my face and a heart overflowing with pure happiness.
A/N: As you can probably guess I’m still watching criminal minds, and finding myself wishing a man like Spencer Reid existed in real life. I hope you enjoyed this one-shot!
281 notes
·
View notes
Text
“you should let me love you. let me be the one too, give you everything you want and need. baby, good love and protection, make me your selection. show you the way love supposed to be. baby, you should let me love you.”
character: keigo takami - MY HERO ACADEMIA
note: sorry for all the Hawks! im just in a fluff mood for him. sooo, I might take requests after all. if any of you want to send something in particular, I’ll see if I can write it out!
you had been together with Hawks for a few months now.
was it hard? fuck yeah. did you regret ever telling him yes? absolutely not. being with Keigo was one of the best experiences of your life so far and you never wanted it to end.
-
the two of you met after he saved your university from a villain. you were stuck as a hostage in a room with the villain itself. the class was filled with a bunch of students screaming, crying, or both but you were so paralyzed with fear that you weren’t able to say or do anything.
once Hawks swooped in to save the class, he quickly defeated the villain before sending in the rest of the pro hero response team to grab everyone.
you, being so struck by fear, didn’t move an inch. Hawks had seen this happen before and knew that the tears would be coming soon. your face was tucked in between your knees as he tapped you on the shoulder.
“sweetheart, it’s fine, you can come with me.”
finally looking up, you seen the winged hero before slowly getting up. your hand trembled as you walked out of the university. a few of your friends instantly ran up to you as they wiped their tears to make sure you were okay.
“lets get you to a medic,” one of your friends exclaimed as she slowly walked you to the paramedics. you still hadn’t uttered a word nor were you in the mood too.
after your friends left you and the paramedic finally started checking you, they chalked up your frightened emotions as shock. they placed a weighted blanket on you before they noticed Hawks walking to them.
he snapped his fingers as he told them to give you a few minutes alone, “I don’t think she’s in the right state of mind to be asked questions,” one of the paramedics said. he sighed, “I’m not asking her questions now leave,” he lectured as the paramedics finally listened and went to check on someone else.
you were leaning up against the wall, your eyes still as hazy as they first were when he saved you.
“you okay?” he asked as you didn’t respond. he sat next to you before sighing, “listen, I know what happened to you was traumatizing-,” Hawks didn’t even get through the first half of the sentence before hearing you bawl your eyes out.
he watched as you hid your face between your blanket, “I could’ve died. my family could’ve had gotten a call that I was murdered. oh my god, how am I going to tell them?” you sobbed as you felt Hawks move you against him.
“they’ve been notified,” he murmured as your eyes widened, “where’s my phone,” you yelled as you dug into your bag to see the 100+ messages from your family and friends.
“call them in the morning, they know you’re okay but if you call them in the state you’re, it’s not going to help anyone here.”
you knew he was right but you didn’t care. you immediately dialed your mom and heard her sobs racking through the phone as she asked you a million and one questions.
“m-mom, it’s fine! i’m okay,” you managed to say as she tried to calm herself down, “c-can I c-call you tomorrow? I need to talk to the paramedics,” you lied as she agreed and hung up.
Hawks saw you grip your phone as the tears kept flowing down, “thank you for saving me, I know you’re a very in demand hero and you probably need to get going but you saved me,” you admitted as he nodded.
he had never seen anyone this shaken up before and truthfully, a part of him was disturbed. he saved hundreds of people before but for some reason, your reaction and you alone enraged him.
Hawks never dealt with the aftermath of villains but he was going to make sure that the villain who did this actually served as many possible years as they could.
“nah, I’ll stay behind and make sure you’re okay. don’t need you ruinnin’ off somewhere and getting hurt,” he replied as you shook your head, “it’s fine. I’m okay. I’ve received a few emails that I’m excused for classes for the rest of the week so I’m going to take the few days to recover,” you finally said without stuttering.
Hawks remained sitting as he watched you wrap the blanket around you, “do you have a car here?” you nodded as he finally thought of a way to keep an eye on you but make sure you weren’t going to noticed him, “I’ll walk you there,” he added on as you hesitantly agreed.
you walked to your car in silence as Hawks held your backpack. your car was a bit on the beat up side but you were a college student, a brand new car probably wasn’t even in your financial means.
you put your bag into the trunk before going to the drivers side and giving Hawks one final look, “thank you,” you whispered before getting into the car.
he let you drive off for a few more minutes before deciding to fly and follow you to your house. he didn’t mean to be the creepiest person ever but he was just concerned about you getting home.
your apartment didn’t look to be too far from your university but as soon as he watched you get into the complex, a sense of relief washed over him and finally decided to fly back to his agency.
-
it took Hawks a while for you to come around to the idea of you dating him. your fears were warranted though. you didn’t want to be so publicized in the media nor did you want any of his enemies coming after you.
you didn’t want to be in the hero field. far from it. so dating the number two hero was in the complete opposite side of the spectrum for you.
there would be days where Hawks would just come by your house for a ‘glass of water’ in the middle of his patrol. you would be so adorably cute and make him not want to leave but he had people to save and villains to defeat.
when you finally cracked down and accepted the idea of dating him, Hawks hadn’t felt so happy in so long. the idea of Hawks coming home to you and you greeting him with a hug and kiss basically projected him to cloud nine.
that’s where you were now. it was a rare day off for him and you were cuddled up in his arms when he woke up in the morning. you were probably still dead asleep as you had a tendency to sleep without waking up to any commotion.
you had your hair sprawled all over your face as he softly moved it away to get a good look at you. in a sense, you were like his own version of heaven. he didn’t even know if he believed in a God but if there was one, he felt like they placed you in his life on purpose.
Keigo didn’t really fall for the fake corny romantic bullshit but ever since becoming official with you, it was hard not too. you would greet him at your apartment when he stopped at your place after his shift and on the days where he asked you to go to his house an hour before his shift ended, you were there to greet him with a kiss.
he truly never believed he would ever get the taste of such that life but here you were, in his arms peacefully asleep.
Keigo still hadn’t told you he loved you yet but he knew that would be coming sooner than later. he had no intention of letting you go now. you were stuck with the number two hero whether you liked it or not.
it was already reaching ten when you started shuffling in place. he looked down at you as you opened your eyes and gave him the sleepiest smile you could have.
“morning,” you muttered, “how long have you been up?”
he shrugged, “eight, maybe nine?” he estimated. your eyes widened, “that long? you haven’t gotten up to eat? would you want me to make you something?” you asked.
“in a minute, I just want to hold you for a few moments,” he admitted. you gave him a kiss which he quickly deepened, “what has you so soft this morning? you’re usually teasing me by now,” you joked as he shrugged.
“waking up to you this morning felt different,” he mentioned, “I’ve never waken up next to someone I love before.”
your eyes widened as you grabbed his hand, “aw, Keigo, I’m honored. I know your life has been considerably harder in comparison to mine but you don’t have to feel like I’m going to leave you or something,” you responded as he nodded, “I love you too,” you said back making him smile.
he immediately plopped you on top of him and kissed you again, “holding you this way is going to get addicting, you know that?” you giggled as you snuggled up to his chest, “really now?” you mocked as you got up, “well that sucks because I’m making you breakfast and you’re helping,” you told him as he chuckled lowly.
you got off of him and grabbed his shirt before slipping it on and making your way to his bedroom bathroom. you and him brushed your teeth before he got into the shower.
once he finished and put on a pair of grey sweatpants with a white shirt, he met you in his kitchen that went hardly touched. he maybe cooked once or twice in it? Keigo tended to order takeout and never did learn how to cook.
you had headphones popped in as you took out a few things you bought yesterday and mixed them together before pouring milk. watching you do the most domestic thing ever made his heart flutter. it was like the two of you were married and in a way, he longed that this relationship would lead to that.
“are you gonna help?” you exclaimed as he laughed, “coming love! you know you’re able to connect your phone to the stereo that’s in the wall, right?”
he made his way over to you before giving you a kiss and helping you connect the music you had playing in your headphones to the speaker built into the wall.
ALITA
#bnha#bnha imagine#bnha x reader#boku no hero academia#boku no hero academia imagine#boku no hero academia x reader#boku no hero imagine#mha#mha imagine#mha x reader#my hero academia#my hero academia imagine#my hero academia x reader#keigo takami#keigo takami x reader#keigo takami imagine#hawks#hawks x reader#bnha hawks imagine
247 notes
·
View notes
Text
June Contest Submission #12: Boom Boom Pow
Words: ca. 3,300
Setting: mAU
Lemon: lime
CW: sand, alcohol, beanbags, dash of lime, language
“Do you like the stars?”
“Anna it’s fucking noon, the sun is up, it’s bright as shit. Why are you asking about stars?”
“Yo, my dude, chill. The sun is a star… right?”
Elsa rolled her eyes and turned up the radio, blasting 80’s music, but only the good songs. “I don’t know why I agree to come with you on these things.”
At this Anna laughed and danced a bit offbeat to the song that was playing. She didn’t know the lyrics, but the bass line was nice and she could vibe with that. She let the whole song play out before answering.
“Because you loooove me” She sing-songed, earning another eye roll from the driver. “You love me and we’re going to the beach and it’s going to be a good time.”
“If I didn’t love you, would it still be a good time?” Elsa asked, smirking.
As a response, Anna reached over and changed the radio. A loud, bass-heavy rap song overtook the speakers. The signer immediately spitting out questionably appropriate lyrics for the radio. Elsa’s face reddened under her large glasses and she reached to change channels so quickly that she turned it off. Enveloping the small sedan in a brief silence till Anna’s laughter filled the space.
And it went on like this the entire car ride, bits and pieces of random songs rapidly changing. Anna would allow something Elsa liked to play out entirely but when it was her turn she either skipped around or Elsa changed the station for her. The older woman apparently hated both rap and country music. The first part Anna didn’t understand and the latter, she agreed with. She was desperately trying to find a gospel station, just to see her sister’s reaction, but she found nothing but commercials.
Finally, she heard what she was looking for and turned to see Elsa’s reaction just as the other girl reached over and turned the radio off again. Anna was going to protest when she realized they were in a drive-thru.
“What can I get started for you today?” a tired-sounding voice asked over the intercom.
Anna leaned over Elsa to get closer to the open window and thus the speaker box. Making sure to be just close enough to be annoying.
“We would like to get married please, with Elvis if you have him, if not we’ll take what you have.”
“Anna!” Elsa exclaimed, slapping her on the shoulder.
There was an audible sigh come over the loudspeaker, “Ma’am this is a Wendy’s.”
“Oh right, then I’ll take a cheeseburger and a medium Coke, no ice. Thank you!”
“Anything else?” the tired voice asked.
“I’ll have the same thing.”
They continued driving towards the beach after the drive-thru. Cupholders full of sodas in flimsy paper cups, and Anna’s lap full of white paper bags of greasy food. She kept sneaking a fry when she thought Elsa wasn’t looking. But it was a small car and Elsa could see every bit of fried potato Anna took.
The closer they got to the beach, the darker the sky became. Tall looming clouds crept over the horizon. They couldn’t see the beach yet as it was the east coast, and most roads took you to the beach straight on instead of winding down cliff faces like the Pacific was famous for. But still, the clouds loomed. Elsa knew there was a storm somewhere off the coast, but it seemed far away last she checked, which wasn’t today. She refused to check the weather today for fear of bad news.
On the main highway, traffic was starting to get heavy, more tourists were headed for their long-awaited vacations and the road ahead was either congested to the point of slowing down. Or there was an accident and everyone had to slow to a crawl to creep a glance at the carnage.
Thankfully the girls weren’t tourists, unthankfully they lived close to this tiny town that became a major city in the summer months. Having to deal with millions of tourists every year meant that locals had a series of short-cuts. So when traffic started building, Elsa took the next exit rather suddenly, cutting across the solid white lines and nearly missing the crash barrier.
“Elsa! Shit! What the fuck!” Anna yelled and shot out her hands with nearly inhuman speed to catch the drinks before they spilled out of their too-small cupholders.
“There’s a backup, I’m not sitting in that,” Elsa replied, taking the next turn so hard that the car nearly tilted on two wheels.
“But I saw flashing lights, it could have been a firetruck!”
“It could have been a police car…”
“But Elsa you don’t understand, the hot firemen! …and women.”
“Anna I’m not sitting in traffic for 30 minutes or even longer, just for you to ogle at people in uniform.”
Anna took another fry, “Not people in uniform, F-I-R-E-M-E-N and women. It is very different.”
Elsa let out a heavy sigh as they came to a stop at a red light. “If I buy you that stupid Australian calendar will you shut up?”
“Wow, harsh.” Anna dramatically threw one braid over her shoulder. “But, yes.”
Again, Elsa rolled her eyes and continued forward when the light changed. It was only a short while later that they left the main road and turned into a small, older housing development. The narrow street lead them all the way to the ocean, coming out on the far end of the main strip. Highrise condos and hotels dotted the skyline to their left, but right in front of them was the beach, concealed behind a short sand dune. Because life is a bitch like that sometimes.
Luckily for them, there was also free parking at this end if you didn’t mind a bit of a walk. Which, for the price of 17 bucks to park next to the beach, who wouldn’t mind the walk. 17 dollars could buy many cheeseburgers, Anna pointed out.
The beach wasn’t nearly as crowded down where they were, away from the boardwalk and the hotels. The sand also happened to be rockier, rough and pitted with long-forgotten footprints and broken shells. The beach groomers didn’t come this far. Which was fine by them, they would take a rough sandy beach with fewer people over a crowded hellscape any day.
There’s nothing more relaxing than simultaneously listening to eight different speakers all playing different music. While children screamed for no reason and the air was filled with a mix of sunscreen and cigarette smoke.
So yes they will miss out on the hot lifeguards and yes there will be fewer people to watch. But you can’t put a price on the quiet and the fresh air that this section of the beach had to offer.
After crossing the highway on foot, climbing the dune, and laying out their towels, only then did they pause to look out on the water. The ocean was angry, white caps dotted the surface as far as they could see. The horizon line was blurred with fog or rain and the dark clouds from before were more ominous than ever. Why the two women didn’t notice all these signs until now was some kind of act of God. Or stupidly. Probably the latter.
The beach itself was even more sparsely populated than normal. A smart person would have gone home after seeing all the warning signs. But this was Anna’s only day off for the next few weeks. And Elsa, well Elsa was too stubborn to admit her beach idea was a bad one.
They both laid down, on separate towels, choosing to ignore the warning signs and attempting to soak up as much sun as possible before it was swallowed by the coming storm. Elsa tried not to think about it too much. Neither was sure how long it had been before they were interpreted.
“What are you two gay ass losers doing?” Came a female voice.
“Ch’yeah it’s like gonna rain bruh.” Said a male’s.
Elsa opened one eye to see her cousin and her boyfriend, or so it fiancé now? Standing over them. The sky beyond them somehow looked even darker than before, which was very rude.
“Trying to enjoy the sunshine, obviously.” She mumbled in response.
“What sun?” their cousin asked, in a weird out of place, and badly performed accent.
“Wait but what is that voice?” Anna asked, sitting up and brushing the sand off her arms. How that girl could get sand everywhere, Elsa would never know.
“It’s like our new characters,” Eugene answered, earning not an eye roll from Rapunzel but a nod of approval.
“I’m New York and he’s Los Angeles. Both strong and independent cities that you could almost say are their own character. And those characters are us.” She added
“Why though?” Elsa was also now sitting up and confused, though nowhere near as sandy because she wasn’t a dirt gremlin-like her sister.
“Because we wanted to be unique characters, otherwise we’re just boring white people and where’s the fun in that?” Eugene or rather Los Angeles answered.
“Oh boring, like you watch Star Trek and try to fit it into everything even though it has no business being there?”
Eugene shot Anna finger guns, “exactly, this one gets it… bruh.”
A boom was heard in the distance and it sent a few people running towards their cars, towels billowing behind them. A long-distance away, over the water, there was a flash and with it, the wind picked up.
“Looks like our beach day is ruined, I’m sorry Anna.” Elsa stood and began to roll up her towel. Even with the limited sun, she was already red on her front, making a stark difference to the pale skin of her back.
“Nah we just getting started, come back to our place and play some ping pong. We just pulled the table out of storage.” Rapunzel aka New York offered. The two of them didn’t live far from the beach, having taken over Rapunzel’s parent’s beach house. It was very old and run down, but the pair was fixing it up in exchange for free rent.
‘Aye New York is right, and we can take my new whip… bruh.” Los Angeles gestured over his shoulder towards the dunes. They couldn’t see it yet because that dang dune was blocking things again. But everyone knew he was referring to his new golf cart.
Reluctantly the girls agreed and a few long minutes later they were rushing inside an old house to avoid the rain that had just started to fall. Their car was left abandoned in the free parking lot.
Inside was an odd mix of old and new. Brand new stainless steel appliances dotted a kitchen with dark wood cabinets and a yellow linoleum floor. A half-torn-down wall gave way to the living room with floor-to-ceiling wood paneling and floral print furniture.
“It ain’t much but it’s home.” Los Angeles said once everyone was inside. He walked beyond the torn-down wall and slapped his hand on the wood paneling. “New York over there hates this stuff, but it’s hella soundproof if you know what I mean.” With this, he wiggled his eyebrows and finally, earned an eye roll from New York.
“How did you know we were on the beach by the way?” Elsa asked as she took a step further into the kitchen to look at the collection of magnets on the fridge.
“Your sister posted about it on her tumblr of all places. Honestly, get an Instagram like the rest of us already.” New York said throwing her hands up dramatically. The drama ran in the family apparently.
The ping pong table was in the basement, a dimly light space with concrete walls and a tiled floor. Mix-matched chairs lined the walls and a mini-fridge sat in the corner next to a shelf full of liquor bottles.
The ping pong game quickly descended into beer pong with a twist. No one had to drink from the cups the ball landed in. Because that’s gross, don’t do that. Inside if someone managed to land the ball in a cup the other team had to take half a shot of vodka. Los Angeles had wanted to do full shots but Elsa and New York talked him out of it, if only for not dying reasons.
Even so after a few games with no true stand-out winner, just a bunch of dumb luck, they were all fairly buzzed. Flushed creeks and slurred speech. Outside the storm finally hit. Rain battered the small basement windows and thunder boomed overhead.
With each thunderclap, Elsa reached for Anna’s hand and wouldn’t let go till the other girl gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Finally, everyone seemed to have enough of the game and collapsed into bean bag bars that Anna and Elsa had both not noticed before. Elsa scooted her bean bag closer to Anna’s, the other two people didn’t seem to notice. New York was hanging all over Los Angeles. Her fingers tracing the curve of his jawline down, her eyes practically boring holes into his face. He acted like he didn’t see, but it was obvious he knew.
“You guys can stay here for the night if you want since the storm sounds so bad,” Eugene said, dropping his horrible accent.
“That’s very kind, but it’s just a little rain, we’ll be alright,” Anna replied, completely forgetting their car was many blocks away.
New York stopped messing with her man and turned to them. “Anna, it’s more than a little rain. It’s a hurricane, I mean it was a tropical storm and it was supposed to miss us. But you know how it be sometimes.” She said with amazing clarity for a drunkard.
Elsa’s hand shot to Anna’s and she let out an audible gasp. She had refused to check the weather before heading out the door today, figuring what she didn’t know, can’t hurt her. Which was stupid and out of character for someone who claims to be responsible.
Another boom followed by a bright flash of lightning illuminated the room for a brief second. Elsa looked terrified so Anna took it upon herself to change the subject.
“So we will be seeing you in two weeks right?”
Rapunzel playing New York smiled and clapped her hands together, “Yes! At the church!”
“For things better left unspoken,” Eugene playing Los Angeles groaned, covering his eyes with his forearm.
Another boom and the room was suddenly cast in darkness and accompanied by an eerie quiet. You never notice how much sound your electronics make till everything is off. Elsa grabbed Anna’s entire arm, holding it so tightly Anna was worried she would lose it.
“Ah fuck the power is out. We have some candles upstairs, I’ll be right back, Rapunzel can you see if the camping lantern is over on the shelf?”
“Um excuse me, it’s New York, but yes I will look.”
Two bodies moved away in the darkness, their paths illuminated by the small light on their phones. Next to Anna, Elsa’s breathing became rapid and she clung to Anna as if she was in danger of being blown away.
“Hey, it’s going to be alright,” Anna whispered, using her free hand to pet the top of Elsa’s head. The older girl shifted so in one fluid motion she was off her beanbag and on Anna’s before curling into the young girl’s side.
“I found it!” Rapunzel slash New York exclaimed. She turned it on and the room was partly lit up. She walked back to where the other two women were cuddled together and sat back down in her own beanbag.
“Wow, that’s like hella gay.” She said, pointing to the pair.
“Oh shut up, she just doesn’t like storms, you know that.” Anna quipped
Elsa let go of Anna’s arm long enough to extend a hand and flip off her cousin, earning her a laugh in response.
Eugene returned shortly after with the candles, a tray of food, and some cards. “Anyone up for a game of hurricane poker? It’s like regular poker only there’s a hurricane.”
He rejoined the group, placing the tray in the middle of everyone and paying no mind to the two women who now shared a beanbag.
Elsa lifted her head to look, the tray was adorned with a random assortment of food. Celery sticks, M&M’s, KitKat bars, Cheetos, Grapes, and some animal crackers. She made a face.
“What’s wrong uh bruh?” Eugene asked in a bad attempt to get back in character. Los Angeles would never quite be the character that New York was.
“I’ll only eat celery sticks if you pay me,” Elsa responded.
The next few hours consisted of Eugene completely wiping the floor with everyone. They played for the M&M’s, of which he now owned all of. With the power still out and the storm still raging on the decision was made for the sisters to spend the night over.
Their room was completely unrenovated, the same wood paneling from the living room made up the walls and the carpet was a thick green shag rug. Eugene was right about one thing though, the paneling sure did dampen the sound. Once the door was shut the two women could hardly hear anything, which was good because Rapunzel had started blasting Mandy Moore music for some reason.
There was only one bed, pushed into the corner, but it didn’t matter anyway. There could have been 80 beds and they still would have shared just one.
Anna laid down on her back and traced the grains in the wooden wall. “Really makes you want to carve something in this stuff you know? Something that would be around for hundreds of years.”
“Please don’t vandalize our cousin’s house,” Elsa said before sitting on the edge of the bed. She turned the lantern off so the only source of the light in the room was the candle on the nightstand.
“You alright?” Anna asked, propping herself up on one elbow.
“Yeah, I’m just worried about the storm, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Anna reached out and gently grabbed Elsa’s arm, guiding her back to lay in the bed next to her. “Do you want to sleep or keep your mind off things?”
Elsa paused for a brief moment before removing her arm from Anna’s grip. “I don’t know…”
“It’s your choice, either way, I’m here for you.” Anna smiled at her, a flash of lightning lit up the room but no thunder.
It startled Elsa but she remained where she was, staring at Anna. Thinking, always thinking.
“It’s just a storm and this old house seems to be built like a tank anyway.” She made a fist and pounded the wall to prove her point.
Elsa started twirling the end of one of Anna’s braids but her eyes remained locked on Anna’s. The delayed thunderclap came and Elsa inhaled sharply. Anna leaned over and kissed the top of her forehead.
“You sure this is okay?” Elsa asked and Anna nodded, running the back of her hand down the other girl’s cheek. “Let’s get our mind off of things then.”
Elsa crawled till she was straddling Anna who gazed up at her with eyes that shown like stars in the candlelight.
“What’s your favorite constellation?”
“Hmm, probably Orion, because you can find his belt so easy,” Anna answered, “Yours?”
“Your eyes”
“Ew, that’s so fucking cheesy.”
Elsa leaned down, her mouth slightly agape. Anna’s eyes fluttered shut as her hands found their way to the other woman’s shoulders.
The storm, the damage, their car, all these things could wait until tomorrow. Tonight they were out of their control so for tonight they didn’t matter.
Elsa blew out the candle, and they both plunged into the sinful escape of the darkness.
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
rafe cameron blurb #1
a/n: i love rafe cameron he did nothing wrong and i will continue writing about him until i die. this is very nsfw...you have been warned (NOT MY GIF)
summary: y/n and rafe end up at a party together and y/n notices something is off with our favorite coke whore rafe cameron <3
You didn’t really love the morals that came with the Kook lifestyle, but you knew it was pretty much as close to your college party habits that you were capable of getting to at your parent’s OBX house
If there was one thing that made coming home for vacations worth it, it was Rafe Cameron’s legendary parties
You weren’t from around OBX even before college, but your parents have always brought you down to the beach house for at least a month during summer vacations, for as long as you could remember. All of the Figure Eight adults were friendly in a weird passive aggressive way, which usually meant the kids were too. Rafe was your age so you guys naturally gravitated towards each other. You didn’t have much in common, but he thought you were funny and didn’t let any of his friends hit on you which you appreciated. You just thought he was plain sexy.
It was really hard watching him slowly descend into this empty version of Rafe that you saw at the first party of the summer because he was so different than the Rafe you grew up with
He was always a little intense, but it was always because of how he needed things to go right. From sand castles at age 9 to boat races at age 16 to shotgunning PBR after PBR at age 18, he always had to be the best. You had heard his dad probably had a lot to do with it, but he would never in a million years admit it.
At age 20, though, his new thing was cocain, which you didn’t love
After only two weeks back in the outer banks, you were able to draw a direct correlation between how much coke Rafe had in his system and how intolerable he acted towards the pogues. The one thing you always hated about Rafe and his friends, and the whole island to be honest, was the unnecessary class war. It made you sick.
But when illicit drugs weren’t involved, you saw that Rafe was still just Rafe which made you even more sad. Why would he want to be anyone else?
You were currently pressed against the wall of the Cameron basement, convinced that the red led lights were going to damage your corneas permanently, as some music you only liked when you were under the influence blared from the speakers. But none of that mattered because you could not stop staring at Rafe.
He was doing his normal host rounds, making sure everyone was drinking and that all of the girls were personally greeted by him, but he seemed way further away. Something more than alcohol.
This went on for about three hours, you pretending to be interested in conversations and his other cronies trying to get a piece of you, and you saw him disappear into the bathroom two separate times. Each time he came out he was wiping his nose. It didn’t take a rocket scientist.
As you saw him make a beeline for round three, you swallowed down the rest of whatever fruity thing you had in your cup and followed him before anyone else could. You barely got through the bathroom door before he slammed it in your face.
“Rafe, it’s just me” You say as you caught the door, sliding yourself through the gap in the door frame, closing it and locking it behind you.
“Shit, Y/N, you can’t sneak up on me like that…” he trailed off while he gave you a once over, “Damn you look good tonight.”
You exhale, looking down and laughing sarcastically, “Sure it’s not the coke talking?”
He looks back at you incredulously until he finally decide to scoff, “C’mon Y/N relax it’s nothing”
“No! I’m not going to relax! This is your third trip tonight-”
“Damn Y/N I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on me. Does someone have a crush?”
“-Your third trip tonight,” you talk over him, rolling your eyes and ignoring what he said, “That’s not nothing.”
“It’s a fucking party what is your problem?” You could tell he was about to blow. Another side effect of this new habit of his was his shortened fuse on a circuit that was already pretty short.
He seemed to forget, however, that he wasn’t the only one with a temper. “Oh I’m sorry you’re right. It’s a party. I’m just being unreasonable. Tell me this though, if this is just a party, then what was that on the boat yesterday? Did you really think I wasn’t going to notice you snorting up a whole fucking line in broad daylight on a 12x12 speed boat?”
He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and turned to face the mirror, his fists slamming on the kitchen sink, his eyes clenched shut.
“What the fuck do you want me to say, Y/N? Want me to offer you some next time?” He looks back at you through the mirror, his lips pursed in a tight line against his face, jaw clenched. “Sorry I’m not the same little bitch you used to build sand castles with or whatever the fuck. People grow up and they change. This is who I am,” he paused, “No one is making you be around me so if that’s not good enough for you, you know where the fucking door is.” He looked back down at the sink before quickly moving his hand down to his pants pocket, fishing a tiny little ziploc bag out of his god awful khaki shorts.
Before he could get any further, you closed the gap between your bodies and smacked the bag out of his hand, making the contents spill all over the floor.
Hardly believing what you had just done, you looked up at him with your mouth agape and your eyes wide. To be honest, you were a little afraid of what he was going to do or say.
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT FUCKING FOR Y/N?” He didn’t get in your face like he does with everyone else, but he was definitely pissed.
“I- I just… I just hate seeing you like this,” your voice was smaller than you had hoped for, and you were barely able to look up at him through your eyelashes.
He huffed and rolled his eyes, running his hands through his hair again, “Well, I can’t really think of a better alternative for you so maybe you should just stop hanging around me. I already told you, Y/N, this is me now! I’m the guy people call when they need something. Sure it’s blow but at least they’re fucking calling.”
“Is that who you really want to be though, Rafe? Like actually? Those people don’t care about you. They’re too busy being off their shits to care about you. You’re seriously unhinged if you think that this is the best that life can get.”
“If they don’t care about me then who the fuck does, Y/N?! Huh! You don’t get it. You-you you’re perfect. People fucking love you, no strings attached. They always have.”
He looked just like the boy you once knew in that moment. With his hands running through his hair and his breath uneven, you recognized this side of Rafe. The lost little boy trying to sneak into your bedroom window after the weekly fight with Ward. Your heart was practically ripping through your skeleton, your skin, your bikini top to get to him.
“Rafe…” you reached for him but he just pulled his arm away, shaking his head.
“Save the pity party Y/N and get back to the party. I heard Kelce was planning on finally making his move on you tonight,” he laughed in spite of himself.
Now it was time to shake your head,“I don’t want to go back to the party. I want to be here, with you.” He looked at you with that same lost boy look and you rest your hand on one of his cheeks and if this wasn’t the big, bad Rafe you were talking about, you might have thought that you felt him lean into your touch.
“People do love you, by the way. People do care.” Your voice was barely above a whisper as you tested the waters of his temper, a thumb lightly tracing the laugh lines on his face.
He put a hand on top of yours and held on tight, “You don’t count.”
“And why is that? I feel like I might be the only one that actually knows you. I think my opinion counts greatly.”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes, pushing your hand off his face again.
Annoyed at his stubborn attitude, you decided to be more direct in your approach.
You wrapped your arms around the back of your neck and stood up on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “And my opinion is that you were already pretty fucking amazing before.” You paused, letting your hot breath linger on his neck, loving the way his breath hitched. “Let me prove it to you.”
He immediately wrapped his arms and hands under your ass, lifting you onto the counter in front of him. Your arms were still wrapped around his neck, you both paused for a second once you were seated in front of him, legs spread so he could stand between them. Then he was kissing you and it was the most amazing feeling you had ever felt.
His hands fell to your thighs as he pressed into you. Both of you being stubborn, there was a power struggle between your mouths as he tried to claim you. You weren’t going to let him off that easy, however, and you started pulling at his hair and nipping your way down his neck as he kneaded your ass with this big hands. Amazing how strong they were considered he had never done a day of work in his life.
Moving back to his lips he interrupted the hottest makeout session of your life and looked down at you, eyes dark with want. “Get on your fucking knees.”
Without a word you did what you were told, not breaking eye contact the whole way down to the ground. You waited for further instructions.
“You wanted to prove it to me, huh?”
You nod sweetly.
“Go on then, baby. Show me what you’ve got.”
You unzip his shorts and tease him with your hand and mouth through his boxers, loving the sounds he made as you did so. He was trying so hard to keep it underwraps how undone he already was, but that just made him sound all the more desperate for you.
His hand was in your hair from the get go, ready to show you exactly how he wanted it, so the rest came pretty easy. The grip on your hair never once lightened as he switched from guiding your head up and down at a leisurely pace to holding it in place as he took control with a much more punishing one. He made sure not to go too rough though, never once making you gag - a very impressive feat for someone of his size.
The whole time he was muttering little praises that you weren’t even sure he was aware he was saying: “God, fuck, baby you take it so good”, “Look so pretty like that”, “Good girl”.
You never thought that being on your hands in knees on top of scattered cocaine residue with your childhood best friend’s cock in your mouth would be such a turn on, but you couldn’t take much more. Soon enough your resolve was crumbling as you fumbled with the button and zipper on your shorts, desperately trying to push them down enough so you could get a hand down there to release some of the pressure that had been building since you locked the bathroom door.
Just when you were about to start bringing yourself off, he stopped suddenly, pulling yourself off of him and up to your feet. “What do you think you’re doing?”
All you could do was stutter nervously, sure that you had never been redder in the face in your entire life.
Before you could come up with something to say, you were spun around with your stomach pressed against the counter top, Rafe still hot and hard against your back. He had put his hands back in your hair and he was looking at you through the mirror.
“Fuck that, Y/N. You said you wanted to prove how much you liked me. Cared about me,” his hand started travelling down the front of your body as he whispered in your ear, “I’m going to be the only one making you cum, do you understand me?”
Suddenly forgetting how to speak, you nod furiously. He chuckles deeply into your ear as he pushes your shorts and underwear down in one swoop, replacing the cotton material of your panties with his hand.
He had barely touched you and you were already reaching around you, threading your fingers in his hair as he held on tightly to yours. Your eyes screwed shut and your mouth flew open as he started with a harsh rhythm that wouldn’t have worked for anyone other than him. You were already so ready for anything he was going to throw at you.
Between the way he was finger fucking you and the constant praises in your ear, it didn’t take long for you to release all over his hand, making him growl.
He gave you almost no time to recover before he grabbed you around the neck, not choking, just holding you there, and forced you to make eye contact with him again.
“I’m going to fuck you now and you’re going to watch how I’m making you feel in that mirror. I want you to watch me make you cum again. I want you to remember that no one else is this good for you. Do you understand?”
You whimper, nod, and tug on his hair once more, not even caring how desperate you seemed.
Without another warning, he pushed himself as far inside as he could, bottoming out and making you both moan. Your eyes already were rolling back but then he tugged on your hair again, making sure you were looking directly towards the mirror.
“That’s it, Y/N take that dick just like that. Look how pretty you look bent over this sink for me with all of our friends on the other side of the door. Are you going to scream for them? So they know exactly who makes you feel like this?”
You had no idea how he was able to form coherent sentences when he was a) probably still high as fuck and b) fucking you that good, because all you were able to do in response was let out the most pathetic whine as he created a whole new angle by moving one of your knees to rest on the counter. It was almost too much.
It was hands down the best sex of your life and you couldn’t tell it was because of how many years you had spent wanting him, the alcohol in your system, or if it was really because he was just that good, but you were willing to place some serious money on the latter.
Just when you were about to start crying from how good it felt, he started going even harder, losing the rhythm he had set. His dirty talk got less and less coherent as he slowly descended into orgasmic bliss, making sure to take you with him. Just as you had promised, you looked into his eyes through the mirror as you fell over that edge. Your entire body was trembling by the time he finished, placing kisses on the back of your neck and shoulders.
He dropped the leg of yours that he had been holding up and you almost fell over without his strength holding you up. He had really done a number on you.
You were trying to come back to your body still when you felt him nudge the side of your arm. Startled, you looked down and he had your shorts and underwear.
“Um..here, I’ll turn around if you want,” he said as he turned around after setting the clothes on the counter in front of you. You wondered how long you had been standing there post-orgasm because he was already re-dressed.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” You quickly got redressed and laughed at him facing the opposite wall, “I’m decent.”
He turned back around and looked at you brightly, the most sober he had looked all summer, actually.
You both looked at each other nervously and laughed, not knowing where to go from here.
“That was, uh, that was really fucking fantastic,” he said through a laugh, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, “I’m not really sure what happened but I’m glad it did. I’ve been trying to make a move on you for years.”
“To be fair, I think I’m technically the one that made the move.”
He closed the gap between your bodies again and put his hands on either side of the counter behind you, “Details, details.”
You looked from his eyes to his lips and back again, remembering what had brought that on in the first place. “I really do care about you, you know.” It was barely a whisper.
He brought a hand up to brush some hair out of your face as he sighed, “I know you do.”
“Next time you want to do something reckless like that again just call me. We can get through this.”
“I mean between that and drugs I will pick that any day.” You could tell he was trying to make a joke but it just made you sad.
You cup his face in your hands once more, “I’m serious. You don’t have to be that guy. I’ve liked the other one for a very long time and I don’t appreciate this new one barging in and scaring me.”
Smiling softly, he grabs one of our hands again and kisses the pads of your finger tips, “I think you might be the only one the other guy was good enough for, Y/N.”
“I thought I just proved that my opinion was the only one that counted.”
“Is that what that was all about? I thought it had more to do with my raw animal magnetism,” he laughed and shook his head at you.
“Hmmmm that was definitely a part of it.” You couldn’t help it, you started leaning towards him again.
He was merely an inch away, a smile bright on his face and “I fucking knew it” falling off his tongue when there came a bang on the door.
A deep voice you didn’t recognize followed: “THERE’S A FUCKING LINE ASSHOLES.”
You looked at each other and laughed one more time, both of your necks and cheeks growing rosie with embarrassment. But embarrassment be damned, you had a happy Rafe back at last.
#rafe cameron#rafe x reader#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron smut#rafe cameron fanfiction#outerbanks fanfiction#outer banks#obx#obx fanfiction#rafemaybank wrote this
137 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
oldforme68
Senza titolo
strawbs-screaming
★strawbs★
polmcarts
W i l d R o a r
complete-clownery
welcome to the circus
dentedshoppingcart
my personal hell