#fashion is about having a sparkly collarbone

[mrs-han]

You climbed up the marble staircase, sparkly royal blue gown hugging your body, the train of your dress creating a water-like trail behind you.

Eyes landed on you - judgmental and cold, you listened to their words, understanding enough to know that what was being said about you wasn’t flattering.

You knew the dress was a gamble; it fit you snugly, accentuating the dips and curves of your body that high society wasn’t used to seeing. Your collarbones were showing, but they weren’t nearly as pronounced as you’d hoped they’d be. You gripped at the sash around your waist, hoping to hide some of yourself - and, like moths to a flame, you heard the biting comments around you grow louder.

“Who does she think she is, wearing something like that?”

“Just because she’s rich, doesn’t mean she can wear whatever she want. In fact? She shouldn’t.”

You blinked back your tears - if you left now, you could explain to Jumin what happened later.

You spun around, ready to make a run for the door - when you saw him. He was already on the landing of the second floor, his jacket being taken away from him by a valet. He had a look in his sparkling eyes - one of awe and adoration focused on you. Only you.

You were frozen in place as he climbed the stairs towards you. You weren’t even aware you were holding your breath until he gracefully lowered himself to one knee and kissed your hand reverently. He lifted his head to you, a blush on his cheeks. “You were right, darling. Your sense of fashion surpasses mine by light years.”

It only seemed to be you and him on those opera steps, now. You pulled your husband to his feet and whispered in a hushed tone. “You don’t think it’s a little… much? I haven’t been working out for very long, and it may be a little tight in some places —”

Jumin captured your lips with his, his large hand traveling down the broad opening of your exposed back. A warm rush of affection and adrenaline flowed through you while you pulled him closer to you. He answered you with a pleasant grunt of surprise and a smile against your lips before kissing you again. “Enough of that self doubt. You are more radiant than any woman here. And I would prove it to you, but overly sensual public displays of affection are heavily frowned upon.”

A smile broke across your face as you swat his chest. “Behave, mister!”

Jumin moved his hand down the refined slope of your back. “Come, my gorgeous wife. Let’s get this over with before I take you into my arms and have my way with you on the way home.”

“Oh, no you don’t, my dashing husband! You’ve been saying you’ve been wanting to see this opera for weeks now, we’re going to sit through it and watch the whole thing!”

“Fine,” Jumin sighed, leading you to your seats on a reserved balcony. “I suppose there are some things that can’t be avoided. This is going to be a long night.”

“That’s ri — hiiigh…” You looked down to see your husband’s hand squeezing the tender flesh of your inner thigh.

It would be a long night, indeed.

#mystic messenger #jumin han #mein schatz #jumin x mc #mystic messenger jumin #jumin x reader #totally inspired by a scene in Anastasia #you know the scene ♥️ #all bodies are beautiful ♥️ #I feel like I used this song before >w> #AH WELL #Spotify

[iheartliquor]

#blumarine #fashion is about having a sparkly collarbone #literallyy #so pretty #dreamy #glitter #fashion

[hansolmates]

17 going on 27

summary; one second, you’re sobbing at prom because the most popular guy in school dumps you due to your relationship being a little prank to break your heart. the next? you’re a creative editor at Ego, the hottest young adult fashion magazine. as you try to figure out what’s the deal with this sudden time skip into adulthood, you come across relationships and friendships that are made to be cherished and made to be broken. pairing; photographer!jungkook x editor!reader (f) genre/warnings; fluff, crack, future enemies to lovers, teenage and adulthood angst, time skips from high school!au to late twenties!au, 13 going on 30!au, all your romantic movie tropes come to life! a really big mess honestly, various movie and music references, mentions of sex, use of alcohol, everyone give jin and jimin a big ol hug, language, a surprise guest from the queen of england w/c; 22.6k a/n; it’s that time of the year baby! the time of the year where i binge watch the good ol’ early 2000s romcoms that make absolutely no sense! a huge thank u to @eerieedits​ for making this beautiful banner. vivi got the whole delia’s/claire’s vibe down to a t! 

if you enjoy this fic pls consider giving it a like and a share✨✨✨

March 19th, 2011

Thirty, flirty, and thriving!

You finger the dog-eared magazine, last month’s issue of a shoddy fashion magazine that featured top actress Jennifer Garner on the front cover. Her caramel brown highlights practically glow on the page, blown out and beautiful. You suppress a sigh, you long to be the radiant young woman on the cover. The headline is glittery, sparkly and just begging for attention. 

Swiping a hand through the pages, your eyes are crowded with over-stimulation. Colorful models dressed up in the latest designs, Chanel and Burberry suits you can only dream of, and happy women at the prime of their lives. 

Twenty-seven and in Heaven! You smile wryly at the cheesy rhyme that headlines the following pages, but nevertheless the happy model on the spread does indeed look like they’re in heaven. 

Sure, you’re no shrinking violet. Heck, you don’t even consider yourself painfully average. You may not be on the traditional spectrum of popularity in high school, but you get around and have a wonderful best friend and an even better boyfriend. However given the social classes that preside, you do get those moments where you second guess your life’s position. Good thing high school has an expiration date, and you’re close to the end.  

“Baby Bun, what are you doing?” the magazine is snatched from your grasp, thrown on the table without a care in the world. Jennifer Garner’s hydro-whitened smile gleams tauntingly at you, “reading that junk is gonna mess with your head.” 

Your boyfriend returns from his final suit fitting, his outfit for tonight all pressed and ready to go. He pouts at you, pulling you up by the hand to lead you out of the Men’s Warehouse. Jeon Jungkook. Captain of the lacrosse team, flying by high school with a sports scholarship already in the bag. Eats up attention like plants soak up the sun. Secretly loves taking photographs of his dog and watching Netflix animes at your house. 

“Aren’t you excited for prom?” 

“Excited to listen to LMFAO’s Party Rock Anthem on repeat?” you guaff, “as if.” 

He pinches your arm lightly, “You also forget that we’re gonna tear up the floor to Nicki Minaj’s Superbass.” 

You shrug listlessly, crunching the white plastic closer to your body. 

Before you can suck all the air out of the garment bag, Jungkook carefully extracts it from your grasp, easily holding it between his one arm so he can thread his other hand through yours. “I am excited! It’s just that… Jimin’s not gonna be there and we’re sitting with the Yearbook committee.”

Looking down at the floor you extract your hand from his, slipping into his parent’s Honda Civic. The yearbook committee, meaning you’d be sitting at a table with head editor Jennie and her group of friends. Friends that are popular and pretty, just like Jungkook. 

Jimin is currently on a flight back from Korea due to a family funeral, therefore leaving a seat empty at your prom table. It was only seat that you cared about, other than Jungkook’s. It’s no one’s fault and Jimin of course is doubly upset to miss prom, but without your best friend you’re not sure if you can survive the night. 

One of the few secrets you keep from Jungkook is the fact that Jennie and you aren’t exactly friendly to each other. You don’t know why, maybe it’s the fact that you don’t run the in same friend group or you always win the debate in Civics class, but Jennie clearly expresses her dislike for you as easily as she expresses her love for Jungkook. 

Which makes you incredibly insecure, but Jennie and Jungkook have been friends for longer than you and him have been together, who are you to intervene? 

Jungkook slips in the driver’s seat, but not before pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. 

Right. You’re Jungkook’s girlfriend, and that should matter more than his friendship with Jennie. 

But the smell of his freshly cleaned lacrosse jersey, his duffle bag overflowing with protein powder and unfinished assignments remind you that you have your world and he has his. A conversation about your insecurities could wait until tomorrow. 

“When’s Jimin’s flight?” Jungkook asks, one hand on the steering wheel and the other tapping on your thigh as he pulls out. 

“He’ll be back two hours into the dance,” you report, albeit glumly as you rest your head against the cool window. 

“That sucks,” Jungkook replies, a bit of sadness in his tone, “he has to miss out on his prom night.” 

You shrug, “Prom isn’t everything, it’s about the people you spend it with.” 

“Well then,” he squeezes your thigh, “I’m glad I get to spend it with you.” 

You only have a few hours to get ready until you meet Jungkook at his house for pictures, so when you get dropped off, you tell him that he doesn’t have to get out of the car to escort you into your home. But Jungkook is insistent, putting the car in park and getting out your dress for you with such delicacy that you’re positively sure there’s no wrinkles in the fabric. Taking the dress from his grasp you wish him goodbye and a promise to meet each other later. 

“Wait,” Jungkook is biting his lip, unable to let go of your hand even though you’re already up the stairs. You’re looking down at him, a rarity considering his tall frame. 

“What’s wrong, Kook?” 

“Uh, I was just thinking,” he’s scratching the back of his head, and you soften. The little quirk he has is a sign of insecurity, being the star player Jungkook is forced to exude confidence to a fault. “Maybe, we could skip the prom thing? You said so yourself that prom is about the people you spend it with.” 

Your eyes widen, clutching your dress tighter. “What? Jungkook, that’s ridiculous. Between the both of us we’ve spent a lot of money on the clothes and the tickets.” 

“Right,” he forces a laugh, and you put a hand on your hip to think it out but you can’t quite place what’s going on. “Sorry Bun, I just know how the finale of our favorite anime airs tonight.” 

“You’re so silly,” you chastise, reaching down to pinch his cheek. Normally he hates it, but you can’t help but melt when he leans into your touch a little more. “C’mon, I know suits are stuffy and stuff, but let’s just do this high school rite of passage thing. Afterwards we can go to McDonalds or something and watch the recording.” 

“You’re right,” his face is red, “what was I thinking? Can’t miss out on a night to see my beautiful girlfriend all dressed up.” 

He squeezes your hand one last time, a little too tight for comfort. With a half smile he waves, going into his car and driving off. 

You don’t have time to dwell on his weirdness (and trust when you say that Jungkook is plenty weird and it astounds you how the rest of your class has no idea) so you fly up to your room to get your hair and makeup ready. Your parents greet you excitedly along the way, telling you there’s a package left for you on your vanity.

It’s a plain cardboard box, already cut and unwrapped by your parents for convenience. The address shows it came from Korea, proudly displaying the name of your best friend on the return address. Inside is a beautiful compact, made of brushed gold and pink metal. The makeup inside is a loose glitter from a brand that you don’t recognize, but since it’s a gift from Jimin, you trust his taste. 

I have to be at prom somehow, Jimin’s note on the box reads, don’t overthink and have fun! 

You snort, reading the sticky note over and over in Jimin’s voice. Looking over the shade, you can’t help but grimace at the cliché name. Wishing Dust. The color is a little too white and silvery for your taste, but you’ll wear it in honor of Jimin. 

The dress, the hair, the makeup all come together little by little. You like the ritual of getting ready, building yourself up to the highest order and feeling closer and closer to the beautiful women in magazines. Surprisingly, your favorite part of getting ready is applying the glitter that Jimin gifted you. The puff enclosed is cloud soft, and surprisingly the color doesn’t look too ashen on your skin. The glitter sinks into your skin like a soft butter, accentuating your collarbones and cheeks as if you are glowing from within. 

You smile at yourself in the mirror. A little part of you wishes you could look like this everyday. You wish you could always look and feel this confident, and act mature and graceful. 

A buzzing on your desk stops your wishful thinking, and you frown at the message that lights up your phone. 

Jungkook: sorry bun, but the civic finally broke down and its on its way to car heaven. Could we meet at the party hall instead? We can take pictures there, jennie mentioned yearbook hired a photographer

Disheartened, you send a quick text back saying it’s fine. Any more explanation on your feelings would reveal your disappointment. You don’t know how you’re going to tell your parents that they won’t be taking pictures with your boyfriend anytime soon. So you suck it in and take solo pictures for your parents and some group selfies. This is just one bump in the night, the rest of it should be smooth sailing. 

But when your parents drop you off at the venue your eyes first land on a beat up Honda Civic. You’re pretty sure car heaven isn’t at the prom. 

The rest of your entrance is a blur as you go through every corner of the venue, searching for your boyfriend. You’re clutching his matching flower in your hand, a beautiful red rose with baby’s breath circling around it, all clutched together in a black silk ribbon. You wonder what kind of flower he bought you. 

But it’s nearly impossible to find him. Not at the photobooth, the appetizer buffet, or in the lobby. It’s not until you’re sweating at the brow and nearing the corner of the venue that you do find him.

Lips locked, kissing Jennie. 

The plastic encasing Jungkook’s boutonniere drops, clanging to the ground. 

Whispers of you circle the air, meeting your ears and confirming all your insecurities. 

“Oh my god, I knew Jungkook was cheating on her!” 

“Wow, how pathetic. She ran all the way to prom alone to see this?” 

“I thought his girlfriend was a smart girl. How did she not know that their relationship was a bet all along?” 

Jungkook and Jennie are on the balcony, looking picture perfect in matching formal attire and flowers. The sun is setting, not taking its time as it sinks deeper and deeper into the horizon. The sky darkens and the air is chilly, much like your heart. 

Jungkook's eyes are wide and in shock as he watches you from the balcony, but Jennie’s are sharp and satisfied. Satisfied, as if the whole thing had been orchestrated. 

While you can’t hear him because he’s so far away, you can see the ghost of your name on his lips. Your ears are ringing, numb to the laughter of the students watching and the pity that others are throwing at you. You feel dumb. You feel like throwing up. In a bout of anger your heel digs into the plastic of the boutonniere, crushing the innocent rose in its clear coffin. 

You don’t make it far out the door when one of your favorite teachers snatches you in concern. 

“Honey, any further and you’ll be running on the highway," Mrs. Song jokes, pulling you away from the entrance. 

You feel like a newborn deer in your heels and incredibly heavy in your dress as Mrs. Song drags you over to a staff bathroom. It's far, far away from the actual party. Mrs. Song doesn't say anything, and just gives you a sad smile as she let's you go into the single stall alone. 

Sitting on the toilet and not giving a care that your dress is probably getting soiled, you bury your face in your hands and finally let the tears flow. Fat, frustrated tears roll down your cheeks without a care in the world. 

"Mrs. Song please, I need to get in there." 

"Now Jungkook, I think you've done enough for today. Go back to the party and don't worry about it." 

You can imagine Jungkook now, he hated it when people told him not to worry.  It only made him more annoyed, fists probably clenched under his perfectly tailored suit and his cute teeth uncharacteristically gritted. He cared to a fault, at least you thought he did. He ruined your night, he made you feel so dumb and silly.

But the longer you stayed in the dim bathroom, you could care less. Thank goodness for Mrs. Song guarding the door. Why would he bother to follow you? It turns out all your insecurities are not in vain, and that you’ve been ignoring a gut feeling you’ve mistaken for your lack of trust. You shouldn’t have trusted Jungkook. You shouldn’t have been so tolerable of Jennie. 

Goodness, you feel so stupid. You hope that there are other bathrooms for staff to use, because you want to coop yourself in here until the last dance. Mascara drips on your sleeves, your hands swiping at your cheeks to stop any tears from staining your dress even further. 

The more you hear Jungkook and Mrs. Song argue, the more you want to disappear. You bury yourself on the floor, uncaring of how dirty the tiles are. Glitter smears across your cheeks and sticks to your hands, and you no longer feel like the thriving young adult you once felt when you walked out the door this evening.

All you can do is cry and pray you can get through the night. And the next day, and the rest of senior year. You don’t want to see Jungkook or Jennie until graduation, when they walk out of the door and permanently out of your life. You wish you could skip the rest of the semester, and fastforward to the life you’ve carved for yourself in your dreams since freshman year. You wish you could be like the woman on the magazine, who has her whole life put together. To be a woman who holds all the confidence in the world and doesn’t have to worry about stupid men. 

Just like the cover. Thirty, flirty and thriving. Just like the models in the magazines. Twenty-seven and in heaven. 

Just once, do you want to taste the feeling of having life on your side. 

March 20st, 2021

Your first thought is that you feel disgusting. 

Of course, falling asleep in a random bathroom stall will make you feel those things. Your dress clinging uncomfortably to your sweating form, lulled to the sounds of Mrs. Song’s temperamental voice and Jungkook’s arguing. 

But for some reason it’s a different kind of disgusting. The feeling is rotting in your throat, as if there’s a tang stuck to the roof of your mouth. You also feel impossibly dehydrated, as if you’ve run a marathon. And for some reason you’re sore? Especially in the crotch, and you don’t remember experiencing any cramps yesterday. 

Your hands come to your body, and instead of feeling tulle and taffeta your hands are greeted with a silky black negligee that hangs across your waist. Panic stings in your bones like a stroke of lightning. 

Eyes snapping open, your breath catches in your throat when you take in the room. You’re on a large plush creme couch, large enough to be a bed. The organza curtains are a shade of bottle green and are opened slightly to let the morning sun in. From your view it seems like this is the top floor of the complex, overlooking the city horizon. 

You feel the covers shift slightly, and you realize there’s a naked man sleeping next to you. You scream. 

The man screams back with an even higher pitch, falling off the couch and clutching the sheets like a lifeline. “What?” he panics, eyes darting back and forth across the room like he’s on a reality television show. “What the fuck? Is there something on my face! Why are you screaming so early!” 

The fact that he’s an adult man and you’re seventeen is even more terrifying, and you feel absolutely naked despite the fact that you’re nearly clothed. But what confuses you more is that this man looks awfully familiar. 

Familiar in the sense that you’ve seen him in one too many television sitcoms to count. This man in front of you looks like Kim Seokjin, the protagonist of your favorite television show: Sky City. He has the same plump lips and pretty face, only aged up. But last time you checked on Soompi, Seokjin is supposed to be twenty years old and filming the next season in New Zealand. Arguably he could be his older brother, but he never acted and you don’t think he’d be the spitting image. 

“Seokjin?” you taste the name on your tongue, “Kim Seokjin?” 

Seokjin relaxes considerably, and he finds it appropriate to return to the couch, placing a tentative hand on your thigh. “Right, were you really that drunk? You got my name right, but it seems that you’ve forgotten that the only name you called me last night was sex god…” 

His plush lips meet the ends of your earlobe, and you squeal at the strange sensation. 

You’ve had sex with this man and you can’t even remember it? Furthermore how can a peasant like you be in contact with a celebrity? What on earth happened last night? Shouldn’t you be calling the police or panicking more? Where’s the pepper spray and sharp knives where you need them? You can’t even find it in you to find a sharp weapon at your once cherished-idol, who’s apparently unfazed and drinking in your body like he has a taste of it every night. 

“What’s the date?” you push him away, looking around for any signs of where you are and how you ended up here. 

“It’s the first day of spring,” Seokjin says easily, stretching out on the couch. “I wonder when the cherry blossoms will bloom. Should we have a picnic with Bogum?” 

“Where’s my phone, I can’t find my phone!” 

Seokjin doesn’t bat an eye as he digs through the couch, pulling something from under him. He waves it in front of your face. “That’s not my phone,” you deadpan. 

“Okay I guess you were actually that drunk,” Seokjin rolls his eyes, forcing the large piece of plastic and metal on your palm. “When you went to the bathroom last night you dropped your old phone in the toilet. We picked up a new one on the way to the next bar. Good thing the new Samsung dropped last month!” 

Since when are phones this large? You carry the strange weight in your hands, confused as to why Seokjin thinks this is your phone. You own a beat up 2G that barely gets any reception in the school basement. But when you turn it on, the screen recognizes your face immediately and unlocks. Wow, since when do cell phones do face recognition? 

A selfie of you and Seokjin appears on the homescreen, looking totally happy. 

Is that you? 

No longer do you have acne lining your brows, or uneven skin texture. Your smile is high and prominent. Your visage is clean and done with minimal makeup, highlighting your beauty. 

The date flickers on the top of the screen. March 20th, 2021: 7:42AM.

You scream again. Seokjin screams again for the heck of it. 

“How did this happen!” you shriek, dropping your phone to step up to the window. You bask in your reflection, mildly impressed and even more so afraid of what’s in front of you. Your body has filled out like an adult, and considering it’s ten years into the future, other things have filled out as well. Experimentally, your hands go out to your chest, squeezing. Yep, those knockers were not there the last time you checked. 

“Well, you came back from work completely drained from a shoot and I just finished filming my Everyday Skincare Routine video with Vogue,” Seokjin comes up to you, blanket tied around his waist like a long towel. “We met at our usual bar and do what we usually do when we’re both stressed: bang it out.” 

You watch as Seokjin’s hands snake around your slick silk, hugging you from behind like it’s second nature. “Is this a dream?” you ask yourself, because it’s not unlikely that you’ve had a sex dream with Seokjin and this is the aftermath dream. 

“Nope,” you yelp when Seokjin pinches your butt, hard. It stings. “This is real life, baby.” 

“Are we dating?” 

You feel Seokjin’s grip tense, and he shoves your innocent question away with a coarse laugh. “You know both you and me don’t do serious relationships. It’s why we work so well together, you know that.” 

“Right,” you reply softly. That doesn’t sound like you at all, and it scares you considerably. 

“So, I gotta go,” you panic when he lets go and starts searching around for his clothes. Your face heats up at Seokjin’s perky ass staring back at you, and your eyes dart to a random spot in the corner. “I got a green meeting with Ellen, and lord knows I don’t wanna face her wrath if I’m late.” 

In seconds he’s fully clothed in a plain shirt and jeans, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Call me beep me, if you wanna reach me,” he sings, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he leaves you in the large apartment. 

The door slams with a hard smack and that’s when you collapse on the couch that feels foreign and strange, breaking into tears. 

The next time you wake up, it’s the next day. It’s a glaringly bright Sunday and for whatever reason you’re still in this aged-up body. Maybe time travel makes the body really tired. This isn’t a dream. You panic for the second time, walking back and forth around the loft that’s apparently yours. It seems like it’s yours, because the bills that linger on the coffee table have your name and the pictures in the one bedroom are of you and your family. 

But the refrigerator in the nook is digital and has fancy ice settings, something you could never imagine owning. Your closet is filled with brand named suits, and with every designer label you pass you mentally rack up the total of just one section. It’s enough to pay for your college tuition if your first choice accepts you. 

Wait. You’re apparently twenty-seven, college is long gone. 

Lying in your bed feels better, surrounded by familiar pictures of your cousins and family. Your favorite snacks are tucked with care in your nightstand, and it makes you feel a tiny bit better knowing that your favorite chocolate and chips will never change. 

What happened in the past ten years? Why don’t you remember anything and are you entirely sure this isn’t some strange fever dream? 

Time ticks slowly as you spend the afternoon, glued to your phone. It’s a 25 Note+ and it’s filled with multiple doohickeys and settings that make you feel technologically inept. You never thought you were bad with technology, but clearly these phones have a learning curve attached to them. 

You try to call your family, but according to the voicemail left they’re on a Disney cruise that you paid for. Your heart aches at the excited voice of your parents. Why are they on a vacation without you? 

The next thing you aim for is finding Jimin’s contact. According to Google Maps, you’re not far from your hometown and you know that Jimin’s always wanted to move to the city so he must be nearby. To your chagrin, his name isn’t on your contact list. Strange, he’s always number two on speed dial. 

Clicking on the internet browser, you go to the online Whitepages and search up Park Jimin. There may be a million ones, but maybe you could get a lead. When a picture and an address show up easily with one swipe, you scoff. The internet has no room for privacy ten years later, huh? 

The most casual thing you own in your closet is a Free People dress, reaching mid-calf with flowing bell sleeves. Heck, you couldn’t even find a single pair of jeans. You don’t care however, as you swipe your keys from the counter (you gape, you own a Tesla?) and race down to the parking garage. 

Jimin’s apartment is on the other side of the city. It’s strange, transitioning from high rises and shiny windows to quaint brick walls and lived-in patio spaces. You feel like it’s a race against time as you make it all the way to his room, knocking feverishly on the mahogany red door. 

“What? Who is it?” it’s clear that his room is cheap, the walls thin as you hear his voice shuffle throughout the room. Why are you shaking? It’s just your best friend. 

The door swings open and you and Jimin drink each other in. His baby fat has melted from his cheeks, revealing a handsome and charming jawline. His hair is no longer a natural black, but has been dyed to a sandy blond that suits his tan. His eyes, wide in surprise, are still a soft brown but not as bright as when he was seventeen. 

“Jimin,” your third round of tears hits you like a truck at the sight of your best friend, and you immediately run into his arms. 

But he doesn’t hug you back immediately. In fact, he doesn’t know what to do at all. Your name rolls off his lips like he’s seen a ghost. 

You pull away, as if you are burned. You flinch at the way Jimin regards you. “Is something wrong?” 

“I don’t know,” he looks at you, crossing his arms, “I don’t know what to feel when your old best friend suddenly shows up at your doorstep after ten years.” 

What? 

“Why would I do that?” you whisper, bracing your hand against the doorframe to steady yourself. 

“Well, after graduation you chose a college at the last minute. Decided to go to a prestigious fashion university in Europe. Shacked it up with some British guys and well, forgot about your past but I guess I can’t blame you.” 

“But I couldn’t have left you,” you know you’re not even talking to Jimin, but in fact scolding yourself for being so stupid these past ten years. “I was crying for you that night at prom. All I wanted was for you to be there and hold me!” 

That strikes a cord. Jimin pops his head into the hallway, looking back and forth to see if anyone is watching. He sighs when your tears turn into sobs, shaking your form. “Come in,” he mutters, ushering you inside.

Jimin’s apartment feels more like home than your apartment does. Cosy and warm with the scent of jasmine brewing on the stove. The pour of tea soothes you slightly as you relax on the worn leather couch. 

Jimin hands you a mug, sitting opposite you against the rickety living room table. “Are you okay?” he asks, showing genuine concern for the first time. 

“I’m,” you roll the muddy liquid in your grasp, watching the tea leaves tumble. “I just came back from the hospital, actually. Hit my head drinking last night and I’m suffering from memory loss,” you clutch your head for good measure, feigning injury.  

“Memory loss?” he gapes, unable to see through your lie. 

“Yeah uh,” you wince, “almost ten years of memory loss.” 

Jimin isn’t a man who thinks ahead, preferring to live in the moment. You figure he’s not going to question your excuse. Your former best friend nearly drops his tea in the process, hot drops burning his hand. He hisses, placing the plain mug on the table as he goes to his shelves, pulling out your class yearbook. 

“Ten years,” he shakes his head, looking like he’s just stepped into a Korean drama. “Is that even possible?” 

“Must be,” you sigh, not wanting to delve into the details of how you ended up in the future, “the first thing I did when I woke up was scream my head off. Then I woke up later and the first person I called were my parents who didn’t pick up, and then I wanted to call you but,” you squeeze the cup in your hands, “I couldn’t find your contact so I searched you up.” 

“Should we call the hospital or something? Maybe you shouldn’t be walking around like this.” 

“Don’t worry, they said the memory loss is only temporary,” you force a smile, knocking your head lightly with the heel of your palm, “I just gotta y’know, catch up a little bit. I thought you could help.” 

Jimin is patient, albeit a little nervous, watching carefully as your eyes glaze emptily over the old yearbook. You’re unfazed at the familiar faces and events that are described to you in detail, unable to recall what happened during the events that followed graduation. There’s barely any pictures of you, so it doesn’t help when he tries to explain as much as he can. 

You stop him at the sports section, pointing a finger at Jungkook being carried by his fellow teammates during the lacrosse championships. “What happened to Jungkook?” 

Jimin shrugged, “Blew his sports scholarship,” your eyebrows float to the top of your forehead, appalled that your former love would do such a thing, “decided to pursue his passion and went to an art school for a degree in photography.” 

So much has changed in the past ten years. 

“Hey, can you please stop crying?” 

“I’m sorry,” you warble, wiping at your sleeve as if the fabric didn’t cost hundreds of dollars, “I must be making you so uncomfortable by barging in. I’ll get out of your life—”

“No, not that. I just don’t like seeing you cry,” Jimin sighs, squeezing your knee, “of course I was upset when you suddenly upped and left town to study in another continent. But I was still happy for you. On the internet you seemed tons happier since highschool.” 

“I can say that’s no longer the case,” you mutter sadly, taking a long drag of your tea. The burn flows down your throat, digging you to reality, “I guess I just woke up and wasn’t prepared to be the person I ended up being.” 

“Well, what can your former best friend do to make it better?” 

Your eyes widen at Jimin’s uneasy stare, as if he’s wondering whether he said the right thing or not. 

“Um,” you bite your lip, “will you go shopping with me? I realized I don’t own any sweatpants or sneakers and I would really like to wear something comfortable right now,” you look despondently on your uncomfortable dress, swinging around the sleeves that seem to snag onto everything. 

“Okay,” he nods easily, “will you also buy me new sweatpants and sneakers? And dinner? I really want a New York Strip.” 

“What?” you furrow your brows, “can I afford that?” 

He chuckles to himself, pulling you up and wiping the tears on your face with a tissue from his pocket. You don’t even care to ask whether the tissue is clean, only focusing on the tender gesture that you’ve missed so much. 

“Honey, you’re one of the co-editors of Ego. I’m sure a couple pairs of sweatpants and steak will barely make a dent in your bank account.” 

You’re flabbergasted. Ego? The fashion magazine that’s on billboards and commercials? That Ego? 

After a couple checks through your bank account, and a triple check with a phone call and trip to the ATM, you’re sure the money is yours. It scares you, but also comforts you knowing that you’ve always been able to make it big. 

You barely bat an eye as Jimin tugs you around the city with a familiarity that has you reeling. You struggle to remember the streets you pass and the signs that indicate what part of town you’re in, all whilst Jimin basks in the fruits of your labor. You don’t give a shit, obviously. It makes you happy seeing Jimin slowly melt and grow more comfortable throughout the day. 

This is the kind of life you envisioned. One where comfort isn’t discarded for luxury, where the two cultures can marry. Jimin busts a gut when he sees you angrily shove your Free People dress deep in your shopping bags in favor of a black Adidas tracksuit that makes you feel like a soccer mom. Of course, he doesn’t know why you’re so aggressive with all your luxurious items, heck you even make him drive your Tesla, but nevertheless each passing hour brightens you up considerably.  

When you two arrive at a fancy steakhouse with a dress code, the manager doesn’t hesitate to chide you and suggest the Applebee’s down the street. 

You retort back that you’re an editor of Ego, and in seconds you’d have this restaurant swarmed with bad reviews. You know nothing about culinary review but you’re sure the manager doesn’t know that, and no arguments are placed after that. 

The evening puts you in higher spirits, and you’re almost convinced that you’re a successful twenty-something catching up with your former best friend. You’ve always been mature for your age, high school can do that to a person, and it makes it vastly easier to keep up with the new decade. 

“So,” you help Jimin get his bags up into his apartment. A little part of it feels like a bribe as you carry all the name brands on your arms, but you chalk it up to being compensation for the last ten years, “who are the people you hang out with now? Anyone I know?” 

“Well, Taehyung sometimes drops by if he’s free. He’s traveling the world now, he actually works with you,” Jimin provides the information smoothly, “only he works in the international business column. But surprisingly, the person I hang out the most with is—”

“Jungkook.” 

Standing face-to-face with your old high school sweetheart disarms you, and you’re sorely reminded that just you’re a seventeen-year-old in a twenty-seven-year-old’s body. 

Jungkook looks tired, and he rubs his eyes a bit as if to make sure he isn’t dreaming. You in the flesh, looking purposeful and confident as you hold three bags on each arm, each piece probably costing more than his rent. He’s filled out, what once was lean muscle and minor definition has turned into full muscle mass hidden beneath a large t-shirt and sweatpants that are two sizes too big. His face is still sweet-looking and baby-like, but his hair is overgrown and waving in front of his eyes without a care in the world. 

“Did I mention we’re neighbors?” you can practically hear the wince in Jimin’s voice, probably regretting that he hid that chunk of information from you. 

Jungkook tastes his name on your lips, and it sounds foriegn and strange coming from the both of you. “Good to see you,” he says, voice low. 

You barely formulate a response, replying with an equally nervous “right back at ya” and then you two resume staring at each other. While Jungkook hasn’t seen you in the last ten years, you saw him yesterday. Yesterday, where you started the day all peachy keen and it spiraled downhill shortly after. It’s jarring, knowing that your body doesn’t fit your conscience. 

“Well I uh,” Jungkook lifts his indicator to leave, a large garbage bag, “bye.” 

Jungkook shuffles out of the small hallway, and you get a whiff of his scent. It’s still the same, fabric softener mixed with his own musk. 

“I,” you start off slow, “maybe I should go talk to him?” 

“No,” he warns. “You and Jungkook are completely different people now, he’s just gonna think you’re pitying him if you go up and talk to him out of the blue.”

“But we’ve always been different people.” 

“You really think that?” Jimin shakes his head, “I know what happened at prom was rough but, I really didn’t think much of your relationship with Jungkook before that. It seemed like you were pretty compatible—”

“Up until the point he was kissing Jennie in matching flowers on the balcony like some kind of romance film?” you scoff, crossing your arms, “right. Super compatible.” 

Jimin sighs, as if he’s chastising a teenager. “Prom happened ten years ago, don’t act like it happened yesterday. People change.” 

You frown, because in your mind it did happen yesterday. 

Sleeping last night was hell. It’s one thing to be completely zonked out of your mind and unsure if you’re in a dream or weird coma, but knowing that you’re going to be stuck here for awhile is painful. Your loft is too big for your tiny body, your mattress cold and empty with just you in it. Without your parents to call and you feeling wholly insecure about your rekindling with Jimin, the only person you can really call is… Seokjin. 

And you really don’t want a repeat of your first night. 

So you suck it up, spend your waking hours in your office and quickly learning your tasks for work. You don’t even know what time you’re supposed to clock in, but from a sticky note attached to your MacBook it seems that you have a creative meeting at 10AM. You allow yourself two hours of sleep before you get moving.

The one exciting thing about your morning is that your outfit choices are virtually limitless. You feel like Cher in Clueless, all your outfits color-coordinated and organized by season. You pick out a springy Chanel number, a pale pink tweed skirt suit that has you feeling equally parts cute and an independent working woman. You even make time to buy yourself a coffee, because that’s what adults do right? 

Your office is gorgeous. Also located in the upper part of the city, the glass desk and high windows fit right in. You have an ideas board filled with various designs, fabrics and models to choose from. There’s a little frilly notebook straight out of the 2000s, all filled with phone numbers and special contacts all at your disposal. You even have your own cold press coffee machine complete with a mini-fridge. 

“You’re never this early, nervous for the meeting?” 

You squeal, nearly dropping your coffee as you take a tour around your office. You fight the urge to gape and point accusingly at the woman standing at your door.

“Jennie?” 

“In the flesh,” she gives you a cool smirk, holding her arms out for a hug. It really throws you for a loop, and you’re left stricken in your spot as Jennie closes the gap and squeezes the life out of you. Her grey pinstripe pantsuit crumples against your softer fabric. “You know you can’t get rid of me that easily.” 

“Jennie and you are practically besties,” Jimin sounds a little jealous while saying that, forcing you to scroll through your Instagram page to see the countless selfies of you and your high school rival, “I mean, at least that’s what the internet says. Went to college in Europe together and everything.” 

So it’s true. You awkwardly pat Jennie on the back, and she doesn’t seem to mind when she pulls away and tells you to meet upstairs. You mindlessly follow after her to the conference room, wishing a kind good morning to everyone that greets you. 

Once you make it upstairs, you flinch at the loud screech of your voice. “My favorite editor!” someone in a plaid red suit runs up to you and throws an arm around your shoulders. The editor-in-chief Jung Hoseok smiles brightly at you, leading you to a seat at the head of the table right next to him. You’re cosy with the editor-in-chief? This is crazy! 

“G-good morning Mr. Jung,” you stutter, trying to remain cool. 

“Did something happen to you this weekend?” Hoseok jests, pinching your cheek like a long lost sister. “You always call me Hobi.” 

“Oh,” you force a giggle, “you don’t even know how crazy this weekend was.” 

Hoseok simply laughs and gets himself settled for the meeting.

“I’m so jealous,” Jennie sing-songs, a manicured finger trailing over the back of your chair, “only the best of the best can sit next to the big boss.” 

The comment has you bristling. Are you really friends? Giving her a tight smile, she saunters to another corner of the meeting. On your section of the table is your itinerary and iPad, ready for note-taking. 

“One thing that we do at Ego is consistency,” Hoseok pulls up a projection of this year’s editions, all carbon copies of the same cover. “And while that is admirable, I want to put my top editors to the test and come up with the theme for next month’s issue.” 

Hoseok sends you yet another pearly white smile, and due to the sheer closeness you know that secret smile is only reserved for you. That makes you squirm in your seat, already feeling the pressure building in the pit of your stomach. 

“Take two days off this week to plan. Work out the days you’ll be out of the office with HR, those days you’ll be working in the city, finding ideas and inspiration for the issue. Remember, think outside the box!” Hoseok does a little fist pump, cutting through the air like his life depends on it. 

The whole lot of the group continues to stare at Hoseok, waiting for his next instructions. Then, the adults begin to panic, similar to a high school class that’s been told they have a pop quiz that’s worth half their grade. You sigh internally, you suppose high school never ends. 

“C’mon,” Hoseok urges, flailing his arms around, “get out there! Make moves, make money!” 

But the only moves you’ve made since 2PM are fleeting trips to the bathroom. 

Obviously you don’t have any memory of your degree or experience, so instead of feeling like an editor you feel more like a teenager playing dress-up. You couldn’t even sneakily ask Jennie for help because she deadpanned: “I’m not sharing any secrets, doll.” It seems that being backhandedly mean is a theme in your relationship, so after that you rolled your eyes and locked your door. Thankfully you packed a pair of sweatpants so you can comfortably lie down on the floor while you spread out your workspace. Magazines littered the hardwood, all sultry and sexy looking models staring back at you with the same half-lidded stare and overdone makeup. 

It makes you cringe, thinking back to the other day when you were jealous of these people. Now that you have this life, thriving and full of beauty, is that the only thing you want to show to your audience? How can they possibly relate to models who make triple their salary? What about the authenticity? The ingenuity? 

And that’s when it hits you. 

Scrambling to your computer, you search up a photographer that you know will be completely and utterly transparent. 

My Time Studios: Capturing the raw moment. 

You know exactly what you want for next month’s issue. 

Jungkook does not expect to see you through the peephole of his apartment, fiddling with the threads of your clothes and eyes glued to the ground. He mutters a curse under his breath, jamming his fingers between the metal double lock to swing his head out. He doesn’t even bother to open up all the way, just enough to stick his face out. 

“Jungkook, hi!” he still can’t believe you’re around. Jungkook winces at your tone, high and sounding like a teenager. He thought by now you’d be traveling the world, climbing to bigger and better things. Then again, the upper part of the city is certainly an upgrade. He just thought you’d want to be far, far away from him. “I b-brought you McDonalds.” 

You hold up a greasy bag of fast food, and his nose immediately responds to the smell of fresh fries and a quarter pounder (with cheese, of course.) It annoys him that you still know his weakness, but he isn’t going to go that easily. 

“Why are you here?” he asks a little too sharply, hands gripping the doorknob. 

“I wanted to offer you a job,” you get straight to the point, as if you know your time at his doorstep is limited. 

He scoffs, “You? Want to put my photos on Ego? You know my business extends to weddings and the occasional Bar Mitzvah. Why would you want me?” 

You frown, crossing your arms. He looks down at your attire, a nicely fitted suit on top, but the skirt is replaced with grey sweatpants. Comical, really. “I’ve always loved your photos,” you admit to him, “you know that. And they’ve gotten so much better since then.” 

The furrow between Jungkook’s brows softens a fraction, smoothed by the honesty in your voice. You’re right, you always made sure to tell Jungkook how much you loved his other talents. Namely, the photography, and sometimes his singing. He can still remember how easily you slept in his arms watching Sky City for hours, all at the melody of your favorite song. While his teachers and classmates loved to venerate his position on the team and his ability to garner attention, you encouraged him to work on the things that mattered to him the most, even in secret. 

Nevertheless, that was ten years ago. 

“I don’t need your charity,” he spits, “Jimin might be able to be bought by some designer clothes and an eighty dollar steak, but not me.” 

The pain in your gaze is glaringly evident, and you don’t even try to hide that you’re upset as the paper bag falls against your lap. If there’s one thing Jungkook knows he’s good at, is hurting your feelings. 

“You think this is charity?” you whisper, hurt delicately lacing your voice. 

“Are you kidding? Last month you got Xu Minghao to photograph your spread for Ego. He’s photographed the damn Queen of England,” if you notice that he’s babbling about reading your magazine, you don’t show it in your face, “the point is, I don’t understand why you’re trying to come into my life again. I don’t want to get involved in your fancy dinner galas or anyone else from high school. So please, just go back to your picture perfect life.” 

And without another qualm he slams the door in your face, effectively shutting you out. It doesn’t feel as good as he wants it to feel, clearly. He feels even shitter than before. His eyes glaze over to his rickety coffee table, cluttered with bills and credit card payments that should’ve been dealt with a long time ago. 

He slugs himself over to his couch, throwing his body over the couch that’s way too short. His legs dangle in mid-air, but it doesn’t stop him from throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the sunset. The bills can wait a little longer. Seeing you was too draining. 

The nap turns into a full-fledged night’s sleep, and by the time he wakes up the sky is dark and it’s the start of a new day. 12:08, the screen of his iPhone confirms. Feeling even crustier and worse than before, his stomach decides to harden the blow and go straight for the gut. He’s sorely reminded of the food you offered him hours ago. 

Quickly pulling on a large denim jacket, he grabs his keys and heads for the 7-Eleven down the park. Nothing like a frozen pizza to fill the gut, fast and cheap. Despite the fact that it’s dark and late, there're still some stray people in the park. A few homeless, some high school stoners who are meeting in secret, and you are typing away on your MacBook. 

Wait, what? 

You’re sitting on a bench in the park, typing away without a care in the world. Shoving soggy fries that he earlier refused in your mouth, you let a couple stray potatoes hang from your lips as your eyes succumb to the screen. You look positively silly, still in a pink blazer and baggy sweatpants. 

He must have been staring a little too long, because soon enough you turn your head, gasping at his figure. You quickly avert your eyes, but don’t make any move to leave the park. That interests him further. 

Shamelessly, he calls your name. His legs get to you in an instant, towering over your tiny figure. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Uh, I’m waiting for Jimin,” your eyes flicker to your open laptop, “and working.” 

At least one of those reasons is a lie. Last time he checked, Jimin always sleeps over at Yoongi’s house on this day. He knows it’s a lie, and you know he knows it’s a lie, but neither of you make the effort to correct it. 

“And what could you possibly be working on at 12AM?” 

“Finding a photographer,” you hunch over your laptop, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t have much time and none of my usual contacts are good enough. This project is… personal.” 

It makes him want to ask further, he can’t lie and say he isn’t intrigued in the kind of vision you’re going for in your next issue. “But why can’t you work at home?” 

“Don’t wanna go,” you reply casually, “it makes me feel lonely.” 

Lonely? You feel lonely? He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated at the display of nonchalance. Back in high school he always encouraged you to feel confident, but not like this. “Hey, it’s nice that you feel comfortable enough to chill in the park at 12AM, but it’s really dumb. You’re lucky you haven’t gotten mugged from all that money you’re carrying around!” he gestures to your fancy clothes and laptop, “and if you feel so lonely, call up one of your rich friends I’m sure they’ll—”

“Oh my god, Jungkook,” you slam your laptop shut, darkening the two of you. “I thought you wanted me to go back to my ‘picture perfect life’, so why do you care?” you get up in his face, standing on the bench so you’re nearly eye-to-eye, “why don’t you pester those kids over there? Tell them to drink their milk and go home,” you scoff, shoving your stuff in your bag. You don’t spare him another glance as you stalk off in the other direction. 

He groans, unable to untangle himself from the mess, “Where are you going?” 

“To a park where you’re not in!” 

Despite the exchange for sweatpants, you’re still wearing shoes not fit for walking. They’re little white pumps, not too tall but not remarkably comfy either. However, that doesn’t deter you from getting the heck out of there, seemingly walking in any possible direction to get away from Jungkook. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” he chastises once his hand clasps around your hand, pulling you around. 

There’s a little resistance, as you try to hide your face to no avail. Jungkook fumbles a little, not thinking you’d be crying. But tiny, shy tears are pooling around your eyes, looking flustered at your display of emotion.

“God,” you mutter to yourself, “I feel like such a kid.” 

That strikes a chord in the twenty-something man. The last time he saw you in the flesh was when you were both kids. Young, unbridled, and stupid. Well, only Jungkook was the stupid one. 

“Do you want me to take you home?” Jungkook offers, feeling guilty about his roughness. 

You shake your head. “No, I told you I don’t want to.” 

“Can I at least call you a cab? Or a friend so you won’t get lonely?” 

“Jungkook, if I had that option would you think I’d be here right now?” he’s trying, he really is. But you’re equally as miffed about this whole situation and at a loss. The two of you engage in a staring contest. It only takes a few seconds for you to crumble, and he frowns when you shiver in your thin blazer. 

Instantly, he rips off his jacket, pulling it over your body. It’s huge on you, swallowing your body and hopefully containing some of his residual heat. 

And finally, he relents. “If you want, I’ll come over and stay until you fall asleep.” 

“Okay,” your eyes widen in instant agreement, pulling something out of your pocket. “Will you drive?” 

His eyes widen at the shiny, minimalistic car key. Your sudden one-eighty has him second guessing his decision. “You drive a Tesla?” he gapes, taking your key like he’s holding the Hope Diamond. 

You got your license in February. One month ago, and only because the instructor felt pity on you since it was your second time retaking it. The fancy car terrifies you, and you’re sure Jungkook has much more experience driving (over ten years worth.)  

You shrug, “Not very good at driving. Haven’t had much practice.”

“Um, the car drives itself?” 

“It does?” you tilt your head, dazed, “wow, technology is amazing.” 

He shakes his head, putting a hand on your back so you can lead the way. You must be tired, because it seems like your head isn’t entirely there anymore. He takes charge, buckles you in and takes a couple minutes to fumble with the car settings. Nevertheless the drive home is smooth (and it takes all of Jungkook’s willpower to not squeal in excitement when the Tesla does in fact, drive itself.) 

You lead him inside your loft like a tiny zombie, throwing your shoes to one corner and throwing your jacket on the kitchen table. 

“Must be hungry,” you can’t even form complete sentences, “there’s food in the fridge, Kook. Sorry if it’s not to your taste.” 

Shuffling away to your room, Jungkook is left to gawk at your apartment. The baseboards of your walls are crusted in pretty pearl designs, swirling around the whole expanse. There’s a television that stretches the wall of the little living room, with a sound and video game system he’s only seen in movies. Your tables are meters and meters of granite, and he wonders how the floor of your apartment can hold all this weight. 

But he supposes it’s because there’s nothing much to hold. No pictures line the walls, only vague looking art to fill up blank space. There’s no touch of warmth despite the heating system under the floor that relaxes his toes. For such a big home, he can only imagine how small you must feel in it. 

Your fridge is just as empty, decorated with a couple of sad-looking salads and some protein shakes. He sighs, grabbing two chicken salads and a banana shake and bringing it to your coffee table. It’s a little two quiet for his liking, so he turns on the television real low just to make the room feel a bit fuller. 

Halfway through one salad he realizes he probably should’ve made you eat as well. Even though these salads aren’t remotely filling, they’re much healthier than some soggy fries. A piece of limp lettuce hangs from Jungkook’s mouth, suddenly feeling guilty for soaking up all of your amenities without inviting you. After all, it is your house. Wiping some sauce from his lips he dusts off his pants, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he makes his way to your room. 

Calling your name, the only reply is the whir of the heater. He only cracks the door a tad, but he sees you slumped against the edge of the bed, bare feet hanging from the end. You barely made it, your clothes strewn across the floor, an oversized t-shirt ruched across your barely covered thighs. Without a thought he quickly scrambles to move you closer to your pillows, and then wraps your body in your plush duvet. You’re out like a light. 

You’re sleeping, so Jungkook should go home. That’s what you two agreed to. He goes back to his late dinner (early breakfast?) mindlessly listening to an infomercial on rare dollar coins. He’ll leave after he eats. 

He didn’t leave. 

Jungkook awakes to a scream, your shrill voice echoing all the way down the hallway into your living room. It takes a second for him to register the empty white walls and the fact that he’s not in his apartment, but eventually it goes back to the point that you’re in distress. He jolts, scrambling off the couch to run to your bedroom. 

“What is it?” he exhales into your doorframe, socks sliding. 

Your hair is in a disarray, shirt rumpled and face scrunched in pain. You shove your phone in his face. “Since when did Iron Man die!” you cry, genuinely horrified at whatever entertainment article you’re reading. 

He slumps against the wall, running a hand over his dry face. “Since Endgame, obviously. That was literally two years ago. Is that why you woke me up?” 

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t know!” 

“Have you been living under a rock or something?”

“Or something,” you frown, throwing your phone across your bed, “I guess I should go get ready for work.” 

Jungkook watches as you shamelessly hop off your bed, uncaring that your shirt has ridden up, revealing the full expanse of your thighs and then some. You pull out a pair of sweats from a shopping bag, nicking off the tag to put them on your legs. 

“Do you have work?”  you ask casually. 

“Uh, no,” Jungkook coughs, crossing his arms. It’s been awhile since he’s had a solid gig. Two whole weeks have been spent doing more personal work which was fine, but at the same time his bank account could beg to differ. “I’m off today.” 

“Oh, alright,” you shrug, “do you know where I can buy a good camera?” 

“Why?” 

“Gonna go take pictures,” you snatch your wallet and keys from your bedside, stuffing it in a fanny pack. He watches you curiously as you zip your bag shut, muttering something about how you can’t believe that fanny packs are back in style. Swinging the strap over your back, you brush past him. “You can stay if you want,” you add pointedly, before you slip into the bathroom. 

Jungkook doesn’t understand as to why he’s slipping into sensory overload. The house is a shell of itself and the antithesis of a rainbow. Maybe it’s the fact that he woke up ten minutes ago or how you look completely peaceful and want to leave as soon as you wake up. Or how shocked you were that Iron Man has passed and you’ve completely missed Phase 3. Or that you’re not even thinking about breakfast or not wishing him a farewell, practically throwing him into your apartment like a second home. 

He wobbles back to the couch, trying to look as nonchalant as possible as he drapes the fuzzy blankets over his body. He flips through the channels, before finally settling on an old episode of Sky City. 

When you walk out into the living room, you scrunch your face in pain when you make eye contact with Kim Seokjin’s on screen appearance. Oh, how things change. Jungkook knew how much you loved watching Sky City, indulging in the protagonist's attractiveness. 

“Y’know,” Jungkook says over his shoulder, “if you leave me here, I could steal whatever I want.” 

“Go ahead,” you reply flippantly, already slipping on your sneakers. “There’s nothing of value here.” 

What is wrong with you? 

“Wait!” Jungkook throws all his pride at the window, unable to conceal his worry for you. Half your body is out the doorway, and you’re looking at him like he’s grown a second head. His voice takes up the entirety of the room, startling you. “I need to come with you,” he finally settles on, looking serious. “You’re going to buy the wrong camera.” 

“Okay,” you concede immediately, throwing the keys on the couch, “you drive.”

Jungkook must know something’s wrong with you. 

You don’t know how to act around him. Your heart is hurt and your body is a decade older than it was a week ago and everything in your life and mind is a complete wreck. It still aches to look at him, despite the fact that you want him around, all the time. You wish you could know a little more about your adult life, you feel like a proverbial Bambi sitting in a car worth more than your childhood home. It’s a wobbly, shaky road to adulthood, and you’re not having it. 

Jungkook sleeping over is the last thing you thought would happen last night. You didn’t even think he’d relent to coming to your house, since he was pretty hellbent on not being your photographer. 

But now he’s driving your Tesla again, after you instructed him to park the car where you parked it last time. That way, you can go back to the playground you were in the night before. You have a vision for the issue and it starts there. Fiddling around with the expensive camera Jungkook picked out, you feel his gaze burning into your shoulder. 

“Am I doing something wrong?” you ask archly, “I read the manual and everything. Or are you just being a perfectionist again?” 

“What’s wrong with being a perfectionist?” Jungkook shoots back, putting the car in park. As soon as the car stills in the parking lot, he grabs the camera from your grasp like a petulant child. “I’m just trying to make sure you don’t break it. Face it, you’re terrible at technology.” 

“Excuse me! I have a Samsung 25+ and a Tesla!” 

“Yeah? So why did I catch you struggling to use your pay feature on your phone when we grabbed coffee?” 

“It’s new,” you mutter under your breath. Everything is new to you. 

With a growl you snatch back the camera, and Jungkook for once doesn’t act like a baby with a sharing complex and relents. Of course, Jungkook manages to calibrate the camera and figure out the color balance before you could. This only annoys you further, wondering why Jungkook is still sticking around after all this time. 

“Alright,” you step out of the car, slinging the camera around your neck. “Thanks for driving me around, your apartment’s just down the street, right?” You dart your hand out, and Jungkook reluctantly hands over your key beeper. Maybe it’s because he seems to love the car so much, that he has a hard time giving it back. “I’ll see you around.” 

“Wait,” is that his word of the day? Wait wait wait. 

“What is it now, Jungkook?” 

He’s never seen you so full of negative emotions. You’ve been waiting for him to tire of you all day, from your clipped replies and unease ever since you two stepped out of your apartment. 

“Um,” he looks embarrassed, scratching the back of his head, “are you really going to take pictures? You always took really blurry pictures in high school.” 

The mention of high school has you icy, gripping the matte black digital camera to hold your feelings at bay. “Yes, I’m going to go take pictures because the photographer I wanted so rudely rejected me,” you revel in the way he shrinks, probably regretful already. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline.” 

He continues to follow you, all the way to the park. You make your way to a little garden, and start to take some test photos next to the little daisies that decorate the patch of dirt. You practically feel Jungkook breathing down your neck, feeling antsy everytime you click the shutter. Ignoring him is difficult, especially when he makes little noises of discomfort when you presumably do something wrong. 

“Jungkook, are you going to say something?” you seethe, not caring that the heavy camera strains your neck when it falls against your chest, “or are you just going to make me wait.”

Jungkook’s face is scrunched up, and finally he blurts, “I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” 

“For saying your life is picture perfect,” he sputters quickly, looking very sweaty. Jungkook always got sweaty when he did things a little too hard. Playing sports, thinking, campaigning on video games. “I—I didn’t mean it. I don’t know. I guess I was just upset at myself and I took it out on you.” 

“Well why are you upset at yourself?” 

“I’m upset because I—I don’t know, it’s complicated,” he plops down on the nearest bench, and while you follow him, you don’t let yourself sit next to him. If you do, you know your subconscious will want to wrap your arms around him and comfort him. That would probably be the worst possible action to perform. “I don’t really do the whole photoshoot thing. Like I said, I’m just doing some weddings and parties here and there. I shouldn’t have said those things about Jimin and how you’re only talking to us out of charity. It’s my fault for not considering how complicated your life could be too,” he looks down at the ground, shameful, “so if you still want me, I would really like to photograph for Ego. And I would also really like that camera back.” 

Unable to resist, you reach over to give him a pat on the shoulder. “I forgive you,” you reply numbly, thinking he was going to apologize for something else. You suppose he’s forgotten about that fateful prom night, just like everyone else. “It’s actually not for Ego, at least not yet. My boss is pitting us against each other, the best idea wins the cover theme.” 

“Don’t worry, we’ll win,” his face eventually breaks into a grin when you remove the camera from your body. “Come to daddy, baby,” he cooes, holding the shiny new camera in his hands like a newborn. 

“Gross,” you twitch, although you’re feeling all the more relieved knowing Jungkook will now be taking the visual reins. “You haven’t had a chance to look at the contract made up, but being paid five-hundred okay?” 

“Five-hundred a week?” 

“No, per day,” you correct, “why wouldn’t I pay you just like I pay the others?” 

Jungkook’s dark brows fly to his forehead. He practically chokes on his spit at the way you put Jungkook in high regard. A blush overtakes his visage, proud and pink as he rushes to get away from you. 

“You don’t even know my concept,” you called after him, chasing the midday sun. 

Jungkook is already in position, fitting the lens between two buildings. The afternoon sun looks like an egg yolk, melting between the clouds. “Well then is it?” he asks, bending down on one knee to get the perfect angle. 

“Well, yesterday when I thought of the idea I just wanted to be reminded of how easy being a kid was,” you don’t even know if Jungkook’s listening properly, given the rapid click click clicks of the shutter and Jungkook constantly moving around to get as many shots as possible. “I realized that not everyone can relate to the models or the clothes we advertise on Ego. Why would I want to see people I actually admire? Like, my friend’s older brother. Or Jimin, president of the drama club. Or even Jungkook, captain of the lacrosse team.” 

“So, nostalgia. The 2000s are back in style, I like it,” he replies simply, tilting the camera towards you, “pose for me.” 

“What? Jungkook,” you frown, holding a hand over your face. He doesn’t relent, continuing to snap you in different angles. 

“Oh! That was a nice one,” he turns the camera to reveal the screen of your furrowed brows, hand over your face, “looks super grunge. Totally a throwback look.” 

“Jungkook, I don’t model. I’m just the one who throws the ideas.” 

“Yeah, but. Wouldn’t it be cool if the readers of Ego could see the genius behind the paper and ink?” he gestures vaguely to your outfit, “and you’re wearing Fila. So that’s like, kind of designer?” 

“I don’t know,” you hug yourself, “I’ll think about it, okay? Let’s focus.” 

“Fine,” Jungkook stops buzzing around you, putting the camera down and following you as you walk back to your car. You don’t think you really need anymore park photos, and Jungkook seems to telepathically agree as well. 

“We need to plan some outfits and some backgrounds. I’ve already arranged a meet up tomorrow in front of our old high school with a couple of models. The school is on a grade-wide trip, so we’ll even have access to the track and field. I was also thinking disposable film? We could scan those.” 

“Alright, who are your models?” 

“Oh, you know. Just friends from school. I wanted it to be as authentic as possible. Taehyung flew back from Hamburg last night, so he said he’ll come. Jimin, obviously.” 

“Well you only had like, two friends in highschool.” 

“And you,” you clip on with a frown, “so don’t dress like a potato sack tomorrow, okay?” 

“I’m not modeling.” 

“Well, I’m still looking for a celebrity model to tack onto so. Don’t look like a chump.” you stick out your hand, while Jungkook pouts at your outstretched limb. If he feels sore that you called him a chump, he doesn’t comment on it when he clasps his larger hand in yours. “Partners?”

“Partners.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me your celebrity model was him?” 

“I specifically told you not to dress like a paper bag. Why did you continue to do so!” 

“You didn’t specify that your model was Kim Seokjin!” 

The current conversation is hushed, hissed between large reflective light panels and a parked car that held all your rented equipment. Currently, Taehyung, Seokjin and Jimin are huddled on the bleachers of your old stomping grounds, laughing at whatever funny video Seokjin has pulled up. They’re all dressed in variants of the same sweatsuit, a combination of Taehyung’s choosing since he’s one of the many color coordinators at Ego. 

But you haven’t started yet, and you would like to get some morning shots in before it gets any warmer. Jungkook is still petulant, pretending to buy time by balancing his tripod. He’s wearing his Birkenstocks, so old they’re definitely the same pair from highschool, and yet another black sweatsuit. 

“Seokjin’s like a big, fat cheeseball,” you assure Jungkook, who’s actually shaking from being in the presence of a celebrity. “No reason to be nervous.”

“That man has literally been part of our Sitcom Sundays for three years,” he gripes, “of course I’m nervous!” 

“Just go to the car. If you want to change I’m sure Taehyung’s brought something that fits you.”

“Well if they see me change they’re gonna see I’m trying too hard,” Jungkook pouts, he actually pouts. 

“I can’t,” you turn around, your Miss Frizzle-esque solar system dress whirling around your waist. The stars twinkle, glittering into Jungkook’s eyes. “Jungkook, do whatever you want. But we need to start in ten! No, five! I’m not paying you to try on Balenciaga and Off-Brand!” 

If Jungkook is shocked by your sudden snippiness or need to get things wrapped up, he doesn’t say anything to it. For once, he’s quiet about his needs and you’re thankful for it. Once he’s gone, you have a chance to breathe. It’s all wholly overwhelming to dive right into the job. Your brain is still in 2011 unfortunately.

“Babe, everything alright?” 

Seokjin appears behind you, having ditched Jimin and Taehyung after he saw you and Jungkook argue. He smooths his hands over your biceps. You’re still unsure over the exact nature of your adult-self’s relationship, but it seems that sans sex you two are relatively close with each other. 

“M’fine,” you mumble tiredly, trying not to stiffen under his hold. You suppose Jimin isn’t going to be the friend you confide into this lifetime. “I’m just nervous. We’re doing all this work and it can potentially go down the drain after this week. What if my idea’s stupid and we’re wasting time? Jennie texted me that her concept is going to be killer and now I’m scared this concept is too aesthetically soft and people don’t care about nostalgia anymore and I feel like simultaneously throwing up and crying—” 

“Whoa whoa, who’s replaced my confident editor and where did she go?” Seokjin decidedly goes with the notion that you’re definitely not fine. He swings his neck back and forth, peering behind the bleachers and over the football field. “My confident editor would never talk bad of herself like this! She commanded a whole crew of fifty within seconds when she did the Kim Taeyeon shoot in Milan! She never cowers under a challenge, the challenge cowers to her!” and in his gallancy you no longer try to shy away, in fact you even giggle at his silly way of comforting you. “And most importantly, she’d never compare herself to a wench like Jennie.” 

Seokjin doesn’t hesitate to swipe the moisture right under your waterline, making sure any traces of your crying are undetectable. “W-wait,” you sputter, “you mean, me and Jennie aren’t actually friends?” 

He chuckles, pulling you into a hug. “Even now, you’re such a good actress.” 

You let Seokjin continue to hold you as the pieces in your empty mind come together. If Jennie is truly not your friend and you two have been faking it all this time, how serious is it? And if so, are you the competitive type? You know for sure Jennie is, and will she stop at nothing to make sure she gets the spread? 

This fear is combined with an equal amount of sadness. You were a little excited to have a lasting friend from college, but your mother always told you to never believe anything on the internet. You suppose those selfies of you and Jennie on your Instagram are nothing but a facade. 

But at the very least Seokjin’s care for you isn’t fake, and you’re thankful that you have at least one friend in this life. If you didn’t do this time skip, would Seokjin remain your only friend? You try not to think too hard about it, “Thanks, Seokjin. I really appreciate you.” 

“Will you appreciate me tonight then?” Seokjin makes a move to kiss your neck, and the moment is promptly ruined. 

Shoving him away you say firmly, “Touch me like that again and I’ll rip your dick off in front of this whole crew.” 

“I love it when you get feisty,” Seokjin melts, but salutes you like a drill sergeant as he runs back to the men on the bleachers. 

It’s then you feel a presence looming over your shoulder. Tall, dark, and emanating. He’s changed, in favor of some fitted jeans and a plain white shirt, paired with black boots. Jungkook is behind you, glaring over your shoulder at Seokjin. So much for showing off your professionalism. Crap, how much of that did he hear? 

“Jungkook, I–”

“Let’s start,” he mutters gruffly, stepping past you to get to the equipment. 

You slap a hand over your face. It’s going to be a long day. 

However, the hours following are probably one of the brightest hours of your life since you’ve appeared in your future-self’s body. At first Jimin was anxious at your invitation, despite being in the high school plays and being okay at public speaking, he didn’t know he’d have the potential to be a model. A couple test shots and some coaching from Taehyung, Jimin is a natural, his photogenic energy strong enough to compete toe-to-toe with Seokjin. 

You also have to hand it to Taehyung, who has been running back and forth between modeling and choosing outfits for the boys. Jimin and you didn’t run in the same group as Taehyung back in high school, but time changes things and if given the opportunity, you would’ve loved to be friends with him back then. 

By the time you are done for the day and you feel like all the possible shots have all ready been taken, you circle around the school. You previously went inside empty classrooms, posed in the cafeteria, even pretended to reenact your school rendition of RENT in the auditorium. 

Everything is mostly packed up and put into the car by the time the sun is setting, and you just wanted to perfect this one shot. 

The gymnasium looks a lot smaller than it did as a child. As a teenager, you constantly feared getting hit in the face by a stray wiffleball, or throwing up during the pacer test after the 100th lap. But now, it just looks like an old gym. 

“It smells like sweaty balls in there,” Taehyung curses, adjusting the patterned button down by smoothing down his chest. He jabs a finger in the boys locker room, where Jimin comes out with another new outfit. 

“I think the sandwich I left in senior year is still there,” Jimin adds, pulling the collar around his burgundy knitted sweater. 

The back of the gym is decorated in balloons. Overnight you managed to build a balloon ring off of Pinterest, one of your proudest moments as you made Jungkook haul the rainbow colored arc and shove it into the trunk. Seokjin is sitting directly under the arc, decorating a letter corkboard. It’s one of those cork boards all the teachers display in class, often decorated with some witty quote or a basic “Welcome to Mr/Mrs/Miss _____’s Class!” 

Jungkook is setting up the camera on a tripod, wanting to do it the old fashioned way. Aside from the freakout he had in the beginning when he realized he was photographing Kim Seokjin, he’s been quiet and strictly professional throughout the whole ordeal. It’s amazing to see this side of him, as he seamlessly transitions from shoot to shoot knowing exactly what he has in mind for each photograph. His direction is soft but impactful, and the boys have no problems following directions. 

“Okay boys, everyone under the arc!” 

Working like this is a rush you can’t even imagine. In high school the path you were in the process of choosing wasn’t clear cut up until this point, but now you know exactly what you want to do for the rest of your life. 

Seokjin holds the finished corkboard in the middle, a proud Class of Ego in white block letters. 

Jungkook only gets a few shots in before Seokjin bemoans, letting the corkboard fall in his lap. 

“Guys, this picture’s gonna stink.” 

Jungkook’s appalled, “Excuse me—” 

“Because you two aren’t in it!” Taehyung agrees easily, “c’mon, JK. Put your camera on timer mode and let’s have all of us in it!” 

A blush melts on Jungkook’s neck, all the way to the tips of his ears. “What? No, that’s silly Tae. I really don’t—agh!” 

The three men are in a controlled frenzy, aiming to get their mission done. Seokjin rounds the camera and makes quick work of enabling a timer and a burst shot. Jimin pulls you by the waist, tugging you ungracefully to the center of the arc. Taehyung is doing a pretty good job of hauling your muscle hunk of a photographer, pressing his shoulders across yours. 

And finally, Seokjin hands you the corkboard. “You should be holding it. After all, you’re the brains behind it!” 

At first it feels awkward, squished between new friends and old friends. First loves and last loves. Despite his warm bicep pressing against you, Jungkook is akin to a sheet of cardboard, arm-to-arm and stiff as a board. 

“Alright people, let’s move it!” Seokjin yells unnecessarily loud, the noise echoing throughout the high walls. “Last couple shots here, and we’re not re-doing it because I’m tired as hell! So look alive and pretend to like each other!” 

The first click of the camera stuns all of you, akin to many terrible school photos where the flash disarms you and your face twists. But that click suddenly gets Jungkook into gear, and you feel him slide a hand over your shoulder, squeezing you toward him so you’re pressed against the side of his chest. He still smells like floral fabric softener, and that makes you smile. 

And suddenly you feel like you’re seventeen again, surrounded with the people you care for the most. 

“So, the tabloids are true huh?” Jimin smirks, waving a flimsy fry in your face. 

“T-tabloids?” you sputter, dabbing the ketchup off your cheek. The greasy burger slips off your grip and onto your plate.  Your expression says it all, it’s painfully innocent and genuinely confused as you attempt to swallow the cheese and lettuce as fast as possible. 

The crew sans Seokjin is eating a very late dinner with you at the restaurant of their choice. They put it to a vote, while you desperately wanted some McDonalds everyone else voted for a more high end restaurant. After all, you’re paying. 

“Ah, don’t try playing coy with us,” Taehyung jests, “the office talks.” 

“Well, whatever you’ve heard isn’t true,” you huff, crossing your arms. “At least, not anymore.” 

“What?” Taehyung bugs out, “I thought you loved your no strings attached relationship with Jinnie.” 

“I guess I did,” you frown, deflating against the plush booth, “I don’t know. I don’t know what I liked back then.” 

You resume eating your burger, trying to ignore the worried look Jimin sends you. He reaches over the table to press his thumb to the little 11s in your forehead, a product of stress. “Does your head still hurt?” he asks. 

Jungkook’s chewing slows considerably. He’s been strangely quiet this evening, opting to order a handful of appetizers and gorging on every single edible thing on the table like a glutton. But at Jimin’s question he turns his head to look at you, “Why would your head still hurt?” 

“She hit her head when she went out drinking with Seokjin last week,” Jimin supplies, “messed with her memory.” 

“Chim,” you frown, gently shoving him off you, “I’m fine now. Pretty much caught up. Just reevaluating my life choices, okay?” 

“How could Seokjin let that happen?” Jungkook asks, putting his fork down. 

“He wasn’t even there,” you shake your head, trying to clear Seokjin’s name as fast as possible. After all, this lie is completely fabricated, a blanket to cover the magical properties your true nature being here has. “I’m fine, Jungkook. Don’t worry about me.” 

He huffs, resuming his meal. “Wasn’t worried,” he disarms, reaching over the table to snatch a mozzarella stick. 

You cover up your disgusted expression by wiping your chin with a soft blue napkin. Jungkook is really out here inhaling the whole table and being a bit of a jerk. 

“Well,” Taehyung claps his hands together, regarding all of you with a closed-lipped smile stretched so wide you’re worried he’ll break. “This is nice. I can’t imagine a time where I’d be reunited with you three. It’s weird. But a good weird.” 

“Ditto,” Jimin echoes, lifting his glass to clink with Taehyung’s. Throwing an arm over your shoulder he remarks, “could’ve never imagined my ‘ol best friend would’ve wanted to pursue fashion.” 

“What?” you glower, pinching his thigh, “I love fashion! I spent months planning my Clueless Halloween costume and our summers cosplaying!” 

“Right, Cher,” teased Jimin, “that yellow plaid suit that made you look like a bottle of mustard?” 

“You little–” 

Taehyung begins to laugh when you start to tickle Jimin in the sweet spots, causing Jimin to curl his leg around your ankle and pull you onto his lap for a hair pull. It’s all in fun and nothing hurts, but you’re so caught up in it you’re sure people are worried about your well-being. Even Jungkook is laughing, egging Jimin on while Taehyung weakly attempts to pull you away. 

If you could rewrite the last ten years of your life, this moment would define the remake. 

“Why are we here?” 

“For research purposes.” 

“Are you sure the actual purpose is because you don’t feel like working in the office?” 

“Jungkook,” you groan, tired of his infinite amount of negativity. “This was our senior trip! Of course I want to get a couple shots in before my big presentation.” 

“You’re risking my baby’s life,” Jungkook cradles the digital camera closer to his chest, swaddling it between its felt case. Ever since you purchased the camera, Jungkook has been unable to let it go. This adoption is both equal parts cute and strange, and you’re a little too scared to ask for it back. 

“I promise, no big rides,” you roll your eyes, “your baby will be fine.” 

The local amusement park is a fan-favorite amongst the city-goers, a reprieve from the hustle and a chance for you to spend your copious amounts of money on overpriced sugar and popcorn. The last time you went here was two weeks ago—in your mind. In Jungkook’s mind it was over ten years ago and he probably doesn’t even remember the time spent roaming the artificial floor and the infinite amount of bubbles that seem to eject from the air to add to the whimsical charm. 

Jungkook isn’t even paying attention, citing it as an artist block because he’s going through sensory overload with the amount of stimuli in the crowd. Screaming teenagers wailing under him from a nearby rollercoaster, the smell of sticky caramel apples pumping through the diffuser stands, and the amount of gaudy color that decorates every single logo of the park. 

He plops himself down on a nearby bench while you wait in line to get some food. It’s early in the morning and a weekday, so you figure this is the best time to get some photographs in without any passerbys. You figure Jungkook will get the hang of it once he has some food in his stomach. 

“A funnel cake?” Jungkook is bewildered when you return with the confection in hand, “it’s ten A.M.” 

You raise a brow, knowing how much Jungkook loves sweet foods. The funnel cake especially, he ate at least three when you went to your senior trip, one for every meal. But you’re an adult, or at least posing as one, and you shrug loftily, plucking a hot piece of fried dough from your plate. “Alright then,” you reply, “I’ll just eat the whole thing.” 

Once the cake touches your tongue, you can’t help but make an exaggerated moan in pleasure. You can feel Jungkook squirming like an earthworm next to you, either from the scrumptious smell of funnel cake or the way you’re so enthusiastically eating it. 

“W-wait,” Jungkook’s stomach growls at the perfect moment, “I want some. But I don’t want to get the camera dirty, pass me a napkin.” 

“I can just feed it to you!” you quip innocently, immediately ripping off a piece and shoving it between Jungkook’s pink lips. You feel a little slick in the finger, saliva briefly coating your digits before you pull away. You swallow, feeling a familiar tingle in your tummy and a sickening heat low in your belly. 

You fight back a sigh, wondering if your libido also did a massive growth spurt in your twenty-seven years of age. 

Jungkook is placated at the touch of food, and you take turns feeding yourself and feeding him while more customers trickle in the park. Confectioners sugar dusts Jungkook’s long-sleeved tee, the white color staining the dark fabric. You reach to pat his chest, ignoring the toneness that still remains from high school. 

“Alright, let’s ride,” you declare, pulling Jungkook up once you’re done eating. 

“Do we have to?” 

“What happened to the adrenaline junkie I once knew?” 

“He realized being an adrenaline junkie doesn’t make money and he should stay on the ground.” 

“Alright, Negative Nancy,” your reply has no bite to it, and suddenly you wished you invited Jimin or Seokjin before Jungkook. Jungkook may have the talent, but he certainly doesn’t have the attitude. You don’t even get why he’s still defensive, after all you thought he apologized in the beginning. It’s not like you’re the problem. 

“Gimmie your hand,” your thoughts cut out when Jungkook offers his large hand in front of yours, palm up. 

“Why?”

“C’mon,” he whines, settling for snatching your hand instead. His palms feel larger, rougher as they enclose your smaller hand. “Now hurry up and walk in front of me. I’m gonna take a picture.” 

You already have a feeling as to what this picture is going to look like, so you scrunch your nose. “That is so cheesy.” 

“It’s for the nostalgia factor, now hurry up and pretend we’re on a date.” 

You roll your eyes but relent, jogging a few steps ahead so you can get into character. This pose used to be a popular one, where the sweet boyfriend would be dragged around by the girlfriend’s hand, tugging him to wherever she wanted to go. It’s super cliche but if Jungkook figures it’ll fit your theme, you’ll do it. Eventually you forget that you’re holding his hand, and point ahead to some rides you want to try out. 

“Oh, Jungkook! Remember that one?” you point to a teacup ride, with guests spinning vigorously through their own seat. “Jimin got so sick he fell asleep in the car for an hour!” 

Jungkook doesn’t reply, so you turn around and face him. Click. Jungkook smirks at his little trick, which makes you rip your hand from his and walk further. 

“Hey, hey,” he chuckles, the first smile of the day. Food really does make him peaceful. “The shot looks good, you look good.” 

“Could’ve just asked me to turn around and pose,” you huff. 

“Then it would ruin the fun,” he replies, “now c’mon, let’s ride the teacups. For old time’s sake.” 

Ten minutes later and the both of you are soon regretting that decision. You’re once again slumped on the bench, this time unable to keep your head up so you rest it on Jungkook’s shoulder while he leans on your head. 

“Haven’t rode that since I was a teenager,” Jungkook moans, holding his stomach. “Remind me not to eat so fast before getting on that kind of ride.” 

You mirror his expression, feeling green. “Is this what late-adult life feels like?” 

“Yep,” Jungkook replies, unbeknownst of how shocked you are at how weak your body has become. “You wake up with back pain, pre-arthritis from all the typing you’ve done over the last decade, and a lot of stress. Definitely not the fantasy you’d imagine from your 20s.” 

“You think you’d be less stressed if you kept your lacrosse scholarship?” 

“Nah, I think I saved myself,” Jungkook shakes his head, “before I could be any more awful than I already was.” 

You refuse that notion, sending him a bitter smile. “Well, look at me. I became awful right after high school.” 

“I didn’t mean you—”

“I know,” you hold up a hand to stop him. The two of you follow a red path up the hill, leading to a simple cable car ride. It’s a slow travel ride, made to get from one side of the park to the other with a beautiful view over the lake. “But you see those tabloid articles. They must be true.” 

“I—I didn’t think they were all true,” Jungkook’s lying through his teeth to make you feel better, but you don’t care. “Why do you sound unsure?” 

You shrug, “Probably wasn’t sober for most of my bad decisions,” considering your friendship with Seokjin and his boisterous drinking attitude, you wouldn’t be surprised, “If they weren’t true, I believe Jimin and I would’ve stayed friends. I can’t imagine why I left my home like that. But I guess it doesn’t matter too much because I came back. And I mean, we’re here together doing work,” you gesture between the small space between each other, “I think that counts for something.”  

The two of you walk in silence for a bit, contemplating. The line to the cable car isn’t long but it’s slow, considering the cable only moves a couple meters a second. The take-off area is a risen slab of concrete, and the cars are continuously moving so you have to hop on one car as soon as another guest exits. 

There’s a little bit of space between it, a centimeter gap that could be nerve wracking if there’s no staff around. You think nothing of it as you fiddle on your phone, waiting for the staff member to let you and Jungkook in on the next car. 

Jungkook enters first, taking great care to cradle the camera in one hand so it doesn’t sway against the car. The car swings a little as well, and Jungkook holds out a hand for you to grab. 

Instead you focus on how the once bright glassy pink is sun-ravished, faded and rusting on the metal door flaps. The color is almost pearlescent, vastly different than the vivid color you saw two weeks ago. You almost want to reach out and touch it, wondering where that quality went. 

“Bun, be careful!” 

The tip of your heel nicks on the stepping stone, slipping like butter as you topple forward. Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to scoop you up, hauling you into the car just as the metal door locks into place. The hard plastic of the camera digs into your chest uncomfortably as you plop on top of Jungkook, between his legs as half his thighs rest against the uncomfortable seat. 

“Were you not watching where you were going?” Jungkook huffs, blowing his bangs over his forehead. 

Instead of an artful answer you blurt, “You, you called me Bun.” 

His eyes widen at your response, and his grip loosens around your body. His eyes dart anywhere but your face, his cheeks ruddied and stained coral as he moves to remove you from his body. “It was a slip of the tongue,” he coughs, turning on his camera and getting shots of the lake. 

You huff in response, sticking to your side of the carriage. “I missed it,” you murmur to the wind, although you make yourself loud enough for him to hear. 

You try to bury your sour expression in your sleeves, just to hide how absolutely childish you feel. You don’t even care that Jungkook is trying to take pictures of you looking out the view, only trying to eradicate the feelings that are still down deep in your blood. Even the twenty-seven year old Jungkook is charming, albeit in a completely different way. 

The grown, mature Jungkook toots to his own horn. He isn’t concerned about a team or an image, and gave it all up to pursue an art he loves. The lacrosse jerseys exchanged for bulky long sleeves, the sport for a camera, and a mask for his true image. 

“Let’s go,” Jungkook takes your hand again when the ride stops, not letting go until you’re on steady ground. You figure he must think you walk like a toddler barely on her first mile. 

Would Jungkook like you even as an adult? With all this money, this power and this confidence you envisioned as a seventeen-year-old, it still doesn’t feel enough for him. In fact, you feel like a sore thumb sticking out, decorated in silly rumors and expensive clothes that separate you far from your roots. 

“Hey,” Jungkook touches your arm, pointing to a basketball carnival game, “remember this one?” 

“Yeah,” forcing a smile, you follow him to the small crowd that starts to form around the basketball game. The baskets are a short distance from the player, but so high up that it’s hard to tell the shape of the hoop. “I tried to tell you that it was completely rigged. From an angle you can see it’s still oval-shaped.” 

“And I told you it didn’t matter if the hoop was an octagon, I’d get you that prize,” he jerks a thumb to the prize booth, where a blue Piplup plush sits proudly with all the other starter Pokemon. “And I did.” 

“It’s still in my room,” you reply proudly, even though Jungkook is acting almost immaturely smug. “I, I mean it’s still in my room in my parent’s house. It’s probably lonely because my parents have been on a cruise for almost two weeks.” 

He raises a brow, eyes drifting to the booth. “Should I win another one to keep your bed in the city warm?” 

“That sounded oddly sexual.” 

“You know what I mean,” and Jungkook’s rolling up his sleeves, handing you the camera. 

“Jungkook,” you whine when he pulls out a roll of bills from his pocket, as if he prepared for this moment, “Jungkook c’mon—I don’t need any stuffed animals. Ugh.” 

You swear that the majority of your day is spent watching Jungkook blow cash on a low-quality stuffed animal with packaging pellets for the inside. Turns out carnival technology has also enhanced over the years, and it takes both your whining and the clerk’s whining to stop Jungkook from blowing his entire wallet to get one basket in. Eventually the staff relents and lets Jungkook take a Piplup keychain instead, glumly handing it over to you. 

“I like this better,” you chirp, clipping the ring onto your car keys, “now I can bring Piplup everywhere.” 

A small, barely there smile appears on Jungkook’s face. 

The rest of the day melts away like that, and before you know it the sun is slipping into the horizon and you’re being dropped off at your apartment. Jungkook even insists to walk you to your door, because your prizes are heavy. (Yes, he went back for the oversized Piplup.) 

It’s all too familiar, the way the walk upstairs is achingly slow, as if the moment is stretching itself down the hallway. How Jungkook looks so prideful holding the fruits of his labor, following you with a tug of your hand because the prize is too big for Jungkook to see straight. 

At the same time it’s different. The way you wobble around the hallway because you’re a little tipsy from wine flights is noticeable, even cute. How easy it is to not feel nervous when you clutch at his hand. How you two look like a seasoned couple, coming home from an all-day date. 

It ends at the front door, and you crack it open so you can slip your prizes through the crack. 

“Thanks, Jungkook,” you hold up the SD card that held all the precious memories of this week. 

This is where you part ways. You’ll spend the rest of the night editing your presentation, while Jungkook promised to go to a bar with his friends. A little part of you hoped you’d be invited, but you knew that would be impractical considering you have work in the morning. 

“Break a leg,” he says, leaning on the balls of his feet with his hands in his pockets, “you’ll do great. You’ve always been meant to do great things.” 

The investment he lays on you is insurmountable, and you feel yourself flush with simultaneous excitement and anxiety. Unknowing how to calm your nerves, you give him a small “thank you” and put your hand on the knob to slip away. 

“Wait—” 

You blink, a deer in the headlights as Jungkook swoops down and kisses you. 

You’ve received kisses—kisses reserved for a twenty-seven year old, before. Seokjin is an eager lover, and you felt it that fateful morning and even during your photoshoot when he tried to be sneaky and pull you away. Fleeting bites, kisses to the neck that are wet and hot.

Jungkook’s kiss does not feel like that. It feels like home. It feels like coming home after a long day of work, wrapping yourself in an old afghan and a hot cup of tea. The feeling of hot laundry, fresh front the dryer and smelling of floral softener. It tastes like ten years lost in a void, returning to your senses and lighting you up.

He holds you as if you’ll disappear right in front of him. Large hands cup your face, like a precious thing he never wants to let go. Your hands can do nothing but grapple after his, nails digging into his skin. 

“Good night, Jungkook,” you send him a lovestruck smile, a puppy love face. 

“Good bye, Bun,” he replies simply, jogging down the hallway. 

Being twenty-seven starts to feel a little more like heaven. 

Jennie used to annoy you in high school, but now she just down right scares you. 

Her presentation is one straight out of a thriller, with red shadow lights and neon green splattered in the dark room. Her models are intense, her designs are beautiful but overwhelmingly chaotic, and the whole affair is rather grotesque. The headline Fashion Suicide glares at you in a morbid scarlet font. 

Hoseok sends her a tight-lipped smile, and presses a button on his desk. “I need my antacids, Krystal,” Hoseok deadpans. 

Nothing betrays Jennie’s wicked expression, in fact her smirk widens at Hoseok’s fear. 

You on the other hand, are cool as a cucumber when you walk up to the front of the conference room. In fact, you barely have to say anything as the presentation presents itself. Jungkook took the liberty of making a video compilation for you, one that they could use in YouTube and Instagram promotions. 

“This, is preserving our youth,” you declare proudly, letting the video play. The music that accompanies it is very coming-of-age, like a yearbook slideshow of all the pictures you took. Taehyung, Jimin and Seokjin hold their arms around each other in matching attire, looking like friends for life. There’s even some videos of you and Jungkook at the park, playfully arguing at each other. “I’m tired of seeing people who could care less about my life, who I can’t relate to.” 

“This issue is for the unsung heroes—my best friend’s older sibling, the captain of the football team, and the black sheep with a dream.” 

The video cuts to Jungkook, looking ultra cool at the camera while he’s dictating Seokjin’s moves. It was taken on your phone, and you’re zooming in on Jungkook’s serious face before it breaks into a laugh, eyes crinkling and bunny teeth showing at whatever stupid thing Seokjin said. 

And finally, the video fades into a mock cover. The five of you are beaming at the camera, cheek-to-cheek as you hold up the placard: Ego: Class of Youth. 

Needless to say, the issue is yours. 

You ignore Jennie’s icy stare as you leave the room to negotiate with the creative teams on a set schedule. However, it seems that you can’t get a bit of rest when Jennie waits for you in your office.

“Jennie, get off of my desk,” you frown, watching a coffin-tipped nail flicking against a photograph of you holding hands with Jungkook in the amusement park. It hangs on a corkboard, standing up with all the other ideas that you and Jungkook have spent the last week meticulously planning.The black enamel scratches at your smiling face. You are not having this, not after all your hard work and all the meetings that have just been planned. 

Her feet dangle in the air, kicking back and forth as she sings your name. “You’re still such a child,” she sighs dramatically. “In fact, I think your cute little-wittle idea would suit something more like Highlights or Disney Monthly.”

“You’re just upset I did better than you,” you cross your arms.

Jennie’s nail slices your visage in half. 

“You’re right,” Jennie turns a 180 and gives you a bright, candy-coated smile. “Your idea is so good, it doesn’t suit Ego. In fact, I’m sure the editors at Mono will pay a pretty penny.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Ugh, you are such a fake.” Jennie giggles, “now, did you send this idea to Namjoon yet? Their publishing date is two weeks before ours, so I’m sure they’re getting to work on this whole Throwback Thursday spread.” 

You can’t believe the words coming from Jennie’s mouth. Before all of this, just how awful of a person were you? How could you sabotage your company on the regular, just to get paid a little extra dough for a rival company? It makes you think about what could’ve possibly changed. Had leaving your friends without a care in the world made you into this lost adult, grappling at the seams for attention? In college, did Jennie coerce you into being manipulative and backstabbing, and because without Jimin and needing confidence in a friend, you reluctantly agreed?

The coffee from this morning starts to back up in your throat, but you immediately tamp it down. No, you can’t be pushed around like this. You can’t keep pushing people around. You don’t want a life like this, and if you ever return to your old life, you’ll damn make sure you’ll create a future without Jennie in the picture. 

“I’m not going to send anything to Mono, and I’ve already fessed up to Hoseok,” you lift your nose in the air, voice impeccably clear for someone who’s absolutely bluffing. But Jennie’s face hits the ground, immediately buying your lie. You suppose you did become a good actress after ten years. Maybe Seokjin taught you a few pointers. “So if I were you, I’d swallow your tongue before words get around. I worked it out but don’t be surprised if a pink slip comes your way.” 

Turns out that no matter what, high school never ends. There will always be backstabbers and freaks and geeks. A mean girl that you subconsciously try so hard to appease, a grade that defines your life, and drama up to the neck. 

“He doesn’t like you, y’know,” Jennie whispers, but the words are loud and clear and you know exactly who she’s talking about. “Never had, and never will.” 

“You’re wrong,” you hold your hands, clasping them together to keep them from trembling, “he likes me.” 

So you leave the office, determined to prove yourself. That kiss last night was nothing short of magical, and it took a lot of strength for you to not drive up to Jungkook’s apartment in the morning in the hopes for another one. You pick up a pizza near his place, filling it up with your favorite toppings on one half and his favorites on his. A bottle of peach champagne is nestled between your arms. In the bathroom while waiting for your pizza, you’ve wriggled out of your tight suit and into a blue hoodie and bicycle shorts. Tonight, you’re celebrating. 

You’re vibrating as you’re knocking eagerly on his front door, excited to tell him the news. You hear a rustle from the couch, and some blankets shifting about. He must’ve passed out after going to the bar, how cute. 

But when the door opens, the vision in front of you is far from cute.

A woman, with cat eyes and a slim figure, tilts her head at you. She’s dressed in a large white shirt, transparent enough to show her lacy black bra and panties. Bruises decorate her neck and thighs, like red and purple gems. Her long black hair swishes, slightly frizzy at the bottom. 

“Can I help you?” her voice is sultry and velvety. “Are you looking for JK?” 

It’s obvious as to what transpired. Jungkook dipped after kissing you and fucked another woman. A woman who’s the complete opposite of you. Someone flirty and sexy and willing to give Jungkook what he wants. You don’t know who you should be mad at. 

“Who’s at the door?” Jungkook calls from the inside, and you nearly drop your bottle at the sound of the rasp. They must’ve had a fuckfest if they’re just waking up now.

Your cheeks are burning. Your heart is aching. And the vile that bubbled up from Jennie’s tirade is now resurfacing. From the way your eyes are watering, you must look like a crybaby. 

“Say, JK,” the woman closes the frame tighter around her small head, preventing you from seeing inside and for Jungkook to peer, “do you have any pathetic ex-girlfriends?” 

“No,” comes the muffled reply, “come back to bed, it’s getting cold without you,” the pizza starts to burn uncomfortably against your grip, “why the random question?” 

“Dunno, seems like you’ve had at least one.” 

At that moment, your savior appears in grey jeans and a beige hoodie. Jimin walks up to the floor, clutching a bag of groceries. It’s not hard to put two and two together as he spots you looking incredibly small in front of the strange woman, trying so hard not to break down. 

Your tears finally fall when Jimin reaches you. “Wrong room,” you mutter under your breath, quickly following your old best friend when he shoves you in his apartment. 

No words need to be explained when Jimin leaves the groceries on the coffee table and he’s pulling you onto his lap. You clutch him like a koala, rubbing mascara and blush all over his clothes as you sob. He pats your back and soothes your hiccups by offering you a glass of water. The stages of your meltdowns are pretty cut and dry, even after ten years. He still encourages you to finish the whole glass. He makes sure you have something to eat. He cuts your pizza into little bite sized pieces and feeds you. He doesn’t pressure you to talk until you’re ready, although he has a hunch as to what’s going on. 

And when you talk, he doesn’t expect a firm, “Take me home,” from you. 

“O-okay,” Jimin agrees immediately, pulling you into a sitting position. “Uptown, right? We can call an Uber or something and order from a restaurant.” 

“No,” you reply firmly, “Home-home. I want to go back to my parent’s house.” 

“That’s fine too,” he squeezes your shoulder, accepting the fob you hold out to him, “it’ll take about an hour, but I think the drive will be nice.” 

So you two sneak off into the sunset, clutching twin slices of pizza as you roll away into your Tesla. Jimin is right, ten minutes into the drive and you’re soothed by his smooth driving and the scent of fried cheese and dough. Your friend has been calm all this time, so you figure this is the right time for him to pop off. Again, this is also part of your breakdown routine. 

“Say, does this thing do calls?” Jimin asks, fiddling with the settings on your steering wheel, “Tesla, call Jeon Jungkook.” 

“Jimin,” you say weakly, although the little malicious side of you wants to goad him on. You don’t bother to fight the best friend territorialism, you just watch as his hands clutch at the steering wheel as the speakers ring. 

Jungkook picks up on the second ring, “Hey!” he says brightly, and it makes your chest pang to know how oblivious he is, “how did the presentation go?” 

“Fuck you, Jungkook!” you cover your free hand on your ear at Jimin’s shrill yell, louder than the speakers that carry Jungkook’s voice. “Fuck you for breaking my best friend’s heart twice!” 

The silence is deafening. It’s scary, like you could slash a butter knife right through the tension. 

Jimin continues, “I can understand high school because you were a real doofus, but this! You fucking lead my best friend on, only to fuck another girl right under her nose! She came all the way to your apartment from a long-ass day at work to celebrate and you ruin that day! I thought you’ve grown for the better but turns out nothing has changed since prom night. You’re still the stupid, confused little boy that doesn’t want to admit how they really feel,” you gasp at the blow, watching Jimin’s gritted teeth as he zooms down the freeway on a mission. “Good fucking riddance, Jeon!” 

Jimin punches the “hang up” button. A couple seconds of heavy breathing, and he turns to you with a gentle smile. 

“So, you want to listen to Taylor Swift’s new album?” 

Your room is lost in time. The Hunger Games novels are stacked on your shelf, looking old and worn. A Glee poster hangs over your four-poster bed, the yellow and red faded and the corners hanging by a thread from the old tape. The sheets are a pale pink, ruffly and definitely not in style anymore. When you sit on it, it creaks uncomfortably. 

You hug yourself, tucking your knees in as Jimin marvels at the room with an equal amount of awe. 

“If you could, would you go back to high school?” Jimin asks, sitting at the edge of your bed. 

With a lazy shrug, you smile at your collection of polaroids that are hanging above your vanity. You’re still hurt, but the pain is no longer rolling in waves. “Maybe,” you reply, “probably would’ve taken you to Europe with me.” 

He chuckles, “Is that the only thing you would change?” 

“If I knew what I knew now?” you tilt your head, “I don’t know.” 

Jimin gets off your bed, pressing a kiss into your forehead. “I’m gonna raid the kitchen and see if we can make something for dinner, yeah? Since your parents are on vacation and your fridge is probably empty, don’t  judge me if there’s only Totino’s pizza rolls and nuggets in the freezer.” 

When Jimin leaves your room, you quietly close the door and lock it. You lean against the cracked wooden door, falling onto the carpet and letting the tears fall. Is this what the rest of your life is going to be like? Evading pain and working too hard and trying everyday to stay afloat? Is adult life always going to be this difficult?  

These past two weeks have been nothing short of a rollercoaster. Major highs and major lows, and after today you thought you reached the end of the ride. However, it’s looking like the ride has no destination in mind, rolling in waves and finding a new hill or loop to catch you off-guard. 

“Are you kidding—how did you know we were here?” Another corkscrew. 

“You’re a turtle on the road, Jimin. Now move out of the way.” 

Jungkook’s voice startles you, and you tense when you see the gold door knob jiggle. Of course as strong as Jimin is, he’s no match for Jungkook. You hear Jimin grumble to curse Jungkook out, and the sound of him stomping down the stairs. 

“Hey, open up. Please,” Jungkook’s voice is weak and strained, and you only hug yourself tighter as the knocks continue. “Or, don’t. It seems like you can listen to me perfectly from here. I can hear your breathing.” 

You don’t say a peep, preferring to let everything fizzle out. Hopefully Jungkook will give up, say a pathetic sorry and be on his merry way. You don’t know why he’s followed you all the way over here, why would he bother coming when the damage is already done. 

There’s a slide of fabric across wood, and you can feel the door shake against your back as Jungkook leans on his side out in the hallway. 

“Back in high school, Jennie proposed that I date you to get back at you for stealing Jennie’s sewing sample and getting the higher grade,” you close your eyes, letting the story unravel. “She wanted to build you up before breaking you down, and back then I was vulnerable and thrived on attention, so I thought nothing of it.” 

You hear a breathy exhale from his side, as if it pains him to continue, “But obviously, it wasn’t true and I only realized it until I was way too deep. I liked you, so much. Heck, I think I might’ve loved you. We were so wrapped up in this relationship I even convinced myself it was real, until Jennie said she’d crush you at prom night.

“I should’ve tried harder to convince us not to go. I should’ve told Jennie to fuck off. I should’ve come clean. I should’ve done something,” his fist bangs against your door, the vibrations of the impact thrumming in your back, “seeing you so beautiful in that dress all heartbroken because I didn’t act sooner. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Hearing him pour his heart out is like watching your memories in his shoes. The pieces find homes and paint a picture left unfinished. 

“And then when you showed up at my doorstep, I was so angry. I knew you felt it. But I wasn’t upset at you, I was upset at myself. I felt so fucking guilty. I hated how easy it was for you to let me back into your life. I hated how easy it was to fall for you all over again. I knew how much I didn’t deserve your forgiveness, but you gave it to me and I was too selfish to refuse. I had so much fun, the most fun I’ve had in awhile. 

“I’m sorry I kissed you. I didn’t intend for it to I just, I couldn’t help myself. And then I was so scared that I turned away and made the second biggest regret to date.

“But it proves that we’re not meant to be together. I don’t deserve you,” the last part is hushed, a nail in the coffin, “we can’t turn back the time, but if I could I would change it all. I would be by your side and make your world even better than it is right now. I’m sorry it’s too late.” 

You clutch your mouth, suppressing the cries that muffle through the door. You hear Jungkook get up from your old carpet, turn the other way and head downstairs. 

Your first love just closed the chapter for you. His words show how much he cared for you, but didn’t know how to express it. How immature he was, how he realized everything too late. And now, he wants to set you free. Even if it is a good thing, it still tears you to shreds. 

Moving to your vanity, you pull out the chair and lean your head on the table, eyes poking through your hair. You look awful. The skin under your waterline is puffy and your eyes are red and bloodshot. Your forearms feel greasy, and you lift them up to reveal glitter painting the entirety of your skin. Your eyes dart to the open glitter, the package that Jimin gifted to you that fateful prom night. The compact is broken in half and left on the table, probably a product of your younger cousins fiddling through your old room. 

Ignoring the sticky feeling, you let yourself continue to cry. You feel like you’re stuck in the bathroom of the prom venue, waiting for an opportunity to sneak out and go. 

But you want nothing more than to go back to that moment. As amazing as your twenty-seven year old life is, you’re not ready for it. You don’t want a life without Jungkook, or a life having to constantly catch up and mend your relationship with Jimin. You don’t want to be the backstabbing bitch that tips off other magazines, or the two-faced woman who messes around with others for the sake of pleasure.

You long to go back. You long to live and grow. To be seventeen and have time to grow in-between. 

When you lift your head from your vanity, you’re ten years younger.

You scream. 

Your parents dash to your room with a kitchen knife and a confused face. With a wary smile and a teary gaze you say that it’s only a pimple. Your mother giggles and drops the knife, hugging you and helping you conceal the invisible mark. The hug is so warm and so missed that you nearly sigh in content. You’ve missed them. 

It’s a little strange to think well beyond your years, your brain still reeling from the trip you’ve just had. Your hands smooth over your body, the previous curves and maturity hidden away in your skin. That’s okay, you don’t mind waiting anymore. There’s much more important things at hand. 

If Jungkook isn’t going to realize his mistakes until it’s too late, you have to speed up the process. 

Stealing your parent’s keys and hopping in your Accord, you drive off to Jungkook’s. Hair and makeup not done, and still in your plain shirt and jeans. An hour from now, Jungkook will text you saying his car is down and he’ll meet you at the venue. 

It’s still rush hour, so he doesn’t notice when you park a few houses down. He’s sitting on his front porch, looking out the road. There’s really nothing in front of him, he’s just staring aimlessly, probably nervous about what’s about to go down tonight. You suppress a sigh, engraving the vision to memory. He looks great in his fitted black suit and tie, a little silver pocket square on the breast to match your dress. 

He gets up quickly when he sees you, as if caught in the act. Staring at your plain clothes he asks, “Bun, why aren’t you dressed? Prom’s soon—”

“Jungkook, I want to break up.” 

You see it in his eyes. Vulnerability. No longer do you feel insecure, the future told you that Jungkook genuinely did care for you back then. Or in this case, right now. His usual cheery expression crumples at your feet, and his hands fall at his sides. It feels a little unfair, knowing that you have experience under your belt, and Jungkook’s experiencing these feelings for the first time, unprepared. 

“What?” he wilts, “why?” 

“I know about Jennie’s plan,” you say instantly, unfazed. You give him a tight-lipped smile when realization hits his face. “So I know this whole relationship is orchestrated. The sewing sample fiasco is wrong, obviously. But I’m not going to get mad at you, I know she played you as much as she played me,” you clasp the straps of your purse, stopping you from fidgeting, “we graduate in a few months anyway. We don’t have to see or talk about this ever again. You should go enjoy your prom night with your other friends.” 

The present-day Jungkook is still young and confused. He’s at a loss, looking like he’s on sensory overload as he absorbs all the information. You see his eyes flicker to where your Accord is parked, your prom dress hanging on one of the arm pulls. You never even pulled it out of the bag. 

“Here,” you pull his corsage from your purse, placing the white rose atop the porch. If you try to put it on him, you fear you may never leave. With a determined huff, you turn around in the direction of your car.

“Where are you going?” he asks, clutching the railing of his porch, “what about prom?” 

“I have other plans,” you shrug over your shoulder, “have a good night.” 

You don’t look back, although you feel Jungkook’s stare burning in your head. You take great care in going into drive and punching in a new destination in your clunky GPS. This time you have to do things one at a time, once you get your Tesla ten years from now, you’re sure this process will be much easier. 

Jimin’s family comes out of the airport, looking impeccable as always. Ten years younger, with puffy cherub cheeks and bright eyes. To your surprise (but also all things considered, it’s Jimin), your best friend comes out in a three-piece suit. It’s burgundy, and suits his dark hair well. He places his luggage into your car, hugs his family good-bye and waits for them to depart in their cab. 

“You are all dressed up, and for what,” you chuckle, driving out of the airport.

“Well, when you sent that voicemail that you’d be waiting for me, I changed in the bathroom,” Jimin quips, already fiddling with your radio to play some poppy overplayed music, “but why aren’t you dressed? I thought we were going to be fashionably late to prom. Spill.”

“Hm, let’s talk about it in the morning. I wanna enjoy my prom night,” and you reach over to ruffle Jimin’s soft black strands, “y’know, you’d look really sexy as a blond.” 

He pulls down your mirror, positioning it over his face. Pursing his plush lips, he tilts his head. “Yeah, maybe when I’m older,” he grins at his reflection, “so if we’re not going to prom, let’s go get pizza.” 

So the two of you get pizza. But not before you take your prom pictures. Your parents meet you at the park with their old digital camera, ready for your impromptu photoshoot. Jimin uses an old tarp to cover the car up while you change in the car, shimmying in your sparkly silver tulle dress. Your hair is held up and away from your face, looking clean enough to be presentable as you pose for the camera. The two of you pick yellow dandelions from the grass, matching flowers as last minute dates. Your parents coo and are happy for you, knowing that even if you don’t attend the actual dance, the pictures will last forever and you’ll smile at them for years. 

Eventually you tell Jimin about Jungkook and the whole fiasco (sans the ten year mental time jump.) The reaction is expected, Jimin says he wants to fuck Jungkook up. Surprisingly for him, he doesn’t have to do much to console you. In fact, you sip coolly from your smoothie and say Jungkook will probably let Jimin get a punch in even though Jungkook can bench press his tiny body in half. But you tell him you’re okay, and all you want to do is go home and binge watch. 

Jimin carries the pie in his lap while you pull up your driveway. The smell of toasty cheese and fresh dough fill your car. 

“I want to watch Sky City,” Jimin sing-songs, “Kim Seokjin is God’s gift!” 

You crinkle your nose, “He’s alright.” 

“What! You thought he was so hot like, last week.” 

“Things change.” 

Jimin makes it to your room first, saying he’ll take care of setting things up. He’ll probably steal all the available cushions and make a fort for himself while he puts a picnic blanket on the floor in front of your television. You can imagine him hogging all your stuffed animals, placing it on his side of the carpet while he rifles through your drawers so he can change out of his suit. 

Your parents tell you to take out the trash before you have fun tonight. Careful not to get your dress dirty, you hold it away from your body as you waddle out the front door. You make it two steps into the driveway before the soggy trash bag is whisked from your hands.

“I got it,” Jungkook says quietly, and it takes little to no effort for him to haul the large bag into the waiting trash can. His shoulders are slumped under his white button-up, his suit jacket probably stuffed somewhere in the back of the car. 

“Jungkook,” you reply, dumbfounded, “it’s only eight, prom isn’t even over yet.” 

“I know… but then I realized you weren’t gonna get your money’s worth if you didn’t go. I asked the waitress if she could get me a doggie bag for my date and,” he holds up a stapled bag, presumably the dinner that was supposed to be served, “it’s your favorite.” 

“Thank you,” you give him a small, grateful smile as you accept the bag. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here.” 

He bites his lip, stuffing his hands in his dress pockets. “A-and you told me before you left that I should go spend prom night with my friends,” he ruffles his hair, blown out of the pomade and falling into his eyes, “and then I realized that you were right. Jennie and all those people out there aren’t really my friends. They like my rep and they like my attention, but they don’t like me.” 

You shake your head, “Jungkook, you’re very likable. Jennie and her group are just one bad bunch.” 

“But I don’t wanna be liked by my rep. I wanna be liked for the things I love,” he steps a hesitant step towards you, and he relaxes when he sees that you don’t recoil, “I haven’t told anyone this. But I want to drop that sports scholarship. I applied to an art school, and I got in.” 

Suppressing a grin with a bite of your lips, you cheer silently in your head. Things are changing. “I’m so happy for you, Jungkook. Congrats.” 

“And I’m sorry for all the fucked up things I did. Jennie may have manipulated me but I definitely was a big part of it,” Jungkook pulls the words out of the sky, finally having enough time to formulate an apology, “but please don’t doubt for a second that my feelings are fake. I really like you, and I wish we got to know each other under better circumstances.”

“I wish we could’ve,” you echo sadly. “But our futures—” 

“I don’t want to lose you.” 

“I liked you, so much. Heck, I think I might’ve loved you.”

You shake your head, frowning at his kicked puppy expression. “I’m considering a fashion school in Europe,” you reach for Jungkook’s hand, squeezing it. Letting him know that everything’s going to be okay. “You and Jimin can visit me during the breaks, Europe has some great spots to photograph.” 

Something in Jungkook’s gaze tells you that it’s not enough for him. He wants to be selfish and hold onto you tighter, but you know that’s not good for the both of you right now. “That’d be nice,” he says vaguely, giving you a pained smile. 

Jungkook rubs his thumb over your hand, relishing in the softness of your skin. “You look really pretty,” he says, looking forlornly over the dress. He can only imagine how ethereal you’d look under the fairy lights that decorated the venue, “I wish we could’ve had one dance.” 

You shrug, “The night’s still young,” you gesture to the space in the driveway, and the lights that overhead the garage. 

The slow Taylor Swift music that plays from his pocket is muffled, but it doesn’t deter either of you as he places his hands on your waist and you wrap his around his neck. You’re wearing your bunny house slippers and Jungkook’s neck is moist from his nervous sweats, but you know that this memory will be engraved in your brain for years to come. 

It feels good to know that from now on, you don’t have to be so concerned about the future now that you’ve had a taste of it. All you want now is to take it one day at a time. At this moment the, the only thing you want to do is focus on how you’re going to hold onto Jungkook for the last time. At least for now, who knows what will happen in the future. 

“I really want to kiss you, Bun,” he leans in, foreheads touching, “but I don’t deserve it.” 

“You’re right,” you tease, “you don’t.” 

He frowns playfully, “Ouch. But fair.” 

Yet you figure you’ve made enough headway these past few weeks, and you deserve to be a little selfish. One last kiss, you think to yourself. Your fingers flatten against the pressed material of his collar, meeting in the middle to clutch Jungkook’s slim black tie. Jungkook bites his lip, looking down at you for permission. With the tiniest of nods, you get on your tippy toe toes you lean forward and you can smell the apple cider lingering on his lips—

“Ohmygod—are you broken up or not!” both of you whip your heads up to see Jimin hanging over your open window, looking absolutely bored. His arms dangle over your sill, wearing a frayed high school jumper. “Either tell him to get lost or invite him over to watch television because I’m hungry!” 

You pull away from him fully, squeezing his biceps. “Want pizza?” 

He shakes his head, “I think it’s a trap. Jimin’s waiting for me to come up so he can rip my head off,” he gives a tentative wave to the second floor, but Jimin just scoffs and goes back inside, “but I’ll see you Monday.” 

“Okay. Good night, Kook.” 

“Good night, Bun.” 

Your heart pinches a little as you watch him drive away. Before, you knew what the end game was between you two. It didn’t end pretty. Now, you’re not so sure. At the very least, it isn’t ending on a sour note. 

Some time later.

“Your majesty,” you give her a practiced smile, taking careful measures not to brush the lady’s shoulders too hard in the fear she’ll whittle away, “emerald is an impeccable color on you.” 

The Queen of England (the McDuckin' Queen of England!) just laughs at you and waves you off. You can’t believe you’re photographing a real queen. This is like the childhood equivalent of meeting Malibu Barbie. You thank every single choice and mistake you’ve made in your entire life that has brought you up to this impeccable moment. She’s a vision, you could cry. In fact, you’ll cry later in the comfort of your hotel room. “Do you think the photographer will take long?” she asks, frowning, “I have drinks with my friends in an hour.” 

You smirk, pleased to know she’s still kicking it in her golden years. “Yeah, just so long as my husband doesn’t get distracted. Fifteen minutes, tops.” 

“I’m not distracted,” Jungkook huffs, pulling away from his tripod. He gives up on trying to stabilize the camera, instead preferring to go freehand for this one. He gives you an incredulous look, hands on his hips, “I have two queens in my viewfinder and I only got room for one. Get out of the shot, Bun.” 

With a playful roll of your eyes, you step away from the lady of the hour to let Jungkook do his thing. He’s right in his element, blurting choreographed poses and telling the lighting people to move at his beck and call to get the perfect angle. You stand a distance behind him, letting him take control. 

“I’m so hungry,” your whisper is low enough to blend between the jazz music, but loud enough for Jungkook’s ears to listen in, “please tell me you’re almost done.” 

“Oui, oui.” 

“Wrong language, Kook. Please don’t offend anyone,” and discreetly, you take one step closer in your Tory Burch flats, “did you get any candids of me and the Queen?” 

“Duh, Bun,” you can’t see his face but you know he’s grinning, “Jimin will faint.” 

"Oh, yes! Thank you, I love you," you gush, reaching over to discreetly pinch his butt. 

He shakes his head, looking over his shoulder to give you a brief smirk, "Show me how thankful you are tonight." 

So silly, you think. It's amazing how well you work together as two separate entities of a photoshoot yet share a brain cell in the presence of each other. In another world, Jungkook said if given the chance, he'd be by your side and make your world a better place. 

Ten years later, it's exactly that and more. 

#jungkook x reader #btswritingcafe #btsghostie #kwritersworldnet #jungkook fic #bts fic #bts fluff #bts angst

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: III

“You can have me tonight or never

I thought you understood

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

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

—Wrong, Zayn and Kehlani

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

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

word count: 24.2k

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

///

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

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

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

Harry still hates clubs. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Very satisfied, yeah. Your help was greatly appreciated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that so?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The name’s Styles. Harry Styles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not going.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lock the door on your way out!” 

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is, until she met Harry seven days ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first thing he notices is the dress. 

Fuck, the dress. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nice to see you again, Disco Ball.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Far from it, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I like your dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been thinking about you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It felt really nice.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t mind it, either.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, y-yes.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

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

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

Harry watches her with bliss-drunken fondness twitching his mouth, head falling back to hang between his shoulders as a low, “Such a good girl.” rumbles from his throat. His ring-clad fingers tangle into her locks and scratch at her scalp lightly, strained exhales encouraging her to keep going as she delights herself with tainting love bites all over him. He yanks the girl back up by her roots, grabbing her hips and roughly scooting her forward towards him, clammy foreheads pressing together as he fixes to fill her up for the first time in what feels like eternity. 

The monster’s voice is as dominant and thick as she likes it. “Eyes up here. Want to see you come undone while I fuck you.” 

The way he spreads Y/N open makes her choke out a scream like nothing else she’s ever heard. Harry simply clamps one of his palms over her mouth, continuing to ram into her at a harsh stride, gasping against her ear with every thrust as she rakes her nails across his back. “Gotta keep that pretty mouth quiet. Thin walls.” 

The human feels like her heart is going to break through her ribs and what she doesn’t know is that with every passing beat, Harry feels it tenfold. And it’s driving him fucking insane— she drives him fucking insane. Especially when she looks at him with that glossy, begging gaze, biting into the mound of his hand as he slams his hips inside her so hard, the glasses in her cupboard shake. “Like it when I give it to you rough? Yeah, I thought so. Just like that? Harder? Say please…Christ, you’re a fucking angel.”

Y/N is dirty. So fucking filthy, and Harry loves every second of it. Loves that anything he throws out, she returns with as much enthusiasm, if not more. Loves that she can take his cock as hard as he’s willing to give it, which says a lot, considering his stamina and strength usually surpasses most humans. He’d met very few mortals who can match his sexual prowess and she happens to be one of them. She not only takes it, but pleads for more. She doesn’t just seek her own pleasure, but insists on delivering his own. And though they’re polars opposites at their core— she’s timid, physically standard, and boringly normal, whereas he’s confident, attractive, and unusually superior in every sense of the phrase— they fit together better than he’d ever care to admit. They’re perfectly compatible, down to their personalities and their intimate needs. 

As Harry stands there— fingertips leaving welts across her waist as he grunts brokenly against her throat, stretching her out like she was meant to take him this deep, her moans sounding like classical melodies to his ears— he thinks that maybe...maybe he’ll keep her around. A friends with benefits situation would be the most ideal. And to quote his own clever motto from before, it would be mutualism at its finest. 

The alliance would be nothing emotional; simply for the sake of providing each other with requited relief, as well as providing Harry with a convenient feeding arrangement. Neither of them would have to submit themselves to going to those terrible clubs, they both already know what the other enjoys, and the banter they share is pretty fulfilling. Plus, her blood is one of the sweetest he’s ever had. Whatever magic lies in her veins tides over his cravings in a fashion he’s never quite experienced. They both get what they want and don’t have to deal with the disasters of real commitment; neither are in a place in their lives where they can shoulder such a big responsibility. Harry is emotionally unavailable, as he has been for the past two centuries and as he intends to be for the next dozen. Y/N has just started anew in a place where she has so little to give and so much to lose, dating is the last thing on her mind. A casual no-strings-attached arrangement would be a perfect gift, bow and all.

And with the way they make each other cum multiple times that night— once on the counter, and twice on that trusty old couch— there’s not a single doubt in Harry’s mind that this is most definitely mutualism at its peak. 

///

During the span of the next few weeks, Harry learns a lot about Y/N. It’s surprising how informational someone’s sex habits can be. 

The second week after they had met— and the first since their second very heated, very satisfying encounter— she shoots him a text on Wednesday, of all days. 

Harry isn’t doing anything particularly interesting when he receives her message. He had gone to see Mitch play at the bar that had recently booked him as a semi-permanent gig, sitting in the booth furthest in the back from all of the ruckus, fingers tapping along the waxed table to his best friend’s skilled jazzy guitar chords. Mitch always teases Harry about how he doesn’t have a job, which the vampire always waves off. Working for money is stupid and unnecessary; any materialistic wants and needs that plague him, he can get with the help of compulsion. Therefore, what’s the use in condemning himself the horrors of customer service or a constricting office cubicle? 

His best friend is halfway through his set when Harry’s device vibrates against the sticky surface before him, tittering fingers coming to an abrupt stop. He flips over his iPhone, eyes flickering over the screen, a coy grin spreading its way across his blushed lips. Y/N’s contact beams up at him in return. He’d set her profile as just her name alongside three disco ball emojis, for the sake of their little inside joke. 

I’m getting off work a bit earlier than I thought today and was wondering if you wanted to help me with my ceiling fan.

Harry bites into his bottom lip to muffle a chuckle, shaking his head lightly as he stares down at the comical request. 

That’s odd. Last time I was there, you didn’t HAVE a ceiling fan.

Y/N sits on her lunch break in the backroom of the cafe where she’s employed, a veggie wrap halfway suspended towards her mouth when Harry’s text bloops in, pointing out her embarrassing mistake. She blinks at his correction blankly, eyes closing in faint humiliation as her true intentions are now painfully clear. 

After a second of recollection, she types back some damage control, though it hardly has an impact. Harry’s already chortling to himself just thinking about how contorted her face must look at the moment.

I’m aware, thank you. I meant I wanted help picking one out. I’ve got a few tabs saved as potentials. 

He decides to be a little shit about this whole thing, continuing to mock her.

You could just send me the links right now and I can tell you which one I like. You know that, right?

Y/N knows that. She also knows, by the tone and texture of his response, he’d only mentioned that alternative to be annoying. He knows she’s not talking about ceiling fans, and he just wants her to chase after him. Unfortunately enough for Y/N’s pride, she’s more than willing to.  

I just think your opinion would be much more valuable and effective in person, since you’d be able to help me search for other ones at the same time. We’d cover more ground. Two heads are better than one!

We do make quite the team, don’t we?

I personally think so. A dynamic duo for the books, honestly.

A soft round of applause cuts through the air around the vampire, signaling the end of Mitch’s performance. Harry glances up to see his best friend mounting his guitar back into its case, smiling bashfully at the crowd and nodding his head in thanks to all their praise. Harry coins his luck; things couldn’t have wrapped up at a better time. 

Alright, Watson. What time will you be home?

Y/N stops mid-chew through a bite of her meal, cheeks puffed as the corners of her mouth twitch at his nerdy reference.

I’m off at 6:45. Should be home by 7. 

I’ll see you there, then. 

See you there. Also, why do YOU get to be Sherlock? Seems a bit sexist. 

Harry rolls his eyes at her quip, smirking to himself as he types out his final response.

Well, first and foremost, I’m literally English. Secondly, last time I checked, I’m always the one in control. And frankly, you seem to like it that way. See you at seven, darling.

And at seven on the dot, Harry’s outside her apartment. His friends would be amazed at his punctuality. He only shows it when it’s worth the trouble.

The creature walks up the steps to the mortal’s complex with his Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, keychain tucked into the back pocket of his black skinny jeans, and his tan Chelsea boots clicking against the cement ground. A light wind whips his Keith Harrington Safe Sex t-shirt against the broad muscles of his back, drawing a soothed sigh from his lungs. He loves the California weather. 

He gives her door three swift knocks with his ring-clad knuckles, stepping back from the entrance and clasping his large hands behind his back as he waits. 

When Y/N answers, Harry tilts his chin down a smidge, looking at her over the brim of his chic black glasses with his signature dazzling smile dimpling his cheeks. He lists his head slightly in a formal greeting. “Detective.” 

The girl’s irises flit up to the ceiling as amusement twitches her lips. She plays along. “Nice to see you again. Detective.”

She moves off to the side, beckoning him to come in and he gladly takes the offer, striding into the flat and down the narrow corridor he’s grown quite familiar with. Y/N follows him back into her living room, gaze quickly drinking up his appearance. He’s casual today— less jewelry, more comfortable clothes— and he works the normal fit as effortlessly as he works his fancy brands. Especially with those tight dark jeans. They hug his thighs in a fashion that should be illegal. 

Harry twists around on his heel to face her, reaching up to remove his sunglasses and tucking them along the collar of his tee. A handful of curls fall across his forehead, framing his face and sculpting his jaw, as usual. A sweep across Y/N’s physique tells him everything he needs to know. 

She’s still in her work clothes, clad in a navy blue polo shirt and a pair of dark skinnies similar to his. Her hair is down, though the strands have a dent that suggests she’d been wearing a ponytail. Her mascara is smudged a tad under her seemingly tired eyes, but her attitude is as bright and lively as always. She appears messy, but he likes it. It’s a type of unconventional beauty that’s natural and genuine, which he can appreciate.

He contemplates her with a certain slyness that makes her shift in her socked feet. 

“I got a message earlier. Sounded kinda frantic.” He drifts closer to the human, a sultry tension growing taut between them. He glances upward for an instant, as if recalling a thought. “Something about ceiling fans…?”  

Y/N chews into her cheek to keep from giggling, allowing him to press his chest to hers. He slowly begins to back her up towards the shabby couch, which has seen this interaction happen one too many times. “Yeah, I’m thinking of getting one. Figured it’d help. It just gets really hot in here sometimes, y’know?”

“Mmm…” Harry thrums in agreement, deep in the back of his throat. His hands crawl onto her hips and grasps them somewhat roughly, index fingers hooking into the belt loops of her jeans as he leans down to brush his soft lips over her own. She’ll never grow tired of the electricity that passes through them every time their mouths touch. It kindles her needs unlike anything else. “It does get pretty hot in here sometimes. Especially if you’re working up a sweat.” 

He pushes her further towards the sofa, movements gradual as she drifts backwards, careful not to trip her. She glimpses down at where their lips are flirting, breath hiccuping when he licks his lightly in anticipation, his tongue just barely grazing her Cupid’s bow. “Absolutely. A fan would definitely help relieve some of that stress.” 

“Yeah.” Harry nudges the tip of her nose with his own, feeling her grab at his biceps for security as he continues inching her backwards blindly. “It can work wonders for when you’re all pent up, too. Especially when you’re really tight, which I know for a fact you are.”

The backs of the girl’s knees hit the edge of the couch and she topples into its cushions. She sits up onto her elbows, sheer need inking into her irises as he patiently begins to undo his belt. His long, nimble fingers work with ease and he seems to be in no particular rush, which pricks at her nerves because she feels completely the opposite. She’d been thinking about him since Friday night— or rather, Saturday morning, when he had actually stayed for breakfast that time around. 

Y/N had sat on top of her small dining table while he took the seat before her shirtless, leaning forward with his arms crossed nonchalantly over her lap as she fed him bites of lemon blueberry pancakes. The pads of his calloused fingers had drawn random shapes across the warm skin of her thighs, attempting to cheekily slip beneath her pajamas shorts and he’d giggle boyishly around mouthfuls of food every time she would swat his hand away. He looked so fucking pretty that morning, with his curls tangled in tuffs and the vague imprint of her teeth scattered across his grinning mouth, angry red scratches decorating his bare shoulders. That wholesome yet dirty image had left her head spinning for days. 

The sound of Harry’s zipper ripping open blinks Y/N back into the present and she nearly gawks as he grabs onto the hem of his graphic t-shirt and yanks it over his head, arms crossing as he does so. He tosses it onto her playfully, laughing as she smacks it away from her face and gives him a deadpan look. Harry leans forward, propping his palms on either sides of her head and bracketing her in, the unmissable scent of his delicious cologne invading her senses as his dark tattoos ripple over the lean tendons of his stomach and arms. His strangely cold forehead flushes against hers and he nips at her top lip, tugging it between his teeth and releasing. His voice comes out as deep and hypnotizing as ever. 

“Get undressed for me. Want your thighs wrapped around my head.” 

Harry comes to find that for such a reserved girl, Y/N has a pretty intriguing sexual mindset. She’s open to a lot of stuff he’d never expect from a rural-town escapee. Her kinks surprise him, but pleasantly so, considering they cross over with a lot of his own. She’s into choking, which he adores. There’s nothing hotter than feeling her pulse slam against the palm of his hand as his array of rings mark into the delicate skin of her throat. She likes being restrained, which translates into Harry pinning her wrists above her head while he slams between her drenched thighs. It’s difficult to achieve that on the sofa, so they end up rolling across the rug on the floor, her legs tangled around his hips like a vine as he pants into her mouth, damp hair flopping over his forehead and tickling her eyelashes. Ideally, he would have used his belt to tie her hands to a headboard. If they were at his place, he would’ve just reached for the metal cuffs he has hanging casually off the railing of his bed, which he keeps there for easy access. But they’re in her living room, so he makes do with what he can. 

The vampire doesn’t stay over that night, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he promised Niall he’d help him out with a car issue. Apparently the motor is making a weird noise and Harry isn’t shocked one bit. Niall barely has the brain cells to be alive, much less to handle the upkeep that comes with owning a vintage vehicle. He thanks Y/N for a good time as he slips into his tight jeans and recovers his sunglasses from the floor, pulling his tee over the already fading hickies littering his collarbones, fitting his accessory into his sweaty curls. 

Harry leans down to where she lays limply, splayed over the couch where he had placed her after picking her up off the ground (only after he’d made her cum twice). He plants a nonchalant farewell kiss to her parted lips, thumbing over her bruised nipples jestingly and grinning into her mouth when she whimpers. “I’ll see you later, Watson. Let me know which fan you decide to buy.” 

Two days later, Harry’s phone chimes again, this time with the unique ringtone he’d assigned just for her. 

He’s relaxing in his bathtub, submerged up to his chest in hot water mixed with Epsom salts and jasmine bubble bath, his locks sudsy with shampoo. He’s in the middle of shaving his face, dragging the straight razor (his time in the nineteen thirties made him picky towards any other tool, especially those simpleton plastic ones) down his jaw carefully, making sure not to nick the little moles under the corner of his mouth. When his device goes off, he halts all his motions, glancing over from the hand mirror he’s holding before his face. He’d changed her contact name to Watson as homage to their funny little dynamic, but he’d kept the disco balls in their place. He respects the roots of their acquaintanceship.

Fan came in. Wanna come check it out?

He had a nagging suspicion he’d hear from her today. It’s another Friday night, after all. He’s just happy she’d texted earlier than last time so he can flake on his friends without forcing them to wait for an hour. 

Wow, you chose two day shipping? You must be itching to see me.

Don’t let it go to your head. The only thing I’m itching for is your professional opinion. 

Right. Well, me and my professional opinion are washing up at the moment so give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there, yeah?

Sounds good to me, Sherlock. 

Harry decides on an outfit that falls at the center of his dressing spectrum— something comfortable but not lazy. Something semi-formal. He doesn’t really have to impress her anymore (not that he had to try that hard in the first place) but he wants to look good, either way. There’s nothing wrong with showing off what he has, both physically and wardrobe-wise. He chooses a horizontal-striped fitted tee made of thick cotton, the lines alternating between brown, beige, and a light caramel. He tucks the shirt into a pair of mid-rise corduroy flared pants that are a dark mustard shade, shrugging on an olive green jacket with red and white stitch detailing along the edges, large images of cacti embroidered along its expanse. His pearls, cross necklace, and he opts out of his earring this time. Rings, vanilla chapstick, mint gum. Keys, wallet, starch white Vans. 

Before he knows it, he’s being roughly pulled into her home from his spot just outside her threshold, his cherry-lacquer nails carding into the silky hair along the nape of Y/N’s neck as his teeth skim over the hollow of her throat. The human grapples to push his coat off his wide shoulders, backing further down the small hallway of her flat and kicking the door shut. She holds his head firmly to the sensitive spot in her neck that he’d toyed with a week prior, and he can’t resist the way his eyes blink crimson— a hunting impulse, stemming from the sound of her blood rushing through her carotid artery. He hadn’t fed last time— vampires only need to feed once a week to avoid desiccation— so he surely intends to tonight. 

Harry’s hands fit perfectly around the dip of her spine, pulling her body tight to his as he paints sloppy kisses over her jugular. He gets his teasing words out in between desperate gasps and breathy chuckles. “And here I thought this was genuinely going to be about the fan.”

“Shut up.” 

Y/N makes a sharp turn, tugging him into her room instead of the living room and it dawns on him that this is the first time they’re going to fuck in her actual bed. All those instances of sleeping together and not once had they done anything on the piece of furniture that was intended for that sole purpose. It’s ironically hilarious and he voices that opinion as they stumble onto her mattress. 

“You know,” Harry murmurs into her mouth as she shoves him flat onto the rumpled sheets (she hadn’t made her bed this morning and that’s endearing, for some reason), straddling his lap as she hurriedly pulls his t-shirt out from along the waistband of his trousers. “Out of all the times we’ve done this— which is quite a few— we’ve never done anything on your bed other than sleep.” 

That’s a lie. He’s never actually slept in her bed. After staring at the ceiling blankly two weeks ago for about eight hours, he had been smart enough to grab his phone from his pants the second time around. He spent that stretch of time playing Mario Kart and watching Unsolved Mysteries on Netflix with the volume down just out of human earshot, so as to not disturb her slumber. 

Y/N ducks in order to drag her wet, pillowy lips down the butterfly inking on his tummy and over the spines of the two ferns on his pelvis, licking across his happy trail. He jerks in response, a soft grunt gurgling in his lungs as she uses her index finger to trace the outline of his hardening cock through the velvet fabric of his slacks. Her voice is distant, giggle breathless. “Yeah, you’re right. How counterintuitive.”

Harry swiftly pops the button of his trousers, helping her coax them down his legs, releasing a stuttery moan when she immediately bends down and mouths at his prick over his briefs. The soiled stain forming around the tip of his cock would be embarrassing if he didn’t know she found it hot. 

His tone is tight but humorous as she continues licking at him eagerly through his underwear, nails digging into his inner thighs. “Am I your first?”

Confusion flickers in her eyes for a moment before she realizes the joke. He’s referring to if he’s the first person she’s slept with on her new bed in her new home. “Yes, you are, actually.” 

Harry’s juts his bottom lip out into an overly-sweet exaggerated pout, talking in a honeyed drawl. “Aw, I get to christen your bed with you? We’re practically married now. When’s the baby due?” 

“God, you’re a moron.” Y/N bursts into a fit of laughter as she mounts back onto his lap, pinching at his torso in fake spite and feeling her insides flutter at the airy giggles that escape him. She gnaws on her bottom lip thoughtfully for a second, watching with hunger as he finishes removing his shirt and momentarily sits up to chuck it onto the ground over her shoulder. 

Harry falls back onto the mattress, folding his taut arms behind his neck, biceps flexing with the movements as his strong chest and toned stomach look as appealing as ever. She runs her palms over his tanned skin, feeling the sturdy muscle shift beneath her touch. Shit.

The immortal slinks his head to the side, eyes going half-lidded in suggestive mischief as he sees the way she’s objectifying him. He doesn’t mind; he actually lives for it. “Are you just gonna keep staring or are you gonna fuck me?”

His lewd comment washes warmth across Y/N’s ears and spurs her into action. In less than a minute, she’s fully unclothed, bouncing on his cock with a type of need that boils the pit of Harry’s belly. His fingers are digging bruises into her waist, slamming her down onto his prick with enough force to make the old bed creak wildly. She may be on top, but he’s still the one pulling the strings. 

Y/N collapses forward, anchoring herself onto her forearms on either sides of his head, burying her face in his auburn ringlets. She bites onto her tongue, trying to keep a tab on the atrociously loud sounds threatening to spill from her mouth. They come out as broken whines instead, which Harry drinks up like a glass of aged bourbon. She fists at his roots, jolting with every thrust he gives upwards, her knees digging into his love handles to keep balanced. At this point, she’s barely riding him at all. He’s just ramming himself into her from below as he guides her hips and she doesn’t have an issue with that at all. She likes when he leads.  

His growl comes out low and raspy, riding on a moan, his warm, choppy exhales pebbling her bare nipples. “How’s that, darling? How’s that cock feel?”

Y/N nods her head frantically, not trusting her tongue to form an appropriate response. 

“Tell me.” He grits out through bared teeth, back arching a bit as he feels the knot of white hot pleasure in his stomach twist and turn. 

“I— I can’t. I’m—”

One of Harry’s hands coasts down the small of her back and onto her ass, giving it a harsh squeeze. She yelps at the new sensation, pain and bliss intermingling. “Yeah, you fucking can. You will. Use your words. Tell me how much you like it.”

A violent shutter runs through Y/N’s limbs and she instinctively pushes back against his palm. Harry’s eyebrows kink in question as he feels her draw her face back from his hair. One look at her eyes tells the entire narrative: She wants him to spank her. 

Harry slowly lifts his hand from her skin, brows raising a bit higher for confirmation. Y/N smears his lips against his forehead and left cheekbone, bobbing her head desperately, whispering a tiny, “Yes, please.” that sends smoky tendrils of hot air cascading down his straining neck. 

When the vampire’s hand comes down, it’s fast and hard, his cold rings biting into her flesh and leaving welts, the sound echoing off the glossy walls and tall bookshelf in her room. The cry that betrays her could probably be heard down on the main floor of her complex. 

The shattered noise makes Harry sanity slip and he’s lucky she’s too lost in her own bliss to see the way his eyes glow dangerously red. “Fuck, you’re such a slut for it.” 

Harry suddenly boosts himself forward, toppling Y/N backwards until she’s the one wedged against the bed. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, nestling her face into the crook of his sweaty collarbones, cracked cries pooling into the junction of his clavicle as he hikes her roughly up his thighs. He sinks further between her legs until he bottoms out with a loud garbled groan, pushing so deep she can feel him in the trench of her belly. 

“Oh my God, Harry— I— fuck, just—just— oh!”

His pace rises in intensity, strokes messy and unforgivable as he fucks her into the bed, the cracking of the frame warning him that it might give away. “Oh, so you liked that, did you? Like it when I call you a slut and stretch you out like one?”

Harry feels Y/N’s teeth rip into his shoulder in order to evade a scream; a strong shiver pin-balls down his spine as a result. Her voice is absolutely wrecked as she talks over her muffled mouth. “Loved it. Loved it so much. Want—Want more. Please, please, please.”

Harry holds her down firmly to the sheets, pounding into her with a form of unrestrained force he’s never exhibited. She just drives him to the brink like no one else has in nearly twenty decades. “Can you feel me in your tummy, pet? Can you feel how I fill you up?” 

“Yes, yes— it’s so good, Harry. You’re incredible.”

“Such a proper little whore.” He has to actively hold back from digging into her throat with his fangs, his eyes screwing shut in concentration as his orgasm begins to burn through his veins. “Begging me to fuck you like one, over and over. You’ve never had it this good, have you?” 

“N-No. You’re the only one who makes me feel like this.”  

“Hands off.” 

“W-What?”

“Hands off.”

Y/N obeys, throwing her arms above her head and letting them hang off the edge of the bed as he’d instructed. It’s not like he wants her to stop scratching down his back, but he knows that if she continues, he’s going to black out. He’s already teetering, obvious in the black webs he can feel materializing over the whites of his eyes.

“Ask for permission.” 

The mortal unclamps her teeth from his bruised shoulder and swallows heavily, her words sputtering out from how hard she’s jerking against the bed. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please—can I—can I cum?”

“‘May I cum.’” The boy corrects, half because he wants to be a cocky ass, and half because it’s automatic. He was raised during an era where intellectual accuracy was of utmost value in society. It’s hard to leave those lessons behind. 

Y/N hiccups another mewl, hands curling into loose fists above her head as he continues to fuck her deliberately into the duvet. She repeats his phrase shakily. “May I cum? Please?”

Harry’s lashes flutter open and as soon as he sees her, all doe-eyed, covered in his love marks, with her bottom lip trembling...It’s like a switch flips. When he speaks, it’s soft and encouraging; a drastic contrast from his mood a few seconds ago. “Yeah...Yeah, baby, go ahead. Cum for me.” 

That night, as Harry lays there awake staring at that awful popcorn roof with the taste of her blood fresh on his tongue and her steady heartbeat throbbing in his heightened ears, he catches himself smiling in the dark. It doesn't have to do with emotions or feelings or any of that complicated bullshit. It just has to do with the fact that he found some consistency in his life, as unattached and materialistic as it may be. They don’t have a complex bond or a deeper meaning. They simply just coexist. They provide some common stability to each others’ lives and it helps keep an important balance. Stability is so rare to find, especially for an immortal who is condemned to witness the world constantly evolve around them while they remain frozen in time. Society will change, people change, appearances change, alliances change, and though it can be exhilarating, at times, Harry never truly has a say in it. He’s always just strung along for the ride.

This is different. It’s static, and that’s all he really needs it to be. Sex can be so emotionally messy if lines aren’t drawn and boundaries aren’t set. But with Y/N, it’s like they have a silent understanding— an unspoken agreement signed by both parties. It’s a notion that could have spared Harry his life in the past, and it’s an ideal that— even in death— took him centuries to learn:

Some people are meant to be loved, while others are just meant to be naked. 

///

The third week is when things escalate for the better. 

Specifically, Tuesday night. That’s when the sexting starts. 

It’s a pretty calm evening and Harry finds himself with nothing to do. Mitch is out with Sarah, who had come into town two days ago due to the band she’s touring with being on a three week break. She’d said she wasn’t staying for long— maybe a week, because she has plans to visit some other bloodsucker friends in Canada. Even though Mitch tries to hide it, Harry can tell he’s bummed about Sarah’s short visit. The older vampire is good at hiding his emotions, but Harry’s known him for so long that he could read Mitch’s mood even if he was blindfolded and gagged. 

The jade-eyed boy had been honest with his best friend, asking him what the point was in continuing to see someone whose depth of interest in the relationship wasn’t as developed as his own. Mitch had simply shrugged one shoulder and told Harry that he wouldn’t understand. He mentioned something about how eventually, the freshblood high would wear off and Sarah would find herself wanting to settle down somewhere with someone she could trust for the rest of eternity. Mitch explained that he cared for her enough to wait until then. 

His best mate had been wrong. Harry does understand. He understands the concept of chasing after someone who, in the end, didn’t want anything to do with him. He understands it a little too well, sadly. He figures that’s the same fate Mitch is bound to suffer, just on a less extreme level. 

But then again, Harry’s perception of love is majorly skewed, so who is he to judge?

With Mitch tied up with Sarah (probably literally, though Harry doesn’t dwell on that; it’s none of his business), his options dwindle to the rest of the crew. Niall and Xander had invited him to a concert they were attending, but Harry politely declined the offer. The musicians were some wannabe indie band and Harry would rather swallow a nicotine addict’s blood than listen to a couple of morons sing in cursive. Adam had suggested he tag along with him, Ny-Oh, and Charlotte to a new art exhibit that had opened up in the next town over. It was a thirty minute drive, so it wasn’t that bad, but Harry declined that invitation, as well. He loves art, if the giant collection on his wall has anything to say about it, but he doesn’t get on well with Ny or Charlotte. They say he’s “too much of an arrogant dickhead” to be around for an extended period of time. They’re right, of course, but it still hurts. Plus, Ny has a mullet and Harry knows he wouldn’t be able to withhold from making a Billy Ray joke. It’s best he stay away, lest she end up with an achy-breaky heart.

So that leaves him here, all alone at eight P.M. on a Tuesday, plopped on his couch in nothing but a pair of maroon plaid boxers as Hamilton plays on the ninety inch flatscreen mounted on his glass wall. He had left the curtains open, not really caring that he’s practically naked. The sun’s already set and it’s almost pitch black outside; plus, he lives on the twenty-fourth floor of the condominium complex. The only living being risking an eyeful is a peepy pigeon. Even then, Harry’s more than happy to put on a show. He’s confident enough in himself that nudity is practically second nature. His friends can attest to that. 

Harry lays across his leather sofa with a large checkered throw cushion snuggled into his side, one of his hands slung across the backrest of the couch as the other remains submerged wrist-deep in a bag of Veggie Straws. His socked feet are propped up on his round marble coffee table, ankles crossed and posture anything but eloquent. The apartment is silent, except for the musical streaming through the speakers of his television set and the gentle pattering of rain just outside his glorified window pane, accompanied by the faint flickering of the city lights below. The atmosphere of the room is relaxed and cozy and it lulls his soul in a manner he can’t put into words.

Harry has always liked the rain. Ever since he was a child, he would sit by the small round window of the attic room he shared with his older sister, watching it fall from the sky in sheets of glittering sapphires, soaking into the dry ground and turning it into a slush of dirt he would later sneak out to play in. When he got older, he would prop his shoulder against the doorframe at the back of his father’s blacksmith shop and gaze at it, mesmerized by how it would trickle down the streets of the public market, washing away all the grime that came with a bustling city’s reputation. Sometimes he would stand in it, feeling its cool touch run down his arms and soak into the back of his sot-covered work shirt. He enjoyed how it would cleanse the sticky sweat from his face and neck, its gentle nature leaving him feeling like he could float through air. Then his father would call him back into the store and playfully scold him for allowing himself to get drenched, warning that his mother would kill him if he caught a cold. 

Harry’s changed a lot since then, he knows that, but it comforts him that his love for rain is the one aspect of his personality that two hundred years of Hell had failed to take from him. 

The melodies swimming out of his TV reign him back in from memory lane. 

Harry’s not really one to enjoy musicals, but back when Hamilton had first hit Broadway, he’d used his persuasive supernatural abilities to sneak into one of the first showings. He’d been curious as to what all the hype was about, and the play did not disappoint. The songs were catchy, the acting was good, and the characters were brought to life through raw emotion and comedy. He respected that. And the plot of the story itself resonated with him deeply, as well. A protagonist that rose from nothing, fell in love with the wrong woman, and made terrible life choices that seemed correct at the time, which would all eventually lead to his death. It hit a bit too close to home. 

If he had a dollar for every time he’s seen it since it had come out on Disney+, he could probably pay rent himself instead of compelling others to do it for him. 

The play is halfway through one of its most famous ballads when the monster’s phone dings with a familiar tune. A smirk is already etching itself across his face before he even unlocks his device. 

I need interior design advice. 

I’m still a little sore from our last help session. How’d you bounce back so quick?

Funny, but I need ACTUAL interior design advice this time. 

Harry’s brows furrow in mild confusion and slight disappointment. He draws his hand from the junk food container, dusting off the crumbs. Oh. 

Genuinely? 

Yup!

He guesses he’ll give it a go. He does have pretty exquisite taste; the modern gothic aesthetic of his condo proves that. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

Alright, shoot. 

Y/N releases the breath she’d been holding in. Thank God he’s agreed to help. As much as she’s ashamed to admit it, Harry’s really the only person in LA that she deems relatively close to a friend. She hasn’t managed to mesh well with her coworkers much, despite the fact that she’s been trying extremely hard. She just doesn’t wanna force herself into unfulfilling fake friendships for the sake of having people to flaunt. It’s not right and she knows she’d grow to resent it. 

So instead, she’d reached out to the one California resident who doesn’t make her skin crawl. 

Whew, okay, thanks in advance! So I went out yesterday and got a new bedspread and I wanted some help choosing a new accessory to go with it, which is going on my wall. 

Harry’s ears perk up and his back straightens at her statement. Could she finally, by the grace of fucking God, be getting rid of that shitty tapestry? 

Well, let me see it, then. Don’t keep a man waiting, I’m dying to play Property Brothers over here.

A picture comes through of the two new accessories Y/N is referring to and the way Harry’s face drops instantly is almost comical.

Which tapestry fits better? I’m thinking the Van Gogh style painting of a lighthouse. The blue goes well with the dark turquoise of the comforter. But then again, the forest canopy has those pretty exotic flowers that compliment the coral stitching. I can’t decide. 

The vampire’s face pinches in disgusted horror as he blinks down numbly at the image on his screen. He’s going to be sick. Those Veggie Straws are about to make a hideous comeback. 

…two new tapestries? Did the other one rip or…?

What? No!! I just saw these down at the thrift store and thought they were cute. Why? Are they really that bad??

They’re not just bad, they’re worse. He’s going to ask her to blindfold him next time he visits. 

They’re…kinda immature, dove. I just thought you’d go for something cooler this time, like a vintage painting or a couple vinyls to mount on the wall. 

Immature? 

Oops. He should have picked his words more carefully. Now he’s gone and offended her and she’ll probably bite down the next time he puts his—

Another message interrupts his spiraling negative conclusions.

I know you didn’t just call ME immature when you compared me to a cream-filled donut, Harry. 

The playful tone in the text delivers a wave of relief that is almost as pleasurable as what lies between Y/N’s legs. 

Can I speak freely for a second? Full disclosure, no consequences?

That preface makes me think you’re about to chew me out.

I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know it’s not our usual dynamic, but I’ll give it a go.

Y/N ignores the bristling across her cheeks. 

Alright, go head.

I just think tapestries are kinda stupid. They scream “confused teenager trying to find myself.” But that’s just my opinion. I’m only telling you so you know that I’m probably not the best bloke to go to with tapestry inquiries. 

Harry watches as a read receipt stares up at him for a few seconds. Just when he thinks he might have truly upset her this time, her message bubble pops up. 

So...the one I’ve had hanging in my room the last three times you’ve been over…

I had to actively restrain the urge to strangle myself with it.

Y/N breaks out into laughter. The image of waking up to Harry laying facedown on her bedroom floor, balls naked and mummified within a sunrise tapestry...It’s sending her. 

Well, you know what? That’s not fair! You can’t judge my house when I haven’t even had the chance to judge yours. 

Harry nods once to himself in surrender, reaching up to finger-comb a few rebellious curls out of his eyes. She makes a valid play. 

Fair enough. You’ll have to come over and give me your opinion sometime.

I’d be honored to. Now, would you be so kind as to put your own personal bias aside this once and help me choose which one to put up. I promise I’ll spare you any more tapestry-related problems in the future. I’ll remove it from my customer contract.

Harry sighs defeatedly. He can’t believe he’s giving up his integrity for sex. 

Fine. Send me a picture of both of them up on the wall. It’ll give some perspective. 

Y/N giddily obliges, deciding to send a video instead. That way, she can get all of the angles in one go rather than having to send multiple pictures. 

Harry waits patiently, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth as he taps his foot against the coffee table to the tune of Wait for It, which is playing in the film that has now become the backdrop of his night. When Y/N’s next message comes through, he’s mildly surprised to find it’s a video. He clicks play, watching intently as she circles the two pinned tapestries slowly, making sure to get a proper view from all sides. By the time the thirty second clip is coming to an end, Harry’s leaning more towards the tropical canopy painting. It’s not as loud and she was right about the flowers matching the stitching on the duvet. 

He’s about to tap back “the forest one” when something flashes across the screen that makes him choke on his snack, launching him into a coughing fit.  

It’s within the last three seconds of the video and if he had cut it off in order to text back, he would have missed it. But he hadn’t, and now it’s burned into the back of his eyelids, causing a buzzing sensation to string right to the area between his thighs.  

The last few frames of the video, Y/N had lowered her phone from the position she’d been suspending it, probably thinking she had already stopped filming. She hadn’t. And because of that, Harry gets a full frontal view of her body, covered in nothing except a pair of lace panties and a mid-thigh oversized Avengers t-shirt. The entire screen fills with bare, silky skin and raunchy lace and he can feel his fangs poke into his tongue. 

Harry’s not a pre-teen; he’s not going to drool over seeing a pair of legs. What really gets to him is the fact that it appears Y/N still has a few hickies across the inner area of her thighs, which have failed to fade as quickly as the others. They should be gone, given that anytime Harry feeds (like he had the last time they’d slept together), he always gives her a bit of his blood to heal. Meaning, normal bruises like that should be gone. Maybe he just hadn’t given her a high enough dosage, or maybe he’d marked her more than he remembers, but either way, the stains are there.

The vampire ogles at the paused image with a dry throat and wide eyes. Just seeing her like that, dressed in comfy yet effortlessly sensual attire with no bottoms on whatsoever, freely flaunting his love bites around her apartment, probably looking at them in her mirror, thinking about how his teeth had felt grazing her skin…

It’s enough to pop a stiffy into his briefs. 

Harry glimpses over the top of his phone, swallowing thickly at the large bulge beginning to tent his boxers. His socked toes curl as he feels a longing throb begin to swell at the pit of his clenching stomach. Great. This is just fucking perfect. 

He attempts to tap back a reply, but his hands have started quivering slightly, clumsy thumbs ruining his message to the point where he has to retype it three times.

The forest one. I agree with what you said about the stitching. 

Okay, thank you so much! Your input is highly appreciated, as always.

The immortal finds himself gnawing at the inside of his cheek, weighing on whether he should mention the little softcore porn moment she’d unknowingly shot, or if he should just let it slide and go take care of the issue that is literally weighing on him— he can feel it getting heavy against his thigh. 

His fingers seem to take on a mind of their own, printing out a quick sentence and hitting the send button before he can rethink his motives. 

Did you watch your video before you sent it?

Uh no...It looked pretty okay to me while I took it. Why, do you need a different one? Was the lighting too dark? 

The fact that she sent it by accident only adds to the appeal. She’s such a good girl. So fucking innocent and sweet, she could practically give him a toothache. 

Do me a quick favor and rewatch it all the way to the end. I think you’ll be surprised with what you find.

Y/N leans back against her bookshelf wall, chewing on her bottom lip as a sly grin ticks the corners. She doesn’t have to rewatch the video. She’s fully aware of what she had done, which had been completely on purpose. She’s only playing dumb to see his reaction, getting off on how flustered he seems to have become. Yes, her intentions for contacting him had originally been purely for his opinion on decor. But when she saw the chance, she decided to jump headfirst and take it. What are friends with benefits for if not for times like these, when you’re too lazy to come over but need a bit of relief? 

The human allows a full thirty seconds to pass, simulating that she’s watching the video, and then thoughtfully taps out her response.

Oh, whoops. Sorry for the indecent exposure.

Harry shifts in exasperation against his sofa, the radiating in his abdomen crawling up to his chest and down to his knees. He needs to take care of himself now.

It’s fine, babe. You just might wanna be more careful, cause this time around you got lucky that it was me and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Could go south if it were someone else. 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly at his scolding, but continues to play the clueless act, curious to see where it’ll take her. 

You’re absolutely right, I’m so sorry. 

Harry clears his throat, flinching as he feels a soft twitch run up the length of his cock. He exhales tightly, trying to steer the conversation into a lighter mood. He doesn’t want her to feel bad; it’s not like he’s angry about this. He’s hot and bothered and needy, but not mad.

I just think it’s funny you exposed the fact that you go around your house without pants. 

Oh, fuck off! No one ever wears pants around their own house, especially if they’re alone. It’s one of the laws of physics. No human resistance, no pants. 

Harry glances down at his body symbolically, where he’s clad in only his underwear, as well.

Touché.

Exactly. 

A pause befalls the conversation as both parties fish for something new to say. The situation’s become less lively and more intense now and neither are sure how to navigate without crossing a line. In a surge of courage, Y/N decides to just directly communicate her intentions, praying that he doesn’t take it the wrong way. 

I have an idea, just hear me out. For the sake of evening the playing field, I think that since you saw me pantsless, it’s only fair that I see you the same way. It balances out, right?

Harry’s jaw drops in an open-mouthed simper, impressed by her blatant suggestion, but also by how smoothly she had delivered it. He mumbles his next words to himself, voice amused and somewhat awed at how she had managed to spin this to her benefit. “You clever little minx. Bet it wasn’t even an accident.”

You did it on purpose, didn’t you?

Y/N purses her lips, shrugging her brows cheekily.

Maybe.

The vampire scoffs, taken aback not only at the ploy she’d pulled off, but at how unapologetic she is about the whole thing. It’s hot. 

Alright, l’ll bite. Tick for tack. 

The photo that comes through makes Y/N choke on her spit. It’s not anything too revealing, but it packs a lot. Literally. 

It’s a pretty casual picture, and she gets the feeling he took it as so just to be a tease. In the frame, all she sees is a snapshot of Harry’s lap, thighs straining against the flimsy material of a pair of crimson tartan boxers, the large tigerhead tattoo he totes somehow prominent in the low lightning. Of course it stands out, though. That’s to be expected; his thighs are thick in the most satisfying fashion and they’re one of his most defining features. She can also see the bottom half of his lean tummy, the cutoff being the crest of his belly button. His fern inkings are peeking out of from below the waistband of the Calvin Kleins, dark and matte on his lightly bronzed skin, and she spots the nonchalant position of his crossed ankles in the background. 

As appetizing as every little detail is, the centerpiece of the portrait is the obvious bulge pressing into the fabric of his briefs. The outline is so prominent, the picture borderlines on graphic. His cock looks pretty as ever, even when it’s covered; the thin underwear leaves very little to the imagination. 

Y/N has to bite down on her tongue to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

Wow, okay, well...Your picture was much more explicit than my video. That’s not fair at all. Throws off the equilibrium we were trying to establish. 

Harry chuckles aloud, shaking his head in amazement at how well she can bend the game to her will. Three weeks ago, when he’d first laid eyes on that shy girl at the club, he would have never expected her to be so bold. Now, she has him wrapped around her pinky like a string.

You’re absolutely right. My apologies. Maybe you should send one similar so we can even out the stakes. 

You read my mind.

Y/N’s next picture causes a hiss to stream through the cracks of Harry’s teeth, eyes glinting red.

It’s a picture taken on top of her bed, the angle set from above. She’s laying on her side, her torso twisted so that her backside is in the shot, her huge tee pulled tight against her waist so it creates an enticing cinching effect. Her thighs are clasped together, the collar of her shirt pulled away just enough that he can see where the valley of her chest begins to curve, and the cheeky lace panties are working utter wonders for her ass. He can’t stop staring. He physically can’t pull himself away, his eyes bouncing across every pixel, attempting to commit the picture to memory to keep it locked in the back of his brain forever. 

Y/N awaits anxiously for his reaction, biting into the pad of her thumb as the seconds list by, wondering if he had enjoyed the nude or if he was just sitting there judging all her flaws. It’s been so long since she’s sent a risky photo like that, she can’t help but stress. Sharing your body with someone digitally is almost as intimate as real sex and it comes with similar worries and insecurities. Was the angle good? Are her stretch marks unattractive? Are the dimples along her backside gross? Is he second-guessing their arrangement? Is he wishing they hadn’t met?

She practically drops her phone when it vibrates.

God, you look stunning. Like a proper fucking dream.

All of her concerns immediately disintegrate, replaced by an odd sense of pride. She’s happy that he enjoyed it, and she’s thankful for the caliber of his response. Most men don’t care to comment that nicely, if they comment at all, and Harry’s enthusiasm only excites her further. She wants to keep going. 

You look pretty fucking good yourself. Wish I could just kneel between your thighs, take you into my mouth, and make you feel good for hours. 

Harry struggles to get saliva down his parched throat, her words bouncing around the inside of his skull, sending a current of bliss directly to where he needs it. 

Hours? You want me down your throat for hours?

For hours, Harry. I’d literally just sit between your legs and let you fuck my face again. Let you use me to make yourself cum.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry’s broken whine echoes off the tall walls of his home, one of his big hands finding a path to his curls and tugging in desperation. He needs to keep composure. 

Harry’s next snapshot comes through and Y/N has to screw her eyes shut for a second to brace the bolt of electricity that zips down to her core. 

The boy’s thighs have parted wider, his feet now down from the table, knees hanging off the edge of the sofa. His free hand has delved below his briefs, pulling them up just enough to show a tad of the neatly trimmed area beneath. His fingers are cupped over his cock, hiding it from plain view, but the imprint of his knuckles on the fabric suggest he’s gripping it tightly. The longer she looks, the more she notices— specifically, a dark damp patch spreading at the middle of his boxers and she knows damn well what it is. The fact that she’d got him riled up enough that he’s leaking through like that...She can hardly breathe right. 

Shit, you look so good. How do you always look that fucking good? I just want to feel you stretch me out while you moan into my mouth. 

Harry slowly starts pumping his palm up and down his cock as he rereads her words, catching his lower lip between his teeth, his naked and flushed chest stuttering. He doesn’t want to be the douche that tells her to send another picture, but he really needs her to. He wants to see what she’s doing, how she’s fairing. Wants to know if he has her as fucked as she has him right now. 

It’s almost like they share a telepathic link because not even five seconds later, another beautifully filthy photo is decorating his screen. 

This time around, Y/N has decided to fully lay on her back, spreading her legs open and drawing her knees up slightly so that her thighs are not only flexing, but displaying all the love bites he’d left only a few days prior. They’re all different shades of purple and brown, scattered over the satin suppleness of her skin, painting a canvas of the heated night they’d shared. It’s art at its most prestigious, if he’s ever seen it. And she has her hand ducked below her panties, the outline of her fingers situated right over her clit. 

Harry’s own hand instinctively tightens around his length, pulling a weak groan from his parted lips. He throws his head back against the backrest of the couch, bucking into his palm and teasing his forefinger over his bubbling tip. He spreads the precum all over the sensitive head, whimpering when the draft from the air conditioning caresses it and sends a quiver toppling over his shoulders. 

Fuck, she’s driving him mental. There’s only one way to take care of this effectively, despite their distance. 

I’m going to call you.

Y/N gulps heavily, licking over her chapped lips and feeling her pulse jump at the realization that she’ll be getting to hear his throaty voice coax her through an orgasm. Not only that, but she’ll get to hear him cum, too. She’ll get to hear every shattered gasp and needy mewl, almost as if he were pouring all those sounds of pleasure right into her ears in person. 

The mortal’s heart hiccups when his contact pops up on the Caller ID, phone vibrating insistently. After a deep breath taken to ground herself, she slides her shaky thumb over the glass, slowly bringing the device up to her ear. Her voice is soft and timid as ever, a tremble running through its undertone. “H-Hello?”

Harry’s words come through the crackling speaker as dark and smoky as whiskey, pouring into her mind and intoxicating her as easily as the real liquor would.

“Flip onto your stomach and take off the lace. Now.”

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles smut #smut #harry styles series #vampire!harry #harry styles #1d fanfiction #1d fic #one direction fanfiction #one direction smut #one direction fic #1d smut #ysijwa #harry styles one shot #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty imagine #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles blurb #harry x y/n #harry x reader #harry styles au #vampire au

[nxrthmizu]

-Lordbug, Robin and Kitty Noir- Chapter Ten: In Which Three Superheroes Becomes Four

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/Part One//Part Nine/

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[I’m back! With an update1 :D]

Description: 

Warnings: Cursing! Loads of it, actually. 

[As always message me if error spotted! Wasn’t sure if I missed something while proof reading once (1)]

---

Marinette was actually, very surprised. 

She wasn’t panicking at all. The Marinette of a year ago would’ve scrambled everywhere, screeching and breaking down at frightening degrees. Perhaps it was Plagg’s influence and the fact that the black cat miraculous rested on her ring finger. Perhaps that was what calmed her down. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that her two best friends of her life would be next to her no matter what. Or maybe... Just maybe, it was because she had a higher self-confidence. Her designs had been tailored and altered (Within 12 hours, mind you) to perfection and to her level of self-satisfaction, and she had hand-washed, blow-dried, and ironed then all, hanging them up in hangers, waiting for the great moment. 

“Did you hear? Bruce Wayne is coming to Paris!” A student chattered to his friend. “The billionaire, Bruce Wayne!” 

“Woah! I hope we’re lucky enough to catch a glimpse of him.” His friend replied wistfully. 

“He’s done so much charity work!” Rose exclaimed, a wide smile of her face. “I hope I get to meet him!” 

Lila gave Rose a bright grin. “What a coincidence! Bruce Wayne is my godfather- I could ask him to talk to you if you want!” 

Damian rolled his eyes. “I thought Tony Stark was your godfather.” He muttered under his breath. Using his father’s name like that- Honestly, at this point he was physically fighting the urge to prove her wrong. 

“Really? That’s so great!” Rose exclaimed, stars glinting in her eyes. “You really are the best, Lila!” 

The Italian girl brushed it off casually. “I was best friends with his son, David Wayne, in primary. Before I left Gotham, he confessed to me.” Lila sighed dreamily. “Unfortunately, I had to leave Gotham, but he promised that if we ever met again, he would date me. He said it was meant to be.” 

Damian was seconds from vomiting from sheer disgust. 

“Wow!” Alya grinned. “How old were you two when you met?” 

Lila flipped her bangs over her shoulder, a convincing, wistful smile on her lips. “We met when he was five.” She sighed, as if remembering a distant memory. “I used to play with his brothers, along with him. They were all so sweet and so nice to me.” 

Damian made a gagging noise in his throat, which did not go unnoticed by the bluenette next to him, who elbowed him playfully, gesturing for him to keep quiet. She pointed to her phone, which he was delighted to see, had the recording app on. Every word of Lila’s was being recorded, word for word, lie for lie. His lips lit up with a wide grin, a slightly (Only slightly) evil spark in his emerald eyes. Chloe resisted the urge to do her evil laugh. 

“What goes around, comes around.” Chloe sung in a sing-song voice, just loud enough for the three friends (Classmates, Chloe said) to hear. 

---

“Alright, we have everything!” Marinette breathed, checking over all her emergency materials and her backups of backup plans. Plagg hovered over her shoulder, a camembert macaron in his hand. The bluenette had rushed home as soon as school let out, taking the few hours she had before the show preciously. 

“Uh, kid, i think you’re forgetting something.” He said nervously. “Don’t you need a dress?” 

Marinette froze, the gears in her brain realising exactly how correct the chaos god was. “God, you’re right.” Her gaze was fearful as she begin to panic (Habits die hard). 

“Calm down, kid!” Plagg forced out as he swallowed a mouthful of camembert macaron. “Don’t you have that gown that you were working on for Clara Nightingale? You could use that.” 

Her blue hair in between her fingers, Marinette shook her head. “No, I can't do that. She’s my client, I can’t possibly-” The sentence was cut off with the bluenette’s continuous pacing. 

“What about the black dress you were working on a week ago?” Plagg reminded her. “You haven’t finished it yet, but there’s time.” 

Marinette’s eyes lit up. “Yes! I can finish that, yes, yes, yes.” She murmured to herself, shuffling over to her table where stacks of designs and fabrics lay in one giant mess. With a wave of his small paw, Plagg sorted out all the fabrics and made the workspace clear, which earned him an impressed look from his holder. 

“Hey, I can create chaos, but I can solve chaos too, kid. I’m more powerful than you think. And this batch of camembert macarons are really nice!” Plagg shrugged, taking another munch. 

Marinette giggled. “Thanks, kitty.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, dashing into her closet to dig out her unfinished dress- She had a fashion show to be at, and she needed to look stunning. 

Moments later, Marinette emerged from her closet with a hanger- With a gorgeous- Even half-finished- Dress hanging from it. Black netting- Tinged with silver threads- Formed the collar, dipping into a dark, velvety, black fabric. A heart neckline, perfectly shaped, would show just the perfect amount of the wearer’s collarbone. The top half of the dress was made to hug Marinette’s curves just nicely while the bottom half blossomed into a full, perfect ballgown. The folds of the dress were all evenly distributed. The bluenette had spent hours after school hand-sewing sparkly pearls onto the dress to make it appear like a night sky- Unfortunately, half of dress was still without it’s pearls. 

Marinette bit her lip, looking over the gown. “Alright, I can finish this. I have...” She glanced over at her clock. “Two hours until we have to start preparing for the fashion show...” She nodded steadily to herself. “I got this.” 

“You got this, kid!” Plagg munched approvingly. “Also, I’m just going to discreetly go steal some more of your camembert macarons from downstairs.” This earned him a disapproving look from his holder, but the kwami teleported downstairs anyway. 

---

Ding-a-ling!

A dark-haired boy stepped into the bakery, the familiar, sweet smell of the shop wafting into his nose. He had become accustomed to the sweet scent that came with the Dupain-Cheng’s bakery. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Dupain- I mean, Sabine.” He smiled sheepishly as the shorter Chinese woman wagged her finger playfully at him, the playful grin on her lips identical to her daughter’s. 

“Good afternoon, Damian. Would you like some macarons? Recently, Marinette’s been baking a lot of camembert macarons.” Sabine laughed, and Damian, who had no time to protest, could only thank her. The Chinese woman disappeared behind the shop for a while, emerging with a tray of pastel yellow macarons. Damian eyed the tray warily, and in a second, after he blinked, one of the macarons disappeared. He reared back, alarmed, but Sabine, apparently, didn’t notice and only offered him one of the macarons. He took it, looking around carefully. A black blur slammed into the wall, disappearing after that. He could’ve sworn that the black blur held a macaron in it’s hands- Or paws, whatever. 

“Thank... Thank you, Sabine.” Damian said, swallowing the macaron. He coughed, trying to muster up his courage. “Since... Since Marinette’s got her fashion show tonight, I was... I was hoping you could show me how to bake something for her, so I can give it to her.” He was more than embarrassed about his request, and the short, dark-haired woman’s bright beam wasn’t helping the situation. 

The woman nodded. “Ooh, so it’s a surprise? Of course, then! We should make some strawberry cream-puffs- Those are her favourite!” Sabine kept talking animatedly, leading him into the bakery as he filed the new information about his angel in a safe place in his mind. Strawberry cream puffs. Strawberry cream puffs. Strawberry cream puffs. 

“Tom, guess who’s here!” Sabine lead the awkward boy into the bakery kitchen, where the large man Tom Dupain was retrieving a tray of freshly baked bahulu’s (I did my research on pastries okay) from the oven, with a dark blue mitten with a golden MDC embroidery on the side- The trademark of Marinette’s work. 

“Hi.” Damian waved awkwardly, wanting to melt into a puddle right there and then. Maybe he’d been hanging out with Marinette too much- Her habits were rubbing onto him. 

“Well look who it is!” Tom exclaimed with a bright smile, Damian backtracking with a horrified smile as the big man reached for a hug. Damian coughed, being nearly strangled to death as he got bear-hugged until Sabine tapped her husband on his shoulder, gesturing to the pale, oxygen-deprived boy. “Oops.” Tom chuckled, scratching his neck nervously. “Sorry about that.” 

Damian coughed, catching his breath. “It’s- it’s fine. Um, can I learn how to make that...” He waved his hands around awkwardly. “Strawberry cream puff?” 

Tom’s eyes lit up. “Of course! That’s our little Mari’s favourite since she was five.” Tom handed him an apron. “Let’s get started, then!” 

---

“Yum.” Plagg licked his... Lips? Whiskers?- Patting his little paws together to get rid of the flour on them. Marinette was blasting music through her phone as she concentrated on sewing each, individual pearl down onto the ballgown. Each pearl was accompanied by a little spray of luminescent green sequins around it, dusted faintly to give a sort of glow around each pearl. She was about a quarter of the way down through within forty-five minutes. Things weren’t looking that bad. 

But then Hawkmoth just had to be a bitch. 

“Akuma!” The screech of a citizen had Marinette snapping up from her work, wide blue eyes alight with panic. She glanced between her skylight and her ballgown, biting her lip. 

She groaned. “Fuck this, I hate Hawkmoth.” She grumbled, throwing down her needle, pearl, and string. “Plagg, claws out!” 

Damian, on the other hand... 

“Um, do you mind if I take this call for a sec...?” Damian coughed. 

Tom hummed, not having heard the scream of ‘Akuma!’ (Or maybe he just chose to ignore it, he was in his baking zone and nothing would interrupt him). When the big man didn’t reply, Damian just awkwardly shifted out of the backdoor, berating himself for not bringing his backpack with his Robin uniform. With no other choice, he held up the small, faintly spotted ring that he had stringed around his neck with a black chain. “Tikki,” The kwami giggled as her holder sighed in potential regret. “Spots on.” 

---

“Well look who showed up.” Kitty snorted as the spotted hero ran beside her. 

Lordbug didn’t reply but only dashed ahead. He was determined to bake that strawberry cream puff for Marinette- He was determined to finish the entire process by himself. And if he didn’t want his cream puff to burn to bits, he’d better hurry up. “Let’s just get this over with. I’m rushing.” He told her curtly. 

Kitty rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you’re always so busy.” Internally, she thanked him for not taking his own sweet time with the akuma. She needed to get to her dress. 

“Any idea what it is this time?” Queen Bee asked as she joined the other two, flying alongside them. “And where’s bird-boy?” 

Kitty shrugged and Lordbug only coughed. “Maybe he’s busy...?” Kitty said, an unsure tint to her voice. “Pity, kind of hoped to see him today.” 

Queen Bee patted her shoulder reassuringly. “I’m pretty sure he’ll show up to the show.” 

Lordbug’s ears perked up. The show? What show- Wait... The fashion show?

“Let’s just focus on the akuma first. Any plans, Mister Bug?” Kitty asked, and it didn't take a genius to sense how sarcastic she was being. “Since you show up for just about every akuma, you should have a plan, right?” 

He shot her a dirty look. Then, to be fair, he couldn’t blame her. But the only reason he never showed up was because he was busy showing up in his alter-ego! 

“LOLLIPOP!” Just ahead, a purple-green dressed infant stomped down the streets of Paris, causing destruction all around him. 

“Is... That a giant baby?” Queen Bee stuttered as she stopped short, flying in place. “I’m out, guys. I hate babies. They’re utterly horrible.” 

Lordbug squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t ready to deal with this shit- Heck, he’d fought so many Gotham villains, but none of them had the unpredictability of an infant! There wasn’t even any reasoning that could be done! 

“We’ll need more of us to bring him down.” Kitty pointed out. “No matter how clever we are, we need as many hands as we can get.” 

“Lucky Charm.” Lordbug murmured under his breath, blinking when a kettle dropped into his hands. 

“Of course! How smart. Let’s all have tea while a baby destroys the city.” The yellow-black dressed superhero said snakily, sarcasm dripping off like venom. “What a wonderful idea, Lord Buggy.” 

“Wait here.” He instructed. “Actually, don’t.” The baby was starting to approach them, if they stayed there they’d be smashed to pieces. “Try to keep him back, I have an idea.” 

Down below on the streets, one man wasn’t running, screaming in fear like everyone else. Bruce Wayne watched the spotted hero with curious eyes, a nagging feeling telling him it was someone familiar. 

---

“Have this.” Damian told Tikki distractedly, walking into Master Fu’s massage shop, handing her a sugar cube that he had bought from the grocery some time ago. They came in huge packs of 500 grams, and it was a great offer, so he had bought about ten packs. “What could possibly-” He caught sight of the large saxophone thing that Master Fu had in the middle of his massage room. “Could I... Recruit other holders?” 

Tikki nodded. “Why not.” She shrugged. 

“Chloe... Marinette.” He murmured. 

Tikki panicked. Not Marinette! “There’s also a miraculous that allows you to, um, multiply yourself. You can go as both Lordbug and Robin!” 

Damian grinned. “Good idea.” 

The kwami of creation gulped. Master Fu was going to kill them both. 

---

“How long do you think he’ll take?” Queen Bee asked, waving to the baby. “Here, you giant baby! C’mere!” 

“Are we assuming he’ll even come back at all?” Kitty Noir scoffed. “And come with me, baby! Here, August!” 

“No, look at me!” Queen Bee hissed. “I don’t know, I sure hope he comes back! Or else we’re going to die, and ‘Killed by giant emotional baby’ does not feel like a good way to die!” 

“Doesn’t look good on a grave, either!” Kitty groaned. “Here, baby! Do you want, um,” She looked around, picking up a large, donut sign that had been hit down by the akuma. “Giant donut?” 

The baby squinted at the black figure, but then concentrated at the giant, pink, circular thing she was holding. 

“LOLLIPOP?” The baby grinned, reaching for it, crashing onto the building that Kitty was on.

“Shit!” Kitty cursed, but she was trapped. The baby’s arms were locked on both sides of her, and the baby’s face was less than three meters away. 

“Kitty!” Queen Bee shrieked, her wings batting quickly to get to her friend, but someone else did before her. 

Not the baby, of course. Thankfully. 

A blur of green, yellow, and red flashed across the baby, who whined as both the black blur and giant donut vanished. 

“I leave you alone for two minutes, and you nearly get yourself killed.” Robin commented, the girl safe in his arms. He set her down at a half-demolished building, Queen Bee buzzing over (See what I did there? hehe) to check on her friend. 

“Alright, here’s the plan.” Lordbug, who swung by after kicking the baby in the eye, instructed. “Kitty, Bee, distract the baby. Robin and I will get the item where the akuma is.” 

Both Kitty and Queen Bee looked a little skeptical of Lordbug’s plan, but neither of them said anything as they ran off to distract baby August. 

“Here, baby!” Kitty whistled. “Come here, sweetheart!” 

“Here, baby!” Queen Bee mimicked. “C’mere and let me sting you!” Kitty shot Queen Bee a dirty look, resulting in the latter to merely shrug. “What?” 

“What, actually, is the plan?” Robin asked, a skeptical eyebrow raised. He had not realised how difficult it would be to deal with another one of him.

“We’ll lead August to the Eiffel Tower, which I can use my yoyo thing to surround, and we’ll make a makeshift play... box? Play something.” Lordbug said, ready-ing his yoyo. “Playpen.” 

“I don’t like you.” Robin stated. “You’re... Weird. Not like me.” 

Lord bug only smirked at his statement. “That’s because I’m your inner voice. The one you never use out loud.” 

“Huh.” This had some raised eyebrows from Robin, but he continued with the plan. He let out a sharp whistle, catching the baby’s attention. “YOU WANT A LOLLIPOP?” He yelled. “Come here, then, you big idiot!” 

Lordbug zipped off the to Eiffel Tower, which was just ahead now. The baby lumbered over towards the two males, a large grin on his face as he reached out for the bright, red... Insect? Doll? 

“Almost there!” Robin ran along the roofs, seeing Bee and Kitty following after the baby, not far behind. “Come on!” He let out another piercing whistle, which the baby clearly did not like. “Shit!” Annoyed, baby August slammed his hand where Robin was, only for Kitty to swerve in, breaking the roof of the building with her cataclysm, causing both of the superheroes- One superhero, one vigilante, actually- To fall into the building. 

“How’s it feel to have a maiden in shining armour save you?” Kitty grinned, a little breathless. 

“Honoured.” Robin replied, picking himself up. “Thanks for the save, but,” He yelped, jumping aside as August’s hand came through the hole in the building, feeling around for the two. “We should probably get going.” 

Kitty smashed a window with her baton (That destructive side coming out), and the two jumped out, careful to avoid to shards. 

“Oh hey, you’re still alive, bird-boy!” Queen Bee grinned, flying quickly as she gestured to the baby with a mirror, which reflected the sun into the baby’s eyes. 

“Bee, I think you’re agitating it.” Robin raised his eyes as the baby squealed angrily, stomping closer and closer to the tower. 

The flying hero didn’t seem to care. “As long as it gets into that tower, it’s fine. Lord Buggy, you ready?” 

A thumbs up from Lordbug was all there was before August stumbled into the area under the tower, Bee still flashing the light from time to time with the mirror. Kitty and Robin kept August busy when Bee wasn’t using the mirror, making sure the baby didn’t get out of the playpen that Lordbug was creating. 

“Get the bracelet!” Lordbug hollered as the baby begin to screech angrily. August thrust his fists angrily at the ‘playpen’ a.k.a his prison, and with a heavy swat, the tower begin going down. 

“Abort, abort! Get out of there, everyone!” Robin yelled, grabbing Kitty as he shot his grappling hook to... There was no near buildings to attach to. 

“Shoot it to me!” Queen Bee yelled, catching the hook with an oomph. “Hold on, both of you!” Robin scooped Kitty up in his arms, the both of them flying just out of August’s reach. “I hate babies!” 

The four superheroes gathered on the roof of a building. “Plan C, anyone?” Lordbug said tiredly. “That cream puff is probably already burnt.” 

“Try your lucky charm one more time.” Kitty suggested. “Maybe-” 

A large wrapper fell from the sky. “Ideas?” Lord bug said dryly. 

Kitty’s eyes twinkled in mischief. “Yep. We’re going to need...” She looked around. “Robin, do you think you could distract August for a while? We’re going to do some wrapping.” Her ring beeped. “Aaaand we’ll have to do this fast. Buggy, help Robin. We’ve got this.” 

The two boys ran off, grumbling while Bee flew Kitty to a lamppost. “This will do.” Kitty grinned. The two women wrapped the paper around the huge round, light of the lamppost, and Queen Bee adjusted the wrapper to look like a little bow at the end. 

“Perfect.” Queen Bee grinned wickedly. “I think I know what you’re doing.” 

Kitty shrugged. “I would cataclysm the bracelet, but I already used it, so...” 

“I get to sting the baby! Utterly wonderful.” Bee clapped her hands in delight. “Boys! We’re ready!” 

Robin swung off, narrowly getting missed. 

Kitty whistled sharply. “LOLLIPOP!” 

August’s head snapped up at the mention of his favourite word. “LOLLIPOP?” 

“Yes, LOLLIPOP!” Queen Bee grinned from her hiding place behind the lamppost. 

The baby stumbled towards them, and Kitty rolled out of the way as Queen Bee yelled, “VENOM!”, stabbing the stinger into August’s arm. “Bug, get the bracelet!” 

Kitty pressed the button that held the bracelet in place with her baton, extending it to get momentum she needed. Robin smashed the bracelet with his bo-staff, and Lordbug caught the butterfly with his yoyo. 

“Miraculous ladybug.” He mumbled, the swarm of magical ladybugs flying through the city to clear the destruction. 

“August!” Kitty sighed, picking up the confused baby on the floor. 

“Lollipop!” August squirmed, and the other three superheroes stepped back in disgust. 

August’s mother ran towards the four, a relieved expression in her eyes. “August!” 

“Here you go.” Kitty sighed tiredly. Her ring beeped for the fifth time- She was seconds from transforming. “Got to go. See you!” 

She jumped off, using her baton to propel her into the air. “I should get going, too.” Robin and Lordbug said simultaneously, glaring at each other once they finished their sentences. 

“Why do the two of you have the same necklace on?” Queen Bee asked, squinting at the mouse miraculous around the two’s necks. 

Cue to the awkward laughter. 

---

Surprisingly, the strawberry cream puffs were not burnt. A little overcooked, sure, but not completely burnt. 

Damian wrapped them up delicately in a box before tying it up in a pink ribbon. 

“Were you wearing that necklace just now?” Sabine asked as she helped him put the finishing touches on the cream puffs. “That silver coin.” 

Damian glanced at his neck, cursing. He forgot to take it off! 

“Yeah.” He said with a forced smile. “It’s a family heirloom.” 

---

/Part Eleven/

---

I’m back with an update! It was super longggg 

Also, side note: If you want to be added to the tag list, please comment on the latest chapter, or else I might miss it due to my forgetful ass :) I’m glad so many of you guys enjoy it~ Love y’all <3

(Tag list! @yin-390 @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog@constancetruggle@the-navistar-carol @never-neverland @rayray384 @mystery-5-5 @black-streak@bluerosette23 @seraphichana @you-will-never-know-how-i-think@mikantsume @graduatedmelon @thebookwormfairy@crazylittlemunchkin@shizukiryuu @screamingtofillthevoid @serenacross200@zestyzealot@redscarlet95 @roseinbloom02 @beautym3 @resignedcatservant@sizzling-fairy-oil @tinybrie @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @lunar-wolf-warrior@northernbluetongue @dannyelric301 @daminett4life @loysydark @sparkle9510@erick-rose99-stuff @nataladriana9 @maya-custodios-dionach @myazael @sassakitty @clumsy-owl-4178 @emootaku-666)

#mlbdc #miraculous ladybug x dc #damian wayne mlbdc #marinette dupaincheng mlbdc #chloe bourgeois #rose #whats her last name #i do not know okay #alya cesaire mlbdc #lila rossi mlbdc #bruce wayne mlbdc #he made appearance in like one sentence #I'm sorry bruce #dont worry he comes out more next chapter #this was supposed to be the chapter that bruce met marinette #the chapter was supposed to include the fashion show #but i got carried away with the akuma soooo #i delayed it for another chapter :D #xd #am i forgetting anyone #oh of course #lordbug #kittynoir #queen bee mlbdc #lordbug robin and kitty noir #chapter ten? #yes its chapter ten #time to update the master listttt

[maknaes-and-hyungs]

Jaehwan In The Club With His Hoes

Note: So my new and lovely friend @clytemnestrasrevenge95 shared this photo and my instant thought was its Jaehwan and his hoes in the club and so I wrote this. This is also crossposted on my AO3 which is Blind Dyslexic Bat. Anyways I’m still obssesed with vixx so here~rin

 “Let’s fuck this shit up my babies!!!" A screech emanated from the bathroom followed by a skidding Jaehwan as his socks propelled him into the wall opposite.

    "Jyani babe what did we say about running in the house?"

    "What did we-" Sanghyuk waved off Wonshiks absent mind and proceeded to collect his boyfriend up from the floor where he lay, a sprawl of limbs. Unperturbed by what would most assuredly become a scolding from the younger, Jaehwan wrapped his arms around his mountain of a boyfriend and let him man handle him to a standing position. A quick peck of the lips and he had already slipped away to fling himself into wonshiks welcoming lap, he rarely scolded the elder preferring more...physical and sensual punishments.

    Sanghyuk knew that it would just cause more problems than it was worth to get annoyed before the evening had even started. He already had to go out and cede his power to Jaehwan or else he'd become super bratty and uncooperative. Sure that was one thing in the privacy of their home, but in public it made for a bit of a sticky situation. Explaining why your boyfriend of 27 was whining that his "daddies" pay him more attention and respect wasn't easy.

    "Hyogie just wants you to be safe sweet. Apologize to him or I'm changing to a blue shirt instead of this." 

"But Shikkie!!! We have to match so we can be like the cute mafia couple who never take no for an answer." Wonshik was about to turn the situation into one of those rare cases of scolding when he saw Jaehwans pout intensified 10 fold from his resting pout. "But fine I'm sorry Sanghyuk."

    "Excuse you. What did you just call me baby boy?"

    A "Daddy" slipped out of Jaehwan's lips as soon as he realized his mistake. He really did want to make it out to that club before his boyfriends both decided that staying in and delivering a stern punishment would be a better course of action. They, of course, already thought this but when you were dating a little like Jaehwan it was best to give into a few of his whims now and then. Clubbing wasn't actually one of these but wearing matching outfits was and according to Jyani a club was the only appropriate place for their attire.

    "Why don't we just stay right where we are sweet. I know you like matching our outfits, but how about we get some matching bruises instead." Shik smirked and pulled Jaehwan's body flush against his as the boy straddled either side of his lap. Squeaking in surprise his sweet tried to squirm out of his grasp mumbling something about how that was indecent and that he hadn't even had dinner yet. However the blush that spread like a raging wildfire across Jae's skin was enough to tell both his boyfriends that he wanted it but was embarrassed by this fact.

    "Wonshik I did not get all dressed up with make-up and everything to just not go out at this point. Now whether or not our misbehaving baby is coming with us is something that can be negotiated and don't give me that look baby boy. We let you play pretend that you're the big man on campus to save you face, but if you keep acting out like this then maybe they would like to see little Jyani. All dolled up in his pink stockings and white dress with that sparkly lip gloss all over your plump little lips." As he said this his voice got ever so deeper and he pulled Jaehwan's head back by his hair so he was towering over him.

    "These tight pants you chose are really wonderful sweet. Like a little lie detector and we don’t even have to ask the question.”Wonshik palmed at the obvious tent in Jaehwan’s pants before sanghyuk let him go and shik was able to toss the older man off and onto the couch. This is when Jaehwan realized that his punishment had already begun and that the night would not be what he expected. “Get up sweet we’re going right now and if you protest you know what will happen.”

Without further protest Jaehwan bolted upright and to the entrance way to put on his coat. His eagerness almost earned him a smack as he tried to head right out to the car without his boyfriends. Both of them grabbed an arm and hauled him back in to a stop where he stood, head down, waiting for them to put on their coats. The tension in the room was palpable and Jaehwan almost fell to his knees at the look Wonshik shot him which screamed submit. Hyuk wouldn’t even look at him which he knew hurt his baby cause if there was one thing Jaehwan couldn’t live without it was attention.

To further his torment Wonshik and Sanghyuk sat up front holding hands the whole way and forced him to play the silent game. The only difference to the harmless kids “game” was that if he spoke up he’d probably end up being spanked on the side of the road. Now while he would love this he knew they’d probably end up leaving him there with the message to catch an uber and then locking him out of their house. So Jaehwan was silent even when they reached a red light and his boyfriends started making out being obscenely loud and messy.

“Awww what a good baby boy you were.” Parked just around the corner from the club, Sanghyuk nuzzled into one side of his neck with Wonshik on the other,”As a reward you can act all tough tonight and you can even pretend to punish me if you want.”

“You know our sweet will just end up a whimpering mess the second he tries to say anything bad to you. Although I’d love to see you on your knees for him, it's been so long since we’ve given him the privilege of our mouths.”

Jaehwan wanted to whimper and plead to them over and over for such a present, but he had to remain composure. They were trying to get him to fuck up so they could punish him later. Lee Jaehwan was not a quitter, unless told to be of course, so he pushed them both off and stood up tall. His strut was determined and ready to leave the two in his dust, because he was going to be Jaehwan tonight not baby boy or sweet.

“Hurry up boys! Don’t want to keep my adoring fans waiting just because you two have no impulse control.” Sanghyuk and Wonshik looked at him and then to each other conveying a simple message silently, Jaehwan had switched out of his little space. They couldn’t wait to break his resolve.

“Well if it isn’t Lee Jaehwan my favorite pimp and his two favorite hoes.” The bouncer,In-sik, said his usual joke to the three and opened the velvet rope so they could surpass the huge line.

“You know it. Come here boys we can’t have you behind me when everyone knows its always the other way around.” Jaehwans voice switched from sweet and innocent to deep and sultry as his boyfriends went in front of him and he rested a hand of each of their shoulders. A guy of about 23 who stood at the front of the line blushed and he threw him a wink as the trio sauntered inside.

It was much of this same reaction that they received in the dark club along with a few more bold looks from other men and women. Monsta X’s song Play It Cool was blasting over the speakers while lights flashed everywhere. Jaehwan, unable to not support fellow singers, wanted to get on the dance floor as soon as possible. Fuck getting tipsy first this song was the perfect way to get his boyfriends to grind against him. So he slid his arm down their backs and proceeded to slap their asses and move into the throng of people dancing.

“Oh he��s gonna die tonight.”

“Agreed Shikkie. Totally and utterly agreed.”

The two instantly pushed away everyone who had gotten up against their baby and took their place. They didn’t care who the fuck saw or if they were judging them, because all they knew right now was Jaehwan’s body. Wherever they could reach they did and by the end of the night they all knew his neck was going to be completely covered in hickeys, the only thing visible being purple. 

At first Jaehwan was bouncing around and flitting back and forth between his two daddies. Twerk It Like Miley passed by like this in a similar fashion and it wasn’t till Take You Down by chris brown started that things got more heated.He threw his head back onto Wonshiks chest with his arms looped around his neck eyes closed and absorbed in the feelings of the song. Sanghyuk filled the space in front of him, hands instantly slipping underneath his shirt to settle on his sides.Both grinded up against Jae simultaneously earning more than a few glances when he moaned loud enough to surpass the music. And while a little PDA was good and all both Wonshik and Sanghyuk preferred to keep their baby’s noises to themselves.

The silkiness of Jaehwans shirt replaced the warmth of hyuk’s hands and his back grew cold in Shiks absence. When his eyes opened his wrists were both placed in vice grips that, to the outside world, looked like two boyfriends lovingly holding hands with their third. They were going to keep up the facade that Jae was still in charge but they were done playing along and made a beeline to the curtained off booths on the second floor. Making sure no one was watching they shoved him into one that had no table, just seating.

“We are going to fucking wreck you. How dare you moan like that baby boy”

“I swear to god i’d handcuff you right now if I hadn’t let ours at home.” Both of them growled as they shoved Jaehwan to the ground and held his hands above his head. This was followed by an onslaught of hickeys all across his neck and collarbones.

“Daddies? Can I get a kiss?”

“Of course.” Wonshik went in first to captures his lips but Jaehwan turned his head at the last second. “Sweet do you want to be punished? Now isn’t the time to play-”

“Eskimo.”

“Oh dear. I think we’re gonna have to wait babe. I think he’s in soft mode right now.” Sanghyuk relinquished his hold on their little’s wrist and pulled his boyfriends up to a sitting postion.”Baby boy what do you want to do right now?”

“I wanna cuddle with you and change my clothes. These are grown-up clothes and I don’t like it,”Jaehwan petulantly pulled at his shirt sleeves,”Wanna dress up like Daddy said earlier. Wanna be your pretty baby boy.”

“Aw sweet you are always our pretty little baby boy. Don’t worry your daddies thought ahead and brought you some clothes in the car. I’m afraid its just your short shorts and that frilly baby blue top, but when we get home you can change right away okay?”

“Okay, but eskimo first.” Smiling Wonshik moved in and grabbed his baby’s face smushing their noses together and rubbing back and forth. Without a breath taken Sanghyuk snatched him away and did the same thing leaving all three of them giggly and content.

“Let’s get out of here. You think you can pretend for two more minutes baby?” Jaehwan nodded albeit with a slight frown and got ready to brave the club again. His only resolve coming from his high chances he knew he had of getting them to stop at a store and buy him a new outfit for not bringing the one he wanted.

#vixx #vixx smut #vixx fluff #lee jaehwan #lee jaehwan vixx #ken #ken vixx #jaehwan fluff #jaehwan smut #ravi #ravi fluff #ravi smut #wonshik smut #wonshik fluff #poly vixx #wonshik #kim wonshik #han sanghyuk #sanghyuk #sanghyuk fluff #sanghyuk smut #hyuk fluff #hyuk smut #hyuk vixx #ravi vixx #wonshik vixx #jaehwan vixx #lee jaehwan fluff #lee jaehwan smut #kpop

[domestic-queen-blog]

Freddie and Roger in 1973 working on the market selling their old clothes au

'You can't hang that there, it's clearly a tshirt. That's where we hang dresses'

'No I KNOW that but it could soooo be a dress if you put a belt on it like that, see?'

'Freddie, it's a tshirt for men, you can't put that on the same rack as these flowery strappy mini dresses'

'OH, I see! So by Roger's standards, girls can't be eccentric with their style and wear clothes 'made' for the opposite sex? We run a shitty fashion stand, Roger, we are supposed to be PROMOTING the idea of trying something new and being more out there'

'That's not BEING out there, Fred, that's a boring blue tshirt that no girl is going to want to wear'

'I'll be right back'

Freddie grabs the navy blue tshirt and struts off behind the curtains of the open area of their stand. It's 9am and the market is just starting to get busy. They have almost finished setting up for the day, although their stand always looks a bit of a mess. Racks and racks and stacks and stacks of clothes they've found, each item telling a different wacky story, whether it's an ancient headdress accessory from Freddie's childhood in Zanzibar or a skimpy sexy skirt given to Roger by a pretty face on a drunk night out; they had everything there, and the stall had actually became a popular attraction to the high street market shoppers.

'Fucking shit, whe- Roger where are the scissors? The big industrial ones?' Freddie calls from behind the curtains.

Roger slides a cigarette out from the packet in his hand with his thumb then takes it between his teeth before shoving the box back in his pocket. He reaches for the box of matches left on the seat of Freddie's high chair and lights it, sparking a flame.

'In the second drawer of the broken wooden cabinet, the first one doesn't move so don't get the second one jammed trying to open it'

Roger picks up his cup of coffee and takes a sip, cigarette still in his hand. He and Freddie have been running this stall for a month in an attempt to make extra money. They had a flat together in London and their rent was demanding lately so they had this on the weekends to make sure they were rarely skint. It was funny, and they met a lot of interesting people, because their stall attracted a lot of interesting people, so it was never dull.

Freddie prances back out from behind the curtain with a big smirk across his face.

'Look at what I'VE made' he exclaims, unable to even attempt to be humble because he's so proud of himself. Using the dull blue tshirt that he and Roger had been arguing pointlessly about for an hour, he had reverted the entire thing into the strangest yet classiest dress Roger had seen in a long time. He'd cut the sleeves off and sewn them inwards so his messy cutting wasn't visible, and pulled the waist of the shirt in to create a curve, synching the middle to fit the figure of a woman better, and sliced the bottom of the shirt so it was tight and asymmetrical. It looked like a new piece of clothing. He was so smug.

'Impressive' said Roger, playing it off like he was unbothered but Freddie's natural eye for style was something he envied overwhelmingly 'NOW you can hang it with the dresses'

'Too right I can' spat Freddie, and he skips over to the rack of dresses and places the blue dress at the front so it's the first to be seen by customers. Flicking his long black messy hair behind his shoulder, he walks over to his high chair and sits down. He crossed his legs and grips the side of the chair with his hands, and swings his legs back and fourth softly, whilst Roger continues to smoke his cigarette, leaning back on the rack of coats.

Time goes on throughout the day and their sales are going well. It's getting really hot though. It's only May but for some reason it feels like Summer and Freddie starts fanning himself with his hand.

'This is unbearable' he whines dramatically, and Roger rolls his eyes

'Take your jacket off then' suggests Roger, who lifts off his Hendrix tshirt so he is now stood bare chested. He's shameless and has girls to impress. Freddie shakes his head in a very matter of fact way. It's a beautiful jacket. It's a cropped velvet blazer the colour of red wine, embroidered with extravagant flowers of gold and crimson and green. His sister got it for him, and it's one of his favourite items of clothing in the whole world. Only thing is, it's not suitable for hot days.

'I can't risk taking this jacket off. What if it gets put down amongst the stuff we are selling and then you accidentally let some girl buy it because you're too busy thinking about getting in her knickers to notice that it's NOT for sale' says Freddie, folding his arms and frowning at Roger, but he can't help but feel very uncomfortable in the heat. Roger starts laughing.

'Freddie, I won't let that happen, just take it off and put it behind those shoes, no one ever looks down there' says Roger, pointing to the area of unpopular clogs that for some strange reason never make any sales. Freddie groans.

'Fine, but if you sell it I am suing you' he snarls, taking off the jacket to reveal a tight white tshirt with a wide neck, revealing his sharp collarbones and the top of his chest hair, and very short sleeves, and folding it, before laying it down next to a rather horrid looking pair of white shoes, and Freddie makes a face of disgust as he sets the jacket down, wondering where on earth Roger got them because they certainly didn't belong to him. He walks back to Roger, folding his arms again, and looks at Roger with a face of disproval.

'Who the hell are you trying to impress looking like that?' Freddie questions, looking Roger up and down as he stands there with his hands on his bare hips wearing nothing but a pair of sparkly blue flip flops and some black trousers; coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, and a pair of huge sunglasses buried in his blonde locks.

People wander in and out of the stall, browsing for items with intrigued looks on their faces, and Freddie and Roger flash them the occasional smile, and will talk to them if they are called for.

'Ladies, my friend, ladies love a drummer, and if I dress like this, they'll get drummer vibes' says Roger, winking at Freddie, to which Freddie rolls his eyes, turning around to face away from the open area and squatting down in a crouch position with his legs open to get a bottle of water from the crate they keep on the floor. His tshirt is too small so his lower back can be seen as the shirt rides up. He is visible to the people who pass by the stall despite being on the floor; they can see over the stand.

Whilst Freddie is on the floor unscrewing the lid of the water, he hears a whistle, followed by Roger laughing, and Freddie frowns. He stands up and looks at Roger, who is giggling, which doesn't amuse Freddie, and then turns to face the culprit of the whistle, which is what is causing Roger's outburst. In front of Freddie stands the most gorgeous man Freddie has ever seen in his life. He's got short blonde hair and a five o clock shadow of stubble. He looks strong and wears a white blazer and has one of his ears pierced. Freddie looks him up and down and goes bright red, readjusting his mouth to his teeth as his bambi eyes meet directly with the stranger who stands before him.

'I like your top, are you guys selling anything like that here?' the stranger says with ease, pointing at Freddie's tshirt.

'What, HA! This old thing? Pfttt' Freddie says, high pitched and very flustered. He laughs nervously, covering his teeth with his campy hand, flawed by this man's sex appeal and angry at how quickly he lost his cool.

'Yeah we got loads of stuff like this'. He clears his throat softly, then licks his lips, and gathers himself together, feeling much more under pressure than usual because Roger is staring him down waiting to see how this pans out.

'What sort of thing are you looking for?' Freddie asks, a bit more bounce restored in his voice, and he sucks his cheeks in and readjusts his mouth again, something he does all the time due to his sad insecurities surrounding his beautiful teeth. The man smirks.

'I'm looking for a pair of white flares, but now that I'm here I may as well get your number as well' the stranger says, grinning as he can tell Freddie is melting for him. Freddie's jaw drops open with a massive gasp and a smirk. Just as this is happening, John and Brian come round the corner for their daily visit. They stop by all the time.

'Perfect timing' says Roger sarcastically, 'Freddie's about to get married'

'Shut up, Roger' says Freddie exasperated, hitting Roger lightly on the arm with the back of his hand before turning back to the angel stood in front of him and starts to twirl a strand of his fluffy black hair. John and Brian realise what's happening.

'How about I take you round the back, we have flares round there' says Freddie, and before the man can answer, Freddie has him by the hand and pulls him to the storage area of the stand, biting his lip.

'Ridiculous, isn't it? I'm stood here with no shirt on looking like a rock star, and girls just give me weird looks, but he can get a boyfriend in the time it takes for him to bend down to get a drink' Roger moans, lighting another cigarette.

'Maybe selling clothes isn't the money maker for you, you should be washing girl's cars or offering lifts on motorbikes' jokes Brian, bored already of Roger's sob story.

'Whatever, sales have been good today at least, we got a lot done' Roger inhales a drag of his cigarette and blows it directly into John's face. 'What have you been up to?'

'Absolutely nothing' responds John. 'I only woke up an hour ago, Bri dragged me out of bed with the promise that we'd get breakfast which still hasn't happened yet' he looks at Brian with dissatisfaction.

'It will, it will! I just can't go too far from this area until my guitar is fixed. I handed it in to the repair shop an hour ago and they said it should be done by 1 which is in 20 minutes so we just have to wait' Brian runs his hands through his crazy curls 'Jesus christ it's hot'.

'Yeah I know, that's why I took off my shirt!' Roger says, raising his voice.

'Good to know that's the reason' Brian says with sarcasm. 'You guys working till 5 or 6 today? Because there's a rock show happening later a few blocks down and we were wondering if you and Fred wanted to join us once you're done?'

A man in his thirties comes by and starts to look through the clothing. He's stylish, with glasses and wavy hair, has a slight John Lennon look to him, but less extra, and he makes his way over to the shoes. He then picks up the jacket that Freddie had left there for safe keeping, and nods.

'Yeah, man, that sounds gear, we wrap up at 5 but packing all this shit down takes about an hour so we'll be finished around 6, where shall we meet you?' is Roger's response, not yet noticing their latest customer. Freddie is out of sight.

The man approaches Roger.

'Sorry to interrupt mate, but how much does this cost?' he asks politely. Roger is distracted by the possible plan for this evening that he has completely forgotten about Freddie's strict instructions to protect that jacket with his life.

'No, not at all man, uhh, you can have that for a tenner' says Roger, smiling wide. The man's eyes widen.

'Really? Just ten quid? Surely it's more than that, I saw this going in Biba for about fifty the other week?' the man says generously. Roger has a lightbulb moment and nods.

'Yeah, you're right, sorry, I thought it was a different piece of clothing, you can have that half price so twenty five quid please' says Roger, thinking he's being smart. The man beams and nods his head.

'Sure thing!' he gets his money out and hands it to Roger, 'thanks so much! Have a great day!'

'No worries, mate, you too!' Roger calls out after him, before placing the notes in the till and turning back to Brian and John, leaning back on the rack of trousers. 'If you guys just meet us here after our shift then we can pack this shit into your car and drive up. I might bring Crystal, actually, should probably give her a ring later, see if she's about'

As Brian and John are nodding at that, half of Freddie appears from behind the curtain. He's waving his love-at-first-sight off.

'I'll be around this evening for you to call me, darling!' he giggles, 'oh stop it, you're so naughty'

Freddie re-enters the main area of the stall and stands to face his friends. He puts his hands on his heart and he spins round on his feet, swooning.

'Wasn't he just a DREAM?' he says with an airy tone in his voice like he's out of breath. He looks a little more disheveled than he was when he left, his shirt riding up a little to reveal his hairy little stomach and his midnight black hair is sticking up a little.

'Someone's had fun, you know you are at WORK, Freddie', Roger's tone is moody.

'You're just in a sulk because you thought you were going to get some because you took your top off and then I happened to be the-' Freddie stops speaking mid sentence, as his eyes have noticed something.

'Roger...' he says, with deep deep seriousness.

'Yeah, what?' Roger asks, in a daze.

'Where is my jacket...?' Freddie's jacket is not where he left it, nor is it anywhere else as Freddie's eyes scan the surface of the stall. Brian and John appear confused, they weren't aware of the conversation earlier on in the day. Roger, on the other hand, looks like he's seen a ghost. All the colour drains from his face, and Freddie clenches his fists and grits his teeth, slowly stepping closer to Roger. Roger backs up against the racks of jeans and flares.

'Freddie, I'm so sorry'

'Who was he'

'Freddie I don't kn-'

'What did he look like'

'Uhh he h-had long hair a-and glasses, looked a bit l-like John Lennon'

'How much did he give you'

'Twenty five quid'

'YOU LET HIM GIVE YOU TWENTY FIVE STUPID POUNDS FOR MY FUCKING ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY TWO POUND JACKET??'

'He told me he saw it in Biba the other day going for fifty!'

'The stupid cow was LYING! Which way did he go?'

Brian is trying not to laugh, clearly he and John missed a lot of the previous events in the day because this whole situation has escalated fairly fast. One minute Freddie was getting physical with a cute guy behind the curtains, and now he looks like he's actually going to KILL Roger. It's amusing to them from an outside perspective. Brian points left.

'He went that way'

Without any warning, Freddie storms over to the till and takes out fifty quid, and before the others know it he's gone. Running as fast as his skinny little legs will go in black clogs, stumbling like a baby dear, he hurtles down the street screaming 'WHO HAS MY FUCKING JACKET!' as people stare in disbelief. He stops every now and again to scan the perimeter to see if he can spot anyone who matches Roger's weak description, before bolting off again, in and out of market stalls. Then, across the road, is the fifth Beatle looking man, and as Freddie's eyes go into superzoom, he is carrying what Freddie recognises as his pride and joy piece of clothing. He dashes across the road as he is beeped by taxis and cars for not adhering to red lights, and finally catches up to the man, grabbing him by the shoulders. The man freaks out and turns around really fast, staring at the crazy looking mass of black hair stood before him with an expression of horror.

'What the fuck are you doing?' he questions, clearly alarmed by this whole thing because he's not quite sure what he's done wrong.

Freddie is out of breath but won't show it, and he puts his hands on his little feminine hips and gestures to the jacket in the mans hand.

'That's my jacket'

'No it's not, I bought it 10 minutes ago'

'I know you did, you bought it from my clothing stall. My idiot friend sold it to you by mistake, it wasn't for sale, I want it back'

'Well, you can't have it back! I bought it for twenty five pounds!'

'Listen to me, you ridiculous tart. I bought that jacket for £152, and you know that, because my friend told me you mugged him off with the prices. Now, I don't need to worry about money, because I'm going to be famous one day, but you, I don't see you doing anything interesting anytime soon. so I will give you double the refund price, but I am taking my jacket back'

Freddie hands him the fifty quid and before the guy can really do anything, snatches back his jacket and struts away, his thick black hair bouncing as he walks with a slight skip in his step, happy because he has won.

Brian and John are still there when Freddie returns, and they all stare at him as he walks past them, looking exhausted.

'See? You got it back, panic over' says Roger, trying to take the attention off the fact that he is the one who fucked up.

'Roger, you're a fucking idiot, and I am never trusting you with anything of mine again' Freddie says as he wraps the sleeves of the jacket around his tiny waist.

'That's harsh, come on, it was an easy mistake. Blame these two for coming over and distracting me' Roger exclaims, pointing at Brian and John who just roll their eyes. Freddie frowns, readjusting his mouth, and takes a cigarette from Roger's box. He doesn't like to smoke much, he's just doing this to get on Roger's nerves. He lights it and takes a drag, crossing his arms and flicking his hair behind his shoulder.

'I'm still suing you'

[artsykpopblog]

Bonne journée !

Anon requested: Hello, can I request Sehun  smut and fluff scenario? He saw his ex after a few years and stumbles upon her in Paris for the fashion week in Paris (she's a designer). He followed her to her hotel to win her back. Thanks!

Thanks for the request! So this took me a while, since I haven’t written anything like that before. I’m not 100% satisfied with it, but I hope you like it nonetheless.

Pairing: SehunxReader

Word count: 1.8k

„Are you serious?“ Sehun’s head pops out of the bathroom door, confused as to what Suho is referring to. The leader holds up the small laptop with a questioning look on his face. “You’re not going there, are you?” Sehun grabs a towel to tie it around his waist before confronting his Hyung. “I don’t know. Maybe. If I’m free, then I might consider it.” He steps around the heavy suitcase he lazily threw to the ground earlier that day. Suho puts the laptop down while shaking his head, not really sure how to approach the situation. “Do you think that’s a good idea? I mean, it’s been two years since you’ve last seen her.” The younger one lowers himself on his bed while running a hand through his still damp hair.

It’s true. He hasn’t spoken to, nor has he seen Y/N, after she left him. She definitely broke his heart, that’s one thing he��s absolutely sure of. In the beginning, he was mad. Mad that she chose her career over their love. He just couldn’t understand it at that time. She longed to be a designer one day and for that, she was studying at one of the best universities in Seoul. Her teachers gave them enough freedom to work on individual projects next to preparing for upcoming exams. She used to talk about how grateful she was to be able to gain experience through internship opportunities and how she loved working with the other students. But most importantly, she always talked about how much she had loved him. But one day after a concert, she had called him. He didn’t fail to notice that her voice was laced with sadness, which stirred the anxiety inside of him. She had told him that she would have the option of going to Paris to make her degree in fashion design. She had told him that she doesn’t want to leave him, but that it’s her best chance to reach her dream of becoming a famous designer. Sehun has done the same thing, he sacrificed a lot to be able to debut with EXO, so he had no other choice than to let her go with a heavy heart.

“I have to see her.” He sighs. Suho sits down next to him. “I get that she’s still important to you, but what do you think will happen? Her life is here now. If you are going to see her, you’ll only make things worse.” Sehun pressed his eyes shut, massaging his temples. Every cell in his brain screams for him to listen to his leader and that he’ll only get disappointed, however, his heart longs to see her again. See how far she has come and what she has achieved.

~

Today is the day of Y/N’s fashion show Sehun had read about the night before. He’s sweating already, the uncertainty of this whole situation nagging on his confidence. While the other members went out to explore the beautiful city of Paris, he had decided to pay a visit to his ex-girlfriend’s first official show. Unsure of what to expect, he takes a seat in the second row of the small event location. He doesn’t want to be too obvious. The people around him are dressed in fancy gowns and suits, so he feels a bit underdressed in only his jeans and a white flannel. He quickly buttons it all the way up, so he won’t feel that much out of place anymore. The room is soon crowded, yet not all the seats available get occupied. As the main lights get turned off, he nervously turns toward the short catwalk, not knowing what will happen once he’s actually going to see her again.

The unique dresses presented by the models look absolutely stunning in Sehun’s eyes and he notices his interest in fashion returning. One by one, the models are moving over the catwalk with elegance, which almost lets him forget the real reason why he decided to come here. There’s a sparkly purple one, then a long golden one and a classic navy jumpsuit. When Y/N appeared in front of the crowd after her show is done, he needs two seconds to register that this is what he was waiting for the whole time. His eyes are soon fixated on her, his dry lips slightly parted. Sehun has always found her extremely attractive. He even used to constantly remind his band members how he had such a beautiful girlfriend. But with that simple black dress and delicate silver jewelry, she managed to climb up the beauty-ladder even further. As she strides down the catwalk, memories of their past relationship started clouding Sehun’s mind. He had missed her. He had missed her so much without actively realizing it. And he knows he needs more. He has to talk to her again.

~

Sehun runs down the street, trying to follow the black car that has left the venue. Frankly, the traffic is pretty bad at the moment, which gives him the opportunity to catch up every now and then. Being out of breath can’t make him stop right now. If he can’t keep up, he’ll lose track of her. And this is not an option. By now, he respects all the fans that had chased their car in the past. He couldn’t understand it back then, thinking they would have to know it won’t get them anywhere. While hurrying past expensive-looking shops and a bakery here and there, Sehun decides to appreciate every fan trying to catch up with them in the future. This sucks!

As soon as Sehun reached the big hotel entrance, he frantically looked around in order to find her. He was unsure if the receptionist would know him. The middle-aged woman might think he’s a crazy fan, so she probably won’t tell him the number of Y/N’s room, even if he asked nicely. He didn’t have to though, because he caught sight of her rounding the corner to get to the elevator. With long steps, he hurried towards her.

“Y/N!” She turned around in surprise, but her face dropped when she realized who had called out for her. “What are you doing here?” Sehun had to lean against the wall next to him, trying to regain his breath. “I know this is weird, but I saw your show. The pieces looked phenomenal.” The little beeping tone signaled the arrival of the elevator. Not sure how to deal with the situation, Y/N quickly slipped through the doors and pressed number 11. Much to her dismay, the EXO member followed suit and they were left in awkward silence. Sehun cleared his throat “So…I can see you’re pretty successful.” Y/N let out a clearly audible sigh. “Sehun, why did you follow me?” He wasn’t prepared for the dismissive attitude and he couldn’t deny the disappointment flooding his heart. “Well, I have a concert here tomorrow and we kinda lost contact, so I wanted to see what you’ve achieved.” He didn’t fail to notice the little shake of her head before she spoke up again. “You shouldn’t have come.” She didn’t allow herself to look at him, too afraid that all the good memories would come back to her and make things harder than they already are. She had still loved him when she left two years ago and now that she’s over him, she wouldn’t allow him to change her mind.

When they arrived at her floor, she said a quick goodbye and made her way towards her room at the end of the hallway, hoping he would just leave her alone. But he didn’t. Before she could open the door, Sehun had already grabbed her arm in order to stop her. He turned her around and trapped her between the wall and his broad figure, before leaning in and kissing her with all the love he wasn’t able to show her ever since she left. Too surprised to react, Y/N just stood there, patiently waiting until he pulled away. She looked up into his dark eyes, realizing how handsome he looked for the first time this day. When she didn’t say anything, nor tried to get out of his grasp, Sehun slowly leaned in again and this time Y/N couldn’t resist and kissed him back. The kiss was slightly more passionate this time. Sehun was lost in a whirlwind of emotions, Y/N’s soft lips and playful movements made him feel some kind of way and he didn’t want that feeling to go away ever again. He suddenly felt two arms around his neck as she pulled him closer, one hand slightly tugging on his hair. “We shouldn’t do this.” Y/N’s husky tone was barely audible. However, she didn’t make any effort to pull away. Sehun’s lips slowly moved down her jawline, making their way down her neck, where they finally rested on her collarbone, softly sucking at her pale skin. “This is wrong Sehun.” She breathed out, but the moan following her words said otherwise. Sehun couldn’t help but smile. He nodded, before running his hands down her body that now rest on her hips. “Absolutely” he hummed in agreement. By now, the tension between them became almost unbearable. After sliding her fingers across Sehun’s muscular chest, outlining his remarkable six-pack, she couldn’t find it in her to stop what they were doing. “Sehun…”, he shushed her by placing his lips on hers, his tongue soon being allowed entrance.

He didn’t know how long they stood in the hallway like this after all the time they had spent apart. A quiet cough interrupted their shameless make-out session. Sehun immediately pulled away to look for the intruder. A small woman stood a couple of feet away from them, uncomfortably shifting her gaze towards the ground. From her clothes, he could see that she was a maid at the Hotel, who was about to start cleaning. Slightly embarrassed he fumbled for words to explain the situation, but he was too dazed to come up with anything at all. “Bonjour!” he suddenly heard his ex-girlfriend exclaim. With her cheeks turning a slight rose color, she picked up the purse she had mindlessly thrown to the ground before and quickly pulled out the key card to open the door. Sehun couldn’t fight a laugh, the situation just too absurd at the moment. “Bonne journée“ was all he could hear Y/N say, before being pulled inside the room, the door closing behind him with a loud noise. He is met by two beautiful brown eyes that look up at him, accompanied by a playful smirk. “Where were we?” 

#kpop #exo #sehun #scenario #imagine #oh sehun #exo l

[aeternallis]

TFA to TLJ: The Evolution of Rey's (and Kylo Ren's) Clothing and Hairstyle

So I was watching TLJ for the hundredth time a couple days ago, and it got me thinking that while observing Rey's and Kylo Ren's scenes, there's definitely a transformation going on in terms of the audience's visual cues for their physical appearances, one that I haven't really thought about before.

So having realized this, I decided to write up this meta/essay in order to organize my thoughts, with poorly cropped images!  

Word of warning, I do ramble quite a bit, and my way of speaking is not nearly as eloquent as other meta writers for this fandom, but either way, I had a lot of fun typing this up for my and your reading pleasure!

Starting with Kylo Ren's clothing and appearance, it doesn't change all that much from TFA. As we know, his color scheme obviously remains the same with the black ensemble, which admittedly, looks quite good on him, if I do say so myself. So no changes there.

He exchanges the mask and scarf/hood for a cape in TLJ, which gives him a more regal bearing, greatly contributing to his image as the "prince" of this space fairy tale we call Star Wars. The cape gives Adam Driver's tall size more bulk, and his shoulders look broader too, so his character cuts an imposing figure, if it hasn't already. Due to his large size and subsequently, the long, quick strides his natural gait would make, the way the cape trails behind him also gives his figure the illusion of "looming" over everyone else, so it's fascinating how it greatly gives depth to his role as the new Supreme Leader and how his manner of dress magnifies his presence.

Furthermore, this potentially gives the audience another peak at the former Ben Solo's education and experience, as what would have been expected of a senator's son to have received. When it comes to politics, outward appearance is a weapon in and of itself, and without a doubt, he most likely learned the significant impact of having a keen fashion sense from his mother.

In comparison to Snoke's gold, gaudy robes, Kylo Ren's simple, yet elegant choice of garments evokes a mixed sense of awe and dread, a lot more than the former ever could. In fact, the personal impression that I got with the sparkly robes that Snoke wore were more along the lines of comedic effect rather than outright disgust for the character, as who in their right mind would actually take someone seriously with those tacky af clothes?

But I digress.

Going back to the subject of our space prince, Kylo Ren's cape was most likely a visual cue for the audience, as a well as a foreshadowing tool of what role he would take on by the end of the film, so for the most part, the changes to his clothing style are clear-cut and defined from the first to the second movie: whereas in the first film, he looked more menacing, like a phantom of some sort straight out of a myth or fairy tale meant to be an avatar of fear and horror, in the second film, Rian Johnson pretty much solidifies his role as the "dark prince", especially when he makes the decision to take off his mask permanently.

And thus, this is where my mini analysis for Kylo Ren's clothing and general style ends.

The transformation of Rey's hairstyle and clothing though is a different story altogether, just because the changes are so much more dramatic, and the more I thought about it, the more fascinating it became to me.

So first, her clothes.

As we see in TFA, Rey's color scheme is mostly in hues of white and grey. Her clothing is an immediate cue to the audience that not only is she the protagonist, she's a character that embodies goodness, innocence, and Light, attributions usually associated with the color white.

Her generous heart and optimistic personality, the way she slides down the hill to get to her speeder, her sense of wonder at seeing Takodana for the first time, all of this contributes to her overall image as an "unblemished" girl, so her clothing only strengthens this idea as well. The color of her shirt and trousers is the essence of "virginal" white, and though it's dusty and somewhat worn and threadbare due to her occupation as a scavenger in Jakku, for the most part, her figure stands out when the audience watches her on the television screen, particularly during her scenes in the forest and inside the interrogation room at Starkiller Base.

Although she doesn't don gowns or dresses in either of the two movies due to her practical nature, the cross wraps she wears, the audience can infer, acts as a stand-in for what could be a skirt, the way it billows when she runs and how very light the cloth looks. This can be taken as a visual cue to the audience (and of course, in JJ Abrams' own words) that she's the definitive "princess" of this trilogy. Appearance-wise, although Rey's style seems minimal compared to Padme's refinement and Leia's grace, it doesn't diminish her role in any way as the heroine and half the protagonist of this trilogy.    

Again, like Kylo Ren's style in TFA, Rey's clothing choices are also clear-cut in the first movie. It creates an easy distinction between them, in how they are on opposite sides of the war, with him siding with "Evil" and her siding with "Good."

With TLJ however, Rey's clothes undergoes a series of striking changes, and I'm honestly surprised (pleasantly so) that the costume designer made the choices they did.

As we all know, Rey has two sets of clothes for this movie: the first outfit she wears when she spends time with Luke in Ach-To and the jedi ensemble she puts together for when she first goes to the Supremacy to convince Kylo Ren to come away with her to the Resistance.

Diving into the topic of the first outfit (aka, the one with the least amount of layers), what immediately stood out to me was—of course, the form-fitting sleeveless shirt she wears underneath the vest. Although the vest does a good job in modestly hiding the shape of her shoulders and the curve of her waist and hips, the plunging neckline was the big shocker to me, as was to everybody else. Back when the incident of boobgate in the Reylo fandom first happened, I wasn't yet into the ship or Star Wars, and when I'd first seen the outfit at the end of TFA, I didn't think about it too much, just because it didn't make much of an impression on me. Having said this, forgive me in advance if I'm spouting ideas that have been heard before! Haha~

Throughout history and certainly in modern times, the neckline—and how much you show of it—is considered an aesthetic for femininity. There's a certain sense of sensuality in showing the skin of one's neck, as well as the collarbone and the hollow of one's throat. In fact, in some parts of the world, showing the neckline was sometimes considered shocking and scandalous, just because of how the image of an exposed neckline could be so provocative. As a modern audience, we know this because nowadays, for many explicit sex scenes in film (and in lots of smut fics and other media!), the intention of the act is usually cued when kissing of the exposed neck ensues.

Furthermore, studies have also shown that the neck is considered by most as an erogenous zone!

So already from the onset, we know that Rey's image as a "pure maiden" was already beginning to change, quite different from how her appearance was established in TFA, but as this is a franchise designed mainly for children, it's subtle. Her new outfits in TLJ undoubtedly give her a more feminine look, and whomever was the costume designer for this movie had made the conscious decision to gently show off Daisy Ridley's curves and beautifully slim figure, which again, I applaud them for. 

In addition, while we can infer that Kylo Ren already had some semblance of a physical attraction to her in TFA, I've no doubt in my mind that the deepening of this said attraction is thanks in small part to Rey's bold choice of dress in the second movie.  

Which brings me to her next outfit; to be honest, having thought about Rey's fashion sense non-stop for a good number of days now, it strikes me as somewhat odd that the costume designer for TLJ didn't choose the Resistance's color scheme (brown, orange, and white) as the basis of our scavenger's new wardrobe. If they had wanted to clearly maintain the visual distinction between these two characters as they did in TFA, I personally thought that that would have been the most obvious and sensible route, yknow?  

But as we know, they didn't. In fact, the costume designer totally blew away my mind when they decided to let Rey wear not brown (which would have evoked a sense of her origins in Jakku, association with the Resistance), not orange (again, Resistance color), especially not white (a visual cue of her allegiance to the Light, the Jedi, etc.), but full on black. Of course, she keeps the grey trousers (practicality), cross wraps (to maintain her image/role as the "princess"), and the white undershirt (basically an undergarment at this point), but the black sleeveless shirt she dons for her final outfit in the movie is ironically what stands out the most.

Usually, black is an easy color to work with when it comes to clothes matching, because it goes well with anything; it's a color that blends in and it's not the most memorable color when one is made to recall someone else's appearance. More often than not, the color black is associated with mourning, evil, and death, but it can also mean power, seduction, and sophistication. After all, why then do we have so many little black dresses and black lingerie available for purchase as consumers, and every time, they're advertised in a way as to make the potential wearer think, "if you wear this, you'll feel confident and beautiful"?

(Offhanded comment, but personally, if I were ever to get a choice to choose between the First Order and the Resistance, I would most likely pick the First Order, just because black is a sexy color.)

Thinking about it, if we were take away the cross wraps that Rey wears with this outfit, it would be accurate to say that she actually matches with Kylo, at least from the waist up! And I just find that...so incredibly endearing, I really do! It was most likely a subconscious decision on Rey's part to have chosen to wear black, but the shipper in me couldn't help but feel excited and happy that she may have made an effort to look alluring for Kylo (while keeping her practical sense of style, of course!), because she knows in some part of her mind that it's a color he likes—or at the very least, approves of, and thus, as another way to persuade him to come with her back to the Resistance, chose something that he would have liked to see her in.

And of course, the gorgeous, perfectly applied mascara she wore totally deserves a shout out too!

It's a powerful type of persuasion/seduction, in its own way, to appeal to someone by making use of their aesthetics, I think. And in my mind, I'd like to think that Rey did make a deliberate effort to please him, that the attraction is not just one-sided from Kylo and that they both wanted to look well-groomed and good for each other (don't any of you go on thinking now that I missed how perfectly combed and coiffed Ben's hair looked when he met up with her).

As a digital artist, choosing the colors for the clothes I draw on my characters are just as important as the anatomy and expressions and everything else that makes a composition look marvelous. Frustratingly, color is also what I admittedly struggle with the most, so it's a humbling experience whenever I manage to get a color scheme together that actually looks good.

The blue/grey cross wraps that Rey wears was a wonderful way to temper the solid black shirt she wore underneath, as it gives a firm, but subtle reminder to the audience of her independence and her agency. Moreover, blue is a calming color, naturally attributed to the concepts of peace, tranquility, neutrality, and trust. Many artists would agree that blue is considered a positive color and rarely is it ever used for art pieces meant to evoke something negative.

And finally, Rey's hair. Yes, you all read that correctly, her hair. Honestly, perhaps the most shocking change (at least for me) to have witnessed in our scavenger's physical appearance is her brand new hairdo, forgoing the three buns for a half tail (or also commonly known as a topsy tail). Before I dive into the significance of this change, let me just reiterate one more time how shocked I was to have realized that the production team for TLJ actually went there and decided to get rid of the three-bun gig Rey had going on.

First off, we all know by now that the three-bun hairdo was Disney's answer to the cinnamon buns that Princess Leia sported, eventually becoming an iconic hairstyle. Rey's hairdo in TFA and half of TLJ was a memorable design, making her look innocent, fierce, and practical all at once. Little girls could relate to her, but so could preteens and young women who are just at the cusp of adulthood. Rey's hairstyle was a clever way to keep the audience from forgetting about this new and mysterious character, long after Disney's paying customers have left the movie theatres, and they know this. All the merchandise prior to TLJ that featured Rey used this hairstyle: all the dolls, the Lego pieces, the posters, the t-shirts, everything!

While it may not be as iconic as Leia's cinnamon buns (yet), it's definitely getting there. So having stated the significance of her first hairstyle, it could not have been a light decision for Disney's execs to forgo it for the simpler half tail that's not nearly as unique as the three buns.

What's more interesting is the fact that we first see her hair loosened when she finds herself in the mirror cave looking for answers. Her hairstyle, which she'd always worn the same up until that time, is not only a callback to her childhood (and perhaps, an indicator for her parents so they would remember her when they came back), it's part of who her current self is. Just...! Ashfghjh I don't know about you guys, but I just love the imagery and the symbolism of having her hair down, I really really do!

I honestly loved the three-bun thing she had going on, and it had made my heart pitter patter when I thought to myself how the style made her look just a tad bit tomboyish, yknow?

But with her hair down (the poor girl didn't have any more hair ties to pull her hair back up), it's almost as if the audience is seeing a new side of her—or maybe it’s not that we're seeing a new side of her, but this girl we've all come to adore from TFA is literally growing up to become a woman right in front of our very eyes, even if the only visual indication of that is she'd decided to change up her hair a bit. The timing could not have been any more perfect, as the mirror cave scene leads directly into the fourth force connection scene with Kylo.

So while they're having their first moment of having a heart-to-heart conversation without either of them baring their teeth at one another, it's also quite mesmerizing to note that it's also the first time that Rey is allowing Kylo/Ben to see her as a woman, not just emotionally, but physically as well. 

And it shows, it really does! Besides the fact that her shoulders are naked, she's not wearing that heavy-looking vest anymore, and the audience and Ben could just sort of see the swell of her breasts peaking from beneath the blanket, her loose hair is just delicately framing her neck, making her appearance look downright alluring (and that lighting with the fire in front of them, omfg). 

Just picture for a moment how she would have looked in this scene had she still had her hair up in the three-bun style—it wouldn't have looked nearly as erotic as it did. Sure, the tension would have still been there, as with everything else, but it wouldn't have made as much of an impact.

They're both talking in hushed voices, and hell, even Ben gives his equal share by showing a little bit of skin too, because damn it all, it wouldn't be fair if she were the only one showing so much!

If we were to think about all of these factors (and I'm sure most, if not all of us Reylo fans have), the set-up is literally made to seem like they're just about to give into their urges! It's no wonder that Rian Johnson and Mark Hamill fully acknowledged that scene as a "sex scene," not just because of the sizzling tension between these two characters, but in how Kylo and Rey physically looked at that very moment. I'm now convinced that Rian really did set it up to be as close to a sex scene as possible (the atmosphere, the lighting, the amount of skin shown, etc.) without actually having to cross that line!

Furthermore, did you guys know that displaying one's hair down could possibly be an indication that one is sexually healthy? It's a concept called Fisherian runaway, first proposed by Robert Fisher in the early 20th century. Long, lustrous hair is said to be a visual marker that one is a healthy individual for procreation. I won't go into too much detail, but it was basically a theory that animals—regardless of gender—instinctively found long hair to be more attractive, as a mechanism for sexual selection.

And finally, one more point—it's also a trope! Please give the trope page a read if you can (it's a short read, no worries), as it's honestly quite interesting! I'm not sure if Rian used this trope on accident or on purpose, but either way, I couldn't help but squeal when I'd realized it!

Honestly, after all this, I cannot wait to see how these two's final round of costumes will be in EPIX. I'd like to see Kylo with a splash of color in his wardrobe, I really would, preferably red or grey or even white. I have no idea how Rey is going to look like, but meh, half the fun is speculating in the meantime, yknow?

Thank you very much for reading if you made it all the way here! This was honestly a blast!

#Reylo #Kylo Ren x Rey #Ben Solo #Star Wars meta #meta essay #fashion #TLJ #The Last Jedi #Kylo Ren #Rey of Jakku #The Force Awakens #Star Wars #SW

[jumbogong3-blog]

Picking buying Hairdo to Be Able To Prom Dresses 2011

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[bravonovel]

Obsessed CEO Throws Himself at Me novel chapter 5 - Arielle and Vinson - Bravonovel

Obsessed CEO Throws Himself at Me https://www.bravonovel.com/obsessed-ceo-throws-himself-at-me-8723

Obsessed CEO Throws Himself at Me novel is a romance story about Arielle and Vinson.

You can read this novel on Bravonovel app or web.

Android Click : https://zhangyunbravo.app.link/el8723

IOS Click : https://ibravonovel.app.link/el8723

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Chapter 5 A Stunning Beauty

Arielle lowered her head to hide her emotions, lifted up the dress, and walked down the stairs.

The guests first noticed a pair of slender legs clad in Jimmy Choo.

The light that hit on her further accentuated her dainty toes and silken ankles.

Just the sight of Arielle's legs had fueled the guests' imagination.

Shandie, too, was taken aback by how perfect her legs were.

She took a sidelong glance at some of the male guests and saw that they were all swooning over her.

She also noticed Vinson could not keep his eyes away from her legs.

Shandie began to panic and began to wonder if she had made the wrong move.

But soon, she managed to regain her composure. It's just a pair of legs, anyway. They'll probably throw up right away after seeing her face!

By the time Shandie turned her attention back to the stairs, Arielle was already walking down to the hall.

Go on. Walk faster! I can't wait for you to fall in those crazy heels! It'll definitely be quite a scene!

To Shandie's surprise, Arielle did not wobble at all. Instead, she was able to come down from the stairs in steady steps.

It was impossible for Arielle to fall because every step she made was so steady.

Disappointment was written all over Shandie's face. How did she do manage to walk in those heels?

Shandie did not know Arielle had had the experience of wearing a pair of six-inch heels when she stood in for a friend in a fashion show. To Arielle, these four-inch heels were just a piece of cake.

I remember how some drama series depicted villagers walking on those ridiculous stilts during celebrations. Is that how Arielle learned to walk in heels?

At this point, Shandie could already see Arielle's slender waist as the latter continued to walk down the stairs.

How is this possible? She didn't look like this when she came down from the helicopter in her dirty and baggy clothes earlier!

Shandie was utterly jealous.

Fine! She might be skinny, but I bet she's an ugly b*tch!

Once again, Shandie convinced herself that Arielle would eventually shock everyone with her unsightly appearance. Come on! Speed up!

Just as she wished, Arielle picked up her pace.

After seeing her slender lower torso, Shandie's eyes were then drawn to her well-defined collarbones and neck.

Shandie's fear continued to grow, and without her realizing it, she was already clenching her fists.

The light finally shone on Arielle's face, revealing her well-defined and delicate features. Never in Shandie's life had she come across such a perfect face.

Her dark and sparkly eyes were exceptionally stunning, and they shone like a pair of exquisite diamonds.

No words could describe Arielle's flawless beauty.

Shandie's jaw dropped, and she could not believe her eyes.

That's... that's Arielle? Is that really her?

Are you kidding me?

The color instantly drained out of Shandie's pale face.

At the same time, a vortex of anger swirled inside her. Did I just give her a dress that flatters and made her shine like a star? Oh my God, what have I done?

Shandie was overwhelmed by all kinds of emotions. She felt she was about to burst from rage.

Her pallid face was now flushed with jealousy and hatred.

She did not even want to take another glance at Arielle as it would only make her feel bad about her looks.

Shandie observed the guests and noticed all of them were spellbound by Arielle's beauty.

Vinson, who had all this while been carrying a deadpan expression on his face, began to look at Arielle differently.

Is that awestruck in his eyes?

Is an esteemed noble like Vinson Nightshire struck in awe over Arielle Moore's beauty?

Arielle's beauty had also dazed Cindy. She was aware that her sister, Maureen, was a stunning beauty but was still surprised to see how gorgeous her daughter was despite growing up in the countryside.

In fact, Arielle looked even prettier than her mother!

Damn it! She'll steal Shandie's thunder for sure!

Cindy immediately looked at Henrick.

Henrick was just as flabbergasted. Of course, he did not react like how the other gentlemen did. He was Arielle's father, after all.

But it was undeniable that there were sparkles in Henrick's eyes.

This old man must have thought he has found a long-lost gem.

No way. I'll not allow Arielle to enjoy the privileges we have in this family!

I have underestimated this girl. I have to get rid of her. I must get rid of her!

Arielle took a quick look at Shandie and realized this “beloved sister” of hers was so shocked that her face was all crumpled up.

She'll probably come to me and throw a punch at my face if there aren't guests around. That's what jealousy does to girls!

Arielle pretended she did not understand Shandie's expression and walked up to her with a smile. “Happy birthday, Shandie! Why do you look so unhappy? What's wrong?”

Shandie was disgusted by Arielle's silvery voice. To her, Arielle sounded just like the friction between a saw blade and a chalkboard.

Shandie tried her best to hide her emotions and plastered a smile on her face. “I'm fine.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Shandie.” Arielle grinned. “Oh, take a look at this dress you've lent me! It's a great fit!”

She intentionally emphasized the words “great fit”.

Rage throbbed in Shandie like a heartbeat, and she was on the verge of losing her cool.

She's doing this on purpose!

“You...” Shandie opened her mouth but fainted before she could finish her sentence.

“Oh, no! Shandie!” Arielle did not expect Shandie to faint. She tried to grab her arms, but it was too late.

With a thunderous crash, Shandie collapsed to the ground.

......

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[beachweddingdresses30]

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[mysteriouslydarktale-blog]

Suede (Part 1 of 2)

Suede (Part 1 of 2)

Short Story by V-Nasty

1971

 Langston Roberts had received his 10th invitation to the Winter Formal.

 The pink note was folded meticulously on his desk and he eyed it warily as he sank into his seat. He looked around the classroom and rolled his eyes when he spotted Stella Peterson's all-pink notebook sprawled clumsily across her lap. She was pretending not to pay any attention but held a smile as she stared ahead at the blackboard. There were about 15 other students in the class, the history teacher was not yet present.

  Langston lifted the note and began to read it.

 "Winter formal with me?"

 Stella was, undoubtedly, one of the most popular girls at Mclean High School. She was conventionally attractive with very long blonde hair, fair skin and large green eyes. Her father, Richard Peterson, was a member of the House of Representatives and her mother, Hannah Peterson, was a boutique owner and catalogue model

 Langston, however, didn't really care for her.

 He stuffed the little pink note in his bag, deciding to wait before giving her a definite answer. All the girls who asked him to the dance were pretty but since Stella was the most popular one, he considered accepting her proposal. He wasn't necessarily fond of her but she was a member of their exclusive clique. Virtually everyone who attended Mclean High School was extraordinarily wealthy or well-off. It was the second home to Buckhead, Atlanta's most elite group of teenagers.  

 Stella glanced over her shoulder and was slightly put off when she noticed the pink note was gone. Langston caught her eye and shrugged casually, giving her a small smile. Apparently this pleased her because she responded with an even bigger smile as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. He didn't understand the fuss girls made about him.

 A freshman girl once told him that he kind of resembled Ricky Nelson. He shrugged it off though, it was barely a compliment.

 The class was active with conversation when Mrs. Harrington inconspicuously walked in.

 No one noticed the student waiting at the door.

 "Morning class," Mrs. Harrington announced loudly, setting down her tote and gradebook on her desk. "Sorry, I'm late. I was showing a new student around." She extended her hand towards the girl at the door.

 The girl stepped forward and everyone grew silent.

 She was tall, roughly 5'7 and slim but…very curvaceous. She wore a white turtle-neck, a suede jacket, a suede skirt and long black knee-high boots. She styled her hair in an afro – a large, brown afro.

 Her most enticing feature, however, were her amber eyes.

 The class was very silent. She wasn't the first black person the class has ever seen but she was one of the first and only black people to ever attend McClean High during that time. The only other black student attended Mclean in 1968. He was the son of a politician or something….it took some time for everyone to adjust.  

 "Stand in front of the class sweetie," Mrs. Harrington encouraged. "Tell everyone about yourself."

 Langston watched her intently; he was overtly fascinated. He had to admit, she was very pretty. To be honest, he's never had any black friends or was close to any black people except for his house keeper, Glenda.

 Jamelia walked in front of the class and when she opened her mouth to speak, her words were barely audible.

 Jamelia's voice was high, soft, and docile. Langston noticed that although she looked like a vixen, there was something profoundly innocent about her face.

 "Hi everyone, my name is Jamelia. I moved to McClean about two weeks ago from Los Angeles." Her eyes weren't trained on anyone in particular. "Um…I just turned 17 and I… love fashion."

 The class was still extremely quiet.

 "Sweetie, tell them about who you’re related to." Mrs. Harrington grinned.

 Jamelia looked mildly embarrassed as she continued on, "Oh um…my mom is Katherine Anderson. She's a member of the Marvelettes. My dad is Steven Anderson; he's an author and…he occasionally writes for the Los Angeles Times…"

 The class was still uncharacteristically silent.

 Mrs. Harrington looked mildly put off by their lack of enthusiasm. "Jamelia sweetie, why don't you take a seat – right there – to the left of Mr. Roberts."

 Jamelia looked slightly confused until Mrs. Harrington said, "The blond with the blue shirt."

 Langston felt vaguely excited that Jamelia was making her way towards him. She was like a teenage version of Denise Nicolas. Her heels clicked softly against the ceramic tiling as she made her way towards the center of the classroom. Langston inhaled a whiff of her perfume as she eased into her seat. Vanilla and lavender.

 When goosebumps started to erupted on his arms, he knew she was going to be a problem.

 Jamelia briefly caught his eye.

 He smiled.

 She didn’t smile back.

______________________________________________________________________

 Langston Roberts was nominated for Winter Formal King and had approximately 3 weeks to decide who to bring to the dance as his date. The pressure was extremely intense.

 Later that week, he had received his 15th proposal and had yet to give an answer to anyone. He was barely attracted to anyone that asked him out. He just wasn't enticed by the sea of superficial and shallow girls that attended Mclean High. Everyone was starting to look the same. Straight, shiny hair, corduroy skirts, and sparkly lip gloss. It was appealing at some distant point but now it was mundane and predictable.

 Langston was only interested in one girl but that one girl was not interested in him. This was a first because he was used to getting a lot of female attention. Jamelia, however, barely batted an eye at him since her arrival.

 He realized one day that he was very attracted to her.

 She strutted into class wearing a white, off-the-shoulder top with the bluest bell-bottom jeans and a pair of brown espadrilles. He almost melted when the scent of vanilla and lavender hit his nose. He was allured by her exposed neck and collarbones. Her skin was a caramel color; perfect and unblemished.

 She sat down and accidently pushed a pencil off her desk. As if in slow motion, it rolled towards him. He grasped it from the floor and handed it back to her. She hesitated before grabbing it but offered a small smile.

 A lump began to form in his throat.

 Woah, she was a dream.

 His body reacted unreasonably in her presence. He wanted to touch her. He craved her scent and longed to wrap a curl around his finger. Never in his life did he have a crush so strong and it's barely been two weeks. He wanted to speak to her but she seemed less than interested - and almost afraid - to start any conversation.  

 Langston knew he had to try. He knew he wanted to ask Jamelia to the Winter Formal.

______________________________________________________________________

 Tiny buds of sweat began to form on Langston's forehead as he approached Jamelia. She was salvaging books from her locker and looked a little apprehensive as she fumbled through the items inside. The hall was virtually empty minus the janitor, who was whistling jovially to some Marvin Gaye tune.

 Jamelia jumped slightly when she heard Langston's footsteps near towards her. She eyed him suspiciously until he completely obscured her view.

 "…Hey," he said, scratching the back of this head awkwardly. "How are you?"

 She hesitated a little. "Groovy."  

 "Cool, cool," he started again. For the first time in his life, Langston was so flustered by a girl, he couldn't think of anything intelligible to say. "C-class is late for you."

 "Huh?"

 "I-I mean, you're late for class," he said, a little more aggressively than he intended to. "Um…I'm sorry – I just saw you in the hall and wanted to see if you were okay."

 Jamelia's lips quivered a bit, she was unsure of how to respond. "Yeah, I actually can't find my Home Economics book," her eyes softened as she looked at him and back at her locker. "You're late too."

 He was also in love with her voice. She was so soft-spoken

 It took Langston several attempts before he was able to approach her. Today, she was wearing a white, satin blouse under a red cashmere vest. Her plaid, pleated skirt was red and yellow and her knee-high socks were slightly sheer. Langston closed his eyes briefly and inhaled. Her signature scent was as enticing as ever.

 "Yeah," he swallowed. "I actually wanted to ask you something…"

 She waited and when there was no immediate response: "Yes?"

 "Uh, I have my Home Economics textbook," he stumbled and scratched his head again. "Would you like to share with me?"

 "Was that your question?"

 "Of course."

 She looked around and back. "…sure Langston, that's real nice of you." Her amber eyes twinkled slightly as she offered him a genuine smile. "We should probably get to class now, huh?"

 He was so fixated by her smile that he forgot to respond.

 She started to walk past him and he watched as her large, brown afro bobbed up and down. Snapping out of his reverie, he ran to catch up with her - unaware of two suspicious green eyes watching the scene from behind.

 Stella Peterson grimaced in mild horror as she watched the pair walk off to class together. She overheard most of the conversation and was appalled that Langston might actually like Jamelia. Why would he like Jamelia, when he was supposed to like her?

 Stella was extremely well-known at Mclean High. She was the object of admiration for both sexes and was recently named Mclean High's Bunny of the Year, a prestigious honor indeed. Underclassman never won Winter Formal Queen and since she was a senior, she was determined to win.

 And she was certain that Langston was going to be Winter Formal King.

 She wasn't going to let anyone get in her way of her perfect night with her perfect date, especially not some random black girl. There was no competition and she was going to make sure of it.

______________________________________________________________________

 "Why is he walking in with her?"  

 "Who does she think she is with that outfit?"

 "She's pretty for a black girl, I guess."

 "Langston looks so good in those jeans."

 Jamelia and Langston were both 10 minutes late to class and were confronted with a sea of murmurs and stares upon their arrival. Langston ignored them and made his way to his regular seat and motioned Jamelia to sit by him. She made her way swiftly with her head slightly bowed down.

 "Nice of you to join us," Mrs. Eskers said in a monotonous tone. "As I was saying, the midterm project is due in 3 weeks. Everyone must choose one person to write a speech about and bring in a homemade gift. This will help with self-esteem in both yourself and the other person. Make sure the speech is heartfelt and the homemade gift is made thoughtfully. Blah blah blah…back to the regular lecture."

 She turned her face to the blackboard and starting writing the steps to making homemade molasses cookies.

 Langston pulled out his textbook and sprawled it across the desk between himself and Jamelia. He looked at her briefly and whispered. "I think I'm going to do a speech about you," he watched as her eyebrows furrowed deep into her forehead.

 "Me? Why?"

 "…because um…I don't think anyone else chose you. So I think I wanna do one about you… plus…I love the Marvelettes."

 "Oh okay, I can dig it…I'm choosing Velma because I've never seen hair that red before in my life," she whispered back and they both started to laugh. "Its far out."

 "Yeah…like you."

 "What was that?"

 "I said, yeah that's true," Langston recovered quickly. "Hey…I wanted to ask you something - "

 "- An actual question this time?"

 He smiled. "Yeah…um…do you have a date for the Win…"

 He was stopped abruptly by Mrs. Eckers, who slammed a ruler across their jointed desk.

 "Miss Anderson, Mr. Roberts – was there something interesting that you would like to share with the class?"

 Langston shook his head.

 "Mr. Roberts!" she screeched. "Please use your voice."

 "No ma'am. Nothing interesting at all."

 "Langston, don't lie to me. Please stand in your seat and tell the class what you and Miss. Anderson were discussing. If not, you will both receive detention."

 Langston stared up at Ms. Eskers and back at Jamelia, who was also looking at Ms. Eskers. He was under the scrutiny of the entire class but his attention was on the girl before him. Her amber eyes were transfixed on the teacher, her lips puffy and pink, her hair large and majestic.

 Bewitched is the only word that could describe his infatuation for her.

 He tore his gaze away, stood up in his seat and inhaled. Mrs. Eskers took a step back, her ruler in hand.

 He stared ingenuously at the teacher. "I was in the middle of asking Jamelia if she had a date to the Winter Formal," He looked at Jamelia. "If not, I wanted to take you."

 The class went completely silent. It took Jamelia roughly 3 minutes to reply and to Langston, those 3 minutes felt like 3 hours. She didn't respond right away and she could feel the glares of every girl in the class burning a hole through her temple. She then eyed at Mrs. Eskers, who also looked like she was waiting for an answer.

 "I don't have a date for winter formal…," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully. "…But, I don't think I'll be going anyway."

 "Oh…cool," were the only two words that left Langston's mouth.

 But oddly enough, he wasn't discouraged.

 He gave her a small smile which she weakly returned. Mrs. Eskers huffed impatiently as she made her way back to the blackboard. There were a few students who were still staring at the pair.

 No. Langston Roberts was not discouraged – he was more determined than ever to get closer to her.

#short story #love #love quotes #self love #self esteem #poetry #poem #vintage #70s

[vintagemichelle91]

A Chance at Surprises

Author’s Note: Hello all!! I wan finally bitten with the creative bug and managed to write up some Barba and Miss Fashionista for you amazing readers, especially @rauliskafan and @yourtropegirl!! Once again thank you all for your wonderful support and enjoy a little fluff!!!!

           He was late.

           You sighed as you sipped your second glass of gin and glanced about the room. It was that time of year again, New York Fashion week, and you were up to your ears in social events, shows, and all kinds of fun things to celebrate Spring’s upcoming trends for the next year. You hadn’t seen much of Rafael as he was up to his ears in his current case. But tonight, he had agreed to attend one party with you in the midst of all the craziness… because it was your birthday. The plan was to make a quick appearance, and then he would whisk you off to a lovely rooftop restaurant where it would be just the two of you.

           Your phone vibrated within your plush Gucci clutch and you sighed upon seeing that the message was from your favorite ADA  

I’m sorry belleza. I got pulled back to the precinct.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to reply curtly. It should have been the one night where he shut off his phone just to be with you. That was all you truly wanted, and now you were not going to get that gift.

It was bound to happen… it’s fine. See you later.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you sucked in your tears. There was no way you were going to let people see you cry. With one last swig from your glass, you made your way towards some new friends you had made at the Victoria Beckham show earlier in the day.

           “Everything okay?” Rachel, your new assistant, immediately gravitated to your side before anyone else could hog your attention.

           With an incandescent smile you managed to plaster on your nude pink lips, you simply nodded. “I’ll be okay; let’s go mingle.”

           You gently took her arm and pulled her to the center of the inner circle. For the rest of the night, hard as it was, you didn’t even glance at your phone.

           By the time you arrived at the apartment you shared with Rafael, it was quite late. You stumbled inside, slightly drunk, but you didn’t care. With the help of fabulous friends and colleagues you managed to have a fun birthday all on your own. However, there was no way you were going to let Rafael off the hook that easily. This would have been your first birthday celebrated with him, the man you loved. The man of your dreams. But tonight, he managed to become a nightmare.

           You pranced over to the sofa. Your heels had been killing you, but they looked fabulous nonetheless, and you admired the cherry red four-inch Christian Louboutins. How you managed to make it to the elevator was a mystery, but the gins and the glasses of champagne had given you a healthy dose of liquid courage.

           “Happy birthday to me… happy birthday to me… happy birthday to the girl who seemed to have everything she wanted except for her gorgeous boyfriend who was too busy putting away the bad guys!” You sang loudly and off-tune. At this point, you didn’t care if the neighbors heard, if the whole city heard! Rafael should be aware of how upset you were.

           You plopped down on the sofa in a heap of giggles. Then, in a sudden rush, tears of disappointment cascaded down your rosy cheeks. How could he do---?

           “Belleza?” Rafael’s voice rang out through out the sprawling apartment with its amazing view of the city.

           “Now you remember you have a girlfriend?” You grumbled as you sank further into the cushions, not caring if you wrinkled your Versace dress, the special dress you had picked out for tonight.

           Rafael emerged from the hallway looking exhausted and stressed but still amazingly handsome. He had been wearing the pink and navy blue striped tie that you loved so much along with the suspenders. Despite your comment, he made his way over to you and knelt at your side. His hands swept up and down your silky legs as he looked up at you apologetically.

           “I’m sorry. But there was a major breakthrough on the case, and they needed me there,” Rafael tried to explain, sounding guilty.

           With a roll of your eyes, you looked at him through your long lashes and saw the regret in his gaze. Sometimes he frustrated you to no end, but just one look into those gorgeous green orbs drew you back into his beautiful web.

           “I guess I get it. But you couldn’t have just given me this one night?” Suddenly, you were sober and saddened all over again. Maybe right now wasn’t the best time to bring this up, but you had to tell him how you felt… because it had happened too many times before.

           “This was unexpected, and I couldn’t just hand it over to another ADA… they wouldn’t know the case like I do,” Rafael countered quickly. His hands remained on your knees as he waited for your reply.

           “Because you’re the best… right, counselor.” You crossed your arms over your chest. His excuse sounded reasonable. Maybe you did sound a tad childish, but you stood your ground. For that you would not apologize.

           A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as his hands slid down to your ankles and his eyes took note of your shoes. “I can say the same for you, Miss Fashionista. Those are some enticing shoes…”

           “You like?” You arched your perfect brow with a sultry smile. “They were delivered to my office this morning in a pink box with a golden bow on top. From some mystery man.”

           “Is that a fact?” Rafael asked curiously as he settled onto the sofa and pulled you into his lap. His lips descended onto your neck as he placed small kisses along your collarbone. You couldn’t help but giggle as you felt a sudden rush of heat flood your skin.

           “Oh yes… and the card also said another surprise would be waiting for me tonight.”

           “Do you have the evidence to support such a claim?” Rafael said, smirking as he gave your lips another peck.

           “Mmmm…” You nodded excitedly as you reached for your clutch and presented the card.

           A gorgeous shoe for a gorgeous woman… and it’s just the start of so many surprises. -XO R

           “I wonder who this mystery man is…” Rafael played coy, knowing it would drive you crazy.            “Oh, Rafael! I think you made me wait long enough!” You playfully swatted his chest and threw the note over your shoulder. Your ADA laughed as he shifted away from you.

           “I hope this will make up for our ruined plans.” You heard him rummaging inside his office. What on earth could he possibly have hidden in there? Just before you could give it another thought, he emerged again with a small package. “Again, belleza, I am so sorry for tonight. Maybe this will help.” He set the box down and gently pulled out a soft snow-white kitten.

           “Oh, Rafael!” You cried as the tiny little fur ball meowed in your boyfriend’s arms. It was so precious and plushy and just everything you ever wanted in a pet.

           “I just got her today… which is why I had to blow the squad off for a couple of hours and then go play catch up.” Rafael placed the tiny kitten in your waiting arms.

           “No wonder you have been so mysterious as of late!” You petted and cuddled her, already in love with the little cat… because she was sweet… and Rafael gifted her to you. “Oh, she is just gorgeous!”

           He smiled and pulled out a Tiffany Box from his pocket. “I got ahead of myself and named her…” Rafael handed you the tiny medallion that would adorn her sparkly collar.

           “Scarlett.”

           “Watching Gone with the Wind with you a million times… it kind of got stuck in my head.”

Bursting with excitement, you couldn’t help but climb back into his lap and kiss him, then your very own Scarlett O’Hara...

           But his lips kept beckoning you back.

“You are the most wonderful man, and I love you.”

He gently cuddled both you and the kitten in his strong, warm embrace.

           “And you, Miss Fashionista, are every dream I ever had come true.”

#rafael barba #law and order svu #svu fanfiction #raúl esparza #miss fashionista #rafael barba x reader

[maternityeveningdresses65]

You may find that the cutest one is often the hardest to find! Yes disney princess prom dress——）（）*y7

It's worth stressing again that coral is always a good buy as it comes back season after season. I realise this trench isn't cheap, but if you're wearing it in ten years' time it will have been worth it, and the beauty is that it works over a smart work dress just as well as with jeans. Furthermore, you can even keep it going through autumn and winter's colder days by layering a thin sleeveless puffa underneath. And truthfully, the trend is pretty varied. Gold wedding gowns come in subdued shades of beige that sparkle with gold accents, and they also come in saturated shades of shiny mustards, vibrant golds and deep bronzes. In other words, the gold wedding dress trend is exactly what you want it to be—whether you're a minimalist or maximalist, promdresselalashfkw a trend-chaser or tradition die-hard, a sparkly bride or strictly edgy one. Do you want to show off your stunning legs? Do you want your dress to fall right to the knees? Do you wish to emphasize your collarbone? Maybe a V neck dress to further display your upper features? Or maybe a more loose dress that will allow your body to breath more freely? The options are limitless for choosing a cocktail dress, the only problem is making the decision on which parts of your body you want to emphasize. If you have a dressy event on your calendar this season, then why not emulate one of the ladies from this year's Golden Globes red carpet? red evening dresses. Week after week we tune in to see which relationships progress and which ultimately flop, with each episode concluding in a supremely high-stakes Rose Ceremony, where the lead hands out flowers to women who he wants to continue getting to know.

Petite girls can really rock the short dress look, rather than getting swamped in a full skirt ball gown style. Short prom dresses are available in lots of styles too, with enough choice in hemline to let you show off your legs or give them some cover. Meanwhile, the top half of a short dress can be anything from fully covered to low cut or even a one shoulder style. Short prom dresses can be fitted or floaty, simply choose which suits your style best. It's best to show off either your legs or arms/shoulders �?not both. You've got to think about and shop for what you, your bridesmaids, and your mom will ultimately wear on the special day. But fair warning: You may find that the cutest one is often the hardest to find! Yes disney princess prom dress, we're talking about what your adorable little flower girl will wear—because, obvi, everything is cuter in a mini size, right? But, seriously, you may find it hard to shop for someone who isn't your size. Which is where we come in! To help you and your little attendant (and her mom) find the prettiest, most reasonable, and simple sweetest dress for your big day, we put together a photo gallery of the cutest flower girls from real weddings. Below, you'll find even more inspo than you need—from dresses with fluffy tulle skits to chic ones with peter pan collars and adorable color-coordinated sashes yellow prom dresses. And, of course, we must mention the hair accessories as well! Because halter top wedding dresses, as these photos show, the little ladies can be all done up in flower crowns, pigtails, bows and more flower girl dresses. Related recommendations: Fashionable or creation styling faculty acquisition mermaid prom dresses}+_)(uid superior one that totality with your habilitate and not against it black ball gown prom dress O*&6tyg the feat of story exclusive a patterned write can engage mermaid bridesmaid dressesO(I*Uytghd continue by coiffe cypher regulations-however impulsive halter top wedding dressesOI*UYds

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Bubblegum Liquor

Masterlist Oneshot

AU: Faery Genre: Smut/Fantasy/Angst Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader Wordcount: 3048 Warnings: Smutty bits, intoxication, drug use, fire, burns.  Notes for Update: comments A/N: at this point it's a oneshot, really, BUT if you guys like it enough and let me know that you do. Not by just liking it I mean. If you guys tell me you want to see more of them I might continue it. I hope you enjoy anyways, even if it remains a oneshot :3.

Your pov

The air outside was cool, as the wind whipped through your ponytail. Yixing, your best friend, was behind the wheel of his convertible, and you were in the passenger seat. Your mutual friend Seulgi sitting in the back. You looked at Yixing, his black hair pushed back and ruffled up by the wind. The forest air smelled clear and distinct. Pines and oak. There was an unusual sound, like chiming bells, chatter and the thudding of a bass. You looked through the dark trees lining the road, hoping to see anything. The sound was beautiful, and you found yourself with the need to move her body to it. “Hey, Yixing, stop the car.” You said, tapping his shoulder. Yixing frowned, but pulled the car to a slow stop at the side of the road. You jumped out over the side of the car, toes touching the grass through your sandals. “What’s that sound?” 

“I don’t hear anything.” Seulgi said, opening the door and coming out. You closed your eyes, listening to it. “I’m sure it’s coming from there.” “Y/n!” Yixing called as you stepped through the forest line. “Hey!” You weren’t listening, you followed to the source of the sound, both your friends following. Seulgi caught your wrist. “Hey, it’s late, who knows what’s out there.” “It sounds like a party, come on.” You motioned them over, stepping over fallen trees and avoiding low branches. Your hair was tightly pulled back, ponytail reaching far to your lower back. You looked a bit unusual, your hair strikingly white, eyes almost silvery. It didn’t take long for lights to come into view. A sweet scent lingered in the air, the music becoming louder. It smelled like roses and sugar, enticing. “Come, lets take a look.” The music had a pounding bass, sending shivers up your spine, but there was something about the melody of the song that pulled you in. A tight hand closed around your wrist again. “Dacha, that’s a faery gathering. We’re not supposed to go there.” Yixing said firm. You looked at the first lights strung around a tree, colourful and pretty, breaking from his grasp and moving forward. “Y/n!” Seulgi called after you. You turned around again, cocking your head to the side. “We’re just going to take a look. We won’t stay, come on. Haven’t you wanted to see one of these up close ever since you were little. All the stories your parents told you.” “They have drugs y/n, you could end up raped and dead by the end of the night. You know that.” All thoughts off the bad new reports were very fuzzy on the edge of your mind, and you inhaled deeply. The smell was almost palpable on your tongue, soft and so so sweet. “Come.” You motioned them again, stepping closer. The lights, there were candles all kinds of colours, giving off subtle smoke that made the air hazy. It made your mind hazy, you noticed, but it was pleasant. There was a small crowd of people, by the edge was an old fashioned car. The music seemed to be coming from there. In the car was a young man, or a faery maybe, you’d never know He looked up, seemingly having noticed your presence. His hair was a dark brown, streaked with red. But his eyes, they shone in the lights, a striking colour of green. They looked right into yours, and a boyish smirk spread out over his lips. A ring sparkled around his lower lip, and he motioned towards the dancing crowd. Silently inviting you in. Neither of you questioned it, mingling with the warm bodies and moving to the sound of the music. The air here was warming, and you felt relaxed, at place. It was easy to dance to this sound, it seemed almost natural. You let your body go, closing your eyes and throwing your head back. A hand, warm like a smouldering fire found your waist, pulling you against an equally warm chest. Lips found your neck, blazing hot, before you looked at the source. Your eyes opened, finding a tall man. His hair was pink, like cotton candy, and he smelled like bubblegum. His lips continued his trail up, and you found your hair in his hair. It was wavy, and soft, and felt good between your fingers. You hummed softly, as his teeth gently closed around your earlobe, pulling it into his mouth. He was so warm, like a fire, he felt like a force, storming in and taking over your senses. They say fire was destructive, but it was so enticing, you felt drawn to the fire blazing on your skin. Every place his fingers and lips touched was left warm and almost soothing. “You taste good.” He mumbled against your ear. “Like a sparkly wine.” You chuckled at his comment, finally meeting his eyes as he pulled away. They were blue, like the sky. His gaze was sultry, his smirk playful. With your hand still tangled in his hair you pulled him closer. His lips were soft, as they met yours in a fiery kiss. He wasn’t shy, tongue pushing past your lips and exploring your mouth. You eagerly met him, letting his taste flood your mouth. He tastes like his smell, bubblegum, almost too sweet on your tongue. There was a bitter tang to it, like liquor. You got lost in his ministrations, his large hands moving up your sides. The way his tongue ran along the back of your teeth, or he bit your lip. “Let’s move this.” He whispered, leaning his forehead against yours. Both of you were panting heavily. His fingers intertwined with yours, as he pulled you through the crowd. People bumped into you, but you barely registered. You looked at his tall posture, he was skinny, legs slightly bowed. He was wearing a light blue striped shirt what would’ve suited his eyes, and a dark washed jeans. The place he pulled you to was more between the trees, chairs and a few couches. The light was more dimmed, and a black haired boy was sprawled out of a lounge chair. He opened his eyes, as your pink haired man spoke, he reminded you faintly of a cat. With sharp, dark blue eyes lined with black. He turned over on his stomach, his head on his arms, looking at you. Then he reached over to the table, grabbing a small box and throwing it over. You were pulled onto a couch, a breath escaping you as you landed. His arm was strong around your waist, and he nuzzled your cheek when he opened the box. Inside were sweets of sorts, colourful, like pieces of candy cane. You frowned a little, but didn’t take one. His fingers took one out and you watched him pop it into his mouth. He grinned at you, pushing you a little so you could lay down with your head in his lap. A shiver ran up your spine, when he trailed his finger from his knee all the way up your thigh to the edge of you skirt. He played with the hem, and you closed your eyes, enjoying his little touches. You felt his hot breath, smelling of bubblegum, over your lips. His nose touched your first, gently, playful, and his lips found yours with a grin. You felt his tongue, and let him in, but you didn’t expect to feel the hard texture of the candy. He pushed it past your lip. The taste of it was mixed with his, it was not what you expected. Tangy, sour tingling your mouth. He didn’t really kiss you, leaning back up to tip his head back. You stared at the expanse of his neck as you swirled the sweet in your mouth. The corners of your vision turned hazy, and the sound became a bit fuzzy. His touches became bolder, big hand slipping under the edge of your skirt, gripping your inner thigh. You reached up, fingers ghosting along the exposed skin of his throat. He laughed, taking your hand in his and pressing his lips against them. It felt good, soft, and you gasped, when he briefly took the tip of your pointer finger into his mouth and bit down lightly. He came closer, kissing  your lips again, slowly, deeply. Trying to get back the little remainder of candy resting on your tongue. You keened in the back of your throat when he sucked on your bottom lip. He was a skilled kisser, hand still palming your thighs all the while. “What’s you name.” You said, tracing his collarbone. The man chuckles again, pulling you up and manoeuvring you to sit in his lap. Your body seamlessly followed him, until you were nose to nose. His lips found your neck again, and you wound your fingers in his soft hair. “Who cares about names.” He smiled against your skin and it felt good, one of his hands under your skirt cupping your ass. He squeezed, making you laugh. “Want to go somewhere else?” “Hmm.” You hummed, letting him lick a broad stripe up your skin. “God you taste so good.” He groaned, biting your skin tightly. He pulled you off of him, setting you to the ground and taking your hand. His hand completely covered yours, and you let yourself be pulled along again. You swayed, various smells and sounds mixing into a single sensation in your mind. Everything felt good, calm, nice. Somehow you found yourself, lost in the crowd of people again, his hand from yours. You searched for him, while getting lost in the sound of the music. Someone caught your eyes, it wasn’t him though. This boy was tall, like him, but his body was more gracious as he moved. You stood and watched him for a little, and got pulled in. His skin was tan, the angle of his jawline was sharp. When you were close to him, you touched his shoulder. Something surged through you, like realisation, it was clear in all the fog, but disappeared as soon at it came. He turned to face you, his eyes a light caramel brown that reminded you of coffee with milk. However, his gaze was hard, and he grabbed you upper arm tightly. Looking down on you, you felt a clear spot of fear somewhere, far away. You tried to reach for it, but a hand on your waist pulled you back into the daze of the atmosphere. “Don’t run away, I wasn’t done with you yet.” His voice and touched warmed you, and the other boy let you go. “Come.” His hand lead you again, tighter this time, and you looked at his hair. Wondered if it grew naturally like that. Would it taste like it looks? Like cotton candy? He lead you to a house, a house you hadn’t noticed before. You stumbled up a flight of stairs, gazing at all the beautiful decorations. With unsteady fingers you traced the patterns on the staircase, inhaled the scent of burning oak and freak pine. You reached a floor, and your eyes caught onto another young male. This one short, his cheekbones shining in the candlelight. He was smoking something, puffing out into the air. Slowly, as if he felt your gaze he opened one eye and smiled. His lips reminded you of a cheshire cat, and his hair was a light ashy blonde. He stepped a little closer, putting out his cigarette. When he neared you you noticed the colours of his eyes was dark, maybe purple. He smelled heavily of vanilla and coffee, bittersweet, and he reached out to touch your cheek. The man with the pink hair, who had remained close was quick to stop the other from touching you. But not before you felt a light, pleasant spark on your skin. “I’m not sharing tonight.” He said. The blonde shook his head with a chuckle. “I’ll go see if Min wasn’t to share.” And he moved down the stairs with a calm air. “Let’s go,” the voice spoke into your ear, tongue tracing the outer she’ll. “Before the sun rises.” You nodded, eagerly following him. There were more rooms, one of them was open, and you saw the faint silhouette of a couple underneath the sheets. It was dark, and you heard them, you couldn’t care. All you cared about was the tall man leading you to the furthest door, pulling you inside, and pressing you up against the wall. His mouth was hot, and you felt his hands at the back of your thighs, lifting you up as if it was nothing. He moaned, when you scratched your blunt nails over his chest when you’d gotten a few buttons undone. The sound rumbled against your chest, and made you shiver. He unceremoniously threw you on the bed, you bounced lightly. With his playful smirk spreading wide, he kissed your knee, kissing up al the way to the edge of your skirt. And further, reaching the apex of your thighs. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you moaned at the feeling. He inhaled, pressing his nose against your blazing hot skin. You were hot because of him, he left fire in his wake. With a unsteady hand you pulled him back to you. He kissed you so deeply, everything tasting of bitter bubblegum, like you’d downed many shots. It felt like that, everything was so calm and free, but your heart was pounding, your movements were frantic. As you turned him over, ripping the buttons of his shirt and pressing your lips to the skin of his chest. He threw his head back, groaning loudly. You smirked, teeth finding a nipple and blowing air over it before nipping lightly. He looked you, hooded eyelids and parted lips that were red from kissing. You pulled at his shirt. “Off.” He snickered at your little commend, sitting up and pushing you into his chest. Your core pressed over his growing member, clearly there through the fabric of his jeans. The both of you moaned against each other’s skin, as he shrugged of his shirt and discarded it somewhere in the room. With a soft growl he flipped you over again, tugging your tanktop out of your skirt and kissing your stomach. Everywhere he touched it seemed like a fire was building inside of you. You tightly closed your eyes, feeling as if you were going to combust. It was hot, everywhere, anywhere. Suddenly you felt something, it burned, harsh against the skin of your wrist. Your eyes snapped open, seeing fire lapping at your skin. You yelped, whipping your wrist, trying to get the fire off. His hand closed tightly around the fire, and it was gone, but the burn stung. He looked at you. “Be careful babe.” Your eyes were wide, and suddenly everything was clear. The pain of his hand over your wound cutting through the drug daze like a gunshot in a silent night. “Let me go.” “Babe, come on it’s okay.” He grinned, moving in to kiss you again. You pushed a hand against his chest. “You burned me!” His eyes were suddenly hard, searching yours. “Are you that out of it? You did that all by yourself.” The world stopped, as you stared right into his bright eyes. It stung, and he let go of you, making your hiss. He broke your gaze to look at your skin, the moisture of the wound staining his hand. Then he looked at you. And you stuttered an angry. “I am human.” He was off the bed in an instant, staring at you in fear. “What?” “I am human!” You barked, “I am human, and you burned me! You disgusting,” you waved your hand at him. “Whatever you are.” With steady steps he came back to you, where you tried to put your tank top back in place. His chest was exposed, but you didn’t focus there. You focused on the pain radiating up your arm. Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes at how much it hurt. “Listen to me.” He said. “I don’t enjoy it when little girls like you play dirty games with me like that.” His tone was suddenly harsh, and you were afraid. He was a faery, no doubt about it. Everything was suddenly normal, and you were scared for your life. You were cornered, you’d never get out of here. “Let me leave.” The tall man blocked the way for you, hand grabbing your other arm. “I don’t think so.” “Please.” You whimpered in fear. He was silently, looking at you trying to shield yourself from him. Then he let go, his grip softening, and your hand dropping beside of you. His gaze scanned you, from your feet all the way back to your eyes. You trembled under it, feet nailed to the ground. “You really don’t know do you?” “Huh?” you stammered. He cocked his head to the side. “I need to get you out of here.” There was a scream, high pitched in the crowd cutting though all sound. You recognised it immediately, Yixing. With adrenaline pushing you froward you moved down the stairs. Your feet pounded, you tried not to fall in the last bits of haze clouding your senses. “Hey!” his voice sounded beside you, but the screams outside drew you closer. “Stop!” You reached the field again, and everything was in disarray, people were running away. They scattered in the sound of gunshots and fire, you watched the trees be eaten by the heat. The candles on the floor, the lights no longer shining. Someone stepped through the fire, dressed in silver, eyes trained on you that you felt but couldn’t see. They wore a mask, and you staggered back. Afraid, escape, now. Was all that went through your mind. So you turned, running back to the bubblegum boy who was standing frozen in shock by the doorway of the house. What you did, you weren’t sure, but you ran for him. Your arms wrapped around his waist, and a surge caused your ears to pop. The next time you opened your eyes, you were at home, in your bed.

A/N: at this point it's a oneshot, really, BUT if you guys like it enough and let me know that you do. Not by just liking it I mean. If you guys tell me you want to see more of them I might continue it. I hope you enjoy anyways, even if it remains a oneshot :3.

@oh-beyond @xingtrash @xiubaek13 @yeollieollie @bootyfulohsehun @littlekatlizzy @an-army-exol @melyyexo @paark-haaraa @nunchiwrites 

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