#the more I look at artwork in this style the more I realize how tiny they make the feet. WHy are the feet always so tiny

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

ALL THE THINGS WE SAID WE WOULDN'T DO (VIII)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER IX

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 13.2k

WARNINGS: Angst, stalking, guns/weapons, very dark/toxic modeling standards/expectations/abuse of power, body image issues, food issues, alcohol, scar descriptions, gore, light torture insinuations, hurt/comfort, NSFW, not full-on smut, fingering, descriptions of masturbation, praise, multiple orgasms, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Oh,” you breathe out a long sigh. “This is horrible.” 

Pale eyes blink at you slowly from the side of his vision, Nikto watching your face fall as his brow lightly rises. 

The hotel is large—one main area with sectioned-off rooms much like any upscale hotel would be. But the decorations were…well, there wasn’t much you could say in their favor. It was all white, at least, all pale enough that you assumed it was entirely white. The walls, the countertops, the chairs.

“What are people's fixations with white and gray?” Your body moves forward, slipping out of your heels before you cross your arms over your chest. “I swear, I can’t even see color and I know how to style better than them.”

Blinking at a painting on the wall, which seems to be no more than a black line down a pale canvas, you look at Nikto in exasperation. You motion with a shaky hand to it. “What is this even supposed to be?”

You grumble the sentence, tilting your head at the artwork. 

Nikto’s low chuckle moves through you, and the void slips past as he moves farther into the hotel room, looking around. 

“It is not your…style,” he mutters, shoulders rolling. All of your bags sit in the front hallway right by the door, stacked up and up like the basework of a home of fabric. The image of the man in this glaring place is stark, and you blink through a smile.

“You can say that again,” you huff, but you quickly devolve into soft chuckles.

Nikto pauses, looking over his shoulder at you. He stares with confusion as your quivering form covers your mouth with your palm. 

“What?” The man asks, glancing around. 

“You,” you laugh loudly, walking closer one uneven step at a time. Nikto watches, still. “You look silly standing here. Like a blackhole just opened up.”

Pale eyes narrow, a thin grunt wafting out from his chest. 

Your hand carefully rests on his bicep, giggling heavily as an infectious amusement leaks from your lips. Nikto’s expression fights the sudden soft sweet that threatens it—mouth quirking as he sighs. 

“That is not funny,” he grumbles, head tilting away from you.

“Oh,” you breathe, rolling your eyes and moving away. “The irony.” 

Nikto watches you look around, coat hanging off one arm and your face lighter now that you've had a small rest. He hadn’t woken you up until the car had fully stopped in the street, only then shaking your shoulder until your eyes had fluttered open softly. The expression you had worn was still in the back of his brain, that open and airy thing—body shifting with tiny grunts that made his thighs twitch. 

The sensation of your skin under his; the warmth of it. 

Nikto’s eyes blink slowly, fingers at his sides twitching as his throat takes down saliva. 

Rolling his neck, the Russian shifts his legs and follows after to find where you’d gone off to. 

He won’t admit it to you, but he liked the simplicity of the hotel room. Yet, the exasperation you gained from it, he liked more.

Your hands open all of the doors, searching the bathroom and the room—the realization only hits you when you once more lay your vision on Nikto, who had been watching you glance around silently. 

A heat pulls at your cheeks, and with a low clearing of your throat, your sheepish face implores, “Did you see a second bedroom?”

The Russian's large body seems to take a screenshot, stuttering before his head roves the visible rooms to them. 

One bathroom. One bedroom. 

Immediately, he says, “We will take the couch.” 

“No,” you shake your head, waving a hand as if to convince him that it wasn’t the only option. “No, that’s alright. I don’t want you to feel pressured to—”

The front door gets a hard knock on it, and the both of you straighten. 

Eyes locked, your body releases a sigh before you shift and make your way back to the entrance. Nikto passes by, a hand brushing your arm as his boots thump on the floor. A flash of pale eyes leaves you widely staring.

“I will sleep on the couch,” he grunts, and then he’s already at the door and checking through the peephole. His opposite hand shifts to hover over his beretta, long fingers skimming the metal. 

Blinking, your hot face flares again, and in your stomach a swirl of heat levels. 

Something about him had changed again—just like you’d seen throughout your time together. It was a slow thing; delicate. Like taming a wild animal that stopped by outside of your porch once and a while, the eyes on the thing slitted and teeth bared. 

But it was undeniable at this point, no matter how much you wanted it to be false. 

Yefim has been slipping from your mind lately. The mantra you’d sworn to follow. 

Don’t get attached. 

It was easier said than done, and just as everyone always thought you were a mindless fool, you agreed with them in this instance. You were a fool. A beautiful, stupid, fool. At first, it could be pushed off as hope, maybe. An attraction to a big, dangerous man in the time after a traumatic event—his body promised protection; his hands, violence. That could be brushed off, only a sentence said in the therapy session you very much needed, but, now…

Now you were afraid it was far more than a simple distraction.

Wringing your hands a good distance away, you take down a low inhale and try to force the memory of his gloved fingers running your flesh. Or, worse, his bare skin pressing firmly into the bastardus scar on the back of your head—something you would have never let anyone see if it had been up to you. His hard hold, his easy work of your weight when he picked you up. 

The thump of his pulse right beside your ear. 

Even that small car ride had been suffocating with something unnamed. 

You run a hand over the back of your head, feet shifting over cold tile. 

“Nikto,” your voice carries. “Who is it?”

“Man,” he scoffs, moving back and looking with that mask over his shoulder. “He has suit on. Blond hair. Короткий.”

Fuck, that mask. Those eyes. 

You can’t even focus—what was going on with you?

“Okay,” you clear your throat, walking over as quickly as you’re able. A hand easily grabs your sleeve when you accidentally get too close to the side table, nearly bumping into it. You conform to a hard Kevlar chest, breath hitching. 

Rotting wood infects your nostrils, and you nearly sag instinctually into Nikto, pupils widening. With shifting legs, your fast feet backtrack, and the scent dissipates. 

“It’s probably Iakov—Iakov Mironovich Lisov,” Nikto narrows his eyes on you, looking up and down your body slowly in brief confusion. “He’s my media coordinator.” 

Grasping the handle, you open the door easily and come face to face with a casual greeting.

“Seraph.” You smile, albeit, you very much feel the presence of Nikto behind you—his low breath on the back of your head. Your ears twitch to the movement of his gear. 

“Good to see you again, Iakov Mironovich.”

“Ah,” the blond shakes his head. He was short; dressed nicely just as he should be. “We know each other, do we not? Iakov is just fine, my girl. No need for formalities.” 

Your smile is a bit more genuine now, and you chuckle, nodding. 

Iakov was kind to you—you wouldn’t say confident in all of his actions, but he knew how to present himself as such. New clothes, new watches, and jewelry. His job here was to update your portfolio as soon as possible, which meant he worked far closer to the photographers than you do. Iakov also plans out shoots, too; when to get that perfect shot for ads and media. 

“Have that schedule for me?” You sigh, faking a frown. 

The blond was all over AMA at any given time—you’re surprised the CEO had the resources to let him come along. 

Iakov hums. “I gave you breaks, Seraph, don’t worry. You know how I know you like them.” 

“You’re a lifesaver,” you mutter, smiling widely. 

A folder is passed your way, continuing outfits to wear and when to do so—locations and times. So much work.

The man chuckles, shrugging. “I’m always looking out for you.”

Nikto’s hand curls around your waist and takes the folder from you, asking for it under his breath in a way only you would hear. Shivering, you let him, and nearly feel his grunt of satisfaction at your spine. 

Aly’s jokes were getting harder to want to deny at this point.

What would it feel like to have him on top of you?

Your voice is a bit breathless as you push out, “A-and I’m very glad of it, thank you. Do you want to come in? We can talk some more about tonight and where I’m needed?”

But Iakov’s eyes aren’t on you—they’re on Nikto. 

And Nikto’s are staring right back from above your head. 

Blinking, you glance backward at your guard, brows furrowing. Your heart skips a beat at the intensity of Nikto’s piercing gaze, chin tilted down and his face dead-set forward. He isn’t even blinking. 

“...Boys?” You frown, shaking your head and moving to dispel tension as you usually knew how. Flirting. “I know I look ravishing, but please, don’t get into a catfight over my affection—it gets boring. At least do it outside.”

Nikto snaps out of his strange trance, wide eyes turning to look directly at you as you flutter a smirk to your lips. 

“I’d cheer for you, Big Guy, don’t worry.” Growling through his rapid blinks, Nikto detached himself from behind so close to you and disappeared into the room as you laughed loudly. 

“Enough!” Is the heavy bark, but it means nothing to you. 

“You’re adorable, Nikto,” you call, but only the suddenly stuttering pound of his boots is the answer. 

Grinning widely, your attention turns back to Iakov. Even you can see the pigment on his face, though it’s simply a deeper shade than the rest of him. The man’s legs shift—he looks…well, you can’t really place it. Something like annoyance slashes his expression, though it’s gone before you can comment and offer an apology. 

“No,” he grumbles, already moving away. “No, I need to speak with that photographer about the equipment.” 

And then the blond is walking away quickly. 

Frowning, you stare after him before you back up and slowly close the door, pausing at the entrance and looking down at your hands.

Peeling your grip from the handle, you confusedly glance at the clamminess of your palm before you lick your lips and shake your head. 

“Nikto?” You wonder, and a small smile comes back to your lips. 

“What?” Is the numb call from the kitchen.

Your legs carry you there, and you see him with his bag on the counter, large arms rifling through it before taking out all sorts of things. The papers were pushed to the side and looked through.

“What is that?” Your shocked voice makes his attention flicker to you, eyes swirling with dull amusement. 

“M13,” is the accented response. Casual, as if a regular walk in the part and not an Assault Rifle being set down to the hotel’s expensive stone countertops. Nikto’s smirk is heard as it moves like honey into your lungs, keeping them stuck together. “Big gun, yes?”

“What’s it doing in the kitchen?” Your confused face twitches. “I trust your cooking skills, but I don’t think you…” you pause. “Well, I, can’t eat metal even if you do attempt it.”

“Haha,” the Russian’s harsh speech only makes the mockery more funny. He huffs. “I am cleaning it, Птичка. For tonight. I will not have it jam if it comes my time to pull the trigger.” 

Your mouth opens, and you begin to ask if he’s even allowed to do that before your breath gets caught. 

“...What does that mean?” Pale eyes blink, hidden face tilting your way. 

Nikto grunts in question, taking out the same cleaning rag from his belt that he’d used all those days ago in his Beretta and setting it down. 

“I do not understand.”

Your tongue trips up, the word slipping together, but you get the chuck of it out that would need to be said, rough, though it sounded somewhat similar. You can only go off memory.

“Ptichka?”

Nikto’s fingers pause over the gun, and while it was impossible to tell, you feel the air go utterly still. He blinks, the Russian, at that moment, is highly confused and taken aback.

“We did not say that.” He slowly replies, rolling his shoulders before clearing his throat. “Must have slipped our tongue.” His hands visibly twitch from where you watch.

Face pulling in, your eyes narrow slowly, face tight. A deep curiosity brews like soup in a pot, and you instantly latch on to it.

Птичка. You stuff it away for later, but it sings in the back of your brain.

“Alright…” Trying to push past it, you smile teasingly. “Well, I hope you’ll enjoy the suit I reserved, anyway. The stylists should be bringing it up soon with my outfit.”

It isn’t easy to hide your glee when sharp eyes dart back up to meet yours.

—

“Stop moving,” one of the women hisses, the makeup brush moving over the lid of your eye. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, hands held together in your lap as you get ready in the bedroom. A large vanity is in front of you. 

You have three women working on you right now—you can’t recall their names, as you’d never met them before, but all are unyielding to your attempts at conversation. The one currently is working on your eyeshadow, the second on your clothes across the room, and the third on your jewelry. 

All you wear are your lacy undergarments, harsh ring lights relentlessly assaulting your already sensitive eyes. 

“Sit straight,” a hand is forced into your spine, and you breathe in sharply before you comply, eyes shut tight while she works. “Like child. Fidgeting.”

You clench your jaw and stay your words.

It was getting harder to fight the anxiety in your blood as the time grew nearer to leave. 

In half an hour, you were needed at a large building near the center of the city—dressed to the nines and slathered in perfume; dripping luxury in the dress that your boss had given you. 

You dreaded even looking at it, afraid about how far the slit up the side would go. How deep the neck. You didn’t have to hypothesize the color. 

“Open.” At the command, you open your eyes and blink quickly at the light. 

Instantly, your chin is grabbed and your face moved to the side as you make a noise in the back of your throat—lips getting pressed down by the tip of a lipstick tube.

Gray pigment is moved over the flesh and spread firmly. 

Face burning, you avert your vision from looking into the woman’s eyes, awkwardly looking around. This was by far one of the worst parts of getting ready for events, but nothing compared to how your night would go if prior parties were anything to compare.

“Get dressed. I have done all I can do,” you’re released and a large sigh is echoing through the room. 

She begins to clean up her items as you nod and stand up, muttering, “Thank you.”

A huff is all that’s offered, and you breathe out before padding over to the bed. Body tight, you play with your fingers in front of your abdomen with lingering unease. Your skin feels dirty already. 

One stylist comes over and grabs at the side of your strapless bra, peeling it back and letting it slap the skin. You startle, flinching. Something in Russian is muttered, and the women all chuckle to one another, sending sly glances as you stare dumbly, lips going thin. 

“Get dressed, Girl,” the one nearest smiles, but it isn’t comforting. “Long night for you, yes?” 

Your body curls into itself, and in that instant, you want to exit the bedroom in nothing but sweatpants and an oversized shirt; you want to sit in the kitchen and let Nikto cook dinner. You would eat an entire platter if that was all you needed to do to get out of this situation. 

But you can’t.

And you can’t go back to your penthouse either. You have no trinkets here—nothing to make your own. White walls, white floors. Gray bed.

Shame stuck into your face, your head snaps away to the dress you would be forced to wear as fingers pinch at your waist. More giggling. More words you can’t understand. 

You clear your throat, blinking away the sting in the back of your eyes that swells up at the sight of it. It was beautiful, you can’t deny it. Just as beautiful as you’re sure you look right now with all this makeup on your face like a mask. 

The top was essentially just a corset, the low-dropping neckline a wide oval ending at points only halfway up your breasts. The ‘v’ of the corset ends at your navel, and under, the pale silk of the train cascades down in a single cut, which would be your only cover beside a very sheer layer of lace underneath. Pearled adornments would sit on your arms, looped to the backing above the meat of your flesh. They weren’t sleeves—it was an accessory. 

They wanted you to show skin tonight.

The slit left little to the imagination, it would end far into your upper thigh. One tumble, and you’d be showing off your underwear to everyone. Never mind a tumble, you think. A single misstep. 

And this dress would make you more than beautiful—it would make you ethereal.

But you never said that was what you wanted to be.

This is all I’m good at, you take down a shaky breath, looking to the side until you can calm yourself and close your eyes. 

Heart hammering and your intestines going to mush, you rub at the back of your scar. It’s only a moment before you steel yourself and reach with shaking fingers. But you’re not entirely sure if they’re quivering from the brain damage or just the fear.

You’re not sure which you’d prefer.

Slipping into the dress, you huff and force your hips through the opening, grunting as you feel the fabric pull tight to your flesh.

“Eat too much, Girl. You’re struggling to get into that?” The comment is said under breath, but it’s like an arrow aimed directly at your throat. Snickering makes your lungs quicken. “Getting fat.” 

“I’m not…I’m not gaining weight,” you say, not looking back at them as you pull harder. “I never…”

But you had been eating more, hadn’t you? Nikto’s food was always on your mind nowadays—his hearty breakfasts, the warm lunches. Dinner was always a surprise; it always made you eat like it was your last day on earth, despite the alarm bells.

Blinking quickly, your lip wobbles.

“I can fit into it,” you whimper. 

But it’s just laughter as you pull harder. 

The dress pops over your hips, and you take a large breath, looking down at it as it sits around your waist, nearly panting from desperation. In a quick act, you peel it all the way up and hold the material there as hard as you can. 

“See?” Your voice quivers, turning as your legs stumble. “I got it.”

One of the stylists rolls her eyes, and the one cleaning up her materials scoffs and waves a hand to the others. A smirk is on her lips, and you can’t help but compare them all to dark-eyed harpies. 

“Lace her up. Tightly.” Fingers poke and prod, and as you bite your lip, flinching at every hard pull, trapping you into this modern contraption—this cage—until you feel your lungs push into your guts. Your sides burn and your head goes light by the time they’re done completely and the laces are tied. 

Putting a hand to your stomach, your creased face only softens at all at the faint sounds from outside of your bedroom door. Hard boots. Moving travel bags being organized by scarred fingers. You have to focus on it to bring away the infection of black dots in the corners of your blinking eyes, not-yet-dry mascara making the lashes stick momentarily. You rip them back open and steady your bare feet, fingers vibrating over the material suffocating you. 

Hands grab at your shoulders and turn you away from the bed, pearls clacking together. As if your shell-shocked being meant nothing, heavy jewelry is stacked over your throat and wrists. Pearls dangling from your ears, surrounded by precious metals—necklaces that are engraved with angels and feathered birds. Even the bracelets, dangling things, are weighted by luxury and meaning.

They still just felt like shackles.

When it’s all said and done, the heels you’ll be wearing are near the bedroom door. The women flock out and pass glances over their shoulders to you, left standing in the middle of the room as your eyes remain locked to the ground. Not speaking—barely breathing because the pinch in your chest aches if you do. 

Just a doll left sitting on the top shelf, waiting to be grabbed by grubby fingers and pawned off at the nearest thrift store for nothing else but notoriety. You don’t know how long you stand there, trying to gather what little strength you have for tonight above the relentless brutality of your heart to your ribcage, but it’s long enough to where you hear a sharp knock on your door. 

“Seraph,” Nikto calls to you, his glove-less fingers rasping over the wood. “The women left—are you…” His brows tighten. “Acceptable.”

The Russian’s low grunt exits his throat, boots re-situating themselves. His hidden ears twitch for your answer, looking to the side for a moment as your thin voice wafts out. 

“Yes.”

Nikto’s scarred face pulls at that, confused. If that was the case, then why hadn’t you edited your room yet? Were you nervous?

Pale blue eyes blink at that, slowly tilting his head in thought. You had expressed anxiety over these parties, perhaps that was what this was about. Nerves. The man’s lips thinned, staring hard at the woodgrain ahead of him. He can practically hear your fluttering heartbeat in the air.

“We have ten minutes, yes?” He utters, a low dread filling his chest. A pause. “Where have you placed the suit?” 

There’s a lapse in noise as Nikto’s words fully resign him to his fate, his eyes dulling with a slow acceptance. Only when the door clicks to open, does he decide that if it got you out of the room and gave you a distraction, being in a suit wouldn’t be the worst—

His throat tightens to hide a sharp inhalation of breath.

You stand in the doorway, and it’s like he’s looking into the sun.

Your dress trails behind you as your eyes stay stuck to Nikto’s chest, mumbling out. “I think the stylists left it over near the door,” and swiftly passed.

Trying to hide the pain that leaves your heart aching at the railroad-straight nature of your spine, you shuffle to the hanging suit left on the coat rack. Grasping it, you take as deep a breath as you’re able and turn around. 

“I didn’t know sizes, so I tried my best to get as close of an estimate as possible just by…” Your words trail off. 

Nikto stares at you so openly that the last bit of your breath is taken away in one swoop of a sparrow’s wings. 

Pale eyes are unblinking as they gaze through wide attention, hand still outstretched from where it was knocking at the door. Stopping in your tracks, you blink slowly, a pulse going through your body that you feel all the more wearing this dress.

The Russian doesn’t speak—he doesn’t say anything. He watches. Vision moving along the dip of your throat where those pearls sit; conforming to the swell of your breasts and the view of your cleavage. Then to your waist, tight and formed, and, finally, to the open view of your leg, and that bit of tantalizing lace.

Nikto felt his pulse under his skin, that flipping in his abdomen that was becoming that much harder to ignore. Yet, the sudden stiffness of his pants is a new one.

“You are…” He begins, voice low.

“Please,” you interrupt, “don’t call me beautiful,” you whisper. A small, broken smile comes to your lips. “I feel like a pig.”

Nikto flinches lightly, though you don’t notice it. All carnal attraction dissipates at a single word, as if in complementary action to your own. Something seems to have taken the air from his lungs before he clears his throat and nods his head stiffly. 

“You do not like it?” He grumbles, glancing up and down.

“Not at all,” you chuckle but stop when you get lightheaded. “I’m sure you’ll look handsome in your outfit, though.” Walking to him, you hand the suit over slowly.

“You change the subject,” Nikto huffs, eyes narrowing on you as the intent of his sockets is leveled with yours. “Why?” 

All you give is a twitch of your lips. “I put a balaclava in the pocket,” you nod your head. “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to change out of your mask, but I wanted to give you the option if you wanted to take it. The bathroom’s free, I won’t be needing it, so go ahead and take all the time you want.” 

Stepping back you don’t look at him again as your legs walk you to the window. Hands moving to wrap around your middle, you don’t clock the pale orbs that follow.

Nor the worried sheen at the sight of your far-off eyes. 

Nikto stands for a moment, struck dumb, and only after you pass him one confused glance, does he quickly turn and walk away.

—

The Russian pointedly avoids looking in the mirror—in fact, he actively avoids the bathroom altogether.

Slipping off his Kevlar and setting it to the floor, Nikto’s nostrils are stuck with the scent of your perfume; it travels on the airways, getting stuck to his skin. Grunting, he gets halted in his thoughts about your averted face as his fingers fiddle with his belt, pulling it out of the loops as his covered face frowns.

Why did you look like that? Why were you…afraid? 

Nikto didn’t like that look, and how could he? When he thinks of the face you wore when you slept in his lap, anything else seemed a sin to be marring your features. It was a slow realization that he’d never seen you more calm than when a killer’s hands were caressing the base of your head. 

Growling under his breath, the man focused on the dress pants you’d given him; a bit tight around his thighs and backside, but nothing he couldn’t work with as he stepped into them. 

“Absurd,” he huffs, grasping and stuffing himself inside so he can zip up the fly and button the top. “Why do we do this?” 

Because he hated seeing anything other than a soft smile on your face, that was why, and he can’t stop denying it like a fool. With a horrid weight on his chest, he rolls his wide shoulders and welcomes the chilled air on his bare flesh.

What he doesn’t welcome is the sudden opening of the door behind him.

Freezing like a deer in headlights, his ears pick up a sharp gasp and a rapid apology. Nikto’s still eyes stare ahead to the wall silently.

“I-I’m sorry, I thought you would be in the bathroom!” Your panicked face darts away. “I forgot my heels over here—”

It was your turn to be struck silent at the sight of your companion, and struck silent you were as your rapid eyes locked onto his scars. Not only scars but a tattoo as well.

They were…rabid, those healed cuts. You can feel your shock and horror as clearly as day when you look at them in their gray glory. Long, violent—almost made as if by an animal who just learned how to use his claws. Burns, too. Patches of skin that melt together around the dark ink of a snarling bear. 

Apt, your hushed brain thinks.

You should leave right now, you tell yourself. Leave immediately and forget what you’ve seen like you’ve tried to forget the pictures you’d been sent. But something is in the air that you can’t explain to anyone except your instincts.

Not making a noise, you take a single step forward as Nikto’s back muscles are wound tight; hands clenched. A bitter shaking that’s less noticeable than a dog in the bushes.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper, and the air is thick with unsaid words. “It’s…beautiful, Nikto.”

Not even you can predict your next move, not here—not like this. Why were you still here? The view was jarring and violent, and the longer you looked, the more your throat filled with bile at the thought of what had happened. These wounds had been made with intent, and the very recognition of that made your lip quiver, eyes wide with a bare horror. 

A pain.

Nikto’s chest jerks, his heart hammering inside of his breast. But for the life of him, he can’t speak. Can’t move.

Why can’t he move?

Your feet take another step forward, and a long shiver runs down your spine when you can begin to make out the individual dips and digs of long-gone blades. The fizzling skin—where cigarettes had been put out as if Nikto was someone's ashtray. 

You have to tell yourself to take a deep breath before you pass out.

“I…” But nothing comes out.

You don’t want to touch him, but at the same time, your fingers are shaking for it. You quiver, and you don’t know why.

If you were able to see color, you think you might have sobbed then and there—you might have been left a heap by the shades of abuse, written so plainly in a way you would never know. 

And blackened, inkish, eyes only stare you down as you stand there, dressed all in white. And such a strange thing it is, that ink, and how sad it looks.

If it could speak, what would it say? To you, the answer seemed simple.

I don’t know why I bite. 

Clearing your throat, you hurriedly begin to turn back around. “I’m sorry, I’ll leave you alone. That was rude of me, I should have knocked first—”

“Do you mean it?” Nikto’s voice is so low you think for a moment you never heard it, only pausing when the rumble moves through your eardrums. 

“Mean what?” Your voice is even lower. Layered with regret. “That I’m sorry? Of course, I do—”

“Нет.” It is swift and gruff. You swallow and shuffle your feet. “...Красивый?” 

“I don’t understand what that means,” you lick your lips, hands clammy again. It was time to leave soon—you need to get out and let him dress. 

Nikto’s muscles writhe, shifting, pulling. Small, beady eyes move from over his shoulders, and you’re caught by them; a bird in a bear’s jaws. The pupils are so small they almost make you flinch.

“Beautiful?” 

Your mouth goes dry.

It’s a long moment before you answer, and when you do, your thighs have already pushed themselves together from below you, the skin trapping in the betraying way your insides pulse.

“I meant it,” you whisper, unblinking. Without any thought, your hand raises slightly. Pale eyes slash to it, and you stop, not beginning again until nothing in refusal is said as seconds tick longer. Your middle finger brushes over burn scars before the others conform to healed flesh, laying delicate, heavenly, pressure. The bear tattoo shifts just as blotchy skin does, calling to you along the back of a broken man.

“...I like the eyes best,” your lips utter, and you feel the Russian shiver under your touch, breath hitching. Heaving lungs. Locked eyes bleed color you cannot see.

And so you stay there, fingertips gaining hellish heat as skin melts into skin—pulse into pulse. A fire of a different kind moving under flesh.

And then Nikto turns, and a hard hand is under your chin. 

“You do not like the word,” he grunts, and in his eyes, you see nothing but feral, desperate, pain. A wounded dog. A speared boar. He’s talking about how you’d reacted to his words from before—was he still hung up on them? But when he holds you like that, you can’t even begin to warn him about your makeup. Let him ruin it. Let him taint it. Spread his violence into your skin like fangs. His grip tightens. “Why?” A growl, nothing more. “Do you not believe you are, Girl?”

“It’s because I know I am,” you breathe, and watch his eyelids narrow. “And I know it’s all I’ll ever be.” 

A scoff. “I do not understand it.” 

You don't want to comprehend this word game. Your body aches. “I don’t either.” 

And for the first time, you want him to kiss you. Just to see how it hurts when he does. 

Your lips flicker, and his thumb moves the length of your jawbone; bodies so close your heart patters opposite his, chests brushing with every stuttered pull of intoxicating air.

Rotting Wood. Gunpowder. 

Alluring ambrosia. Mind-silencing touch.

Gold-chained necks, both.

“If I call you beautiful, will you promise to call me hideous?” It is a small gift the universe gives Nikto when your phone rings from the nightstand after you speak.

If you hadn’t startled back and hobbled over to grab it, he would have done something horrible. Irreversible. Just as a rabid dog would as it snarls at a hand so willing to touch it.

He would have grabbed on and never let go, even if it ended up drawing blood. Even if his whimpers filled the room. Even if his mind told him not to—not to take the food that you offer him, not to put that collar around his neck that he already knew was there.

Oh, it is a horrible thing to know the color of someone's soul, and even worse to know one’s own.

Your body hurries out of the room as Nikto’s voided eyes stare at nothing, snatching your heels and speaking to that friend of yours.

Even after the door clicks shut, the imprinting of your hand burns far hotter than the fire ever did, and Nikto knows it’s never going to leave.

—

You pull the designer coat harder across your body, and the fake smile on your lips seems anything but to the finely dressed men and women who pass by.

No one returns the grin, but you supposed the thought counted on your part.

The flashing cameras jar you as you hang off of Nikto’s arm, having just gotten out of the car moments prior, and already you were the center of attention. Heels meeting the long trailing carpet, your eyes threaten to close at the fast blinding light.

“Nikto,” you whisper under your breath. 

He hums, glancing down from over the tight clutches of his skin-tight balaclava. The Russian guard’s suit was pure black, and despite the size up you noticed he needed…he looked good. 

Insanely good.

The outfit showed off the bulk of his biceps—as big as your head—and the strength of his thighs; the push of his abdomen, which was very clearly the result of hard work and raw power. His tie was only partially crooked…the hardness of a bullet-proof vent underneath all of it.

“What is it?” Nikto grunts in question, accent rough. Your stint in the bedroom is pushed to the back of your mind, and it seemed it was the same for him. It was time to go to work.

Around his chest, his rifle is slung, and at his thigh, the beretta. Unknown to you, a combat knife was sitting comfortably under the tail of his suit jacket. Sharpened and only a fast jerk of an arm away. 

“The camera flashes are making it hard to see—the stairs. How many are there?”

“Seven.” A pause. “Lean into us.” 

You do so, shoulder finding his arm as you turn your head and grin at the photographers; the shouting comments and pleas to come their way. 

“Thank you,” you utter, and as his body rises, slowly, so you compel your own to do the same—clearing your throat.

He doesn’t answer.

“Seraph! Seraph!” It’s your moniker that rises above the rest. “The stalker, tell us about the stalker! How do you feel about three men being dead?!”

Your fingers tighten over your guard’s bicep, and the only thing that keeps you from tripping on the last step—the tip of your heel clipping the edge, is Nikto. He leans close and grumbles in your ear, lifting you discreetly with only the strength of a single arm. Hot breath puffs against the side of your ear as your breath gets caught.

“That one looks like horse,” he grumbles. “Long face, all legs, yes?”

“Nikto,” you hiss, but the growing smile can only be quickly covered by your fingers before a belly-deep laugh slips out. From behind your barrier, you whisper, “You can’t say that.”

Pale eyes narrow on you, amusement in the far backs as your giggles continue. Cameras increase their barrage tenfold. “Why can I not?”

You only shake your head, side-eyeing him as your face becomes hotter than the sun. 

“You’re horrible, you Brute.”

Nikto barks that hyena laugh, chest jerking. There is an undeniable rumble in his body that you feel roll through you, grip tightening on his suit’s sleeve. 

You blink away for a moment as you both walk forward and glance at one of the doormen, who blinks widely at you. Your words tumble out in a quick under-the-breath jest. 

This game was letting the anxiety leak away one grumbled sentence after another. A sliver of joy seeps in to take its place.

“The doorman looks like an owl. Can you see it?” Nikto’s head secretly shifts, and he looks above your head from the corner of his piercing eyes. 

Tall, lanky, big eyes; dark hair with pale spots.

“We see it…Very good.” Your heart palpitates at that, blinking a few times before an almost giddy expression comes to your face. 

Lord, you were in too deep.

Walking through the front doors, you thank the ones who come closer and ask for your coat, letting go of Nikto’s flesh and moving. People barely retrain their gasps as your skin is laid to light, and the extravagance of luxury is plain to see by the way the pearls lay over your body—the jewelry, the lace. 

Nikto’s presence sets them on edge, however. 

You don’t exactly know what clearance he has for him to carry around an actual rifle, the very one that his hands now find and rest on carefully, watching you. A handgun? Yes, you can understand that, but the thing around his chest now was anything but a handgun. Your mother had said that in order to keep good relations, your survival was very important. 

Maybe you’d underestimated how important.

Passing off your coat and nodding to the person who takes it, you shift back into Nikto’s side and let him walk ahead. 

“Do I make you nervous?” the question takes you back, but as your heels begin clicking in uneven steps to the marble floor, your reply is simple.

“No.” His eyes scan the entrance as the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses meet your ears, making them twitch. 

Nikto moves his shoulders, nodding his head to the M13. “This?”

You pause, brows furrowing slowly. “Not…not when you’re the one holding it.”

Pale eyes shift to lock with yours, and the flare of your flesh along his back makes him bite back his tongue from uttering anything else. A grunt moves across the area.

“Good.” Then, firmer, as if to reassure you, “We will not use it tonight.”

“Then why bring it,” your face is curious, form getting closer to the opening at the end of the hallway.

Gray eyes shimmer. “Threat.”

You can’t dwell on the revelation before the main room of the building unfolds in front of you.

You’d grown so used to these things and the events that took place during them, that you no longer cared about the expensive decor. This was no different, though you did admit they went all out. From the gargantuan chandelier on the ceiling, greenery and elegant gems were strung like hanging vines. At any given point, servers would walk around with sweets and champagne on, what you assumed, to be silver platters. Everyone was dressed to the very best of their abilities—dresses, suits, jewelry; makeup. 

Whispers are rampant, that murmur of secretive conversation in Russian and fast eyes to others all around. 

This was a party of equal opportunity, and your boss had sent you to be the most alluring of all. It was already working. 

People look over and blink in shock, whether at your dress or seeing you here at all, you don’t truly care. Men jeer, gazing openly as their eyes slip down to your chest and legs. Clearing your throat, you stutter for a moment and carefully lean your head closer to Nikto’s muttering casually even as your heart pounds. The words feel like poison as they slip out of you.

“I may have to slip away for a little bit to meet with potential investors for AMA.” Immediately, there are firm and heavy eyes digging into you. 

“Нет.” 

“Nikto,” you stop yourself from biting into your lip as a server comes over—you smile stiffly and quickly grab a flute, fingers tapping it only once before you curl your digits around it. “I have to, this is my job. I was sent here for a reason.”

“And this is mine,” he says. “You will go nowhere that I can not see, Seraph. That is not up for question, yes?”

You begin to open your mouth again, a kind of stiff refusal that is entirely foreign to you. Nikto has already picked up on that—his hidden face tight and confused; fingers twitching to try and understand. 

And then someone walks up to you. 

“Seraph,” you get called into conversations that you care not to be in, and brushed by hands that shouldn’t be touching you. Hands that hold rings and bracelets, pulling intention that your body writhes at. You don’t know anyone here, but all of them know you.

They know your body. 

You smile when you know it’s acceptable, and you see Iakov in the crowd as well, always glancing over before he’s once more lost. Flashing cameras, though now it’s more subdued, but they still always follow you. The woman who had made news because of that steadily growing problem. 

Nikto stays a respectable distance away, but you never lose sight of him. An ever-present dog at your heels, who walks with a high-held tail and sharp ears. More than once you’d seen him throw vile glances at the people who talked to you—specifically the ones who only spoke in Russian. 

You’re leveled with swift and jumbled sentences, making your head burn with how you try to take the throaty language in an attempt to decipher it. More than once you have to wave up a hand and shrug helplessly, embarrassed at the disgusted looks you get, and Nikto moves forward with a bark of something. 

People move away faster at that, of course.

Until Oriel Grigorovich Tarkovsky. 

His hand is resting on the back of your shoulder blade, thumb moving up and down on your flesh. Older—he had to be in his late fifties, wrinkles were on his face surrounding sly eyes, and a beard. He looks down at you like a piece of meat, and only because that was exactly what you were. He organized this party. He was why you were here. 

Rich, influential, and looking for investments wherever he could stick his fingers. He also had a daughter your age, whom he was considering sending to AMA. Like all rich men, he needed a reason to feel he was winning something out of it.

Sometimes, you don't have to wonder why they always put you into white.

“Fedorov told me you were back to doing parties,” Tarkovsky chuckles, the watch on his wrist glinting in the light. “I did not believe him.” He licks his lips, looking down at you as your fingers quiver, reaching for your fourth flute of champagne this evening. You want to be drunk for this.

The gray liquid sloshes in your grip and you fake a laugh, body tingling. 

“Here I am,” you don’t offer more than a glance his way before staring ahead again. 

“I expected the other girl—tall blonde.” A small grumble, slight annoyance emanating from under his breath. 

“Aly couldn’t make it, unfortunately.” You clear your throat. “Mr. Fedorov only sent me. I hope that’s acceptable?”

Fingers tighten over your flesh. “I suppose. You look well enough in that dress.” Lips near your ears, making you restrain a heavy flinch. “I hope you look just as good without it. Fedorov knows I can be a generous man, let’s make sure he gets what he thinks he will, hm?”

Dark eyes dig down into you, and Nikto, who stands far behind near the wall, taps his fingers against the barrel of his gun. He can’t hear what’s being said, but he doesn't like it regardless. You don’t look comfortable, yet you haven't once looked back at him to show you needed him to intervene. Nose scrunching from behind his balaclava, the Russian’s gloved fingers flex above his weapon. 

He needed to get his head screwed back on, and the lingering scent of your perfume was addling him. Your actions in the bedroom. 

“Сосредоточиться,” he orders under his breath, glancing away from the back of your head, and what he knows that lies there. 

No one has approached him while he’s been here, but all flock to you. Nikto takes a head count, memorizing faces and the names that seep into his ears. Everyone here glances at him and then quickly averts their eyes, but that second is enough. 

If your stalker was here, Nikto could point him out if he had to. But then again, the man’s eyes slip to stare in reverence at his M13, he might be able to put a stop to this once and for all—his way. Those investigators of yours were worth less than the dirt under his boots.

Pale blue eyes move through dresses and suites of every color, unphased until they lock back onto your white pureness. Your goodness.

Except for the fact that you’re gone.

Startling, the guard’s body is rendered iron-rod stiff before action is taken like a bullet to a brain. Pale eyes snap back and forth; rabid.

Feet slamming forward, a low growl echoes in Nikto’s chest, shoulders wound up just as much as they’d been when you’d entered in on him changing.

“Seraph!” He has no reservations about barking over the noise, and his large body shoves people over without a second thought. 

He won’t admit it to himself, no, never, but the feeling he forces down is far more than duty or pride. It makes Nikto’s blood pump as his black-ink form shoulders your media coordinator and his gaggle of lessers, all calling after him to try and get him to come back. Cameras flash, rich people curse at him. 

The Russian’s skin itches—his breath is low and heavy. The only thing that mattered was finding you again. Quickly. Efficiently. Without a single scratch hurting you. You can’t have gotten far. With his head constantly at a swivel, it was like a dove to a hellhound as the hard set of Nikto’s eyebrows peeled back. 

Pale blue locks onto a whisper of your gown as you turn a corner far off into the party, and then he shouts. You were too far. 

Too far from him. 

“Птичка!”

—

Your face is devoid of blood, and more than once you clip your thigh on the side of some table or decorative statue going down the hallway. 

You’re led with a hand so hard on your bicep, that you fear it’ll bruise. A part of you had wanted to tell Nikto about the real reason you both were sent out of Yekaterinburg, but a larger part knew that if you wanted things to smooth over, then it was imperative that you didn’t. You’d be back to the rest of the party soon. Maybe you can say that you had to rush off to find the restroom. 

You knew that Nikto had already picked up on something making you nervous to come here, but you were always nervous now. 

Just get it over with, you think to yourself, pearls clacking as they connect to one another. It’s no different than all the others—just block it out. 

“Have you met your soulmate yet, Girl,” Oriel asks. “I can’t imagine letting my own get played with like this. I keep her tight to me, even if most days I hate her guts.” Dark eyes narrow, and a kiss is pressed to the corner of your mouth. “But she fucks good, so I suppose that makes up for it.”

Eyes not looking into his, you wipe at the left-over saliva and state, numbly, “I don’t know.”

Confusion litters the old man’s face, and he drags you closer to his chest. You let out a surprised yelp at the pain in your arm from his grip. A sheen of fear mildly makes you want to call for Nikto to come barreling down the hallway. 

I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t. I’ll take being fired—I’ll take the social suicide, please, I can’t do this again.

You want a bear tattoo and burn scars—you want burning flesh. Rotting wood. Dark metal. 

Pale eyes.

“What—?” A hand wraps Oriel’s wrist and completely snaps it back. 

A crunch of bone leaves itself ingrained into your mind far faster than the scream, and only your stick-open eyes can process it. 

Stumbling back as a strong grip shoves you behind his shadow, you snap a hand to your mouth and gasp loudly. Heart pounding, you place your palm on Nikto’s back to steady yourself; your raw shock is more intense by the second. 

“N-Nikto!” You yell, but he’s not looking at you—he’s not listening to you. 

It’s a low and steady command that meets the air, left in an accent so thick you struggle to understand it as your head swirls. 

“Do not touch.”

Oriel still shouts and grasps at his wrist, which bares bone to the light in the form of a brutal and bleeding compound fracture. You gaze from over Nikto’s side, hand not leaving the firmness of his spine as fingers press deeply and dig into the expensive fabric; creasing it. 

Your head goes a bit light, truthfully. 

The old man divulges into his native tongue, curing loudly, screaming in that fearful desperation that you know well—a hiccup of horror was the best way to describe it, really. 

But you were only looking for a mere second before you were suddenly being dragged off down the hallway. 

Mouth opening and closing, your heels skid across the hard floor, and with your other hand quickly sliding up to claw into Nikto’s sleeve, you’re rendered speechless. It isn’t long before the Russian turns a corner, and then, nearly instantaneously, rips open the door labeled ‘складское помещение’ and moves you inside. 

It’s only then does sense return.

“Nikto,” you shout, eyes blinking wildly as your hand connects with a wall. It was dark in here—and there were metal racks on one side; mops and buckets. A storage room. “What the fuck did you just do?!”

The Russian doesn’t answer, but when you’re fully able to look at him without squinting—eyes adjusting—it’s a very angry and silent man who greets you. 

Nikto’s hands are clenched, and across the front of his hidden face, there’s a spray of dark liquid across his visible eyebrows and nose bridge. 

“What did we say to you, hm?” He utters, not looking away. Your lips fall into a flat line, heart already going far faster than it should be. A guilty tingle of hesitation makes your shaky hands increase until you’re like a woman out on ice. “Tell me.”

Your brain is deathly still. 

Nikto takes three firm steps forward, and then his fingers are under your chin, and he moves it up as you pant, eyes tiny. 

I can’t tell him, you think. I can’t tell him that. He’ll never look at me the same if I do—no one ever does. I can’t tell him. 

“Tell me,” Nikto growls, and your throat bobs, lips wobbling. 

“You said not to get out of your line of sight,” you breathe, locked into pale orbs that spear you like a snake. 

“And what happened?”

“I left,” you whisper. 

Damn this corset—damn this dress. Black dots shimmer in the sides of your vision. You’re breathing too fast; the women laced it up too tight. Lungs tight against your ribs, you clear your throat and attempt to calm down. You’re not sure if Nikto is helping, or making it worse. 

“Why?” He asks as you move back from him, trying to focus. “I did not take you as a woman who leaves to get…” rough words trail in a low growl. Nikto scoffs, looking you up and down. Something sparks in his eyes, a roving monster stuck behind pupils. “No one touches, until we clear them.”

“It isn’t like that,” you’re desperate to say something similar, and you don’t know why. You quickly shift, knees hitting together until you right yourself. Nikto watches after you, head-turning and emotions unreadable. 

“It’s not like that, really. I wasn’t going to…” But you were, weren’t you? You clear your throat again, fingers pulling at the front of your corset—too tight. 

Suddenly air was hard to come by, and it was worse than what it had been in the bedroom. When you speak, it’s a painfully fast spillage of words—a flood of fear. 

“It’s not like that,” you repeat for the third time. “I…I it’s not like I have a say in it, you need to understand. It’s what I get sent here for—I’m not,” your eyes snap everywhere but at him, and you keep trying to back up farther. Nikto stares. “I never want to, it’s not my choice. I was going to try and explain it earlier—”

“Seraph.”

“—But none of it would have made any sense, and then I’d have to go back to AMA and…and then I’d get let off because of the deals Fedorov made going unfulfilled. I’d be out of a job, out of a home, I can’t go into anything else because I’m not good enough to—

“Seraph!”

“I wouldn’t be able to get another job with everything that’s wrong with me, and then I’d have to tell my mom that everything fell through. I can’t do that—I can’t lose this, it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore,” a hitched sob slips out, and then there are hands stuck at your cheeks.

Nikto’s heart is heard through his suit, fast and hard. You suck down wheezing breaths, tears dripping off of your lashes and a certain far-away look to your eyes as the Russian moves out quick words you can’t hear. 

Too tight. Suffocating. 

There’s a moment of nothing, and then gloved fingers are grasping at our shoulder and moving you around, a snap of laces as quick as a cat’s claws, and then a ripping of fabric. A gleam of a cruel knife as a rifle bounces off a chest.

You gasp sharply. Air once more gets moving down your closing airways as the two edges of the corset are opened in one fast push and a hand sticks itself at your pulse. 

“Breathe, Seraph. Дышать, Птичка. Slowly, now.” 

Your back is to the wall, and you don’t even realize it before fingers weave to cup the base of your skull, Nikto’s knuckles scraping against the material so your skull won't. Blinking through the vile tears that slip past your cheeks, your wide eyes flutter and snap about, mouth open like a stressed animal. The air is hot—sweltering, but you can’t stop the way your body is shivering. 

“Stop,” Nikto utters, and the heavy set of concern in his visible skin is bare even to you. “Do not speak. Успокойся. У меня есть ты.” 

You don’t know what he’s saying, but the way the harsh words bleed into comfort is just about the most addicting sound you’ve ever heard. 

“I…” 

“Hush,” Nikto tilts his head in a shake. His grip and gaze are not for one moment straying. “Listen to us, yes?” 

So you do, and when he hesitates, when his body tenses, and when his forehead lightly bends down to bump into yours, you continue to listen even as the delayed shock sets in.

 “You are leaving and you are coming with me. I am taking care of you. That is it.” Every word is hard. It’s like a stamp at the end of a letter—nothing bleeds as the mold forms to wax. Dog-ish eyes and a heavy creasing to the flesh around his sockets. There was no room for debate. You shouldn't have expected anything else, really. 

Violent dogs rarely give a reason for why they take to softened flesh.

You can’t nod, but the heat of his body melts into you one temperature rise at a time. You’re guessing your face gave something away because Nikto grunts softly from above you.

“That is it. Good.”

“I wanted to tell you,” you whisper, tears dripping off of your jaw. 

“You just did.” Nikto mumbles. “There will be no more of it. None. We will take this one problem at a time.” He pauses, the fabric of his balaclava shifting over your flesh. “But we will not allow this to continue. Нет. No.” 

You don’t have the strength to argue right now, certainly not when he’s here—so willingly close to you and letting you bend into him like a stem to the wind. 

“Sorry,” you whisper and only hear a large sigh in response. But Nikto doesn’t comment on the apology, only lightly squeezes the base of your skull and blinks at you. 

Your breath mixes with his, and his dark lashes move as his eyes shift over your face. A large thumb comes up to swipe at your tears, pushing them back as a wobbly smile goes over your face. The tension in the air was still there. An underlying anger. 

Because, and make no debate, Nikto was angry. 

Angry at himself for losing sight of you, angry at that man for touching you in that way, and…and he was angry at you. Angry that you’d not told him about your body being sold like goods—that you’d come here while dealing with a million other problems, and still, you’d held this one close to you. But nothing could beat the burning rage at that fly-eyed CEO. 

Suddenly, a broken wrist on a man seemed pointless. Bloodlust shimmered; broken bone was too easy a thing to get away with.

And he was angry, too, at the worry that you make him feel. 

He’d never felt that to this extent before—save for men in his old unit, of which none he holds to that same loyalty anymore.

And you. A woman dressed in a beautiful white dress, contrasting the rabid unholiness branded into Nikto’s soul with every step and swell of lungs—the lungs that had stuttered when you stayed near to him. Leaning into him. Breathing him down. 

Such things as this were against everything he’d told himself to forget; to cast into the fire with his stabbed and burned flesh. To throw away like a slim hope of ever finding a soulmate that would complement his flaws without even speaking. 

A soulmate? Nikto had discarded that reality to the blood of the corpses he left in his wake. 

Ever since he’d come back from the bleak nothingness of a momentary death in that concrete room, blood on his flesh and rope around his limbs, and found himself seeing in all color. 

And then you’d walked through that door in the Consulate building, and he’d seen your face—open, curious. You were different to him, and he couldn’t understand why. It scared him, there was no use denying it. 

This violent, desperate need. 

Your touch was like a drug. A deadly pair of fingers around his neck; sliding down his scars until he was left panting and begging for it like a mutt. 

Mutt, mutt, mutt, that was what he was. A dog, a large, brutish, beast of a thing that shadows you and lets you use him. Collar to neck, leash in hand. 

“Nikto?” You ask him, and he knows that even being a pet was what he would revel in, if only he could be called yours.

“Что это такое?” Your eyes blink slowly, tears in the lashes, and the Russian repeats. “What is it?” 

“I really do think you’re beautiful, for what it counts.” Your hands are on his chest as you whisper to him. “I just thought you should know.” A small, weak, chuckle. The light in your eyes was slowly coming back, and your heart was gradually returning to an even pace. 

It’s only then do you both realize how close you are to one another. But no one moves. 

“I think your scars are pretty. I wanted to tell you, but,” you smile, another tear slipping out. “I got nervous.”

It’s a ploy to change the conversation into something more comforting, and Nikto is astounded by how fast it works on him. 

Clever, he thinks. If he were a dog, you would be the fox.

His own pulse now skips a beat, and he’s back to that deer-in-headlights mindset that he had in the bedroom. He doesn’t know how to respond to this.

Nikto grunts, eyes shifting away as he leans more heavily into you, acutely aware of your grip on him. His suit is suffocating like a noose. 

“You do not have to lie,” he huffs, eyelids narrowing. “You should not have seen them.”

After a moment of hesitation, your fingers move to brush against his jaw, capturing it and drawing his attention back. Pale eyes flinch wider, locking quickly with your own. 

“I’d never lie to you,” you utter, and the man’s hidden lips part. “Not about that.” Your breath pauses. “I like them. Believe me?”

“...Да. Я верю тебе.” 

His grip slides to your waist, sitting above your hips. He can say he believes that you believe that, of course. He didn’t doubt you. 

Nikto doesn’t know the words that spill from his lips, and he also doesn’t know how long you’ve both been there as people rush past outside, calls of alarm on the air. He knows you don’t look away from him—he knows you look beautiful, yourself, even if he knows you don’t want to hear it. 

So he blinks slowly and softly utters as the pads of his gloved thumbs run circles into your flesh, playing along the slit of your dress.

“Hideous.” 

It’s after a tiny moment that your giggles meet his ears that he can truly sigh into you and grunt out a rare chuckle. Hands roaming his chest, you hum, eyes soft. 

“That was funny…are you making jokes now?” 

“Perhaps,” he huffs. “Do you like them?”

Your head shifts, and before Nikto can realize it, a kiss is placed above his balaclava directly where his lips would be—those cut and brutalized things. That half of a Glasgow smile. Frozen, your hands spread over his abdomen melted into him as the press of the rifle in between you is of little concern, digging against your lace-cut corset. 

Pale eyes are wide open, staring into the wall as you breathe against him.

“Yes.”

“Seraph,” Nikto lowly warns, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t reacting the same. The Russian’s fingers tighten on your flesh. 

You move back and re-attach your forehead to his, and both of you stare. Not another word is uttered, but in the air that same fire from before flickers. Nikto swallows down saliva and watches your throat bob with the same nervous and, yet eager, self-soothe. 

A second. Two. Three.

A beast can’t move from the promise of a warm invitation. 

“Tell us,” Nikto grunts, his fingers flinching. “...Tell us what you need.”

You take a long, low breath. Adrenaline coursing your veins, mixing with some semblance of warmth. 

“You.” 

Nikto stares, studying, and a stuttering dip of your hand slips to his belt, staying there. A minute passes before one hand goes to wrap your wrist firmly; shifting it back to your side. 

“No,” he whispers, emotions unreadable. Nikto’s shoulders widen, feet moving close to yours. A slight sinking feeling emanates from your stomach embarrassment infecting your veins, until he speaks again. It didn’t feel right.

“Not like that, hm?” 

Your face creases in confusion, pupils wide, before Nikto’s hand dips into the slit of your dress. You gasp lightly, and the man watches without blinking, humming under his breath as he grips at the lace layer and pulls harshly. 

A rabid rip of fabric emanates around the storage room, and your heart pounds against your chest. Pulse flaring, your attention doesn’t stray even as your legs twitch open, electricity over the air. Nikto’s hand slips in, but as gloved fingers trail over the top of your panties, he licks at the corner of his lips. 

He waits, stiff—stuck like a pillar of stone. 

Neither of you thinks that this is an entirely smart idea, but even now your insides have turned to mush, a slickness seeping out of your core as your thighs tingle. You were never against sex, but you were cautious with it; especially with everything going on, most of the time it was a quick affair that never even got you off.

You’d never…had someone work at you like this—care enough to not seek their own pleasure. It excited you and, at the same time, made you hesitant. 

You hadn’t expected this. 

“Let us take care of you,” Nikto murmurs, head tilting as you shiver and shake. “Make you feel good, yes?” He grunts, looking down and you feel his fingers twitch, palm moving to cup your cunt. You breathe heavily, a small whine slipping out as the heel of his hand brushes your clit. “Give us an order, Seraph. Leave, or no?”

“No, stay,” you instantly push out, hand slipping down and sliding between the M13 and latching onto his forearm. The Russian stares. “Stay,” you say again, firmer. 

Nikto hums in approval, lightly grinding his hand in a bit harder. Your mouth opens, eyes fluttering. Your insides bunch and tighten, teeth biting your lip as a shiver moves your spine; an itch that needs to be scratched deep in your abdomen. 

Nikto’s palm rubs slowly, and your hips move with it, trailing farther open the longer his actions continue. You sigh, small noises in your throat that exit into the air as the material of your panties gets stained with slick. It felt good—very good. It was the push of hard pressure and the subsequent vanishing of his hand that made you desperate for it; white dress flowing around your feet.

The Russian’s large feet step closer, and he leans into you with his face going to your ear. 

“That expression,” he breathes, smirking. “It looks good on you.” His palm grinds harder, and you gasp, nails digging into his flesh as your brows tighten, M13 almost like a tree branch as it rubs against your chest with every movement. “Little face, skin screwed up.”

“Nikto,” you huff. 

“Hm?” he asks, boots going to shove open your legs farther. “Don’t worry—we won’t let you fall, Seraph. I want you to feel it, yes?” 

You want to think about how this messy situation just got a whole lot messier, but then thick fingers are pulling at the elastic of your lace and letting it snap back to your skin. Your hips jump, eyes jerking over to stare at the man who chuckles under his breath at your frazzled attention and fast-blinking eyes. 

Your dripping cunt is left to pulse around nothing as the scent of sweat and carnal action perforates the storage room. Getting touched back here wasn’t on your plans for the night, but, damn, if Nikto’s eyes were going to be watching you like a hawk, giving attention solely to you and not the hard-on that ruts against your abdomen, then you’d willingly become his mouse. 

His claws could enter your skin without a fight.

You stare at him, breathing hard and your thighs desperate to close as the chill of your ruined panties makes itself known. Your tongue licks at your lips, and pale eyes follow before leather gloves move. 

“Wet,” he grunts next to your ear, groaning as his fingers move to play, shifting your clothing until the fatness of his digits are sliding up and down the length of your slit, gathering what he can with every intentional brush of your clit. The sounds can be heard through the layers of fabric—the squeak of leather. “Hear it, Girl, hm? Hear that?”

You nod, panting harder as your feet shift unconsciously to his teasing. 

“Inside, Nikto, please,” your mouth breathes, voice tight. “Feels good.” 

“Patience, Птичка. You’re not ready for that.” Pressure moves over your weeping cunt, feeling it, circling. “Let me play, first.”

You moan softly as his wet thumb moves up to your clit, circling until your desperation makes you whine at him to move faster than this slow, tortuous, pace. 

Nikto clicks his tongue, his hand still behind your head and cupping the base of your skull, he angles your chin up and stares down at you, puffing a breath with every grind of his limb. 

“I’ll give you my fingers, Seraph, I promise. Я обещаю.” You can hear the brush and sound of shifting wet skin, leather gloves moving slightly quicker as your noises start to increase. All the while, those pale eyes stare, wide and blown to the max. 

If you had to take a guess, above the fog of your brain and the building pressure in your core, he was getting off on this just as much as you were.

Strange, you’d never seen someone so eager to have you cum on their hand before. 

Your breath hitches, legs shaking. 

“Look at that,” Nikto breathes. “Nikto’s good girl.”

You clench over nothing at that, locking eyes and face pulling in, pearls clicking together in a steady rock. 

“Harder,” you order, lips swollen from being bitten over and over again. “Fuck, Nikto harder, I need it.”

“You like getting off like this?” He tilts his head, keeping you pressed against the wall, gun stuck between the two of you—hard metal and heavy pressure making your mind almost lose itself to the hypnosis of the groves and bulges. “Tell me.”

“Yes,” you say it louder than you intend, moaning when his pace increases. 

Your legs move and tighten, eyes going glossy as your whines get tighter and faster. Slick drips from your cunt and its stretched panties, dripping near booted feet and the flinching heels. 

The word is whispered in your ear as your first orgasm rips you open, your breath getting caught and your eyes shuddering closed; walls tightening and flexing, needy for anything to fill it.

“Beautiful.”

There’s little waste in between, and even as your lungs heave and your mind fights to focus, there’s a prodding at your pulsing hole. Gloved fingers push inside, and your brain short circuits.

“Leaking,” Nikto breathes, feeling your cum dribble off of his hidden knuckles. He looks hungry for it—and the erection that tents his dress pants aches something painful. But he isn’t hungry for that. His heavy hand can do all the work he needs, if he must. He’s hungry for that pleasure on your face; that mindless arousal and the thin line between sense and animalistic instinct. He didn’t need to stuff you full of his cock to watch your face blow out with release, and with that, he felt nearly smug. 

He wanted to show you how good it could be to be attended. He can’t make it all better, but he can certainly redefine what it means for you one orgasm at a time. You had said you wanted him, and he was selfish in the way he wanted you—until he felt you were ready to get stretched open under him, naked to his eyes as his pelvis fucked into yours, he’d give you this, instead.

Two fingers enter your drooling pussy, and the squelch of the flesh is vulgar as they start to fuck you open until the entire length is engulfed in heated flesh and textured walls.

You whimper airly, body numb and still reeling from before, the same sparks itching at your skin as another coil forms as your mindless hips snap. It’s a stretch, a small burn around the ring of your entrance as it yields willingly.

“Nikto,” you cry, head shifting to press into his shoulder. You didn’t know what else to say. Your own fingers had never stretched you like this. The slap of skin makes you clench, and the Russian groans lowly in his chest, chuckling. 

“Tight for me,” his digits curl, and your back arches, hands snapping to his waist as you stare pleasure-blown from over his shoulder before more feral sounds bounce off the walls. “Give me a second one. Let me feel you break.” 

Nikto whispers into your ear, fingers carefully on your scalp and caressing the hair—a calm de-escalation that doesn’t match with the abuse of his bullying fingers minute after minute.

The fact that he had snapped a man’s entire wrist with the very hand that was playing with your cunt was lost to you. But it was a shameful admission that, if you had been thinking about it, you would have shattered far sooner than later. 

“God,” you moan, shoving your burning face into his neck, keening into it, and gasping. “Want you to feel it. Never felt this good with something inside of me—working me so well.”

His fingers crook inside of you again, digging; searching. He finds that point again, incredibly easy, and continues to stroke it with every fast flex of his arm. You clench your eyes shut, arms tensing.

“Yes?” Nikto smirks, arrogant. “We are glad. You are my charge, Seraph. Remember that.” He leans in close to your ear, humming as the sweat under his suit makes him chuckle. “Want to make sure you are always satisfied.” 

Your stomach rolls, and the pace of his digits increases as his palm brushes your sensitive clit, making you shake and whine at the overstimulation. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but it ached in such a way that made the pleasure sharp like a knife. 

“Break for us,” the Russian mumbles, grinding his palm between every thrust of ruined gloves. 

The second orgasm is stronger than the first, and it makes you bite down on the man’s neck in a play to try and silence the loud, long, mewl that escapes your lips. Nikto grunts and feels your walls spasm, trying to push him and force him in all at once.  

It was instinctual the way his mind went to how it would feel around his dick, but the thought was put on hold until tonight when he could do all of the imagining he wanted. 

He’d wait until you went to bed, and then he’d shift out of his belt and shove his hand into his pants like some desperate boy. Fisting his cock to the remembrance of your cunt and your hips—the clench of your thighs as cum dribbles down his wrist and soaks his suit sleeve. 

A mutt he was.

He’d keep jerking himself off until he was whining from the pain his red tip would cause him, spending so much seed onto his clothes that they weren't even worth keeping. Legs shaking and hips rutting into the air, eyes blown wide open and staring at your bedroom door. It was shameful, he admitted, but he’d never claimed to be anything but. 

And then he’d keep going. 

You snap him out of his thoughts, sagging against Nikto’s chest and panting, hands clenching and unclenching into his sides. The Russian feels the large stain of pre-cum on his pants and finds it pointless to try and hide. 

Licking his lips, he hisses at the brush of fabric at his erection, but only grinds once into your body before he pulls his fingers from your heated core and breathes into your ear. He’s patient. He can wait.

His heart is rabid, and yours is too, but the tired smile into his black and blue neck is welcome, he thinks. Sweat dribbles from his brow.

“I am taking you back.” A teasing pause as you sigh, fluttering an eye open. You’d expected him to take something from you, maybe. But leaving? Without any expectation of you getting on your knees for him? Without sitting in his lap and letting him rail you open? A tiny smile moves your face up—something far more pure than the actions that had just taken place moving softly to your flesh. Nikto was just…strange. 

But you suppose that made two of you.  

“Sore? Do we need to carry you?” The man huffs, eyes glimmering. 

For now, there was only a calmness—the explanations would start tomorrow, a long and hard one, but now…now it was just a still middle point of the aftermath and the events yet to come. A peaceful present.

A joint pair of tired chuckles wafts out of the storage room, where a man stands alone, hands clenched. 

This dark shadow looms as the party is cut short by the result of the host getting his wrist snapped, worried looks moved out and high calls of alarm. Yet, he stands, listening. Unmoving to what he just heard. 

What he’d cracked the door to witness with burning eyes. 

There’s something about him that isn’t quite right—a bit ragged in appearance, blinking quickly as if in an animalistic shock. Blond hair a mess as if it’s been run through multiple times. 

He breathes heavily, eyes stuck to the door. 

And then he’s gone before the two individuals can walk out moments later.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

#ravishing allure #cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #x female reader #call of duty x you #mwii nikto #nikto x reader #cod nikto #nikto #cod modern warfare #call of duty mw2 #cod mw22 #mw2 2022 #mw2 #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #modern warfare 2 #call of duty mwii #cod x female reader #x fem!reader #cod smut #call of duty smut #x reader smut #smut #female reader

[amerricanartwork]

9. and 20. please.

Also love the new lil scugsona. Very fitting for you.

@scavworld's Rain World Questionnaire

Thanks for the ask! Just a quick note, that little character was actually meant to be a scug-ified version of my regular avatar, which I should probably make a ref for soon. I've always just liked the idea that it can "transform" into a different creature to match whatever fandom I'm dealing with, so I thought I'd portray it as a slugcat in this case!

Anyway though, onto the actual questions...

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

9. What are your opinions on Five Pebbles (character)?

Ohhh, now that's a very interesting matter! I really like characters like him because they're so fascinating to me! For now I will disregard the fantastical element of him being a massive supercomputer, because even though in-and-of-itself I think that's such a unique concept even in fiction, especially after I realized that Five Pebbles and Looks to the Moon really are the core of not just the "story" of Rain World but even the in-game environment itself, I imagine I'll have another chance to touch up on this so I'll save my longer thoughts on that for later.

That being said, I'll start by saying I love thinking about characters from a psychological perspective, trying to figure out why they are the way they are, why they do what they do, what they really want vs. what they think they want, how they really perceive themselves vs. how they present themselves publicly, etc. Characters like Five Pebbles are always an especially interesting choice for this kind of pondering, because, as flawed as they may be, so much of the situation around them also contributed to their downfall that I refuse to let everyone else off the hook too. And since I also don't believe anyone is inherently a "bad" person, it's really fun to ponder just how these characters go from being alright people to doing such terrible things and meeting such tragic ends.

To put it shortly, Five Pebbles (and other characters like him) is in my interpretation a great example of karma in the more real-life meaning, and the "you attract more of what you think about the most" idea. Five Pebbles always seemed to feel trapped by and at arms with his surroundings, from the great opposition to his very existence from the True Anointed Citadel, to him literally being physically stuck to Looks to the Moon, to the fear of opposition he must have had as a Sliverist, to him being stuck dealing with the rot, and finally with his collapse, left as a tiny fraction of himself buried in the cold, lifeless remains of his superstructure, with truly no way out on his own. Because he was so focused on escaping the perceived confines around him, all he did, albeit unknowingly, was end up finding more nets to get trapped in.

And again, while I think everyone around him did contribute to his awful end in some way, stories like these are still pretty sad to me because, in the end, I think these characters themselves need to learn to change their thinking, yet all the harshness they face can so easily lead them to create a vicious cycle. Five Pebbles isn't the first character I've enjoyed strongly whose story seemed to play out this way, and as sad as it is, it's also very intriguing.

And besides, it opens up plenty of potential for redemption arc AU stories—!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

20. What is something you think the game could improve on?

The short answer: incentive.

The long answer: Let me start off by saying Rain World, to me, is fascinating largely as more of an art project than a normal video game. It's amazing how a relatively simple concept of a small animal in an urban environment they can't understand morphed into something so vast and extensive, combining nature with technology, science with religion, sci-fi with fantasy, and dunking it all in a super unique aesthetic that fuses urban street style with fancy ancient artwork, it's amazing!

BUT so much of this is lost to players because the game does, in my opinion, a pretty bad job of conveying it all. It's very confusing , especially to new players, and the only means of discovering the greater context of the story, besides just hearing it from other players/fans, is if not downright frustrating at least very tedious. And that's just getting the story itself. I think most people who have played this game haven't even made it that far, because the gameplay alone is so difficult the first time playing that if you aren't captivated by the mystery factor of the environment (or like me and also stubbornly dedicated to getting the bragging rights of having beat such a difficult game), you're too busy just trying to not die every other cycle to bother really exploring and ferrying the pearls to Moon, much less making sense of what you uncover.

I think the blank stare of the slugcats looking up at Five Pebbles perfectly encapsulates what I'm getting at here. You've got this absolutely fascinating story about a mechanical god who flew too close to the sun in a desperate attempt to escape the confines of his life, meanwhile the little slugcat is just all "...'kay", because what does this little animal care about the crazy religious hubris of some long-gone existence-hating people and their sad crumbling calculator robots when all it wants its is to just find more food and not get eaten again?

For a bit of devil's advocate, I will say that I think the difficulty of just playing the game and then figuring out its story, first of all is pretty "realistic" from the perspective of simulating a real-life ecosystem and having an animal discover complex lore in a way that they'd be physically capable of, but secondly has led the Rain World fandom to be really tight-knit compared to other fandoms I've seen. It seems like everyone I've come across is at least in the process of playing through all the campaigns, if not having already completed them and established some level of their own interpretation of the story, because they are all genuinely interested in the game, its characters, world, story, and themes enough to persevere through all the struggles of gameplay and lore confusion to enjoy it. However, it's also the same thing that makes this fandom rather small, which is also fine by me; I think there's lots of value in quality niche content!

With all that said though, I can't deny that I think this game isn't very good at getting players geuninely interested in all it has to offer. For evidence, consider how few players have even met Five Pebbles, who is perhaps the most important character in the entire game story-wise (Steam achievements has the "The Journey" Achievement at 12.0% of players as of posting this). Even from my experiences, I didn't even know what "Sliverist" actually meant until a couple weeks ago, and I've been playing this game and involved in the fandom for months at this point!

So yeah. To sumarize, in my opinion, Rain World is a fascinating and very inspiring art project, but most of what it has to offer is lost to most players because it's terrible at giving you a reason to care about it all. Thus, the main thing I think it could improve upon is giving players a reason to care about its worldbuilding and story enough to continue playing.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Well, that was long, but pretty fun! I hope these answers suffice! Keep the questions coming!

#rain world #asks: scavworld's rain world questionnaire #iterator #five pebbles #rw fp #quetzalli's thoughts #quetzalli answers #inbox

[cellard0ors]

Eventually they go back to his place.

It’s a tiny walk up above a bagel shop, so the scent of freshly baked bread is overpowering, but not unpleasant.

Travis’s home is small and mostly barren. It’s as if he couldn’t think of any decorations to have, so he just didn’t bother. It’s full of nothing but practicalities – sofa, television, coffee table and the appropriate appliances.

Laura walks around wearing Travis’s police coat.

He always has it in his squad car just in case he needs it. Today, he needed it. It’s not exactly long enough to cover her, but it hides the bulk of her nudity.

However, she does find herself tugging on it, doing her best to hide the parts its poor at concealing – mainly her exposed privates and her ass.

Travis, for his part, keeps an eye out for any potential onlookers. He also shields her from view as much as possible. Once in his home, however, she relaxes considerably,

It makes him grin, feeling like a predator who has just caught their prey off guard. But he’s not going to attack just yet, still more concerned with her basic needs, “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

She shakes her head in the negative and looks around, fingers dancing over his book shelves. It looks like she’s reading a few titles before moving on into his kitchen.

She spots some childish drawings with magnets holding them in place on the refrigerator – the only artwork she’s seen. There’s one that is – most likely - supposed to be Travis, a child’s handwriting above the clunky figure reading ‘Unkl Travus’.

The other picture has a different art style – this clearer, albeit no less immature. Each of the figures depicted in crayon have names labeled above their heads: Grammie, Pappy, Daddy, Mommy, Uncle Bobby, Uncle Travis, my brother, me.

Laura looks at both thoughtfully and Travis feels a little sheepish as he admits, “Yeah – the kids made those. Y’know, back when they were little. Caleb made this one. Kaylee here.”

He points to each in turn and Laura lets out a hefty breath, “They mean so much to you…”

Travis knows where this is going, “They do. But that doesn’t mean I regret my decision. I chose you. I’d choose you again. Don’t feel guilty about it.”

“Hard not to.” Laura turns so she can look directly at him, “I did appreciate their efforts…the children, in trying to free Silas. But after I got free during the fire and saw he’d bitten Caleb, we had to go. Again, I couldn’t trust-!”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Laura.” Travis huffs, “If anyone understands trust issues – it’s me.”

Laura nods and looks away from the pictures, “Still…wish we could have gotten the bone. Not to mention I now have no idea where Silas has gotten off to. I’m his guardian, his family, I watch out for him. Knowing he’s out there all alone…”

“Hey,” Travis tugs her forward, hugging her, “We’ll find him. Okay? We’ll fix this. Together.”

She nods, but he feels her burrow deeper into his chest. The way she’s doing so…it’s as if she’s starving for his touch, desperate for it.

What must it have been like for her? No doubt she’d been cooped up in some enclosed fish tank, a prison, always on display for gawking onlookers who doubted her authenticity or, even worse, poked fun at her for it.

…for fuck’s sake, even HE’D called her the ‘fish’ girl…

The thought makes his blood boil, but he just focuses on how good she feels in his arms. However, she eventually breaks away, asking softly, “Um…can I shower? I know that probably seems weird to ask after all the time we spent in the lake, but-!”

“No, it’s not strange.” He kisses her forehead, “Not if you need it.”

Laura’s lips twitch, “No more glasses, but still a cheesy dork.”

“I wear contacts now.”

“Mmm, do you?” she asks in good humor and Travis has to admit, he’s never felt this good himself. The more the memories settle in and the sharper they become, the more he realizes why he’s always felt so adrift.

Laura brought so much into his life – a sense of adventure and fun, things he’d never received from anyone else. True, he had good moments with both of his siblings, but neither of them compared to those days and nights he spent growing up alongside this girl – this woman.

After all, Laura may look like she’s in her twenties, but she’s truly closer to his own age and this thought sobers him some. What if he’s not good enough for her now? As old as he is.

She deserve a full life – a better one. He can only give her the time he has left. But, in so many ways, that’s better than no time at all and – while knowingly selfish – he wants that.

He wants her.

Travis hopes she wants it too, wants him too, and he promised her nothing but pleasure from here on out. A pleasure he plans to deliver as he gamely escorts her to his restroom with its glass encased shower.

A shower big enough for two.

A fact she’ll learn soon enough,

But, for now, he goes about innocently showing her the knobs and giving her toiletries and towels. Travis leaves the room and, as the shower head clicks on, he grins wickedly.

He’ll give ger a few minutes alone.

And then it’s ready for not, here he comes…

#hackearney #my writing #travis x laura #fin #back on my bullshit #this was written much longer #so im splitting it up #which means i might post another part later tonight

[fourseasonsfigs]

I Didn't Know How or When you Would Come...

This "hairpin" fig set is of course directly inspired by this scene in Episode 31 of Word of Honor.

The set comes with the two figures, the table, chair, and the mirror. It's made of resin, which always worries me due to the fragile nature of the material. I have the warehouse bubble wrap any resin figure, but you just never know how aggressive carriers might get, or if there were any hairline fractures to start with.

In my experience, all resin figures come in this type of carved plastic cushioning, and I've had (cross my fingers, knock on wood, etc etc) good luck so far.

Only the hairpin appeared broken in transit, so while I was sad, I felt that overall I had gotten lucky.

However! I realized that the hairpin was not actually broken, but shipped in two pieces to avoid breakage, and they included a tube of glue in order to glue each side to A-Xu's little hairbun.

Normally the warehouse removes glue from shipping, but in this case the tiny little tube seems to have accidentally slipped down the side of the box. I already have a 2-part resin glue of my own that I bought locally that is a bit of a hassle to mix and deal with, but is pretty rock solid. This nail glue? is softer and the hairpin is already wiggling loose a bit.

This is a beautiful set for a beautiful scene. I love it.

The figures are very stable. A-Xu sits squarely back in his chair and I don't worry at all he'll fall out. As I say this, of course, I upload this picture...

He is laying very gently down on his perfect face to illustrate. Sorry, A-Xu! You can see he's crafted to fit quite securely with his robes and his sleeves. You can also see his little bun here and the hairpin holes pre-glue.

I love the long elegant sweep and train of Lao Wen's red rescue robes.

A-Xu looks adorable sitting there. These figs have quite a bit of glorious hair but their heads seem a bit smaller and more delicately sculpted than typical.

I never get tired of their beautiful long hair. You can see my wobbly-glue hairpin creation here.

Here's an angle of Lao Wen in full hair brushing action.

A view of the mirror here. I'm quite tempted to decorate the table with little jars and a runner like the screenshot.

The seller also sold this beautiful standee. This was originally a fig / diorama design, but demand wasn't high enough to offset enough of the cost. A huge bummer because this would have been incredible.

The box the fig set shipped in is also beautiful! I love this seller's whole design aesthetic:

Two sides of the box have spicy sets of artwork in a non-chibi style. There was also a pin-up style piece of art that I believe came with the early bird/first-in purchases, but I wasn't early to this, so unfortunately I didn't receive it.

Unlike the (mild and sweet) spice level of the art on the New Year Wenzhou armory magnet (which you can read here), this definitely is kicking it up a notch. I'll post it past the ***** line as usual.

Material: Resin

Fig Count: 57

Diorama Count: 5 (I'm not counting the diorama in the header post quite yet! I'll do another post on that)

Snowglobe Count: 1

Rating: ...but I knew that you would come

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

*****************************************************************

Alright, I'm going to ramble on for a bit so anyone scrolling down to read the bulleted list has a substantial buffer of space before the pics.

I really hope this fig creator makes more figs. Their work is fantastic and I love their vision they had for the swing figs / diorama - full credit to them for shooting for the moon on a large dramatic glorious piece.

Plus there simply just isn't enough Wenzhou figs out there - fig makers could literally make figs for every scene of every episode they're in, and I would buy them all. Can you imagine? That would be amazing.

Alright my patient fig friends! Here's the artwork. I will admit it took me a while to get what the fig maker was riffing off of here, but I did eventually get it.

#wenzhou #word of honor #shl #figthusiast #wen kexing #zhou zishu

[rexshadaoart]

A little gift to @evion based on the world she created. The world of Dragoncursed, featuring her OC protagonist Tanis, fully transformed as a dragon based on various artworks and a few descriptions I found.

Here some of my thoughts and reflection of this fanart...

Since around 2008 or so (I can't remember exactly, I just I became a big Warcraft III fan at the time), I came across Evion's fantasy artworks of Night Elves and later a series of transformation artworks on DeviantArt. Ranging from mermaid to penguin, I was intrigued by these drawings because they showcase the transformation process to be natural, beautiful, and thought-provoking, such as the mermaid's tail coming from the tail bone rather than the traditional legs being fused together.

It made me realize how unnatural the typical mermaid transformation artworks are, and made me realize the importance of shapes, proportions, and how they all connect as one body.

One particular art subject stood out to me was Tanis. I've seen several Tanis artworks, but none of them had shown what she would look like as full dragon once the curse is complete. All except an artwork depicting only her head, neck, and parts of her wings.

The artwork had remained a tease for me since it was clear there was more to the dragon, but my young mind ran rampant with speculations. What does the rest of the dragon look like? Does it look like a horse or a wyvern? Is it large or small? I did wait to see if there would be a full version of Tanis as a dragon, but it never came.

For years, I had wanted to know what the rest of the dragon looks like (as often with many ideas I find intriguing but never seen fruition). Such curiosity fueled my philosophy about art:

If an idea in your head is unrealized, you need to make it into reality. In fact, it's a great way to exercise as an artist.

Once I had Procreate and enough years of practice, I proceeded to try my take on Tanis' dragon form.

It was easy figure out that it was a classical European dragon design, four legs and two wings. But the European dragon comes in many forms, so I read the descriptions and notes regarding Dragon Tanis. Based on what I've gathered, the design was going for a more Asian-influenced style, with specific details describing it to be ferret-like. The words helped me find the right body template for Tanis (after failing to find a ferret dragon that didn't have tiny feet).

Using it as the jumping point, I looked back and forth at the various Tanis artworks to get an idea of the mane, belly scales, freckles, tail, and wings. For the wings, I opted to go for big ones since I felt it was appropriate that the wings should realistically carry Tanis at great distance. It's also made with four digits on each wing rather than five because I only counted four in the canonical artwork.

For the tail, inspired by the ferret dragons, I decided that the tail would likely be completely covered by the red mane. It certainly allowed me to side-step the underbelly scales, which were a pain to draw. It's not as big as the ferret's furry tail, but it looks nice on the final product.

I'm not sure how big the dragon would be compared to Tanis' human form, so I use the size of the eye as a reference as you can see in the ref sheet I used.

The coloring based on the artworks, but not highly shaded because I wanted it to be a concept art. Only the belly scales, wings, eyes, horns and mane had any kind of shading. The eyes were tricky since Tanis' human eye colors don't pop out from the design unless I add some yellow undertone from a glowing light pen.

Overall, I enjoyed making this fan art and the creative process to make this into a reality.

#evion #dragoncursed #tanis #fanart #evionart #dragon #my thoughts on making this fanart

[jklunar]

The Disconnect of Art

It takes a particular type of person to understand a piece of art-- a conscious kind. I can explain. 

Now, I wouldn’t consider myself someone who has always understood art, especially not on the artist’s level. But I will say that I have always felt the urge to. However, just like many things, we don’t suddenly wake up knowing how to do it-- no matter how much some people try to fool themselves into believing they have.

Art is a form of media, and just like media, whether social or mental, it has to have a purpose. But even if something has a purpose, it doesn’t mean that we instantly see it-- and in that lies our disconnect. 

I know that when I was younger, I would have considered art connoisseurs to be pretentious douches (sometimes I still do), but as I’ve grown and learned the trade secrets of appreciating art, I’d like to think some nerdy tiny human thinks the same of the current me. 

But what is this secret, you may ask? It’s simple. We must treat art less like we treat media and instead treat it as knowledge. The type of knowledge you would learn in school, the one that you would find diving deep on the internet and ending up somewhere you never expected to be. In saying this, I would say something that might peeve some people off. To understand art, we don’t have to be into it. 

This might seem obvious; no one has ever liked every art piece or style before-- we’re creatures with preferences. But I don’t think I mean it like you think I do. I mean this as; we don’t have to invest ourselves in creativity. We don’t have to try to be something that we’re not. It’s free knowledge scattered around, not some craft or trade that you have to put energy towards-- we could be using that energy to benefit ourselves. While I believe understanding art benefits me, I realize that it might not do the same to you-- I don’t live in a bubble, darling; I’m not entirely ignorant. 

You might want me to get on with it if you’ve made it this far in this post, huh? I’ll save the rambling for other posts then. Okay ready? Here we go. 

HOW TO UNDERSTAND ART.  (yes, the formatting was necessary.)

Understand how art is made.

Whoa, whoa, whoa!! You said I don’t have to invest myself in creativity?! What is this mumbo jumbo? (this is what I picture you saying right now).

And you’d be right! I did say that but understanding how something is made and learning how to are two completely different things. It’s like watching someone make an airplane doesn’t automatically make you qualified to make one, you know? This is that. 

We’re treating art like knowledge, not media, remember?

And to understand art, we have to at least have some experience finding out how it’s made-- the thoughts going through someone’s head that make it what it is. We’re so lost in this complex world that when we’re affronted by something, if we don’t know why someone created it, then it seems pointless. This is how people who don’t understand art usually see it. (I don’t know, maybe you’re an exception? If not, then you’ll learn.) Things have a purpose, even paint on a canvas. We just have to be conscious enough to make an effort to know more.

If you want an example, I’ll give you something that made me understand it. (The video that led me to create this post, actually.)

“How to paint like Pablo Picasso (Cubism) -- with Corey D’Augustine | IN THE STUDIO” by The Museum of Modern Art. I have a penchant for watching art videos, but that’s not the point of this post. 

This video gave me insight into how to understand art (obviously). This isn’t because before this video, I didn’t know how-to, but rather because I didn’t know how to appreciate, specifically, Cubism properly. I enjoy Picasso and other cubist artists’ works, but I never really understood why they looked the way they did. 

In this video, though, D’Augustine creates his own piece of cubist artwork. Through doing that, he shows the process; he generates the under-drawing, the thing that really lays out the piece’s design. But the words that really made it click were, “I’m going to move.” 

This quote doesn’t seem like much unless you have ever drawn from real life before. But essentially, as soon as you move even an inch over to one side, up or down-- the entire perspective changes. And while this is quite obvious, only until you need to analyze something do you really understand why this is such a big deal. But that’s something I’ll let you discover for yourself (I can’t give you all the answers). 

Now! How does this apply to understanding art Lunar? It applies because all types of art are different!

We’re given thousands of options for references in this modern-day world, and it skews how people see art. We’re seeing hundreds of new art pieces that conform to the statutes of realism, and because of that, we’re slowly attributing good art to mean realistic art. This is toxic, and I could go on rants about this, but I’ll spare you. With this poisonous mindset, we’re slowly seeing more people condemn other art styles because they don’t understand why people consider them good art. I’ll admit that I don’t really understand some art forms, but I think after I finish sharing my knowledge with you, I might give it another shot. 

Some things don’t make sense at first glance, whether it be a weird perspective or a lack of knowledge. Learning how to appreciate art is all about learning how the artist chose to go about it. With cubism, abstraction, and all other types of funky art, we have to understand that they didn’t go into it wanting to make something real-- they wanted to go into it wanting to create art that appeals to something. Whether that something is good or bad, who knows?

So we have to dive into that mindset! Take the time to look up a video or read an ART-icle about why these art styles came to be! What fueled them! Why we decided to take different perspectives! The world is big, and our brains are tiny! But all in all, we can still take in at least a little more knowledge, huh?? (I’m getting a little too excited, but art IS exciting, right???)

Where am I going with this? I don’t really know anymore; I think I got too excited, but here’s an explanation. How to enjoy cubism, if you will. 

Cubism got a little tired of standing still. So, the objects move, the perspectives change, and just like in many other creative fields, we have to learn to build on our current progress, even if it feels a bit wrong. It’ll be a beautiful something that shows our experiences, and I think that’s a meaning we can attribute to all things in life. So, who cares if it doesn’t look like a cup? Who cares if it doesn’t look like a plant and some wine? Because it is! Things are a little weird; things move around. Cubism is like documentation of an object’s placement rather than its shape-- isn’t that also something beautiful to understand? Art is art, and that’s pretty cool. 

#art #picasso #cubism #abstract #abstraction #understanding #educated #knowledge #realism #purpose #creation #ramblings #rambles

[hannah-the-red-head]

A Third Submission to the Imagines Society”

(League of villains meets an Autistic child with a quirk that is the definition of too good for this world and then some)

You were a tiny thing when Twice, Toga and Magne stumbled across you at the park, staring intently at what looked like your shoes with your back turned.

Magne summarized that you were most likely around 5 or 6 years old based on the kindergarten uniform you wore, the adorable hat hanging on your back while your (h/l), (h/s) (h/c) was out and about. Usually, the tree would lose interest after a while and go about their merry way.

But there was something about you that made them stay, Toga’s curiosity getting the best of her as she skipped over to where you were on your knees, she then peeked over a shoulder to see you staring in awe at butterfly that was softly moving it’s wings while resting on the petals of a blossom planted in the nearby garden.

It was one that she had never seen before, well at least in real life, but the sandy blonde remembered that she had once seen it on the internet somewhere.

It was a monarch butterfly, and last she or anyone else knew, the species were hanging by a thread and close to extinction over the last 56 years. She had admit that the pictures were close to nothing compared to the real thing as Toga watched with starry eyes at how the orange colors splashed with black and white glowed in the sunlight.

Magne herself, followed by Twice then decided to follow toga’s lead when she began to giggle like an actual schoolgirl instead of the blood obsessed vampire they knew and loved. The two peeking at the sight of both you and Toga being the surprising perches of a collection of what looked to be more Monarch butterflies that seemingly appeared out of no where.

And one of them was perched right on the tip of Toga’s nose.

Meanwhile, you had taken notice that you had a butterfly watching buddy the second you felt her crouched down next to you, your glowing (e/c) eyes staring at her with curiosity before deciding that she was interesting enough for you to deem her harmless, despite not knowing the truth.

Because in your young and innocent head, anyone that appreciated butterflies as much as you did was a good person and/or possible friend in your book.

She looked at you when she felt your eyes on her and gave you a big smile, which from what you learned meant that she was happy. So that meant that she likes you too. You smiled widely back and a series of bright rainbow colored balls of light lifted themselves off your little form, your quirk creating more butterflies from them while your new friend’s eyes sparkled.

Your quirk was called Wonder, the specialist who gave it that name having been inspired by the same emotion felt after witnessing you use your quirk at first hand to bring a rat back to life after it had been killed by a mousetrap, and later on when they returned back to the room to see that it had been filled with butterflies flying beautifully above them.

Nowadays, you mainly used your quirk to create butterflies.

Why?

Because butterflies made you happy, they made you calm, they took your worries away... and watching them was akin to what your therapist at the orphanage called stimming, your hand movements if you easily became overwhelmed resembling a butterfly flapping it’s delicate wings.

You were also fond of anything that felt like the texture closest to what you thought butterfly wings looked. However, this obsession was also the reason why your were ostracized by the other children, ignored completely by them at the worst despite how hard the workers at the orphanage tried to explain what your condition was.

You didn’t understand why the workers had the need to get the other kids to like you, if you wanted friends, you’d get some yourself on your own.

And you never understood why you had to take speech therapy, wasn’t writing in your notebook enough? You hated loud noises, they scared away things, things that are... nice.

Things like butterflies and rats and rabbits and deer, which meant that you couldn’t appreciate them anymore if they left.

So, why was there a need to make noise or let alone talk? You could never control how loud your voice was anyways. You didn’t care about how sometimes you overheard the caretakers at the orphanage whispered things about how alien you acted.

Which led to where you were now, little you having completely forgotten that you were separated from the other children heading back towards the orphanage after school had finished when you eyes spotted a flower that looked familiar until your quirk manifested the butterfly.

They sounded as if you were broken as a human.

When in reality you weren’t, you weren’t broken and needed to be fixed. At first it made you believe those words, but the moments where your eyes caught onto anything relating to those paper thin wings that radiated with the colors of the rainbow, you’re mind went to an alternate world where those who spoke about your strangeness were nonexistent.

It was then that you remembered seeing the same flower from the picture book at your school, the pink and green flora being the type of chosen roost for the orange, white and black insect to rest on if they got tired.

You never knew how much time passed when you felt your new friend’s presence near you until you turned around silently to see a schoolgirl older than your smiling peacefully at your creation, who then smiled at you.

Smiles meant something good, right?

Your quirk activated instinctually, your subconscious telling you to make your friend happy again by creating more things that made her happy, like how butterflies made you happy. You watched as the manifested insects flew over to the girl and rested on her shoulders, two nestled on the wild hair of her twin buns and one on her nose, the sensation of it’s delicate wings tickling her skin bringing a giggle out of her.

You copied her, giggling as well as you knew that laughing is what friends did. The exchange between you two led to a pair of others appearing behind your friend, the both of them watching in awe at how gentle you were.

Meanwhile in their perspective, Twice and big sis Magne were in awe.

This was a side of Toga that the pair had never seen before, so their interest in you grew steadily as they approached you both, seeing that the number of butterflies had grown the closer the became, the same orbs of light appearing to change into other species before the skies above the park had clouds of multicolored wings flying above like a piece of artwork created by nature.

It felt like a blessing to witness a sight like this, a much desired peace accomplished after so many months of being on the run from heroes and the police.

Twice jumped up and began to comically twirl about among the flocks of winged bugs, his splitting personalities having been silenced by the Nirvana he felt surrounding him, only stopping when he heard a few giggles left your mouth while you tried to keep up with him and Toga’s free styling dances without a care in the world.

The four of you not caring that you were getting strange looks and even scowls from those who crossed your paths in order to get a better look at the butterflies conjured by your beautiful quirk.

By the time the sun had set, you and your new friends had collapsed onto the grass, laughing in between breaths from all the fun you shared in those hours of innocent fun.

And you were the one to give that sense of childhood purity of fun back to them without realizing it. In your mind, you were happy that you had finally made friends by yourself as with a kick of your short legs you sat up and turned to the one closest to you, a tall woman with sunglasses and short hair the other two called “Big Sis Mag”.

You poked her cheek and she turned her face towards yours. Taking a deep breath, you decided to try something new that you hadn’t done or were comfortable with.

You: (Yy...yourrr n....nnamme!).... (Your Name)!

It was hard at first, being silent for most of your childhood being the reason as to why you sounded like a newborn attempting to say their first word. But the pride you felt as you pointed to yourself when you said your name clearly on the second try was amazing.

“Big Sis’” eyebrows shot up in surprise, and you understood why she was shocked as the only noises you made were giggles and squeals.

You: (Your name)!.... B-big sissy... Mmmmmag! Fr...friends! T-t-too...Toga! Fri..ends! Twi...Twice! Friends!

All three had unknown expressions present while you gave them a wide toothy grin that you had never given anyone except for your mama.

Twice: I think I’m gonna cry.... No, I’m not! Grow a pair!

Twice cartoonishly wept through his mask, tears that would only exist within an Animé pouring from the eyes of his black and grey mask before stopping almost immediately, his face changing to that of a stoic man drawn in comic books.

Toga just smiled at Twice, before a weak tug on her cardigan pulled her attentions to you, your arms held out wide and with an excited glow to you. You always remembered the warmth your mother’s hugs were growing up, how safe and loved you felt when your adorable self tackled her leg in a weak koala hug before she pulled you into her own arms.

Toga: Oh does (y/n)-chan want a hug?

You nodded and tackled the blonde, arms wrapped around her neck with you cheek pressed against hers, something your mother called “cuddle bumps” as you hated it when someone kissed you.

You: C-cu-cuddle bu-bumps!

Twice: I want cuddle bumps! No, I don’t that’s weird!

You nuzzled your cheek against hers, the teenage girl internally squealing and hugging you back as she was overcome with a sense of some maternal need to protect you and the light your little self emanated, both figuratively and literally as your quirk caused you to glow a warm pink color.

Toga playfully stuck out her tongue towards him, when an idea came to her.

—————

Shigaraki: And the most logical thing that you could ever think of in that moment.... was to bring this brat home?!

Toga’s cheeks puffed up as she hugged your little form from behind while you fiddled with your quirk, a manifested butterfly perched in the palm of your hand. You loved the feeling of your big sister’s soft cardigan as she hugged you.

Toga: Of course, Shiggy! I mean they’re an orphan left behind by those “caretakers”, we even waited to see if anyone would come looking.

Twice: Yeah, it was so nerve wracking! I was bored beyond belief....

Shigaraki let out an aggravated sigh, knowing that you had wormed your way into the hearts of the most in the league, Dabi being the first to cave when you used your quirk to soothe the pain in his burnt skin. He didn’t know why, but the fire quirk user’s eyes softened when you gazed up at his skin and your smile faded, a look of genuine worry that he possibly never experienced in some time as your tiny hand went up to hold his hand with the both of yours.

The rest of the already shocked league watching as an aura glowed from your small form, the glow then moving up your arms and finally covering Dabi in the glow before then pulling away into orbs that popped like soap bubbles filled with fireflies.

Dabi reacted in a way that not even he could describe as all the unbearable burning pain his scars brought him disappeared, a strange surge of.... calm washed over him.

It was the kind of calm that one would feel when a powerful storm dissipates, allowing the warm sun to bathe the earth once again. 

And it was the type of calm that brought a heavy exhale out of Dabi, almost as if he had finally learned to breathe, tears falling down his cheeks and startling him, a hand shooting up to touch his wet face and pulling it away to see what was falling from his eyes.

This... made the tears fall harder.

Dabi had long forgotten what it felt like to cry actual salt water tears instead of blood. A relieved upwards tilt pulled at his lips as he fell to his knees before you, no words exchanged, just glances and a gentle grip of your joined hands.

You: No pain?

Your concern overweighed your struggling speech, your free hand raising up to hover next to his cheek. He chuckled softly, allowing you to place your hands onto his face.

Dabi: No pain. All better.

Your quirk was befitting for such a gentle, caring and kind being as you.

To put it simply, you could restore a person’s injuries, negative outlook on life due to traumatic experiences, and even their lost sense of morality via through your touch, being in your presence, or even by witnessing your creations first hand.

This was your power, a quirk that purified the evil living within this cruel world.

You could literally restore a person or persons lost sense of morality, your quirk changing a sociopathic killer into a saint seeking redemption just by spending an hour with you. 

Your quirk also allowed you to heal any kind of wound or cure any illness, it could even replace missing limbs and the like as long as you kept your focus.

And it was meant to be protected.

Which is why you were taken into the protection of the league of villains, the only group of people who were the first to actually care for you after your mama’s passing, and didn’t speak badly of you or your condition.

Because they didn’t mind that you were autistic, they didn’t see you as broken or wrong. How did you know that they didn’t ostracize you?

They told you.

Twice: You, broken? Ha, that’s fresh! At least you don’t have more than one voice in your head...

Toga: My quirk needs me to drink the blood of the person i’m going to transform into in order for it to work, and because of that, I was pushed away by everyone for how creepy it made me look.

Magne: Anyone would be proud to call you their kid with a drop of a hat. So what if your special needs, it doesn’t make you any less human, sweetie.

Dabi didn’t say anything when you asked, in your broken speech, if you were broken. Instead, he just ruffled your hair and let you wear his jacket all day.

Compress: This world is filled with imperfections, but who is to say that imperfections are ugly and unwanted. To me, imperfections are where true beauty lies as it shows that despite their flaws, they try again and again to make themselves better.

Spinner: Kid, I am a walking talking lizard with pink hair and a desire to follow Stain’s path to create a society where only those who embody the traits of true heroes like All Might are allowed to become heroes.

You didn’t know how to react as he continued.

Spinner: If anything, you are the most normal out of all of us, so don’t go hating on yourself because you’re brain is wired differently. You’re perfect just the way you are.

Magne: Aww, that’s so sweet of you to say, Spinner!

Spinner: BIG SIS MAGNE?!?! HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN THERE?!

Toga: Enough to know that you give the best pep talks!~

#my hero imagines #my hero academia #bhna imagine #bhna #league of villians x reader #autistic positivity #autisim #autistic reader #child!reader #found family #Magne is most definitely the mom #she spoils you #toga is the big sis #twice is your weird but fun uncle #compress is the dad #dabi is your favorite cousin #shigaraki.... he’s there #but Still likes you #spinner is the big brother #that won’t hesitate to stab someone #if they made you cry #imagines #more to come #stay tuned

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: IV

“I had a few, got drunk on you

And now I’m wasted

And when I sleep, I’m gonna dream of 

How you tasted.”

— Medicine, Harry Styles

A/N: if i said i’m apologizing for the way i left off ch3, yes i did ❤️ no i didn’t ❤️ it was fun ❤️ as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!! and if you enjoy the piece, please reblog it!!! it keeps content creators motivated!! without further delay, hope you enjoy what’s in store for Sherlock and Watson this chapter cause it’s uhhhh quite a bit of uhhhh ~stuff~ 😌

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

word count: 26.4k

content/warnings: a mild addiction to sexting, some pretty sparkly lingerie, a very interesting photo, a strange but satisfying gift, rough sex and degradation, pillow talk about the validity of the men in Twilight, the satisfying gift being put to even more good use, Y/N going over to Harry’s apartment for the first time, mild mentions of blood, and an impromptu Hamilton re-enactment amidst more lemon blueberry pancakes

///

For the next three days, the sexting grows more frequent. 

Harry feels somewhat humiliated by it, really. He’s an adult— a full-grown, two hundred and nine year old man— and trading nudes with a simple girl shouldn’t be getting him as worked up as it does. He should know how to handle his hormones better, and the thing is, he usually does. But no one in the last few centuries has made him feel as desperate as Y/N does; he hasn’t felt this helpless for someone since he was alive. The vampire just wasn’t prepared to handle the needy responses she so easily yields from his body and he’s horribly rusty on how to skate this thin sheet of metaphorical ice. It’s like he can feel it cracking and crunching beneath his feet, but he has absolutely no power over how to stop it. Any minute, it’s bound to take him under, and he has no choice but to allow himself to drown in it. 

The following seventy two hours are full of so many dirty promises and explicit images, his phone might as well be a porno hard drive.

After coaxing Y/N into a few orgasms through the phone and receiving just as many in return, a dangerous game is set into motion that Harry knows is probably unhealthy not only for his self-worth, but for the sensitivity of his anatomy. He can only get off so many times before his joints are begging for a break. 

He wakes up Wednesday morning with a stiff ache running along his inner thighs and ebbing across the underside of his balls, but there’s an undeniable contentment stewing behind it. He doesn’t truly mind the throb, comforted by the fact that Y/N is probably facing similar issues at the moment. He finds himself smiling coyly as he flips an omelette onto one of his marble-print platters, recalling the events from the night before. 

According to what he’d heard on the other end of the phone, present throughout the array of shaky gasps, cracked whimpers, and wet sounds of pleasure that had echoed from the speaker, Harry had made Y/N squirt. 

That was a tremendous stroke to his already huge ego. The idea that he’d been able to make her cum so hard that she’d soiled her brand new sheets had been circling around his head for the last couple of hours, fluffing his confidence. It’s a milestone achievement, to be honest. He’d done something that very few men have the skill to achieve in person, meanwhile he’d done it just by using his voice and extensive imagination. The arrogance he’s sporting right now is more than justified. His cheeks are starting to ache from how hard he’s grinning.

The vampire is so lost in his recollections that he nearly misses the chime of his phone, the unique ringtone that beeps out being as welcomed as ever. 

Harry scoops up his device while spooning a piece of his green pepper and mushroom egg dish into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he swipes into Y/N’s text conversation. He smoothers the giddiness fluttering in his stomach; he’s not a child. 

As it turns out, he’d killed those butterflies for no solid reason because the instant her message pops up, they come right back to life. 

Morning! Thought I’d show you what I’m planning on wearing to work today. 

Harry roughly swallows down his breakfast at the attachment following the caption, a shiver coiling down his spine. “Fucking hell.”

The photo is a mirror shot, taken in her tiny bathroom. It’s a full body image where she’s clad in a matching set of bra and panties, the material sparkly bright red lace. The bottoms are high-waisted, hugging her tummy and hips in a way he deems perfect, the lace decorating her skin beautifully. The bra is see-through, so he has an unrestrained view of her chest and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks he might love the way her breasts look in lingerie more than without it. Make no mistake, he’ll willingly drool over her no matter what, but there’s just such a refined beauty in seeing her figure in such an elegant piece. She’s like a present set out for him to unwrap, preferably with his teeth. 

Then he notices the garters and the next forkful of food lodges in his throat. They hug around her legs deliciously, the bands settled midway down her thighs as the straps run up the sides and clip onto the hem of her panties. Yeah, he would definitely use his teeth. 

After gawking at the artwork for a minute, Harry finally gathers himself enough to type back a decent reaction.

I’m pretty sure that outfit doesn’t apply to the workspace dress code. 

Y/N shakes her head in amusement at his response, giggling softly as she finishes shimmying into her black skinny jeans, buttoning them over the skimpy lace. 

I’ll cover up for the sake of the customers. But it’s just such a nice set, I figured someone else should get to appreciate it with me.  

Harry sets his utensil down on top of his plate, omelet only half eaten. His appetite has molded into a very different type of hunger. He pads out of the kitchen, feeling the ten AM sunlight filter through the glass wall of his living room and warm his bare chest and back. He heads for the bathroom that branches out of the entrance corridor, coming to a stop right in front of its mirror. He begins to clean up his appearance, combing his bed head into a presentable state (he hadn’t slept, per usual, but rolling around his pillows last night while he indulged fantasies about Y/N had done his curls in something fierce), fixing his royal blue briefs along his hips and dragging the waistband down to show off the dip of his prominent pelvic bones.

Once the immortal is done, he taps back with eager strokes of his thumbs. 

I can’t believe you’ve never worn that for me. That’s a criminal offense. Literally worth capital punishment. 

Oh, really? Capital punishment? And who are you to decide my verdict?

I’m the executioner, obviously. I’m in charge of dispensing the verdict and I promise you, I’ll see to it that you get what you deserve. It’s my civic duty.

Y/N scoffs at his quip, tugging her navy polo shirt over her torso and quickly running a brush through her hair. She puts it up into a neat ponytail, sighing lightly as she stares at her tired reflection. She wishes she could ditch work for the day and entertain more conversation with Harry, but she literally can’t afford to.

Well, you’re gonna have to wait while I go perform my own type of civic duty. Making the world a better place, one grilled panini at a time. 

Harry’s lips jolt. She’s so clever and witty, he doesn’t know how she could possibly be from such a dull, monochrome town. 

I understand. Justice calls. But before you go, can I send you a picture of what I’M wearing today? Could use a few style tips. 

That’s pretty ironic coming from someone whose last name is literally ‘Styles.’

I know, I know. But even fashion icons have their insecurities sometimes. 

Fair point, nobody’s perfect. Lemme see your OOTD, then.

The outfit of the day appears to be no outfit at all, according to Harry’s picture. It’s taken on a mirror, like her own, and it depicts him standing with one hand holding his phone in front of his face while the other seems to be doing jazz hands down his body playfully. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of deep blue briefs (probably because he’d completely ruined the maroon pair he was wearing last night, if his broken moans and heavy panting had been any indication) and they hug his frame flawlessly. The fabric is bunched around his lean thighs, tiger head tattoo peeking out to accompany the rest of the collection, which includes all the inkings running the length of his left arm as well as the butterfly and swallows across his torso. His v-line is evident as ever, dipping below the elastic band teasingly. His chest is broad and his biceps are taut, despite the fact that he’s not even flexing. He looks like a Greek statue and Y/N is positive the higher powers designed Harry with that specific thought in mind.

Y/N doesn’t realize drool is gathering in her mouth until it tickles the inside of her bottom lip. She snaps her jaw closed, clearing her throat sheepishly. Over a minute has passed of her just ogling and she can feel heat layering across her cheeks. She knows Harry probably has the cockiest expression on his face at the moment, obvious in the tone of the next comment he delivers. 

Damn, it’s that bad, huh? Guess I’ll have to change. 

No, it’s perfect. Simple, but effective. Very professional. 

Why, thank you! 

My pleasure.

Here, take this as a token of my appreciation. Hopefully it can help get you through the day. 

This specific photo is taken from an above point of view, as if Y/N were looking down at Harry’s body along with him. His pectorals and stomach muscles appear more defined, tattoos darker and skin more evidently sunkissed. Lower down, there’s the obvious outline of what lies within his boxers, snuggled up against his thick thigh and tempting her to let out a soft whine. Then, resting casually against his abdomen is his free hand, sporting a thumbs-up that gives a purposefully goofy vibe to the risky image. He’s such an idiot. 

The mortal’s answer is just as silly and lighthearted as his gesture. 

Thank you, I’ll keep it locked in my heart forever. 

I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

That’s the first interaction of many that further opens the door to their virtual sex life. Things hardly stay that innocent. 

That night when Y/N gets home from work, they undergo another round of phone sex. It starts off the same: cheeky banter that leads to cheeky pictures that eventually leads to utter filth. 

And that’s how they spend the next few days— taking care of each other’s needs digitally until Friday rolls around. There’s plenty of those encounters, but there’s definitely favorites. 

A session during one of Harry’s self-care baths, when he puts her on speaker and she talks him through tugging one out while the scent of lavender salts— which he’d chosen because they smell like her— leave his heated skin feeling soft and supple. Another instance where he makes her orgasm while she has gotten bored watching a scary movie marathon on her couch, the screams of the horror film mere background noise compared to all the sweet nothings Harry huskily mumbles into her ear, his dominant voice filtering through her headphone and instructing her on how to make herself feel good.

Harry messages her at three A.M. at one point, wide awake as ever, all of his thoughts occupied by the concept of Y/N laying on her tummy between his thighs and sucking him off at a slow pace. He can practically see her small hands wrapped around his girth, stroking up to meet her pretty lips, her tongue lapping at his tip eagerly as she whines around a full mouth. She’s always just so eager. Even at the crack of dawn, she’s awake by some miracle, and happily willing to delve into that fantasy with him. Her soft, timid tone drifts across the shells of his ears, explicitly sketching out how she’d take him all the way down her throat until she gags, and how she’d kiss all over the head of his prick just to smear his precum over her lips to then lick it off, and how she’d rock against his lap fast and hard while he takes her nipples between his teeth. How she wouldn’t stop until he’s dripping down her thighs and groaning into her throat. How she’d let him fuck her as many times as it takes to tire himself out. 

Harry obviously repays her, and it comes in the form of him painting out a scenario where she’s gotten home from a long day at the café. He tells her about how he’d be there waiting for her in nothing but his underwear, sitting back on his elbows in her bed, touching himself over his briefs just at the thought of pleasuring her. About how he’d lay her out and taste every inch of her body with his tongue, and how he’d run his teeth across her inner thighs tenderly while his fingers play with her clit, and how he’d have her ride his face deep and sloppy until she’s shaking and sensitive. How he’d tie her to the bed and toss her legs over his shoulders while he pounds her into the mattress, marking bruises across her neck as she sucks on his fingers and tightens around his cock like “the snug little thing you are.”

They even take their fun out of the confines of their houses and into public settings, just to give it an adrenaline high. Those situations are foreplay; it’s how they prep each other throughout the day for when they’re both finally alone and can truly help one another to the fullest. 

It happens Thursday on two occasions. 

First, to Y/N, who is sitting in the backroom on her lunch break, though she’s barely touched her food. She’s much more interested in what Harry has to say. Much more interested in how he says he wishes he could be there with her right now. That she could sneak him in through the back door of the restaurant and they could lock themselves in that tiny supply room, making sure no one would disturb what he’s about to do to her. That he would drop to his knees and drag her jeans down her legs, pressing damp kisses in the denim’s wake, biting hickies in the areas he knows she loves to receive them. He would mount her knees over his shoulders and bury his face between her thighs, looking up at her through heavy lashes as he licks into her desperately. He would have her grab onto his curls and guide his tongue just the way she likes it, and she’d have to bite into her cheek to keep from getting caught. 

He talks about how he’d take her against the supply shelves, one hand clamped over her mouth while he pants praise into her ear, her body jolting roughly upwards against the surface as she clings to his back. How he’d hold her up with the other arm and slam her down onto his cock, cooing things like, “Gotta keep quiet for me, sweetheart. Can’t make you cum if we get caught.” and “Such a filthy girl, sneaking me in here just to fuck you. Baby just wants to walk around the rest of the day full of me, doesn’t she?” 

That fantasy leaves her in a bothered haze the rest of the work day. It’s bad enough that she almost drops her tray three different times and has to ask multiple customers to repeat their orders. 

Y/N gets back at Harry, though. That revenge is the second occasion. 

The vampire had mentioned that he would be going out with his friends that evening to a bar and she takes full advantage of that. When the picture comes through, Harry nearly spits out his Manhattan drink. 

He’s sitting in a booth surrounded by his entire group and he’d been talking shit with Niall about golf. The vampire doesn’t care for the sport, but Niall loves it, and Harry loves getting on Niall’s nerves, therefore it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Mitch and Adam join in, with Mitch obviously supporting Harry, when he randomly decides to check his notifications. Even in the shrunken little banner, Harry can immediately tell the photo is graphic. Xander asks if he’s alright, telling him he looks freakishly pale and to get his eyes under control because they're in public. Harry blinks the red from his irises, hurriedly excusing himself and clambering up from his seat, jetting across the restaurant towards the restrooms. It’s occupied, much to his luck, so he settles for simply pressing his back against the wall of the corridor, leaning his head against the bricks and taking deep breaths to calm the raging in his stomach. He gingerly opens the message and his knees nearly give out. 

The image is taken from the back, probably using a timer. Y/N is wearing one of her big tees and another pair of cheeky lace panties, but this time around, they’re pastel peach and crotchless. She’s bent over with her ass up and spine arched, knees parted for balance, her shirt bunching downwards due to the angle. Her arms are pulled behind her back and her chest is flushed to the bed, wrists crossed submissively as she gazes at the camera over her shoulder. There’s an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes and he can tell she had sent this now on purpose just to fuck with him, knowing good and well that he was out and occupied.

The shot is more than he can handle and he has to swallow down the urge to stomp out of the bar, get into his car, race to her flat, and make her rethink her decision. Preferably, in the form of harsh spanks and overstimulation. He can see everything— the intentional rip at the crotch of the panties are meant for that sole reason. The closer he looks, he comes to realize that she’s wet, which in turn means she had been touching herself. She’d set this up perfectly, knowing that he’d easily be able to deduce that fact and that it would haunt him for the rest of the night. 

The monster releases a quivering exhale, typing back slowly and carefully, sight bleary. 

You’re going to regret that. 

Pinky promise?

///

When Harry arrives at Y/N’s apartment the next night, as he has for the last three Fridays, he doesn’t saunter up to her door and bang on it angrily. He doesn’t grab her by her hair and drag her into her room, how he’d intended. He doesn’t even have a single cinch in his sculpted brows. 

Instead, he raps softly on the door with one jeweled knuckle and waits calmly. 

The human goes to answer, her stomach twisting in excitement at all the possibilities of what punishment she might face for her antics. A small, sly smile buckles the corners of her lips at the thought, her fingers trembling as they wrap around her cold doorknob. She expects to find a furrow-browed, intense-eyed, red-faced Harry behind the threshold, who would shove past her, nab her by the arm, and throw her onto her bed. She expects him to yank his belt from around his hips while a distinct darkness swallows his emerald irises, his mouth curling into a sinister grin. She expects him to roughly command she get on her hands and knees, his palm finding the back of her head to shove her face-first into the sheets while he rips her panties down her legs and drags the cool leather of his accessory over her backside tauntingly.

What she gets is something— and someone— completely the opposite. 

When her door swings open, Harry is standing standing there, sure. But instead of looming over her with flaring nostrils and cruel intent, he’s decided to lean against the door frame with his arms folded casually. His body is completely empty of tension, his ankles are crossed offhandedly, and a small, bright red paper bag full of sparkly black tissue paper is hanging off his wrist. His expression is a relaxed facade of indifference, lips set into his usual signature smirk, no explosive emotions present whatsoever. 

That startles Y/N. This has to be an act; it feels like the calm before a violent storm and it has her shifting in her socked feet. Did he...Did he forget what she did? 

There’s no way he forgot. It was too brazen a move to dismiss.

Harry steps forward into her home, comfortable enough that he no longer has to wait for an invitation. Y/N moves to the side to let him through, hesitantly closing the entrance behind him, contemplating the man as if he were a ticking bomb. She does a quick sweep of his physique, looking for some other clue as to what he could be plotting, aside from the mysterious gift bag in his hand. He’s wearing a pair of flared denim jeans, a white tee with a royal blue cartoon bee printed in the center along with the words Enjoy health! Eat your honey! surrounding it, his white Vans, and an oversized colorful patch-work cardigan. The outfit is surprisingly domestic compared to his usual taste, but she finds it’s easily one of her favorite fits on him. He just looks so boyish adorable. 

The human comes up with nothing suspicious, glancing back up to lock eyes with her guest. Harry beams at her innocently and she knows for sure he’s planning something, but she can’t place what. 

“I got you this.” The vampire speaks up first, holding out the paper bag towards Y/N with his index finger, bouncing it encouragingly. “Take a peek.” 

The girl accepts the gift gingerly, giving him one more hard look before breaking away to investigate what lies beneath the tissue paper. She pulls out a small cardboard box, her eyes squinting slightly as she reads its print and surveys the label. The image on the surface appears to be of five silicone finger gloves, each about the size of a thumbtack, tiny metal plates embedded into the pads. She’s voicing her curiosity before she’s even finished studying the container. 

“What...What are these?”

Harry rolls his eyes jokingly, tapping the object for emphasis. “Read the fine print, love.” 

Y/N focuses on the region he’d pointed out, reciting aloud. “‘Vibrating silicone finger gloves. For the use of personal pleasure or with partners.’”

Then it all clicks. 

“Oh my God, you got me— what?!” Y/N’s head snaps up in shock, mouth parted and brows creased. “Harry, what?”

The young man laughs airily, gently opening the seal of the box in her hands, which she is now holding as if it were a weapon of mass destruction. It’s such a weird present to give in general, moreso all out of the blue, so she can’t be blamed for her reaction.

He uncaps the packaging, rummaging through its contents and pulling out two of the tiny rubbery gloves. They’re transparent and ribbed, obviously meant to deliver as many sensations as possible, and they’re about two inches in length. He slips them onto his index and middle finger, making scissoring motions for the purpose of symbolism, but mainly just to watch Y/N fidget. “I remember how you said you don’t have sex toys because you’d never really thought about buying any, so I went and picked these up down at my favorite shop. Jessi said they’re good for beginners.”

“Jessi?” Y/N’s voice is tight. She’s not sure how to respond to this; she’s never been in this situation before. No one has ever just given her a sex toy as if a were a candy bar. “Who’s Jessi and why do they need to know about my sex life?”

“She’s the manager.” Harry says matter-of-factly. He doesn’t seem to find anything strange about this encounter. “She helped me pick out my first pocket vag, so I trust her with my soul. Here, look. You just slip them on and—” He makes finger thrusting motions in the air, wiggling his digits playfully. “Big O. Not as good as what I can give you, obviously, but close enough.”

“Harry, you do realize this is a little…odd, right?”

The boy blinks at Y/N blankly. “What? Why? Sex is literally the basis of this whole thing.” He signals back and forth between them with his gloved forefinger. “It’s really not that weird at all, if y’think about it.”

“I just...it’s like…” 

Her argument fizzles to an end the longer she stares at him. He has the most wholesome expression painted across his handsome features, his eyes glossy with excitement. He looks genuinely elated about the present and she can’t find it in herself to question him any further. As unorthodox as this may be, it’s the first true act of kindness anyone has shown Y/N since she had moved to California. It’s the first time anyone has given the girl anything without her having to request it. She comes to the realization that Harry really is the only friend she has at the moment, and she refuses to pick and prod at that, lest he retract from her on the grounds that she’s ungrateful. Yes, this is a little atypical, but so is their whole dynamic. In his own twisted way, this is how Harry shows his friendship. 

The more she ponders on it, she starts to understand that this truly is something she should accept. He went out of his way to get her this gift, which solidifies their acquaintanceship. It’s sweet.

“You know what, never mind. Thank you! I love them.” 

The giddy smile that cracks his face melts her heart. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Harry then softly grasps her hand with his, tugging her down the entrance hallway, his intentions set on her bedroom. His voice takes on a deeper sultry twang, the corners of his mouth twitching suggestively. “Because on my way here, I was thinking, yeah? And I figured: who better to teach you how to use these than the person who picked them out.”

“Of fucking course.” Y/N huffs in amusement, shaking her head but allowing herself to be guided forward. “I should’ve known you had an ulterior motive.” 

“Heyyyyy!” Harry’s whine is offended, but the coy simper dimpling his cheeks ruins any defense he could possibly try to spin. “This isn’t an ulterior motive, it’s simply a supporting one.”

“Right.” Y/N states flatly, shuffling forward slowly as he backs down her corridor, momentarily glancing over his shoulder to orient himself. “Buying a fuck buddy a sex toy is totally selfless and mutually exclusive of the agreement.”

Harry takes a turn and crosses the threshold into her bedroom, releasing her arm and instead, he opts for wrapping his fist into the loose material of her large Transformers tee, twisting the fabric around his knuckles and giving it a sharp yank. She stumbles into his chest and almost drops the box. 

The vampire gazes down at her with half-lidded eyes, long lashes tempting and plush lips the color of roses. “I never said it was mutually exclusive. I just said it wasn’t meant to be evidently inclusive.” 

He takes the box from her grip, sliding it onto her nightstand so that any obstacles between them are eliminated. He beckons her closer with a flick of his wrist, feeling heat erupt across his chest as her palms slap down against it to steady herself. She’s always so warm, almost like a furnace. It’s a nice contrast to his ever-present coldness.

Harry’s cupped fingers nurse the slope of her jaw, tilting her chin up to level his, Cupid’s bow ghosting over her own teasingly as a grin threatens to betray him. His accent is thick, heavy with condescension. “Now do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Y/N gulps audibly, the sudden jump in her heart rate causing Harry’s cock to give a foreshadowing twitch in his designer jeans. Her eyes soften with a form of weepy desire, head nodding in his grasp. 

Harry’s top teeth catch on his lower lip as he appraises her from over the crest of his defined cheekbones. “I don’t think I heard you, pet. Must be the AC draft.”

The mortal’s eyes fall shut as she composes herself, a shaky sigh faltering past her nostrils. She tips forward onto her toes, connecting her itching mouth to his. Harry allows it, listing his head to the side to grant her more access, his free arm roping across the dip of her spine and pressing her front flushed to his. The kiss is soft and heated, full of drunken tongues and muffled whimpers. It’s tame compared to most of the others they’ve shared, but Harry likes it. It’s sloppy and intimate; only the beginning of what he knows will be a long night. 

Her words sting the ridges of his lips, hot and bated. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Harry speaks into her mouth, tone gentle but packing a punch. “Get my belt off for me, will you? I’m tying you to the bed tonight.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice, a dark chuckle vibrating across his tongue when her fingers immediately begin to fumble with his belt buckle. 

Once Harry has looped the leather tightly around Y/N’s wrists and has knotted them to one of the wooden railings of her headboard, he sits back on his heels to admire his work. Y/N is splayed out across her mattress with her arms suspended above her head, bare thighs clasped in anticipation as her t-shirt gathers around her waist. Her hands are curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she watches Harry leisurely shrug off his cardigan, keeping eye contact with her the whole way through. His tattoos stand out against the buttery light of the single lamp on the table, tanned arms flexing sinfully. 

He shifts around, laying down onto his stomach and coasting his palms up her quivering legs, kissing over her kneecaps and along the crease of her inner thighs, bunching her shirt further up her body as he goes. As soon as he spots the first garter, he blacks out for a millisecond, vision washing red. 

“Fuck, wait— did you…?” His voice is strained and desperate as he shoves the rest of her clothes up her torso, pulling her shirt over her head and letting it rest at her elbows. He hums appreciatively when he’s met with the full cherry-colored lingerie set from a few days ago, garters and all. “God, you did.”

Y/N’s gaze falls timidly, a sheepish smile brushing over her face. “I thought you’d want to see it in person, since you seemed to like it so much.” 

“Mm...” Harry struggles to swallow, fingers hooking under the straps that clip to the hem of her underwear, pulling the fabric from her skin and letting them snap back into place. He revels in the tiny noise she lets slip, the pads of his digits now toying across the frilly bands encircling her upper legs. After a thoughtful heartbeat, Harry speaks up, wistful but vehement. “I’m going to make you soil your sheets again.” 

Y/N bucks a tad at his promise, wrists stressing against the leather belt, but Harry’s practiced enough bondage in his lifetime to know she won’t be getting out anytime soon. He parts her knees open with his palms, dragging his silicone-covered fingers down her clothed clit and tutting when she lets out a stuttery gasp. 

“Always so sensitive, aren’t you, angel?” The vampire pets at her core patiently, heat pooling at the base of his abdomen as he feels her panties damped with every stroke of his touch. “Christ, you’re already soaking through.”  

“Want more.” The girl’s plead is strangled as she actively forces herself to keep her legs wide open, knowing that if she were to allow them to snap shut, Harry would only pry them apart again. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. Please.”

“All week?” Harry drags tongue across the inside of her thigh, nipping at the flesh tauntingly, the amber specks in his eyes glittering amidst his lashes. He continues to rub through her underwear, drinking up all the little noises streaming from her throat. “Tread lightly, dove. You’re swelling my ego.”

“I just…” Her hips give another jerk when he wriggles two rubber-clad fingers into the crotch of her bottoms, spreading her open just a bit and grinning against her skin at how wet she’s become. “I just need it hard tonight, Harry. Need you to leave me sore.” 

“I always leave you sore.” The monster reasons mockingly, taking one of the garters between his teeth and tugging, releasing so it stings her like before. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

Y/N trembles out an exhale, gathering herself enough to give him what he wants. “I need you to fuck me like you hate me.”

Harry grabs onto either sides of her panties, slowly peeling them down her legs and then scooting closer forward, planting an open-mouthed kiss right onto her bare clit. She mewls in return, her restraints creaking the bed. He continues pressing messy wet pecks to her cunt, feeling her tense up each time his soft lips suckle her fervently. 

“Is that why you sent that picture?” Harry wonders aloud, pausing his motions and raising one eyebrow at her. “Because you wanted me mad?”

The human nods, face wracked with guilt. It’s cute that she feels bad, especially because Harry had, in actuality, enjoyed her little stunt. Seeing her bent over like that, in a position that shows she couldn’t wait to please him— that she couldn’t wait until Friday came around so he could do to her whatever he deemed fit...It was the best form of edging he’s ever experienced. But for the sake of giving her what she wants, he’ll bite the bait. 

Harry rises up onto his knees, parting her thighs further as he fits himself between them, the pads of his gloved digits dancing across the thick of her damp clit. He bends down until his nose smudges over hers, the breath of his low words hot against her parted mouth. 

“Well, it fucking worked.”  

Harry taps his index and middle fingers against his palm in one quick flick and the tiny metal plates situated along the tips purr to life. He sinks knuckle-deep inside of Y/N, cold rings catching on her folds as he curls upwards to get at that special spot that resides along the pit of her tummy. The moan she releases it so raw and broken, it sends a zip of lightning through his veins. 

He fucks her like that for a while, with his strong chest poised against her heaving own as he marks love bites onto the cleavage spilling from her lace bra, his skilled fingers pumping into her at a harsh pace that has her legs shaking on either sides. He thumbs over her clit messily, the silicone molds sending waves of vibrations through her clenching walls as he relentlessly toys with her g-spot, her arms thrashing against his belt. Fragmented sounds of bliss freely stream from Y/N’s mouth without shame, his name intermingling amongst the whimpers as her head throws back against the headboard. Harry grips her throat in one hand, holding her to the sturdy surface as his other bobs between her thighs roughly, the bed groaning as a result of their intense actions. His wrist begins to ache from how hard he’s going, but the tears trickling out from the corners of Y/N’s eyes and the way she’s panting into his mouth are enough to keep him going.

“Look at me.” Harry squeezes her jugular tighter, garnering attention. She forces her eyelids open, inhales hiccuping when he braces his cool forehead to hers, his irises the color of a forest at midnight, pupils blown out of proportion. His teeth dig into her bottom lip just to feel it swell, a growl stirring the gravel in his chest. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes.” Y/N boggles her head feverishly, glimpsing down over her sweaty cheeks to see the way his veins are chiseling along the forearm that is flexing between her drenched thighs. “Fuck, it’s so g-good.”

“Yeah? How about we go a little higher, hm?” Harry scrapes the pads of his fingers against that spongy place inside her, pressing the vibrators down and the motion clicks the toy into a higher level of intensity. 

Y/N writhes in his grasp, back arching off the headboard as deeper, more concentrated rumbles lap throughout her body. “Harry— I— that’s— God, just please!”

Harry takes ahold of her jaw as he continues finger-fucking her without remorse, his short breaths warm against her burning lips. “That’s my girl. Taking it hard and loving every second.” 

Y/N’s eyes lull back into her head. She doesn’t know why, but hearing Harry call her his girl satisfies her in a manner so deep, she didn’t know it existed. Just hearing him recognize her as his— as something he claims for himself, almost like an extension of who he is— stirs a foreign form of fulfillment in the back of her mind. 

“I’m—” The girl chokes on her sentence, finding it difficult to concentrate with so much pleasure coursing through her system, as well as with Harry painting hickies across the side of her strained neck. “I’m gonna cum.”

The immortal’s voice is stern and authoritative. “No, you’re not.” 

“I am, I can’t hold—”

“Yes,” Harry’s grip firms, pace sharpening into unapologetic slams, “you can. And you will. If you cum before I let you, you’re not getting anything else from me for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”

Y/N’s cunt tightens around his fingers, warning him that she’s about to peak. “Harry, I’m sorry—but— but I—”

“Do I make myself clear?” 

Y/N has no hope that she can keep it in, but she adores the darkness swirling in Harry’s eyes at the moment and she’ll do anything if it means getting to witness it for a while longer. “Yes.” 

“Good.” She winces when she feels his teeth skim her earlobe, his whisper dripping with arrogant amusement. “I told you I’d make you regret it.” 

And he really does keep his oath. Minutes simulate hours as Harry continues to flirt her just along the seams of relief, pulling her back every time he sees her about to tip. Whenever he feels her begin to spasm around his slick fingers, he gives her a cautionary quirk of his brows accompanied by a testing, throaty, “Don’t you fucking dare.” or a simple, silent shake of his head. By some miracle, she manages to reign herself in every time, but each ruined orgasm makes it harder and harder to stifle the next. She doesn’t know how many times it happens; she stops counting after four. 

After what feels like decades of torture, Harry finally releases his hold around her jugular, allowing her to properly gulp air for the first time in a while. He sits back against his heels, pulling his hand from between her thighs with a sarcastic sympathetic hiss. “Poor thing.” 

He watches as a trail of her juices strings from his digits to her cunt, eventually snapping in the middle as he lifts his hand to study his work. Her release drips down his knuckles and palm, gleaming in the dim lighting. A mildly sadistic glint washes over Harry’s irises and for a split second, they look almost red, but Y/N dismisses it. Her brain is too fogged to trust right now. 

The boy’s sight flickers past his hand to where Y/N lies limply, wrists bruised from the bonds, arms quivering weakly, and legs trembling in overstimulation. He’s never seen her look more beautiful than now. 

He locks his bright eyes to her exhausted own, watching them shatter to pieces when he pushes his drenched fingers past his pillowy blushed lips. His lashes flutter as her taste washes across his tongue, sweet and decadent as always, a soft groan thrumming deep in his throat. God, he can only imagine how delectable her blood must be at the moment, honeyed by the plethora of endorphins he had repeatedly coaxed into her. He can't wait to feel its warmth fill his mouth later tonight.

Harry removes his fingers with a wet pop, licking across the back of his hand with finality and giving her a daring once-over. “Do you still want my cock? Or are you too sensitive for it, darling?”

He sounds so conceited and self-assured, it causes Y/N’s pride to flare. She wants to make him eat his stupid words.  

The mortal licks her chapped lips, wetting her dry throat and clearing it softly, wiping away the sweat on her forehead with her shoulder. “I still want it.” 

An impressed expression decorates Harry’s features. “You think you can take it?”

Y/N’s jaw clenches with dedication, her thighs spreading open a tad more and she wills herself not to flinch. Her chin cocks upwards. “I know I can.” 

Harry’s brows kink challengingly, a borderline evil smirk sewing onto his face. “Let’s see, then.” 

As it turns out, Y/N can take it. However, she knows for a fact she won’t be able to walk right for at least the next week.

Harry lowers his jeans and kicks them off, reaching into his navy briefs and tugging himself out, giving his length a few pumps for good measure as he shifts forward toward her. He flips the girl onto her belly as easily as he’d turn a sheet of paper, tying one arm around her hips and lifting them up as he slides a pillow below. He situates her accordingly onto the cushion, her ass slightly elevated to give him more range of depth. He pats at her backside lightly, telling her to part her knees and she does so obediently, gripping onto the leather strap around her wrists anxiously when she feels the bed shift with his weight. Harry lowers himself over her body, the tee covering his broad chest soaking up the thin sheet of sweat on her back. He moves all of her tangled hair to the side, burying his fingers into her roots and yanking her head back cheekily. He runs his nose across her damp cheekbone and chuckles when she jumps slightly at the feathery sensation. 

“You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you?” 

Y/N gnaws on her bottom lip as she struggles to swallow, throat taut from the angle he’s put her in. Her voice carries a confident bite, despite her compromisable position. “I like to think I am, yeah.” 

“Well, you know what that makes you, right?” Harry murmurs as he lines himself up with her entrance. 

“Mm-mm. What?” 

The vampire presses a lingering kiss to the tittering pulse in her temple, feeling it thunder below his skin as he forms his next comment slowly with an ominous edge. “It makes you a brat.” 

He feels her heartbeat trip. 

“And you know what I do to brats?” 

Y/N shakes her head as much as his dominant grasp will allow, body tightening in suspense. 

“I fuck them until they break.” 

Y/N learns that he’s telling the truth. The first thrust Harry delivers is swift, hard, and unbelievably deep; it causes her to let out a choked scream that no one else has ever drawn from her before, except for him. It’s like he can tap into certain aspects of her body she was unaware of; parts of her waiting for the right person to come along and reveal them. She feels that stroke rip into her tummy, but the pain of his size is something she’s become accustomed to in the last three weeks. She hardly feels it anymore; it had molded from a sharp throb to a dull ache, due to how often she’s experienced it. 

Harry doesn’t waste any time, quickly picking up a sloppy, adamant pace that has her hips bouncing against the mattress. He twists her hair around his fist, mouth pressed to the side of her head as his hot pants of exertion send a prickling through her scalp. His other forearm keeps him anchored to the bed as he pounds into her with absolutely no hesitation, the sound of skin slapping, cracked whines, and raspy grunts filling the tense atmosphere of her chilly room. 

“Is this what you were hoping would happen when you sent that slutty picture?” Harry grits out, short nails digging into the comforter beneath. “Wanted to get me all riled up just so I’d do your back in?”

Y/N mewls weakly in response, hands clinging to each other within the makeshift cuffs. 

“If you wanted me to fuck you like I hate you, you could have just asked. I’m more than happy to give you whatever you want. You don’t have to tempt me.” The vampire gives a particularly deep slam, laughing breathily when the girl’s back instinctively arches forward, paired with a watery yelp of, “Oh!”

Harry’s tongue grazes across the shell of her ear, teeth catching the skin. “But since you did, I’ll give it to you just— like—that.” His thrusts match to each word, fingers coiling harder into her locks. “You deserve it. Especially when you had the nerve to act like such a spoiled little brat right to my face.” 

Y/N’s not sure what emboldens her to speak, but her snarky remark is already halfway down her numb tongue before she can stop it. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

Harry hums tauntingly, circling his hips in long strides that urge a series of fractured whimpers to scrape out of Y/N’s sore throat. “Say it again. Go ahead, say it. I want to see you try.”

She remains silent, spine shuddering as she bites down on her tongue to avoid making any more noises that might condemn her.  

Harry roughly cranes Y/N’s neck to the side, buttoning their lips together in a filthy kiss that has her cheeks boiling. “That’s what I thought. The only thing that sharp tongue is good for is licking down my cock.” 

She gasps against his mouth shakily, tears of sheer bliss gathering along her waterline. “You’re such a fucking asshole.” 

Harry can tell her comment holds no true malice behind it; she’s too sweet on him— too whipped on what he gives her— to ever mean it. She’d only said it to provoke him into a power dynamic struggle. But the thing is, Harry’s dealt with feeling powerless before, so he had spent years teaching himself how to win. How to always win. 

“Am I, now?” His next line dismantles her entire plan. “Would an asshole let you cum?”

And just like that, her whole demeanor crumbles. “I take it back. I’m s-sorry.”

Harry releases her hair and nips at her ear mockingly, beginning to withdraw himself. “Oh, I think it’s a bit too late for that, minx.”

“No, no! Harry, please. I’m sorry. Genuinely. I promise I won’t say it again. Just…” She tugs helplessly at the belt restraints, trying to twist around to look at him directly. Her voice is wringed out. “Just please.”

The boy pushes a few stringy curls out of his eyes, pressing his tongue into his cheek coyly as he glances down, suggestively smoothing one hand over her ass. He gives it a firm squeeze, lifting his palm teasingly and feeling her tense in anticipation. “Do you want it?”

Y/N glimpses at his bejeweled hand with hunger, then back at his eyes. “Yes.”

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten what ‘it’ was, exactly. Jog my memory, will you? What is it you want?”

Her irises harden in spite at his shit-eating comment. He’s well aware of how shy she can be when it comes to admitting she wants a spanking, and he’s playing that to his advantage. He’s swimming in the way she squirms. 

“I...I want you to spank me.”

He tsks, shaking his head as he twists his HS rings around to face inwards. “You forgot something.” 

Y/N’s fingers tighten into begrudging fists. “I want you to spank me, please.”

“There’s a good girl.” His low, accented purr sends electricity through her nerves. “You’re so cute when you beg.”

Harry’s hand comes down swiftly, digits fanned out so that all of his rings print across her backside. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough to leave a satisfying sting. He loves the way she jolts forward with a hushed curse of surprise, and he adores seeing the shape of his initials marked across her clammy skin. It’s poetic, almost.

“So pretty.” His mumble is wistful as he massages deeply over the region he had just bruised, but it holds unyielding authority. “Whose is it, doll?”

“Yours.” 

“And don’t you fucking forget it.” The creature lifts one palm to do it again, pausing once more just to rev her further. He reaches forward with the other, shoving her face-first into the mattress to get her back to straighten out. “Look forward and don’t make a single sound.”

Y/N obeys, but manages to sneak a peek at his reflection through the waxy wooden surface of her aged bedframe. He looks so good perched behind her with bare heaving shoulders, looking down at her exposed figure over the crests of his sharp cheekbones, brows furrowed into a starved expression that gives away he’s enjoying this probably more than she is. Her voice comes out small and weak. “Yes, sir.”

Harry’s entire face tightens at the word and she feels him throb against her backside. 

“Now beg me to let you cum.”

///

The next morning when Y/N’s eyes flutter open to the grey light streaking in through her curtains, the first thing she senses is a pair of eyes staring at the side of her face. 

She turns her stiff body over toward where the sensation stems and sure enough, she’s met with a pair of sea glass irises filled to the brim with humor. Harry’s laying on his side with his hands tucked below one of her pillows, tousled ringlets sticking up in wild tuffs (thanks to the activities they’d engaged yesterday), he’s completely bare since he likes sleeping nude (though he’d had the decency to cover himself with sheets from the waist down), and his voice is slower and raspier than usual (a result of being dormant for the last eight or so hours). 

“You drool in your sleep.” 

Y/N tucks her hands against Harry’s cold pectorals, snuggling deeper into his chest and pinching at one of his nipples in playful revenge. “No, I don’t.” 

“Yes,” he reaches up and shoos her hand away, proceeding to wipe at the side of her mouth, where dried spit had accumulated. He makes a theatrical gagging face, cleaning his thumb off across the collar of her t-shirt. “You do.”

Y/N sighs in exasperation, making a bold leap to a different topic to avoid talking about her embarrassing sleep habits. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring at people while they sleep is weird? Like, serial killer weird?” 

Harry tucks a few matted strands of hair behind the human’s ear, thumbing over her cheekbone tenderly. He hardly ever indulges in such actions, simply because they’re typically reserved for actual couples, which he and Y/N are definitely not. But last night— after he had finally finished being a prick and allowed her cum along with him, and after she had fallen into the bed with exhaustion taking her under, and after he’d had his greedy fill of her blood for the week— he’d gotten bored of playing on his phone. He’d burned through three cold case documentaries on Netflix and played enough Mario Kart to memorize the race charts; it had grown old quickly, and he eventually just locked the device and placed it on her nightstand. He spent the next hour staring at her hideous ceiling, and the one after that fantasizing about taking down her tapestry and burning it in the oven. And finally, after hours of mindless daydreams and letting his eyes chase the city lights dancing across the walls of her room, he had settled onto his side and watched her sleep. 

Harry did it simply because he had nothing else to distract him. He figured it would eventually bore him enough that maybe— just maybe, if he was lucky— he would fall asleep alongside her. But he didn’t, so he just ended up gazing at her slumbering face until dawn. He had been surprised by how oddly beautiful Y/N looked sleeping— how relaxed and tranquil, with her features soft and skin seemingly made of flawless porcelain. That intrigue had bled into the moment they share now, resulting in his touch drifting down the curve of her jaw and across the faint dimple on her chin. He follows the slope of her neck and admires the smoothness of her flesh with the ridges of his fingertips, hearing her breathing stutter ever so slightly. His heightened senses make it feel as if he’s running his digits over velvet and the only concept he can compare it to is touching forbidden artwork at an exhibit. It’s exciting, but he knows that if he keeps going, he could end up getting himself into a crock of shit. 

When the pads of his fingers land on two prominent purple bruises he’d forgotten existed, he’s broken from his soft stupor. He retracts his touch as if she were made of iron, forcing himself to ignore the pout that automatically plumps her delicate lips. 

He clears his throat awkwardly, a tight chuckle stringing his vocal chords. “Staring at someone in their sleep seemed to work just fine for Edward Cullen, though.” 

Y/N snorts sharply, rolling her eyes up towards her headboard. When she sees his belt is still hanging off of it from the night prior, she hurriedly glances back down, pretending not to have seen it. 

“It’s funny you say that because as I recall, he literally admitted to being a murderer. I believe his exact words were,” she exaggerates her voice into an angsty cry, grasping at her chest dramatically, “‘This is the skin of a killer, Bella!’”

Harry bursts into boyish giggles, falling fully onto his back and swiping his palm up his face, fingers remaining perched over his closed eyes as he laughs. He sighs airily, shaking his head as an afterthought. “What a moron.” 

“Truly. His dad was hotter.” 

“Way hotter.” Harry agrees passionately, burying his hand into his messy curls, attempting to comb out some of the tangles. “And he was a doctor. What a man.” 

“Bella really fucked that one up. She had a midlife crisis over choosing between a sad vampire who looked like he had chronic constipation, and a yappy dog with a shirt phobia. All when Carlisle was right there. Brain damage, honestly.” 

“A moment of prayer for the mentally incapacitated. Couldn't be me!”

“Couldn’t be me, either.”   

“Fuck, yeah.” Harry throws his hand up, inviting Y/N to give him a high five. “To good taste.”

She gladly delivers. “Exquisite taste.”

An instance of comfortable silence suspends between the pair of lovers, filled with the soft thrum of the air vent and the distant chirping of birds outside Y/N’s windowpane. She traces her index nail over the wings of the swallow tattoos along Harry’s collarbones, seeming to be deep in thought. She then speaks up once again.

“Emmett was pretty hot, as well.” 

“You know what? I’m happy you mentioned that ‘cause— full disclosure here— I’d ride him like a fucking bull.” 

Now it’s Y/N’s turn to explode in a fit of giggles, nose scrunching and eyes crinkling shut as she loses herself at Harry’s graphic confession. 

“Why are you laughing?!” The fact that he sounds genuinely appalled only spurs her sounds of glee. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take that chance if you got it. Like, okay, he’s an airhead, yeah? I’m aware. But fuck’s sake, look at his body. I’d happily let him beat me at arm wrestling if it means I get that celebratory dick afterwards.”

The mortal manages to calm down a handful of heartbeats later and Harry feels strangely proud of how he’d made her pulse spike. 

“You’re valid for that, don’t worry. I couldn’t have said it—” A single giggle interupts her sentence, but she reigns it in before it can spiral. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Literally. There’s no way to express it better than exactly how you stated it.” 

Harry smirks softly up at the ceiling, folding his free arm behind his head as the other wraps securely down Y/N’s back, absentmindedly rubbing in gentle soothing circles. “My mind. It’s amazing, innit?”

“It’s definitely something.” 

Another span of cozy quietness fills the atmosphere of the room, longer than the last. Harry doesn’t mind. He finds it appeasing, and he continues to delight himself with running his touch up and down Y/N’s spine. He’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s aware that it’s probably a bit. His theory is supported by how he witnesses the beam of watery light that filters over the duvet gradually fade from silver to a sunflower yellow, indicating full daybreak. 

Even then, he doesn’t say a word, too caught up in this innocent bubble of domestic bliss to pop it so suddenly. He just lays there and listens. Listens to the birds harmonizing with each other across the branches of the tree outside. To the steady breaths that fill Y/N’s lungs with cool air, faltering past her nostrils in the same manner and fogging the metal of his cross necklace. To the faint sound of footsteps trotting down the staircase outside her apartment, and to the vague spritz of the sprinkler system going off at the front of the complex. To the distant honking of car horns in traffic, and to a random conversation between two friends as they walk past the pavement just under Y/N’s balcony. He hasn’t felt this at ease in eons. 

Harry just allows himself to grow in tune with the world around him— a world he’d been convinced was against him for the longest time. A world he was convinced stole his happiness and replaced it with the shackles of a blood-driven afterlife, for no other reason than because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong person. But now, he feels like he’s in the right place, at the right time, spending it with the right person— or at least a half-decent person— and he doesn’t want to let it slip between his fingers so soon. He wants to bask in it, even if he knows it’ll pass. 

And eventually, it does pass, and Y/N is the one who brings it to an end. 

The girl slowly peels away from Harry’s side, his lips dipping downwards slightly at the loss of the warmth she radiates. He thinks she’s about to get up to probably go use the bathroom or to make breakfast, but instead, she just bends her upper body over the edge of her bed to retrieve something from the floor. She comes back up with the box he’d brought her the evening before (which had ended up on the ground as a result of her bed rocking violently), setting it in the small space between their laps. She then returns to her place cuddled into his torso, looking up at him with an expression that Harry can only interpret as expecting. 

The vampire glances down at the container and then back up to Y/N’s face, raising his eyebrows curiously, voice tinged with comedy. “What did I say about bringing sex toys to the dinner table?”

Y/N stares up at him flatly for a second, fighting off a smile. “I just wanted to thank you again. It’s nice of you to bring me a present, even as strange as this one.” 

Harry sucks at his teeth, waving a hand dismissively, blinking down at her with slyness sparkling around his pupils. “What are friends for, if not for buying you vibrating finger gloves and then fucking you with them until you cry?”

Despite having been acquainted with Harry’s crude humor for three weeks now, it still manages to make Y/N’s cheeks sizzle. It could also be the fact that this is the first time Harry has openly accepted Y/N as a friend. It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned her name and that word in the same sentence, meaning that she can now shake a weight off her shoulders— a weight that had insisted he was only using her for sex, that he would eventually grow bored of her, and that he would throw her away once he was done. It’s good to know that’s not the case, and that the friendship aspect of their agreement is true to its name. 

“Right.” Y/N’s smile is full of so much genuine warmth, Harry feels like she could outshine the sun. “What are friends for, if not that. Thanks, Harry.” 

He wonders what she’s thinking, and he finds himself wishing that he had the one valid trait that idiot Edward Cullen possesses: mind-reading. But he doesn’t have it, so he simply returns her gesture and skates the conversation how he best deems fit. “You don’t have to call me ‘Harry’ all the time, you know?” 

Y/N’s brows cinch in entertained confusion. “What would I call you, then? Sherlock?” 

Harry scoffs lightly at the inside joke, shrugging one shoulder casually. “I mean, you could, if you want to. It might take some getting used to, but I think I can shoulder a full-time second identity. Just for you.” 

“How chivalrous.”

“You ain’t ever met a man like me, sweetheart.” He boasts in an over-the-top American southern accent, prying another round of laughter from Y/N, similar to the one before. “But you could also just call me ‘H.’ It’s what most of my other friends use.” 

“H.” Y/N repeats, getting a taste for the new nickname. It’s simple, unlike him, but it somehow fits. She then recalls something from a show she’d watched when she was younger and she can’t help but bring it up. “So, like, just your first initial? Like in Gossip Girl?”

Harry’s face immediately drops at the comparison she makes to the cringey teenage soap opera. “You know what, I take it back. You’re not allowed to use it. Illegal. Banned. By an official court. Gavel and all.”

“I’m just making a point!”

“Yeah, a shitty one.” 

“Oh, whatever. You’re just mad I debunked your little hipster alter ego. ‘That’s a secret I’ll never tell. Xoxo, H.’”

“Restraining order.” Harry pinches at one of her love handles, an evil grin dimpling his cheeks when she squeals. “Actually, nevermind. We’re going straight to the electric chair. Immediately.” 

“You don’t get to decide my punishment, remember?” Y/N slaps at his wrists, trying to ward off his attacks but failing miserably. “You’re just the—stop!— just the executioner.” 

“That’s right. I get to strap you to the chair.” Harry finally lets up on the tickling, his lighthearted grin taking on a slightly seductive hue as he momentarily glimpses upwards towards where his belt is hanging. “Though you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Fuck off.” Y/N smothers her palm against his face, breaking eye contact as she feels her ears bristle with heat.  

“Mm, exactly.” Harry gnashes at her hand playfully, but she manages to yank it away before he gets a bite in. “You can’t even admit you like being called a whore.” 

“Hey!”

“What?” The vampire gives her a cocky look, wagging his head knowingly and then mimicking her voice in a higher pitch. “‘I’m just making a point!’”

“You’re a dick, you really are.” 

“And yet you still ride mine, so who’s the one with the real issues here? Specifically, daddy issues.”

“I’m done with this conversation.” Y/N huffs, returning her attention to the box beside her thigh, muffling the twitching across her lips. 

She takes the cardboard into her hands, tracing over the small flap used to pry the top open. Harry watches her with interest, pondering as to what could possibly be scurrying around her skull that she seems so caught up with the context of the gift. He’d gotten it because he knew they would both benefit from it. It’s as simple as that. 

“You know,” she starts, but her gaze remains glued to the box, “I feel kinda bad ‘cause, like...You got me this gift, I have nothing to give you in return.” 

Harry’s face contorts into a silly frown for a moment, tone humorous. “It’s fine, Y/N. You don’t have to give me anything back. I got it ‘cause I knew we’d enjoy using it together, and because this way, you have something to play with when I’m not around. And you can send me videos of said instances. It’s truly a win-win. A double-ended gift.” 

“I suppose.” She mumbles softly, continuing to pick at the lip of cardboard sticking out. “But I feel like it’s only fair that you get to use it, too, don’t you think?”

And then the reason she’s insistent about this dawns on Harry. The way she’s avoiding looking at him directly, how her heart rate is slowly ebbing upwards, how she is gradually scooting closer to his body, how he can feel her thighs are clasped tightly below the comforter. How the scent of honey and lavender has intensified. How she keeps glancing towards where the sheets are crumpled messily around his hips in a haphazard attempt to remain civil. 

When the monster speaks, it carries all the arrogance brought forward by his discovery. “If you wanna give me a handjob with the toy on, just say so.” 

The human’s head snaps upwards, her expression one of utter alarm at his lewd comment, but he can see right through her act. It’s obvious that was her intention all along— the desire in her eyes is poorly masked. She looks so adorable, pretending not to know what he’s referring to, her palms gripping the box slightly tighter than before. 

Harry twirls a strand of her hair around his finger nonchalantly, giving it a jesting tug. “I just find it funny how much of a horny menace you can be.”

“What—?”

“And it’s not even ten A.M. yet.”

“What do you—?” 

“Y/N,” Harry sighs tiredly, giving her an omniscient look, “I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you want something. It’s written all over your body language and you’re pretty shit at hiding it in your eyes. Just admit you want to and I’ll let you.” 

The faux shock slowly melts off her face, replaced by sheepish humiliation at being so easily sussed out. She chews on her bottom lip pensively, struggling to sew together the appropriate words to communicate the very inappropriate activity she wants to engage in. Harry has to withhold from leaning down and taking a bite from her tempting mouth.  

She inhales a deep breath through her nose, puffing it out slowly and tapping her fingers across the box nervously. Her voice pipes up so softly, it’s almost inaudible. “I want to give you a handjob with the toy.”

Harry gently cards his fingers into the mussed roots along the back of her head, using that hold to guide her sight upwards until it meets his. He leans down, smearing his lips over her own, feeling static pass through the ridges of their skin. “That’s all you had to say, darling. Go ahead, then. Make me cum.” 

Y/N swallows thickly, lashes fluttering bashfully as she pastes her mouth to his in a soft kiss. It’s a simple action with just their lips and nothing else. No tongue, no teeth, no sucking, nothing sloppy or desperate— not yet, anyways. He can tell she does it as a way to ease herself into this. She wants to, that much is arousingly obvious, but for some crazy reason unbeknownst to him, she’s still shy about it. That’s what happens when you come from a conservative raising: you get intimacy issues. He of all people— with his Victorian era background— would know. 

The hand Harry has cupping the nape of her neck shifts over a smidge, ending up splayed across the side of her face. His palm rests on her cheekbone and his fingers in her locks, his wrist cradling the back of her skull as he patiently deepens the kiss. His chest begins to heave slightly, a familiar sensation already frothing at the trench of his stomach. Harry can feel Y/N’s clumsy movements as she unboxes the vibrators, digging through the packaging and trying to slip them on blindly, not wanting to break away from his embrace. The way he’s flirting his tongue along the inside of her top lip is just too consuming to leave. 

After a few seconds of grappling and a string of annoyed curse words, Harry giggles lightly into her mouth, nudging the tip of his nose across the bridge of hers. The jade tint in his irises is waltzing with amusement, all at her expense. “Sometime today, love.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, I just— I can’t— they won’t—” The mortal releases an irritated growl into their kiss, reluctantly splitting away when it becomes clear she won’t be able to get the rubber gloves on without giving the task her full attention. “God, I’m such a...Sorry.” 

Harry rolls his eyes in mirth, pecking sweetly along the angry creases present over her forehead and between her brows. He thumbs over her cheek affectionately to soothe her nerves, his other hand scratching distractedly at the back of his neck. He filters curls through his fingers as he waits, bicep jolting in the process. “It’s fine, I’m just teasing. I’m not going anywhere, babe.”

“Thanks. Just give me—” The girl pauses her actions for a second, jutting her chin back up towards him and locking the vampire into another quick kiss, solely for the purpose of keeping him interested while she figures herself out. She breaks away again, returning to her mission. “Just give me a minute.” 

Now that she can see, Y/N successfully wriggles all five of her fingers into their designated molds. She prods at them gingerly, copying Harry’s actions from the night prior, using that experience as a manual. The mini-vibrators purr to life, a buzzing sensation trickling down her fingers. She glances back up at an awaiting Harry, who gives her such an easy, good-natured smile, she instantly reaches up and glues their mouths together again. 

“You’re so eager.” The boy grins into the kiss, jumping a bit when he feels her tittering fingers duck beneath the covers around his lower torso. “It’s hot.” 

“I just want to make you feel good.” Y/N mumbles, one palm braced to his strong shoulder as the other rides down his bare abdomen. She can feel his grip on her hair tightening the closer she gets to his cock. “That’s all.” 

“Guess I’m just the luckiest— shit.” Harry’s quip is interrupted when Y/N wraps her digits around his length, giving it one slow, testing pump. His jaw drops open and he begins panting into her mouth, the corners of his lips ticking upwards into a smirk as an intense pleasure swells between his thick thighs. “Jesus fucking Christ, that feels— fuck, that’s incredible, oh my God.”

“Yeah?” The human asks timidly, gazing up at him dreamily from below her lashes as his eyes lull back into his head. “Not too much?” 

Harry loves how attentive she is— how she’s checking to make sure he’s alright before continuing. If he had a heart, it would surely be glowing right now. 

Harry gulps down the lump in his throat, voice more strained and needy than she’s ever heard it. “No, I’m good, I’m good. Keep going.” 

Y/N gradually sinks her palm back down to his base, feeling his cock twitch desperately as the vibrators work their magic. She slowly slinks back up to his tip, thumbing over it carefully, pressing the toy on her thumb pad right over his slit. The garbled moan that emits from Harry is a sound her ears will never forget. It’s a sound she wishes she could record and listen to on a loop. 

“Fucking hell, don’t— please, just— oh—” Harry stutters through a plead, voice bleeding, naked chest now heaving wildly against her own. His hips buck forward into her hand, but she maintains a steady grip, keeping the vibrator pressed to the center of his cock’s head. 

“Don’t what?” She whispers into his mouth, suckling at his Cupid’s bow and reveling in the little broken noises he pours onto her tongue. 

Harry’s breaths are shallow and pained, the grip on her hair stronger than she thought possible as the fingers of his opposite hand yank at his own feverishly. He’s barely able to choke out his next sentence. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” Y/N begins to fish for a solid rhythm, her strokes setting into medium pace and gauging the receiver's reaction. “How’s that?” 

Bright colors web across Harry’s eyelids and he feels like his soul is being torn from his body. “Y-Yeah, that’s perfect, baby. It’s so good— you’re so good.” 

“I am?” Y/N swipes her thumb over his tip again, and when he whimpers brokenly against her lips, she does it again. It urges the same exact reaction, but more shattered. So she does it again. And again, and again, and again. And each time it happens, his hips jerk more violently, chasing her intoxicating touch. She can feel Harry’s precum drip down his length and leak between the cracks of her fingers. 

“You are, you’re just so fucking good to me.” Harry’s spewing words at this point, brain half conscious, half floating in bliss. Whatever dam of common sense holds his mind together crumbles, all of his thoughts rushing out in the form of jumbled phrases and cracked whines. “You get me going like nothing else, pet. You get me going so easily, it’s embarrassing. You make me cum so hard, it feels like I’m touching h-heaven. And your mouth— God, y-your mouth. It’s the best I’ve ever had. It’s so soft and warm, and your lips are so pretty and silky. I could kiss you for hours. And your tongue— you know how to use it so well. You lick me once and I’m already on edge. And every time you get down on your knees, I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Y/N sighs shakily at Harry’s string of confessions, staring up at him with wide eyes as his own stay shut loosely, long lashes perched on his rosy cheekbones, handsome features slack with euphoria. She doesn’t halt her motions, continuing to pump him excitedly. The girl passes her thumb over his tip every time she gets to the top, and gives a hard squeeze every time she thunks down against his base, twisting her wrist as she glides back and forth between the two points of reference. That combination seems to work well, evident in the steady stream of vulgarities falling from Harry’s swollen lips as he thrusts upwards to match her pace. His groans splash across her tongue, traveling down her throat and burning into her stomach. She wants him to cum probably more than he does.

Y/N glimpses down, watching her sheets tent as she works Harry over, the outline of her knuckles pressing into the turquoise fabric. It’s such an erotic scene and she knows it’ll be branded across the front of her brain for years to come. She cranes her neck back up to look at the vampire, her breath catching in her lungs. He looks so pretty with his dark pink lips parted in pleasure, his damp ringlets matting along his sweaty hairline, his structured jaw ticking, and his usually sharp traits softened by ecstasy. She’ll do anything to make that image last.  

“Tell me more.” Y/N murmurs, swimming in the praise he is so willing to dish out. 

His eyes flicker for a heartbeat and in that instance, they look oddly darker than normal. Almost crimson, but she knows it’s due to the shadow of his lashes. The words that spill from his mouth next make her forget all about that occurrence, his voice melodic and dark, sticky against her wet lips. 

“Your hands are one of my favorite things about you, I think. They’re smaller than mine and I love how your fingers don’t touch when you wrap them around my cock. I love how they leave my back raw with scratches, and I love how they look tied to the bedpost. I love it when they press flat against my chest when you ride me, and how you lean back on them when I’m on my knees with my head between your thighs. I love how they yank at my hair when you’re about to cum, and how they grip my upper arms when we make-out. I love how your nails dig into my thighs when you're going down on me, and how they look fisting at the sheets when I’m taking you from behind. And I love how they feel tugging me off, like you’re doing now. I just love how perfect they are— how perfect you are.” 

Y/N is left speechless, Harry’s monologue ringing in her heated ears as he gazes at her intensely amidst heavy, barely-cracked eyelashes. His broad chest gasps for air and he takes it upon himself— despite his wrecked appearance— to smush their mouths deeper together, pooling moans across the roof of her own.  

“I’m—” His breathing throttles, voice coming out softer than she’s heard it in the last three weeks. “I’m gonna cum.”

Y/N nods her head numbly, strokes becoming lazy and fast, eager for him to finish. “I want you to. I want you to cum for me so bad. Please?” 

Harry’s hips writhe in a tell-tale sign that he’s about to tip. His whimper tastes sweet on her tongue, the meaning behind it pure syrup to her ego. “You’re the only one who makes me feel this good.”

The mortal whines gently in return, eyes falling shut as she feels him grow heavier in her palm. “You’re the only one I want to make feel this good.” 

The knot of white hot pleasure in his belly begins to unravel, his entire spine shuddering as a result, all strain beginning to wash out of his system in spurts if blissful electricity. He can feel his orgasm racing up his prick, pulling his composure along with it. He gives one last jerk against Y/N’s cupped fingers, feeling her press her vibrating thumb over his slit one more time for good measure. When the first milky ribbon spurts out, that’s when he feels it. 

Harry’s eyelids fly open in alarm as black veins protrude along the whites of his eyes, all his muscles contracting at once, defense mode activated. Y/N’s lips are on his neck. 

His first instinct is to do what he always does and guide her away from that sensitive, highly forbidden area. His fist tightens in her hair and he’s about to yank her back up to his mouth when suddenly, the icy tension present in his veins disappears. It’s replaced by a soothing warmth, which travels through every crevice in his body and kindles his climax, his impulsive hatred for being touched in that specific region funneling away completely. He can’t remember a time where this has happened before. 

Harry’s grip loosens hesitantly as he treads into this unexplored territory, allowing her to continue suckling along his throat. The sensation would usually garner a reaction similar to that of a molten metal brand being placed on his skin, but now— for some startling reason— he doesn’t feel any contempt. He just feels relaxed and cradled in the best way imaginable. The impact is pleasant this time around, and he finds himself wanting more of it. So, he lets her give him more. He lets this strange girl kiss and gasp and lick against his jugular while she finishes getting him off, his own desperate sounds of need bouncing around the brick walls of her bedroom. He lets her coax wave after wave of cum out of him, feeling it splatter against her bedspread and coat over her hand. He whines and grunts into the hair along the crown of her head, tears blearing his eyes as her scent of sugar and flowers clouds his mind. And when his release finally sputters to an end, he lets out an elongated groan so deep, it makes his chest ache.

“Fuck. You’re...You’re an absolute angel.”

Y/N draws her hand out from beneath the bed sheets, turning off the vibrating finger pads by pressing them against her palm. She looks down at the milky substance covering the toys and before Harry can make even a sound of encouragement, she’s already licking it off each individual piece. The girl looks up at the vampire as she cleans every trace of him off her fingers, swallowing it all down with a doe-like tint across her hazy gaze and murmuring a soft, “You taste good.” over a full mouth. Harry just watches silently, heavy breathing slowly starting to even out. God, she really is such a fucking godsend.

The next couple of minutes list by in a blur, all of his focus taken up by the feeling of unsettlement pricking at the back of his brain. Why had he let her touch him there? Why had he let her touch him in a place no one has since before his death?

Y/N puts the toys back in their box, putting them off to the side to thoroughly clean later. She reaches down, bunching up her bedspread in her hand and wiping Harry’s pelvis, thighs, and tummy down until he’s decently clean, as well as whatever is left on her hand. She then snuggles up to his side once again, laying her head into the crook between his arm and pectoral muscles, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully along with him. The irritating red tint across Harry’s chest, stomach, and neck gradually fades away, and he barely flinches when he feels her sponge her lips against his Adam’s Apple. She lulls the tip of her middle finger up along the vein of his cock one more time for finality, smiling slyly when he hisses in sensitivity.

The immortal tilts his head down to appraise her, sniffling lightly and allowing a weak, watery smile across his raw lips. His tone is feathery and detached. “That was…Christ.”

Y/N giggles softly, nodding along to his unspoken opinion. “It was fun. Really fun. We should do it again sometime.” 

Harry splutters into a drunken laugh, mind still floating around the room. “I don’t think I could survive that again.”

Y/N grins up at him cheekily. “Pussy.” 

Her friend breaks into an expression of utter offense, cheeks still slightly rosy. He shoves her head roughly as vengeance. “Hey! Piss off. Don’t blame it on me, blame it on the male anatomy.” 

The girl shakes her head up at him, eyebrows shrugging mockingly. “Excuses, excuses.” 

“Whatever.” 

A moment passes, and then Y/N speaks up again, her index finger poking playfully into the center of his bare chest, right over the butterfly tattoo. “Also, you’re washing my sheets. Your mess, you clean it up.”

Harry grins against her forehead, scratching lightly at the back of her scalp. “Fair enough…Wait, is that why you wanted to do this? ‘Cause you knew I’d soil your sheets and you could force me to do your laundry?”

That hadn’t been her motive at all, and Harry knows that, but she plays along anyways for the hell of the joke. “Perhaps.” 

“Wow. I feel used.” 

“Too bad. Go do it. Now. Before it stains.”

Harry stares at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “I literally can’t walk right now! I can’t feel anything below my waist.”

Y/N lifts the comforter off her body, symbolically showing off the bruises his fingertips and rings had left the night before. “Well, neither can I!” 

Harry reaches down and touches the marks, chuckling to himself. “How unfortunate. Who’s gonna make breakfast, then, if neither of us can even stand?”

“We could UberEats some iHop.” 

“Who’s gonna get the door?”

“Well, I can’t solve everything on my own, now can I?!” Y/N slaps his hand away from her body. “Contribute! You’re the lead detective, after all.” 

“I am, aren’t I?” Harry cocks his head to the side in recollection, remembering his role in their imaginary dynamic duo scenario. “And because I’m the lead, I say…” He ropes his lean arms around the human and buries his face into her warm neck, pulling her close and intertwining their legs together, trapping her to the mattress along with him. “I say we just bum around for a bit longer. Just until one of us can actually muster up the strength to leave the bed.” 

Y/N makes an exasperated noise in the back of her throat, but makes no apparent attempt to leave his embrace. “Fine.” 

“Mystery solved, then! Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“You’re so dumb.” 

The pair stay cuddled for a bit, with Y/N’s hands loosely gripping Harry’s forearms, tracing across his mermaid tattoo absently. She wanders in her thoughts for a period of time, lost in the sensation of Harry’s warm breath fanning down her neck, his hot lips pressing small kisses behind her ear every once in a while. She likes their morning after routine; it’s innocent and fun and sharing moments like this makes it easy to forget her troubles. She wants more of this, and she finds herself trying to come up with ways to convince Harry to spend the night more often. This is only the fourth time he’s stayed until morning and she wants that number to grow. 

An idea dawns on her and she’s voicing it before her inhibitions can kill it off.

“Do you...Do you maybe wanna stay over the rest of the weekend?”

Harry draws his face from the alcove of her soft neck, eyebrows poised in curiosity. “The rest of the weekend?”

“Yeah!” Y/N shifts her gaze up to look at him, hope swirling around her pupils. “Like, spend the rest of today and tomorrow over, and then leave tomorrow night ‘cause I have work on Monday. Does that, like...Does that make sense?” 

“Yeah.” Harry says slowly, mulling over her offer, thinking back to his schedule. He doesn’t think he has any commitments this weekend that would require him being home— none he can’t cancel easily, anyways. He’d told Mitch he’d go see him play again at the pub later today, but it’s the same set as last time, so he doesn’t think his best friend would mind if he missed it just this once. Niall was planning a barbecue at his place on Sunday, but the Irish bloke does one almost every other week so it’s nothing Harry can’t make up. Plus, what type of idiot would pass up two day’s worth of amazing sex? The more, the merrier.

Y/N watches the vampire’s expression carefully, trying to interpret whether her request was out of their boundaries. She doesn’t want to make him feel like she’s trying to tie him down or suffocate him, she just wants to spend a bit more time in his presence, rather than through a phone screen. Her tone comes out dismissive, with just the tiniest hint of panic. “It’s okay if you can’t, though. Like, if you have other plans and stuff, I totally get it. Or if you just don’t want to, that’s fine, too! I just thought it’d be a fun little thing we can do since we already talk so much on the phone and everything, so I guess I just kinda figured you wouldn’t mind—”

“I get it, Y/N.” Harry interrupts Y/N’s unhinged word vomit, voice amused and nonchalant. “I think I’d like that, yeah.”

Y/N blinks in giddy surprise. “Really?” 

“Well, don’t sound so shocked.” Harry laughs lightly, fingers toying with the pearls laying across his clavicle. “The sex is pretty fucking good and I’m more than happy to have it at my disposal.” 

“Right.” Y/N gives him a deadpan look, shaking her head at his bluntness, reaching forward to fiddle with the chain of his cross necklace for the sake of having something to distract her from smiling like a fool. “Great, then. I have some old boxers that I know will probably fit you and an unopened pack of toothbrushes under the sink, so I think you’re set.” 

Harry’s lips purse at the mention of the men’s underwear, brows creasing a tad. “You just casually have men’s boxers laying around?” 

“They were my ex’s and I kept them out of spite. But don’t tell anyone, I don’t wanna get locked up for robbery.” 

The tightness in his chest— which he hadn’t even realized had formed— melts away. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good, or else I’d have to kill you.” The girl states darkly, a theatrical seriousness to her appearance. 

“Oh no.” Harry wails sarcastically, knotting a fist into her oversized tee and pulling her closer, connecting their lips and grinning into the kiss. “I’m shaking in fear.” 

Y/N gives in without much of a fight, hands still clinging to his forearms, a smile of her own creeping across her cheeks. “Asshole.”

“The only thing I’m relatively afraid of is my dick falling off. You have the sexual drive of a rabbit.” 

“Oh, like you’re any better?” 

“I’m innocent in all this! You’re usually the one instigating. I’m just a mere pawn— a poor, unsuspecting nun led astray.”

“God, I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” 

///

The following weekend, Harry officially invites Y/N over to his house. 

It had been talked about in passing a while back, and he figures it's only fair considering all the time they’ve ever spent together has been solely at her place. Plus, he could tell she was curious to see what his living situation is like, which is valid. You can tell a lot about people through their home, and when you’re sleeping with someone on the regular, you want to learn as much about them as possible. It’s important to know who you’re getting into bed with. Literally. 

Harry’s proud of his condo. He keeps it clean, he keeps it organized, and he keeps it styled in a manner that combines his Victorian gothic roots with modern day aesthetics. The floorboards of the apartment are made of waxed light-wash wood, most of the expanse of his living room covered in a furry dark grey rug. The lightness of the ground is contrasted by the matte mahogany walls, of which the largest is covered in Harry’s collection of first edition artwork. He had picked out every single piece himself throughout the span of the last two centuries, ranging from modern digital technique canvases to nineteenth century oil paintings, all arranged in neat alternating rows from oldest to newest. He can’t help that he’s such a stickler; his mom had raised him so. 

Though his art wall is his pride and joy, the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline comes in at a close second. Harry loves the city, despite the fact that he was born in a seemingly irrelevant town whose only redeeming quality was the bustling public market. Urban regions are just full of so much life, excitement, and potential, which are all concepts he never really got to explore before he transitioned. Cities represent everything he wanted as a young man, when he thought he had prosperous years ahead of him and an entire life left to build; they represent diversity, unique experiences, and endless possibilities. When that was stripped from him, he began to bounce around different countries and cities all over the world, seeking a place that would fill the hole his dreams had left behind. Los Angeles fit that space like a puzzle piece. 

That glorified window just means more to him than anyone could possibly know. Sometimes at night, he’ll just stand by it with his arms relaxed across his chest, watching the city gleam and glitter as individuals from all different backgrounds go about their business, blissfully ignorant to the beautiful concept that they all contribute to something much bigger— a concept that only centuries of wisdom could reveal. When he’s not wracked with jealousy and spite, looking out that window and witnessing the world change and evolve is therapeutic, in a way. It allows Harry to live vicariously through others who get to have what he never did. 

Aside from his art collection and the glass wall, the chandeliers that hang from his cavernous ceiling are third on his list of treasured possessions. They’re special and no one on this earth owns anything like them; Harry made sure of that. They were created by a Swedish interior designer Harry commissioned about ten years ago, so they are custom-made in every aspect of the term. They took months to construct and finalize, which is hardly difficult to believe, given their grandeur. Each chandelier is made of two extensive layers of delicate golden chains, all arranged around a wire center, connected by light bulbs at each peak. It gives his home a chic, avant-garde atmosphere that mirrors his personality down to the last chain link. 

The rest of his flat is tailored to compliment these three major determining factors. The wood paneling all around his apartment is carved with intricate, loopy designs, his two rounded coffee tables are made of the same marble that resides across his kitchen counters, and his kitchen sits directly under the second story ledge with elongated fluorescent poles embedded into the room’s ceiling, eloquently highlighting the creme walls and polished detailings of all his appliances. His sectional couches are made of an off-brown leather, covered in large rectangular couch cushions with a checkered print embroidered across the pillow cases, and weighted fleece blankets litter some areas of the elegant sofas. A wide staircase leads up to the second floor, made of grey glass steps and metal railings. 

The top story of his condo is less Victorian era, more modern composition. The ground is dark maroon carpeting, and the ledge leads to one singular corridor that splits into two seperate rooms at either ends. One is the master bedroom, and the other is an accompanying bedroom which he uses for storage. His room isn’t anything extravagant, per se. It’s big, but his decor is minimalistic, covered in all different muted shades of blacks and greys, from the comforter on his king-sized bed to the tall dresser. A fifty inch flat-screen is mounted on the wall, but he hardly uses it since the one in his living room is larger; it’s only really there as an ornament. Starburst lights hang from his ceiling— smaller, downplayed versions of his chandeliers— and his walk-in closet stands parallel to the entrance of his bathroom. 

The humongous bathroom was meant for two people, pretty obvious in the double-sink set up, but he doesn’t dwell on it much. He isn’t one for dating, and he’s just happy to have that luxury because it comes in handy the morning after one night stands. He has a jacuzzi-like bathtub, lined with water jets and all, and a big walk-in shower with a large overhead panel instead of a regular showerhead. The whole room is made of dark marble and porcelain, and he couldn’t possibly adore it more. Some of his best experiences had happened in this room, explicit and otherwise. 

In the end, Harry has every right to be arrogantly proud of his apartment. It had taken him months to decorate, years to fill with fond memories, and an immortal lifetime to find. He loves it with every trace of his soul, even when others disagree. Namely, Niall, who had mocked his sophisticated relics and old-timey architecture from the first time he’d set foot past the threshold; “You went the dark gothic route? Really? Way to feed into the stereotype, Dracula.” 

But no matter what anyone says, this is who he is, and he couldn’t be happier. After decades of migrating and aimlessly searching the globe, he’d finally found a place he could call home, and absolutely no one could take that from him. Especially not some Irish moron who doesn’t even know the definition of “foyer.”

How Harry manages to afford his flat is a whole other intriguing tale.

It had come up in a pillow talk conversation with Y/N once, and he had told her the story he feeds to any human who asks. He’s a regional manager for an offshore company and it’s mainly a lot of online work. Handling duties through business emails, videochat meetings, job portals, and things of the such. It paints a valid image as to why he’s home all the time. He also claims to be the company’s lone contact stationed in California, so he handles all of the responsibilities that would normally be bestowed upon three or four people. This paints a valid explanation as to how his imaginary position would tether such a high pay grade, which justifies his luxurious living arrangement.

That story is part of the truth. Harry does indeed have ties with corporate businesses. That is, ties to their CEOs’ pockets. It’s surprisingly easy to get past secretaries and security dressed in a nice suit and thousand dollar leather shoes, especially with the help of compulsion and Harry’s golden charisma. Thanks to those tools, he has managed to convince some of the biggest leaders in corporate California to quietly deposit generous sums of money into his bank account once a month. And with his persuasive supernatural abilities, he convinces them to write it off as regularly scheduled charity donations in their minds. That’s how he makes a living for himself— by scamming the rich. Xander likes to take the piss and call him a sugar baby, but Harry sees himself as more of a modern day Robin Hood, instead. 

Mitch says his charade is unlawful, but considering how corrupt the business world already is, the vampire feels next to no guilt. The one percent have always taken advantage of those poorer than them— that was obvious even back in Harry’s time— and he doesn’t see anything wrong with taking advantage of them right back, now that he has the means to. How’s that saying go? “Fuck the bourgeoisie” and all that. 

Everything taken into consideration, Harry’s pretty excited to show Y/N his condo. Watching people’s faces break into awe the second he turns the lights on always gives him such a deep surge of satisfaction. It makes all the hassle worth it.  

The immortal is currently sitting in his vintage car, flicking through his Spotify playlist to find something to entertain him while he waits for Y/N to finish her shift. He had offered to pick her up, knowing that it’s what any courteous host would do, and she had appreciatively accepted, telling him she’d be out by eight P.M. It’s seven fifty-three now and Harry had arrived around seven fifty, taking the slot right in front of the cafe’s entrance so she can spot him as soon as she walks out. These ten minutes are the longest he’s ever had to endure, which says a lot considering he’s endured tons of patience-testing moments in his two hundred years.

Harry swipes his thumb down the glass screen of his phone, sampling songs left and right to see what will stick. After listening to the first few chords of an array of forties dance music, seventies rock and roll, and twenty-first century bubblegum pop, he settles for Rodeo by Lil Nas X. Harry has a very intricate taste in music— it’s one of the traits he’s most proud of— and Mitch often tells him he’s too snotty when it comes to his preferences. He’ll admit it freely that, yes, he can be a piece of work musically, but just because he thinks the industry peaked in the seventies doesn’t mean he hates modern music. He likes most of it, including rap, and Lil Nas X happens to be one of his favorites, much to everyone’s surprise. Most of the artist’s songs are eccentric not only lyrically but also instrumentally, to the point where it’s almost comical— who names a song Panini, of all things?— but the music is catchy and Harry can let loose to it easily. 

The vampire also happened to meet the musician, on one occasion. He ran into him at a club and after a few drinks and some banter, somehow ended up getting invited over to a party at the celebrity’s Malibu mansion. That night is a blur, definitely due to the copious amounts of alcohol and psychedelics, but Harry remembers they had fun and that the guy was worth a listen. In fact, he was the genius that came up with the theme for the rapper’s Rodeo music video. 

A light knocking on the passenger’s seat window brings him out of his memories. Y/N stands outside, hugging her arms loosely over her tummy, decked in her usual work uniform of a navy polo and black skinny jeans. When the two lock eye contact, she gives him a soft wave and a tired smile. Harry lifts two fingers in greeting, returning her polite gesture and swiftly lowering the window. He leans forward across the center console, his grin taking on a playful hue, voice carrying the same effect. 

“Uber for Y/N?” 

The girl snorts and rolls her eyes, but plays along, reaching forward and jiggling the handle of his black Cadillac symbolically. “That’s me, yes. Open up.” 

“Eh, eh, eh.” Harry tuts, wagging a finger in her direction and then making a motion that tells her to back away. “I’m gonna have to see some ID. It’s one of our new safe driver policies. Gotta make sure you are who you say you are, miss.” 

Y/N’s expression drops flatly, eyes half-lidded as he smiles up at her brightly, batting his eyelashes innocently. “Open the door before you end up sucking your own dick tonight.” 

Harry’s shit-eating face falls so fast, it causes her to burst into laughter. A soft click vibrates through the handle below her fingers. “I’ll waive the background check. Just this once.”  

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Y/N taunts, yanking the door open and ducking into the shotgun seat, gently tugging it closed behind her. 

Once the human is situated in her spot, she releases a lengthy sigh, sinking down against the cushions as she grabs her seat belt and clicks it into place. 

Harry puts his cell phone down into the cubby hole below the stereo set, setting the car in reverse and slinging an arm behind her headrest to get a better view as he backs out of the parking space. His gaze momentarily flickers to her slumped form as the car retreats slowly, tone curious. “Long day?”

Y/N glimpses over, giving him a quick once-over and taking in his olive green Nike jumper, ripped denim boyfriend jeans, and pastel yellow Vans. He looks so boyishly cute, which is ironic given the premise of tonight’s rendezvous. The shoes (which he had worn the night they’d met all those weeks ago) and the position he’s in (perched above her with his sharp jaw and neck flexing as he cranes his torso to look for oncoming traffic) flashes her back to the first time she had been in his car. They had been way less acquainted, she had been much less relaxed, much more nervous, but the encounter very much carried the same exact intentions. That recollection makes her lips quirk a bit. The pair had grown so comfortable with each other since then, that Friday evening feels like it happened decades ago. 

“Yeah.” Y/N murmurs softly, gladly indulging a deep inhale of the vanilla and tobacco scent she had become familiar with, allowing it to soothe her nerves and wash away the stress of a hard day. “I’m just happy it’s over and that the weekend’s finally started. Wanna forget all about it.” 

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, love!” Harry plops back into his seat, shifting his car into drive and gifting her his famous brilliant smile, dimples winking to life as he taps his ringed fingers across his steering wheel humorously. “I’ve made you forget your name plenty of times before; I’m pretty sure I can erase one shitty work shift just fine.”

Y/N scoffs at his pompous claim, reaching up and prying the hair tie out of her locks, looping it over her wrist and shushing her stiff roots. She tucks strands behind her ears, the corners of her mouth twitching in endearment at the giddiness of his aura. “Just drive, Sherlock.” 

The mortal isn’t surprised to find that building in which the vampire lives is one of the tallest in the city, and that it’s basically smack in the center, as well. One look at Harry and anybody could immediately tell he thrives off being the center of attention, so of course his home is a direct reflection of that. Refined boy, refined personality, refined environment. It’s practically a law of science. 

Once Harry’s car is parked and the ignition rumbles to a smooth stop, Y/N unbuckles her seat belt and goes to unlock the passenger’s side door. Right as her hand is wrapping around the handle bar, the door swings open of its own accord and she just barely manages to stifle a blood-curdling scream full of shocked fear. When her eyes focus, Harry is standing there holding the door open for her, features painted with cocky amusement. 

“How did you—?” The girl whips around to look at the empty driver’s seat, eyebrows cinching in bewilderment as she turns back to face him. “How did you get around so fast?” 

Harry shrugs his shoulders offhandedly, reaching one bejeweled hand down to aid her out of the vehicle. “I did track when I was younger. Made me a fast walker.” 

Y/N hesitantly takes it, body language still slightly tense from the jump scare. With his help, she gradually climbs out, the door shutting behind her as she sweeps her sight around the parking garage in wonder. This is the first time Harry has ever invited her anywhere, let alone to where he spends most of his life. She doesn’t want to miss a thing. Even the simplest aspect can tell you a lot about a person. 

Y/N jerks a tad when she feels her friend’s cold fingers slipping down her palm, sifting between her own. She glances down at their intertwined hands for a second, a warm glow bursting through her chest. She’s always admired how his are so much bigger. 

Harry tugs her forward toward the elevator at the other end of the parking lot, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a sly smirk. “C’mon, Watson. Let me show you around.” 

Y/N stumbles after him, allowing the boy to guide her to where she needs to go as he weeds through cars effortlessly. She suddenly chimes up from behind, asking a random question to fill the leftover silence their footsteps spare. “That car next to yours had such a weird license plate. What the fuck does ‘craic’ mean?” 

Harry chuckles knowingly, perfectly aware of whose car she is referring to. “It’s this odd thing Irish people say. Utter rubbish, honestly.” 

A comfortable quietness fills the air of the elegant elevator as it shoots up towards the twenty-fourth floor of the skyscraper, the only other sound being the gentle lullaby of a nameless tune wafting through the speakers above their heads. Harry finds himself studying Y/N as she looks out at the city through the glass walls, the lights of the exterior buildings casting a beautiful buttery gleam across her relaxed characteristics, along with a radiant glint over the surface of her glossy eyes. Despite the slightly smeared mascara staining her waterline and the inherent frizziness her hair carries after being pulled into a tight ponytail all day, Harry finds that she looks nice. Pretty, even. 

The girl senses him staring, craning her head to return his gaze, the edges of her lips lilting upwards lightheartedly. He returns the gesture, peeling away to focus on something— anything— else. He deems the control panel a worthy replacement.

As the numbers on the dial drag by, Harry finds himself absentmindedly thumbing over Y/N’s knuckles. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind, so he continues doing it, massaging the crest of each bump and pressing down gently along the troughs. He enjoys the sensation of her silky warm skin heating his icy own, and he ponders whether she likes how cold his touch is, or if she hates it as much as he does. He expels that notion from his mind; he refuses to let such a stupid concept upset him. He just keeps caressing her hand, restraining his mind from ambling too far into its meaning. It’s just to pass the time. 

He keeps the movements going until their ride skates to a joltless halt with a sharp ding! and then he steps out, having to give his full attention to leading her down the long corridor to his flat. Y/N is so caught up in drinking up her surroundings, she almost bumps into the creature when he comes to an abrupt stop in front of the entrance of what she can only deduce is his home. Harry drops her hand, much to her disappointment, fishing into his back pocket for his keys. He patiently filters through his keychain, picking out the right one and working it into the lock, a soft click emitting from the mechanism. 

Harry pushes the door open with his palm, standing off to the side just outside the threshold and tilting his head towards it, posture bowing slightly. “Ladies first.” 

Y/N thanks him quietly, taking a cautious step forward into his hallway. She can’t help the way her heart skips a beat at his gentlemanly tendencies; she rarely meets anyone as respectful as Harry seems to be and she finds his old-timey attributes to be refreshing. Helping her out the car, taking her hand to guide her through the parking lot, rubbing at her knuckles innocently, holding the door open for her— it’s all such an archaic form of chivalry she wishes she’d see more often these days. She doesn’t know if it’s a British thing, if he had just been raised like that, or if he simply does it to get laid, but she’s thankful for it either way. 

With one last glance at her friend over her shoulder, she begins wandering down the dark narrow path unsurely. The sound of the door slinking shut behind her and Harry’s footsteps ease her. 

She stops once she senses the corridor open up into a larger space, which she guesses is his living room. A soft gasp escapes her at the sight before her. The whole area is washed in darkness, the only source of light stemming from the large glass pane that stretches from the floor of the apartment to its tall ceiling. Dozens of buildings and cars glimmer below, the breath-taking image of the lively city looking almost like a snapshot from a professional movie. It’s absolutely gorgeous and she feels like she could stare at it for eons. 

A chilly hand suddenly presses along the dip of her spine, ushering her forward an inch or two, Harry’s invisible voice and warm breath hitting the shell of her left ear. “S’cuse me, dove.”   

The boy reaches behind her for the light switch and the condo bursts into radiance with one simple flick of his wrist. 

“Oh...my God.”

Harry’s home is something straight out of a luxury catalogue. The light floorboards and the mahogany panels. The massive leather couches and hand-sewn cushions. The extravagant chandeliers and glass staircase. The marble kitchen and generously packed liquor shelves. The ginormous wall of priceless artwork, littered with pieces from all different eras of history. It feels like stepping into a decor wonderland.

“Not too bad, huh?” Harry pipes up playfully, anchoring her back into reality from the floaty stupor that had consumed her mind. 

“Not too—? Are you kidding?” Y/N sputters incredulously, whizzing her head to the side sharply. “You were keeping an entire Four Seasons royal suite from me?!”

Harry belts out a bundle of childish giggles, the edges of his eyes crinkling and the tip of his button nose twitching. “I never thought of it much, to be honest. I’d grown to like your place.” 

“Right. Because a creaky mattress and a kitchen the size of a broom closet is so much more satisfying than chandeliers and a fucking glass wall.”

The vampire glimpses around his flat indicatively. “Okay, I see your point.”

“Exactly.” 

Y/N drifts forward, running the tips of her fingers across the backrest of the aged leather sofa and along the corners of the throw pillow, doing a slow circle at the middle of his home, taking everything in a second time around to make sure it isn’t a mirage. “Fuck, this is incredible. Is your boss looking for any more regional managers, by any chance?”

Harry follows after her, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his boyfriend jeans, chewing along the inside of his cheek to suppress a proud smile— a result of her explosive reaction. “I’m afraid my position is the one and only, sorry.”

Y/N droops her shoulders in exaggerated contempt, presenting a shitty English accent to tease him. “Bollocks.”

It garners the designated feedback, her tummy somersaulting at Harry’s exorbitant laughter. 

The boy comes to stand before her, cocking his head to the side questioningly towards his kitchen. “Can I offer you a drink?”

Y/N glimpses over at his bar area, eyes dancing over his extensive array of fancy bottles. “Oh, please do.”

Despite only having known Y/N for a few weeks, Harry has gotten quite acquainted with her tastes, even outside of sexual matters. She doesn't like the taste of alcohol, but she likes its effects. And he likes them, too, if he’s being honest. Her blood always begins to smell more appetizing after just a few sips and the way her cheeks heat up so easily when she’s buzzed always makes his breathing trip. 

He works his extensive skills, pulling from his liquor cabinet and mixing flavored liquids and syrups until he comes up with something that he thinks the girl will enjoy. It’s fruity, with hints of peach, lime, and strawberry, but also warm and fulfilling, with a rich whiskey and a few dashes of bitters. He plunks in a couple of ice cubes and mixes it together with a bar spoon, tapping it against the rim with finality and swiping it over his tongue in a quick taste test. He’s pretty happy with his concoction. 

Harry glances up to where Y/N is leaning against the armrest of his couch, her legs crossed before her as she stares at one of the abstract paintings mounted on his wall. It’s an original, as are the rest of them, which he had purchased some odd seventy years ago from a barely known artist whose talent had gone to waste in the world. It’s a deconstructed sunflower, with the color palette inverted and the strokes of the brush uneven and jagged. Odd and complicated, but beautiful, nonetheless. Its complexity is what makes it significant. 

The vampire slowly wanders over from his kitchen, holding her drink in one hand and a cloth napkin in the other. He takes the spot beside her along the armrest, speaking wistfully as if recalling a fond memory. “It’s a flower.”

Y/N nods slowly in recognition, peeling her gaze away with the corners of her lips jilting. “Mmhm, a sunflower.”

Harry’s brows jump in shock. Barely anyone ever guesses the identity correctly. He’s found that as time passes and humanity becomes more reliant on technology rather than cognizant knowledge, society in general has reduced to a more pea-brained state than ever. As a result, the amount of people who can interpret and understand the meaning behind complex artwork has greatly diminished, unfortunately, so he’s pleasantly surprised to find that one of the few who still possesses that talent happens to be the girl he’s shagging. “Wow, that’s a first. It’s so unusual, no one ever really gets it.”

“I guess I just have an affinity for the unusual.” His guest quips, giving him a jesting shrug of her eyebrows and a suggestive grin. 

You have no idea.

“You underestimated me, Holmes.” 

“That I did. My sincerest apologies.” Harry returns her joking simper, proceeding to then dip an index finger inside the stout glass in his grasp, bringing it up before her face. “Taste.”

Without breaking eye contact, Y/N parts her lips and allows him to coax the wet digit in, the tangy flavor of the mixture making her taste buds tingle. She encloses her mouth around his finger, lulling her tongue along it slowly with a mischievous glint shining across her irises. 

Harry’s prominent jaw clenches as he watches the scene unfold, breath bated and a moan threatening to betray him. She truly wastes no time.

He gradually pulls his finger from her tongue, struggling to clear his throat, missing its texture already. “How is it? More syrup? More biters?”

Y/N gazes up at him drunkenly, though it’s definitely not from the liquor. Her lips quirk cheekily as a result of how visibly frazzled she’d gotten him. “It’s perfect. Better than anything I’ve had at a club, that’s for sure.” 

“Yeah?” Harry taps his opal ring against the bottom of the lowball glass, trying to reign in his previous composure. “Think I could be a bartender?” 

“You don’t hit me as the type of person who has the patience for it.” The girl remarks wittily, slinking her head to the side and biting back a giggle when Harry makes a face at her.

“You make a valid point, I suppose.” The vampire responds with an airy sigh, nodding in surrender. “The stupid blabbing from drunk morons and impending fear of being vomited on would be too much for me. I wouldn’t last a day.” 

“You wouldn’t last a single night, let alone a whole day.”

“Alright, pipe down!” Harry deadpans, bumping her shoulder with his vengefully. “You’re bruising my ego.”

“It’s humongous,” Y/N snorts, shoving him in return, “it can take a few hits.”

The pair sit there in silence for a suspended moment, just taking in the expanse of the art before them. Harry then turns his torso towards her once more, bringing the drink in his grip up to her mouth. “Here, have a proper sip. Put my all into it.” 

Y/N obliges, looking up at him with her signature doe-like air of trusting innocence, allowing him to tip the hem of the cup against her mouth. The cool beverage filters through her taste buds and down her throat, the sweet and sour mixture leaving an enjoyable tingle in its wake. A few streams of the liquid bead out of the corners of her lips and Harry impulsively gathers them with the side of his index finger, the napkin in his other hand completely forgotten. 

As he goes to pull back in order to clean up, Y/N leans forward and traps his digit between her lips like before. This time, there’s a more insistent sultry hint sparkling around her pupils. 

“Christ...” Harry pants, watching Y/N work her way down his forefinger with a silent groan hinging on his teeth. 

He doesn’t deny himself from indulging the dirty action this time around. Her mouth is as soft and warm as ever, sending chills racing down his spine despite the sweater hugging his body. His mind slips for a second, reminiscing in all the other ways he’s felt the inside of her mouth before, a faint red tinge splattering across his cheekbones. 

Y/N draws his finger out, kissing messily across its length and over the pad, looking up at him through tension-heavied lashes. She doesn't speak a word, but her intentions are clear in the electricity between them.

He can’t hold back any longer, his next comment coming out as a pained growl. “God, you’re such a filthy little thing.”  

She hums softly in the back of her throat at his explicit compliment, suckling at the center of her bottom lip needily. “I like being your filthy little thing.”

Harry swallows thickly in order to keep himself somewhat tame, fangs suddenly pricking his tongue in warning.

The mortal scoots closer to him, sifting her fingers between his around the drink and bringing it upwards, downing the last couple of inches in one go. She draws the cup from his grasp, reaching over to set it down carefully on the coffee table before turning back and snuggling deeper into his heaving chest. 

Harry scoffs in amusement, but he can feel a certain charring scratching at the back of his throat. “Drinks like that are meant to be savored, darling. You’re not supposed to just pound them.” 

Y/N stretches her neck upwards, taking his earlobe between her teeth, lips wet and cold from the alcohol. His lashes flutter when her warm breath hits his skin, contradicting the sensations from before. 

“Why don’t you let me worry about how I drink, and you can worry about a different kind of pounding.”

And that’s all it takes, really. That’s all it takes for Harry to completely drop any self-control he has left. 

The creature jars his face towards her, large hand shooting upwards to grip her jaw firmly, holding her in place as he crashes their mouths together. It’s all tongue and clacking teeth, desperate whines and stuttered gasps. Y/N’s hands fumble for something to tether to while Harry takes it upon himself to grasp at her opposite hip with his free hand, yanking her onto his lap. She buries her fists in the cotton fabric of his jumper, balancing her knees on either sides of his parted thighs. The boy’s fingers coast from her jaw down to her throat, tightening ever so slightly. The action is minimal, but it reveals that flare of dominance Y/N has become addicted to. 

“Do you want it here?” Harry rasps against her eager tongue, smirking into the kiss when he feels her start to rock along the bulge that is beginning to tent his denim pants. “Do you want me to bend you over the couch and fuck you, baby? With the chandelier making your skin glow? Where we can put on a show for the whole city to see?”

It’s a tempting offer and his words obviously have some form of impact, seen in the way Y/N’s grinding takes on a hungrier, deeper pace against his clothed cock. 

“I want…” Y/N finds it difficult to voice her desires, the responsible party being the manner in which Harry glues cracked mewls onto the roof of her mouth. “I want it in your bed.” 

She doesn’t know why, but she just wants him to take her some place where the moment they share is intimate, unseen by the prying eyes of others. She wants to christen his bed exactly how he had done hers; she craves that strange connection, for some reason. Y/N isn’t naive, she knows she’s not the only person Harry has had in his home and in his sheets. But she wants that experience, nonetheless, even if it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She knows she’s not his only, but at least she’s one. 

Harry slowly breaks their kiss, brushing the tip of his nose across her own in a small comforting gesture. He blinks at her groggily, the copper specks in his eyes glitzing under the golden hue of the lighting. When he speaks, its soft and low, almost as if he doesn’t want to risk another soul overhearing. “Okay. Whatever you want, it’s yours.” 

Y/N almost doesn’t get anything she wants, given that she nearly kills herself on the trek up the stairs, courtesy of her weakened knees and wobbly ankles. Harry just barely manages to save her, but he finds the occurrence too hilarious to spare her the embarrassment. 

“Stop laughing, it’s not funny!” She exclaims indignantly as he helps her up the last few glass steps, clinging to him like a scared puppy, her hands still shaking with adrenaline. “I could have died!” 

Her shrieking only makes him laugh harder and he nearly keels over, palm clutching his stomach as if to keep it from popping. “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s just— your face when you— and how you tripped sideways— I—”

Y/N shoves him hard towards the corridor where his bedroom lies, but it’s hard to maintain an angry demeanor when the young man’s giggles sound like bells and when he looks so cute with his curls flopping across his forehead. “Dickhead.” 

They’re almost at his bedroom door when Harry grabs onto her wrist, tugging her roughly so that she lurches forward into his chest. He plants a wet kiss onto the bridge of her nose, expression entertained. “Stop being such a bad sport. It was pretty funny.”

“Yeah, okay.” She huffs begrudgingly, glancing down impatiently at his plump lips as he walks backwards down the hallway with her in tow. “You can invalidate my rage once you have a near death experience yourself.”

The irony of it all. 

Harry kicks the door open, ghosting his mouth over Y/N’s and watching her sight do a quick sweep around the area. “Welcome to my lair.” 

The human likes his aesthetic. The room has different hues of the same color, so it all ties together nicely, and the hanging lights look like miniature versions of the two large ones downstairs. The bed is huge, which is a relief because for once, they won’t have to actively worry about accidentally rolling off the edge mid-fuck. “It’s nice. Very chic.” 

“Thanks.” Harry reaches up and cups either side of her neck with his palms, dragging his damp lips over her chin and down the center of her jugular, smiling against her skin when he feels her shiver. “It doesn't have a bookshelf wall like yours, but I make due.”

“Yeah.” Y/N wisps out weakly, leaning her head back as he speckles his mouth across that sensitive point on her throat he discovered ages ago. “I bet.”

She feels Harry’s touch travel down her torso, cold fingers suddenly smearing across her love handles beneath her work shirt. His grip tightens at the hem with the intention of pulling the polo off, breath hot as it washes over her collarbones. “Wanna find out just how good I make it work?”

Y/N’s arms instinctively raise on command, her reply shaky and fragile. “Yes, please.” 

Harry makes it work. He makes it work so fucking well. He doesn’t need crazy positions or any vibrating toys to make her feel good; he just knows her so thoroughly by now that he’s able to tend to every single one of her needs like it’s his sole purpose. The sex is missionary, with her splayed out across her back upon his mound of feathered pillows, her thighs clamped over his hips as he slams into her at a harsh, curt pace. Her calves are tied around the backs of his thighs, her nails are carving memories into the broad expanse of his shoulders, they’re both panting curse words and encouragement into each other’s mouths, and he’s cradling her to his chest as if he wants to absorb her heartbeat right through her ribs. If only obtaining one were that easy. 

Y/N allows her head to fall back against the cushions, drawing away from the prolonged kiss only because she needs air to continue. Harry’s lips busy themselves elsewhere, running down the valley of her chest and toying with one of her pebbled nipples. Y/N’s back gives a sharp arch the second he brushes across the sensitive nub and the taunting coo he releases goes straight to her core. 

“Liked that, darling? Like it when I kiss you there?”

The girl’s lashes have fallen shut, her eyes lulling around in their sockets as he maintains a steady rhythm between her thighs, ramming into her with so much force, the headboard is knocking into the wall. It’s loud and intense enough that Harry has to fit one of his palms between the railings, bracing the weight of the bed in order to prevent a hole from forming. 

Y/N’s voice fills the dense atmosphere, so shattered and raw, she can hardly understand herself. “It feels so— so good, H.” 

“I love it when you call me that. Sounds so pretty coming from your lips.” The vampire’s tongue flicks over her nipple a handful of times, dark veins momentarily webbing over the whites of his eyes at the cracked whimper she lets loose. “And of course it feels good. I always make you feel good, don’t I? Always make my girl cum so—fucking—hard.” 

Y/N’s trembling fingers card into the curls along the nape of Harry’s neck as he thrusts to his words, twisting them around her knuckles and swimming in the throaty groan he pours over the clammy skin of her breasts. Her whisper sounds distant and dreamy. “Please...Please don’t stop.”

Harry gazes up at her through heavy lashes, lapping at her chest more fervently, accent thick and deep. “I won’t, baby. Not until I have you dripping all over my sheets.”

After a few more minutes of fractured moans bouncing around the panels of the room and the noise of wet skin slapping together, something catches Y/N’s bleary eyes. She wills past the blissful fog in her mind, focusing on the intriguing object hanging from one of the railings of Harry’s bedpost, swaying back and forth wildly due to his strong tempo. 

“Are those...Are those handcuffs?” 

Harry’s attention jumps to where hers is pinned, his powerful stride coming to a gradual stop. He’s heaving and shuddering above her, ringlets matted to his jaw and across his temples, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of cherry red. His Adam’s Apple bobs once and he gives a short nod. “Y-Yeah. I’ve had them for a while...”

The hope dripping from his voice is practically palpable and Y/N interprets it easily. She glances down at him as he takes quivering inhales against her chest, his eyes bleeding lust. Her mumble is so quiet and soft, he wonders how it’s possible for her to make some of the preposterously loud sounds he’s used to hearing whenever he’s buried this deep. “Use them on me. Please?”

Harry bends to her request without hesitation. He locks her wrists into the restraints, sponging a kiss onto each before giving them one hard tug to check for security. He then regains his rough slams, but with more fervor than before. 

The monster sits back onto his heels, groping her waist roughly and working her against his thighs, watching welts form on her flesh along the pads of his fingers. Y/N unconsciously begins circling her hips to match his speed and the fractured groan that rips out of him makes her walls tighten. He looks incredible looming in front of her, head toppled back between his shoulder blades, bouncing to his every ram. His throat flexes with the weight, jaw taut and inked pectorals glistening with sweat under the dim lights dangling from his ceiling. “That’s it, pet, just like that. Love the way you ride it. You’re so fucking tight and warm and...and just— Christ, just fuck me.”

She wishes she could frame this moment in time and drag it out forever.  

Harry swings his head forward again, blinking the blurriness from his vision to take in the image before him. Y/N just looks so fucking gorgeous like that, tied down at his beck and call, her chest bouncing pertly as her fingers bunch around the chain link, thighs clinging to his waist as she chews her bottom lip raw in an attempt to control her noises. 

The vampire ducks down, connecting their mouths in a sloppy kiss that cajoles her into spilling all the moans she had been withholding. He feels them trickle down his lungs and diffuse into his bones, flames lapping across his insides as their foreheads bump and noses smudge, ragged breaths intermingling. “Let it out for me, hm? Wanna know how I’m making you feel, don’t care who hears.”

As if that isn’t enough, there’s an instance where Harry’s animalistic senses suddenly enhance and he comes to the realization that the metal cuffs have made a tiny laceration along her skin. 

A thin trail of blood travels down her suspended arm, but she doesn’t seem to notice, too lost in the pleasure Harry is pounding into the pit of her stomach. So he simply leans upwards and licks the sweet droplet clean, feeling heat spark across every fiber of his being. He laps up the entire stream and then presses a tender kiss to her palm for good measure, grunting out a gentle, “There’s a good girl.” when she whines at the affectionate gesture. 

The release Harry is getting from between Y/N’s legs mixes with the ecstasy her blood brings, and it shoves him over the edge in a manner he hasn’t experienced since that first time they slept together all those weeks ago. Since the first time he tasted what lies in her veins, while also simultaneously getting to taste the indescribable relief her body so readily brings him.

After all is said and done that night, something peculiar happens. After they both milk their orgasms for everything it’s worth, and after Y/N gives into exhaustion in his arms with her wrists bruised and a content watery smile on her face, and after he gets a heftier drink from her neck and heals the two little puncture wounds with his own blood...The most bizarre, unexpected event occurs. 

Harry falls asleep soundly for the first time in months, and all he dreams about is how Y/N tasted. 

///

Y/N wakes up the next morning to her body covered in Harry’s Nike jumper, to an empty spot beside her in the messy duvet, to a familiar tune tinging her ears from a distance, and to a satisfying ache between her thighs. 

As soon as she cracks the bedroom door open, the smell of pancakes wafts in through the chilled morning air. Specifically, lemon and blueberry pancakes. Her grandmother’s lemon and blueberry pancakes.

A shiver runs down Y/N’s spine the second she sets a toe along the cold glass panels of Harry’s staircase. She takes a deep breath, pulling the extra length of the sweater’s sleeves over her fists and tugging the hem of the article downwards as if she could convince it to cover more than just half her thighs. She carefully works her way down the steps, flinching at the iciness that travels up her legs with every motion. When she finally thunks down emptily onto the light-wash floorboards, her body has grown accustomed to the temperature. As she pads across the furry rug in Harry’s living room, she finds herself wondering why everything connected to him is always so unusually cold— colder than any normal person could withstand. His touch, his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, his chest, even his thighs; everything is always freezing, and she doesn’t understand how he can bear it. It’s such an odd affinity to have. 

The human gradually wanders into the vampire’s kitchen, peeking inside the room from behind one of the archway’s walls. What she sees throws her for a loop. 

Harry is cooking breakfast, as she expected from the sweet scent she’d awoken to, but he’s doing it in a manner she never really expected from him. 

Music stems from a portable speaker he has situated at the center of the marble kitchen island, blaring loud enough to fill the entire giant home with high notes, guitar chords, and acapella riffs. The young man is dancing across his kitchen as he cooks, clad in nothing but a set of black Calvin Klein briefs and a pair of fuzzy magenta socks. Y/N rakes down his body, admiring the crimson and purple love bites she had left on his chest and the raspberry red scratches zig-zagging across his back, the marks flexing with the movements of his muscles. They’re strangely faint, for some reason. Practically barely there. 

She chalks it up to the fact that maybe she hadn’t bruised him as much as she’d thought. 

Y/N forces herself to keep her mind from straying onto anymore explicit topics; it’s probably not even ten A.M. yet. She needs to get herself under control.

Grooving while in the kitchen isn’t necessarily weird (she’s guilty of it herself), but Harry’s dancing techniques very much are. The only accurate depiction of it is that for a boy in his twenties, he dances like an old geezer in his eighties. His moves are choppy and old-schooled, almost like what you’d expect to see in a nineteen fifties disco hall, and watching him ebb and flow across the tiled ground to choreography similar to that of Dirty Dancing and Footloose... It would send anybody into a fit of laughter. Especially since Harry is so tall and lanky, so how he manages to move in such a way is beyond her understanding. 

Aside from that, his choice of music is baffling, as well. Not only because she recognizes the soundtrack, but because she would have never expected someone like him— with his cocky behavior and overly-confident caliber— to be into these types of songs at all. She always pegged him for the seventies rock and roll type. 

“You like Hamilton?” 

Harry’s actions creak to a halt and he whips around towards where the disturbance had stemmed, spatula clutched in one hand and a marble plate stacked with pancakes in the other. His face breaks into a bright smile, voice slathered with dramatic friendliness. “Well, look who finally got up! I was starting to think you were dead, Sleeping Beauty.”

Y/N narrows her eyes at him mockingly, walking over to the kitchen counter and propping herself onto her elbows, chin in hand as she watches him set down the platter of food before her. She tips forward onto her toes, taking a deep inhale of the homey, sugary smell, letting it wash over her in flashes of childhood memories. “Are these like the ones I make?”

“Lemon and blueberry, yeah.” Harry bobs his head casually, turning around to place his metal spatula down into the sink, as well as to retrieve a glass bottle of maple syrup from one of his cupboards. “They’re pretty close, I think. I’ve never seen you use a recipe or measuring cups or anything when you make them, so I kinda eyeballed it to the best of my ability. Hope I did your nan justice.”

He pours a decently-sized glop of syrup over the mountain of treats and Y/N watches excitedly as it trickles down all the layers. He then pushes back from the table, pulling open a drawer and rummaging through, continuing to whistle along to the tune of Satisfied as he bops the cabinet closed with his hip and sets down an extra pair of forks and knives beside the plate. 

Harry cuts a neat triangle out of the pancake at the top, pointing at her with his fork as he shrugs his brows nonchalantly. “And to answer your question from before: yes, I do like Hamilton.”

“Hm. Interesting.” Y/N murmurs, going cross-eyed as Harry offers her the forkful of food in his possession, poking at her mouth playfully and getting maple syrup all over her lips. She opens obediently, allowing him to feed her the piece. “You don’t really seem like the type of guy— oh, wow, these are actually really good!”

Harry bites into his lower lip with his two front teeth, a proud smile dimpling his cheeks as the light draft from the air vent ruffles a couple of his sex-mussed ringlets across his forehead. “Yeah? You mean it?”

The mortal nods her head vigorously as she finishes chewing and swallowing, wiping away some of the leftover syrup from her top lip with her middle finger and sucking it clean. “Yeah! You hit it spot on.”

“Aces. I should be on The Great British Bake Off.” Harry makes a small, celebratory fist bump next to his hip and the childish gesture makes Y/N snort softly. 

“Like I was saying, you don’t really strike me as the type of guy who would be into musicals.” The girl comments, watching her friend cut another triangle out of the first pancake and pop it into his own mouth. 

The vampire chews thoughtfully for a second, lifting one shoulder offhandedly and swallowing fully before talking. “I’m really not, to be honest. But this specific musical is pretty good. The songs are catchy.”

He nudges the other pair of utensils across the counter for emphasis, silently inviting her to dig into the dish along with him. She accepts, slicing down the other side of the stack as he leans forward onto his elbows, mimicking her stance. He gives her a curious glance. “What about you? Do you like musicals?” 

Y/N shrugs, poking a few chunks of food onto her fork. “Not really, but I had a major Hamilton phase back in college. That’s why I recognized it.” 

Harry hums in understanding, picking a blueberry off and chewing it slowly, a sly smirk beginning to tweak the corners of his mouth. “So were you, like, a nerd back then?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say a nerd, but I had decent grades and was pretty quiet.”

He swallows down audibly, blinking impassively. “That’s literally the definition of a nerd.” 

Y/N returns his flat expression. “Fuck off.”

Harry throws his palms up in peaceful surrender, but he still has that shit-eating grin present. “Alright, fine, fine...It’s okay if you were, though. You were probably one of those cute ones, y’know? With the clunky glasses and innocent goody-goody face.” 

“Shut up.”

“Oh, and with one of those short little plaid skirts?” He releases a pained groan, clutching his chest and closing his eyes for a second. She has no doubt he’s sketching some type of graphic image of her in his mind. “God, I bet you looked so good. Do you still have it? Can you wear it for me?”

“I said shut up!” Y/N reaches forward and stabs at his tummy lightly with her fork, ignoring the warmth crawling up her neck and across her cheeks. “Fucking perv.”

Harry smacks her utensil away with his own, giggling lightly as she tries to prick him again, continuing to fight her off. “I’m just asking a question! For science!” 

Y/N twists her fork around his, trying to outmaneuver him into dropping it. “How could my fashion sense in college possibly contribute to science in any way?” 

The vampire easily catches onto her play, slipping himself out of her grasp and trying to trap her makeshift sword down against the tabletop. He purses his lips into a simper, glimpsing up at her through his lashes and quirking his brows cheekily. “Biologically, of course. It contributes to my solo reproductive activities.”

“You are vile.” 

“Really? ‘Cause you seemed pretty happy to help with said activities last night.” 

Y/N drops her fork onto the brim of the platter, reaching up to massage at her temples and keep herself from swatting Harry’s eyeballs out of their sockets. “I’m finished.” 

“Yeah,” the jade of his irises glimmers coyly as he sets down his utensil beside hers in a ceasefire, “you definitely finished.”

Harry chuckles boyishly as Y/N drags her palms down her face, trying to hide away how flustered he’s getting her. She decides to change the subject, not caring to steer the conversation smoothly at all, but rather jumping to another topic right away. “So does this mean you have all the lyrics memorized? Since you like them so much?” 

“I do, yeah.” Harry taps his fingers against the marble counter to the beat of the song currently playing. “Do you?” 

“I was obsessed, so of course I do.” Y/N reasons, her own digits following in tune with the immortal’s. “I think Non-Stop was probably my favorite to sing. It made for a good shower concert.”

“Well, it’s settled then.” Harry quips happily, reaching for his phone and tapping across the screen. “We’re duetting this. Right now. C’mon, Burr.”

Y/N’s motions stop, shyness creeping in from the back of her brain. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry. I never really—”

Her refusal is interrupted by the beginning of the arrangement mentioned, the notes blasting through the speaker as Harry purposefully turns up the volume to drown her out. He taps at his ear symbolically, mouthing, “Sorry, I can't hear you!” and he doesn’t even attempt to ward off the evil grin creeping across his face. 

“Harry, I��m serious—” 

But it’s already too late. Harry juts his hand out in front of him, pointing at his companion with a theatrical edge as he begins to serenade, picking up the slack of her part. 

“After the war I went back to New York. A-After the war I went back to New York. I finished up my studies and I practiced law. I practiced law, Burr worked next door!”

He looks at her expectantly, urging her to jump into the next half as her assigned role. Y/N muscles down her hesitation and recites the lines timidly with her brows creased in hesitation, but at least she’s participating. “Even though we started at the very same time, Alexander Hamilton began to climb. How to account for his rise to the top?”

Harry joins her in the next stanza, grabbing her hand midair in encouragement, trying to shake her out of her rut. “Man, the man is non-stop!”

Y/N is surprised at how well they sound harmonizing together, and she can feel her discomfort slowly begin to melt. She watches as Harry freely boasts his solo with absolutely no remorse, making grand gestures as he slides down the side of the counter, his movements dragging her along. 

“Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious, bear with me. Are you aware that we're making history?” The boy taps at his chin to symbolize that he’s thinking, acting out the story the lyrics construct. “This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation, the liberty behind deliberation.”

He points at Y/N once again and she does the supporting vocals, gradually beginning to gain more confidence. “Non-stop!”

“I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, with my assistant counsel—”

Harry doesn’t even have to cue Y/N this time around; she picks up her half immediately, falling into line with him flawlessly as if they’ve done this a million times before. “Co-counsel. Hamilton, sit down. Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness.”

Harry quickly rounds the corner of the kitchen island, giving her body a grand spin as he draws closer, coming to stand right before her. She gives him a fake exasperated look to match the attitude her character depicts, shaking her head in disapproval. “That's all you had to say.”

“Okay…” The creature yanks Y/N forward into his bare chest, leaning down and flirting his lips right over hers tauntingly, eyes half-lidded in amusement. “One more thing—”

“Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room?” The girl rolls her eyes dramatically, shoving past Harry’s shoulder and she finds it humorous how these lines fit so well, almost as if they were actually directed at him, calling him out on the arrogance he always seems to dote. “Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude may be your doom.”

Harry swivels on his heel, following her as she scurries outside the kitchen entrance, running into the living room. 

“Why do you write like you're running out of time?” Y/N grabs onto one of the couch cushions, pretending to scribble over it with a fake pen. “Write day and night, like you're running out of time? Everyday you fight, like you're running out of time.”

Harry swipes at her from across the couch, trying to grasp onto the jumper she’s wearing. “Keep on fighting in the meantime.”

Y/N ducks out of the path of his grabbing hand, chucking the pillow forward and it bonks him square in the face. She sticks her tongue out at him as Harry scowls dully, climbing onto his sofa and scuttling towards her on his hand and knees.

She jumps just out of reach, diving across the other end of the furniture. The vampire throws his weight to try and tackle her to the sofa, but she just barely escapes. He ends up toppling over the backrest due to his over-abundant momentum. 

“Non-stop!” Y/N waves her middle up at him triumphantly as he pushes himself up off the ground, giving her a challenging look as he takes off after her once again. 

The pair continue to sing back and forth, with Harry chasing Y/N around the living room and kitchen as he belts out his part of the song, Y/N always somehow managing to slip from his grasp as soon as her turn hits. They’re a mess of giggles, silly faces, and boisterous actions as they reenact the play and neither can recall a time they had ever had more fun. There’s never been an instance when they felt so comfortable with another soul that they are willing to run around half-naked, screaming lyrics at each other in their underwear, not caring who sees or overhears. It just feels so second-nature.

A section of the song comes up where a woman is singing and Harry immediately takes up the part, placing his hand on his bare hip and standing in the most feminine fashion he can possibly muster, fanning at his face. “I am sailing off to London, I am accompanied by someone who always pays.” 

The exaggeration makes Y/N bend over laughing and her distraction allows Harry to nab her. He pulls her into his embrace by her forearms, cackling through the following stanza as she wriggles and squirms to try and get free. “I have found a wealthy husband who will keep me in comfort for all my days.” 

Y/N finally gives up on trying to thrash herself free, going limp against his chest and glimpsing up at him with begrudged annoyance, but a fond smile is unmistakably buckling her cheeks. Harry leans down, singing right in her face just to flaunt his victory, their noses brushing. “He is not a lot of fun, but…”

And then, there’s a shift in the ambiance between them. 

Harry gazes down at her as she giggles up at him from his arms, full of so much genuine warmth and excitement, she could power the entire city if she wanted. Her shoulders are heaving slightly as a result of all the running, there’s still faint traces of black mascara smeared under her waterline and down her cheeks from the previous evening’s exertions, she has some acne scarring littering her cheekbones that look fairly recent, and her hair looks like it could nest a family of at least ten birds. But despite these imperfections, Harry finds himself feeling oddly endeared by it all. These flaws are all things he’s gotten used to and has grown to treasure in Y/N. They make her who she is. They make her witty, and they make her clever. They make her fun, as well as trusting. They make her likeable, and energetic, and kind. They make her a good friend and a generous lover. They make her... her. Harry gets the feeling that if she didn’t have all of these traits— if even one was missing— this little arrangement they have going wouldn’t have flourished the way it did. 

Yeah, maybe he would have slept with her once or twice more just to scratch an itch, but he most likely would have let it fizzle to an end after the fact. Her personality paired with these small details— albeit, not all entirely attractive— that make up her existence play a key role in the dynamic they share. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything else— wouldn't trade Y/N for anyone else. Not anytime soon. 

A warm surge travels through his chest, filling his veins like kerosine, heating him from the heels of his socked feet to the tips of his ice cold fingers. An unorthodox swelling sensation twists inside his ribs, right where his heart used to beat, and he finds himself reciting the next line in a soft voice packed with more emotion than he’s shown or felt in the last two centuries.

“There’s no one who can match you, for turn of phrase…”

Y/N seems oblivious to all of the unsettling experiences he’s undergoing, her amused expression not changing in the slightest. Harry allows the rest of the song lyrics to pass by, the lump in his throat too heavy to fight. Instead, he just keeps staring down at Y/N with brows frowning in confusion, his breathing coming out bated and shaky, and that knot in his chest continuing to tighten until it becomes painful. He gets the sudden urge to kiss her— to feel her lips press to his and feel her give into him the way she always does. The way she has for the last four weeks. He doesn’t want it to be sloppy or desperate or sexual; he wants it to be intimate, soft, and caring. He wants it to be special. Something they share. Something only they share.

Then, that moment passes. That flicker of weakness that had leaked through vanishes and Harry feels like he can breathe properly again.

He breaks their locked eyes, releasing Y/N from his hold and taking a swift step back, coughing awkwardly to try and rid the tickling sensation in the back of his throat. He scratches at the nape of his neck nervously, fiddling with his baby curls and attempting to piece himself back together after that unexpected and unwelcome intrusion of his innermost feelings. Though, he doesn’t know if that spectacle even files under the category of emotions; from what he remembers, they aren’t supposed to tangibly attack you in such a manner. It felt more like a violation— like someone had gone in and started poking and prodding at his subconscious with a metal skewer. 

“Harry…?” Y/N inches closer to him, concern prevalent in her voice and across her features as she stretches her hand out caringly. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to be sick.” 

“I-I’m—” His voice comes out higher than usual and quivering, so he coughs once again to get it under control, taking another step back. He's scared that if she touches him, that horrible burning sensation will come back. “I’m fine. Just...Just forgot the lyrics.” 

“Oh, okay…” The girl doesn’t sound convinced with the answer, but she lets the subject falter anyways, her hand dropping back down beside her thigh. “Just checking.” 

“Yeah, I got that. Uh, thanks. But I’m all good now.” He holds up a clenched first and juts out his pinky, wiggling it for significance. “Promise”

Y/N scoffs gently at his playful deed. “Alright, then.” 

Harry eyes her attentively as she returns to her previous spot in front of the plate of pancakes, retrieving her fork and starting to pick at them like before, as if nothing had happened. As if Harry hadn’t just almost had a cardiac arrest, despite the fact that the organ responsible had crumbled to dust ages ago.

“Are you gonna eat anymore?” Y/N signals down at the stack of pastries before her questioningly. “Because if you don’t get some now, I’ll eat them all myself. Don’t think I won’t. They’re better than the ones I make and—”

The vampire suddenly feels like bile is rising up his throat and his words spew out before he can think to stop them, though he’s not so sure he would. 

“Do you want to stay over the rest of the weekend?”

#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 imagine #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles blurb #harry x y/n #harry x reader #harry x you #harry styles au #vampire au

[sinner-as-saint]

Power Over Me - 2.

Bucky Barnes x Reader AU

Part 1

Run-through: CEO James Buchanan Barnes is a dominant. And he’s spent the last 5 years searching for his perfect submissive. Then one night, he finds you. He thinks everything will fall perfectly into place now; but he thought wrong. Turns out your unfortunate past which still haunts you to this day, and some of his enemies are, well, connected. Things go wrong. And your bond with your dom is tested in many ways…

Themes throughout the series: dom/sub dynamic, smut, dirty talk, angst, fluff, soft dom!bucky

Please be him. Please be him. Please be him. 

You pleaded to the universe, or God, or anything really, as the club manager dragged you back towards the lounge area.

You passed by the large, wooden flight of stairs which led to the playrooms, and it immediately reminded you of Mr. Barnes. How gently he had held your hand while ushering you upstairs earlier that night… how perfectly your hand fit in his and his around yours… how delicately he had intertwined your fingers together. And just how amazing he was.

You soon came to a stop at the more quiet part of the lounge, your head was still down. You were nervous. The manager let go of your hand and walked away, her heels clicking against the marble flooring. You heard another pair of shoes approaching you.

“Look up, doll.” It was him. Mr. Barnes.

You very shyly looked up and found yourself staring into piercing eyes. His piercing eyes. He smiled down at you. You broke into a faint smile as well, but it didn’t last very long, you soon looked down in panic. What if he found your staring rude?

He didn’t. His hand reached out to touch your face again. He grabbed your chin gently and titled your head up so you look at him properly. His thumb softly caressed your skin. “Don’t look away from me.” He spoke softly, just like he always did.

You nodded, and maintained his stare. He scanned your face, his eyes lingered around your lips then he quickly looked back up into your eyes. “I need to ask you something, sweetheart. Know that if that’s not what you want, you can say no. Okay, baby?” he asked, in that caring tone of his.

You nodded again. Bucky held on to the hope he had. And he asked you, “Would you want to come home with me?” he stepped a little closer. “Because I like you quite a lot.” He whispered under his breath and leaned in closer. So close that his mouth touched the shell of your ear. “And something tells me you like me too.” He breathed into your ear.

His voice, his words reverberated within you; sending pleasant chills down your spine which ended at your core; slightly wetting your already damp underwear a little more.

Home with him… that sounded perfect. But what if… what if he turns out to be like- no! Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. This isn’t him. This is Mr. Barnes. Sweet, soft-spoken, kind and caring Mr. Barnes.

You had seen him at the club often, and how he mostly kept to himself. How he always stayed at the bar away from the crowds when most of his friends attended a scene. How he had always behaved like a gentleman. And just how he was leaving the decision on you, which had never happened in your case before.

Yes. Home with him sounded perfect.

“I would like that, sir.” You answered.

No other questions were asked. He smiled at your answer and dropped his hand from your face and reached out to grab your hand in his again. He could still find remnants of nervousness and panic and fear on your face. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re safe with me.”

He meant it. He meant what he said with all his heart.

 Not even minutes later, you two were making your way out of the club. And for the first time in a long while, neither of you were walking out of the doors feeling lonely or incomplete.

Bucky had his hand carefully placed in the small of your back, he opened the doors for you once you sat in the passenger seat, he bent down to caress your cheek one more time before he shut the door and walked to the other side.

You let out a nervous breath as he opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. It was a good kind of nervous. You took a deep breath and only then noticed how amazing the interior of his car smelt; new, and expensive and hints of his cologne were present as well.

You waited for him to say something, but he just held your hand in his as he drove out of the venue. His touch was warm and calming. You leaned back into the cool seat and exhaled slowly. For the first time in a long time, the silence between you and someone else wasn’t heavy, or awkward. It was peaceful.

Ten minutes into driving, he turned to look at you briefly. Smiled, then looked back at the road. You were staring out of the window so you didn’t notice him looking over at you frequently. Bucky couldn’t believe you were actually here with him, in his car; on your way to his house. Where you’d be staying, with him.

You and him, there was definitely something there between you. Something felt like it fit when you were together, and it had only been hours since you met, but still. Bucky could feel it. And it only made him want to never let you go even more.

“Are you alright, doll? What’s bothering you?” he asked, he could tell you were overthinking.

You didn’t reply. Instead you looked down at your lap, where his hand held yours. You hadn’t realized that you had wrapped your other hand around his as well, so now his large, warm hand was secure between your grasp.

You may speak when asked a question, doll. You remembered his words from earlier.

“Nothing, sir. I’m fine.” You kept your answer polite and short, so Bucky didn’t push you. You and him had a long way to go, and he intended on making all your troubles, even the insignificantly tiny ones, all go away.

You just wait, my little pearl, happiness is on the way. Bucky thought to himself.

“Alright then. I need you to know that I’m here, whatever it is. You can talk to me about anything, doll. Okay?” his voice sounded so soothing. So calm.

You nodded, then responded. “Yes, sir.”

-

Half an hour later, when Bucky pulled into his front yard, past the gate, you looked around in pleasant surprise. Then again, he was well-off so of course he lived in a house which looked like a modern rendition of a castle. You could see part of the illuminated sunroom, and a part of you was immediately curious. You were always a plant lover, so this was a very good start already.

Bucky stopped on the dark brick path, right in front of the stairs which led to his front door. He turned the engine off and the two of you just sat there in the comfortable silence, relishing the warmth inside the car.

He squeezed your hand gently. You squeezed his hand back. He chuckled. “I want you to know, that you can leave at any given moment you want. Just say the word ‘winter’ and everything ends right away. I will have someone drop you off to where you wanna go. Okay, doll?” he asked, his thumb caressing the back of your hand.

As usual, you nodded. He could see the silhouette of your face moving up and down. “Speak.” He said again.

“Yes, sir.”

 Bucky held your hand as you two walked in. He had a wonderful house, you were truly amazed. It was just the right blend of a modern home with vintage décor. The perfect balance between contemporary styles and accents of antique pieces here and there.

It was warm, and welcoming.

“Come on, I’ll show you something.” he gently gave your hand a soft tug, to get you to follow him. He reminded you a lot of the kids who drag people to show them their new room. You broke into a smile when Bucky had his back to you.

He took you up the stairs and down a large hallway. Then stopped at a pair of wooden doors. He looked back at you as he opened it with a faint smile. He walked in first, you stepped in right after and you were again, pleasantly surprised.

It was a bedroom, and it was absolutely stunning. Clean lines and shapes, dark wooden floor, accents of red and black and shades of grey on the bedding, multiple pillows, rugs, artworks and furniture. You immediately liked the soft, large, dark grey pouf in the middle of the room. You also really liked the large windows which would give you incredible views of the lush backyard and the sunset.

“It’s your new bedroom. Like it?” he asked, after giving you a few moments to check out the room. You frowned, then immediately remembered that he preferred audible answers.

“My bedroom, sir?” you were puzzled. Your previous master, he… he never offered you your own bedroom.

Bucky didn’t like the look you had on your face once the memories of the past came flooding back in. He could easily read your face. “What is it, baby? You don’t like it?”

You shook your head immediately. The room wasn’t the problem here. “I do, sir. It’s lovely. I just…” you trailed off again. Bucky waited. “I never had my own room with… with my previous master.” You told him. He frowned.

“Then where did you sleep? In his bed?” he asked. There was a part of him who disliked, for some reasons, the image of you beside another man in bed. Not disliked, he actually hated it completely.

You shook your head again, slower this time. “No, never in his bed. I slept on a pallet beside his bed. Always.” you answered so casually. Bucky was horrified. Always? It wasn’t an unusual thing in this lifestyle, but even as a dominant himself, he still believed that that was a bit much. How dare any dom treat a sub any less than like an absolute treasure?

Bucky stepped closer to you, and reached out to cup your face. He could easily tell that talking about that man made you upset. “Hey baby, don’t think about him. You’re here now, you’re with me. This is your room now, your space, you’re free to do what you want with it and in it. My bedroom is at the other end of the hallway, in case you need anything.” He spoke, taking his time and making sure you understood.

You nodded, and he continued. “Now, settle in. You’ll find everything you need in the closets.” He spoke, leaning in and giving you a kiss on the cheek. “Shower, and then get some sleep, okay? We’ll have plenty of time to talk and discuss things tomorrow.”

Shower and sleep, huh? But what about… you opened your mouth to ask but then you stopped before uttering a word. He noticed, and didn’t like how you hesitated.

“What is it, baby? We’re in your room, remember? You’re free to talk in here.” He explained.

You asked him. “What about… your playroom?” He hadn’t shown you that yet. You were curious, after all that was the main reason why you were here, you were sure.

He smiled warmly. “Like I said, tomorrow. You’re tired, you need to get some rest. Now go on, take a nice warm shower, and sleep. Breakfast will be at eight tomorrow morning.” He spoke and leaned down to briefly kiss the side of your mouth. “Don’t be late.” He said before leaving the room. He closed the door on his way out and you stood there, thinking again.

This treatment was very new to you. You smiled faintly and reached up to touch your face, where he had kissed you just seconds ago. This was definitely something you could get used to.

You followed what he had said. You walked into the equally as luxurious bathroom and scanned the shelves and cabinets and found everything one could possibly need. As he said, you took a nice warm shower. You thought of him as you washed and conditioned and rinsed your hair. Mr. Barnes… how lucky you were that he chose you.

Then, you heard the sound of the bedroom door opening. You panicked, but then you remembered his words; Don’t worry, baby. You’re safe with me.

Not even a minute later, you heard the sound of the door closing; signaling that whoever walked in, walked out. Must be Mr. Barnes.

Indeed it was, because when you walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in fluffy grey towels and making your way to the closet to see if you could find clothes to sleep in; something on the bed caught your attention. It was a white t-shirt, nicely folded. With a folded piece of paper placed on top of it.

You picked up the paper first, it read;

-There are PJs in the closet if you want, but I would rather you wear this to bed. Good night, babygirl.

You caught yourself smiling at the note. You ignored the warmth spreading through your body as you picked the shirt up. Mindlessly, you brought it closer to your face and you gave it a sniff. It smelt clean; of soft laundry detergent and remnants of Bucky’s cologne.

You put it on then went on to search for underwear. You found new ones – still in their packaging – in the drawers, slipped them on and climbed into bed. The comforters felt like a giant marshmallow; warm and comfy. You remembered to set an alarm so you could wake up and be ready for breakfast at 8 the next morning. You nearly shivered as you thought of what used to happen back with your previous master, whenever you would accidentally wake up late.

No, stop it! This isn’t him. This is Mr. Barnes. This is different, this will be different.

You forced yourself to think of Bucky as you drifted off to a much needed sleep. The blue in his eyes… the softness of his lips… the way his voice was enough to bring you to your knees and how the sound of his moans was pure heaven. And his perfect face and perfect body…

---

You woke up to an unfamiliar but warm feeling. Warm puffs of air hitting your neck, and strong, muscular arms wrapped around you.

Muscular arms…? Oh, Mr. Barnes!

Your eyes shot open, and you panicked.

Bucky, who had snuck into your bed this morning, felt your body tense in his embrace. “Hey, hey baby it’s me. Don’t worry, it’s just me.” He whispered in your ear, his face pushed into the crook of your neck.

God damn his morning voice!

You freaked out anyways, thinking you had slept in and that you were late. “I’m so sorry Sir, I didn’t mean to sleep in. I did set an alarm, I-“

He cut you off immediately. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s still early. I just came by because… I was missing you.” as soon as he said so, you relaxed, he could feel it. “It’s okay baby, just focus on my voice. Everything’s fine.” He whispered into your ear, softly kissing down your neck.

You closed your eyes and you almost moaned at his soft touch. Just like that, you didn’t have to worry about a thing, and you let him take control. His arm circled your waist, but it soon slipped under the shirt you wore to sleep. His shirt. He chuckled as he slowly cupped your breasts with his warm hand. “I see you chose to sleep in my shirt.” He murmured in your ear as the cold tips of his fingers grazed over your erected nipple. “I like it.” he chuckled lightly.

Bucky pinched your nipple between his fingers just a little, and you gasped as a tingle danced down your spine and ended right in between your legs. You could feel Bucky behind you, his large, muscular body spooning you from behind; his body heat wrapping around you.

Slowly, he pushed his knee in between your legs, separating them and making room for his hand as he trailed it down from your breasts and dipped his hand into the satin underwear. He was so close to your damp core, and his mouth kept muttering sweet nothings in your ear. You involuntarily smiled, with your eyes closed as you relished his touch.

His fingers slowly circled your clit, smearing your wetness around and he smirked at the noises you made. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.” He whispered in your ear as he lazily toyed with your throbbing clit. You almost smiled again at his words. You whimpered at his touch.

He gave you a light kiss on your jaw, his stubble pressing into your skin. “I thought about how good your pretty mouth felt around me.” He dragged his fingers down your folds and slowly slipped a finger inside you, followed by another and he curled both instantly, stroking your walls lazily. “And how pretty you look on your knees.” He breathed into your ear. You moaned, pressing your butt further against his pelvic bone.

“Your pretty, warm and wet mouth and the wild look in your eyes as you looked up at me, your mouth full of my cock.” He whispered, his voice sweet and calm. His fingers sped up, slipping in and out of you, brushing against all your sensitive spots. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you? You enjoyed pleasuring me, knowing that no one else could make me moan and cum like you could. Didn’t you, baby?”

You couldn’t respond. Your mind was foggy, messy. His actions paired with his words were a deadly combo, he was making you tremble in the best way possible. Bucky was exploring you, and he intended on learning more about your body in the coming days. He wanted to know it like the back of his hand.

He pulled his fingers out of you abruptly, completely still. “Answer me.” He growled, but not too loudly, in your ear. And his voice broke the reverie you were in.

“I did,” you answered, still in that haze. “I did enjoy pleasuring you, sir.” You repeated.

He chuckled and kissed you beneath your ear, you shivered. His lips were soft, and you could feel his smirk pressing against your skin. “Good girl.” He pushed his fingers in you again, stroking your walls again. “That’s what I thought.” He whispered again, placing his thumb on your clit and rubbing it in sync with how his fingers stroked your walls. It drove you insane. You moaned wantonly, moving your hips slowly trying to match the trust of his fingers.

“So I decided that you needed a little reward for serving me so perfectly yesterday. You did so good, baby.” he whispered, meaning it, as his fingers brought you to the edge. You whined, pushing back further into him. You felt tingly, and warm. And safe in his embrace – something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he asked, fingering you and rubbing your clit faster, and faster. You nodded, then remembered he preferred audible answers.

“I am, sir.” You whined, moaning at the end, unable to hold back. You felt your lower body tensing, the pressure built nicely as he sped up.

He hummed in appreciation, right in your ear, before he kissed down your face and nibbled on your neck. “Tell me.” He mumbled against your skin. “Who do you belong to, my little pearl?”

Oh that nickname did things to you. You clenched around him at the sound of it and he noticed. He chuckled and spoke again. “Tell me.” he sounded growly again. You almost came right there.

“I’m yours.” You whined, unsure of how much longer you could hold it. “I’m all yours, sir.” Your desperation could be heard in your voice. He liked it.

He chuckled again, the sound of his voice made you whimper and squirm against him. “Remember that, sweetheart.” He kissed your neck, and you clenched around him, feeling your release approaching. “You’re mine.”

You came, hard. With a loud moan, clenching around him, drenching his fingers with your wetness. Your hips involuntarily bucked against his hand as your orgasm washed over you. Intense, pleasurable and sweet – much like Mr. Barnes himself.

He kissed the side of your face as you calmed down. “All mine.” he mumbled against your skin as he kissed down your neck again. “Now come on, breakfast downstairs in 15 minutes.” He pulled away from you and got out of the bed. You sat up and watched him. Messy hair, shirtless with just his black sweatpants on, he looked delicious. “Don’t be late.” He winked and left.

You still felt tingly in all the places where he touched you. You felt just a little sore and stickiness in between your legs, but you caught yourself smiling again.

You only had 15 minutes so you rushed into the bathroom, showered as quickly as you could and brushed. Then walked out and finally walked into the closet to find clothes. You were, yet again, pleasantly surprised – both at the size of the closet and at the amount of clothes as well. There was a lot of them, and they all seemed like they would fit you perfectly. You made a mental note to ask him about it later.

You settled on leggings and a large hoodie and made your way downstairs.

 You found Mr. Barnes in the kitchen, with his back to you as he seemed to be chopping something. And the aroma coming from all the food made you sigh in delight. He heard it and turned around with a smile. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt so you took in his appearance shamelessly.

“Hi doll, come here.” he spoke with a smile, then got back to chopping. You walked over to him and found him chopping fruits and separating them into two bowls. “Hungry?” he asked.

“A little.” You answered. He had satiated half of your hunger earlier already. He smiled to himself, he didn’t have to tell you to speak up this time. You did it on your own, instead of just nodding. You were learning already, it seemed. He liked it.

“Here,” he picked up half of a strawberry and held it up to your mouth. You parted your lips and inched forward, taking it into your mouth. You didn’t realize how close you were standing to him until you looked up and found him only inches away from your face. He slid the fruit into your mouth and watched you intently.

He bit his own lip and pulled away. “Let’s eat.” He carried both bowls to the table where pancakes and muesli were waiting. You chose to have a portion of the latter and sat across Bucky at the kitchen island.

You and him had a small talk over breakfast.

“Now tell me sweetheart, where did you used to live? And where do you work?” he sounded calm as usual, just a little more curious.

You swallowed and responded. “In an apartment that I shared with two other girls. And I used to work for the club.” You answered.

He frowned at the second part of your answer. But you had your head down so you didn’t see it. Work for the club? What does that mean? He, again, didn’t push you because it seemed like it wasn’t your most favorite topic.

“Well, you’re not going back to that club again.” he spoke and you immediately lifted your head up to look at him. His heart fluttered. “I’m plenty able to provide for the both of us. But I wouldn’t want you to just be bored at home, so you may look for a job that you like.” He finished with another wink. You smiled.

Of course he was perfectly able to provide for the two of you, he had more money than half the city combined. But you made a mental note to indeed look for another job. Speaking of mental notes…

“Can I, um, please ask you something, sir?” you spoke softly.

“Of course, doll. Go ahead.”

“The clothes in the closets, I mean I’m very grateful sir, but how did you…” you trailed off, not knowing how to word it well without thinking that you might sound rude.

But again, he knew exactly what you meant. “I messaged my assistants, right before we left the club. And gave them the necessary details and asked them to prep the room for your comfort. Including, the clothes.” He answered.

You smiled faintly. “Thank you, sir.” You said.

“No problem. I wanted things to be perfect for you, given you’ll be living here now. For quite a while.” He spoke again, and you looked up from your cereal bowl.

Quite a while sounded… good. At least he wasn’t threatening to kick you out if you messed up. You shivered at the memory. Bucky noticed.

“Are you okay, doll?” he asked, suddenly very much worried. He hated seeing you like this, tensed and upset and borderline scared.

You nodded. And he didn’t push you to speak up this time. And the rest of breakfast went by in comfortable silence. After breakfast, you were about to pick up your bowls and place them in the sink and do the dishes, but he beat you to it.

He walked over and as he bent down slightly to pick up your bowl, he kissed your temple and whispered, “Go wait for me in the living room.”

You whispered a ‘yes, sir’ and got down from the stool and walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway which led to the living room. You stood by the coffee table and waited. You noticed a notepad and a pen in the middle of the table. You didn’t think much of it.

You looked around, taking in the wonderful room. You could see the huge glass door which would lead to the sunroom and you longed to go there. You were admiring it from afar when you felt a pair of hands on either side of your waist.

“Hi.” Bucky murmured, pushing his face into your hair and inhaling the sweet smell.

“Hi.” You mumbled back, unsure of where this was going. Shouldn’t he be showing you the playroom by now? Shouldn’t he be telling you of his endless list of rules which you had to abide by every single day? Should he be this affectionate and touchy? Not that you minded this, no. This was all so amazing. You liked being close to him.

“Bend over.” He said, taking you by surprise as he pointed to the large velvet couch in the middle of the room, by the coffee table.

Bend over? Would you be punished already? You tensed at the sound of those words. You weren’t unfamiliar with spanks, you just wished to find out what you did wrong. Was it rude to ask about the clothes? You should have shut up and been grateful that he was giving you all this luxury, instead you questioned him. Was he mad about that?

You replayed the whole of breakfast time in your head, look for where you slipped up and made a mistake. Not realizing that you weren’t listening to him, until he spoke up again. “Babygirl,” he sounded just a little stern, “I said go over there, and bend over.” He repeated himself, softly still.

He noticed your nervousness and wanted more than anything to make it go away. You walked over to the velvet sofa he pointed at and bent over the large, cushioned armrest. You waited, nervous because you couldn’t see him anymore. But then he got closer, and you felt his hands on either side of your butt.

“There’s no need to be afraid of me, baby. You’re always on the edge, and I don’t like that at all.” He spoke, softly. You liked the sound of his voice, it had the power to calm your nerves and excite you at the same time.

You shivered when you felt him pulling your leggings down, followed by your underwear. He did so quickly, impatiently. The cold air hit your legs and you shivered again. But then you felt his warm hands massaging your butt cheeks. You knew instantly what was coming. “I want you to count till ten for me, okay baby?” he said. You nodded, and braced for the painful impact.

He lifted his hand up in the air and brought it down to spank your ass. You yelped, “One.” you muttered. You were surprised. It hurt, a little. But it also left behind pleasant tingles. You were confused.

He did it again, allowing his hand to linger on your skin a little longer this time, caressing where his hand landed. “Two.”

Was this punishment or no?

“Three.” You said, almost moaning at how good it felt, and heard him chuckle.

“Good job baby.” he muttered and slide his hand further down, stroking your folds. “You’re so wet already, angel.” He cooed and lifted his hand and spanked you again. “Four.” You sighed, in pleasure.

“Five.” On your left cheek. “Six.” On your left cheek again. It stung a little, but the kind that you wanted more of. “Seven.” On the right one. You whimpered in pleasure and pain. “Eight.” Left again. “Nine.” He smacked your dripping core instead of your butt. Your whole body tingled. You were breathless, but you cracked a little smile. He couldn’t see it.

“Ten.” You said finally. He grunted as he spanked you one last time. You moaned shamelessly this time, you were perfectly fine with being this exposed. He had you all worked up, hot and bothered with just ten spanks. You wondered, what playtime with him in his playroom would be like. Must be Heaven…

You waited again, since you couldn’t see him. You relied on your sense of hearing to determine where he was. But you didn’t hear anything for a few moments. Maybe he didn’t want you to get up just yet.

Then you felt him. His warm, soft lips and his stubble – his face pressed up against your dripping core. Your face felt hot as you realized what he was doing. He left loud, open mouth kisses from your butt down till your throbbing clit.

“Such,” he kissed your butt, then moved down, “a pretty and delicious,” he kissed your wet entrance and teased it with his tongue, moaning loudly at your taste, “little cunt.” He kissed your clit and sucked on it loudly, making you whimper and wiggle your butt just a little. He chuckled and pulled away. He pulled your ass cheeks apart and latched his mouth onto your core. His fingers lightly rubbed your clit as his tongue poked your tight entrance. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his mouth pleasured you.

A quiet moan escaped your lips as you heard the wet sounds which erupted from him eating you out. He was shamelessly moaning as well. His plump, pink lips worked on your wet heat; your arousal dripping down his chin and coating his lips as he devoured you. He took you higher…and higher until you shattered against his mouth and came undone all over his tongue.

He pulled away after he had his fill. “Such a good girl. Come here, baby.” he pulled up your underwear and leggings and lifted you from the armrest by the shoulder, noticing you were still trembling, recovering from your second orgasm.

He sat down on the couch nearby and pulled you onto his lap. You ended up straddling him, and you scooted closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He ran a soothing hand down your back while the other hand caressed your butt through the leggings. He was spoiling you.

Oh, so that wasn’t punishment?

He frowned and you realized that you had accidentally voiced out your inner thoughts. “Of course not. You did nothing wrong, angel. Spanks can be used as rewards, and for pleasure.” He explained. Oh.

“What was I rewarded for, sir?” you asked. He smiled.

“Just for keeping me company during breakfast. For trusting me, and for being so good earlier today.” He explained, making your heart flutter. Oh. He continued, “Besides, I don’t need a solid reason to touch you, do I baby? You’re mine, aren’t you?”

You cracked a little smile and nodded quickly. All yours. I’m all yours. “I am, sir.”

Bucky leaned in to kiss your forehead. You wondered why he hadn’t kissed you on the mouth yet. Did you want that? Hell yes you did!

“I’m ready, sir.” You said, after a while of admiring his mouth and wondering how it would feel against your own. He tilted his head in confusion.

“What for, baby?” he asked, pulling you closer and making you ‘accidentally’ grind on his crotch.

“For you to tell me about all your rules. I will be good, sir. I promise.” You sounded so… nervous. Bucky did wonder, about the possibilities of what kind of rules you might have had to abide by in the past. He hated everything that came to his mind, just thinking about another man having control over you.

“Oh I know you will.” he cooed. “You’re my precious little pearl, and I know you will always be good to me.” He reassured you that he had complete faith that you would be good.

You were a little surprised. Because a certain someone did tell you that if you don’t abide by all of his rules, he’d return you back. You shivered, again, at the thought of him.

This isn’t him. This isn’t him. This isn’t him.

“As for my rules, well,” Bucky leaned forward and grabbed the notepad and the pen. He opened the notepad and clicked the pen and began writing. “There’s not much baby. Just,” he told you each one as he wrote them down, “Listen when I talk. Obey when I tell you to do something. Don’t let another man touch you,” he looked up from the paper and leaned in to kiss your cheek, “Because you belong to me and only me.” He winked.

He continued, “Answer me when I ask a question. Don’t be rude. Don’t be too much of a brat. Don’t talk back.” he paused, then wrote something down, “Go to the playroom when I ask you to. And remember your safe words during playtime.” He looked up at you, stopped writing and made you recite them and what they’re used for.

Green, means you’re okay and you want this. Yellow, means you’re unsure but you do want him to push your limits a little more. Red, playtime stops right away because you’re in pain or totally uncomfortable. And lastly. Winter, and this is all over and you go your way and he goes his.

Winter… you never wanted to utter the word. And he didn’t want you to. He needed you as much as you needed him.

He added a couple more rules to the list. “Bedtime at 11, each night unless we’re in the playroom. And breakfast at 8 each morning.” He stopped writing and you frowned. “And that’s it.” he tore the paper and handed it over to you.

You looked down at it in surprise. What? That’s all?

He could tell you had a million questions. “What is it, baby? We can discuss anything.” He spoke and you stared at his lips again.

“Sir… what about my chores?” you asked, your voice sounding just a little unsure.

Chores? Bucky had heard about his friends, other doms, talking about the lengthy lists they give their subs.

“What chores, baby?” he asked, reaching up to caress your cheek. His eyes flickered down to your lips. Oh the things he would do to bite that mouth… No! Not yet.

You shifted a little on his lap, and he had to ignore the bulge slowly forming in his pants. Because right now, all he could care about was you and your comfort.

“I’ll need to cook, so what time is dinner? And when do you get home from work? I’ll need to clean before that, and wash and-,”

He cut you off by grabbing you chin and making sure he has your full attention. “Baby, hey.” He looked you deep in the eyes. “I have housekeepers, and butlers and chefs for all that. You don’t have to do any of those things.” He explained.

You were confused. “Then why did you bring me home, sir?”

He smiled softly at you. “Because I need you. And you need me. You’re here so I can take care of you, meet all your needs, be everything you need me to be. To keep you safe and protect you. I’m your dom, baby, it’s what I do. I’m here to take control when you need me to.”

He paused and pulled you closer. “And you’re here to keep me company, and fulfil my needs and be what I need you to be. Follow my little set of rules, which when broken will carry consequences.” He ended on a lighter tone. “And of course, lots of playtime.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss your neck. You giggled, feeling his soft lips against yours.

It was the first time he had heard you giggle. And it truly made him feel nice and warm. He liked the lack of nervousness and fear in your eyes. You were, dare he say, happy. And he managed to make you giggle, and he was freaking proud of that.

“I like that sound. I like it a lot.” He couldn’t help but point it out. You smiled bigger than he had ever seen. He wanted nothing more than to just lean in and kiss you deeply. But he knew he had to wait. Just a little longer, my angel. And I will give you countless kisses.

“We’ll discuss the dos and don’ts, and your limits later today when we-,”

He was talking, and you didn’t mean to interrupt but you couldn’t help it. You were taken by surprise by his words. “My limits, sir?”

He didn’t mind the interruption. “Yes, doll. We’ll need to discuss what I can and cannot to do you during playtime.”

You frowned. “I get to tell you that?” you were confused.

“Yes baby. Otherwise it’s not fair. This has to be a healthy, consensual relationship, does it not?” he was beginning to think of the worst things. Of someone exploiting you, someone taking your submission for granted, and using you. He felt angry.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t help but think of him. And although you didn’t want to, you couldn’t help but compare Mr. Barnes to your previous master. They were poles apart. With Mr. Barnes, you were comfortable. With him, you had been…

You shivered, not wanting to think about how he had treated you. Bucky noticed you were deep in thought. And he couldn’t bear it anymore, he had to know. He absolutely had to.

“Baby, who trained you?” he asked, softly. You kept your head down as his name echoed in your head.

“My previous master did.” you answered. Bucky sighed and leaned closer to you, running a hand down your back again.

“Look at me, angel,” he said. You did. “You’re here with me now. No one’s gonna hurt you. I’m gonna keep you safe.” He paused and looked deep into your eyes. “Now tell me, who was your previous master?”

You shifted in his lap. “I must never call master by his name.” you repeated what he had told you; one of his many rules.

Bucky was getting more and more impatient and angry. He’s not your master. He’s not your dom. I am! “He is not your master anymore. His rules don’t apply, baby.” he grabbed your chin. “Who was he?” he persisted.

But you shook your head. You were confused and overwhelmed by your emotions and memories. Then Bucky thought of something. “Here,” he handed you the notepad and pen. “Write his name down.”

This, you obeyed immediately. You took the pen from him and wrote down the name of the one who had claimed to be your dom, your master. The first dom who ever collared you, but didn’t treat you well.

You wrote it down and handed it over to Bucky. He braced himself, but nothing could prepare him for the name he saw on the notepad. Bucky was surprised and angry. Bastard, his thoughts raced. He couldn’t believe it. Bucky was quiet, for a whole minute. You were beginning to worry.

Then he spoke up, “Let’s go upstairs, in my study. We need to talk.” He sounded, serious. So serious, almost betrayed? Jealous?  

Before him, on the paper, in your handwriting was the name of the man who had treated you poorly under the excuse of being your dom. But it also happened to be the name of his biggest business rival;

Thor Odinson.

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes imagine #dom!bucky #marvel #bucky barnes series

[firelxdykatara]

Please don't reblog SessRin. She was 13 when he got her pregnant. When he first adopted her, she was 8.

Oi vey.

No, she wasn’t.

It’s really funny that somehow I know more about the source material than people who are actually in the fandom, despite being much more of a casual viewer, but like, it’s not that hard to look up??? And realize that Sesshomaru never ‘adopted’ her (fuck, I know that and I’ve only seen like three seasons of the show), because literally all their relationship consisted of was Rin following Sess around for a year (one (1) year), while basically taking care of herself (he didn’t even feed her ffs), occasionally with Jaken’s help. All Sess himself did was keep her alive, which.... man, if that’s what y’all consider a father/daughter relationship, I’m genuinely concerned. Especially since, after that year was over, Sesshomaru dropped her off in a human village so that she could be raised among her own kind and then choose, for herself, where she wanted to be. If that kind of relationship when Rin was young makes their relationship after she grew up off-putting to you, that’s completely valid! What isn’t valid is claiming that your feelings are the only valid ones, and that Sess must have had romantic feelings for her when she was a child, which is never suggested anywhere in canon.

Secondly, there’s no reason to believe she was thirteen when he got her pregnant, what???? Everyone looks weirdly young in Yashahime’s art style, for one thing, (though notably, she just doesn’t look that much younger in the birth scene than Kagome) but I’ve been over the timeline (more for curiosity’s sake than anything else) and, quite apart from the fact that Rin had no canon age in the OG series (idk how the fandom settled on 8, but that was never actually stated, and she could easily have been a few years older--she was small but also uhhhh she’d been living like a feral child and pretty constantly malnourished before Sesshomaru found her so she would have been tiny for her age anyway), at the youngest she’d have been 16 or so. Which you may not think is great, and that’s fine, but it’s not the worst thing to come out of canon pairings in shows, so I fail to see the issue there.

Sess is supposed to be physically/mentally 19, the way Inuyasha is meant to be physically/mentally 15. The show wasn’t great about conveying this, but no one yelled about 150 year-old half-demon Inuyasha falling for a high schooler, so??? (Nevermind that this is a staple in shows with immortal protagonists. Which isn’t everyone’s cuppa, and that’s fine, but I get the appeal. I kinda have to, Bangel being one of my ultimate OTPs.) They are demons. They don’t view human lives and mortality and morality the same way we do. They don’t have to! It’s actually really interesting to think about that juxtaposition, how demons view humans but then some of them fall in love and those views change, and how half-demons bridge the gap between those two worlds... it’s fascinating. And for Sesshomaru, famously disdainful of humankind, to have fallen in love with a human woman and had half-demon kids of his own??? That’s even better.

I really gotta ask, though, who y’all even thought that human might be before the reveal lmao.

The thing is, I’m not even really in this fandom. I have a passing interest, I’ve seen a good chunk of the show and enjoyed it, I don’t really ship anything except inukag and a bit sesskag because I’ve seen some artwork and fanworks that really intrigue me, but I thought that piece of art was cute and reblogged it. I don’t have any real opinions on the ship itself, except that people are losing their minds for no reason, because it’s easy to blacklist tags and block content and also if the show itself disgusts you bc of its canon pairings then don’t watch it??? There are plenty of shows I don’t watch because I hate the things they do in canon (see: why i never got into Game of Thrones) but I’m not about to ask people to not reblog things from those shows just bc I don’t like them. If it bothers me that much, there’s blacklisting and tumblr’s filter system. Also blocking, if it’s really that huge a deal.

But I’ve never had patience with this kind of argument where, like, people who really hate a ship have decided that it MUST be pedophilia, despite their insistence on information that isn’t even canon, like. It happened to me, not long back, when a group of atla blogs decided that Jiang was an adult, despite there being no canon basis for that belief (and a lot of canon basis for her being a teenager, since all her crew were around the gaang’s ages), and so if I shipped her with Katara I must be a pedo. I hated it then, and I hate it now, and if you don’t like my particular stance on this, you don’t have to, but I’m not budging.

For the record, I always tag ship things, and I tagged that post, so if you hate sessrin, I implore you, please blacklist or filter the tag. It’s genuinely not that difficult. And I’m not even in the fandom, but I’m also not gonna go out of my way not to reblog things if I find them cute or the art good or whatever, so I can’t promise I’ll never reblog sessrin again lmao

#sessrin #yashahime #how am i not even in this fandom but getting into discourse #asked #awryen

[spencersawkward]

switchblade faith//spencer reid - chapter 9

summary: one month after joining the BAU, Clea is still settling in. between solving murders and getting acclimated to DC, the only comfortable thing in her life is her new friendship with Dr. Spencer Reid. (Baby Spence)

pairing: Fem!OC x Spencer

word count: 4.1k

content warnings: tattooing/tattoo aftercare, mostly fluffy!

A/N: hi! it's been a while since i updated this series, but i love it too much to leave it behind and i'm also always going to be obsessed with sub!spence. anyway, all my tattoos are stick and pokes atm so if some of the tattoo stuff if a little off, i'm sorry!

masterlist

it's really a matter of principle that keeps me bound to the promise. if I were a weaker woman, I would back down from the chair, would have shaken my head and told JJ that no, actually, I will not be getting something permanently inked on my body purely for the fulfillment of a bet.

but with most of the team around me and a couple flutes of champagne flowing through my veins, I give in. it's going to be small, even though I'm not going to see it until it's done. Penelope and Morgan being in charge of the design scares me, though. I start to get nervous that I'm going to end up with a unicorn tramp stamp.

"where are you gonna get it?" Garcia nudges my shoulder once we get inside the tattoo parlor. her eyes are traveling over all the intense artwork, which I can already tell is very much not her style. the walls are covered in intricate prints from past customers.

I think to myself for a moment. if I'm being completely honest, there's one place I've been meaning to get a tattoo, but never have. it's easy to hide, which is good. as long as the design they choose isn't horrifically embarrassing, I'll do it.

"I'm thinking..." I pull the waistband of my jeans down a little until it's right below my hip bone. "there."

"sexy." she says suggestively. I laugh.

"depending on what you guys have decided to give me, yeah." I angle for a hint, but Penny isn't caving.

"are you ready?" Morgan asks, having returned from the front desk area, where he's been talking to the artist. I take a deep breath, peer around at the rest of the team. we look like an odd bunch in here, an assortment of ages all gathered in a dark tattoo parlor.

Spencer's watching me with a concerned expression and I realize that I've been staring around for a decent amount of time. he doesn't say anything, although I've noticed that he's got a certain face he makes right before he does-- and he's making it.

"Clea, are you sure you wanna do this? you don't have to." JJ touches my shoulder suddenly. I realize that they think I'm genuinely worried and I let out a laugh.

"yeah, I'm fine," I turn to Morgan. "lead the way, handsome."

the tattoo artist has me lie down while he preps all his tools, snaps on his gloves. everyone sees me on my stomach and Emily gasps.

"are you getting a tramp stamp?"

"what? no," I giggle. "I'm gonna get it here." I show them the spot I just showed Penelope, and Spencer raises his eyebrows. Prentiss whispers something in Morgan's ear and the suave agent smirks.

"you're gonna like this." Penny grins. I glance at the tattoo artist to see how he reacts to that statement, but he's got a good poker face, unfortunately.

"are you being serious or are am I gonna hate all of you?" I ask.

"maybe a bit of both?" Spencer says in a slightly higher pitch, looking pleased to be in on the joke. I stare at him in disbelief.

"he knows what I'm getting, too?" I point disdainfully. Morgan laughs at the attitude.

"I told him on the way here."

I shake my head slowly and turn my attention to the boy genius, who is hiding a proud smile. there's a boyish quality to it that makes me feel a little better. I have to pull the side of my pants down as I turn on my side for the artist, and a peek of my black underwear makes Prentiss let out a whistling noise. my cheeks turn pink.

"shut up."

"are you ready?" the tattoo guy asks me. it's only then that I notice we're close to actually getting this done. I have no idea what's going on my body-- but there's no time like the present, right?

"sure."

it's the buzzing of the machine when he finally touches the needle to my skin that surprises me more than the pain itself. I feel myself resist the urge to move away, but I'm still enough for him to keep working.

"how's it feel?" Emily asks.

"like getting a tattoo." I wince. Penelope softens, looking between her coworkers guiltily.

"oh no," she complains, then comes over to me and grabs my hand in hers. "is this better?"

I squeeze tightly at the stinging sensation across my thigh, but she doesn't pull away at all.

"yeah." I smile. everyone is watching me intently, so much so that it puts me off a bit. "can we talk about something, maybe? it doesn't help when you're all staring."

"sure," JJ grins. "so..."

the pressure to start a conversation kills any potential for one, and then Spencer clears his throat. "anybody wanna see a cool magic trick?"

I snort and the rest of the team lets out a chuckle as the genius pulls a deck of cards out of his pants pocket. Morgan pats his shoulder. "I hope it works this time."

"it worked last time!" Reid protests, but his cheeks have taken on a slightly rosy hue. I watch him shuffle the mysterious deck and do some fancy tricks that I've never seen before, the corner of his mouth quirking with a sudden air of confidence.

Penelope is still holding my hand, and I can feel the metal of her sparkly rings pressing against my fingers. I choose to focus on the theatrical movements that Spencer is definitely using on purpose instead of the strange, sharp pain.

he fans out the cards and shows them to me, smiling. "pick a card, any card."

"hmm..." I tap my chin thoughtfully and stare at the bright red designs covering the back. I wonder if it's a rigged deck, or if he actually knows tricks. he doesn't seem like the type of person to be into magic. but then again, Spencer is full of surprises. I grab a random one in the middle, pluck it out and memorize it. a red six of spades.

"alright, then..." he grins and slams the deck back into one neat pile, then does some weird shuffling move again and shows the fanned-out deck to Morgan this time. "your turn."

Morgan's gaze flickers between the cards and Reid's face, which is trying to suppress a smile. the dimple on the right side of his cheek twitches once. when Derek taps a card near the end, Spencer nods and does the same thing that he did when I picked one.

except this time, as soon as he's got the whole deck together, he taps them a bit too hard and they go flying. fifty-two-pick-up style, Queens and Kings and Jokers tumbling to the linoleum floor in a defeated descent. my eyes widen and second-hand embarrassment rolls in, followed by the team's stunned silence.

I even feel the tattoo artist falter a bit in his work.

"oh." Spencer says. JJ puts her hand on his shoulder.

"Spence, it's fine."

"no, no, it's not-- I practiced this, like, fifty times last night--" his face is bright red as he drops to his knees. Penelope glances once at you and you return her stare with a pitying expression. Emily goes to help him, then Morgan and JJ.

"let me just..." he gathers up the remaining cards that they hand him, putting them back together into the pile again. I watch as he goes through them, somehow counting at lightning speed before frowning. "we're missing one."

everyone looks around, but it's obvious that there aren't any more stray cards lying about. I feel bad for him, not only because it didn't work but because he practiced it so much. I've been wondering what he does on the weekends-- magic tricks never even crossed my mind.

then Spencer's face lights up.

he comes over to me and gestures to my side, right by the spot where the tattoo artist is working. "may I?"

"uh--" I glance down at where he's pointing, the small patch of bare stomach. "sure?"

his fingertips graze beneath my tummy, between my skin and the smooth leather of the tattoo table, and snatch a card out from under me. it's barely a touch, but my breath hitches in my throat. my fingers tighten just slightly around Penelope's.

he holds up a red six of spades. the enormous grin on his face gives him away. "this wouldn't happen to be your card, would it?"

I gasp and nod, amazement on my face before it's wiped away by the sharp pain of the needle. Spencer displays the red six of spades to the whole team, then basks in their surprised applause.

Emily's smiling in disbelief. "you really had us going for a second."

"wait, wait--" I poke his leg and Spencer turns to me. "how did you do that?"

there's no way he could have hidden it there without me knowing; if he had slipped a card beneath my bare skin, surely I would have felt it. but the magic man just shrugs and shakes his head at me.

"a good magician never shares their secrets, Clea."

this time, the blush spreads over my cheeks. he's cocky right now, and I'd be lying if I said I'm not enjoying it. he's in his element, I realize, even if it is an unexpected one. and as he puts the cards into his back pocket, the group erupts with questions.

he's done magic before in front of them, but they seem to be awestruck by his performance this time. admittedly, I think the whole klutz act really added a nice dramatic element to it.

I'm mostly quiet for the rest of the tattooing process, although everyone else is chattering about the trick and how well the ink is going to turn out. I'm still wracking my brain for ideas of what they chose, but I honestly don't know. I've been banned from peeking.

maybe this was a mistake-- I've only recently joined this team, and already allowed them to decide what's going to be on my body forever. at least it's small. and maybe I'll actually like it; who knows?

when the artist lets out a satisfied sigh and turns the needle off, however, I find myself twisting around and staring frantically at the new design.

"oh my god."

it's a tiny airplane, with two dotted loopty-loops behind it. just small enough to be adorable.

"what do you think?" Garcia asks, eyeing it herself. they all gather around to admire the new design that sits on the outside of my upper thigh. I giggle.

"I love it."

"don't sound so relieved." Emily laughs. I can't help the bubbly excitement in my stomach.

"sorry, I just didn't know what to expect."

Spencer is staring at the ink when he turns to the tattoo artist. "how long until you think it'll be healed?"

the guy stands up to get treatment stuff for it. "I'd say about two weeks, but it varies from person to person." he leaves to grab cling film.

"I thought for sure you'd be the one to know that." I smirk at the genius. he shoves his hands in his pockets, makes sure the artist is out of earshot, and then looks back at you.

"I do know." he scoffs.

"uh huh." I laugh.

"actually, for the record," he lowers his voice. "I'd recommend at least three weeks instead of two. the last thing you want is infected flesh."

"yum, Spencer. thanks for that image." I smile with wide eyes and he shrugs.

...

it's quiet when I shut the door of my apartment shut behind me. I've got a bag full of supplies with me to clean the new art, and I'm feeling lethargic after getting lunch with the team. because Rossi wasn't around to foot the bill, I made the mistake of offering to pay.

we've got the day off after the most recent slew of cases, so I've determined to spend the rest of my day well. I could curl up with a nice documentary, or I could scrub my kitchen and do a little tidying up around here. god knows the film of dust on my bookshelves needs to be wiped away.

oh my god.

am I boring? maybe. possibly.

I shake the thought from my head and bring my things into the kitchen to organize. after spending a few hours cleaning up, I go out grocery shopping, then come home to sit down with a book. my errands take up so much time, I don't even notice the DC sunlight sinking beneath the harsh lines of the city, drenching my apartment in a silky darkness poked through with lit lamps.

it's already 9pm and I kind of want to hang out with someone, but I doubt any of the team wants to spend any more time with me than they did before lunch. or they might have plans with their families.

well, I know one person who definitely doesn't have plans.

I pull out my phone and hit Spencer's contact before I can talk myself out of it, knowing full well that it's not a big deal but still becoming a little nervous. it rings three times before he picks up.

"hello?"

"hey, Spencer."

"Clea. what's-- what's up?" he sounds more confused than anything. probably because I just saw him about an hour ago.

"I know it's late, but do you wanna come over? I'm bored and I feel like you know more about tattoo cleaning than I do." it's a weak excuse.

"why would I know more about tattoo cleaning--"

"you know damn well why, Reid," I laugh. "don't fish for compliments."

there's a slight laugh on the other end of the line before he replies. "I'll be over soon."

I wait patiently, preparing two mugs of coffee in the meantime. I'm sure we'll both want the caffeine, because I have no urge to turn in early tonight. my stomach twists a bit when he calls to tell me he's here, and I go to let him in. I'm not nervous.

except I actually am a little bit nervous when I open the door and there's Spencer with a shy smile and a coat that's a bit too big for him. it hangs off his narrow frame, and I realize that it must have just started raining. his hair is wet and there are dark spots on his clothes where the water has seeped through.

"get inside, my god." I move aside so he can come into the apartment and warm up. he walks in, looks around at my walls. I realize that he's never been here before. "welcome to my humble abode, Dr. Reid."

"it's nice." he compliments without much emotion. I lock the door and turn just in time to see his hand shaking at his side.

"thanks. let me take your coat." I glance out the window, where I now notice the rain pelting the glass.

Spencer shrugs off his jacket and hesitantly lets me hang it on the hook by the door before turning to him with my hands on my hips. "so, how are you?"

"I'm good," he smiles a little and runs a hand through his hair. "I actually read an article on the way here about those psychedelic mushrooms we were discussing the other day."

"is that, like, our thing, now?" I joke and gesture to the couch, where two mugs of hot coffee rest on coasters. he sits down gingerly on the cushions, sitting at the very opposite end of the couch from me.

"I can send it to you, if you'd like." he smiles.

"please do. I've been hoping for some titillating reading, recently." I hand him the mug and he stop before taking a sip.

"how many sugars did you put in this?"

"relax, genius, I'm not out to get you--" I catch his eye. "yet."

he giggles and takes a sip, then another. the smile tugging at my lips is too obvious for my liking; I'm just glad that I got the amount of sugar correct. it would have been funny to ambush him with a sweetness attack, although I think making him come here in the rain was punishment enough.

"have you ever had oat milk?" he asks out of the blue. I frown.

"yeah, why?"

"just wondering. I'm lactose intolerant and was considering trying it."

"you're lactose intolerant?"

"mhmm." he nods enthusiastically.

"I watched you eat three yogurt cups in a row yesterday." I chuckle at the memory of it. he eats so much and remains as skinny as a telephone pole.

"I love dairy." he shrugs it off. I pull my legs up beneath me on the couch and give him a serious expression.

"well, personally, I think oat milk tastes horrendous and it makes me want to vomit, but you should try it."

"noted."

we start to talk about various nondairy alternatives for coffee and it ends up being a surprisingly fun conversation. talking to Spencer has its own charm-- it's not just a conversation, it's a fully immersive experience. from his ambitious vocabulary to the unconscious gestures he makes, all of it keeps me hooked.

I rest my cheek on my palm, elbow leaning against the back of the couch while I nod along to him talking about almond farming. he's got a disdainful expression on his face as he brings up its environmental consequences, punctuating every few sentences with another sip of his coffee.

the rain is still pouring outside. thunder occasionally rolls over the sky and shakes the windows in their panes. my eyes flit from his face to the view when a flash of lightning catches my attention.

"--sorry, we should clean your tattoo." he seems to catch himself mid-thought, realizing that he came here to help me and not just rant about the business of almonds. I smile.

"no worries. this stuff is interesting to me, too."

"there's this documentary out now about it, too, that I've been meaning to watch."

"really?"

"yeah!" his face lights up. "if you want, we can--" he clears his throat. "we can watch it together."

he blushes as he says it, and I can tell that he's worried about how his intentions will come off. he can't take it back, so he runs the pad of his index over his middle finger and fidgets in a subtle way.

"that sounds like fun." I don't want him to feel weird. we've only hung out a few times, and I'm sort of looking forward to it.

"great," he straightens and adjusts his shirt, which has gotten slightly rumpled from his curling up on the couch. his tie is crooked, too. "where are the cleaning supplies?"

"in the kitchen."

"perfect, we should be doing it in there anyway." he stands, pushes a bit of his hair behind his ear while he waits for me to follow-- and I do, albeit with a wince from my tender side. it doesn't hurt as much as I expected.

he follows me into the minuscule kitchen and doesn't hesitate to start going through the things the artist gave me to take home. there's some foam wash and special moisturizer for it, not a lot. it's small enough that the care will be minimal, which is reassuring.

it's only when Spencer's washing his hands that I realize I'll need to unbutton my pants again in order to reach the tattoo. which means this is about to get at least slightly awkward for the both of us.

he turns around just in time to see me unzipping my jeans and his eyes widen.

"how else do you expect to clean it?" I laugh, and he gulps, visibly. his Adam's apple bobs in his throat and he nods in understanding.

"y-yeah, of course." his eyes are everywhere but on me. suddenly, my kitchen walls are incredibly interesting.

I shove down the waistband of my pants until they're just below my upper thigh, then I sit up on the counter and clear my throat. "I can cover some of myself if that makes you more comfortable."

"no, no, that's okay--" he speaks too quickly, then recognizes his mistake. "it's okay. this shouldn't take very long, anyway."

without another word, I shrug and watch him delicately peel away the film. his fingertips are back to barely touching my skin, just like when he pulled that card out from beneath me, and I stop breathing for a moment.

there's also a gel-like substance under the covering, which he tells me is just standard petroleum jelly. Spencer moves with a near surgical (and altogether unnecessary) precision. his eyes are glued to my skin as if forcing them not to stray to my now exposed panties. it doesn't feel sexual at all because it's not, thankfully.

when he uses the foam wash and begins to rub it into my skin, he frowns with concern and looks up at me. "is this okay? you can do it yourself if--"

"it's fine, Reid," I answer too quickly this time. heat rushes to my cheeks. "I honestly thought this was going to be a more complicated process than it really is."

"it's pretty simple, especially for something this small." he shrugs. "obviously, you don't want to get it infected, so I'd just think of it as treating a cut."

silence in our respective positions at the moment makes me nervous, so I change the subject.

"magic tricks, huh?" if anything, I need to distract myself from the way his hand is rubbing over my skin in a totally nonsexual and platonic way.

he relaxes a little, lifting his gaze to mine with a somewhat pleased countenance. "yeah, I love magic."

it's like peeling back a corner of wallpaper and seeing a shade of red beneath; not a lot, but enough to pique my curiosity. "a man of science?"

Spencer shakes his head at the air of faux sophistication I pour into it. "the world needs some wonder."

he says it in an offhand way, although I feel the weight of it from the way he runs a damp paper towel over the last of the cleansing foam. his touch presses into me and his eyes are lowered in a slightly distant way.

"how long have you been into it?" I fight the urge to ask a million questions at once.

"since I was a kid," he jerks back to attention. the grin on his face tells you just how special this is to him. "I used to buy all the books and practice for my mom constantly."

"did you ever do the trick with the never-ending string of handkerchiefs?" I recall one of the only classic moves I know. Reid laughs.

"that one's easy."

"what about the coin behind the ear?" I throw out another one.

Spencer straightens, doesn't even bother to set down the paper towel, before reaching up behind my ear and pulling away with a shiny quarter set between his thumb and forefinger. "you mean this one?"

there it is again, that confidence I saw in the tattoo parlor. he's standing just close enough for me to notice, and I grin as I snatch the metal out of his hand and set it on the counter beside me. "thanks."

"no problem." he laughs.

"you should do that more often."

"the coin trick? I'd go broke." he jokes. I laugh at the rare appearance of Spencer's playful side, hoping to get a bit more of it before we have to go back to being serious at work.

"magic in general, I mean. I think it would brighten up the office a bit."

he thinks about it for a moment, washing his hands again. the sound of the faucet reminds me to put my lotion on my leg. I get to it while he thinks of what to say.

"yeah, maybe you're right."

"I still find it funny that you're into that kind of stuff." I say honestly. of all the things for him to nerd out about, this feels almost comically unexpected. but Reid only gives me a shy smile before replying.

"it always made my mom laugh when I was a kid."

"is she also good at it?"

"tricks? no," he chuckles. there's a washcloth between his long, slender fingers that he's been using to dry them for the past two minutes. at this point, I think he's doing it to keep from fidgeting. "she says it's an old fashioned thing, and that only made me wanna do it more."

"well," I cap the bottle and set it down on the counter, pull my jeans up and lean against the counter with a smile. "I like old fashioned."

Spencer gives a friendly smile. "me too."

taglist (add yourself here or message me to be added/removed!): @reidsconverse @donald4spiderman @awritingtree @gingeraleluke @bewitchedbibliophile @multixfandomwriter @xoxomgg

#spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #baby spencer reid #baby spence #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #bau!reader #spencer reid x bau!reader #matthew gray gubler #mgg #young mgg #mgg x you #mgg x reader #spencer reid x oc #oc!reader #spencer reid x bau!oc #criminal minds x oc #bau x oc

[tobesobri]

Bust | Part One: Chisel (7.8k)

“Disappointed?” She tilted her head, smirking at him. She had no right to think he liked her better than Rose. She, herself, liked Rose better too. So she was sure he had to be at least a little bit sad to see Rose missing.

He smiled and the second she saw those dimples she was reminded of his Instagram all over again.

“A little,” he nodded, pinching his thumb and index finger together in the air and she painfully agreed.

“Well, you get me all by myself tonight.” She didn’t realize how it sounded until it was too late. Until she was cringing at all the sexual insinuations she’d just made for absolutely no reason. She could have said something else that wasn’t laced in an innuendo. But no, of course not. She had to continue her embarrassing streak when it came to Harry.

Instead of being creeped out by her, however, and pulling a confused and slightly terrified face, he laughed. And, on God, his laugh was the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. This wasn’t the first time the sound of his laughter graced her eardrums, but it was the first time he was laughing because of something she said that wasn’t about crooked penises.

“Lucky me.”

In which Y/N is an annoyance in Harry’s sculpting class.

story masterlist | my masterlist

It’s not her forte. Her hands don’t know how to hold onto things. They tremble under pressure. They mess things up no matter how hard she tries.

Not that she had really tried very hard to begin with.

Sculpting was just not something she saw herself doing. Ever. Not with her lack of agility and poor attention to detail. But to appease her whining best friend… she’d do just about anything.

The class was held in a little art studio with large windows for ventilation and tall ceilings to display the mass amounts of student artwork on butcher block shelves. She never thought she’d be back in a classroom type setting after graduating college, but here she was.

Learning, what she proclaimed as, a useless skill.

The studio was smack dab in the middle of an inclined street. Little quaint buildings that sat on an angle because why not pour foundations on a hill and make her weekly walks to the studio a little sweatier than she would have preferred. Even if it was winter in their little beach village town. Sweat still happened. It just happened underneath a scarf and a hand-knitted beanie from the sewing shop next door.

She could not deny, however, that the late afternoon classes every Wednesday and Saturday brought her way more joy than she’d anticipated. She looked forward to meeting up with Rose at the bottom-of-the-hill cafe, sharing the daily special with her before making their way up to the studio. It was calm in the middle and end of her hectic weeks that she most definitely needed.

What she didn’t need, however, what she most certainly did not look forward to, what she could have done without, what took her joy and smashed it against a wall was him.

The instructor.

Harry ‘I have nice hands and a misleading smile’ Styles.

It had only been two weeks into their classes and he had already told her one of her bowls was garbage. That the way she sculpted a face was terrifying. That she couldn’t draw for shit and that made her attempts at sculpting even worse.

So by Saturday of their second week, she didn't care anymore. He was a jerk and she would be the best pain in his ass she knew how to be.

While everyone called him Harry, like he’d asked them to the very first day, she called him Mr. Styles. Just to see the way his eyes rolled back into his head and his nostrils flared. While everyone asked him insightful questions, like what glaze was best to use or what tool sculpted eyes most efficiently, she asked him if she could use the bathroom.

She got a fucking kick out of irritating him. Knowing he went home after their classes just as irritated as she’d been. With clenched fists and a pounding headache.

It helped that he was insanely too attractive to be teaching a bunch of millennials about sculpting in his free time.

“You should really leave him alone, he might kick us out, you know,” Rose said on their first third week walk up Justice Hill. There was no justice in walking uphill, and most fucking certainly not in the humidity-ridden beachside town. She found the street name personally offensive.

“Oh fuck him. If he kicks us out, he’ll have to refund us.” Y/N did not, even for a second, bother to lower her voice as they neared the studio, knowing any one of the other students could hear her if they were to walk by.

“Refund us what? We got the class for free, remember?”

Y/N racked her brain like she’d completely forgotten that little detail before shrugging it off. “Whatever. He won’t kick us out.”

“How do you know for sure?”

Before she could make some stupid remark about how Harry secretly liked her pestering him or about how much he seemed much too impressed by Rose’s progress to ever get rid of them, the devil himself turned the corner in front of them.

He came out from an alleyway that connected the street to a tiny parking lot. And while they were going uphill, he was coming down. He was hard to miss and so were they, but still he attempted to not see them.

“What a prick,” Y/N mumbled under her breath as they got closer to each other. And almost as if he could read her lips, he rolled his eyes so fucking hard she thought maybe they’d finally pop right out of his head this time.

“Shush,” Rose warned as the three of them finally met in the middle, at the door to the studio that was decorated with a bright yellow ‘Open’ sign, children’s drawings, hand-painted hours of operation, and one too many polaroids of past students and their sculpting creations.

They all stood and stared at each other for a moment before he opened the door first, holding it as, to Y/N’s surprise, he let them go in first. And while she was still in shock at the gesture, his body language said it all. Like he was forcing himself to be nice to the dynamic duo, to the bane of his existence. While she was too distracted by Harry and his clay-stained trousers and cable-knit sweater with a cartoon deer embroidered on it, Rose walked into the studio first. Giving Harry a polite smile that he returned almost… genuinely.

And right when Y/N made a move to follow, Harry stepped in front of her. She jolted back as he just about let the door slam her in the face.

Today was going to be fantastic.

*                                              *                                 *

“Right, so,” Harry began, clapping his dry hands together as he took a seat behind his messy table at the front of the studio. “I know some of you haven’t finished your heads yet, but our focus today will still be on the bodies. We’ll have a catch up on Saturday to make up for it.”

Y/N sought out her head on the wall where she’d placed it last week beside Rose’s, realizing for the first time just how ugly it really was. And to think she’d been trying to sculpt Harry’s annoying face. Even more annoying that no matter what she did, he was always a lot more handsome than her hunk of polymer clay.

“... because, like I mentioned, we have special guests today who will be modeling for you.” Harry stood again while two very thin and very conventionally perfect people came out in white robes. Y/N couldn’t help but gag.

“This is Hope and Jordan.” Harry motioned as he introduced them, not getting any further in his instructions before Y/N raised her hand in the back of the class.

Rose attempted to get her to put it down, too, because Harry was clearly in the middle of something, but it didn’t really work out so well. Y/N was a stubborn son of a bitch.

“Yeah?” He pointed at her, sighing while planting his hands on his hips. He knew nothing she had to ask was going to be at all beneficial to the group.

She cleared her throat and just from the smirk on her face, he braced for impact. “Are they going to be modeling nude?”

She made just about everyone blush, except for Harry. He hated how she never took anything seriously. That the art he’d spent years perfecting enough to teach meant nothing to her. It was all just a primary school joke in her eyes.

“Yes, actually,” he answered bluntly and then returned to what he was going to say before Y/N’s interruption. “So I want everyone to get a piece of paper and while they’re modeling, do a rough sketch of what you might want the body of your sculpture to look like. The importance is to get the proportions down so that when you use the clay, you’ll know how much you’ll need for each part. Just like we did for the heads.”

Harry walked around the class once the models were stripped and the sketching began. Rose started immediately, concentration on her face as she flipped between the female model and her piece of sketchbook paper.

All Y/N had was a scratch piece of grey-toned mixed media paper she’d found laying on their table. And absolutely no clue where to even begin.

She stared at Harry instead of the naked models, watching as he helped others around the room, pointing at their sketches and where they could improve. His other hand behind his back that gave her perfect access to stare at his rings. Remembering how he’d taken them off guide their first few sculpting lessons. Remembering how his hands had so gently but so fucking firmly caressed the mound of clay into the exact shapes he wanted like he knew exactly what to do with those things.

“See it’s going just as I expected back here.” When his voice was at her ear, she jumped out of her skin and out of her daydreams. Twisting her head around to him as he stood behind her, she found him staring over her shoulder at her blank piece of paper.

She narrowed her eyes at him once she’d fully processed what he said. “Sorry I’m trying to figure out the best way to scale up that dude’s micro-cock, proportionally, if you don’t mind.”

He just about choked on his own spit, and rightfully so. But when he glanced to her eyes instead of her disappointing blank canvas, with his eyebrows furrowed and his cute little nostrils flared just the way she liked them, it was clear his reaction wasn’t for the reasons she’d intended.

He was quiet. Lips pursed, mind completely empty apart from hearing her say cock over and over again. Echoing against his skull. Making a home for itself in his hippocampus for later purposes. When he was not in a class full of students with their eyes on him, watching him get hard at the fucking way she said cock.

“Leave you to it then,” he cleared his throat and continued on.

“He may not kick us out, but killing you is still an option,” Rose whispered once Harry was a safe distance away from them.

Y/N leaned back in her seat to watch him walk down the rest of their row. His hands behind his back again, eyes wandering over shoulders.

As long as he had those rings on while he choked her out, she was okay with that.

*                                              *                                 *

Everyone had moved on to their bodies. Gathering the clay they needed from the front and using their sketches as guidelines to build around the pre-made wire and aluminum foil armature. Most everyone had some sort of a form being attached to the heads of their sculptures by the time Y/N even got started.

Because she decided on using Harry as reference after all and he would just not stand still.

With the models gone, they were on their own, with help from Harry of course. He played several videos and gave various demonstrations to aide them. It wasn’t supposed to be perfect, but after she gave it her all for about ten minutes, she was ready to give up. Her body looked like a very lumpy, very deformed version of Shrek.

She took a break again, watching Rose sculpt for a while instead. She watched Harry sometimes too as he walked around the class again in gloves this time. Smoothing out features and picking up tools to aid in the process of forming collarbones and wrinkles.

The studio was in its typical state of disarray. Random cups of milky water on every table, pieces of clay smushed into the tile floor, tools and used gloves strewn about with no rhyme or reason. Harry thrived in that kind of environment while Y/N well… she hated it.

She wanted organization and cleanliness. Her nine-to-five called for that kind of thing. But she was slowly getting used to it. To letting go and embracing the mess while she was here. She wasn’t the one that had to clean it all up anyways.

The only time she wasn’t daydreaming was when Harry started up their aisle again, walking in front of their table this time however. He helped a couple others at the end of their row, watched some of them work before eventually landing right in front of Rose’s station.

He cocked his head to the side while he watched her struggle to form an even pair of breasts on her headless lady. And even though Y/N was trying her best to look busy, she just couldn’t help it.

Rose handed her work in progress over to him with a frustrated huff after he offered his assistance. And like… no way was Y/N missing out on Mr. Harry fucking Styles fingering some clay into the perfect set of boobs. No way.

Especially fucking not when he removed his gloves and used those fingers in their bare glory the way she wished he’d use them someplace else. She watched while he slapped some more clay on Rose’s poor flat-chested model and proceeded to smooth it out with his expert fingertips. She watched the clay melt under his touch, watching him dip into their shared cup of water to aid the process. She looked away long enough to admire the concentration on his face, the way he bit down on his lip and furrowed his brows the way she was used to. She watched again while he fixed all of Rose’s mistakes just by gliding his thumbs over the two perfect little lumps on her sculpture that sure as hell hadn’t started out so perfectly.

She had no idea why Harry sculpting a tiny set of breasts on what would eventually become a mermaid got her so hot and bothered but… it did. It did so fucking much, she was almost salivating like a dog by the end of it, thinking about what his hands could do with the real deal. But then he handed it back to Rose with a content smile on his face and burst Y/N’s little bubble.

“Might be better,” he said softly and Rose nodded in agreement. She hadn't noticed before, but when he stood to his full height it was clear he’d been leaning over on their table. Closer to the both of them than he’d ever really been before. And she knew he was tall, taller than Rose, who was five foot seven inches herself. And not just that but his shoulders were broad and his arms were a humble amount of muscular. Almost like he was a sculptor that kneaded clay a hundred hours a week. Maybe that was why she was a soaking wet mess.

He stretched his gloves back onto his hands and glanced Y/N’s direction. Eyes going straight from her disaster of an art piece to her flushed face and back.

“Don’t even know where to start to fix yours up,” he commented while moving slightly to his right until he stood directly in front of Y/N this time.

She looked at her abomination, wondering if it would be her worst idea to push more of his buttons or not. But, she went for it anyways. Her lack of impulse control would definitely come back to bite her in the ass one day.

“It’s the penis. Still haven’t gotten that down yet.”

He nodded, amused rather than his previous reaction to her antics. “Can see that, yeah. He’s got a bit of a crooked willy there.” Harry poked at it with his index finger and she became hyper aware of his closeness this time while he leaned over her tabletop again. Because his hands were right there, almost touching her own. And they were big, bigger than she realized. She could see him perfectly through the transparent gloves, his long fingers with clipped nails at the end that were well taken care of, considering.

She would need to soak herself in holy water for a while after this.

“Oh, is that not what the male anatomy looks like?” She teased, not fully realizing they were getting along for the first time and it was because of dicks. Because she’d put an oddly shaped protrusion on her figure before she’d even done much else with the blob of clay stuck to her form.

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head at her and standing up straight again. “Maybe if you paid attention when the models were out here, you’d know that.”

“Maybe if you hired someone who’s cock I could actually see from all the way back here without a fucking magnifying glass.” She was only slightly aware of how fully immersed she was in the debate over this penis.

But all he heard was cock again. She really needed to stop saying that. Because this time his mind was a little more imaginative while he stared at her lips and thought about the way she might say that on her knees in front of him.

He shook his head clear. She was an insufferable nuisance that he just barely tolerated on a good day. He didn't need her clogging up his brain with her cock talk too.

“Just fix it.” He mumbled.

She huffed when he left her to her own devices, not even bothering to offer his help, but she really shouldn’t expect any less. If he helped her, he would be doing it all for her. And that was hardly the point of taking a class to learn how to sculpt if the hot instructor was just going to do everything for you.

“Is there a reason why you’re arguing with him about penises?” Rose asked, hushing her voice around the apparently taboo word.

“It’s fun. And if I’m going to sit here in this stupid class with you I’m going to have some fun.” Y/N, on the other hand, was not hushed or subtle at all, as she ripped off the phallic piece of clay from her sculpture.

Rose cringed when she glanced past Y/N to find Harry looking right at her. He had been helping someone a few seats down and clearly not far enough away to have missed what Y/N said. All of his features drooped and he looked genuinely upset. Rose wished she could put a filter over Y/N’s mouth to save everyone from her insensitive outbursts. Especially Harry. He always tried so hard and for Y/N to brush everything off and boil it all down to a ‘stupid class’ even broke Rose’s heart a little. So she could only imagine how Harry felt.

After their typical hour and a half was up, once everyone at least had some semblance of a body minus the legs and arms, Harry called the class back to order.

“Alright, that’s time. You can put your armatures back on the shelves, carefully. As always, I’ll be around for a little while after. Have a great rest of your night, I’ll see you all on Saturday.” He finished his spiel, turning away to help clean up before a lightbulb went off in his head and his voice rang through the studio again, “Oh, and make sure you bring your sketches back with you!”

Everyone worked on cleaning up, including Harry. And while Y/N took both her and Rose’s sculptures over to their respective spots on the shelves, Rose walked up to the front of the class without any warning whatsoever.

She tapped Harry’s shoulder and watched while his smile faded just the tiniest bit after he turned to find her. That Rose’s poor face had to be associated with the thunderstorm that was Y/N.

“I just wanted to say sorry… about Y/N.” Both Rose and Harry glanced at the girl in question near the back of the studio, playing with their two sculpted bodies like they were barbie dolls. “I forced her to do this with me so she hasn’t really taken it seriously. But I’m really enjoying the class, you’re a fantastic instructor.”

His smile returned again and if he was being honest with himself, it really did make him feel better to hear her say that. He had some sort of a reasoning for Y/N’s horrible attitude and while he wished it was her apologizing and not Rose, he figured it was good enough.

“Thank you. You’re doing really well so far. I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?”

She nodded, giving him one last polite smile before trotting back to Y/N and helping her clean up the last bits around their workstation.

“Please do not tell me you were flirting with him.” Y/N gagged, using a ball of clay to gather the little pieces spread across their table like a magnet.

“No, actually, I was apologizing to him for your behavior.”

Y/N snapped her head up, first at Rose and then Harry all the way across the room from them. “You what?”

“He’s just trying to teach and you’ve been a fucking knobhead.”

Y/N gasped in fake offense, which was actually slightly real offense. “Excuse me, he made fun of my bowl the first day, you seem to have forgotten about that.”

“A toddler could have made a better bowl than that, Y/N, and you know it.”

She frowned, grumpily averting her eyes to the table with her arms crossed over her chest like she really was a toddler.

“I’m just saying,” Rose started, a bit calmer this time, “stop pestering him.”

*                                              *                                 *

Y/N thought about everything Rose had said. About how much she wished she could take things seriously and not constantly get on people’s nerves all the time, but she simply did not know how to. Taking the piss out of things and making jokes was how she got through her days.

But she did agree. Harry didn’t deserve her behavior. Maybe he was a bit of a jerk to her to begin with, but insulting his class might’ve been crossing a line.

Because she didn’t actually think it was stupid. She quite enjoyed listening to him. She liked learning something new and following his instructions as he walked them through some of his techniques. She liked being connected to all the people in the little studio, even if only briefly. Complete strangers all shared that one little thing in common and it made her all fuzzy and warm inside each time she met up with Rose at the end of every Wednesday and Saturday.

Hiding behind a bit of humor, however, was a lot more comfortable than admitting she found pleasure in anything as corny as sculpting classes.

On Friday night, boredom got the best of her and she took a chance upon searching Harry’s name on Instagram while she took her weekly bath. It had been Rose’s idea, the bath, not stalking her attractive sculpting instructor online. That decision was completely her own. But the baths at the end of stressful weeks had a little influence from her best friend, as did most aspects of her life. Baths were a waste of time, in her opinion, and she preferred the efficiency of showering. But Rose had given her nice smelling soaps and weird fizzy things for bath time and well… she couldn’t let them go to waste.

So, amid her regularly scheduled, once-a-week bath, she scrolled shamelessly through Harry’s feed. Because he did, in fact, have an instagram. And she only knew it was him because every fourth post was a video and in said videos were his hands. And, fuck, they were just as nice on film as they were in person.

He didn’t post much of his face, which she thought was an actual crime, but there was a lot about him and his sculpting. She found out it had been his sister’s birthday recently, who, when she smiled, looked just like him. He’d also just finished a piece he seemed really proud of, a clay head and bust of a pit bull, to which he linked in the caption about a local shelter who rescued the breed specifically and needed donations. Her heart nearly fucking melted.

Harry wasn’t much of an open book, though, unless he let his art do most of the talking. He seemed to enjoy sculpting women the most, which is probably why he’d been so good at de-lumping the breasts on Rose’s mermaid. But all the female sculptures he made weren’t sexual at all. They had meaning behind them. Like every single clay face she clicked on throughout his photos had a story. Like he was uplifting rather than fetishizing.

And not every single one of them was skinny and had perfect features. She was shocked to see at least half of the creations she’d skimmed through were of larger women with imperfect breasts at times and asymmetrical faces. Not sticking to typical European beauty standards as she may have originally assumed he might.

It made glancing down at her very much imperfect body feel a little less like an attack. Because Harry spent his time putting all his love into his little sculptures with diverse body types that she almost felt ashamed for ever hating hers.

Once she was done clicking on just about every single post he’d ever made, she finally found a selfie. Well… not really a selfie. Someone else had clearly taken it of him candidly while he had been working. But there was an awfully cute smile on his face and very familiar dimples poking into his cheeks that make her heart warm up again.

He wasn’t a damn thing like she’d assumed he was from the beginning. She thought his art centered around the ideal, and that maybe he was a little condescending because of it. But his Instagram told a different story about his art. And she wanted to know so much more about him.

She was completely lost in her dreams about him that just the smidge of distraction led to accidentally liking a photo of his from two years prior.

She’d have to move countries. Change her name. Delete everything. Never look back. Y/N? A distant memory.

Before dropping her phone in the tub and really making a complete ass out of herself, she threw it, instead, onto her furry rug in the middle of the bathroom and sunk herself down into the water. Wondering if it would really be so bad if she just drowned a little bit.

Because she desperately wanted to. There was nothing she could do. Not even unliking the picture would help. He’d still see the notification. Still click onto her page and realize who in the fuck had just liked a two-year-old post of his that he, himself, had probably even forgotten about.

She wanted nothing more than to sink her head under the pink-tinted water and never come back up. Her mind would not stop with the visualizations of what his reaction might be. Things he might be thinking. Like is this that fucking bitch from my sculpting class? Or whether or not she might find herself blocked by morning.

God, just make it stop.

But suddenly her phone buzzed and her heart just about stopped beating. It had to be the notification that Harry blocked her. Was that even a thing? Did Instagram notify you if someone blocked you? And why was her phone on silent? Because her Instagram notifications and her text messages made very different sounds. If it was just a text, she’d consider ignoring it. She’d continue marinating in all her shame a little while longer. But it ate her alive not knowing what the buzzing was from.

So, carefully, she pulled herself upright and reached across the floor until she had her phone in her hand. Before she clicked the screen on, though, she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath.

But when she opened her eyes and found out why her phone had buzzed, she let that breath out and settled her ass down again. It was Rose.

Hey, I can’t make it tomorrow for class. Felt like absolute shit at work today and had to go home because as it turns out I have the flu.

“Fuck,” Y/N mumbled to herself. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to go alone because facing Harry after she just did what she did was one thing, but doing it all by herself was another. But a part of her did still want to go tomorrow. The part before her horrific accident when she was full on getting a love boner over Harry. She’d wanted to see him again so fucking bad.

Okay. I probably won’t go too then

Y/N physically frowned at the idea of waiting another five days to see Harry again. Her brain really needed to make its fucking mind up about him. Did she want to see him or not?

No! You have to go and tell me what I missed!

Y/N rolled her eyes, but felt relieved. Even after her embarrassing slip up, her desire to see Harry again still prevailed. And she hated it. How was she even supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow, both of them knowing damn well she’d been stalking his Instagram back to two fucking years ago?

*                                              *                                 *

It was beyond weird sitting in their usual cafe on Justice Hill alone, even without the whole Instagram fiasco of the previous night she was trying everything in her power to forget about.

However all the desperate attempts to bury that awful experience were fruitless when she glanced across the room over her latte and found a very familiar set of grumpy-looking eyes already staring at her. But once she did notice him, he immediately looked away, stepping up to the counter to order his own cup of coffee.

She nearly choked on her drink, having to set it down and wipe what had spilled onto her chin off with a napkin she’d already used to sop up another one of her messes.

Of the three weeks now they’d been going to classes and frequenting the cafe just before, she’d never seen Harry. It was like he didn’t have a life outside being an instructor. He just popped up in the studio and she always left before him so she had no idea what he did after class either.

But seeing him here was like seeing a fucking unicorn in real life.

She couldn’t help watching him either, even if she knew she shouldn't. But, in her defense, he was wearing beautiful wine-colored corduroy pants with a tight white t-shirt tucked into them and a beige coat thrown over his arm to match. And for shoes he had on his usual white vans that had gained a few more scuff marks since the last time she’d seen him. His fashion would look terrible on anyone besides him.

He glanced her way again, briefly, when he left the counter with his cup, fighting his legs from walking in her direction but not exactly winning that battle.

And to her surprise, he stood right in front of her, behind the chair where Rose usually sat.

And when she looked up at him, he completely forgot why he had come over. He had no fucking clue what he was doing there. But it was too late now for him to back away and pretend like it never happened.

“Your friend's not coming?” His voice shook, but she didn’t notice with the way he finally took his fucking eyes off of her and gave her a chance to breathe again. He glanced at his watch just to confirm that it was, in fact, only five minutes until class started and it seemed reasonable to assume Rose wasn’t meeting her before then.

She pulled herself together and pretended like his close presence wasn’t intimidating her in the slightest.

“Disappointed?” She tilted her head, smirking at him. She had no right to think he liked her better than Rose. She, herself, liked Rose better too. So she was sure he had to be at least a little bit sad to see Rose missing.

He smiled and the second she saw those dimples she was reminded of his Instagram all over again.

“A little,” he nodded, pinching his thumb and index finger together in the air and she painfully agreed.

“Well, you get me all by myself tonight.” She didn’t realize how it sounded until it was too late. Until she was cringing at all the sexual insinuations she’d just made for absolutely no reason. She could have said something else that wasn’t laced in an innuendo. But no, of course not. She had to continue her embarrassing streak when it came to Harry.

Instead of being creeped out by her, however, and pulling a confused and slightly terrified face, he laughed. And, on God, his laugh was the most amazing thing she’d ever heard. This wasn’t the first time the sound of his laughter graced her eardrums, but it was the first time he was laughing because of something she said that wasn’t about crooked penises.

“Lucky me.”

He left her so fucking speechless, that after he started backing away from her table, reminding her to not be late, she still ended up being late. Because she sat in her chair for what felt like a century repeating his two words over and over again in her head.

Lucky me.

She knew he was only teasing but the way he’d just gone along with her original joke and how his voice sounded when he said it, she could not believe it. She could also not believe how Harry had some kind of massive hold on her that she sat staring at a wall for ten minutes trying to figure out how to operate properly again just to get up out of her chair.

Lucky fucking me.

She could scream.

If she wasn’t in public.

There was an extra pep in her step as she took Justice Hill alone this time, partially because of how giddy Harry had made her and partially because she was late… right after he told her not to be. But how was she supposed to be on time after what he’d just done to her emotions. And to the throbbing mess between her legs, but that's another story entirely.

Everyone was all over the place when she’d finally arrived, though, so it made slipping in the back that much easier. Not that she got past Harry’s watchful eyes, though, but at least she wasn’t interrupting anything while the class readied their workstations for another full night of going ham on their sculptures.

Harry kept his eyes on her mostly the entire time she did the same at her empty little area, watching as she tucked her purse under the desk for safekeeping and threw a couple tools he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her use onto the table. When she wandered off to the wall of shelves to retrieve her absolutely horrifying work of art, he finally gave her some privacy again. But he couldn’t help the fact that he’d been worried sick when she didn’t show up on time after he’d just seen her at the cafe, thinking something horrible could have happened to her between there and here.

So making sure she was unscathed before he, too, got his area organized was essential.

She sat in her chair and stared at what she had made the past three weeks. They’d started with something simple on the first day, taking a pre-cut slice of clay and free-handing a bowl with a few tips from Harry thrown in here and there. Then they jumped straight in after he showed them a few clips of sculptors working, pausing to explain specific things about creating a head and face. They were given everything they needed to make sculpting a complete figurine of a human body as easy as possible.

And still, she managed to create a combination of Shrek and the abominable snowman.

She huffed, wondering if she asked nicely enough Harry would let her just start all over. But before she could even think to do so, he clapped his hands together and got everyone’s attention for today’s mini-tutorial.

He explained smoothing to them and how there were many different ways of doing it so that your end results weren't littered in fingerprints. He reminded them to use water to smooth out the initial shapes of the clay they wanted and if they were having a really hard time with too much warmth from their fingers to use the gloves.

He ventured a little into detail work of the bust, showing a short clip of another artist forming collar bones with just two tools and her fingers. He explained what tools those were and why they were the most efficient for details and went on some more about other detail tools that were good for different things.

And the entire time she was far too lost in his voice and how his eyes lit up passionately when he rambled to even think about the fact that she wasn’t taking a single note for Rose’s sake.

They’d done a few lessons on details for the face, but they had yet to really get that far, only having put on tentative eyelids, lips and a nose for their heads before he really dove deep into details in what she assumed would be a full class later on.

And when he finally took a break to ask for any questions, she was, of course, the first to raise her hand. He thought about ignoring it, knowing all too well that anytime Y/N raised her hand in the back of his classroom, she was up to no good. But he was too nice to do that to anyone, even her.

So he called on her by nodding his head and she cleared her throat while he grimaced, expecting the worst.

“So, um, for example if we were going to do bigger details like abs on a male figure, what would be the best tool for that?”

He could have sworn he was having a heart attack. He had to blink a few times just to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. She was actually asking him a legitimate question, and a good one at that. He had to repeat what she said in his head first, just to make sure it was real, before he answered, completely unprepared.

“Um… well after you lay out the clay where you want on the body, you can use one of the knives to blend the edges,” he held up an example of one for her, “and then a large ball or oval tool like this,” he held up another, “to smooth everything out. You’d probably want a more blunt pointed end to shape them, though, after you blend the clay in.”

She nodded like she’d been fully absorbing every single word coming out of his mouth and then he watched as she dug around quietly in the tool kit on her desk, in search of the types of tools he’d mentioned.

He could not fucking believe it though. She finally showed a stitch of interest in learning about sculpting. And he had no idea why she decided to right now. Maybe it was because she was without her partner in crime, but either way he was stunned. Absolutely fucking marveled.

After a few more questions and some demonstrations, he let everyone go and continue working on their projects while he circled the room as he normally did. And he found himself glancing at her from time to time, all by herself in the back with a genuine look of concentration on her face as she attempted making her creature a little less loch ness monster and a little more human.

Eventually, after he figured she was giving it enough effort for him to step in and help if she needed, he headed her way. And just as she sensed him walking down her aisle, while she was busy shaving off clay, a piece of it went flying into the air, completely out of control.

He stopped in his tracks after almost being smacked in the face with a chunk of clay and bent over to pick it up before someone squished it into the bottom of their shoes. He leaned over the edge of the table in front of her again, setting the piece of clay down next to her gently while she bit her lips between her teeth and tried to hide her embarrassed red cheeks behind her hands.

“Sorry!” She squealed at him, further digging herself into a hole.

He shook his head, “S’alright. Not the first time that’s happened.”

She laughed at the thought of him actually getting hit in the money maker with a hunk of clay and it eased her worries a little.

“So how are those abs going then?” He asked.

She stared at her sculpture for a moment before she sighed and turned it around to face him. It wasn’t as bad as it had been before, but it was still pretty rough.

“Mind if I…?” He held his hands out and she, without a single hesitation, handed it over to him.

He immediately grabbed the shaving tool she’d been using, and since it still sat next to her where she’d put it down moments ago, his fingers brushed against her hand when he picked it up. Sending every one of her nerves in the general area on a field day to mess with her nether regions again. It’s just… his fucking hands were an art form in and of themselves. His knuckles prominent, stretching soft skin around the bone. His veins protruding every time he made a more delicate move that required precision. Even the ones on his arms underneath the ink when he was a bit more rough with her sculpture sent her over the moon, while he shaved off bits and pieces with firm pressure to define the shape of the body and somehow create a human-like figure from her mess.

Then he started smoothing down the surface with a little water on his fingers and she went batshit. His hands while dry were one thing, but sparkling, wet, slippery fingertips? Lord have mercy.

She watched him spread a chunk of extra clay onto what would be the figure’s chest to build it up a little more with the knowledge of their previous conversations about dicks and abs making it clear she was attempting to make a male figure. She couldn’t help but watch his muscles flex underneath his tight white t-shirt. From far away across the cafe it had caught her attention. And now right here, she was definitely not letting it go unnoticed. It wasn’t too tight that he looked ridiculous, but just the right amount to show off every curve of his biceps and triceps and whatever other -ceps he had hiding underneath the shirt. He was normally in oversized tops so she was taking full advantage while she still had the chance to.

When he handed it back to her, it was like he’d done some kind of magic spell to get it to look so good after what she’d given him to work with. He leaned forward a little more and pointed at the figure’s chest and she was only halfway paying attention to him when he spoke, mostly focusing on how close he was and every single time he accidentally brushed his skin against hers.

“So if you want to make the abs,” he paused to glance over and dig through her pile of tools until he found the one he was looking for. “Use this to kind of sketch out the shape like we did with the faces,” he took the ball tool and rolled it down the middle of the chest, making a short indent to separate where the pectorals might be, “then you can add on the dimension like I was saying earlier.”

She took over the tool when he flipped it around and gave it to her so she could try for herself. And he watched for a short while as she did what he said to do, sketching out tentative abs, but not really knowing exactly what they looked like to come to any sort of realistic end. Her figure started to look like a shirtless Johnny Bravo.

He just giggled and pointed his stupid finger back into her personal space, smoothing down her mistakes until they disappeared, “Have you never seen a six-pack that wasn’t on a cartoon character?”

She racked her brain, trying to say something funny, but once she looked into his eyes, nothing came to mind. “Of course I have. I just don’t know how to make them look realistic.” She couldn’t exactly remember the last time she’d been faced with a naked man’s chest, but she had seen them before.

“Well…” Harry sighed, resting his head on his hand and staring at her sculpture sideways, “he doesn’t have to have abs.”

And then she said it. Something worse than her earlier set of words back at the cafe. She had no clue what was going on with her tonight, but she needed an ass-kicking for it.

“Do you have abs?”

“Me?” His eyes flickered up to hers in shock and it was far too late for her to backtrack, she was here and she had to face what she’d done. Even while he looked at her like she was fucking insane.

“Uh, well. I mean…” She had no fucking clue what she meant. And even if she did, she sure as shit wasn’t telling him.

Then it clicked in his brain. “You’re not using me as reference, are you?”

After a solid three seconds of just staring at him, she laughed. “No, of course not.”

“Hope so after you gave him that wonky penis.”

She sighed once they were through it. Once he’d proved, yet again, that he didn’t make her embarrassing statements feel as bad as they really were. He kind of just... went along with it.

But then she made it even worse.

“So yours isn’t wonky and crooked, then?”

Jesus, fuck Y/N just shut up.

His smile never faded, however, and instead, he leaned close again and whispered, “Maybe one day you’ll be lucky enough to find out.”

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles writing #sculptor!harry

[thewildsophia]

.Art Project. Clone High//Van Gogh x Reader

Van Gogh x Reader

Word Count: 2564

~~~~~~~~~~

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t get the thought of the tiny Dutch artist out of your head. You weren’t even sure what about him it was that caught your attention. Perhaps it was his orange hair that almost looks red in the right lighting, or maybe his pale skin that mirrored the white bandages that you know he changes everyday (you also loved how his face would blossom with this gorgeous shade of orange-pink when he was complimented), or maybe it was just his hands. Yeah that was it. His hands, petite and delicate, that could paint such beautiful, exquisite paintings that told of many different things.

God you felt like such a creep. 

But you couldn’t help it. You were absolutely infatuated, -- no, that’s not quite right -- obsessed with him. 

And the worst part about it all was that the two of you have barely had any real interactions with each other. The last time the two of you had really talked was when you were assigned an art project with him. It was a collaborative project where you two were given a piece of art and two canvases and you would paint half the artwork on each canvas using styles and colors that were different, but still complimented the other half. 

You two had received the artwork The Kiss by Gustav Klimt, with you painting the man and Van Gogh painting the woman. You had used cooler colors -- blues, greens, grays and purples -- while Van Gogh used warmer ones -- reds, yellows, oranges and whites. You had focused most of the detail on the man, leaving the background somewhat barren with Van Gogh doing the opposite, focusing on the background and less on the woman.

It had actually turned out really well and the two of you had received a perfect grade, but what you liked the most about the whole thing was how much time you got to spend with him. 

You worked with him for a whole week and when the deadline was coming up he invited you to his dorm to finish it. You actually found it quite funny how much his room looked like The Bedroom, but you weren’t surprised. 

If you really thought about it, it was probably the second day when you started to become fascinated by him. The sketches had been completed and you two had just started painting. No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t focus on your piece, intrigued by his painting. His strokes were quick, decisive, like he knew exactly what he wanted. It was difficult not to stare as he painted and you had barely gotten any work done that day. And he quickly picked up on your distracted state. 

“Is something the matter?” God that voice sounded just perfect to you. It was deep, but not too deep, and somewhat raspy, like he had a slight cold. You could listen to that voice for hours. 

“Y/N? Are you alright?” You remember him asking. 

“Yeah.” You had answered, “I’ve just never seen you paint before. It’s beautiful.” After those words had left your mouth, that beautiful peach color blessed his pale skin and he looked away with a bashful smile. 

“I-Thank you.” He had stuttered and it was probably the cutest thing you had ever heard. You wanted to get him to do that more often. After that the two of you continued to work on your project with the occasional chatter between you. 

When the two of you had finished, you didn’t really talk to the other. You’d wave to each other in the hallways while transitioning classes or offer a quiet “Hey” when entering Painting II. What you did find a bit strange is that if you show up first, he’ll sit at the same table as you and vice-versa, and neither of you seemed to mind it. 

Actually, it kind of worked to your advantage. 

You really couldn’t help yourself and often found yourself drawing Van Gogh in your sketchbook, ranging from basic sketches to full on ink pieces (of course you’d ink them when you got back to your dorm). It’s actually gotten so bad lately that you now have completed paintings of him, whether it be acrylic, watercolor, oil, gouache, you name it and you probably have it. 

You were actually about half way through painting another piece of him, although you didn’t like this one as much as some of the others since he looked a bit too feminine. While painting, you heard a knock at your dorm’s door. You quickly looked at the clock hanging on the wall opposite of a window. 

“It’s almost 10pm, why the hell is someone coming up here?” You thought before getting up and looking out the peephole in your door only to be greeted with nothing. You grumbled to yourself while opening the door just to make sure no one left something for you. 

Upon opening the door, you’re greeted with none other than the clone of Vincent Van Gogh himself, canvas and set of acrylics pinned at his side. You felt yourself straighten as you greeted him.

“Oh-Hey. It’s almost 10, are you alright? You need something?” You asked watching him shift his stance before answering, 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for coming by so late, I just needed a bit of help with the portrait project and you’re the only person I really felt comfortable coming to.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his. You felt your heart stutter at hearing that.

“It’s alright, what did you need help with specifically?” You asked leaning onto the door frame. 

“I’m having trouble with making a background that works with the subject.” He said. Weird. Backgrounds are usually his speciality. “Um, may I come in?” He asked. Your eyes widen slightly with realization of you forgetting to let him hit you.

“Of course! Sorry.” You apologized sheepishly, moving out of the way to let him in. 

“It’s fine.” He said. You closed the door before quickly jogging over to your desk, grabbing the still wet painting and placing it against the wall opposite the door, facing towards said wall. You cleared a spot on your desk for him to place his things. 

“Alright, let’s see what you got so far.” You said looking over his painting. 

You talked to him for about 15 minutes about how he could improve what he currently had before you got up to grab you painting to show him what you had done.

“That’s Frida Kahlo, right? If I remember correctly she’s from Mexican descent, so I would use brighter colors like greens, pinks and yellows.” You said while rustling with the huge stack of paintings you had looking for it. “I had gotten Aaron Douglas, so I stuck with more desaturated colors and focused less on details and more on the silhouettes of the subjects.” Once grabbing the painting you returned to Van Gogh, placing the painting onto the desk next to his.

Only…That wasn’t the right painting.

Nope, instead it was one of Van Gogh, specifically the one of him you had finished a few weeks ago of him looking at himself in a full-body mirror while painting a self portrait. You grabbed the painting, pressing it against your chest the moment you realized it was the wrong one. You stared at him a moment before turning around and scrounging around in the pile again for the right painting. 

“Y/N-” Van Gogh started, but you weren’t gonna let him finish. 

“Just! Give me a second.” You said, searching a bit faster. God seemed to be against you that night because when you started to look for it faster the whole stack fell and, of course, with it came the majority of paintings you had made of him. And…the painting of Douglas. 

You stood there a moment, feeling the sweat gather at your forehead and back of your neck. You grabbed the painting of Douglas before stacking all the other ones up. You turned back around, slowly walking back over to the desk and putting the right painting next to his. 

“So, um, like I was saying earlier…” But your voice died in your throat when you heard him speak.

“Y/N.” He said firmly. You felt yourself swallow thickly before looking over at him. “Come with me.” 

And you did. You really didn’t feel like arguing with him after what had just happened. He led you to his dorm room on the 3rd floor, unlocking it and gesturing for you to step in. You did before he closed the door and walked over to the corner of his room. He pulled out a bundle of canvas, separating them from each other. 

“You know, for the longest time I felt like such a creep doing this so often, but after seeing what you’ve been doing, I feel a lot less like one.” He said while revealing the paintings to you.

They were of you. They were all of you.

You felt your heart leap out of your chest as your eyes laid on the paintings. They were all different from the last, varying in size, color, style, much like your own. 

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you ever since we were assigned that project together, ever since…you said that about my painting.” He started, “At first you were just a passing thought, but as time went on, you started to plague my mind more and more often to the point where I couldn’t get you off my mind.” He finished, that stunning peach color returning to his cheeks. 

You walked over to where he had the paintings spread out over his bed, running your fingers over the texture in the dried paint.

“Oh, Van Gogh, these are…” You started, still stunned about everything. 

“Not my best work, I know.” He said scratching the back of his neck, “It was a bit difficult painting you without having you here to reference.” He admitted. 

“No, Van Gogh, these are beautiful.” You said stroking your cheek, “And not just because they’re of me.” You added with a laugh, to which Van Gogh also let out a chuckle. 

The room then when quiet, neither of you having the courage to speak up until you decided the silence had lasted enough. 

“I don’t know what it is about you,” You started, “But you’ve captured my interest, and ever since I got to watch you paint that day I also haven’t been able to get you out of my head.” You paused, breathing in deeply. Well, it’s now or never you suppose. 

“Everytime I think of you, I can physically feel my chest tighten and I feel almost like I’m going to be sick, but in a good way.” You tried to explain, not meeting his light blue eyes once. “I’m not sure if this is what love is supposed to feel like, since I’ve never really been in love before, but…I know that I do like you. Like…really like you and…God, I don’t know what I’m saying; I’ve probably said too much.” You finish with a nervous chuckle. 

“No,” You heard him say, “You said just enough.” He grabbed your hand, making you look down at him.

“I’ve…I’ve never really been in love before either, but…I do know that I really enjoy being with you, even if we’re not talking to each other. Just being around you makes me happy. Hell, the whole point of me seeing you this late was just to see you.” Van Gogh looked up at you briefly before looking down at the ground. “Ah, I’m rambling. Look, my point is that I don’t know what it’s like to love someone, but I do know what it’s like to really like someone, and…I really like you.” He finishes, looking back up at you only to notice the glassiness of tears that clouded you e/c eyes.

“Oh, no, wait don’t start crying.” You heard him say, but you couldn’t stop the flow of tears that warmed your cheeks every so slightly. You collapsed onto your knees, embracing Van Gogh, soon feeling his arms wrap around you and the wetness of tears on the back of your shirt. You hugged him harder when you heard a sob rip from his chest, trying your best not to start sobbing yourself. After all, you didn’t look the most elegant when you cried. 

The two of you stayed like that for what felt like hours before finally pulling away from the other. You looked him in the eyes, rubbing away some of the stray tears that still remained on his cheeks. He returned the favor. 

“All this time,” he started, “I was so scared to tell you how I felt about you. Hell, I was scared to talk to you at all. I was so worried that I would mess things up between us that I decided to just stay silent.” He paused, sighing. “It’s…difficult for me to connect with people so…I don’t have many good friends. I didn’t want to ruin what we had.” 

“I was scared too,” You admitted, “In all honesty, I wasn’t sure if you even wanted to talk to me after we finished the project. I like being around you, so I was okay with just sitting near you in art.” You ran your hand through his orange hair, being mindful of his bandages. 

“I guess we're both kinda creeps.” You say after a minute. He smiles with a chuckle. 

“Yeah.” He whispers, “I guess we are.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Extended Ending: 

You let go of Van Gogh, allowing him to clear his bed and put the paintings away. He straightened his bed out, looking over at his own clock that read quarter til midnight. He turned to you, peach dusting his pale cheeks.

“Would you, um…” He stuttered, “Would you like to spend the night? I don’t mean like, you know, but just…sleep. It’s late, we have class in the morning and it’s a bit of a walk to your dorm.” He finished, gesturing to his bed. You blushed before smiling.

“I’d love to.” You answered. He smiled before opening the covers, patting the open space.

“Great! I-Um, I’ll get the lights.” He said, walking past you. You took your shoes off before climbing into his bed, moving all the way over to one side. He turned the light off, the room only being visible because of the moonlight coming through the curtains. You felt the bed shift, assuming Van Gogh had gotten in the bed with you. 

For a while, you both laid there stiffly, painfully aware of the other’s presence. You felt his eyes on you for a while before he spoke.

“Um…would it be alright if I…” He said, scooting closer to you. You did the same, until the two of you met in the center. You turned your body towards his and he did the same. The two of you simply stared at the other for a moment before he wrapped his arms around your neck. You, in turn, wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your chin upon his head. He pressed his face into your collar and you shuttered as you felt his breath on your neck. 

“This,” he started, “This is…” Leaving you to finish his sentence. 

“Nice.” 

#clonehigh #clone high #clone high van gogh #vincent van gogh #clone high vincent van gogh #van gogh x reader #clone high x reader #vincent van gogh x reader #clone high van gogh x reader #thewildsophia writes

[namfine]

⊙ | 𝕷𝖚𝖝𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖆 : 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕋𝕖𝕞𝕡𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 | ⊙

              Lust is an inordinate craving for the pleasures of the body. 

                                       - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

α pairing: Kim Taehyung x Reader

α word count: 7.1k

α summary: A loveless marriage drives you to a dark part of your city in search of the things that once made you happy. Instead, you find a man who awakens carnal desires deep inside you that you never knew existed. An impulsive decision and a loss of control make for the best paintings but driven past the point of no return- tell me, is it worth falling for?

α tags/TW: 18+, smut, bts smut, taehyung x reader, reader insert, artist Taehyung, strangers, knife play, blood play, rough sex, master x servant relationship, dom x sub relationship, dominant male, dirty talk, unprotected sex, affair, alcohol consumption, sex under the influence, daemon au

α part: 1 of 7 of our Seven Deadly Sins Milestone Challenge.

⋫ Link to Master List here 

α  a/n: Hello and welcome to the first piece in our Sin Challenge! We are beyond excited to share this journey with you, please check out the master list for the rest of the pieces which will be released once a day for the next 7 days. This piece was a blast to write but I did let out a little bit of my kinky self (just a tiny bit, it’s not too crazy) and I hope you all enjoy it. 

- ☆.｡.:* Zesty .｡.:*☆

The minute you saw him you knew you were in trouble.

It was a Tuesday. You were out for a walk trying to escape the reminders of a loveless marriage that waited for you when you returned home. You were in what would have been called a dodgy part of your city but it reminded you of your old college town and you couldn’t give it up.

Litter crowded the sidewalk and you swerved around panhandlers trying to score a few cents. You stood out in your business clothes, the handbag a gift from your husband as an apology for his latest secretary fling.

You looked at the bag, the designer label loud and proud on the front. You can’t say you were surprised that your husband had wandering eyes. After all, that’s how you came to marry him in the first place. You were his secretary too, once. A fling that he started to escape his second wife. One you participated in because you were young, vulnerable, and searching for a thrill. You were always just another conquest on his radar, never seen as an equal and definitely never loved.

In college you never imagined living such an unhappy future.

Maybe that’s what drew you here. What led you to the little art studio under the neon signs, tucked behind the tattoo shop where men slouched outside taking long drags of stolen cigarettes. A quarter life crisis where you tried to grasp what made you happy in the past.

Stepping into the studio was like taking a step into another world. Darkness enveloped you, the walls a deep sapphire blue with spotlights illuminating the classically inspired art pieces. You walked further in, careful to avoid the other patrons, the grey stone floor made your heels sing and you wished silently for anything else so you wouldn’t draw any more attention to yourself. No one was speaking loud, only hushed whispers as pairs and groups mingled through the gallery, admiring the works. You weren’t surprised as you took in one after the other of the elaborate paintings  that the visitors were both too stunned and aroused to casually chat. The works depicted some of life’s most desired and feared moments.

Every one of the paintings showed people fucking.

Every position you could imagine, with and without clothes, choking, bondage, everything. You perused the works, each one simultaneously taking your breath away as well inspiring a curiosity deep within you that you hadn’t felt in years. Clearly the creator was proficient in the art of lovemaking and not afraid to show it.

You zoned in on the face of a woman in pure ecstasy, her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut, lips parted. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt that sort of passion with your husband or any of the others before him. You didn’t think you’d ever had.

Something drew you from your thoughts and your eyes flicked across the room, surprised to meet the eyes of a young man. He looked to be mid to late twenties and wore simple loose fitting tan pants with a deep blue shirt tucked in. He was flanked on either side by two beautiful women who appeared to be deep in a conversation that didn’t include him, but his eyes never left you. He was striking, to say the least, with brilliant shaggy black hair and a smirk that conveyed a lazy sense of male confidence that you could feel from where you stood.

It was exhilarating.

Unnerved by your response, you broke the gaze and spun out of the gallery back to the loud street. You paused for a minute on the street, your back flush against the brick building of the gallery, avoiding the looks of edgy passersby.

Who was he?  

You pushed the thought deep into the back of your mind and left the street heading back to the silent home where you knew your husband would be absent.

                                        - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

You found yourself in that little gallery in the corner of the city a few more times that month. Soon, it was like your feet were bringing you there without your mind even realizing it. You would just wake up when you walked through the ornate gold trimmed door, into the plush dark blue of the room. It was better than being home, constantly reminded that your marriage was a sham and probably the biggest mistake of your life. Whether you visited for the art pieces or him even you didn’t really know. Regardless, you never caught another glimpse of the mysterious raven-haired man and honestly, it was probably for the better. At least this way you retained some form of plausible deniability about why you actually visited the gallery.

It was a Saturday, late in October, when you noticed it. You were working your way through the pieces, paying special attention to your favorites, the ones you wished you were bold enough to try when your eyes found a small one tucked into the back of a winding hallway. Like all the others, the only luminance was the small spotlights meant to display the piece and you moved down the hall to get a closer look.

It hadn’t been there the last time you visited, you were sure of it, so it must have been new. It was smaller than the others, more intimate, portraying two lovers, as opposed to some of the elaborate orgy scenes you had witnessed the artist releasing more of lately.

The male had what appeared to be a medieval dagger in his hands and was using the handle to pleasure his partner’s clit. She had nicks on her skin on her collarbone, fingers, hips where he must have pricked her before but she looked to be enjoying every second, a leather collar tight around her neck, it’s leash in his other hand that gripped her firmly on her hip.

“I haven’t seen you here before, is this your first time?” A husky voice from behind you caused you to jump and you turned around, your face turning beat red.

It was him.

He was garbed in a similar style as the last time you had seen him, this time black slacks and smooth red silk shirt. He blended into the darkness of the navy walls and stepped forward a bit so the spotlight from the painting bounced off his chiseled features. He was even more beautiful up close with eyes so dark the pupil disappeared and full lips above a defined jaw. He had styled his hair today slightly to the side and you could see a sliver of a flawless forehead. Clearly, he had been taking care of his body and you could see the peek of a toned chest from the deep v of his shirt. He was all dark shadows and long lines, his feet slipped into a simple pair of backless dress shoes.  How did someone this beautiful exist? Did he not remember me from last time?

Of course he wouldn’t.

He had been surrounded by two stunning women and with a face like that, you were sure he was used to it.

“No,” you responded motioning to the art work. “I come here often after work. I really like the artist’s work. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he responded and you whipped your head back to him to see him hiding a small grin.

“You’re the artist?” You asked, amazed.

“Is that so astounding?”

You took in his appearance again, so casual and cool. He had both hands in his pant pockets now and was leaning on one foot, giving off an air of quiet confidence.

You shook your head. “No, I guess not.” It really didn’t surprise you in the slightest. You were immediately drawn to this man and obviously attracted to the artwork so it made sense that he had created it. “So . . .” You were eager to continue the conversation, get to know him more. “What’s your favorite piece?”

His eyes lit up at that and he led you on a tour of the studio, pointing out pieces he particularly enjoyed making or that he thought turned out well. You watched as his features changed from casual aloofness to one of childlike excitement as he talked about his work. It was late and what few patrons there were happy to leave you both to your own devices, and you continued for about an hour with no interruptions. It was near closing when he led you to another piece you hadn’t seen before.

This one was simpler, two people once again in the throes of passion but this time only the man’s face was visible, his eyes peering down at his lovers while he chased his release.

“Are all of your paintings. . . . uh” you searched for the right word. “Do all of your paintings contain such visceral acts?”

He raised an eyebrow at your choice of words. “Yes, all of my paintings show people fucking.”

The way he enunciated the last word made the hairs on your arms stand up.

“And. . . “ you couldn’t meet his eyes. “Do you paint from experience?” You didn’t know what game you were playing but you couldn’t deny your attraction to this man. You were walking a dangerous line.

He studied you intently. “Not all of them. Some are just fantasies of mine. I like knowing that my work can inspire others to spice up their sex lives. Give them ideas of things they might like to try.”

Wow, a real civil servant.

“What are your fantasies?” he asked, bluntly.

You met his eyes. “I don’t know, I guess I’m sort of stuck. Maybe that’s why I keep coming here.”

“I have some more, up in my apartment if you need more inspiration.”

A dangerous line, indeed.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I don’t even know your name and besides-” you indicated to the ring on your finger and shrugged. “I’m married.”

The man didn’t seem deterred by the announcement of your marriage in the slightest. In fact, he didn’t seem surprised at all. “The name’s Taehyung and I highly doubt your husband will be upset if you come home with some great ways to spice up your sex life. In fact, he’ll probably be grateful.”

He had you there. Although it had been months since your husband had even touched you.

“Okay,” you replied before your brain could stop you.

“Great, let me close up and grab my coat. It’s within walking distance,” he turned to leave.

“Y/N,” you blurted and he turned to look over his shadow at you. “That’s my name.”

“I know.”

                                     - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

         Hyper indulgent.

                                               Irresponsible.

                                                                                   Impulsive.

That’s probably what they’ll say about me, you thought as you followed Taehyung out the back door of the studio and into the crisp night air. It’s important to note that you knew it was wrong. When all was said and done, you went in with your head clear.

You weren’t ignorant. You knew where this was heading.

He led you down a winding alley behind the gallery, wrapping his hand warmly around yours when you tripped on some exposed cobblestone. He and you both knew that seeing the paintings was a cover for what he really could offer you. A night of passion.

The sun had set long ago but you found yourself admiring the way the street lights illuminated the crevices of the brick buildings. Something about being with this man heightened your senses. You found yourself entranced with the laundry that dangled thirty feet above your head, the steam bursting out of the old metal pipes that danced outside the buildings.

He glanced back at you, watching as your face changed into one of wonder, your fingertips brushing the edges of the alley, returning covered with dew. You missed the small, mischievous smile he gave you as he pulled you up some narrow stairs. Too focused on your heightened awareness of a city you thought you had seen every bit of you didn’t resist as he pulled you into a doorway at the top casting a predatory look at the lines of your neck, the curve of your collarbone.

You came to your senses within Taehyung’s apartment. Dark shapes rose out of the darkness and you felt a slight prick of fear in the back of your mind as you realized you had just followed a stranger to his apartment in the middle of the night and no one knew where you were. He released your hand, as if he sensed your unease, and began moving around his space turning on the few lamps he had but mostly lighting the candles he had lined against the walls.

Tentatively, you took a few steps into the room. The soft light illuminated the dark shapes to be a collection of eclectic objects that included a few nude marble statues, a large dark green fern atop a baby grand piano, and a suit of armor stashed in a corner. To say he was a collector was to put it minimally. He had the usual couch and dining table but they were buried beneath art supplies and hidden behind canvases of unfinished works. A single door appeared across the room, furthest from you as he lit a few more candles that you assumed was his bedroom.

Your mind followed your feet as you were drawn to a rather large painting across from the couch where one may have put a television, although Taehyung didn’t have one. It was of two lovers, gripped in a passionate embrace, not unlike the others in the room or in his studio. What drew you to it was that the people weren’t quite  human. You couldn’t put your finger on it but there was something different about the way they gripped one another. The glint in their eyes as they fucked, almost predatory - but definitely vital. Desperate.

You tilted your head and watched as their forms seemed to shift before your eyes. Dark wings sprung from the male’s back, a spindly tale grew out of the female. You reached out, tracing the edge of the elongated canines on the male, your fingers moving down his body to the nails growing, shaping-

“Like what you see?” Taehyung’s voice drew you from your trance and you turned to see him looking at you from across the room, face shrouded in the darkness of the dim light. He was shaking his hand slightly to extinguish a match.

You whipped your head back to the painting to find the creatures returned to their human state. No wings. No tails. Just regular plump humans gettin’ it on.

“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself, your fingers tracing the same hand that had grotesquely sported the inhuman nails only seconds before.

“Would you like something to drink?” Taehyung asked, his voice sounding off further than it had a second ago. You whipped your head in his direction only to find him behind the counter of the kitchen, clear on the other side of the apartment. How did he get there so fast?

“Uh, yes please.” You responded moving towards him and pushing the thought of the shifting painting from your mind.

Taehyung pulled out an aged bottle of what appeared to be red wine from a place called LaVeyan Vineyards. The bottle was nearly completely black, dusty like it had sat for years in the same place, and a simple gold trim around the edge of the label.

“What is that?” You asked, sitting on one of the twin leather barstools across from him.

He looked at you, a single eyebrow raised. “Wine.”

You rolled your eyes. “I got that, genius. I meant what kind?”

Taehyung pulled two ornate wine glasses from an old china cabinet and placed them in front of you, making quick work of opening the bottle. He shrugged as he poured two glasses. “I don’t remember. A friend of mine made it ages ago. It’s vintage.”

You took a glass in your hand, swirling it slightly to make sure it was properly aerated, brushing off the comment about his friend making vintage wine. Taehyung didn’t look much older than 28, you weren’t sure how anything his friends made could be considered vintage.

Regardless, the wine emanated a strange smell that you couldn’t quite place. You were no expert but you had enjoyed more than your fair share of wine in your life and this one smelled metallic.

Taehyung didn’t seem to notice or at least didn’t care and brought the smooth liquid to his lips for a long taste. Following suit, you sipped it, smacking your lips to try and place the flavor. Sweet yet . . . . tangy?

“Do you like it?” He asked, leaning his elbows on the counter across from you so that your faces were closer together.

You nodded. “It’s . . . . unusual. But good.”

He smiled. “So, y/n, are you an artist as well?”

You shook your head, taking another sip of the wine. It was growing on you. “No, not at all actually,” you placed the wine on the counter, clasping your hands under your chin and resting your head on them to peer up at him through long lashes. “That’s part of the reason I was so drawn to your work. It’s something I have absolutely no talent for.”

Taehyung chuckled. “Ah, so you were drawn by my work. Not necessarily by me.”

So bold.

“I didn’t say that.” You traced the rim of your glass with your index finger, aware of the way his eyes devoured your every move. I am so going to hell for this.

Taehyung smiled, but it was a smile that held no joy. He smiled like he had a dirty secret that only the devil knew about. “What do you want, Y/N?”

The question took you by surprise. What did you want? Why were you there? In the back of your mind, you knew this was wrong. But there was just something about Taehyung, you couldn’t put your finger on it. Something about him called to the primal parts of your body, the parts that you usually buried deep inside yourself. He made you want to throw caution to the wind and just let go of your inhibitions.

It wasn’t only that he was probably the most attractive man you’d ever seen, although that helped, it was his entire aura. The manor in which he conducted himself, his confidence, the deep timbre of his voice.

You were losing control.

You lifted the wine glass to your lips, now less than half full and took a long sip, considering your answer.

“I want to have a choice in my life for once, I want to do what I want to do. Not what someone else tells me I should do.”

Taehyung seemed to like that answer. He stared at you thoughtfully as he polished off his glass.

“What about you? What do you want?” you asked.

The dim lighting couldn’t hide the glint in his eyes as he reached to grab the bottle of wine, pouring himself another full glass. The dark red liquid swirled slowly, guided by an expert hand and he brought it to his full lips to take a sip before answering your question.

“I want you.”

You were taken aback by his curtness, you had only just met after all. You brought your wine glass to your lips and tipped it back only to stop abruptly. The liquid at the edge of your mouth wasn’t wine.

You pulled the glass back and for a brief second you stared at the liquid, thicker than wine but just as dark. You dipped a single finger into the glass. The liquid was room temperature, as all red wine should be, but slightly heavier in viscosity. You lifted the red coated finger to your lips, inserting the finger into your mouth. The liquid was metallic in taste, different than it had tasted mere minutes before. Taehyung’s eyes watched you intently.

It was almost like the more  you drank the more you wanted him. The wine acting as some sort of criminal aphrodisiac, pushing yourself past what your sound mind told you was okay. Pushing you past your normal boundaries that kept you in the stagnant life you ached to be released from.

“I want you as well.”

It was as if you had opened the dam to a great reservoir, Taehyung was on you in seconds moving from around the counter to scoop you off the barstool and place you on your feet. He pushed his lips against your own, opening his mouth immediately, nothing chaste in his actions. You wrapped your hands around his neck and he cupped your ass bringing you closer to him before hoisting you up and placing you on the counter beside your glass.

His kisses did nothing to aid the strange metallic taste in your mouth, in fact, it made it stronger. Stronger in taste and stronger in the lightness that flew to your brain urging you to pull him closer, open your legs wider.

He pulled at your bottom lip with his teeth and you groaned into his mouth as his hands found purchase in the buttons of your blouse and began to hurriedly undo them. His fingers were deft and within a few short minutes you sat before him with only your bra above your pants and he pulled back to look at you.

“Is this what you want, y/n?” He asked, his lips swollen from kissing, his hair tousled in candlelight. “Are you sure you want to continue this journey?”

You weren’t sure what journey he was referring to but if it had to do with what you hoped he was about to do to you in the bedroom, you sure as hell were ready. It was Taehyung, for the short period of time you had known him, he liked to be dramatic so you brushed off the comment.

“Oh,” you said, pulling him towards you by the cloth of his loose silk shirt and reaching up to whisper into his ear. “I’m ready.”

Taehyung growled in response and gripped your hips, pulling you to the edge of the counter so you could feel him through his loose dress pants before slowly rolling into your clothed core. He was already so hard. “Then there’s one thing you need to learn about me,” he whispered, ghosting his lips over the crest of your ear, one hand snaking up your body to palm your breast through your bra as he subtly thrusted into you. Your head tilted back, a soft groan escaping your lips. You had never felt this way with a partner before. With Taehyung all your sexual senses seemed heightened somehow. “I take what I want.”

He scooped you off the counter, careful to avoid contact with the candles, as he walked you both to the doorway on the far end of the apartment, what you had earlier assumed to be his bedroom.

It was like you were walking in a dream, somehow a thick mist had descended onto either the apartment or your mind, casting the collection of strange objects back into a heavy darkness as Taehyung carried you to the room, his lips never leaving some part of your exposed body.

His bedroom was massive. Dark velvet curtains draped the walls, candles once again covered the walls and bedside surfaces although you had no recollection of Taehyung lighting them earlier. His bed was in the center of the room, a massive dark wooden four poster with an extravagant  comforter. Taehyung kicked the door shut behind you both before throwing you onto the bed. The curtains surrounding the bedroom blended into the navy walls, creating a sense of comfortable warmness that seemed to soak up what limited lighting there was in the room.

You turned your head, eager to absorb as much of the space as you could and your eyes caught the glint of a group of knives on the bedside table. Fascinated, you rolled onto your side, reaching for them. There were five in all, varying shapes and sizes but overall petite little things. One caught your eye, it was about the length of your hand and had six simple deep blue sapphires embedded in the handle. You ran your fingers over the blade gently, intrigued.  

Taehyung followed your gaze as he crawled onto the bed behind you, the silk of his shirt felt cool against your skin as he spooned you from behind, nipping softly at the pulse point on your neck, clearly eager to continue what you had started in the kitchen. “I collect them,” he murmured against your skin and you struggled to push down your fascination with the blade before turning in his arms to face him.

“Of course you do,” you whispered. It seemed completely in character.

“Things like that capture my eye,”  he ran a finger down your throat. “Beautiful,”  his finger dipped lower to the valley between  your breasts before tracing down your torso until it rested on the button of your pants “but deadly little things.” Searching your eyes for any retaliation, he paused.

When you smiled at him, a slow lazy smile that you knew would drive him crazy, he slowly untangled himself from you to work on pulling off your pants.

Released from your leg confines, Taehyung pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing a broad expanse of toned stomach  before crawling back over you, dipping his head to catch your lips. You eagerly returned the kiss, wrapping your legs around his hips and he dipped his pelvis down, grinding his erection against your sensitive clit through the thin material of his pants and your panties. The wine was making your head spin, although you had only had a glass. You wanted him more with each breath. More than you had ever wanted your husband.

You groaned as he found the right amount of friction and he quickened his pace, roughly rubbing up into you with each thrust. You could feel how incredibly hard he was already and you arched up with each movement, meeting his thrusts but eager for more. Much more.  

“You like that, little darling,” he whispered harshly into your ear, his voice raspy and a little out of breath. “You like that you can feel how hard and ready I am from just tasting your lips?”

You responded with your body, chasing a high that only he could give you and he began to end each thrust with a deep roll of his hips. He had to know how he was affecting you, like some \ sex starved teenager dry humping in the back of your dad’s pickup truck. You had never acted like this before, but the way he ground into your clit with each thrust heightened your arousal. You were sure by now, that you were soaking.

Entangling your fingers in his dark hair you pulled slightly as Taehyung began to plaster your neck and torso in large open mouthed kisses, murmuring dirty words and planned actions as he took in every crevice of your exposed body, a hand finding purchase in your clothed breast once again and massaging it in tempo with his thrusts. When he latched onto your pulse point with his full lips, you pulled a little too hard on his hair earning yourself a harsh bite from Taehyung.

“Ouch!” You exclaimed, breaking the embrace, shock written purely on your features as your hand flew to your neck and returned, fingers stained crimson.

You hadn’t realized you were bleeding.

“Sorry,” Taehyung murmured, pulling you back to him, his lips returning to envelop the wound, his tongue swirling around the puncture marks and your stomach rolled in pleasure forgetting the strange occurrence from moments before. What is wrong with me? “I’ll be more careful.”

Finishing his apology on your neck he leaned back, balancing himself on his elbow over you, bringing your bloodstained fingers up to his lips. His hooded eyes, dark with desire, never leaving yours as he took your fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the blood, sucking it off.  Heat pooled in your core as you watched him, something incredibly carnal and erotic in his gaze, like he couldn’t wait to consume you whole. He finished with a loud pop and you felt something in you snap.

You didn’t know what came over you but before you even fully realized what you were doing you twisted in the bed, reaching for the pretty little sapphire knife on the bedside table. Grasping it by the handle you pulled it from the magnetic strip attaching it to the holder and turned back to face Taehyung.  He hovered over you, watching intently as you grabbed one of his hands and slipped the blade into it. He seemed neither surprised or turned off by your actions as you brought the blade to rest against your throat, he merely raised an eyebrow like he was interested to see how far you would go.

“Why don’t you show me what you can do with these pretty little knives?” You whispered, the blade cool against your throat. “They’re on your bedside table for a reason.”

There was no point in denying it and Taehyung knew it, his gaze darkening, a sly close lipped smile making his features seem almost sinister. When he spoke, it was almost like his voice had dropped an octave, a deep rumbling that sent shivers up your spine.

“Do you trust me, y/n?”

“I wouldn’t give you the knife if I didn’t, Taehyung”

His entire demeanor shifted. He was a commanding presence before, treating you roughly but still like you might break. Holding the knife in his hand seemed to open a new layer of Taehyung that made you realize just how little you knew about him. He twisted the blade in his hand, dragging the tip along your jawline.

“Then why don’t you remove that pretty little bra of yours, darling?” He demanded, his voice low and menacing. “Before I cut it off.” You were ashamed at how turned on it made you as you arched your back up and maneuvered your hands behind you to unclasp the back. Once you had slipped the straps off your shoulder, Taehyung took control clearly impatient with how slowly you were moving to tease him. He grabbed the bra, flicking it off the bed in a period of seconds before leaning down to kiss each of your breasts, paying special attention to each nipple, knife momentarily forgotten.

Your back arched into the mattress but the kiss of the knife against your throat stopped you from moving more. Taehyung stopped his work on your breasts and peered up at you from under long bangs.

“Did I tell you you could move?” He dragged the knife’s tip down the column of your throat, slowly making his way between your breasts and stopping by your naval. “Don’t forget who’s in control here, darling. God forbid,” he circled the knife around your belly button before sitting back on your thighs looking down at you and bringing the knife to his ring finger. “You cut yourself.” He sliced the tip of his finger, not deep, but enough to draw blood.

You let out a small gasp and he smiled lowering himself back down to you, bringing the knife back up your torso, between your breasts, before lifting the bottom of your chin with it, his face inches from yours.

“Suck,” he commanded, holding out his cut finger. You were eager to oblige, bringing his finger past your lips, the wine once again making you bold. Bold enough that you didn’t process that the metallic taste was the same you had encountered earlier that evening. You sucked his finger like your life depending on it, swirling your tongue around the wound, watching his expression take on one of pure euphoria. He was losing control and so were you, but your descent into madness had begun hours ago.  

He tossed the knife onto the bedside table, not caring where it landed and roughly pulled his hand out of your mouth. His actions were frantic now and he used the bleeding hand to hold your torso down as his other made quick work of your panties. Gone was the calm and collected Taehyung who had you completely under his control mere minutes ago. Here was the Taehyung acting only on impulsive desires. Your body reveled in this realization.

Before you could process it, his mouth found purchase on your clit and you couldn’t stop the breathy exclamation of his name as the hand on  your torso moved to grasp a breast. He was still bleeding, albeit slowly, and you could see the trails of smeared blood drying on  your skin wherever he touched you, marking you as his.

You were lost in the moment, his tongue circling and flicking your clit with the occasional suck of his lips. His other hand was parting your folds as he slowly slid one, then two fingers inside you.

“God, you’re soaked,” his voice throaty. “All for me, I get you first.”

You were too caught up in your own pleasure to correct him. You weren’t a virgin, this wasn’t your first time. Although this was the first time anyone had made you feel like this.

You looked down at him, you could feel his teeth scrape your clit lightly and you nearly screamed. “Taehyung, I need you inside me right now.”

You weren’t going to last much longer, and he knew it. He continued his onslaught, moving his fingers in and out of you in an increasingly rapid pace, his teeth scraping against your clit, harsher than before but you weren’t complaining. When you twisted in his grasp he let out a low growl that you felt vibrate along your inner thigh and you screamed out his name as you came.

Taehyung worked you through your climax, placing gentle kisses on your mound as he watched you become a soaking wet mess for him. When you were finished you looked down the length of your body at him, amazed that he made you feel like that with literally just his mouth and fingers.

He pulled his face back to look at yours, his face messy, his hair tousled but his fingers continuing to thrust in and out of you slowly as you came down from any remainder of his high. His appearance seemed different than before but you couldn’t quite place it.  Wait- his-  

You lurched back in surprise, breaking contact with Taehyung, who watched you with dark eyes. His teeth! Taehyung smiled a slow, boxy grin and you focused on his canines. Once average, the incisors had elongated, into twin fangs. Sensing your unease he released you, his mouth quickly closing. He cocked his head at you, an inhuman action.

“What’s wrong?”

“Y-your teeth,” you blurted, sitting up and reaching out to cup his face so he couldn’t turn away. “They looked like. . . . “ You pulled him closer, ignoring his surprised look as you used a finger to lift his upper lip. No fangs. You dropped your hand.

“I think you’ve had too much wine,” he chuckled leaning forward to capture your lips with his own.

Am I losing my mind?

Taehyung’s hands found the buttons of his slacks and he pushed them down, kicking them off and over the edge of his bed. You were momentarily surprised that his pants were the last layer between you and the thing you wanted most but your lust filled mind figured that Taehyung was always hot and ready for the next time he would get something to fuck.

And right now, that very thing was you.

His cock wasn’t obscenely large but it did have a healthy curve to it as it flopped up to hit his stomach. You were practically drooling from where you lay on the bed, eager to get along with the process. Taehyung grinned down at you, taking himself in one hand and pumping slowly.

“Are you ready, little darling?” He murmured, his voice hoarse. “Are you going to let me fuck that tight,  little cunt of yours?”

You nodded, eagerly, and he sat back on his ankles so that he was kneeling in front of you. “Then come here and sit on master’s cock, alright?”

He didn’t have to ask you twice.

You got up and maneuvered yourself so that you were hovering over his hard cock. Taking it in one hand below you, you ran your fingers over the velvety surface, gently bending the tip and watching as his face contorted in pleasure and he took his bottom lip between his teeth to stifle a groan.

“Stop teasing or I’m taking over,” he threatened but it was empty. With one hand wrapped around his cock, you knew he wasn’t the one in control here. Gripping him at his base, you slowly lowered yourself onto him, head lolling back as you felt him fill you, inch by glorious inch. You took your time, making every minute count as he stretched you to the brim. When you bottomed out you both just sat there for a moment, satisfied with the feeling you gave one another.

“God dammit,” Taehyung whispered, encircling you in his arms so that you were flush against his chest. “You’re even better than I ever could have possibly imagined.”

He slowly began to roll his hips up into you and you lifted yourself off him in a steady rhythm until you had both established a rapid pace. He was breathing heavy into your ear as he picked up speed, letting out a series of earthy grunts as he fucked up into you, slamming into you with reckless abandon.

You could feel that he was still holding back and you balanced your hands on his chest as you rolled into tempo with him. From  this position you were slightly above him and you met his eyes as he looked up at you from beneath dark bangs, his pupils nearly completely dilated and his beautiful lips parted, panting with exertion.

You could die happy right now, filled to the brim with this exquisite man.

When you began to slow down, grinding your hips into his with each thrust to ensure he could strike you deeper and longer he groaned out a breathy “F-Fuuck” and moved his hands down to grip you by the hips.

Before you could react he shoved you back onto the bed, never pulling out, and began to slam into you, scooting you further up the bed with each thrust until your head connected with the pillows at the headboard.

“Heaven-” he grunted, enunciating the word with a harsh thrust and you wrapped your legs around his hips, bracing your arms behind you to keep your head from slamming into the mahogany headboard.

“Be-” He thrusted again, his eyes piercing down at you, his face flushed with exertion.

“Damned! You have no idea how amazing you feel.”

You tried to raise your hips to meet him but his pace was too brutal. Fucking Taehyung was unlike any other sex you had had before. He was insatiable. The feeling of his cock buried deep inside your pussy drove you to pleasures you hadn’t known existed. The tiny sounds he made as he thrusted into you drew responses from you as your back arched up into him.

You could feel him everywhere. Again, maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the desire you had forced down deep inside you for years. But with Taehyung you weren’t just chasing sexual release, although that was part of it. You were chasing a release from a life you had grown to hate. You were giving into your feelings and what you wanted and it felt so damn good.

Taehyung lowered himself closer to you, wrapping his arms up around your back to find purchase in your hair and he tugged a little bit as if he was trying to find a solid grip while he slammed his cock into your pussy sloppily. His pace slowed and he began to roll his hips into  you and grind down, emitting a series of low rumbles that had you preening.

Your eyes squeezed shut and you ran your nails down his back trying to find purchase. You did finally, on two feathery appendages that had sprouted from his back.You ran your fingers over what felt to be feathered muscle and Taehyung lowered his mouth to your ear. “That’s right darling, let your master fuck you.”

Wait, feathers?

You released the appendages and your eyes flew open to find Taehyung’s piercing into yours but when you tilted your head to look- nothing was there.

I really am losing it.

Taehyung didn’t seem to notice and he dipped his head down to capture your lips in large open mouthed kisses, his tongue teasing yours as he tightened his grip on his hair, his thrusts becoming sloppy.

It was like you were trying to consume one another, you couldn’t get any closer  but goddammit if you weren’t going to try. Taehyung was finally losing control. You could see it in his eyes, feel it in his body as he murmured dirty things on your lips, in your ears.

He had resumed pounding into you, using your body to chase his release and  you welcomed it, tightening your walls to urge him deeper, to throw him over the edge. It was working and his words turned into animalistic grunts as he slammed into you again and again.

When he finally began to sputter out of control he bottomed out once again, pushing himself as far as he could go before spilling himself into you with a loud “Fuck”. His body responded in such, continuing to gently roll into you as he came, lowering his sticky forehead to your own.

After he was finished he rolled off the top of you, slowly pulling out with a sickening pop and you felt the loss of him deep in your core. He rested his head on his hands, peering up at where you lay propped on the pillows he had fucked you into from beneath those dark eyelashes before taking a hand and gripping your chin gently to make you look at him. He lifted himself up and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, a slow smile making it’s way over his features.

“Just wait till they get a load of you, darling.”

#taehyung smut #kim taehyung x reader #bts smut #bts imagines #bts fanfiction #v x reader #reader insert #milestone project #smut #bts #demon au #seven deadly sins #seven deadly sins series #lust #luxuria #kim taehyung #taehyung #Admin Zesty

[blissfulnightrain]

SoKai Week Day 1: One Heart

My first submission for @sokaiweek​! I’m so so excited to share all the stuff I’ve been working on for the OTP ahhh

I’ve done artwork for every day of this week, but for some prompts, I also got my ass kind of in-gear and did some writing! And today is one of those days. So, without further ado:

One Heart

Word Count: 1472 words

The thin, glassy magic barrier was the singular thing that separated Kairi from the columns of fire that erupted all around and below her. It doubled as her only protection from the onslaught of Xehanort’s attacks, slashes of his keyblades and dark magic raining down all around her in a chaotic storm that threatened to overwhelm her senses. She had to keep reminding herself to stay sharp and alert, that this wasn’t just training anymore.

This was real.

Still, all the focus in the worlds wasn’t going to win this battle alone. What openings she was able to exploit earlier were no longer feasible options, Xehanort quickly learning her fighting style well enough to adapt and defend her attacks, leaving her with very few opportunities to take advantage of. Of course, she shouldn’t have been surprised, nor did she have the time to be - any energy she put towards lamenting for not having trained harder or longer was a waste. She couldn’t stay on the defensive forever. Somehow, someway, she was going to have to break through. But how?

Another barrage of Xehanort’s keyblades was incoming, and she wasn’t sure how much more her barrier could withstand. Bracing herself, she counted down the seconds to her most opportune chance.

Two of his keyblades planted themselves to her right.

Three behind her.

Several more to her left.

And then there was Xehanort, diving down like a hawk descending towards its prey. His golden eyes were locked onto her, glinting sinisterly through the cracks in his mask. The closer they got to her, the less time she had to act - she would need to do so quickly.

A loud crack erupted when the barrier finally shattered, its glittery shards flying in every direction.  Xehanort reeled back ever so slightly, bracing himself for what moves he already foresaw. The little girl’s strikes were an easily deflected drizzle, each one of them easily guarded by the robustness of his armor, by the practiced ease he was still able to counterattack with. It wasn’t long before he was able to overpower her once more, and Kairi was back on the defensive.

Fire and lava erupted from the ground below her, and meteors rained down from the cataclysmic sky as Xehanort himself continued to target her. What shaky confidence she had at the beginning of this battle was quickly waning to complete dissolution. Despite all the countless, grueling hours of training she’d undergone, there was just no way she would be able to do this on her own.

“Kairi!” a voice called out through the smoke, ember, and ashes. She recognized it instantly, and how could she not? It was one that existed in almost every remaining memory of her childhood, her mundane classes at school, and the one she imagined every time she wrote a letter during her training days. It was the voice of the person who was there with her now, in the flesh, at this very moment.

She could do this. Together, with him.

Perhaps...

***

“Welp, time to turn in,” Lea - no, Axel, concluded with a yawn, stretching a lanky arm over his head. “Catch ya in the morning, Kairi, old man.” Kairi returned the bid good night with a giggle, very aware of the exasperated sigh the “old man” let out.

“You would think the boy would have learned some manners by now,” Merlin muttered under his breath. 

“Axel is Axel,” Kairi chuckled, though there was an air of matter-of-factness in her statement. Though things had started off awkward between the two of them, Axel had quickly grown on her. He’d become almost like another big brother, the way Riku was. A small smile lifted her lips as her mind shifted to memories of him from earlier in the day when he’d come to drop off the garbs from Merlin and the Fairies. As always, not far behind her reminiscence of Riku were thoughts of a certain other someone.

“Unfortunately it would appear so.” Merlin shook his head before turning his bespectacled gaze back to focus on her. “Though I can’t say I’d advise you to follow most of his examples, I do think retiring for the night would do you some good as well, dear.” 

“Right,” she responded, nodding in agreement. It had been another long, arduous day of brutal sparring and training in the forest, after all. Though time flowed differently here, rest and recovery between sessions were still a necessity. She spun on her heels, feeling blades of damp grass beneath the soles of her sneakers. The sound of chirping crickets and rustling leaves would be accompanying her on her way back, along with thoughts of Sora, out there somewhere among the stars that were scattered across the dark sky above her.

She’d only taken a few steps before she stopped in her tracks.

“Is something the matter?” Merlin asked as she turned back around to face him.

“Actually, Master Merlin, I did have a question about something,” she admitted. 

“And what might that be?”

“I was just thinking about Riku, and Sora,” she admitted, sheepishly tucking a tuft of her auburn hair behind her ear. “Back when we were in The World that Never Was...well, it was the first time all of us had been together in a year. I’d only just gotten my keyblade, so Sora and Riku did most of the fighting. But even though they hadn’t fought together in so long, it was still like they were completely in sync.” Her gaze fell to her thumbs, twiddling together by her chest. “When the time comes, and I have to fight side by side with them...well, is there some sort of skill that I need to learn, to be able to…” Not get in their way? To keep up with them? To somehow help elevate their combat - no, she was getting ahead of herself.

Though her thoughts were unverbalized, there was a knowing look in the dark eyes behind Merlin’s half-moon shaped spectacles.

“The keyblade is a very special weapon, Kairi,” he began, his hand firm on her shoulder, the dangling fabric of his sleeve tickling the tiny hairs on her arm. “The fact that you are able to wield one is a testament to the strength of your heart, and your heart alone. There are many ways that that strength might manifest itself further during times of ire, like the special attacks and synchronization you saw between your friends.”

“And how exactly do I learn to “manifest” that kind of power?”

“There is no way to learn it,” Merlin said gently, chuckling when he noted the bewilderment in her indigo eyes. “If your connection to people, or that one special person, is strong enough, then it will manifest itself on its own.”

“If the connection is strong enough,” Kairi parrotted, her gaze back up towards the night sky.

***

“Sora!” Kairi yelled back, leaping up off the ground and into the air. Stardust trailed behind her, her hair flying wildly in all directions as she glided through the mayhem, the sound of his voice calling her name her Polaris. Though she had to change directions in her path more than once, the welcomed sight of clouds, stars, and Sora’s outstretched hands soon greeted her. The shackles of her self-doubt came undone the moment her fingers intertwined with his, and that was when it happened.

A flash of blinding light encompassed them, and a sudden warmth pulsed through every fiber of her being. It bubbled in her chest and came to a boil when she felt something erupt through her back.

“Light!” Kairi and Sora both cried out, realizing what was happening. Their fingers were still intertwined with one hand as they both turned to face their enemy.

Decades of battles, of magic, of knowledge, and behind his armor Xehanort was still taken aback by the sight he beheld. The two children hovered above him, each having sprouted a brilliant, crystalline wing. Wispy feathers scattered about the arena as they both stared down on him, ready to make their next move.

Words weren’t needed as Sora and Kairi dove together, hand in hand, the momentum of wind and light carrying them. If Xehanort reacted at all, whatever effort he put in was futile. A cry of agony escaped him as he was flung backward, the attack not only connecting but overwhelming him. 

Still in sync, Sora and Kairi somersaulted in the air, light, feathers, and memories cascading down all around them. As it dissipated, Xehanort revealed himself, standing his ground and back on his feet once more. But the fear, the second-guessing, the self-deprecation that was in Kairi’s heart was gone as she looked back briefly at Sora, the gentleness in his sky blue eyes telling her what she already knew.

They could do it. Together.

#sokai week #sokai week 2020 #sokai #sora #kairi #kingdom hearts #blissfulnightrainart #blissfulnightrainwrites

[carewyncromwell]

“A waltz when she walks in the room, She pulls back the hair from her face. She turns to the window to sway in the moonlight... Even her shadow has grace. A waltz for the girl out of reach, She lifts her hands up to the sky. She moves with the music; The song is her lover; The melody's making her cry... So she dances, in and out of the crowd, like a glance... This romance is from afar, calling me silently...”

~“So She Dances,” by Josh Groban

x~x~x~x

And to cap off my set of Valentine’s Day posts where I feature my MC’s and someone they care about...last but not least is my HPHL kelpie kid Ru! In the above picture, they’re pictured with Galen Stagg, who belongs to @cursebreakerfarrier, but this picture, this post, and this basic AF pencil test animation are actually about Ru’s relationship with their “keeper” and ttly-not-girlfriend Estrid Soelberg @that-ravenpuff-witch! (I wanted to overlay the two images, but the online sources I tried using to do so weren’t cooperating, so...eh. Here they are separately. XD)

When the kelpie who’d taken on the identity of the Ravenclaw student Rudolph Ollivander first encountered Estrid Soelberg, they did not like her. How could they, when it was because of her that they now wore a silver chain around their neck that she could use like a “leash” and keep them from transforming back into their true form and eating anything or anyone she disapproved of? Naturally Estrid didn’t care for Ru much either -- and really, considering that they nearly ate a first year, that also was pretty understandable. Over time, though, Estrid’s stance softened somewhat, upon realizing that there was an oddly sympathetic side to the carnivorous kelpie.

For one, Ru absolutely loved being at Hogwarts. It wasn’t obvious at first, given how laid-back and aloof they were, but their electric blue eyes were always bright and aware, never missing out on a single detail. Ru would spend hours and hours every day in the Hogwarts library, devouring every book they could. They would explore every corner of the castle grounds and memorize every shred of knowledge that came under their nose. They collected knick knacks and jewelry from Hogsmeade, even going so far as to pierce their ears in their third year, to the horror of all of the adults, both inside and outside of school. And this didn’t even touch on Ru’s great passion for history, magical creatures, Herbology, art, and especially photography. Their still Muggle photographs were always crystal clear and striking, from a view of the Black Lake taken from the Owlery to close-ups on the details of the winged boar statues near the front gates. Ru’s Muggle-style photography came alive in a way that magical photography -- which was still in its infancy and quite low in quality -- couldn’t capture. On the Christmas break of their third year, Ru also discovered and became very enamored with Muggle animation, which made crude drawings come to life -- Estrid, despite her best efforts, couldn’t bite back her laughter upon finding out that Ru had requested the permission of one of the snobbier girls in their year to use her as a model for an animation, only for the finished product to end up being of the girl picking her nose with her pinky finger.

As Estrid got to know Ru better, she decided to try showing them more compassion. For as inhuman as Ru was, and how eccentric, cold, and rude as they could be, their enrollment at Hogwarts truly didn’t seem to be motivated by anything malevolent -- it had truly just been the only way they saw for them to attend this school they’d been watching from afar and longed to see up close. And Estrid treating Ru with more respect and kindness, little by little, wore down Ru’s walls enough that they didn’t dislike her quite so much either. She not only was insightful enough to suss out that they didn’t like eating around other people and showed them the Hogwarts kitchens so that they’d have a place where they could eat in peace, but she didn’t see the need to fill the silence with worthless conversation the way so many of their classmates did. She could sometimes just let a moment be, let the emotions and time just rest for a while. With that, though, Estrid was actually a rather interesting person too, in her own way. She had her fair share of admirers for her appearance (which Ru acknowledged was decent enough, by human sensibilities), but she seemed actively disinterested and uncomfortable about it, instead being the type who was unafraid of being on her own. And yet despite this, Estrid truly wasn’t a loner like Ru was -- she had a gentle hand with creatures of all kinds, an artistic eye, and a soft smile that she rarely showed to much of anyone, but was always sincere. Most striking of all to Ru, though, was the way she moved when she danced. The way her limbs bent and stretched with such grace fascinated Ru. They wished they could slow down time sometimes, just to analyze every tiny little flick of her fingers or flourish of her ankle. Knowing that they couldn’t take enough pictures to capture the grace of her movements, and not yet having a camera that could take moving pictures, Ru settled on trying to animate Estrid. Most of the animations were very crude in the beginning, consisting of nothing but stick figures, but little by little, Ru studied the proportions of the human body (very different than that of a kelpie!) and tried to refine their technique. And before long, all of their animations ended up being modeled on Estrid some way or another -- the vast majority of them being her dancing ballet.

Another person who’d be in the room sometimes when Estrid was dancing was their yearmate Galen Stagg, who often practiced the piano while Estrid was dancing. Ru found the Gryffindor inoffensive for the most part -- like Ru and Estrid, he had a talent for Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures (Ru could sense that Galen in particular had a magical gift for communicating with creatures, even more than Ru themselves did, considering they were actually a kelpie), so sometimes the three of them would end up in the library studying at the same table before a test. Galen was a bit of pansy to Ru’s taste, given his dislike for conflict or confrontation, but he like Estrid was soft-spoken enough that he never gave Ru any real headaches.

One day while Estrid was dancing and Ru sat off on the sidelines (sitting with their legs crumpled up in such a manner that one could wonder if they’d ever learned how to cross their legs properly), Galen took a break from playing to come over and sit down next to the messily-dressed Ravenclaw on the floor. Although he himself really enjoyed drawing too, he’d always felt like Ru tolerated him more than liked him and so had been hesitant to ask Ru if he could see any of their artwork. This day, though, he finally mustered up the courage to ask.

“...May...may I see what you’re working on?”

Ru lowered the page they’d lifted to fine-tune and shot a look out the side of their eye at him.

“...It’s not finished,” they said bluntly.

“That’s all right!” said Galen self-consciously. “That is...I don’t mind, if it’s still sketchy.”

Ru considered him for a moment silently. Just when Galen opened his mouth, ready to say that Ru didn’t have to if they didn’t want to, the kelpie held their sketchbook out in one hand for Galen to take.

With a surprised, but relieved blink, Galen took it and looked at the top page. It was still only a cluster of loosely connected circles and ovals, but Galen could just barely make out what it was.

“It’s Estrid,” he realized, his jade-colored eyes lighting up. “Isn’t it?”

Ru nodded curtly, their gaze drifting off to watch Estrid at the barre.

“That’s just the last frame,” they said in a very low, nonchalant voice.

“Frame?”

“Of animation. Pick up the next eight pages and flip them one by one.”

Galen did so -- and to his delight, he watched as the little cluster of ovals and circles unfolded its arms and spread them in a graceful arc that flourished at the wrists.

“Wow, Ru,” said Galen, impressed, “it looks just like Estrid! I mean, the movement looks just like hers. You really captured the grace of her arms.”

Ru’s electric blue eyes swiveled absently in Galen’s direction, but they didn’t turn around or meet his eyes. Instead their gaze returned to Estrid as they brought up a hand and smoothed some of their long black hair behind their ear.

“...You reckon?” they asked, their quiet voice oddly contemplative.

Galen looked at Ru, surprised. Were they...blushing?

Feeling a wave of compassion for the Ravenclaw all of a sudden, Galen offered them a smile.

“...Yeah. It’s really nice, Ru. I’m sure it’ll be smashing when it’s done.”

Ru’s eyes stayed on Estrid, narrowing slightly.

“The way she moves...” they said lowly, “I’ve never seen anyone else move like that. Even other dancers. It...seems like something that shouldn’t just disappear into the void, when the moment is over...like everything does, sooner or later. I’ve tried to photograph her before, but it doesn’t capture the movement. Even when I take a lot of still pictures one right after another, or when I actively try to get shots that blur, it doesn’t work. And magical photographs...hmph! They’re an absolute joke. They deteriorate so easily, and their quality is atrocious.”

Galen smiled sympathetically. “Well, wizards really have only had them for a short while...I reckon they might need a little time to catch up, right?”

Ru scoffed loudly through their nose and mouth, sounding rather like an offended horse. “It’s pathetic.”

They rested their hands behind them on the floor, leaning back slightly.

“So...the only way I could try to capture the way she moves -- to make it last, past that moment, was to draw it. It’s not exactly easy to get her hands right, though,” they added sourly under their breath.

“Hands are every artist’s Achilles’s heel, I think,” said Galen with a quiet laugh.

His green eyes softened. “...You really care about Estrid a lot, don’t you?”

Ru’s face flushed a bit more darkly as they whirled on him with a glare.

“Don’t read too much into it, Stagg. I find her movements interesting. That’s all.”

Despite Ru’s denials, however, Galen thought to himself that Estrid was pretty lucky, to have someone in her life who’d put in so much effort to try to memorialize her in a lasting way. He wondered if Ru even realized just how sweet and selfless of an instinct that really was.

#hphl #hogwarts legacy #my art #my writing #ru ollivander #estrid soelberg #galen stagg #other people's mcs #I hope galen's written all right honey! #I couldn't find any writing samples for him so I kind of just used the characterization you put down for him as a kick-off point #of course galen is dressed like a proper student while ru is a friggin' mess #you might spot their silver 'bridle' chain around their neck under their collar #and yeah ru doesn't know how tf to sit properly with two legs even after all these years #this kid SLOUCHES CONSTANTLY #drawing their hair was fun though #I'd actually used some choreography done for the dance of the sugarplum fairy while doing that pencil test #it's basic as all get out but hey whatcha gonna do #it admittedly is still good practice for this one project I REALLY want to do for my blog's first anniversary coming up next month... #I love ru and their tsundereness regarding their feelings for estrid so much okay X3