#interesting given that she's 11 hours ahead
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A certain sexy and mischievous welsh man and a particular skinny scottish pretty man have tricked us all! Perhaps David wasnt fibbing when he said that Michael just wont get out of his house. ;) Cant wait for staged season 3. They literally can't go 5 minutes without working together now and I blooming love it.
Hello, Anons! Yes indeed, this was a heck of a thing to wake up to, for so many reasons...
So first of all, there are full details of the show (which airs on November 24th) here, as well as info about a new behind-the-scenes special that will also be released.
Of course, I absolutely love that Michael and David cannot stay away from each other and will quite literally take any opportunity to work/be together. (I now suspect this is why Michael was in London for a full week after seeing David in Good, and preceding the Comic Con he recently did.) They clearly adore each other, and now that this is taking place in person instead of over Zoom, I am positively tingly at the thought of the unadulterated bicker-flirting that awaits us.
I also completely understand folks having mixed feelings about this news, as I do as well. I’ve written previously on my blog about my thoughts regarding a third season of Staged, so I won’t rehash too much of what’s already been said.
What I will say, however, is that what I want more than anything is for Michael and David to be in something that enhances their chemistry, that gives it room to thrive and flourish, rather than their chemistry being the thing that props the show up entirely.
I felt like this was the case especially in the second season of Staged, which was cluttered up with far too many guest stars whose presence ultimately took away from Michael and David. They need a vehicle for their chemistry, something to give it some sort of structure and framework that both Michael and David can work from and build on, and another season of Staged just doesn’t seem to be that.
With all of that in mind, it does make it seem like Staged 3 is something of a money grab--not even on the part of Michael and David, who have been very booked and blessed since the end of lockdown, but on the part of Simon, who seems to have not done much since the last season. And while I’m sure Georgia will do at least a serviceable job and fit in to the show, it just seems like an excuse to add another acting credit to AL’s résumé, despite the fact that she’s shown that she has difficulty acting even as herself.
(I’m also perplexed as to why this is airing on BritBox instead of the BBC, which is where the previous incarnations of Staged aired. I don’t know how many people are willing to sign up for another streaming service, and it seems like this third season is going to get a lot less traction as a result...)
I do find the marketing for the show really interesting, though, as the promo photos in the first two seasons were a mix of the respective “couples” (Michael/AL, David/Georgia) and edits of Michael/David, but the tweets on the Britbox Twitter show photos only of Michael/David and AL/Georgia. Might we be getting more of an emphasis on Michael/David as a couple? God, I hope so. Anon #2, your comment in particular made me think of an old Calvin Klein jeans commercial with Brooke Shields, where she said “You want to know what comes in between me and my Calvins? Nothing.”
And where the first two seasons were like safe sex--with the computer screens acting as a sort of digital condom between Michael and David--season 3 will be Michael and David raw. Skin to skin, possibly in every sense of the phrase (especially since now there is a good chance Michael was staying with David while in London, and they were spending all that time together...👀).
But yes...Simon has previously said that Staged is a love story. Will we now finally get that “kiss in the snow in Central Park” between Michael and David? (Or a similar park in London?) This season seems to have a holiday theme, so really...anything is possible. I hope it is, anyway. And I hope that Michael and David will find other projects to work on together, because their chemistry is too gorgeous and perfect to not go beyond Staged.
So those are my thoughts on today’s big news. I will definitely also write a full review of S3 once I’ve gotten to see all of the episodes. Fingers crossed and hoping for the best...
#anonymous#reply post#michael sheen#welsh seduction machine#david tennant#soft scottish hipster gigolo#georgia tennant#staged#or 'Brokeback Mount Him' which is what I am referring to Staged as from here on out#i actually probably could've written more because there is so much to unpack#but i didn't want to clog up everyone's dash#i'm feeling a lot of feelings#they are such a fucking couple i can't#like there is no doubt in my mind#'a love story' indeed#throuples are totally cool now#i also noticed AL QTed Georgia one minute after Georgia tweeted about Staged 3#interesting given that she's 11 hours ahead#but nope definitely not PR#ineffable lovers#discourse
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Cooking Up Love, Chapter 2
Pairing: Chef!Matt Murdock x F!Journalist!Reader
Rating: T (for now, might change, might not)
Story Summary: Here
Warnings/Tags: Hallmark levels of fluffy, cheesy goodness (and speed that their relationship develops, lol), no use of Y/N, Matt is not a vigilante, he is a bit of a dick though, more tags to come as the story develops
Word Count: ~1800 (literally double last chapter, lol)
A/N: Thank you to everyone who liked and commented on the first chapter! If you'd like to be added to the tag list, please don't hesitate to ask!
And thanks so much to @theradioactivespidergwen for the adorable divider!
Tag List: @yarrystyleeza @hailey-murdock @mattkinsella @bellaxgiornata @danzer8705
You checked your smartwatch for the time as you rushed down the sidewalk towards Daredevil. Your GPS had told you that it'd be faster to walk there from the Bulletin than take a cab given the time of day, but you were starting to wonder if maybe you should've taken your chances.
You breathed a sigh of relief as you spotted the restaurant up ahead then slowed a bit so you could catch your breath before reaching the entrance. Okay. It's fine, I'm on time, I got this.
You looked up at the restaurant. Daredevil was displayed in dark red lettering above the entranceway, with different patterns of dots underneath each letter. Huh. Interesting choice.
You reached for the door handle and pulled, only to find it locked. Shit.
You looked at the sign next to the door.
Hours of Operation:
Sunday: 11 AM - 2 PM
Monday: Closed
Tuesday - Thursday 5 PM - 10 PM
Friday - Saturday: 5 PM - 12 AM
You reached into your purse to call the restaurant… only to realize that you had left your cell phone sitting on your dresser at home.
You sighed. Great.
"Can I help you?"
You turned as a pretty blonde-haired woman walked up and unlocked the door. "Oh, um, yeah, I hope so."
You dug a business card out of your wallet and handed it to her. "I'm with the New York Bulletin . I'm supposed to be interviewing Chef Murdock in a minute, but I left my phone at home so I'm unable to let him know I'm here."
The woman's eyebrows raised as she looked at your business card. "You're interviewing Matt?"
"Um, yes?"
The woman narrowed her eyes at you suspiciously. "Just a second, I'll be right back."
You waited as the woman went inside and locked the door behind her.
A few minutes later she returned and unlocked the door, this time with a friendly smile on her face.
She held the door open for you. "Come on in."
"Thanks." You stepped inside.
"I'm Karen," the woman said. "I run front-of-house."
"Nice to meet you," you replied.
Karen led you to a table near the right corner of the front entrance. "Matt'll be right out. Can I get you something to drink in the meantime?"
You shook your head. "Oh, no thank you, I'm fine."
"Okay, if you change your mind, let me know."
"I will, thank you."
You took your notepad and pen out of your purse, silently cursing yourself again for leaving your phone -- which was your only audio recording device -- on your dresser.
Since you couldn't even continue your brief research on Chef Murdock while you waited, you looked around instead.
The walls were all painted a soft white with the exception of the back wall, which was exposed brick with a built-in fireplace running along the middle of it. Side tables holding bottles of wine were the only choice of decor, giving the space a simplistic look.
You kind of liked it.
Ten minutes passed, then twenty… then thirty. What is the holdup, you thought to yourself. Surely he can't be that busy since they're not open for service yet .
You were just about to get up to go ask Karen if Chef Murdock had forgotten you were there when the kitchen door opened and Chef Murdock himself came strolling out.
His photo really hadn't done him justice -- his biceps strained against the sleeves of his chef's jacket and his jawline looked like it could cut glass.
Your eyes trailed up to his, which were hidden by the same red-tinted sunglasses he had been wearing in his photo.
You swallowed and stood as he approached, sticking your hand out for him to shake as you introduced yourself. "Mr. Murdock, thank you for meeting with me. I was told that you don't do interviews."
He ignored your hand and sat. "I don't usually, but it seems like this one was… unavoidable. And it's Chef Murdock. I didn't spend three and a half years in culinary school to be called Mr. "
You hesitated before sitting and looking down at your sparse notes. "Okay, well then. Um, Chef Murdock, I'd like to start with a few questions, if you don't mind."
"Mmm."
You took a deep breath. "Okay, so you're a Michelin star chef, correct?"
"Three."
You looked up at him again. "Excuse me?"
"I'm a three Michelin star chef."
"Oh. Um, excuse me." Asshole . "As a three Michelin star chef, what made you want to open a restaurant here in Hell's Kitchen? Why not somewhere like Manhattan?"
"I was born and raised here in the Kitchen."
You smiled up at him. "Oh, so do your parents still live here? They must be very proud."
Chef Murdock raised an eyebrow. "Well they probably would be, except my mother abandoned me as an infant and my father was murdered shortly after the accident that blinded me as a child, which you would know if you had bothered to do a modicum of research."
Your eyes widened, your smile quickly falling from your face. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry." That at least explained the glasses and the dots on the signage out front. It's Braille. "I had no idea, I --"
"-- didn't bother to come prepared, yes, that much is clear." Chef Murdock crossed his arms. "If this is the sort of unprofessionalism that everyone who works at the Bulletin shows, then I'm not sure I should be sitting down with one of their reporters. We're done here."
You opened your mouth to protest as Chef Murdock stood and stalked off, shocked that he had suddenly stopped the interview before it even had really started.
You stood and put your notepad and pen in your purse, fighting back tears. What the hell just happened?
This was the first time you had ever failed at an interview -- you were known for both your professionalism and your ability to get to know your subjects on a deeper, more personal level in order to get them to open up to you.
You headed back to the lobby of the restaurant, willing yourself to not cry while you were still in the building.
Karen smiled over at you. "All done?"
"Um, yeah," you mumbled. "Could you let me out, please?"
"Sure thing." Karen unlocked the door for you, looking at you curiously. "Hey, are you okay?"
You shook your head. "Fine, fine, just gotta go."
You pushed past her and exited the restaurant, waiting until you had made it into the alley next to it before you burst into tears.
Matt sighed as he took his glasses off and tossed them onto his desk. At least that's over . He hadn't gotten to where he was by half-assing anything and he certainly wasn't going to let anyone ruin what he had worked so hard to rebuild, especially some so-called 'journalist' who couldn't even bother to do some simple research before sitting down for an interview.
"What the hell did you do, Matt? Karen just told me that that journalist from the Bulletin just ran out of here practically in tears."
Matt looked up and crossed his arms in front of his chest as Foggy's familiar footsteps stopped in front of his office. "She came completely unprepared, Foggy. I wasn't going to waste my time sitting down with someone who couldn't even bother doing any sort of research before coming."
"That's because she hadn't had time to do any! The interview needed to happen right away because of deadlines and stuff for the paper so it got sprung on her at the last minute, just like I sprang it on you at the last minute."
He paused as Karen's footsteps approached. "Kare, do you still have Ms. Taylor's business card? Maybe we can try to salvage this."
Taylor? "Wait a minute, who?" Matt replied confusedly.
"Kelsie Taylor? The food writer from the Bulletin ?" Foggy sighed exasperatedly. Jesus, Matt, did you even try to remember her name?"
Matt shook his head, beginning to feel bad for being so harsh towards you. "That's not who she said she was."
"Matt's right, it definitely wasn't her," Karen added. "At least, that wasn't the name on the card she gave me."
"Who was she then?"
Matt said your name. "She did say she was with the Bulletin though."
"Her card's on the front podium," Karen said. "I'll go get it."
Foggy turned back to Matt as Karen left. "You never were going to do the interview, were you?"
Matt winced. The last time he had agreed to any kind of journalistic endeavor had ended in disaster and almost complete ruination of his culinary reputation, and quite honestly he was terrified of it happening again. "I was , but --"
Foggy groaned. "Don't even give me that bullshit, Matt. Do you know how hard I had to work to even get you that interview? They were going to give the front page to Fisk , of all people!"
Wilson Fisk, who owned Kingpin's, had been suspected of being behind several popular restaurants' sudden closures (more than one being due to 'mysterious' kitchen fires), as well as having bought most, if not all, of the positive hype and accolades he and his restaurant had received.
Matt scowled. He would be damned if he was going to let that bastard steal the spotlight out from underneath him. "Fisk? Really? He's not even a real chef! His sous comes up with most of his recipes, he just modifies it a bit and slaps his name on it."
"All the more reason for you to get that front page interview."
Matt heard Karen's footsteps approach again. "Got her card?"
"Yeah, it's right here," Karen replied.
Matt could smell the subtle scent of your perfume as Karen passed Foggy your business card -- something lightly floral with a hint of vanilla.
Foggy read your name off of your business card. "This says she's the Features writer."
Matt's brow furrowed. "Features? You said the food writer was doing the interview."
"I assumed she was but I guess since it was a front-page article they wanted someone else to do it." Foggy pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped at his screen. "Hang on, I'm gonna pull up the Bulletin staff."
Matt waited as Foggy pulled up the list of staff then tapped on your name. "Is this her?" he asked Karen, presumably showing her your picture.
"Yeah, that's who it was," Karen replied.
Matt nodded as his watch beeped with the time. "We have to get ready to open, but I'm going to go over to the Bulletin 's office in the morning to see if I can talk to her and straighten everything out."
He just hoped you accepted his apology.
#lotmf writes#matt murdock x reader#matt murdock x fem!reader#matt murdock x female reader#matt murdock x you#chef!matt murdock#Cooking Up Love Masterlist
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Hooray! Zapp Gets Cancelled wasn't the egregious mess I thought it would be. Though, at the risk of spoiling the episode before the spoiler warning, it was really disappointing that Zapp didn't do 9/11. Okay now time for the spoiler warning so I can write this review. Spoilers ahead!!
I enjoyed this episode far more than I thought I would. Both plotlines were established really efficiently, reinforcing the idea that Kif and the crew of the Nimbus as a whole are mistreated by Zapp. Additionally, I like how it establishes Leela's simultaneous competence and dissatisfaction as a Captain. This sounds like a weird thing to gush about, but I'm just a fan of tight writing.
I found the concept of being cancelled in the context of the DOOP organisation to be pretty interesting. I came into this episode worried that Zapp would get cancelled on social media- which definitely would have made me roll my eyes- so I like how they put their own spin on the idea of being cancelled, like how they put their own spin on crypto in How the West Was 1010001. It was a great departure from Rage Against the Vaccine, which tried too hard to comment on every single little lockdown/Covid thing it possibly could, to the point of it feeling so utterly bland. I thought it was interesting that the people being cancelled were very literally put on trial and were given a visible and physical thing to show that they've been cancelled, and I thought it was interesting that they were actually sent to sensitivity training.
I thought it was funny that the sensitivity training was just 8 hours long; it was a subtle but clever way of commenting on how celebrities who 'get cancelled' spend a very short amount of time 'educating themselves' without actually learning anything besides they don't like being treated poorly (considering the fact that the actual sensitivity training instructor was tied up), and how so often they're able to sweep their wrongdoings under the rug with the idea that they've been reflecting on their mistakes and a lukewarm apology. The episode really hits the nail on the head when Zapp said 'there's a difference between right and wrong, and one of them gets you cancelled'. The only critique I have with that is that I don't think that's necessarily the take-away Zapp should have got from his 'sensitivity training', seeing as he was subjected to an 8 hour shift in a toxic work environment. That said, I think him saying this is a good way of conveying that the people who are cancelled don't care about learning and growing and doing what's right- they just don't want to be cancelled. Even if it's not really saying anything new, I still think it said it in a lot more of a clever way than, say, the Impossible Stream, which made some very tired comments about the low quality of shows on streaming services.
Leela's storyline was also really interesting. I think it's some of the best material her character has been given this whole season; she's seemed a little off at times up until now. I definitely expected that the storyline would be that she would have to do something underhanded, but her drive to do what's right would get in the way. I think it was actually really interesting that DOOP's corruption is highlighted in Leela's storyline as well, where peace is in quotation marks and repercussions for wrongdoings within the organisation are minimal. I think it really helped to make the episode a lot more complex than the title 'Zapp Gets Cancelled' appears, because it subtly shows that cancel culture simply can't exist when corruption is rampant within the system, corruption is required for success within the system, and morality simply doesn't fit into the system so it has to be punished and eradicated, hence Leela being dishonourably discharged. This episode said a lot more than I was expecting, and it even said it in a way that didn't completely beat you over the head with it.
The ending of the episode was incredibly sweet. I love how it concluded that Leela's moral compass is worth far more than the power she wielded as a DOOP captain.
That's all just my analysis anyway. Maybe I read a bit too much into it and this was just pretentious or obvious commentary. I was just glad that Twitter wasn't featured in the episode.
Without all of that analysis I just did, both plotlines of Zapp being cancelled and Leela becoming a DOOP captain were entertaining. Rage Against the Vaccine was so unfocused that I struggled to pay attention to it when it wasn't Hermes' subplot, so I really appreciated this bare minimum of having two continuous and fleshed-out storylines that even came together at the end!
Everything with Fry and Leela was adorable.
I liked seeing jealous, insecure Bender again. It was really funny when it was clearly building up to the Professor joining Leela on the Nimbus, but then Bender butted in.
I'm wondering if we'll be getting any Fry-focused episodes this season, or in the revival. Even though he was kind of the central character in the Impossible Stream, he still felt a little absent because he was mostly in the streaming suit. Though, I do like getting to see more of the other characters, and I get that Fry, as the main character of the show, has had so much focus in the previous runs of the show. At the very least, I do like that we're getting to see his relationship with Leela, though.
This episode really surprised me. I thought it would be one of the strongest comedically- because Zapp is guaranteed to save even the most terrible episode with his presence- but that it would give a groan-worthy and embarrassing take on cancel culture with strawman characters abound and all the subtlety of a punch in the face. Although the episode delivered plenty of good laughs, I still think its story, message and its unique concept were stronger than its humour.
I can definitely see some people not liking this episode because it's called 'Zapp Gets Cancelled' and it's the episode right after a mostly uninspired Covid episode, so people will be going into it with the idea that they're not going to like it. But, I still think it's nowhere near as bad as everyone was expecting. It was genuinely funny, it had a very strong plot, and it had something to say. I was absolutely prepared to have it be near the bottom of my list, but I actually think it's up there as one of the stronger episodes of the season. I'm also absolutely prepared to be the only one who actually thinks this episode was good and insightful.
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Rankings/thoughts on ACOTAR wedding/mating speeches? Like who’s giving the funniest one, whose is uncharacteristically sweet, who has to be dragged away from the mic bc they are drunk and sharing a lil too much lol
I wrote this two hours ago and when I got to #1 tumblr lost their shit and refreshed my page. This is ATTEMPT TWO (tumblr is trying to mess with the rankings, thinking with her pussy and not her brain)
17. Amren- handed a microphone but refused to speak. Created the most AWKWARD silence, ruined whole atmosphere
16. Jurian- Who gave that man a microphone? Awkward and angry, stumbling over his words until someone takes it from him and replaces it with very foamy beer. All is forgiven, he's not one for speeches
15. Azriel- "x and y...are married." Oh is that it? Okay, that's technically true. At least he said SOMETHING
14. Eris- Has all the charisma to pull this off yet after 15 minutes of speaking you realize he has been talking ONLY about himself. Has not said one word about bride or groom. Definitely trying to sell you something...but not sure what it is. Mentions forbidden Colorado trip in the last 2 minutes but only implies something requiring secrecy happened...just to remind everyone that he KNOWS.
13. Mor- Bubbly and friendly...too friendly with groom. Room wondering what, exactly, happened between them when she gushes she JUST wants him to be happy and LOVES him so much. Nothing happened between them...but whole room suddenly convinced she is in love with him.
12. Vassa- Emotional speech just a little TOO sarcastic and laced with enough f-bombs that your very conservative grandmother is MAD. Has forgotten we cannot be our most authentic selves when giving a speech, truly just goes for it.
11. Nesta- Everyone realizes halfway through that she H A T E S the groom. Groom is also realizing it. Has nothing nice to say about that man, implies heavily that bride could do better. Will be cited in divorce later on.
10. Emerie- it is a fact based speech. Would not be out of place at an academic conference. Drier than toast and yet someone manages not to mention Colorado trip, therefore a win.
9. Tamlin- Does not have the charisma for a speech. Awkward as he talks about how he knows these people. Feels angry, mood is all off. Cannot compliment them to save his life.
8. Rhysand- Is he aware this is not his chance to break into stand-up comedy? Too many jokes, not enough heartfelt emotion. Tells room of the blood oath sworn during Colorado trip, everyone now asking what happened. Does an actual mic-drop, it's not deserved.
7. Cassian- SO DRUNK. Who let this man speak? Tells room of what happened atop that mountain in Colorado. OH MY GOD TAKE THE MICROPHONE AWAY FROM HIM. Is given huge glass of water to chug, told to walk it off (but be quick about it, cha-cha slide is two songs away)
6. Helion- Knows how to read the room and what is he reading? A lot of single MILFS, that's what. Charming and irreverent...the sexual tension in this room is THICK. Upstaged the bride, great Helion, now she's crying.
5. Gwyn- Was doing a perfect job until she started singing. Whole room cringing- her voice is beautiful but like Rhysand, this is not your moment. Sit back down so we can eat.
4. Tarquin- Emotional, witty, handsome, Tarquin hits all the right notes. Gets choked up halfway through, swears he's fine but has to be led away. Emotional hug from the bride.
3. Lucien- Just the right amount of drunk to make this funny AND short. Read the room, the room is not interested. Tells one funny story about groom, says something nice about the bride and sits the fuck back down.
2. Elain- Created a slide show complete with pictures AND music. Room excited to watch until they realize it is 45 minutes long. Still, it is so nice and bride so excited everyone suffers through montage after montage of baby pictures and school musicals.
Feyre- PREPARED. Came with NOTE cards, planned ahead of time what to say. DOES NOT MENTION COLORADO or that they were EVER anywhere west of the Mississippi (can't let the cops know). Friends with both bride and groom, has a few well-times jokes that hurt no one's feelings and makes the room laugh. Hits all the right emotional notes, perfect choice for a speech.
#if there is one thing about this group#it is they definitely committed a murder in the rocky mountains#and cannot keep a secret
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Karen Page Appreciation Week Day 4: MCU Females
Another 11th hour ramble. This week has taught me that I am terrible at time management.
I cheated a little bit yesterday and said that I would want Karen to team up with Jessica Jones. BUT I do have another person for today: Elektra Natchios. I’ve actually talked about this a bit before, but I’m glad I have a chance to flesh out my thoughts a little bit.
One of my big problems with Season 2 of Daredevil is the love triangle it creates between Matt, Karen, and Elektra. It was a disservice to all of their characters, in my opinion. As I see it, there wasn’t a good narrative reason. You could have shown Matt losing control of his life and pushing Karen away without the romantic aspect of things (and I say that as someone who actively ships Karedevil). Additionally, I don’t like the fact that the only time Karen and Elektra are in the same room is when Karen is catching her in Matt’s bed. They are both interesting, complex characters who have enough depth to have arcs apart from Matt. It just felt like such a missed opportunity to not have these two characters interact in any substantive way.
It seems like Elodie Yung coming back for Born Again is really up in the air (although, I’m super happy that she’s had so much success with The Cleaning Lady--I need to watch it). However, regardless of who plays Elektra, I’d love to see her and Karen interact. I don’t think it would make sense to have them fight together given that fighting isn’t one of Karen’s main strengths (although a scene with Elektra using her sais and Karen using her gun could be pretty cool, maybe), but I think that having them do some investigating together could be pretty fun. Elektra was very resourceful when digging into Roxxon, just like Karen has been when delving into different things. And maybe if they teamed up to investigate something, Jessica could also come? I also think that they could relate to each other’s pasts, namely to being abandoned by a parental figure.
Given my comments above, I would want them to have an arc to themselves, but I also think it would be cool to see them interacting with Matt together. I mentioned this with Jessica as well, but specifically I would want to see them tease him/give him a hard time in some type of way. (I love Matt, I don’t know why I want everyone to roast him.)
I have more to say, but it’s 11:55 where I am, so I’m going to go ahead and post this. Also, I’m neglecting homework I have to do 😭
~/~
@karenpageweek2022
#karen page week 2022#karen page appreciation week#karen page#daredevil#elektra natchios#matt murdock#Jessica jones
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All the Things I Do Not Know
image by Zoe Gardner @limberdoodle
“I know that! You’ve told us that about a zillion times!”
This tends to be my son’s response to any information I relay. The literature instructs me that it is particularly important for neurodivergent children to have advanced warning as to what is going to happen in their days, but -
“I KNOW MUM! I do have ears!” is generally my son’s exasperated reply to my solicitous sharing of what he can expect of the day/ week/ year ahead. He is 11 but he says he has reached teenage-hood already, and duly rolls his eyes and groans, at how his mother never has anything of interest to say.
So, it came as rather of a shock to us both when, recently, it transpired that I had failed to tell him something of massive importance.
In the next six months we are aiming to move house. My son knows this - we’ve been talking about it for over a year. Plenty of build-up. He’s been positive about it. He’ll get his own bedroom - a space to store his precious collection of Nintendo and PS games. And last week we began looking at houses.
“Do you have a property to sell?” the estate agent who met us asked with a lip-sticked smile.
“Yes. Though we haven’t put it on the market yet,” I answered.
And my son, who does indeed have ears, heard.
Cut to, half an hour later, and we are stood on Oxted High street while he hurls abuse at me, accuses me of ruining his life, and of lying, because - here’s the nub of it - he hadn’t realised that in order to buy a house, we needed to sell our current one, and I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t told him because it never occurred to me, he didn’t know. But, from his point of view, that’s no excuse.
“I’m so sorry, love. I had no idea….”
“ ‘Sorry’ isn’t good enough! You think that little word is enough to make up for a whole year’s worth of lies!”
My son is very articulate, even, or especially, when triggered. A local shop-owner comes out to check if we are okay. I tell the concerned man we are, and go on listening to my son’s tirade, on the pavement, in the cold.
My daughter is the same. If I make a mistake, if I misinform her of anything - last time it was where I had stored her socks - I am a liar. No matter how many times I explain that lying is intentional and that I never intended to mislead my daughter as to the whereabouts of her socks, or deceive my son as to the ways of the property market, or hide from him our privileged but nonetheless limited budget, still from their point of view, if they didn’t get the correct information, then I have uttered falsehoods and deserve the full blast of their wrath.
For my children, both the sock and the house-selling incident are over. They have recovered and moved on. But, as is so often the case as an adult, like some slow, awkward giant, lumbering in their fleet-footed wake, I haven’t. Part of me is still standing on Oxted High St, hands in my pockets, head down, feeling the awful guilt and sadness of having failed to understand the extent of my knowledge and the limits of my son’s. I am still thinking it over, writing it down, figuring it out here with you.
Knowledge comes in so many different shapes and forms, and - as happened with me - you can stop knowing that you even know something, lose complete awareness of your privilege and power, and therefore fail to recognise the responsibility that comes with it. My daughter has begun asking ‘where babies come from’ - the facts of life- that knowledge to which, historically, culturally, so much weight is given. The fruit at the centre of the garden of Eden. It’s strange – there’s so much awkward self-consciousness around that particular branch of knowledge. And once you know, self-consciousness is meant to be the price you pay for knowing it. I’ve answered my daughter’s questions. She is only six, but I couldn’t see any reason to withhold the information. She didn’t seem too bothered. She thought it sounded rather gross and shrugged it off. No more self-conscious than before. But this recent experience with my son, of my not knowing what he didn’t know, has made me wonder what other kinds of knowledge I should wake up to owning and sharing - a different, more stringent kind of self-consciousness. What should I know to tell? What, if anything, should I consciously withhold?
The day before the Oxted High St incident, I submitted an application to do a practice-as-research PhD- a way, I hope, for me to write a second novel (the first comes out this April). In my application I had to relay what ‘gaps in knowledge’ my research proposal will address, or what ‘new contribution to knowledge’ I will make. As if there were an elaborate edifice of the stuff that humanity has been slowly building up for centuries, whose gaps must be adroitly plugged, and/ or whose turrets must be built yet higher, and higher until…..until I don’t know what. Until it all comes crashing down around us, which seems to me what is already happening, which is ironically why I feel a sense of urgency about writing another novel- not to contribute to our collective stash of know-how, but rather to open space for how much we don’t know, for how we haven’t got a clue. Which is also why, when the estate agent tells me, ‘The schools round here are wonderful,’ my heart sinks, my son scowls, because the whole education system, from key stage 1, through to PhDs, is based on stacking up knowledge, and I don’t see how my fiercely self-directed son will find a place in such a smugly knowing system.
As a creative, I am very comfortable with not-knowing. Even used to swaggering about it slightly, to highlighting its centrality in my PhD application. I work with Improbable. I married one of the artistic directors and had his kids. We are a company whose roots and core practice lie in improvisation, so ‘not-knowing’ is the gig, it’s the way everything and anything unfolds: listen; offer up, in the moment, what you know, acknowledging how hopelessly limited this is; let go of it; listen again. That’s the mantra. That’s the practice. But as I mull on this, and as I think back from art to life, and from the company to the kids, as I consider what I know, and what I tell, I arrive at a shocking truth.
You see, since my son accused me of lying to him for over a year, I have started making different kinds of lists in my head.
The list of the things I know I know. (Short)
The one of things I don’t know I know. (Indefinite - growing longer)
The one of things I don’t know I don’t know. (Completely blank, but infinite)
And then, the one that stops me in my tracks:
The one of things I know I don’t know.
The items on this list I do not tell. I try not to say out loud, even to myself. But now I have got this far I will have to name a few of them.
I know, I do not know:
When I will die and how.
When my children will die, and how.
If they will be happy before they do.
What the world will be like for them when they become young adults, in ten, in twenty years.
These things have come up. My son has told me - via WhatsApp, which he finds more comfortable as a way of sharing scary truths - that he is afraid of me dying, of anything happening to me or his dad, is worried he may never be happy. And I haven’t told him I don’t know the answers to his worries. Not when he is so close to panic anyway. Not when he is in tears. Not when he is, literally, throwing up with fear.
So I lie. I do what my mother did to me when I was little and I asked her the same. I pretend I know. For now. And I withhold, what seem to me to be the far more terrible, terrifying facts of life than where babies come from. It’s not how we arrive that’s hard to share. It’s how we leave, and what we might endure before we do- the things we do not know.
I cling, of course, to the first list - the shortest one - of the things I know I know:
That I love my son and daughter. That I always will. That I’ll do whatever I can to support them, which, mostly, doesn’t mean telling them what I know.
“I KNOW MUM!” is, as I said, the response I usually get if I do.
Because mostly the children do already know what I have to say. Or if they don’t, they will have a better time finding out for themselves anyway.
So, I think my job as a mother is, probably, after all the same as my Improbable one, the same as my approach to my creative work: to listen, to offer, in the moment, what I know, acknowledging how limited this is, and to continue to hold space for the awful, stunning, wondrous, unending list of things that I don’t know.
Hopefully, if I do that, the house-hunting will go a little smoother next weekend. But I’ll have to wait and see….
And in the meantime, here are your questions for the month:
What do you know to tell?
What do you withhold?
And how do you move around, work with, the things you cannot know?
You can answer as a mother or carer. You can answer as a maker or creative. And it is okay- more than okay – not to know.
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A Grim in Devildom ch12
Chapter 1. Chapter 6. Chapter 11
Chapter 2. Chapter 7
Chapter 3. Chapter 8
Chapter 4. Chapter 9
Chapter 5. Chapter 10
When they got back to the Devildom, Cassandra ended up going back to her room. Mammon had invited her to go to one of his photo shoots but she declined, saying she wanted to catch up on homework.
She opened the door to her room and was surprised to see Kieran on her desk looking over some magic seals from her homework.
He perked up when he saw her come in. "You're back! Must've been quite the shopping trip."
"Yeah about that. We ended up in London." She let out a laugh and told him about the train ride.
"So you ended up working huh? Figures." He shook his head. She sat down next to him and got to work. He helped her with some of the more complex magic circles she was working on and before she knew it they'd been at it for a couple of hours.
"I think that's enough for today." She said stretching and getting up to lay down in her bed. Tomorrow was the speech Lucifer had been fretting about, and she wondered what they'd say about her.
Kieran eyed her curiously for a moment. "Ya know... I couldn't help but notice... That the bedsheets smelled like Mammon."
She sat bolt upright in the bed. "Wh-! NO! It wasn't like that! He was just comforting me after a nightmare that's all!" She said hastily feeling the blood rush to her cheeks.
"What? All night?" Kieran continued to tease her, waving his tail back and forth. "You like him don't you?"
She gasped, it felt like her stomach was doing flips. "What? N-no I couldn't. Me? Fall in love? Pfft as if." She crossed her arms glaring at him.
"I never said anything about love but ok if you insist." Kieran laughed at her and she thwacked him with a pillow. "Oof- hey watch it!" He grumbled swatting the cushion away.
The next day Lord Diavolo invited them all out to dinner at Ristorante Six to celebrate Lucifer and Satan returning to their bodies. He even made sure Kieran could come. Kieran tried to hide his excitement, but he was ecstatic to be able to eat out for the first time in twenty years.
"Alright does everyone have a glass now?" Lucifer asked holding up his glass of demonus.
"YOU KNOW IT! LET'S DO THIS!" Mammon shouted enthusiastically.
"Wait a second... Beel's already eating! Shouldn't someone stop him?" Asmo said as Beel scarfed down some bread.
Diavolo laughed good-naturedly. "Well, that's alright. Why don't we go ahead with our toast."
Satan smiled and raised his glass. "Alright then... Here's to lifting the curse!"
"CHEERS!" They all said clinking their glasses together.
They all started eating their meals and after a moment Lucifer looked up with a slight frown. "You know... I just noticed that Levi isn't here."
"Apparently, a new game showed up for him today, so he's going to stay holed up in his room for a while." Satan responded while cutting up his food.
Throughout their meal, Mammon and Satan told the story of the murder on the train. Lucifer kept having to correct Mammon, who was trying to twist the story.
"And then the guy has the nerve to call Cassandra a mongrel!" Mammon growled still looking angry.
"HE CALLED HER A WHAT?!" Asmo gasped dramatically and Beel choked on his food.
"Oh not THAT again... The guy was one of those huh? They've always given those of us with mixed blood problems." Kieran growled, flattening his ears in disgust.
"Really? Has that happened to you before?" Satan asked looking at her and Kieran, and she nodded.
"As a matter of fact, I actually met Gerald and Rosabelle in a bar fight that one of those purists started." Kieran said wistfully.
"You met my mother in a bar fight?" Cassandra said unable to suppress a small laugh.
"Yeah, that Grim father-daughter duo was unstoppable." He chuckled.
"How interesting! You will have to tell me more stories about your family." Diavolo laughed, he was sitting on her other side and she was trying very hard not to be overly self-conscious in his presence.
"Regardless, Lucifer tells me you were a big help these past few days. Clearly, we made the right choice selecting you to come to the Devildom as our exchange student." He smiled at her warmly as she felt a twinge of unease.
She honestly was on the fence about the whole exchange program and had not yet talked to Diavolo about her concerns involving everyday humans in the supernatural.
"How did you end up choosing me?" She asked, eyeing him wearily. She already knew it wasn't because she was a Grim, since they'd all been surprised to find out her heritage.
"To be honest, I wasn't actually the one who chose you. Lucifer picked you. I simply gave my approval, that's all." Diavolo said with a somewhat shy smile.
He must have sensed her unease because he stopped and gave her a serious look. "You see, Cassandra, I believe that all of us here have a mission in life. Mine is to bring progress and stability to the Devildom, the Celestial realm, and the human world. It's possible that your mission in life is to influence Lucifer and his brothers in some way."
"You have a very admirable goal." She said, looking away. This wasn't the time or the place to have the discussion she wanted to have with him and frankly she didn't even know if he'd listen to her.
After a while, they finally left the restaurant, much to the relief of the wait staff who were struggling to keep up with Beel's appetite.
On the way home Cassandra fell into step with Lucifer while the others bickered ahead of them. Lucifer smiled at her "So Cassandra... what were you and Diavolo talking about in the restaurant?"
"I asked him how I was chosen to be an exchange student." She replied.
"So that's what you were discussing... there wasn't actually any deep or meaningful reason for your selection. I was fed up with going through the stack of papers. That's when a breeze blew through the window scattering the papers into the air. One of them just happened to land at my feet -the one with your name on it." Lucifer said.
"So it really was just a random twist of fate." She let out a slightly nervous chuckle. She had really hoped there'd been more thought behind her selection, as this would have put her mind at ease. She couldn't help but wonder how she'd gotten on the list of candidates or who the others were.
"I suppose so." He laughed with her. Suddenly his phone rang and he pulled it out to look at it. "It's Levi."
He didn't answer it right away, instead looking at her with an oddly fond expression. "... Before I forget there is one thing I'd like you to know while we're on the subject. Though you weren't selected to come to the Devildom due to any special abilities... You are somewhat special to me on a personal level."
She blinked in surprise when he said that. She notice that he had attached his chocolate lizard keychain to his D.D.D. as he answered Levi's call.
However, he frowned, looking concerned. "...Levi is something wrong? Hey, are you there?" The call ended and he looked over at her and then his brothers ahead of them.
They quickened their pace to catch up with them. "I just got a call from Levi but all I heard was him screaming and the line went dead." He said with a frown.
"I guess we'd better hurry back then." She said growing concerned as well.
When they got back they split up and searched the entire house for Levi but he was nowhere to be found. They regrouped in Levi's room hoping to find more clues.
"Are you certain it was Levi who called you?" Satan said to Lucifer with a worried frown.
"Yes, it was definitely him. The call came from his D.D.D and it was his voice." Lucifer said holding Levi's phone that they had found on the floor.
"Could he have gone out? I mean it seems unlikely but..." Kieran trailed off looking uncertain.
"Yeah, I bet he went out to some store to stand in line for some new game or something." Mammon chimed in seeming hopeful.
"It's kinda weird that he would leave without his phone. I mean he had it with him when he called Lucifer." Cassandra was not convinced, something was definitely off.
"Yeah, I don't think he'd just leave his phone here." Satan agreed with her eyeing Levi's phone.
"Wait a minute where's Beel?" Lucifer said looking around the room.
"Did he ever come back from the search?!" Cassandra said growing more alarmed.
"I don't think so..." Asmo said looking around.
"I don't know about Levi but Beel has to be somewhere in the house. Well split up again and search for him. Cassandra and Satan you're with me." Lucifer said in an authoritative tone.
They started searching the house again, focusing on the ground floor. She noticed that Satan kept glancing her way as if he wanted to ask her something. After about ten minutes, he turned to her with a serious look.
"I know this isn't the best time to ask this but... Cassandra, will you make a pact with me?" He asked.
She gave him a stunned look, completely taken off guard. She hadn't expected him to want to after everything that had happened.
"I don't see why you're so surprised." He said, raising an eyebrow before turning to Lucifer.
"Lucifer, just to be clear, I'm not doing this out of some desire to spite you. It's not about that."
Lucifer narrowed his eyes for a moment before smiling. "I know, that much I can tell from the look on your face." He nodded at Satan approvingly.
"Cassandra a lot has happened these past few days and..." Satan stopped looking embarrassed. His cheeks turned red and he frowned looking over at Lucifer.
"I can't do this with you standing right there, Lucifer. Give us a little privacy. I don't want you hearing this."
Lucifer looked taken aback for a moment before letting out a laugh. "Cassandra... It's not often that I see Satan in a state like this... Actually, I don't think I've ever seen him like this!"
"Lucifer!" Satan hissed, looking even more embarrassed.
"Alright, Alright. I'll be over here if you need me." Lucifer chuckled walking into another room.
Satan let out a relieved sigh before turning back to her. "... Um, where was I? A lot has happened these past few days, and after everything we went through, I made a decision. I decided I won't let who Lucifer is and what he does bother me anymore. I can't change the circumstances of my birth but how I choose to live my own life has nothing to do with Lucifer. The entire reason I was able to face my issues is because of you, Cassandra. You helped me be honest with Lucifer... And myself as well." He smiled at her warmly. It was a genuine smile, not one of the ones he used to charm people.
"You still want to make a pact with me right? Because I don't like owing people favors. So if it ends up helping you like you helped me, I'd like to make a pact with you." He looked at her expectantly.
She smiled back at him with a nod. "Thank you, Satan. I'd appreciate it."
He smiled and took her hand. "Alright time to take the oath... I am Satan. Avatar of wraith. I pledge myself to you, Cassandra Grimm... That we may be bound by an unbreakable pact." A golden glow engulfed them. After it receded she noticed that his pact mark had appeared right on her right forearm.
Satan grinned when he saw it. "Looks like everyone will see we have a pact now." He said tapping on the mark. "I don't know why, but I suddenly feel embarrassed -" He was cut off by a series of screams and yowls from upstairs.
Lucifer came running back out to them. "What was that?!" He said alarmed.
"It sounded like Mammon, Asmo, and Kieran..." Satan said with a worried look as they rushed to where the screams had come from.
They ran into the portrait hall where it sounded like the screams had come from but found it empty.
"That was definitely them we heard just now wasn't it?" Lucifer said looking around.
"I-Is that Kieran's fur?" Cassandra said bending down and picking up a black tuft of fur on the floor.
She gave Satan and Lucifer a frightened look. There wasn't any blood but it had to be serious if something had taken Kieran by surprise.
"... Let's head upstairs I'll take the lead." Lucifer said moving in front of her.
"Cassandra follow behind Lucifer. I'll take the rear." Satan said falling into step behind her.
"... Something's not right. First Levi, then Beel, and now Mammon, Asmo, and Kieran have all vanished. Could they be hiding somewhere, or could it be that-" Satan abruptly stopped talking and she turned around to see why only to find he was no longer there.
"Wha! Satan!?" She cried out getting Lucifer's attention.
"He's gone!" She said looking at Lucifer with wide eyes.
"Everyone's gone except you and me. What do you think is happening?" Lucifer said giving her a worried look.
"I haven't the faintest idea..." She said shaking her head.
"Yes I thought so... Levi was the first to disappear. Let's go back to his room." Lucifer said leading the way.
They walked back into Levi's room. It was still empty, however this time she noticed that his computer was running.
"Hey, Lucifer, what's running on his computer?" She asked walking over to look at the screen.
Lucifer joined her by the computer. "Come to think of it, he mentioned something about a new game didn't he...?" Lucifer picked up an empty case laying next to the computer.
"The Demon House... Definitely sounds like a horror game. 'A cursed house with an ominous past. It is said that an entire family was once murdered inside. Now suddenly, one by one, the people you live with are starting to disappear...'" He finished reading the back of the case with a sigh.
"That sounds an awful lot like what's happening now..." She said inspecting the case.
"Levi's got a bad habit of going out and buying these strange games... It seems that somehow this game is creating the scenario we've found ourselves in... What do you think we should do?" He turned to her with an exasperated look.
"We should try and beat the game. That worked last time." She said remembering the last time they'd played one of Levi's games.
"It does look like that's our only option at this point. Alright, let's see if there's a guide online." He pulled out his phone and started searching and after a few seconds he pulled something up.
"It says to complete the game you must defeat the demon that is the final boss. It says the final boss's name is Lucifer... How ridiculous. They must think they're very funny doing that. So that means I'm the final boss and you're the player character." Lucifer looked down at her.
"How exactly am I supposed to beat you? Aren't you like immortal or something?" Cassandra said with a frown.
"... Hold on. There's a page here about how to get the true ending to the game... Several conditions must be satisfied but if you manage to do it you'll be treated to a romantic ending where you and Lucifer fall in love." Lucifer stopped reading with a scowl on his face.
"Excuse me? WHAT?! What kind of game is this?!" Cassandra nearly shouted.
Lucifer groaned in frustration. "Come on, let's talk this over in the library."
They made their way to the library and sat down in a couple of chairs that faced one another. Lucifer let out a heavy sigh.
"If we hope to get everyone back we have to finish this ridiculous game. You either have to defeat me or we have to fall in love with each other." He grimaced.
"Could I pretend to defeat you?" Cassandra asked desperate to avoid the love option.
"Though it should be technically possible for you to defeat me, I can't say with confidence that I wouldn't retaliate out of reflex. If I caused your death over something like that I'd never be able to face Diavolo again... So our only choice is to fall in love with each other." Lucifer said with a worried look.
She couldn't really see herself in love with Lucifer, or anybody for that matter. Surely they could fake it? After all, how could the game even tell?
"What does the game want us to do exactly?" She said mirroring his concerned look.
Lucifer shook his head. "... The game has only just been released. So apparently there still aren't any strategies posted on how to achieve that ending. So why don't we start with the fundamentals of love and go from there."
"T-the fundamentals?" She stammered hoping she did sound as clueless as she actually was.
"If you want to develop feelings for someone you both need to start by getting to know each other right?" He said with a smile and she nodded.
"I'll ask you some questions. How do you feel about what's going on now?" He asked his crimson eyes glittering.
"Well I'm worried about everyone, but aside from that I suppose I don't have much of a choice but to go along with this plan." She said honestly.
Lucifer nodded. "I'm sure everyone is alright. The feeling is very much mutual."
"Alright next question: which one of us brothers are you interested in?" He asked completely blindsiding her.
She felt the color drain from her face and then come rushing back all at once. "W-what?" She choked out, gripping the chair for dear life.
"That question certainly seems to have flustered you. So you are interested in one of us." He leaned forward slightly with a sly smile.
"N-NO! Impossible! I can't be..." She trailed off, images of Mammon smiling at her flashing through her mind. I'm just an object to him, a pet, a toy, he'd never see me that way. She thought to herself feeling her chest tighten.
"Alright. Calm down. You don't have to answer if it upsets you so much." Lucifer sighed seeing her distress.
She took a deep breath and regained her composure. "I'm fine!" She said a little hastily.
"Ask me a question. You may never get another chance to do this you know. So choose wisely." He said with a smirk.
"Is it even possible for a demon to love a human?" She asked voicing her own thoughts about Mammon.
Lucifer seemed taken aback. "It's extremely unlikely but not impossible. Humans have such short life spans compared to demons so it's not a common thing."
Cassandra pondered this for a moment. So demons could fall in love. She hadn't really thought it was possible up until now.
"Anything else you'd like to ask?" Lucifer's voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
She glanced up at him warily. "What do you think of humans?" Did they think of humans as anything other than animals? Did he see her that way? Part of her wished she could ask Mammon this question even though she knew he would never answer honestly.
Lucifer let out a hearty laugh. "What do I think of humans? Oh no, what you really mean is 'what do you think of me?' right? Good question..." He trailed off his expression turning serious.
While that wasn't exactly what she meant she had to admit she was curious. She leaned forward slightly waiting for his next words.
"When you first arrived I thought all I had to do was make sure that you survived the whole year. However, you made it difficult. Not only did you bring along a companion, you constantly got into trouble. You were fearless and headstrong. You also hid the fact that you had a magic background. Then you started making pacts with my brothers one by one. Why did you do that by the way?" Lucifer fixed her with an intense gaze and she felt herself start to sweat nervously, she reached up and started to twirl her golden brown hair in her fingers.
"You said you wanted me to respect you but was that your real purpose? What is your long-term goal?" He let out a sigh and her mind flashed to Belphegor locked in the attic.
"You've been a pain to deal with. But you're also very special... More special than you are difficult. You're changing me and my brothers as well. Cassandra, the truth is that I..." He stopped noticing how nervous she had become.
She was starting to feel guilty, which was bad if she was to keep lying to him. She hadn't minded so much before since she had seen him as a common enemy that she shared with Belphegor, but that now felt like it was changing. Internal panic was starting to set in as she felt herself slipping under his intense crimson gaze.
"... Is there something else you'd like to ask me?" He said frowning.
She bit her lip and took a deep breath. She couldn't keep deceiving Lucifer and his brothers anymore. She looked him in the eye. "I think you should talk to Belphegor." It was all she could manage to get out but it was enough.
Lucifer went rigid his eyes going wide. "W-what did you say? Wait don't tell me... That you actually met with him... That you went to that room... And MET Belphegor?!" He shot up from his seat erupting into his demon form. She quickly jumped up and went behind the chair she had been sitting in as he stalked towards her.
"You went up those stairs, didn't you?! You knew you weren't allowed to yet you did it anyway! You went up there and... And you met Belphegor?! Do you REALLY find it so amusing to poke your nose into our business at every opportunity? Do you really enjoy stirring up trouble that much?" He was shaking with rage as he grabbed the chair and hurled it across the room with a crash.
She stumbled backward as the door flew open and everyone rushed inside.
"STOP...!" Mammon yelled throwing himself between her and Lucifer. Kieran quickly darted to her side looking up at her in alarm.
"Why did you tell him?!" Kieran hissed, his fur standing on end.
"Hey, whoa, hey! Wait a minute!" Mammon put his arms up to hold back Lucifer.
Asmo looked panicked. "Is it just me or does this situation look genuinely serious?!" He and Levi went to her side as Lucifer glared at her.
"All of you out of the way...! I'm going to tear her limb from limb!" Lucifer roared but Mammon held his ground.
"Whoa! We're not about to let you do somethin' like that!"
Beel walked slowly into the room, looking tense. "That stuff about Belphie... What's going on?"
He moved closer to Lucifer his amethyst eyes boring into him. "Are you saying that Belphie isn't up in the human world? That he's actually upstairs... In the attic?! That you locked him in there?! ANSWER ME LUCIFER! NOW! " Beel roared transforming into his demon form.
Beel charged Lucifer but Lucifer easily tossed him aside. Sending him crashing into a bookshelf.
"Wh... Lucifer?! What do you think you're doing?! How could you hurt Beel...?!" Asmo cried out in horror as Beel struggled to his feet, with a large gash on his arm.
"QUIET!" Lucifer snarled and Asmo shrank back. " All of you get out of here right- " He stopped as someone else walked into the room and everyone turned to look in shock.
" Well hello there brothers... I can't tell you how much I missed you... " Belphegor said walking into the room with a large smile.
#obey me#obey me fan fic#obey me fan fiction#fanfiction#lucifer obey me#diavolo obey me#obey me levi#obey me satan#obey me asmo#obey me beel#obey me mammon#obey me mammon x mc#obey me mammon x oc#belphie obey me#obey me oc#obey me female oc
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jensen
template based on this post
Basics
Name: Jensen Adrián Ashfair
Birthplace: Idris
Places Lived: Idris, New York
Current Residence: New York
Birthday: February 14, 1995
Age: 11-12
Species: shadowhunter/nephilim
Appearance
Hair: light brown/dirty blond
Eyes: green
Height: 5'6
Clothing style: basic jeans, tshirts, sometimes basketball shorts if it's hot out. comfort over fashion
Face Claim: Bryce McKenzie
Family
Mother: Mollie Ashfair (deceased)
Father: Aric Ashfair
Sibling(s): Rowan Ashfair
Other Important Relatives: Patrick Penhallow (maternal uncle), Jia Penhallow (aunt), Aline Penhallow (cousin), Guinevere Verlac (maternal aunt), Émile Verlac (uncle), Sebastian Verlac (cousin), Élodie Verlac (aunt through marriage)
Closest Friends: Max Lightwood, Emma Carstairs, Julian Blackthorn
Romantic interest: none
Past Relationship(s): none
Personality
Jensen is, in a word, a lover. He's never been a fan of fighting and the shadowhunter life, but he'll put up with it if it means he gets to see his family. He loves with all his heart and is constantly trying to find ways to make people's lives easier with little things around the Institute. He likes small trinkets and shiny things, even if it means an acorn from the park where he and Max like to hang out a lot. He's an artist at heart and sees the world in such a different way compared to the rest of the shadowhunters---not in a way that requires he always watch his back, but in a way that makes him look forward and see what potential is ahead of him. He's never met someone that shares his view like that and it's particularly isolating.
Likes: reading (specifically modern fantasy novels), doodling, hiding in his little attic space with max until odd hours of the night to finish that one book together, cozy blankets, flowers
Dislikes: loud noises, the Big Light in his room, plain/bare walls that have space for decoration
Hobbies: going on walks, reading, random walking around places with max
Fear(s): spiders. and a little bit vampires, but that's mostly because of the places they hang out (which have spiders)
Shadowhunter Information
Familial Symbol: mountains for the Penhallow family, ashfair family doesn't have one
Institute Base: New York
Weapon: he doesn't have a distinct weapon considering he's still in training
Fighting Style: undefined
Favoured rune(s): friendship/parabatai rune, guidance, healing/iratze, voyance
Parabatai (if any): would-be Max Lightwood
Favorites/Least Favorites
Food: Maryse's famous chocolate chip cookies
Drink: slushies or a good hot cocoa from java jones with rowan and izzy
Colour: green! or yellow
Season: spring
Scent: burning wood
Music: 2000-2010s indie rock
Time of day: sunrise
Movie: LOTR series
Background
Jensen was born in Idris in 1995 to parents Aric and Mollie Ashfair, three and a half years after his older sibling, Rowan. He barely remembers the time he spent in Idris---most of his memories start with the New York Institute. He learned about his mother's death and then found himself halfway across the world with new people. However, there was another young boy like himself there, and the two got close quickly.
He and Max spent a lot of time together---when given the option, he preferred to go with Maryse and Robert when they left New York. He liked traveling and didn't like being without Max for weeks at a time. Growing up, Rowan was busy with their own friends and the "big kids" didn't want to play with their baby brother.
He did his lessons under Hodge, but since he was younger and less naturally apt, he fell closer in line with Max's training. The two would play-fight with swords most of the time and did a lot of book work together. They stayed attached at the hip most of the time, one always just behind the other in whatever they were doing.
He was eleven when Maryse received a panicked call from the Institute and was informed she and Robert needed to return urgently. He didn't really know what was going on, but they rushed home from Idris much sooner than he wanted to. It was rare he got to see his dad, and when they visited was the rare time he did.
to be continued
Extra Family Information:
Mollie Ashfair+ (formerly Penhallow) is the older sister to Patrick and Guinevere* Penhallow.
Patrick married Jia Ke and they had their daughter, Aline Penhallow.
Guinevere* married Émile* Verlac and they had a son, Sebastian Verlac. Émile* is the brother of Élodie Verlac.
all characters with a * are canon, unnamed characters that I gave namesall characters with a + are ocsref
#xx.jensen#magnus bane#shadowhunters#the mortal instruments#alec lightwood#clary fray#shadowhunters oc#shadowhunters ocs#simon lewis#the mortal instruments oc#the mortal instruments ocs#jace herondale#clarissa fray#clary fairchild#max lightwood
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listen, I am by no means a greys anatomy fan, I watched the first 11 seasons last year and am currently watching a random selection of episodes with my friend and reliving the fact that it's a completely ridiculous melodrama (which is what makes it fun to watch) and having just watched the episode I feel compelled to illustrate how melodramatic it is by telling you how one of the main characters dies (spoilers ahead for season 11 in case that matters to anyone)
okay so Derek is the main love interest of the show, at this point in time, he and the main character, Meredith, are married with two young children. Earlier in the show, I think just after the birth of their second child Derek agreed to take on the bulk of child raising responsibilities so that Meredith could work on her career now that she's fully qualified. Earlier in the season Derek took a job offer with the government, going back on the promise he made to Meredith, and taking him out of the city for extended periods of time. This develops in a huge fight for months on end in which the only time these two talk is to argue this is important background so you understand I'm not lying when I tell you Meredith gets pregnant with their third child the night before Derek dies.
Speaking of, so Derek decides his family is more important than this government job and decides to quit, he tells Meredith this and they make up (this makes sense, they have been communicating with eachother about their feelings the entire time, so Derek knew what Meredith needed from him in order to resolve the argument), they also de ide they want another child and have sex for the first time in months, this sex results in Meredith becoming pregnant.
The following morning Derek leaves for the airport to tie up the loose threads with his job so that the whole issue can finally be put to bed. On the way he detours due to traffic and while gets involved in a major traffic accident, he is uninjured as he was not in either of the cars that actually collided, but he stops and helps everyone on the scene (saving everyone's lives) while they wait for help to arrive (they are unable to reach emergency services as there's no phone signal there).
After the scene has been cleared Derek gets back in his car and pulls out into the road when his phone rings... somehow... Anyway, he stops IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD to look for his phone when he is hit by a lorry.
Derek, now in voice-over, is badly injured and taken to a hospital that's not equipped for emergencies and who's staff aren't properly trained for them. Derek realises he must have a brain bleed but can't communicate to tell the staff he needs a CT (one of the younger doctors advocates for one but is ignored, she will soon become a cast regular). Eventually the other doctors also notice Derek is bleeding into his brain, but it's too late as it'll take the neurosurgeon 20 minutes before he arrives. AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, the neurosurgeon arrives and operates, Derek is already brain dead. Meredith arrives to say goodbye and they pull the plug.
It is important to note at this point, Meredith didn't call any of Derek's family to come to the hospital and say goodbye, whish is understandable given that she's going through a lot, however Derek's sister lives nearby and works at the same hospital as both Derek and Meredith, so sucks for her I guess.
After the funeral Meredith skips town for nine months, doesn't answer any of her friends calls, and only goes home after she has her baby and the hospital calls her best friend, forcing her to finally talk to him (these 9 months happened in the 2 episodes following Derek's death, hence why I'm. talking about this here)
it's fantastic, it's over the top, it's barely plausible, and that's what makes it fun to watch
#not dw#I am by no means recommending gpeople watch greys anatomy#it's awful basically from the beginning and just keeps getting worse#but I still wanted to share this specifific plot point with you#there are also plane crashes#gunmen in the hospital#as my friend and I are watching it seems very random episode we watch has either a birth death or wedding#everybody sleeps with everybody else (heterosexual speaking)#the hospital experiences a major disaster practically twice a season#it's unwatchable#it's awesome
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Our 3 Disputes that we lost.
Hey what's up, my name is Tony and I own a moving company which is why you saw me on 7FMA. If interested I'm going to post privately on this blog so you can follow me and hopefully not have to make the same mistakes I did.
We have been in business since Jan 22 2020. In that time we have done 1,058 moves and counting since posting this blog. 4 of them are back charges. Briefly these are the first 3 incidents:
DATE:
07/31/2020
START TIME:
6:00PM-9:00PM
CONTACT:
Lailaunii Walker
MAIN PHONE:
702 8451121
MAIN EMAIL:
PICK UP 1:
164 Springhouse St
Las Vegas, NV 89148
DROP OFF 1:
1933 Via Primero St
Las Vegas, NV 89115
August 2020, an OnlyFans girl who never once looked at her quote as she never gave me her e-mail address had booked us last minute as a Sunday move - which is really tough given the circumstances that we spoke through the real estate agent.. She gave me an address that was not on Google Maps yet and when we were unloading gave me the worst attitude which made me think she was not going to pay as I had told her she needs to slow down just racing ahead of us. We lost $750 + no terms were agreed on, no sign in sheet, no pictures of the move existed, but I still paid my guys 6 hours + truck rental got into a shouting match with the customer at 12 Midnight, continued to unload, but only to the first floor as ordered by my partner and how severe this situation was. I'm ashamed of the person I was that day. I already have a negative disposition (still do) towards entitled low level women who do OnlyFans for a living. She back charged us and won for the entirety of the move, which taught me 3 things:
Everyone and their mama who needs a move needs to accept our terms and conditions, that is why we have a CRM.
$50 deposit is not going to take it. We need to take half up front. (We take our minimum hours + any 1 time fees nowadays)
I need to calm down as the guys I was with told me I was totally unhinged and throwing dollies and shit in the truck.
Lots of other lessons came to mind but these were the top 3. When I told the agent Ishmael about it, he sure felt bad but I told him it wasn't his fault. He still sent business our way even after quitting the real estate company later that year.
In November 2020, an older lady from the South hired us for labor only to unload a 26' truck.
DATE:
11/18/2020
START TIME:
3:00PM
CONTACT:
Natalie Whitmyer
MAIN PHONE:
9519028827
MAIN EMAIL:
DROP OFF 1:
1771 Lily Pond Cir
Henderson, NV 89012
This lady used a credit card ending in Visa card #4100 under niece's name which she was there on a monitored and recorded line. A sign in sheet was provided of sign in and sign out from the customer. Customer agreed to our terms of our CRM as we learned the time before. The move ended up to be $237.00 and that is because we gave a $19.75 discount for being 55+ but even though we submitted our paperwork like sign in and sign out sheet, monitored and recorded phone calls (which I learned is not accepted) and geo tagged text messages the niece was never there on site only the Aunt who we moved in.
Lessons from this move:
We take a credit card authorization when dealing with the person who is not going to be on site in addition to the payment.
We take pictures on all moves to submit for evidence in case of backcharge.
Monitored and recorded phone calls are not accepted for dispute. We must do other things to protect ourselves. This is when we strengthened our terms and conditions and decided to take any minimum hours + 1 time fees up front for ALL moves. This means truck jobs need to be 3 hours + arrival fee, labor only needs 2 hours + supplies if we sold any.
In December of 2020, We had a labor only job that a washer and dryer were seriously damaged after being unloaded by HAH. Thank goodness that we had the layer of protection behind that provider, after all they do take 29% of commission from our jobs.
DATE:
12/02/2020
START TIME:
3:00PM
CONTACT:
Tori Hodge
MAIN PHONE:
561 2718284
MAIN EMAIL:
4487 Stardust Moon Avenue
North Las Vegas, NV 89084
We had a sign in sheet, rules of moves are different from 3rd party sites that we accept jobs on. We lost $150 + the labor + 29% so this was a job that made no money. It could have been worse though and wiped out the entire move, as it was only a 2 hour ordeal. We still came out ahead and made $51.91 and I wasn't on the job.
Lessons from this job:
We got lucky and could have gotten a negative review. Good thing we communicate with customers even when bad shit happens.
Our rules stipulate that once a pod arrives in someone's destination, we aren't responsible for it as it shifts during transportation.
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you’re someone i just want around: X
I will not ask you where you came from,
I will not ask and neither should you.
Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,
We should just kiss like real people do.
Like Real People Do, Hozier
A/N: okay i know i say this every time but genuinely THIS IS MY FAVOURITE PART SO FAR!!!!! and my lil section of this story has come to an end!!! act one is done!!! and the beginning of act two aka part 11 will be coming on andrea’s blog!!!!! thank u guys so so much for all the love and support you’ve given us!!!! we truly cannot believe you guys have been so receptive and we love you all so so much 🦋 as always any and all feedback is deeply appreciated not just by andrea and I but by all content creators!!! seriously we do all of this for free while going to school and working full time and those little messages make our days so much better!!! so do reblogs!!! you should reblog the content you like!!!! leave a lil message in the tags!!! shoot us a message!! anything is truly madly deeply™️ appreciated 💌 thank you all once again for your support!!!! pls enjoy 🦋
ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : ysijwa playlist : ysijwa playlist II
word count: 37.9k
content/warnings: harry ignoring “bros before hoes” part 45684957, “FUCK FLORIDA!!! ALL MY HOMIES HATE FLORIDA!!!” - xander, fight scene (rap), jefferson x hamilton (friends to lovers), road head ahead?? uhhh yeah, i sure hope so!!!, MUSI 1113: history of classical music, prof. harry styles, sherlock and watson solve the biggest mystery yet, *edward cullen voice* and so the mosquito fell in love with the butterfly
“Are you going to stare at your phone all day, like a bloody tool, or are you actually going to join the conversation?”
Despite the baited question, Harry keeps his gaze on his device as he flicks through his notifications, opening one app after the other in quick repetition before closing the screen. “That depends. Are you actually going to say something interesting?”
From the other side of his couch, Niall flicks up his middle finger with ease, his expression sour and unimpressed. “We are saying something interesting, you prick. I want to get out of town next weekend, but no one—” The Irishman shoots a pointed look to Xander, who’s leaning across the kitchen island with an unbothered expression. “—can agree on where to go.”
“It’s not that I can’t agree, Niall. It’s that your ideas are stupid.” Xander shoots back in an exasperated tone, raising his Bloody Mary (with extra blood, hardly any Mary) to his scowling lips. “No one wants to go to fucking Florida. It’s Florida. Why the fuck would we go to Florida?”
“Because I’ve been alive for two hundred years—”
Adam clicks his tongue from the lounge seat by the window. “I’m not sure if ‘alive’ is the best description.”
“—and I’ve never been to Disney World! I died from a fucking famine. Am I not entitled— nay, am I not owed—” Niall straightens his posture on the couch as he addresses the whole of the room, a determined look set in his icy blue eyes that contrasts the dulled gaze of those watching him. “A warm churro, cold Dole Whip, and a set of over-priced Mickey ears? Huh?”
“That still doesn’t answer the question of why we’d have to go to Florida to get that!” Xander exclaims, rounding the corner of the kitchen counter with his drink in hand. He raises the glass to his lips, pausing halfway to point towards the wall of windows that’s currently letting in the midday Sunday sun. “We could drive a half hour to Disneyland, and get you the exact same thing!”
Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Niall sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth, as if he needs to calm himself down before doing something he regrets. “Xander,” He begins in a controlled voice, tight and tense and on the verge of snapping. “I suffered through starvation, fought in a world war, went through the Great Depression, and then fought in another fucking world war! After all that, why would I settle for Disneyland, when we could easily make it to Disney World and back in three days?”
“You know…” Mitch says slowly, flopping down on the sofa between Niall and Harry, who’s already turned his attention back to his obsessive ritual of checking his notifications. “You can’t keep playing the ‘fought in a war’ card. Harry fought in World War One, too, and I fought in the Revolutionary War. And died in the Revolutionary War. You do realize the majority of our group are veterans, right?”
Niall sighs in exasperation, clutching his beer in his fist to keep it from spilling as the older vampire beside him shifts on the couch. “I don’t play the ‘fought in a war’ card, Mitchell, I play the ‘fought in two wars’ card. And I think that card earns me the right to choose what we do next weekend.”
“And I think you folded those cards the moment you suggested Florida.” Wrinkling his nose, Xander finally enters the living room, and Harry risks a glance up from his phone to eye the dark-tinted liquid that laps at the edge of Xander’s glass with every step. “Why don’t we just go to Disneyland? Or, better yet, why don’t we take a few extra days and go somewhere exciting? I hear Greece is lovely this time of year; I wouldn’t mind trying some Mediterrean food for a week.”
“Florida is just as lovely—”
“That’s a lie, Florida is never lovely.”
“And Adam wants to go to Disney World, too!” Niall finishes triumphantly, taking a large swig of his half-empty beer before wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “So it’s two-to-one!”
“Two-to-two, actually.” Mitch interjects, pursing his lips at the childish grimace that overtakes Niall’s previously cheery expression. “I’m not too fond of alligators, and last time I heard from Sarah, she was in Italy. It’d be nice to have a week with her in Greece.”
Niall rolls his eyes at the sudden tie, turning his gaze past his disappointing friend to his other almost-as-disappointing friend, tone growing firmer. “Alright, then, Harry, it’s up to you. You’re our tie-breaking vote.”
Harry, however, had spent the better part of the last two minutes scrolling through the photos he and Y/N had taken on their date the day before, and doesn’t even glance up from his screen upon registering the utterance of his name. “Hm? The vote on what?”
The frustrated Irishman lobs his bottle of beer at Harry’s head, his pitch powerful enough that it nearly collides with its target a millisecond later. And would have collided, if Harry’s hand hadn’t shot up on a supernatural reflex to capture it perfectly within his grasp.
Keeping his eyes locked on his phone, Harry sighs at his friend’s antics. “Watch it, Ni, I don’t want to scrub beer stains out of my couch—”
“I wouldn’t have to resort to throwing bottles at your thick head if you could get it out of your girlfriend’s arse long enough to participate in our discussion!” The blue-eyed vampire shoots daggers at him, and the lightness of his irises shifts to a dark crimson as Harry’s gaze barely flickers to him. “Oh for fuck’s sake—” Bracing himself against Mitch’s lap, Niall launches over the couch and snatches Harry’s phone from his hands, scrambling back to his seat and stuffing it down his jeans pocket before Harry can react. “You’ll get this back after we finish talking, alright? Now, where do you want to go next weekend? Disney World or Greece?”
Although the urge to tackle Niall and fight for his phone twinges in Harry’s mind, he forces himself to stay seated, settling for just shooting a glare across the couch. He’s certain that Mitch wouldn’t be appreciative of him and Niall biting at each other on top of him, just as certain he is of the fact that attacking Niall won’t exactly make him look mentally stable.
Instead, Harry merely sucks in a deep breath, setting the beer bottle on the coffee table and dragging his jeweled hand through his hair before answering evenly. “First of all, she’s not my girlfriend. And second of all… neither. Y/N and I have plans next weekend.”
A collective groan runs through the room the moment the phrase falls from his lips, and Harry swallows down a smirk at the reaction he receives from his friends. Only Mitch’s face remains free of irritation, and instead sits in a neutral expression that, from his years of friendship, Harry can tell is tinged with concern.
“You have plans with her every weekend.” Xander complains, taking a sip of his Bloody Mary as he sits down next to Adam on the lounge seat, pulling Harry’s attention from the eldest immortal. “How can you sit there and say she’s not your girlfriend when you’ve been ditching us for the last, like, three and a half months to spend time with her?”
That, in all honesty, is a fair question. Harry knows that he’s been spending more and more time with Y/N in the last few weeks at the expense of his friends, and on some level, he does feel bad about it. Except that when he actually thinks about it, he doesn’t feel that bad in the slightest. He has no reason to, given that he spends almost every weekday with his friends, so what’s the harm in saving his weekends for someone else?
In fact, he rather enjoys bracketing off those days just to spend them with her, alone with no one else to bother them, where they can just bask in each other’s company. So no, he really doesn’t feel bad at all.
He has the sudden realization that, on top of having the sweetest, most addicting blood he’s ever had the good fortune of tasting in the last two hundred years, Y/N is just generally fun to be around. Due to this, Harry has unintentionally continued to grow closer and closer to the human girl with every second they spend together. She’s witty, adventurous, and always down to try something new— both in public and in the bedroom. And in the bedroom— a smile unknowingly creeps onto Harry’s face as he recalls the dinner he’d taken her to last month, and what they’d done after.
He also recalls the morning that had followed, in which they had eaten breakfast on his couch together in nothing but their underwear, their bodies tangled against the sofa cushions as Y/N had fed him bites of French toast while he showed her the extensive collection of Polaroid pictures he’d taken the previous night before. He vividly remembers the way she had squirmed at the images of her with her legs spread open for him, of her bare chest heaving and her back arching, and of the wetness dripping down her thighs and staining the sheets. And he especially remembers the way she’d hid her face away in his neck at the snapshot of his hand wrapped around her throat, as well as the picture of her suckling eagerly at his thumb while his array of rings had glinted under the flash of the camera.
It had been so cute watching her eyes brim over with shyness, especially because she had been more than happy to shed her inherent timidness the night prior. He’d teased her about it, of course. How could he not? He’d laid there as she rested between his legs, pointing out every welt and bruise prominent on the photos, and then skimming his icy fingers over her actual body to find them. It had been a very intimate moment, given that they were reflecting on more than just the physical aspects of what they’d shared. It feels like their entire dynamic had shifted slightly, all due to the fact that the roughness and aftercare that had occurred between them were actions that required immense amounts of trust and communication. Harry felt closer to her in a way he hadn’t before, and if the softness behind Y/N’s eyes was any indication, she felt the exact same way.
Their connection felt different now— purer, in a way, now that they’d seen one another in such an exposed fashion, but it still managed to stay within the boundaries Harry was intent on upholding. She’d given him a type of relief he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much, considering he hadn’t indulged in anything of that caliber in years due to certain doubts about his self-control. But somehow, he had managed to keep his supernatural strength and impulses at bay the whole way through, and he’d kept her safe and satisfied, as he promised he would. In return, she’d made him feel more in tune with himself than he had in a while.
With all of those thoughts filtering through the vampire’s mind during their morning cuddle session, he had ducked down and kissed at the tip of her warm nose, sighing blissfully when she had returned the gesture onto the curve of his chin. Then, he’d begun pinching playfully at her sides, not being able to resist the urge to make her smile. He had burst into laughter when she herself had erupted into spontaneous giggles, thrashing against him while squeaking curses between gasps of his name, pleading with him to cut it out or she’d wind up falling off the sofa. It had been a wholesome pastime, up until he’d ended up sucking maple syrup off her fingers with that signature devious twinkle in his half-lidded eyes, and then she herself had ended up licking that same syrup off his abdomen. That had led to him tonguing it off the swell of her breasts, and then she had wound up lapping at something much more interesting than his stomach.
It’s only natural, though, considering that in the bedroom, Y/N is a refreshingly unstoppable force. She matches his every push, pull, and thrust with ease, as if she knows his body by heart. Maybe she does, Harry muses, considering that he undisputedly knows hers from every angle, like the stanzas of his favorite poem. And between all those things, is it really his fault he wants to spend as much time with her as he can? Keeping her happy and content had worked well to sweeten her blood for him thus far, so why should he change his game plan now, when he’s so clearly in the lead?
Last weekend, for example, he and Y/N had driven the scenic route out to Malibu, where they spent the entire day lounging on beach towels and frolicking in the waves. He’d enjoyed seeing her with saltwater hair, her soft skin encrusted with sand and warmed by the sun, almost as much as he’d enjoyed fiddling with the strings of her bikini and coating her body in sunscreen, because “protection from UV rays is a top priority, love. Trust me.” They’d packed a picnic lunch for themselves that consisted of homemade sandwiches, chips and salsa, and fruit skewers, which Y/N had hand-fed to Harry after she’d convinced him to let her bury him in the sand. It had been irritating to shower the grit out from some unsavoury places, but worth it to see the smile on her face and hear her infectious giggles as she molded a sizable pair of sandcastle breasts onto his chest. And doubly worth it after he took her home and fed on her sea-tinged blood.
Yesterday, as well, had been an example of how well Harry is doing with this arrangement the two of them have. He’d picked her up in the early afternoon and taken her to the Museum of Contemporary Art, where they’d spent the rest of the day wandering the exhibits and debating the artistic merits of each piece. Of course, their discussions were less educated and more humour based, as Harry tended to list every painting as reminding him of sex, while Y/N said that every sculpture she saw was a comment on capitalism, but it had made them laugh nonetheless. And while the security guards standing by didn’t seem to think their overheard conversations were amusing— nor how they posed with the paintings, trying to mimic the various expressions depicted in the artwork— Harry could tell that Y/N was entertained. It was obvious in how sugary her blood had been after she’d fallen asleep hours later. And if Harry were a better artist, he would’ve created his own sculpture dedicated to the honey and lavender liquid that he’d become so tied to over these last few months, but it appears his position as a collector is what he was suited for— both for literal artwork and the metaphorical pieces he’d paint on Y/N’s body with his lips.
It’s with all these events in mind that he turns to Xander casually as the man’s question echoes in his head once more. “How can you say she’s not your girlfriend?”
A clear and concise explanation slips from Harry’s tongue without a second thought. “I can say she’s not my girlfriend because it’s true.” Harry slicks a hand through his tousled curls again out of habit, so used to busying his fingers with fiddling on his phone that he has to find some sort of substitute. “Keeping her satisfied keeps her— and her blood— around. And, yes, she’s a sweet girl, and a nice break from you lot—” He nods towards Niall specifically with a jerking motion and a raised brow. “But there…” He just barely hesitates before spitting the words out. “There aren’t any actual feelings there.”
“Oh really?” Niall challenges, his own brow kinking as he shifts on the couch, turning his body completely to face Harry at the expense of Mitch’s personal space. “So all those times I’ve heard the two of you shagging— all those times you’ve called her ‘a dream’ or ‘perfect’— there were no feelings in that?”
Xander wolf whistles at the comment as Adam barks out a laugh, and even Mitch allows himself a reserved smirk at the mention of Harry’s bedroom talk. Harry, on the other hand, straightens his shoulders as a flush works up his spine and onto his cheeks, and instead commands his tone to be as cutting as possible when he forms his reply.
“I don’t think Y/N would be very appreciative to know you’re eavesdropping on us fucking like some type of perverted creep, so you might want to invest in a better pair of plugs before I rip your ears off and solve the problem myself.” Harry threatens lowly, eyes flashing bright red for just a moment before reverting back to their natural emerald hue. “And you can take what I say mid-fuck as a ready-made script, mate, since you have no clue how to sweet-talk a bird into making her cum.”
Niall’s hands reach up to cup his ears protectively due to the other monster’s violent warning, his brows furrowing into a pointed scowl. “Eat shit. It’s not like I have a choice but to listen, given that you two nearly bring the building down while—”
“You know,” Xander chimes in from the lounge seat, his voice taking on an accusatory tone as his eyes narrow at Harry. “I thought a constant supply of blood would mellow you out, but if anything, you’ve grown a bit more irritable. Does this arrangement have an expiration date?”
“Xander…” Mitch begins, caution written into his quiet voice as his eyes flit from Harry to Xander and back again. “That’s not—”
Harry sharpens his voice into a blade as he slashes over Mitch, jaw growing taut as he spits out his retort. “I know a relationship lasting more than one night is a bit of a foreign concept to you, so I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but I really don’t think that’s any of your fucking business.”
“So you fuck the same person for a couple of months, and suddenly you’re a relationship expert?” Xander inquires with a humorless huff, his tone just as bitter as his eyes as he glares at Harry from across the room. “As if you haven’t had commitment issues since the nineteenth century?” Raising his drink to his lips, Xander takes a slow and calculated swig as Adam shifts in discomfort next to him, his eyes meeting Mitch’s with a nervous glance. “At least I can call shit what it is, while you just delude yourself for weeks on end, pretending that anything good can come out of your attachment to an insignificant human—”
“If I were you,” Harry says through gritted teeth, his fingers curling over the edge of his couch to hold himself in place. “I’d choose your next words very carefully, Xanny.”
“Or what? Are you gonna dig into your Fifty Shades chest and spank me?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? What, are you just upset you never got the full treatment?”
A hot flush crawls up Xander’s neck as his jaw clenches. “I never said I wanted it.”
“The jealousy written all over your face suggests otherwise.”
“Alright!” Adam’s voice barks, swiftly slicing through the tension in the air, his eyes glowing crimson as he commands everyone’s attention from the two quarrelling vampires back onto himself. “That’s enough. You’re both being ridiculous. Harry, you can’t be upset with us for trying to understand what you’re doing, mate. We’re just curious, that’s all. But Xander—” The youngest vampire’s snickering is cut off when his name is called sternly. “That doesn’t give you the right to ridicule him for it. Harry knows what he’s doing— he’s a full-grown adult— and he wouldn’t do anything that would put himself, or any of us, into any sort of jeopardy.” With a long sigh, Adam’s gaze slides over the two creatures with a look of parental finality. “Are we good?”
Despite the annoyance still woven around each of Harry’s limbs, he forces himself to nod as he settles back into his couch, inhaling a deep breath through his nose. Beside him, Mitch nudges the back of his hand against Harry’s arm, as if in encouragement, and the motion reminds him just exactly who it is that he’s talking to. These are his friends— of course they have concerns about him. Although they might voice those concerns in unusual ways (like sticking their noses into his intimate life), the meaning behind their words comes from a place of affection.
“Alright.” Adam says again, relief flooding across his face as he turns his attention to the rest of the room. “Now, we still need to decide what we’re doing next weekend. Personally, I think a three day trip to Disney World would be a lot easier than Greece; I say we save that for next month, so we have more time to plan it and actually make the trip worthwhile.”
Xander, still a little irritated from his confrontation with Harry, huffs in response. “That’s all well and good, Adam, except you forgot that I refuse to step foot in that humid swamp-fest. Makes my face break out and my curls frizz up.”
“Jesus Christ, Xander.” Niall groans from the opposite end of the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose like before, nudging his large squared glasses up as he does so. “Can you just get that stick out of your arse long enough to—”
Whatever Niall is about to suggest Xander do seems to disappear from his mind as the Irishman suddenly cuts off his speech, his ears perking up as Harry’s phone begins to chime from his back pocket. Although the sound is muffled from both the cushion and Niall’s trousers, the distinguishable opening motive of “Alexander Hamilton” playing can be heard by everyone, and it only takes one loop of Y/N’s signature ringtone for Harry to launch himself over the couch with his arms outstretched.
“Hey!” Mitch exclaims loudly, pressing himself into the cushions as Harry’s body writhes against his lap in his effort to extract the phone from Niall’s pants. “Jesus, watch your fucking feet! You’re like Gumby!”
Harry, however, is only paying attention to Niall, who is fending off his attempts at snatching the device with one hand while holding the phone over the edge of the couch with the other. “Give it!” He snarls, eyes shading red as he watches an immature simper grow onto Niall’s face, his thumb poising over the answer button. “Don’t you fucking dare—”
“Shh!” Niall hisses at him, but his voice is lit with delight as he clicks on the green phone icon and raises the device to his ear, lowering his voice into a relaxed drawl. “Hi there, you’ve reached the Styles residence! Para español, por favor oprima el número uno. This is Niall speaking, what can I help you with today?”
“Oh—” Even through the tiny speaker, Harry’s highly tuned ears have no trouble picking out the gentle cadence of Y/N’s voice. “Hi, Niall! It’s Y/N.”
“Y/N!” The younger immortal grins at Harry as he dodges his attempt at swiping for the device, setting his palm between Harry’s eyes and shoving him back roughly as he clambers up off the couch. He dashes across the living room to hide behind the lounge seat, sticking out his tongue and wagging it at his very peeved friend. “Lovely to hear your voice, darlin’! How are you doing on this lovely Sunday afternoon?”
“I’m alright, thanks.” Harry hears her response as he pounces off the sofa, barreling across the room to chase after Niall. The shorter man is stealthy, and manages to duck and weave past Harry without a single issue, escaping under his left arm. He scrambles towards the glass stairs, holding back giggles as his opponent circles around the furniture to go after him, unhinged aggravation written all over his handsome features. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m just delightful.” Niall laughs airily, taking a sharp turn away from the staircase to confuse Harry’s impulses, snatching a throw pillow off the nearest couch and aiming it at the brunette’s head. Like the beer bottle, Harry catches it easily, throwing it back at Niall’s stomach with a harder hand. Niall avoids it by a hair. “What can I do for you?”
“Uh, I just wanted to talk to Harry— I had a question for him. But if he’s busy…”
“Yeah, he’s a little indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid.” Niall races into the kitchen, bracing himself against the marble island with that shit-eating grin still on his face, shuffling erratically from side to side to sike out the other creature across from him. “But I’d be happy to take a message from such a gorgeous girl as yourself.”
“Oh, um, that’s very kind of you—”
Harry rounds the corner of the marble island with a growl, snatching his phone from one hand and smacking Niall upside the head with the other. “Bloody prick.” He hisses over the other vampire’s snickers, eyes colder than his touch as he delivers another blow to Niall’s shoulder. “Fucking annoying, is what you are—”
“Niall? Are you there?”
After heaving an exasperated sigh and sending one more glare to his friend, Harry raises his phone to his ear, doing his best to lighten the irritation in his voice. “Sorry, love. Niall just wants to be a bit of a bother today, it seems.” He sucks in a deep breath through his teeth as he turns away from the Irishman, wrapping his free arm around his middle as he leans his lower back against the island, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. He picks at a loose thread on his copper tartan trousers, voice coming out honeyed and delicate, as it always tends to get when he regards her. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He can hear the smile that spreads across Y/N’s face upon hearing from him, and the tone sends a flood of warmth through Harry’s chest. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, sweetheart, never. I’m always free to talk to you.” Harry sends a cautious glimpse towards the living room, knowing that the four vampires sitting in his living room (Niall had slinked his way back to the couch now that his ridiculous charade had come to a close) are hanging onto his every word. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m good, just… I had a question, but if you’re busy—”
“No, not busy at all! I’ve just been lounging around with the boys all morning. S’nothing serious.” Harry replies a bit too excitedly, straightening the hem of his fitted red and black striped t-shirt, which had gotten mussed during his tussle with Niall. “What d’you need?
Over the phone, he can hear Y/N clear her throat delicately, and a picture of her sitting on her couch in her living room plays across the front of his eyes, her thumb wedged between her lips as she chews on her nail, as she always does when she gets nervous. “Uh, well, I was also just relaxing this morning, and I was playing on my phone, and I kinda came upon this cute little bookstore called Verbatim Books. They have a bunch of really cool used books— and records, too, which I think you’d like— and they have this really neat, like, labyrinth layout—” Harry’s lips twitch as Y/N continues to ramble, “—and I’ve been looking for a replacement copy of Wuthering Heights because I dropped mine in the bathtub, remember? And I wanted to get a new copy of Romeo and Juliet, as well—”
“Alright, slow down, pet. Can barely understand you when you’re going a mile a minute.” Harry chuckles boyishly, absentmindedly carding a jeweled hand through the soft curls along the nape of his neck. Just the sound of Y/N’s innocent dialect ringing in his ear manages to somehow soothe his entire body. “You want to go to this bookstore, is that it? Because we can.” He flicks his eyes back over to his friends, who are already rolling their own in response. “Just give me an hour or two to finish up with the guys, and I’ll come pick you up—”
“Well, the thing is…” He pictures Y/N chewing on her thumb some more, timid uncertainty pouring into her usually clear irises. “Verbatim Books is in San Diego.”
“San Diego.” Harry repeats back to her, his free hand settling against the cold marble of the island behind him as he quirks an eyebrow in mild shock. “As in the San Diego that’s a two hour drive away? That San Diego?”
Y/N’s anxious laugh tinkles through the receiver. “Yeah, that San Diego. But if you have plans with your friends, I completely understand. We can go a different day.”
Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth wearingly, Harry glances at the digital clock blinking above his stovetop, reflecting back the time 12:53 P.M. “When do they close?”
“Five, I think?”
The vampire calculates the route to San Diego in his head, his sculpted brows creasing as the time frame appears in his mind. “If we left now, we’d probably get there between three and three-thirty. Would an hour and a half be enough time for you to explore and find what you need?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, you are unbelievable,” Xander mutters from across the condo, but Harry pays him no attention other than raising a blue-lacquered middle finger to flip him off.
“I mean, yeah, I think so, but—”
“Alright, darling, then just give me a few minutes to grab my things and kick everyone out.” Harry says firmly, pushing himself away from the counter to begin searching for his car keys.
“No, Harry, it’s not so important that we have to go today, and I don’t want you to kick your friends out. In fact…” Y/N’s voice becomes thoughtful as a new idea pops into her head, and she hesitates for a moment before suggesting it on the grounds of not wanting to come off as pushy. But in the end, her curiosity bests her. “Why don’t we save Verbatim for another day, and I could just come over and hang out with you and your friends? I bought all the ingredients for this really yummy guacamole recipe I saw on Tasty the other day— we could do, like, an impromptu movie night or something. I’ve been craving one of your margaritas all week.”
“Yeah, Harry!” Niall chimes in as Harry re-enters the living room, obviously ignoring his friend’s earlier threat against eavesdropping. “I could go for some guac and a marg— not blended, though. Tastes like shit that way.”
Harry stares at him in disgust as he snatches his keys from the coffee table. “You’re a fucking twat.”
“What?”
“Oh— not you, babe!” Harry hurries to reassure her as Niall cackles in taunting satisfaction. “Sorry, I was talking to Niall. No, it’s… it’s alright. You want to go to this bookstore, and the boys were on their way out anyways—”
“Were you on your way out?” Adam asks Xander sarcastically, and Xander raises his half-full Bloody Mary as a negative response, making a mockingly sour face in return. “Okay, I thought so. Neither was I.”
“—so it’s all fine. I’ll leave in a few minutes, yeah? Probably be at your place within fifteen?” Harry checks the time on his Rolex as he estimates his arrival. “Does that sound good?”
“I— sure. Yeah, that works.” Y/N says slowly, her voice a little softer than it was a moment before. “I’ll see you when you get here, then.”
“Alright, doll. See you soon.” Harry hangs up his phone with a tap of his finger, sliding the device into his back pocket as he turns to face his friends. “So that was Y/N—”
“Oh, really? I had no clue!” Xander deadpans, rising from the lounge seat and setting his condensation-covered glass on the coffee table, deliberately avoiding the coaster Harry always insists should be used. “See you later, Harry.”
Adam matches the motion, a smirk jolting across his scruffy cheeks as he stands from his seat and claps Harry over the shoulder as he passes by. “Have a nice drive, man. We’ll do a movie night with Y/N another time.”
The promise plants a seed of unease inside Harry’s stomach, but he doesn’t allow it to show on his face, choosing to smile easily at Adam’s innocent comment instead. “Yeah. Another time.”
“Yeah, have a nice drive, H.” Niall mutters as he passes him, his face set in a petty surrendered frown. “A nice, long drive. Preferably off a very short cliff.”
“I would, Ni, but you’d miss me too much.” Harry grins at him jokingly, bumping the vampire’s shoulder with his own until his irritated expression softens into a slightly less irritated smile.
It’s Mitch, however, who makes Harry pause the most as he goes to leave. He halts in the doorway of Harry’s flat with a somber look in his eyes, appraising his younger friend with a curious gaze, which settles into trepidation as he sighs reluctantly. “You okay, H?” He prods gently, the question heavy as it falls from his mouth.
While Adam’s words were lighthearted and Mitch’s are anything but, they still leave the same feeling of uncertainty curling through Harry’s belly. And, like Adam’s words, Harry plasters the same reassuring smile across his features, doing his best to dampen his best friend’s concern. “‘M peachy keen, Mitchell. Don’t need to worry about me.”
“Are you sure?”
Harry only hesitates for a split second before urging himself to respond. “AB positive.”
///
If Y/N doesn’t say something to him, Harry is going to go absolutely insane.
It’s not that they haven’t had silence fall between them before, because they have. They’ve had comfortable silences as they lay in bed at night, Y/N wrapped within Harry’s inked arms as her breaths align with his. They’ve had quiet lapses in conversation during their usual breakfasts as they watch reruns of Y/N’s favorite crime show, or as they’ve wandered up and down the Santa Monica pier, or walked to and from casual dinners on warmer nights. Despite the lack of words flowing between them, Harry would always know what Y/N was thinking as he slipped his light denim jacket over her bare shoulders, capturing her hand within his own once more as he pulled her to the inside of the sidewalk so he could walk closer to the traffic. Silence is nothing new to them, and has even been the host of some of Harry’s favourite moments between the two, given that being able to hold a comfortable pause with someone is such a beautifully rare occurrence. Silence has typically been his friend.
But the silences that linger in their past have never felt quite like this.
From the moment Harry pulled out of Y/N’s apartment building parking lot and into the busy traffic of L.A., the mortal girl had grown quiet, and seemingly immune to Harry’s inquiries about how her day had been since he’d dropped her off at her apartment the night before. Although she first answered him with short snippets— no more than a few words long— by the time he’d peeled them out of the hustle and bustle of the city and onto the highway towards San Diego, even those answers had come to a faltering halt. Instead, Y/N had propped her chin up on her hand, rested her elbow on the ledge of the car door, and turned her pensive gaze at the scenery whizzing by the window, which she watched with a contemplative crease between her brows.
And the infuriating thing is that he’d asked if something was bothering Y/N the moment she’d begun to clam up, and his question had only received a small jerk of her head and a barely audible, “No, H. I’m fine.” No gentle caress of Harry’s hand against her leg or soft squeeze of her palm had granted Harry any more clarity on the subject.
She’s allowed to have secrets, of course. Everyone does. Harry himself certainly has his own fair share locked away in his chest, free from prying eyes and curious minds. But the thing is, she hasn’t held any from him. Any question Harry’s asked, she’s always provided an open and honest answer, even if there’s been a beat of hesitation before the words fall from her pretty lips. But her answer today, of being fine, is so clearly the opposite of that, and her insistence on hiding it means that she doesn’t want Harry to know that she’s upset. Which means— Harry’s hands tighten around the steering wheel as he rounds the curve of the road— that Harry’s part of the reason she’s upset. He’s not sure how, or why, or what he’s done, but he’s done something. Otherwise, Y/N wouldn’t be refusing to give him even a fraction of the warmth she’s usually so willing to gift him.
Another sigh heaves from Harry’s chest as he lets one hand fall from the leather wheel onto his thigh, tracing the pattern of his plaid trousers absently. He wants to ask again, just to see if her stubbornness has dwindled by the slightest degree. And it easily could dwindle with just a breath of suggestion from Harry, but he refuses to do that, no matter how badly he may want to. If Y/N is really mad at him for something, how can he convince her that she should forgive him if he’s using supernatural powers to make her admit what’s wrong. Even more, how can he convince himself that he’s justified in earning her forgiveness?
Harry casts another concerned glance at Y/N before shifting in his seat to extract his phone from his trouser pocket. With a quick swipe of his thumb, he unlocks it with ease, his eyes flicking from the road to the phone and back again as he opens Spotify.
“You’re not supposed to text and drive, y’know.”
The sweet cadence of Y/N’s voice, despite its quiet tone, uplifts the corner of Harry’s lips and mills a gentle chuckle in his chest. “I’m not texting. And I’m an excellent driver, sweetheart.” He glimpses at her from the corner of his eye before returning to his search through his playlists. “Got good reflexes.”
The human girl gives a hum of acknowledgement rather than another retort to his comment, and Harry’s newborn grin quickly melts into a frown as Y/N’s attention returns to the window. Harry finds comfort in another sigh as he selects an album from his library, clicking the shuffle icon in the corner and tucking his phone back in his pocket.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Music begins to roll out from the speakers that Harry installed in his car the year before, producing a hip-hop beat and the voice of Christopher Jackson as George Washington. “You could’ve been anywhere in the world tonight, but you’re here with us in New York City. Are you ready for a cabinet meeting?”
Harry taps his fingers to the beat against the steering wheel as he steals a sly peek at Y/N. Although she hasn’t turned to him again, he can see her eyebrows pricking up with curiosity as to what Harry’s doing. That’s all the encouragement Harry needs.
“The issue on the table: Secretary Hamilton’s plan to assume state debt and establish a national bank. Secretary Jefferson, you have the floor, sir.”
The vampire bites back a triumphant smirk as he turns his gaze back towards the road, feigning a lack of interest in Y/N’s response as he begins to rap along to the Hamilton score. “‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’. We fought for these ideals; we shouldn’t settle for less. These are wise words, enterprising men quote ‘em,” He cocks his head to the side, allowing his grin to fully light up his face as he captures Y/N’s attention within his. “Don’t act surprised, you guys, ‘cause I wrote ‘em. OWWW!”
Although Y/N’s expression stays neutral, he can see a twitch in her cheek at his loud exclamation, and Harry begins to exaggerate his actions even more as he gestures towards her with twinkling emerald eyes. “But Hamilton forgets! His plan would have the government assume state’s debts. Now, place your bets as to who that benefits.” Harry taps his chin symbolically, feigning thought, and then points towards Y/N with dramatized realization. “The very seat of government where Hamilton sits.”
Keeping her own eyes locked on the road ahead of them, Y/N gives a quick yet defiant shake of her head, the corner of her lip raised just a fraction more than it was a moment before. “Not true!”
“Ooh, if the shoe fits, wear it.” Harry’s simper continues to grow with the warming attitude Y/N’s beginning to display, and he shakes his head in return and raises his free hand in a questioning manner as he continues to rap along. “If New York’s in debt, why should Virginia bear it? Uh, our debts are paid, I’m afraid.” He lifts his fingers into his curls, running them through his roots and pretending to fluff the ends poshly for a haughty effect. “Don’t tax the South ‘cause we got it made in the shade.” Tapping a jeweled finger against the dashboard, Harry emphasizes the beats of his next line. “In Virginia, we plant seeds in the ground. We create; you just wanna move our money around. This financial plan is an outrageous demand, and it’s too many pages for any man to understand!” He pretends to flip the endless pages of an imaginary novel, and then snaps his wrist dismissively with a cocky smirk, deftly guiding the car around the curve of the road with his other hand.
“Stand with me in the land of the free, and pray to God we never see Hamilton’s candidacy. Look, when Britain taxed our tea, we got frisky—” Harry rolls his chest to the rhythm of the song, his dimples deepening in his cheeks as he reaches over towards Y/N and pinches at her side playfully, warmth erupting across his veins when she squeals in surprise. “Imagine what gon’ happen when you try to tax our whiskeyyyy.”
“Thank you, Secretary Jefferson.” Washington says through the speaker as Y/N smacks his hand away and purses her lips, appraising Harry with a raised brow. “Secretary Hamilton, your response.”
For a moment, Harry waits with bated breath, thinking that Y/N won’t rise to his challenge. She’s too angry with him, for some reason he can’t fathom, and when she opens her mouth, he assumes she’s just going to tell him off for—
“Thomas, that was a real nice declaration. Welcome to the present, we’re running a real nation. Would you like to join us? Or stay mellow doin’ whatever the hell it is you do in Monticello?” Y/N rolls with the music just as Harry had, his rainbow cardigan slipping from her shoulder as she gestures towards him with ridicule. “If we assume the debts the union gets a new line of credit, a financial diuretic.” She lists off each subject on her fingers, making a sour face at Harry. “How do you not get it? If we’re aggressive and competitive, the union gets a boost—” She slaps her hand down against her thigh passionately, as if his side of the imaginary argument appalls her. “You’d rather give it a sedative?”
Harry barks out a laugh as Y/N’s expression grows more incredulous, mocking him in character as if they were really on a Broadway stage, and not his ‘67 Cadillac driving down a highway in California.
“A civics lesson from a slaver.” She snorts, reaching across the seat and tapping her knuckles against Harry’s head with a light touch. “Hey neighbour, your debts are paid ‘cause you don’t pay for labour.” She mimics his voice, right down to the slight British tinge that had made it into his Virginian twang, throwing up her hands and shaking them in an overexaggerated motion as she quotes him. “‘We plant seeds in the South. We create’— Yeah, keep ranting. We know who’s really doing the planting.”
One of Harry’s hands shoots up towards his mouth and forms a fist, which he presses against his lips in fake astonishment at her dig, joining the background vocalists in howling. “Ooooh!”
The mortal gestures towards him with renewed fervor in her eyes that barely hides the amusement lingering in her irises. “And that’s another thing, Mr. Age of Enlightenment. Don’t lecture me about the war; you didn’t fight in it!”
Harry bites back the jesting retort of “No, but Mitch did.” that nearly rolls from his tongue.
The minimal restraint goes unnoticed by Y/N, who continues her scathing attack on Harry’s alter ego as she points over her shoulder with her thumb. “You think I’m frightened of you, man? We almost died in the trench,” She pinches together her index finger and thumb and brings them to her mouth, and the ease at which the mimicry of a joint comes to her makes Harry wonder if she’s ever actually smoked one. “While you were off getting high with the French! Thomas Jefferson, always hesitant with the President. Reticent— there isn’t a plan he doesn’t jettison. Madison, you’re mad as a hatter, son, take your medicine. Damn, you’re in worse shape than the national debt is in!” Gesturing theatrically, Y/N lowers her voice, keeping her intensity as she points to Harry. “Sitting there useless as two shits. Hey, turn around,” she makes a small twirling motion in the air with her forefinger, and then juts two digits upwards as if to stuff them somewhere, “bend over, I’ll show you where my shoe fits!”
Harry bursts into laughter with reckless abandon, wrapping his free hand around his stomach as he bends over the steering wheel. Reaching towards the stereo dials, he turns down the volume, letting the rest of the track fade to background noise before turning his gaze back to Y/N.
Just like him, the mortal girl is bent over with fits of belly laughter, and the sound echoes around the Cadillac in the sweetest way. Harry would take that over the Grammy-winning soundtrack any day.
“That was good, love. You’re a proper Broadway starlette, aren’t you?” Harry says between giggles, rubbing at his dimpled cheeks before settling his hands back on the steering wheel. “Didn’t realize you’d been holding out on me so much.”
“I wouldn’t call that holding out.” The mortal girl counters, fixing the slouching shoulder of Harry’s cardigan as she rests back into the passenger seat with a satisfied air. “You’ve heard me sing all the parts to ‘Non-Stop’ at once.”
“Well, yes, but…” Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, Harry shoots a cheeky grin at Y/N as he drums his fingers against the leather wheel. “This time you were actually good.”
An indignant scoff falls from Y/N’s mouth as she reaches across the car and smacks his arm. Harry can sense that she puts a lot of her force behind it, but the action feels as forceful as a fly landing on his shoulder, and he fakes a jostling of his body as he pouts. “You can’t hit the driver!”
“Then don���t insult my Broadway-worthy performances!” She remarks, crossing her rainbow-clad arms over her chest with a defiant air. “I think I’m quite talented— ready to take over the role of Hamilton himself, even.”
The creature rubs over his arm in an attempt to feign soreness, but the simper that’s still dimpled across his face gives him away. “I’m not sure if I’d go that far, peach. I think I’d give you a chorus role, at best.” He snickers as Y/N’s mouth drops down into a disgruntled frown. “If anyone would be playing Alexander Hamilton, it would be me.”
“Uh, I don’t fucking think so.” She shakes her head adamantly, her brows drawing together in petty disbelief. “They wouldn’t cast a fucking Red Coat in an American Revolution play.”
Harry wedges his plump lip between his teeth at the tauntingly insulting nickname as his mind flickers to Mitch once more. He’d be amused, Harry thinks, at how this girl seems to so easily mimic the attitude of those who have known Harry for decades.
“I can do a flawless American accent, love.” Harry’s emphasis on the consonants in his response only highlights his native tone of voice. “But that’s not why I’d be picked to be Hamilton over you. It’s because I just fit the role of the main character better.”
Y/N sputters in her seat for a moment, jaw dropping open at the assured statement. “Are you kidding?” She demands, pressing her palms flat on her thighs as she narrows her eyes. “Like, are you actually fucking kidding?”
“Not one bit.” With his voice dropped to a serious tone, Harry keeps his eyes locked on the road as he replies.
“That is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard. I can’t believe you really—” Y/N sucks in a deep breath through her nose, as if she needs to calm and center herself in order to form a coherent answer, and her playful eyes slowly drift shut. “I grew up in a small town, dated the same guy for five years, was left behind while he went to university, where he then cheated on me, and then I moved from the town I’d never left before all the way across the country to Los Angeles, California.” Opening her eyes once more, Y/N turns her determined gaze back to Harry, collapsing her hands in front of her for emphasis. “I literally followed the ‘smalltown girl moves to big city’ trope. There are dozens of LifeTime movies that follow the exact same plot. If that doesn’t say ‘main character,’ I don’t know what does.”
“Mm, I’ll tell you what does.” Harry counters, wagging a ringed finger at the human girl while keeping the rest wrapped securely around the steering wheel. “‘Following the life of a handsome, rich British bachelor with a mysterious past, a great fashion sense, and who happens to be very well endowed.’”
“Oh, please. That says ‘one of two love interests from a Hallmark Christmas movie,’ at best.”
The vampire gasps with faux offense, clutching a hand to his dormant chest as he flickers his eyes to the scoffing girl. “A love interest? You think that’s all I’m entitled to?” He asks, brow furrowed as he clicks his tongue. “Did you miss the part where I said I had a mysterious past and a huge dick? Girls would foam at the mouth for me.”
“No, believe me, I know all about those two things.” Y/N snorts, brushing back a loose strand from her eyes before she rolls them. “Unfortunately for you, those are all key characteristics of a protagonist’s love interest.”
A smug smirk overtakes Harry’s face as he flicks on his turn signal, glancing over his shoulder before passing a car that has been going a bit too slow for his liking. “Huh. Well, I suppose as long as you know that I have those key characteristics— particularly that last one— then I guess I’ll settle. S’the most important of them all, I think.”
He expects his joke to receive a rolling laugh from the human girl, or a noise of acknowledgement at the very least, but all that echoes from her is an empty hum from the back of her throat. When Harry glimpses her way again, he finds that she’s resumed her previous expression of quiet contemplation, brow creased in thought as she chews on her bottom lip. Concern begins to weigh heavy in Harry’s chest once more.
“Speaking of mysteries, though…” She fiddles with her fingers, twisting one of her rings around a digit the same way Harry does when he’s anxious, and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might take pleasure in the fact that she’s picked up one of his mannerisms. “There is something I’ve been wondering. About you, I mean.”
From her closed off body language and sudden shift in mood, Harry knows that this has something to do with the guarded and upset expression she’d had when he’d first picked her up. And, from her lead in, he knows that his assumptions were right: her unsettled demeanor has something to do with him. Although the possibilities leave a feeling of unease in the pit of his belly, Harry’s curiosity and his need to satiate her wariness wins out, and he forces himself to nod and ask, “What is it, dove?”
Y/N opens her mouth, but no question falls out. From the corner of his eye, Harry watches as she closes her mouth again, as if she’s decided against asking whatever it is that she wants to. Harry is just about to encourage her to make her inquiry when a surge of confidence suddenly overtakes her body, and she’s spitting it out in a quick and confused voice.
“Why haven’t you introduced me to your friends?”
Out of all the causes for her guarded demeanor, the topic of his friends had been the farthest from his mind. The question catches Harry so off guard that he, for what feels like the first time, doesn’t have a quick response already formed on the tip of his tongue. Instead, his own mouth falls open in surprise, and he casts a quick look at the girl from the edge of his emerald eyes before turning back to the road in front of him.
He knows the answer to her question, of course; it’s the same answer that he’s given to his friends every time they’ve asked him to invite Y/N to a bar trivia night, or a weekend barbecue, or a club outing. And, truthfully, it’s a question that’s been floating more at the forefront of his mind for the last few weeks as he and Y/N have continued to spend time together, gradually becoming a constant in each other’s lives. However, he didn’t expect it to be at the forefront of her own, as well.
And the answer, really, is quite simple: if Y/N were to spend time with Harry’s gang of friends, there would be a larger possibility of her realizing that there’s something off about all of them. Like how they all have a specific jeweled accessory that they’re never without, or how none of them seem to ever grow weary, or how they all have the same cold skin and slight shadows around their eyes. Surely her keen eyes would catch how, despite the copious amount of shots and number of pints they throw back, none of them seem to become inebriated as easily as normal people would, and they can walk out of a club with their heads held high, free of stumbling or exhaustion. It’s with careful planning and—truthfully— sheer luck that Harry’s managed to present himself with a halfway-human appearance, and he has no doubt that it would be ten times harder to keep up that charade when the chances of her discovering what he is quintuple.
“Uh…” His brow furrows while searching for a valid response to give to the mortal beside him— one that would avoiding hurting her feelings, while still sounding believable. “I-I dunno, really. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”
The quiet “oh,” that slips from Y/N’s downturned lips alerts Harry that, no matter what response she was expecting, that wasn’t the right one. She tightens her cardigan-clad arms around her middle as she nods tightly, keeping her gaze fixed pointedly on the passenger window.
Harry rubs his bottom lip with his ringed index finger— another nervous tic of his— as he tries to remedy the tension that’s been brewing between them since she first stepped into the car. “I mean… this whole thing—” He gestures between the two of them, and although the urge to take her hand makes his fingers twitch, he returns his grasp to the steering wheel instead of allowing himself to try and extract her palm from the fabric it’s hidden beneath. “— has been between just the two of us, so I didn’t really think… it mattered.” He finishes lamely, knowing that his justification is just making things worse. “Does it need—? I mean, did you want—?”
“Well, it’s just…” Y/N lifts and lowers her shoulder in one quick motion, the cardigan once again sliding down to reveal the strap of her tank top underneath and a path of smooth skin that Harry yearns to touch. “It’s kind of like a— I don’t know, a marker? Like if something is going… well…” She spares him a quick glance before returning her gaze to the passing scenery. “You tell your friends. I’ve, um, I’ve told mine about you— like, my friends back home, over the phone— and if they weren’t so far away, I know they’d want to meet you, so I guess I—”
“You’ve told your friends about me?” Harry cuts over her, the shock laden in his voice raising it from its usual low drawl. “What did you tell them? What did they say?”
An anxious flush begins to creep up Y/N’s neck and onto her cheeks, and Harry suspects that it’s not from the warm wool of the cardigan. “I did, yeah. A couple weeks ago. They called and asked how I was doing, if I had made any interesting friends yet. And, well— I’ve pretty much only got you right now, so I kind of had to say something.” She lets out a weak laugh, more air than anything substantial. “I just said that we, um, we were seeing each other, kind of. Like, mostly we’re friends, and we hang out, and—”
“We do more than hang out.” A grimace tugs at Harry’s own lips at her simplified explanation of their complicated relationship, and he risks an elongated look at the girl beside him, trying desperately to read her expression with no success.
“I know that, but— like, we’re not dating, right? It’s not… that was the best explanation I could give. I don’t think there’s a proper label for what we are— not that we need one.” Although Y/N’s laugh holds more substance this time, Harry can still detect an undercurrent of tension in the sound. “Either way, they said they wished they could meet you, so I was just wondering— your friends know about me, obviously. We’ve met a few times quickly, but we’ve never, like, had a proper introduction, you know? I met Xander and Niall in the hallway, and Mitch briefly when we were having a movie night at your place… you talk about Adam a lot, too, and I’ve never even seen him in person.” Turning her head towards Harry with slow hesitation, Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth, her expression so frighteningly open that it makes Harry’s stomach turn. “Do they not… do they not want to meet me?”
Despite the quiet and cautious cadence of Y/N’s voice, and the way it twists around Harry’s unbeating heart like a vice, the question draws a soft laugh from the vampire. Shaking his head adamantly, Harry rakes a hand through his curls before it goes to tap against the steering wheel decisively. “No, sweetheart, that’s not it. They’re actually quite eager to meet you. As of late, I haven’t been able get through five minutes without Niall asking about you. He pries like a gossipy nan and s’been getting on my nerves, honestly.”
Relief spreads through Harry as the admission brings a gentle upturn to the corners of Y/N’s soft lips, but it’s short-lived as another thought pops into her mind, and her cautious tone returns at the realization that—
“So you don’t want to introduce me to them, then.” She states quietly, a clear degree of hurt present in both her tone and her eyes as she twists her body beneath her seatbelt to face him head on. As certain as she is in her assumption, the cautious shadow that sweeps over Harry’s face serves as confirmation of her statement, and it creates a hollow pit in her belly that grows with each passing moment.
Y/N is aware that their relationship— or whatever it is, because they still haven’t put a title on it, and that’s a whole other complication that she can’t dive into right now— is about as far from normal dating as they can get. She’d fucked Harry before she knew his last name, he’d told her to take him deeper before he’d even told her where he was from, and he’d asked her on a date two months after they’d met, mostly out of territorial jealousy; everything that they’ve done has been out of the traditional order. But still, she thinks, picking at her nails as the strain between them becomes palpable in the worst way, there are certain things that you do when you’re interested in someone. Certain milestones that indicate that a relationship is viable and can be sustained for an extended period of time. Meeting someone’s friends usually comes around the two month mark, and by Y/N’s calculations, that means they’re nearly two months overdue.
Which is fine, Y/N tells herself, dropping her gaze from Harry’s stormy sea glass eyes as she chastises the self-pity coursing through her veins. Everything about their relationship has been done out of order; why should meeting Harry’s friends be any different?
Except it is. As much as she hates it, it just is, because it’s not even that she hasn’t met them. It’s that Harry, with his guilt-ridden eyes and darkened demeanor, clearly doesn’t want her to.
“Y/N,” His gentle utterance of her name draws her from her thoughts more than his hand crawling across the leather seat does. It’s not until his cool fingers weave through hers that her fidgeting stops, and she even notices that he’s moved. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet them, I just—”
“It’s fine, Harry.” She insists softly, despite the tightness in her statement making it obvious that it’s very much not fine. She pastes a thin smile onto her lips as she shakes her head, trying to appease him as best she can. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
Harry squirms in the driver’s seat, tightening his hand around the steering wheel as he heaves a sigh through his nose. Y/N might be saying that, but the look in her eyes tells a different story. Does she really think that she can look at Harry with such a wide, wounded expression, and he won’t bend over backwards to make things right? The thought, although scathing, rings true in Harry’s mind as he worries his cheek between his teeth. Does she not know the lengths he’s willing to go to just to make her feel better? For fuck’s sake, he’s making a four hour round trip just to take her to a bookstore in San fucking Diego. Somehow, without Harry noticing it, this human has managed to influence him in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine anyone ever would again. Is he supposed to believe that she’s unaware of that?
Shaking his head tersely at her previous reply, Harry squeezes her fingers in his own, clearing the newly formed lump from his throat. “Yes, I do.” He says firmly, looking at the girl from the corner of his eye. “I can tell where your mind is going, love, and I promise you, it’s not as bad as you think.”
“Oh, yeah?” Despite the hurt still splashed across her irises, there’s an echo of a challenge in her tone. “So you just hide all of your… hook-ups from your friends, then?”
“You know I don’t have hook-ups, Y/N. There’s no one else, there’s just— there’s you. I only have you.” Harry makes his words as plain as can be, without any joke or teasing to downplay the sincerity of what he’s saying— or attempting to say, because his throat feels so tight that he can barely choke out a single syllable. “And that’s why I haven’t introduced you yet. I… I like what we have. This—” He raises their clasped hands, bringing the back of her knuckles to his lips so he can plant a chaste kiss over her soft skin. “I like it. We’ve spent these last few months in a bubble, just you and me, and it’s been…” A smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips, nervous and shy, but tinged with hope. “S’been amazing. And I’m just… not ready to give that up yet. I…I don’t know how to word it, really. I’m not good with, um—” With emotions, he thinks to himself. He’s not good with expressing any of this, but he forces himself to try. “It just feels like what we have is something I want to keep private, because it’s special. It’s kind of like when you were a kid and you got a new toy, yeah? And you didn’t want anyone to touch it because you liked it so much, you wanted to keep it all to yourself. It was something so personal, you didn’t want to share it…”
Harry trails off to look over at Y/N anxiously, and then comes to a sudden realization of the unintentional mistake he’d made by using such a materialistic analogy. His voice comes out rushed and apologetic. “And I’m not saying you’re an object or anything! I just wanted to explain it better and that’s the first thing that popped into my head. Did that...make sense? It probably sounded a bit dense. Or very dense. I’m sorry.” Harry knows he’s babbling aimlessly now, and with a surrendered sigh, he lowers their hands to the seat, still keeping Y/N’s fingers locked tightly with his. “I don’t want to share you, petal. That’s what it comes down to, really— just me being selfish. I like having your attention all to myself.”
Y/N listens attentively to Harry’s explanation as a new wave of blood boils to her cheeks, warming every inch of her body. As much as she still has her doubts— about his reasoning, about their whole arrangement— she wants to believe him. She wants to believe him more than anything in the world.
So do it, she tells herself, grazing her lip between her teeth as her gaze remains glued on Harry’s (ridiculously attractive) side profile. Believe him. He’s never given you reason not to.
“Okay.” She finds herself saying, and she decides that it’s her turn to raise Harry’s knuckles to her lips for a kiss. His skin is cool against her mouth, as always, and she lingers against him before lowering their intertwined hands to her lap. “I get it. I like what we have, too; I don’t want it to change. Plus,” She can’t resist tacking on a dig, glancing at Harry with a sly look. “From the brief interactions we’ve had, I think Niall and I are pretty compatible, so I don’t blame you for wanting to keep us apart.”
Although Harry barks out a laugh, he barely manages to hide the flash of crimson that streaks through his eyes at the suggestion. “Please,” He shakes his head as he strokes his thumb over the back of Y/N’s knuckles in a possessive manner. “I’m not worried about Niall. If I was going to be concerned about you leaving me for any of my friends, it would be Adam.” Y/N shoots him a curious look, and his dimples pop out of his cheeks as he elaborates. “Good sense of humour, attractive, and arguably the most sane out of all of us, present company included. But he can’t perform in bed like I can, so I think that’s a solid deterring factor. And I doubt he’d drop everything to drive you to a bookstore you found out about through— where did you say you heard about this place again?”
“Uh,” Y/N drops her gaze from Harry, turning her head straight back to the road as she shifts in her seat. “I, um, I saw it on TikTok.”
The vampire snorts obnoxiously, pulling his hand from Y/N’s to rake his fingers through his rouge curls. “Jesus Christ, of course you did.”
Y/N matches his scoffing with ease, crossing her arms over her chest with a defensive air. “Don’t give me that tone! This is exactly why I didn’t tell you! You know, you can actually find a lot of valuable information on there—”
“Yeah, because filming yourself doing the Renegade is a really great use of your time.”
“I didn’t say— wait—” The mortal girl quirks an eyebrow as she regards him with disbelieving eyes. “How do you know about the Renegade?”
“There’s a reason we blocked the app from Niall’s phone.”
///
Much to Harry’s relief, the drive back to Los Angeles begins a lot smoother than the drive to San Diego had.
The bookshop had been extremely similar to the antique store they’d been to a while back— it had the same rustic, messy aesthetic that gives a cozy, homey vibe, and it had sprouted a seed of nostalgia in Harry’s chest. They’d wandered around for a bit with their fingers intertwined, rarely breaking away from each other for too long for the sake of maintaining their buddy system. The pair had filtered through the extensive array of titles and knickknacks, walking under archways built out of novels and winding through tall shelves full of vintage collectibles. Y/N had entertained herself with grazing over the spines of all the different books they’d passed, her eyes glazed with a form of childlike wonder he’d grown so fond of seeing. And while Y/N had been losing herself in all the old treasures the shop had to offer, Harry had found himself losing his thoughts to her dreamy smile instead.
Satisfied with her purchases of Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet, as well as a used copy of Jane Eyre (“Look, Harry, it has little notes in it from the previous owner! Isn’t that neat?”), Y/N had settled into the passenger seat with ease, a light smile on her face as she buckled her seatbelt. Harry’s own mood is considerably brighter than it had been on the previous drive, but his shift in energy had only partially been caused by his purchase of a new Simon and Garfunkel album. Truthfully, Harry thinks, as he watches Y/N thumb through her new second-hand annotated book (the irony of her affinity for literature written from Harry’s original time period is not lost to him), his attitude is merely a mirror of the girl next to him. It’s much more difficult to be in a good mood when she’s in a sour one, but on the flip side, it’s nearly impossible to be grumpy when she’s showing such a sunny disposition.
Her inquiries from their drive to the bookstore are worrying him, of course. He knows that he’ll have to introduce her to his friends eventually, especially if he wants to keep this agreement between the two of them up. He also knows that it’ll be ten times harder to do so with Niall running his mouth, Xander making sly digs, and Mitch and Adam watching him with parental-like concern. Perhaps it would be easier to just call this all off right now, before things continue to progress. It would certainly be better for Y/N, he’s sure of it. Y/N, who gets excited over annotations in her books. Y/N, who sings along off-key to the radio even when she doesn’t know all the words. Y/N, who innocently presses tender kisses to his throat in a manner that draws an obsolete warmth from every limb of his undead body, and who smiles at his stupid inappropriate jokes and returns them with her own, and who fits into his arms like she was made for the sole purpose of filling them perfectly.
Y/N, who is reaching between the two of them, intertwining their fingers together with a practiced motion, and—
“Thank you for taking me to the bookstore.” The human girl murmurs, her lips grazing the back of Harry’s knuckles as she speaks. “I really do appreciate it, although I’m sorry I pulled you away from your friends.”
Harry’s woes melt away as she pecks across his icy skin, and a grin begins to jolt his lips as he brings her hand to his own mouth. “Don’t be sorry.” He smears a kiss to the back before dropping their tangled palms to the seat between them, his thumb caressing over her velvety flesh. “You’re much better company than the four of them. And much prettier.”
“You’re such a flirt.” Y/N rolls her eyes at the comment, but leans further towards Harry in her seat. “And a liar. We both know that Mitch is prettier.”
“Mitch?” Harry’s emerald eyes widen in appalled surprise, the corner of his lips twitching once more in amusement. “Out of all of my friends, you think Mitch is the prettiest? What about Xander? He’s quite the vain one, don’t you think?”
Y/N shrugs one shoulder in a light manner. “I like Mitch’s hair. The long style works for him.”
“Ah, it’s the hair. That makes sense; it’s always the hair.” Nodding sagely, Harry allows his lips to pull into a full grin. “So you like it long, hm? Suppose I should keep growing mine out, then?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sherlock.” Y/N shoots him a smirk that’s much more mischievous than his own. “I said the long hair worked for him, not you. Who’s the vain one now?”
Despite the jesting tone of her voice, jealousy twinges in the back of Harry’s mind as his eyes darken from emerald to forest green. He forces his lips to stay upturned as he offers a response that’s only half a joke. “Ouch, Watson. S’not very nice, especially considering how I’ve driven you to San Diego and back today. I think I deserve a bit of praise, don’t you? Instead of you mocking me—”
“I’m not mocking!” Y/N’s protest is muffled around the entertainment in her voice, the rainbow cardigan once again slipping from her shoulder as she shakes with suppressed laughter. “Making one little comment isn’t mocking! It would be mocking you if I acted like you do when you get in front of a mirror— you make this one specific face, like you’re trying to pull a Blue Steel, and—”
“Alright, that’s enough.” Harry huffs as he yanks his hand away from Y/N’s, swiping it through his loose ringlet before clamping it back around the steering wheel. “Ungrateful little wench, aren’t you? I have half a mind to pull over right now and—”
“A wench? I’m a wench?” Y/N’s laughter grows louder, filling the entire Cadillac with the unabashed sound that, despite his act, warms the pit of Harry’s stomach. “Alright then, Merlin. What, are you going to put me to work in a labour house? Is that what a wench does these days?”
“First of all,” Harry quips, giving her a flat glimpse, “I’d be Arthur, not Merlin. Main character complex, remember?”
Y/N rolls her eyes grandly, proceeding to lower her head in a dramatic bow. “My apologies, sire. How could I forget?”
“And second of all,” the vampire states slightly louder, talking over her sarcasm, “no, because apparently, all wenches do nowadays is just make fun of the men who volunteer to spend four hours in a car with them without so much as a ‘thank you.’”
The mortal girl’s upturned mouth drops open in amused disbelief. “What—? I said thank you! Literally three minutes ago!”
“Did you? I don’t recall.” Harry sighs airily as he smoothly guides the car around a bend in the road. “All I remember is you saying you think Mitch is sexier than I am.”
Snorting loudly, Y/N crosses her arms over her middle as she gives a small shake of her head. “Alright, I think that’s a bit of a stretch. I just said he has nice hair. And, while we’re on the topic—”
“Watch it.”
“— his mustache is cool, too. It suits him.”
“You know, I could grow a mustache if I wanted to.” Harry can’t help the pout that plumps his lips, nor can he help the whine that creeps into his voice when Y/N giggles at the sight. “It’s true! I could! I just choose not to. And, really, you should be thanking me for it, because it saves you from getting a carpet burn between your thighs.”
“So I should be thanking you for driving me today, for not growing facial hair…” Y/N ticks off the items on her fingers with a ridiculing gleam dancing through her eyes. “Anything else we need to add to the list?”
Harry tuts as he thinks, pursing his lips in consideration before letting out a sharp exhale as a sly smile carves his dimples into place. “That cardigan you’re wearing. You could thank me for letting you borrow it— although ‘stealing’ might be a more accurate term.”
A miffed expression rises to Y/N’s face just as a flush does. “I didn’t steal it! I’ve just been borrowing it, like you said.”
“Mmm. Alright.” Harry hums in the back of his throat as he glances at the girl beside him, kinking a brow expectantly. “And when can I expect it back?”
“Fairly soon, actually. It—” Y/N’s cheeks boil with more heat as she drops her attention to her lap, clearing her throat gently before continuing. “It, um, it doesn’t really smell like you anymore, so…”
Silence falls between the two as Y/N’s voice drifts off, leaving behind only the sound of Fleetwood Mac gently drifting through Harry’s speakers to cut through the thickening tension that fills the vehicle. It’s only the faint sound of Y/N’s own shallow breaths that reminds Harry that he needs to fake his own, and he sucks in a deep gasp of air, his throat burning as her thick honey and lavender scent settles on the back of his tongue.
“Well,” He begins cautiously, gauging her reaction from the corner of his eye while keeping most of his gaze glued to the road. “You can always steal it again after I get it back, yeah? It’ll be good as new.”
Harry nearly heaves an audible sigh of relief when he sees the edge of Y/N’s mouth twitch. “Not steal. Borrow.” She corrects, her voice as tentative as his.
The heavy atmosphere in the car begins to dissipate as Harry rolls his eyes with fondness. “Agree to disagree, dove.”
Y/N lets out a sound of dissent as she rubs her palms down her legs, drumming her fingertips against her knees with finality. “Thank you for letting me borrow it, H. And thank you for not growing a mustache.” She giggles out, throwing a coy smile his way before her expression grows more gentle. “And thank you for driving me today, although I’ve already said it. I’ll have to think of a way to repay you.”
“Oh, I could think of a few.” Harry says with a suggestive smirk, thrumming his ringed fingers against the steering wheel. “How do you feel about spending the night? We could order dinner from that Thai place you like, take a nice bath, and I could spend a few hours between your thighs while you make those sweet little noises I like so much. Sounds relaxing, doesn’t it?”
“It does.” Y/N agrees, keeping her voice as light as she possibly can at the mention of Harry’s skilled tongue working her over. “But that doesn’t seem like much of a thank you on my behalf. Shouldn’t I be the one giving you something?”
Harry casts a look at the mortal girl with a raised brow. “Shouldn’t I get to choose my own reward?”
The fact that he sees the action of eating her out as a reward makes Y/N’s tummy froth. She really doesn’t know how she got so lucky, truly. “You should, but I can think of something better.”
The creature licks his lips once at the promise of something more enjoyable than her taste on his tongue. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a blowie in the bath.”
“Actually…” Y/N tugs her bottom lip between her teeth as she casts Harry a sideways look through her lashes, twisting her body beneath her seatbelt to angle towards him. “I was thinking of something more immediate.”
The question of what she means by that dies before it can make its way out of Harry’s mouth, stopped in its tracks the moment Y/N’s fingers travel across the leather seat between them. She rests her palm on his thigh for a moment before beginning to massage the muscle beneath his trousers, her delicate fingertips just brushing over his inseam as her hand works its way higher.
A choked groan is all Harry can manage when her touch travels over his suddenly-growing bulge, and it takes all of his focus not to veer the car off the road. “Y/N,” He says, his accent low and thick with warning. “‘M driving, sweetheart.”
“I know.” Her voice thrums darker than normal as her palm presses flat against him, moving in a slow circle over the plaid fabric with insistence. “I didn’t ask you to stop, did I? You can keep driving.”
The laugh that rolls from Harry’s lips is breathless and strained. “Yeah, except I can’t when you’re— fuck—” Y/N squeezes along his hardening shaft, and Harry tightens his hands around the steering wheel with nearly enough force to bend it. “‘M gonna crash this bloody car if you keep doing that.”
“No, you won’t.” The mortal girl smiles sweetly at him as her nimble fingers pop the button of his tartan slacks, grasping his zipper and tugging it down so slowly that it’s almost painful. “You can multitask, can’t you?”
“Not like— God—” Clenching his jaw, Harry casts a pained glance at Y/N, only allowing himself a moment of looking before forcing his attention back to the road. What he sees in that moment, however, is a mischievous glint in her eyes that’s hidden beneath set determination, and the combination would send a shiver down his spine even without her soft hand creeping beneath his trousers. “This doesn’t feel like a reward, pet. Feels like torture.”
Y/N shrugs lightly, continuing to rock against Harry over his boxers as her free hand reaches for her seat belt and clicks the release button. “Maybe it is. Maybe I want to see if you can stay just as focused as I did when you made me cum on that ladder. Remember? Right in the middle of that antique mall?”
Harry watches as her seat belt retracts, a flash of worry striking through his body. Before he can voice his concern for her safety, her hand is dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Y/N,” He strains to get her name past his lips, his abdomen tightening as she grips him snuggly, and her palm feels like agony and salvation all at once. “If you make me cum in my pants with an hour left in our drive, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Or maybe…” Shifting across the seat, Y/N leans into Harry’s ear, her breath hot against his cool skin as she pumps him slowly and ignores the comment he’d moaned. “Maybe I just feel the way you did that day. Maybe I want to tease you a bit.” She uses the precum that’s begun to steadily leak from his tip as lubricant, twisting her hand around his length to elicit a hiss from Harry’s clenched jaw. She takes the shell of his ear between her teeth, nibbling at it just to feel him writhe in response. “What was it you said to me, H? When you slid your fingers inside me in that little music room?”
Harry offers no response other than the short puff of air that leaves his nostrils as he clenches the wheel harder beneath his palms. He keeps his eyes locked on the road, knowing that if he looks down and sees Y/N working him beneath his slacks, he won’t be able to restrain himself from yanking the car to the side of the road and throwing her into the backseat. And however wonderful that sounds— because it does sound incredibly wonderful, especially when Y/N swipes her thumb teasingly over his bubbling tip— he can’t let himself give into her.
Y/N, however, doesn’t seem to accept defeat so easily, and begins to drift her lips down Harry’s jaw and neck. While the area had previously been a sensitive spot for Harry in the worst way, he’s repeatedly come to find that the sensitivity he feels when Y/N caresses him there to be an entirely new and pleasant sensation.
“You said you wanted to have fun, remember?” She licks over the curve of his throat, her own breathing growing heavy when she feels Harry’s Adam’s apple bob beneath her tongue. “Now it’s my turn, don’t you think?”
“Thought—” Harry swallows thickly again, his hips unconsciously thrusting up slightly into Y/N’s hot palm. “Thought this was about thanking me, wasn’t it? Not getting even.”
Y/N pulls away from his skin with a coquettish look in her wide eyes, her brows raised and lips parted into a small pout. “Are you saying that my mouth isn’t enough of a thank you?”
“Your—? Oh, fucking hell—” Harry nearly swerves the car into the other lane of traffic when Y/N frees his length from his trousers, the cool temperature of the air-conditioned car sending a shudder down his spine. The sensation only increases when Y/N dips her head down and extends her tongue to tease his cherry tip with the textured surface. “Y/N.”
“That’s what I thought.” The human girl says smugly, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips even when she wraps her mouth fully around his head and sucks gently, just enough to draw a breathless whimper from the man above her.
With one hand still grasped tight around the steering wheel, Harry threads his other into Y/N’s hair, roughly tangling his fingers between her silky locks. He doesn’t guide her head as he usually does, but the idea of being able to move her if he wants allows him to feel a semblance of control.
Y/N clenches her thighs together as she bobs her head down further, heat pooling inside her belly as she feels Harry tug on her hair with the lightest pressure. She trails the tip of her tongue down Harry’s expanse, following the prominent vein that pulses underneath her touch. “Do you still want me to stop, baby?” She asks softly, looking up at him through her lashes as she pumps him in a slow motion, batting her lashes sultrily.
“No.” Harry whines the word as he presses his head back into the seat rest, his neck flexing as he forces his gaze to stay pinned on the road. “No, love, just— fuck, just keep going.” He grits his teeth when he feels her nose smudge along one of his fern tattoos, his next phrase coming out as a barely contained growl. “You’re down there already, so you might as well.”
Tucking her loose hair behind her ears, Y/N takes Harry back into her mouth, pushing herself further and further down his cock at a pace that’s nearly agonizing. Harry twists his hand within her roots to create a makeshift ponytail, holding the locks out of her face so that she can focus better on the task at hand. He feels the mortal girl smile around his length, her tender fingertips drawing a little heart along his exposed pelvis as a cheeky thank you.
As the highway straightens out, Harry risks lifting his hand from the steering wheel for a quick moment, and his deft fingers quickly find the volume button of the stereo to lower it to a quiet lull. He wants to hear every sound of Y/N’s throat opening up for him, and the muted noises she releases at the taste of him in her mouth.
Of course, all of that is nearly overpowered by his own sounds of pleasure, and he struggles to keep himself quiet as he grips the wheel with renewed force. “Fuck, doll, look at you...I just…Christ.” The last word comes out as an elongated groan, his eyelids fluttering as her tongue massages down his extent in slow and even strokes. “Just like that, darling. God, you’re so good. Such a pretty mouth with such a filthy fucking tongue, hm?”
Harry throws a haphazard glance over his shoulder as another vehicle passes them, and a flash of territorial protection runs through him at the possibility of someone looking into the car and seeing Y/N touching him like this. The sight of her acting like such a bold little minx is for his eyes only, and that thought combined with her slow, blissful motions pushes him to inch his foot towards the gas. Harry wants to put a bit of distance between them and the other traffic on the highway, which will insert some much needed privacy into the situation.
His acceleration, however, is interrupted by a particularly rough bump in the road, and his body jerks in his seat as they drive over it. He hears the sound of Y/N gagging before he registers the searing sensation of his cock hitting the back of her throat, and he risks a peek downwards to see Y/N’s watery eyes blinking up at him in disorientation.
“Baby—” He tugs her head up from his lap, concern mingling with the pleasure in his voice as he evaluates her well-being. Her expression is hazy from her ministrations, and she blinks tears from her irises, keeping one hand wrapped firmly around his length as the other wipes away the wetness at the corner of her eye. “‘M sorry.” Harry gulps thickly as he smooths his thumb over Y/N’s scalp, trying to soothe any discomfort he may have caused. “Are you alright?”
Y/N nods in a jerking motion as her mood darkens lustfully, and she swipes her thumb over the glistening tip of his cock before answering. “I’m fine, H. Just caught off guard. Don’t worry.” The rasp in her voice is evidence of her actions, and Harry hates how the sound goes straight to his throbbing length in her hand. Undeterred by the harsh thrust that had choked her a few moments earlier, Y/N leans down once more to smear more sloppy kisses to the head of his prick, rubbing the slit against her bottom lip to elicit a cracked gasp from Harry’s lungs. “Just wanna make you feel good.”
“You—You are. God, you fucking are.” The praise falls easily from Harry’s raspberry lips as her mouth returns to its previous distraction, fully suckling on the leaking head as her hand continues to work him in a practiced manner. “Feels like a dream, sweetheart, t-the way you take me down your throat like that.”
The mortal girl keens at the validation, and uses it as fuel to push herself further down his shaft again. She makes sure that she’s mindful of how deep she’s taking him, keeping her hand wrapped firmly around the base as a buffer in case they hit any more rough patches of road. With that worry eased, she allows herself to focus on massaging his pulsing prick with her tongue, alternating movements with strong sucks to his sensitive tip. She twists her wrist at a rising pace, matching it to the tempo she’s established with her mouth, working him over messily and swimming in the strangled noises that pour out above her.
Y/N sniffles lightly, talking over Harry’s thick cock to the best of her ability, her voice garbled and raw. “You’re so fucking big, Harry. And so pretty, too.” She moves her hand lower down his expanse, carefully cupping his heavy balls and fondling them between her fingers, preening at the fractured grunt that filters from her lover’s taut throat. “And so full.”
“Please, baby…” The immortal’s quiet plea sends electricity coursing through every cell in her body, his grip on her hair tightening to the point where blots of color speckle her foggy vision. “Don’t stop. Just please don’t fucking stop.”
“I want it.” She whispers around him, the warm breath of her words puffing down his prickling skin and sending goosebumps across his clammy thighs. “I want you to fill my mouth, Daddy. Want every last drop.”
The creature sucks in a rattling breath through the cracks of his teeth, waves of pleasure erupting along his cheeks and down the knobs of his spine, all because of how erotic her delicate voice sounds as it expresses such explicit confessions. “You’re fucking ruining me, dove.”
The girl tugs at Harry’s balls gently, rolling them around her palm again as she gives a particularly harsh suck. He can’t stop the loud whine that tumbles down his tongue in response, his hips bucking upwards a tad in unrestrained need. “I want you to give it to me, H. Please? Want you so bad.”
Harry throws his head further back against the headrest of his seat, his jaw dropping open in a silent moan as his heavy eyelids lull over his rolling irises, tears blearing his vision until he can barely make out the road in front of him. “Gonna—Gonna give it to you, pet. Gonna give you every last bit, all for my sweet girl.”
Y/N hones her blurred sight above her onto Harry’s face, more warmth flooding the area between her thighs. He looks gorgeous as ever, with his prominent features slack in ecstasy, his clavicle cutting into the sweaty skin visible along the collar of his fitted tee, and with his unusually dark eyes framed by his long lashes. His chest is heaving wildly as he tries to keep his composure, his cross necklace glimmering in the sun with every rapid rise of his defined muscles. His sharp jaw is wound taut, the tendon along the structure ticking as he gazes at her drunkenly from above his sculpted cheekbones. His chestnut curls as matted along his temple and over the nape of his neck due to the heat of the moment, his thick brows are knitted together in pleasurable gripe, and his teeth-swollen lips are parted in aroused wonder at how skillfully she’s taking every last inch of him without any hesitation whatsoever.
Y/N watches him intensely, drinking up every twitch of his expression and every soft groan he tries to stifle, her tongue lapping at him with more excitement than before. Harry locks eyes with her through his foggy haze, the corners of his flushed lips jolting upwards into a cocky open-mouthed smirk when he sees just how fucked he’s got her, despite the fact that he’s barely lifted a finger through the entire process. He slowly tongues over his chapped lips, glimpsing back up towards the highway for a split second to make sure he’s avoiding any other oncoming cars. He then returns his attention to the human, giving her head a playful tug and feeling the tip of his cock nudge along the roof of his mouth, resulting in a low hiss streaming past his condescending simper. “Why don’t you take a picture, princess? It’ll last you longer.”
Y/N gives a quick squeeze to his balls, sly satisfaction weaving its way into her chest when she feels him jerk in response, a whined curse of, “Fuck me.” slipping through his defenses. “Maybe you should watch your tone while I’m down here.”
Harry raises an eyebrow at her challengingly, his palm grasping the back of her head with more intent and forcing her down, her nose smearing over his tummy as he hits the back of her throat deeper than before. He holds her there for a second, reveling in the way she constricts around him as soft gagging sounds bounce off the walls of his Cadillac.
After a few seconds, he pulls her back up his cock to a more reasonable length, humming smugly as she shudders and coughs dryly, her eyes twinkling submissively. His voice comes out strained, but its dark and accented tenor holds its usual unyielding authority, as well as arrogant chiding. “And maybe you should learn not to talk back to me. Guess I’ll have to pull the paddle back out sooner than expected, huh?”
A shiver coils down Y/N’s spine at the reference to that night. It happened a few weeks ago, but the memory is fresh in her mind as if it’s only been hours. It’s nearly impossible to forget, given everything Harry had put her through, and she often finds herself thinking back on it whenever she needs some relief and doesn’t have his company as help.
The human murmurs her next sentence shyly, her watery eyes regarding him with a certain type of wistfulness that makes his balls ache. “Maybe you should.”
Harry lets out an airy chuckle at her eagerness, which slowly molds into a gravelly moan when she returns to dipping her head with faster, sloppier strokes. A few strands of hair have escaped the ponytail in his palm, and he takes great care in tucking them back behind her ears with his index finger, which then trails across her cheek affectionately. “Maybe I will. But right now, you just worry about finishing me off. Then, we’ll see if I’m feeling up to it some other time— if I feel like you deserve it.”
Y/N nods her head obediently. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“‘Course, darling. Anything for my proper little slut. Especially when she’s taking me down her throat like such a good fucking girl.”
Y/N’s only reply is a broken mewl, and she allows herself to become immersed back into the action of giving Harry the orgasm she so desperately wants to deliver.
She can taste precum as it dribbles onto her tongue, a precursor to Harry’s impending climax, and the flavour makes her center throb. She has half a mind to remove him from her mouth and beg him to pull over so that she can properly ride him, but she doesn’t doubt that doing so would add hours onto their travel time. There’ll be time for all that once they’re back at his place, she reminds herself, pulling off of him just enough to lick her lips before lowering herself again. Right now, there’s just one thing she wants above all else, and if the sounds Harry is making are any indication, she’s fairly close to getting it.
“So fucking close, angel.” Harry pants, his abdomen contracting over and over again as he struggles to keep the car moving at a steady and consistent pace. “Gonna make me cum, aren’t you? Want Daddy to pump that pretty mouth full?”
Y/N hums around Harry as he yanks on her hair again, more for the sensation than to actually guide her. Still, she pulls up from his prick with a pop, looking up at him with doe-like eyes as she replies. “Mhmm.” She hums again, giving him a particularly hard pump and delighting in the groan that rolls from his tongue. “Wanna taste you.”
“You— fuck, darling, that’s fucking it.” Harry’s words echo from his throat in a ragged gasp as he twists his jeweled fingers around her locks once more, straining his head back against the seat to keep himself from looking down again as she retakes him down her throat. “I’m gonna fucking— Oh my God, baby, please—”
Y/N digs the nails of her free hand into Harry’s pelvis, scraping over his plant tattoos as she feels his toned tummy tighten beneath her touch. It only takes one more squeeze of her hand around his balls and one last determined suckle to draw his orgasm from him, and she lifts herself until just the head of his cock is in her mouth as he spills onto her tongue. Her own eyes flutter shut as she whines at the salty taste, swallowing it down without a second thought. She keeps her lips locked around him, wanting to capture every aftershock that spurts into her mouth, feeling ropes of cum splatter across her taste buds as Harry squirms against his seat, whining in encouragement.
She continues to milk him for everything he’s worth, repeatedly prodding the twitching vein protruding along his prick and scraping his sputtering head against the inside of her cheek, wanting to urge every last drop out of him. She only pulls away when the young man whimpers from above, shakily tugging on her hair to alert her that he’s crossing into more sensitive territory.
“Fucking shit…” He murmurs weakly, his breathing erratic as he eases off the gas pedal to reduce the car to a slower pace, rather than keeping the accelerated speed he’d fallen into as he came. He combs his fingers through Y/N’s mussed locks as a faint, exhausted chuckle rolls from his lips, his thumb ducking down to collect a bit of the mess that had seeped out of the corner of her mouth. He pushes the digit past her swollen, colored lips, his breath catching as he watches her clean it off without a single hitch. “God, minx, I’m gonna need a little warning the next time you decide to do that. Thought I was gonna crash the car a few times.”
“You wouldn’t have.” Y/N reassures him quietly, looking up at him with a fond smile before turning her attention to his softening prick. She licks up one stray bead of cum from his tip, delighting in the strangled sound the action draws from Harry. She then proceeds to carefully tuck him back inside his trousers, buttoning and zipping them up with ease. She even takes care to tuck his red and black striped shirt back inside the waistband, but only after she presses a gentle kiss to his still-tensed abdomen, nuzzling her nose across his happy trail and feeling butterflies flutter in her belly when he lets out an appreciative mewl.
Harry inhales deeply as he watches her sit up from the corner of his eye, his hand slipping from her hair to his own to fix the disheveled curls. “No, I suppose not. I have precious cargo. Speaking of—” He reaches over Y/N’s body, and with one hand still on the wheel, fumbles to fasten her seatbelt back across her chest and lap. “Y’gotta keep this on if you ever do that again, alright? S’not safe to have it off for so long.”
A fond smile tugs at Y/N’s lips as Harry sews his fingers over her thigh, squeezing lightly over her jeans before massaging the muscle. She’s noticed that he’s grown more and more touchy and protective each time they’re intimate with each other, and it would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy it. “Yes, sir.”
Harry’s fingertips stutter over Y/N’s leg for just a moment, and the twitch of his sensitive cock beneath his slacks nearly causes Harry to swerve the car again. “Fuck, don’t say that right now.” He mumbles brokenly, his voice much more raw than he’d like it to be. “Don’t think my poor dick can handle it.”
Laughter bursts from Y/N’s chests, and the contagious sound draws a giggle from Harry’s own body as she settles her fingers over his, twisting them together in an instinctive motion. “Too sensitive?” She teases, lulling her head back against her seat rest while keeping her eyes focused on him, sweetening her voice down into a babying drawl. “You poor thing.”
A bright pink blush sears itself onto Harry’s cheeks as he clears his throat, tightening his hand around the wheel again to ground himself. “Yeah. I only really like overstimulation when I’m the one administering it, not the one receiving it. And you—” He squeezes her thigh as punctuation. “—are much too stimulating, especially when you’re looking at me like that.”
Another honeyed giggle falls from Y/N’s strawberry lips, and the corners of her eyes crinkle as her smile continues to grow. “I like seeing you like this.” She says decisively, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she reaches over and affectionately twirls one of his loose ringlets around her finger. “All flustered. It’s cute.”
“Are you seriously calling me cute after deep-throating me while I drive?” Harry asks incredulously, a snort echoing from his throat as he shifts around in his seat. He’s already uncomfortable in his trousers again, both from the wetness she’d left on him and the way her words are making him stiffen again.
“Mm.” Y/N thrums in agreement as her free hand reaches for the stereo, dialing up the volume again so the sounds of The Kinks can be heard without strain. “I think you’re cute— very cute, actually. Even moreso when you get all blushy. Am I not allowed to say that?”
Another layer of warmth soaks itself across Harry’s small ears and stinging nose, and he tries to play off his childish reaction with a casual scoff. He can’t deny the way the compliment makes him feel, though. It’s different from the praise she usually gives him, which tends to be sexual and in the heat of the moment. But this is much more intimate in such a sweet and tender manner, and he hasn’t received that type of innocent attention from someone in much too long. He likes it, he decides. Especially when it comes from Y/N.
She makes him weak, and though he’d normally seethe at the idea of anyone ever making him weak again, he comes to find that the softness she coaxes from him is something so different from the mainstream definition of that dangerous word. She makes him weak, yes, but not in a destructive sense. This girl— this simple mortal girl with bones made of glass and skin of fine velvet— makes him weak in the knees, and in the pit of his stomach, and in the cement walls he’d built around his phantom heart. She makes him vulnerable in new places that have been entirely foreign to him for the last twenty decades, if the glowing warmth surging through him is any indication. And for the first time in a while, he’s beginning to think that maybe— just maybe— that’s not such a terrible thing.
The vampire comes to the sudden epiphany that being weak for someone is unorthodox to him because it’s a human trait. Allowing yourself to form a deeper connection with someone— with a person completely the opposite of what you are— requires compassion and understanding. It requires willingness and empathy, as well as trust and pure intentions. It requires humanity. And that’s what Y/N is doing, Harry realizes. She’s taking that last wilted shred of humanity he possesses and is urging him to use it. Even though it’s not intentional on her behalf, and even though she has no idea of just how small that fragment of humanity is, it’s somehow miraculously working; just her being the caring soul she’s always been seems to be enough to awaken that part of him.
Despite the fact that the immortal would normally laugh at such a stupidly cringey and cliche concept, there’s no denying that at this point in their little LifeTime movie crossover, it’s true. That’s why it feels so utterly weird— she’s bringing out a side of himself he hasn’t shown in literal centuries. She makes him feel the one sensation he didn’t think was possible for him to ever experience again: She makes him feel alive.
Oh.
…Oh.
Harry snaps himself out of his inner turmoil, sucking in a shaky breath and exhaling slowly, releasing all his consuming thoughts. Relying on his supernatural impulses to focus on any oncoming hazards, the creature allows himself the indulgence of shifting his hunter eyes onto Y/N for a lingering glance. The sun is just beginning to set outside the car window, ducking over the cityscape and washing the distant buildings in mellow shades of soothing pinks, cozy oranges, and buttery yellows. The colors cast a golden light through the glass of his car, and it settles onto Y/N’s soft features like stardust, highlighting her flyaway hairs, the gentle slope of her plush lips, and the dreamy tinge in her captivating eyes.
If Harry didn’t know any better, about both what she is and about not believing in such ridiculous tales, he’d think she was an angel. Not that an angel would ever be seen with the likes of him.
“Y’can say that, petal.” He murmurs after a lengthy pause, reluctantly returning his attention to the long stretch of road in front of him, his palm still secured over Y/N’s denim-covered thigh. If he focuses enough, he can feel her pulse through the fabric, and the steady thumping sends a strange prickling through his hand and into the rest of his body. “You can say whatever you’d like, and I’d listen.”
“Oh, is that so?” She pokes at him with a cheeky grin, using her nail to absentmindedly trace the blood red daylight crystals embedded into the eyes of his lionhead ring. “So you’re actually offering to listen for once, instead of making your cocky little comments?”
The edges of the vampire’s lips jolt with endearment. “Just this once, yeah.”
Except it’s not just this once, Harry thinks to himself, adding on the words he will most likely never have the courage to speak aloud. I’d listen to anything and everything you have to say. No matter how small and insignificant it may be, or however random and useless you might think it is. I’d listen. For you, always.
Harry doesn’t express his private thoughts, but he pretends that he has, and he pretends that the smile Y/N is gifting him at the moment is her heartfelt response to his silent confessions.
He adores it more than he should, and how could he not? It’s so blinding, he thinks it could very well burn him.
///
It’s not that Harry is nervous for tonight, because he’s not.
Spending his Friday nights with Y/N has become as regular as clockwork, and Harry knows that it’s overdue in their routine for him to cook a dinner for her, given that she’d had the courtesy of doing it for him. He’s already picked up her favourite red wine to accompany the gnocchi recipe he’d sweet-talked Vincenzo into sharing with him (Gnocchi al Vostro Gusto— the one she’d enjoyed on their date at Bella Vita), as well as snagged all the ingredients for the lavender lemonade cocktail he planned to make her when she first arrived. He’d even gone so far as to freeze a few petals from edible flowers into his cubed trays earlier in the day, just to up the ante on his already stunning presentation.
He’s already set out shining dinner plates along his kitchen island, tidied and dusted his entire condo, and made each of his friends promise to leave him alone for the night. He’s prepared everything that’s been within his power into sheer perfection; nothing could possibly go wrong. So he’s not nervous, because everything is fine and because he never gets nervous. Being nervous is for morons, and he’s far from being one, so he just isn’t. It’s that simple. There’s absolutely no reason to be nervous.
Except that he can’t manage to get his mahogany belt to lie properly against his waist (he’d searched in vain for his black Gucci belt with the logo buckle, but hadn’t been able to find it), the woven leather tail twisting repeatedly whenever Harry tries to tuck it beneath the rest of the belt. And while the rational part of his mind knows that this doesn’t matter, and that he can just guide the tail into a loop along his olive trousers, the irrational part of his mind— which, unfortunately, just happens to be in control at this very moment— knows that tucking it in won’t look nearly as chic as folding it just right to lay the excess along the length of his thigh.
He’s already crafted the rest of his outfit so carefully, spending almost an hour deciding on the red and black patterned vest to pair with the trousers, and an additional forty-five minutes choosing which short-sleeved button up to layer beneath it. He’d ended up picking a yellow top with indigo swatches along the collar, proceeding to tuck the shirt sleeves up along the sleeves of the knitted vest to give the fit a stylish flare. Harry thinks he looks good (although, to be fair, he always does), but he knows that if he turns his attention back to it for too long, he’d end up tearing it off and starting all over again. However, judging by the clock that’s ticking from his bedside table, Harry knows that isn’t an option. It’s 5:42 PM, and Y/N had said she’d be here by 6:00, and if Harry isn’t ready by the time her delicate knuckles rap against his front door, then she might just decide to turn on her heel and leave, and Harry won’t ever get the chance to ask her—
The creature stops short in his tracks, his fingers freezing over the leather of his belt that he’d just managed to settle into place. He’s not asking her that, he reminds himself, loosening his limbs just enough to nervously twist his mother’s ring around his pinky. He’s already decided that— and undecided it, and decided it again— after his road trip epiphany the previous weekend. It doesn’t matter just how weak, or warm, or alive, or just plain human Y/N makes him feel. He knows what this is, and has known since the beginning, and there’s just no way that he can bring himself to ask Y/N to be his—
Harry can’t even force himself to think of the word.
He makes long strides towards his dresser, picking up the string of pearls lying on top of the varnished wood and fastening them around his icy neck. What meaning could that word even hold for him, anyways? He’s a vampire, and though Y/N makes him feel the complete opposite, there’s no way he could ever feel so human as to give into the notion of having a girlfriend. A girlfriend leads to a fiancée, which leads to a wife, which leads to the expectation of a family, and Harry knows that none of those things are compatible with the immortal afterlife he lives now. If Mitch, who is— by any accounts— ten times the man Harry could ever be, hasn’t even managed to lock Sarah— another vampire— into a solid relationship after three years, how could Harry delude himself into thinking that he could do that with a human?
And even if he, with all his commitment, abandonment, and trust issues aside, could have a relationship with a mortal— not any mortal, he reminds himself, but the only mortal that’s ever managed to capture a sliver of his genuine attention— that doesn’t mean he actually wants one. Why would Harry ever want to be tied to one place, or one person? Why would he ever want to have to phone someone before going somewhere, or have to check in on them when they’re doing the same? Why would he want to deal with having to manage someone’s emotions, problems, and life? He’s traveled the circumference of the world and back again, and seen more changes to society than any human could ever comprehend. He loves being reckless, and untethered, and not responsible for anyone other than himself. He enjoys being impulsive and not having to worry about his actions falling back on anyone else’s shoulders other than his own. It’s who he is— it’s who he’s been for a while now— and it’s who he had imagined he’d continue to be for another two centuries.
It’s like that one country song that tormented his radio in the early 2000s— the one about life being like an endless road and about how people should enjoy it while it lasts. He believes the exact words are, “Life is a highway, I want to ride it all night long” or something of the sort. Horrendous song, but it held a pretty decent message.
So with all of this taken into precise consideration, why would he, in his right mind, ever chain himself to one geographical location, and one single fleeting soul?
The answer floats to the forefront of Harry’s mind as he casts a glance towards his half-opened dresser drawer, where a pair of Y/N’s pastel blue sweatpants are folded neatly on top of his own pairs. She’d left them there a few weeks ago, and while Harry had washed and dried them for her with the intention of giving them back, he’d decided it would be a better idea to keep them here in case Y/N ever ended up staying the night without planning to. Just so she’d have something comfortable of her own to put on before falling asleep in Harry’s bed, on the side that he now keeps made up just for her.
Why would Harry ever tie himself to one person? Because that person is Y/N, and she’s not just a person. She is— in every way except officially— Harry’s girl.
Harry can’t even bring himself to deny that fact as he fixes the collar of his shirt and strides out of his bedroom, dimming down the lights before making his way to the glass staircase. Every issue he’d brought up, every fact that he’s tried to use to convince himself that he doesn’t want a relationship, can’t even be considered an issue when it comes to Y/N. He already does all of those things— checking in on her to make sure she’s alright, letting her vent about her stress, listening to her problems with an attentive ear, holding her hand whenever they’re together, kissing her forehead while she lays against his chest, switching her to the inside of the sidewalk to ensure her safety, moving strands of hair out of her face so they don’t become a bother— and he does it all gladly. He’s come to adore the soothing comfort he receives when he walks Y/N to her door after a date, or double checks the locks after she’s inevitably invited him inside. He delights in calling her during her lunch breaks to inquire about how her day is going, and to remind her that “iced coffee isn’t a substitute for water, peach. You’ll feel a lot better on your shift if you drink a glass, alright?” And even when her voice is strained and laden with anxiety as she curls into his side after a particularly rough day, it still sounds like the most beautiful melody he’s ever heard, and the weight and warmth of her body against his own acts like a relaxant to Harry’s cold limbs.
He rolls his shoulders now as he skips the last two stairs and lands squarely on his leather Gucci boots (they’re one of his favorites, and though they’re a simple black, they have a rainbow impression along the lip that he thinks is quite chic). He releases a long breath as he absentmindedly studies over his art wall, his eyes landing on the painting of a deconstructed sunflower. The abstract piece reminds him of the night Y/N had come over to his condo for the first time, and he begins to feel that annoying yet familiar knot between his shoulder blades that always seems to form when he’s away from her. It’s something he hadn’t even noticed until a few days ago; how his body grows rigid and stiff whenever they’re separated, like he can’t allow himself to exhale until she’s beside him again. He supposes it’s a strange vampire tendency— something carnal and territorial inside of him that thinks it’s his job to protect Y/N, the decadent and intoxicating center of his strange obsession, and when she’s not around, unease threads into his muscles until he can be sure his primary source of blood is alright.
Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s something deeper inside him— some other reason to keep her out of any harm and an arm’s length away. However, he refuses to indulge that unsettling mystery right now. It’s too fucking complicated to dwell on.
Ambling into the kitchen, Harry begins to dig through his lower cupboards for the apron he hadn’t bothered to slip on when he was cooking earlier. Pushing aside the white cover with the words “World’s Best (pancake) Tosser” stamped onto the front (it had been a gift from Niall, delivered with a sly grin and a cheeky comment about how the apron was too accurate to pass up), Harry selects the butcher’s apron printed with the phrase “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’!” He slips the loop over his head and ties the straps behind his toned back with a quick motion, the edges of his lips quirking at the pompous joke. He knows Y/N will make a comment about it.
He hadn’t bothered with the apron before when he’d been preparing the gnocchi simply because his loungewear isn’t necessarily that important, but now that he’s changed into something much nicer than the t-shirt and sweatpants he’d previously worn— and after he’d struggled with deciding on the outfit for so long— the last thing he wants to do is splash sauce onto himself as he navigates his kitchen.
Harry’s mind continues to race with nearly incomprehensible thoughts as he gathers the last of the ingredients needed to finish the meal, his nimble fingers easily peeling the skin from a clove of garlic before he begins to mince it with practiced skill. Maybe that’s the cause of all his confusing feelings, he muses as he tosses a knob of butter into his preheated pan, scooping the garlic onto his knife and adding that to the mix as well. Maybe that instinctual feeling to protect is the root of all his fantasies of a relationship. He can’t possibly want— can’t actually believe that he’d...
Except he does.
Sighing grimly as he snags a wooden spoon from a kitchen drawer, Harry nudges the cabinet shut with his hip before beginning to stir the sizzling concoction in his pan. Somehow, against all odds— against all reason— he’s become attached to Y/N. So attached that he’d spent an hour begging Vincenzo for this specific recipe when he could’ve so easily googled a different one and recreated it to near perfection. So attached that he’d driven to three different liquor stores to find her favourite brand of red wine, which he’d set to chill in his fridge hours ago, because even though a cabernet sauvignon is supposed to be chilled for forty-five minutes at most, Y/N likes it icy cold. So attached that he’d taken care to freeze individual flower petals into ice cubes, just so he could make her a cocktail flavoured with honey and lavender, the exact same way she is. So attached that, for the first time in twenty decades, the concept of a relationship doesn’t draw a disgusted gag from his throat and doesn’t send a ghostly spike of pain to his neck.
“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters the words out loud to himself, as if speaking them audibly will reinforce their meaning. Opening the fridge with a rough tug, Harry nabs the quart of cream he’d purchased earlier that day, bending the mouth of it open and pouring it smoothly into the saucepan and giving it a stir. It doesn’t matter if he wants a relationship, because there’s no way that Y/N does.
A bitter laugh tears its way through his chest as he reaches for the bowl of gorgonzola cheese he’d shredded earlier, scattering the ingredient into the saucepan and slowly mixing it in. He’s arrived at the same point he has all week when he’s had this argument with himself. The same fact that’s stopped him in his tracks each time he’s dared to think that— if he should ask— Y/N would say yes to him becoming a more permanent fixture in her life. She’d say yes, he thinks. Or he hopes, at least. She’d say yes, until she wakes up in the middle of the night to Harry caged over her with crimson irises, terrifying shadows below his waterline, black veins webbing out from his eyes, and a blood-soaked mouth bared to reveal his dagger-like fangs. Then, she’d be gone.
Not gone, he amends in his head, the thought somber and acrid in his mind as he reduces the sauce to a simmer. He’d have to go after her, of course, but not in the way a man usually goes after a woman. Despite how they’d joked about it casually, Harry most definitely doesn’t belong in a LifeTime movie. No, he’s from a much darker genre— less leading man, more malicious creature that lurks in the night— and the only thing he could do when he chases Y/N down would be to wipe all traces of himself from her mind entirely. That’s the ending they’d be destined for if he let himself buy into his romantic delusions. It’s better not to put a label on anything. No labels keep a degree of separation between their two lives— at least, that’s what Harry tells himself. And as much as it pains him, a degree of separation might be exactly what they need.
And yet, when Y/N knocks on his door two minutes later, just as he’s sprinkling various ground herbs into the sauce and setting it onto the back of the stovetop to wait until they’re ready to eat, Harry can’t help the giddy grin that immediately decorates his dimples. He hurries to untie his apron and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs lined against his kitchen island, dragging a ringed hand through his purposefully tousled curls as he nearly super-speeds to the front door of his condo. He trips on his way there, spewing curses as he barely saves himself from face-planting the ground like an imbecile. He straightens himself out with a petty huff, slowing down slightly and being more mindful of every step he takes. His smile has already returned before he even yanks the door open.
Y/N— his Y/N, he allows himself to think affectionately— is dressed from head to toe in his own clothes. Well, almost head to toe, he corrects, casting a sly glance at the way her black jeans hug the curve of her hips too perfectly to be his own pair. But he recognizes the black and white speckled short-sleeve button up that’s french-tucked into the high-waisted denim, and shrewdly notes the addition of a Gucci belt looped around her waist— the very one he’d been searching for earlier. She’s even styled the shirt the same way he does, with half the top buttons undone. However— Harry licks his lips unconsciously as his eyes hover over her exposed chest— she’s paired the top with a delicate looking black lace bralette that catches his hungry gaze the moment he spots it. Even the black ankle boots she’s wearing are reminiscent of his own fashion choices.
“Y’know,” Y/N’s amused voice cuts through his stupor, drawing his attention back from the obvious canvas of her body and up to her glittering eyes. “It’s not very gentlemanly of you to check out my tits before even saying hello.”
Harry’s mouth crooks sheepishly in response as he reaches out to her, looping his muscled arms around her waist and pulling her inside the condo and against his body with ease. “Hello.” He murmurs obediently, thumbing at her waist over the silky fabric as a teasing yet fond cadence sews its way into his voice. “So this is where my clothes keep disappearing to, hm? I searched for that belt for an hour today.”
“Shouldn’t have left it at my apartment, then.” Y/N counters easily, curling her hands against Harry’s chest. He can already feel her heat beginning to web through his entire being, warming him in a manner nothing has in the last two hundred years. “And you said tonight’s dress code was casual formal— which makes zero fucking sense, by the way— so I figured the best way to conform to that would be would be by wearing your own clothes.” A drop of hesitance begins to colour Y/N’s tone as she casts her gaze towards his own, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she tries to read between his teasing words for any hint of actual annoyance. “Is that… okay?”
“Perfectly okay, angel.” Harry soothes the worry lines that have formed between her eyes by stamping a kiss onto her forehead, allowing himself to linger for a moment to inhale her familiar scent of sugar and flowers. It seems more powerful today than it usually is, almost bowling him over right there in the foyer, and he takes a step back to regain control of himself under the pretense of closing the door. “Honestly, I’m a little miffed that you look better in my clothes than I do.”
“‘Miffed’?” The mortal girl laughs as she reaches down to retrieve something from the ground, and it’s only then that Harry realizes that she’d had an overnight bag in her hand before he’d tugged her into his grasp and caused her to drop it. “Who says ‘miffed’? Are you a sixty-seven year old woman named Betty?”
Although he allows a chuckle at her incredulous question, Harry’s attention has focused in on the bag inches away from her outstretched hand. Cursing himself for being too wrapped up in her appearance to notice the item she’d been toting, Harry quickly fetches it from the ground before she can, carrying it further into his apartment before setting it down on one of the island chairs, as if the small distance could make up for the initial lack of manners he’d displayed.
“No, I’m not. I’m just British.” He should bring the bag up to his bedroom, he thinks, just so Y/N doesn’t have to wonder where her clothes are when she’s fraught with exhaustion later. But that would mean having to leave her side, and the grip her fragrance has on his senses right now won’t allow him to do so.
“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot.” Y/N lilts with an exaggerated air, another giggle rising from her petal-like lips as she leans against the marble countertop on her elbow, propping her chin up in one hand and resting the other on top of the stone. She regards him with all the affection that he doesn’t deserve, and yet always seems to crave, and it takes all of Harry’s willpower to not grasp her chin in his hand and sift their lips together just to taste her laughter. “Along with ‘pip pip’ and ‘cheerio,’ right?”
“Yes, those phrases are definitely at the top of my vocab list. You’ve heard me say them a million times.” Harry rolls his eyes playfully, shaking himself from his distracted thoughts as he steps back behind the counter to effectively put a little bit of much needed space between him and the mortal girl. His restless hands are already outstretched to his bar shelves before he even asks, “D’you want a drink, darling?”
Y/N watches with innocent curiosity as Harry sets two lowball glasses down on the counter before reaching into his cupboard for a jar of honey, which he spoons onto an awaiting plate. He rims the glasses in the syrup before dipping them into sugar, sparking confusion in Y/N as she tries to decipher what cocktail Harry is making her. Her befuddlement only grows as he extracts a bottle of clear liquid that she assumes is vodka and a purple concoction that she can’t identify. “What are you making?”
“Lavender lemonade.” Harry answers swiftly, reaching into a drawer for the small double-ended measuring cup tool that Y/N still can’t remember the name of, as well as his crystal cocktail shaker. Y/N observes with wide eyes as he fills the shaker with ice and vodka before picking up the mysterious liquid. “This is lavender syrup. Not homemade, unfortunately, but I do buy it from a little organic grocer I know at the farmer’s market. Adds a nice floral note to the drink, and mixes well with the lemonade.” He caps the container and shakes it expertly (the way his muscled arms ripple with effort doesn’t go unnoticed by her, as it never does) before setting it down on the counter and making his way to the fridge freezer. “S’where I get my honey, too.” He chances a look over his shoulder just in time to see Y/N dip her finger into the honey pooled on the plate and pop the digit into her mouth, and Harry has to force himself to tear his eyes away as she sucks lightly on her fingertip, her cheeks just barely hollowing. “Do you like it?”
“Mhmm,” Y/N hums around the digit as she keeps her eyes shamelessly glued to Harry’s ass while he bends down to open the cooled drawer, retrieving a tray of cubed ice and coming back over to add one large block into each lowball glass. “Are there flowers in there?” She asks in wonder after retracting her finger from her mouth with a pop, leaning over the table more to observe the decorative ice that has filled the cups.
“Mm.” Harry matches her hum with a more pleasured undertone, both from her noticing the small detail, and from the unobstructed view of her cleavage that her new position allows him. He picks up the shaker and strains the light purple lavender and vodka mixture into the glasses, topping off each cocktail with a can of sparkling lemonade that he’d also retrieved from the fridge. “S’pretty, isn’t it?” He asks, stirring the drinks with a spoon before holding up one of the glasses to the light and handing it to Y/N. “My own creation. You’re the first person to try it.”
Their fingers graze as Y/N accepts the glass from him, sparking electricity up her entire arm, and she can’t help the irreverent moan that thrums in the back of her throat as she brings the glass to her lips, tasting the honey and sugar first before the lavender coats her tongue. “This is so good, H.” She praises, licking a lingering dab of honey from her mouth between her words. Twisting the glass in her hands as she regards the lilac drink, Y/N eyes him over the rim of the crystal, pupils blown wide. “I didn’t think honey and lavender could ever taste so good.”
“You know, I used to think that, too.” Harry’s mumbles knowingly as his own eyes drift a shade darker. He watches the human girl’s neck strain with her swallow, as if she knows he’s trying to keep his gaze away from there and she’s beckoning him back. “But it’s my favourite flavour combination now. Can’t ever seem to get enough.”
The comment goes right over the mortal girl’s head, just as Harry knew it would. His expectations of the cocktail in his hand are also met from his very first sip; although the concoction is delicious, it pales in comparison to the fragrance wafting across the island from Y/N. He may as well be drinking water, honestly. But he knows he’ll end up repeating the recipe a few more times at the very least, just because Y/N tells him that it’s her favourite drink he’s ever made.
“You say that every time I make you a new drink, dove.” Harry can’t help but quip coyly at the repeated compliment, setting his crystal tumbler against the counter with a quiet thud. “Am I supposed to keep believing it?”
“Obviously. Especially when each drink keeps getting better and better.” Y/N licks a drip of honey from the rim, her tongue delicately capturing the sugar crystals before her lips settle back onto the edge to take another sip. “You would be an amazing bartender, but we’ve already talked about that before.”
“We have, yeah.” Harry smiles softly as he recalls the conversation they’d had weeks ago, where she had said his drinks were better than anything she’d had at a club, and he had responded by saying he doesn’t have the patience to be a bartender. That conversation feels as if it happened a lifetime ago, and considering how much closer they had become since, it quite literally could be. “But refresh my memory, will you? Why is it that I’d make such an amazing bartender?”
Y/N gives Harry a jokingly flat glance as a response to his smug tone, but decides to humor him, nonetheless. “Well, you obviously have the mixology skills, and I don’t doubt that the whole thing you have going—” She nods her head to him over the island with a teasing smirk. “—would get you endless tips.”
“My whole thing?” Harry repeats the phrase with an air of faux confusion. “What do you mean, my whole thing?”
He knows what she means, of course. But he won’t deny himself an opportunity to hear Y/N feed his ego with sweet-spoken praise.
Y/N doesn’t buy his innocent act for a minute, but still indulges him, yet again. She likes to see Harry preen under her compliments just as much as he likes to receive them. “You know…” She casts her eyes over his figure slowly, picking out every detail she can comment on as she wedges her bottom lip between her teeth. “Your whole look— the tattoos, the muscles, the dimples, the sparkling green eyes, the shiny curls… all of that would have any drunk customer draped over the bar for you. And even if you couldn’t get by on looks alone, you’re absolutely charming. To the point of ridiculousness, honestly, but,” Y/N eyes him suspiciously, and while her words are mostly in jest, she can’t deny that she’s seriously thought them at some point in time. “I’m not entirely convinced it’s genuine. Although being able to fake that kind of attitude would serve you well in a crowded bar.”
Whatever Harry was expecting to hear among the praise, an accusation of dishonest behaviour wasn’t it. His brow furrows deeply as his lips turn down into a displeased grimace, and he drums his ringed fingers over the marble countertop as he cocks his head to the side. “What d’you mean?” The question is earnest now, no longer a coquettish teasing remark, and the warmth the mortal girl had provided him with begins to subside as a flash of icy doubt digs shards through his chest. “Not genuine? Does it seem like I’m faking it or something?”
Y/N teases her lips with her tongue, unable to stop the nervous tic as she hears the displeasure that clearly strains Harry’s tone. Setting her own glass down on the counter, Y/N lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I just mean, like… I don’t know. I don’t really think that now, but in the beginning…”
“What?” Harry prompts her with more intensity than he’d meant to, but he’s spent so much of this past week analyzing their every interaction while wrestling with his own thoughts that he’s already on edge; he needs to hear what Y/N had thought of him when they’d first met. His own recollection of the memories has made him flinch multiple times, particularly the times when he’d thought that Y/N was as boringly ordinary as humans come. He can only imagine what her take on the situation is. “Did I— was I rude, or—?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” She hurriedly assures him, shaking her head hard enough that her loose locks bounce around her shoulders. “You weren’t rude at all— the opposite, actually. I don’t know, it just seemed… like it was too good to be true, y’know?” Her voice grows impossibly softer as she traces her finger over the rim of her glass, her eyes dropping from Harry’s like it hurts her to hold them. “Like, there was no way that someone could be so attractive, so funny, so good in bed—” Harry can hear blood creep up the nape of her neck against her will, beginning to pour into her cheeks. “—and so charming. Something had to be an act.”
Despite the urge Harry has to justify his actions, he knows there’s nothing he can say that could prove Y/N’s original perception of him wrong. And, in all honesty, he has no right to. As much as he’d like to argue the fact, and as much as he did genuinely come to enjoy being around her, Harry can’t deny that from the first moment he’d approached Y/N in that club, he’d dialed up his charm as he always did without a second thought. He’d flattered her, flirted with her, done everything he could to convince her that she should take him home so he could indulge in the two things he’s always manipulated people for: sex and blood. And when that worked, he did it again, and again, and again, until they’d fallen into the pattern they have now. He’d never lied, of course, and he prides himself on that— every compliment he’d paid her had been rightly deserved. But even that justification doesn’t stop the shame that’s twisting its way through his limbs and making his head heavy.
She had thought something had to be an act, and she had been right. Harry himself was an act, in every aspect of the term— stretching the truth about his past, opening himself up just enough to make her open herself in return, setting her up so that she’d become dependent on their relationship. And all so he could sink his teeth into her neck without a second thought.
He can’t exactly pinpoint when all that had changed— singing “Non-Stop” in his kitchen? The jealousy he’d felt when he spotted her on a date with that insipid idiot, Jacob? Seeing her in that yellow sundress when he picked her up for their first date?— but the fact that it had changed doesn’t erase how it had started. It doesn’t erase the cruelty he’d hidden beneath his calculating words, intricately-placed caresses, and dirty promises.
“Harry.” He’d been so caught in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Y/N had moved until she’s standing right in front of him, one of her velvet hands twisting into his own as the other tucks a loose curl back from his creased forehead. “I don’t think that now. You know that, right?” Even after securing the ringlet, she keeps her palm pressed against his cheek, and Harry can’t help but lean into the burning heat her touch provides. “I just— I’d never met anyone like you. There was no one like you where I grew up. I didn’t think someone could be so…” Y/N worries her lip between her teeth again, and Harry wishes he had enough in him to smooth the bite mark with a touch as soft as her own. “I didn’t know you yet. But I do now.”
The vampire inhales a shaking breath as if he needs it to live, lifting his own free hand to wrap over the palm Y/N rests against his cheek. Weaving his fingers through hers, he drags her hand lower until her skin is secured over his lips, and he smudges a gentle kiss against her handprint. There’s something so tender in her words— no one could ever accuse Y/N of being disingenuous. But he needed to hear this, he thinks as he presses his mouth repeatedly to her palm, the throbbing of her pulse in her wrist catching against his cheek. He needed to hear how she thinks she knows him. It’ll serve as a reminder that he can’t allow himself to succumb to the weak thoughts he’d battled earlier in the day. As much as Y/N assumes she knows him, there’s things that she’ll never understand— things he would never allow her to understand, because she doesn’t deserve such a terrifying burden— and how could he keep up that pretense while allowing her to call him her boyfriend?
“I know you do, sweetheart.” Harry mutters the words into her fragile skin, inhaling her intoxicating aroma deeply until his throat burns in agony. It’s a small price to pay for what he’s put her through. “It’s alright. I don’t blame you for doubting it.” The smirk he forces onto his face is nowhere near believable, but he manages to keep the strain out of his voice enough to sell it. “I’m pretty hard to believe, y’know? Especially when you grew up with people like Cucumber Dick.”
Successfully diffusing the moment, Harry’s comment tugs an irritated groan from Y/N’s chest, and she takes a step back from him as her hand falls from his face, despite her other fingers still remaining tied with his own. “You can’t just keep calling him Cucumber Dick, alright? He has a name!”
“Yeah, Bradley.” Harry says in distaste, his nose wrinkling as he shakes his head slowly. “S’honestly worse than Cucumber Dick. I’m doing him a favour— a bit of charity work.”
Y/N hums in the back of her throat thoughtfully as she steps back around the kitchen island, Harry’s arm extending over the countertop as she tugs his hand along with hers. “Then don’t do me any favours like that, alright? Can only imagine what you call me when I’m not here.”
A few names pop into Harry’s mind— dream, darling, angel, and countless others that he’s murmured to himself in the privacy of his condo— but they’re tainted by the memory of his friends confessing how they’ve talked about her when he hasn’t been around to hear it. How they’ve compared her to different foods, used that to reference her, as if that’s all she is to him. As if she isn’t the only person who has managed to make him feel something in over two lifetimes.
In the rational part of Harry’s mind— which, once again, is sadly not the part of his mind that’s ever in control— he knows that he can’t blame his friends for thinking that. It’s his own fault for being so insistent on that fact over the last few months. How many times had they questioned his motives behind his daily phone calls to her, or how often he found himself dropping everything just to spend some time with her? How many times had he rolled his eyes at their assumptions that he wanted more from the mortal girl than he’d ever admitted? How many times had he asserted that there was nothing more that she could offer him than her body and her blood? They’d only listened to what he was saying, despite knowing that Harry’s reassurances were false. Did any of them suspect that things had changed for him now? Or did they still think that Harry’s only motivations behind his relationship with Y/N are primal?
Harry pushes the badgering thoughts from his head as best he can as he reaches for his apron that’s still lying over the back of the chair. He can’t dwell on those thoughts now. If the turmoil twisting inside of him hasn’t subsided by the end of the night, he’ll call Mitch once Y/N is fast asleep under the extra blanket he keeps on his bed just for her. Although he doesn’t relish the thought of admitting he was wrong to the likes of Xander or Niall— he knows their teasing and taunting would never end— he can talk to Mitch about it without the worry of judgement.
“Why don’t you put a record on, petal?” Harry asks absentmindedly, nodding his head towards the record player set up in the corner of his living room as he slips his apron back over his head. “I just have to boil the gnocchi, and then—”
“Wait, wait wait,” Y/N cuts over him with an increasingly gleeful expression, rounding the edge of the island again to tug on the strap of Harry’s apron. “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’?” She repeats, unable to bite back the giggles that are rising through her throat. “Please tell me you didn’t buy that for yourself.”
His troubling mindset disappears the moment laughter falls from her lips and echoes around the kitchen. “‘Course I did. And why wouldn’t I?” Harry simpers as his deft fingers easily secure the ties behind his back in a neat bow. “I’m Mr. Good Lookin’, and I’m cookin’. S’only the truth.”
“Your vanity is astounding. Truly.” Y/N trails her finger from the strap of the apron to the pearls around Harry’s neck, stroking the silky stones with the lightest touch. “Like, borderline narcissistic.”
Snaking his arms around her waist, Harry easily pulls the mortal into his body, securing her against his chest just as he had done when she’d first arrived. It’s comfortable for him to have her pressed against him like this. The steady rising and falling of her chest and hummingbird beat of her heart against his own unmoving organ keeps him centered, like his own personal lifeline.
“Is it so wrong to be confident in my appearance?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his dimples pop from his cheeks, and he slides his hands from Y/N’s back to her ass, cupping and squeezing firmly in appreciation. His smirk only grows as Y/N’s cheeks begin to boil from the suggestive contact. “How can you contradict me when it gets such a reaction from you?”
“I think that has less to do with your looks and more to do with where your hands are.” She quips dryly, and yet her nails dig into Harry’s exposed collar bones with the slightest of pressure, a surefire sign of just how much his touch affects her.
Harry leans forward as the girl’s breathing grows more erratic, and he nuzzles his nose along hers while keeping the smallest of spaces between their lips. “Either way, I’m getting what I want, aren’t I?”
To his immense pleasure, Y/N’s words are breathy and strained when she replies, a side effect of the shallow inhales her body draws against his. “Which is?”
“You. More specifically, you melting under my touch like you just can’t get enough of it.” Harry drags his lips across Y/N’s for no more than a second before continuing his path up her jaw, only stopping when he can feel the flushed shell of her ear beneath his mouth. “You should indulge your vanity a little more often, sweetheart. S’quite fun, honestly.”
Y/N shivers beneath Harry’s touch, her eyelids fluttering as his cool breath rolls over her ear and down her neck. Turning her head to the side, she locks her half-lidded gaze with his own before slotting their lips together to indulge in the lingering taste of honey and lavender that sits on his tongue.
Despite his instinct to draw her closer while curving her body into his own, Harry separates their lips with a gentle nudge of his forehead against her own, his breathing growing just as erratic as Y/N’s. Control, he reminds himself as heat prickles along his icy skin from the tender pads of Y/N’s hands. This isn’t like their first meetings, when he could invite her over under a pretense and take her against the counter before they’d even finished their drinks. This is different now. She’s different now.
“Why don’t you go put a record on?” He says again, his voice noticeably deeper than it was when he first made the request. “And I’ll finish getting dinner ready. Sound alright?”
Y/N manages to nod without removing her forehead from his, but that seems to be the only movement she makes; her palms remain pressed firmly against Harry’s tattooed biceps, even after he reluctantly releases his hold on her body. She can’t help it— it feels too good to be so close to the young man to allow herself to willingly walk away. Something in his presence is so calming, so steady to her, even when he’s whispering obscenities in her ear.
But outweighing the need to be next to him is her desire to make him happy, and if he wants her to pick out a record… “Alright.” She nods once more as her hands slip from his skin, trailing down his forearms and grazing his wrists before falling to her sides. “Any record?”
Harry drags a ringed hand through his curls, his lithe fingers tugging on the locks before falling to his side in a loose fist. “Any record.” He confirms as he reaches for a kitchen drawer, tugging it open to extract a long metal spoon. “Anything you want to listen to.”
He watches as a serious expression paints itself over the human girl’s face, as if the task he’s given her is of the utmost importance. She turns on her heel and marches out of the kitchen as if on a mission, and as Harry turns towards the now-boiling pot of water on his stove, he knows that his own face reflects a look of fondness. It’s too easy to let his guard down with her, he thinks as he ladles his homemade gnocchi into the rolling water. When she looks at him, there’s such an openness in her expression that he can’t help but allow himself to be seen.
But being seen doesn’t always feel so sweet, which Harry remembers the moment he hears Y/N’s melodic voice ring from the living room.
“When did you get a piano?”
Harry’s hand freezes mid-scoop, the few gnocchi that had been dangling on the edge of his spoon falling into the boiling water. A bit of the liquid splashes out and lands on his arm, but quickly fizzes to room temperature once it meets his freezing skin.
“Uh—” He clears his throat as he tries to refocus on his task, but his actions are much more frantic than careful as he finishes filling the pot with gnocchi. “I’ve had it for a while, remember? I mentioned it to you before. At the antique mall.”
When his explanation receives no response, he gives his own frustrated sigh, and sets down the polished spoon to retrace Y/N’s steps out into the living room. As he expected her to be the moment he heard her question, he finds her with a reverent hand tracing the edge of the matte black Steinway grand piano that’s occupied a space in nearly every home he’s had since he purchased it in the 1920s. Seeing her nimble fingers drift over the hand-crafted edge brings back a hazy human memory to Harry’s mind— a flash of sharply manicured fingers and a strangely pale hand, adorned with an opal ring as they danced over the pianoforte in an opulent sitting room. The sound of tinkling laughter that rang like a bell, pitched almost high enough to make his ears ache, and a soft, hypnotizing voice slathered in the most delicate accent he’d ever heard.
Harry has to blink a few times to bring himself back to the present.
“What was that, darling?” He hopes his voice isn’t nearly as strained as it feels when he refocuses his eyes on Y/N’s waiting gaze. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“I said that you told me it was in storage.” She glides over the intricately carved music stand, the digit dancing across every twist and curve of the decorative panel. “Why did you bring it out?”
“Uh, I dunno, really.” An uncomfortable itch settles onto Harry’s skin, his stomach turning as Y/N takes a seat on the creaking piano bench set in front of the instrument. “I just, uh, figured it should be displayed somewhere, instead of gathering dust in a storage unit. It’s a vintage Steinway, y’know? Those need to be taken care of.”
In truth, the vintage instrument had rung Harry quite a high bill over the last few decades, not only in the price it cost to keep it in permanent storage, but in the services he’d had done to it once a year to keep it in its nearly pristine condition. Despite keeping it out of sight to keep it out of his mind, he couldn’t seem to allow himself to let the instrument fall into disrepair, just in case he ever decided to display it again. Or sell it, as he’d been leaning towards doing over the last few years— a genuine Steinway piano in condition as good as his had quite the high price tag. But he’d never been able to force himself to part with it, as it looked too similar to the one he had originally learned to play on. Even though those memories were tainted with the usual pain that came with thinking about his human life, it was still his life, and he ached to hold onto some part of it. It’s why he had his mother’s ring, and his sister’s earring, and his father’s cross and pocket watch. It’s why had a small wooden box hidden away under his bed with memorabilia from his first life. As much as it hurt to remember— and it did, in ways he can’t possibly begin to describe— remembering seems better than the alternative.
“Well, if you want to show it off…” Y/N’s fingers are trailing down the fallboard now, inching their way towards the ivory keys with a daydream-like purpose. “You shouldn’t hide it away in the corner of the room. It would look gorgeous in front of the windows, don’t you think? A proper centerpiece.”
It would make a beautiful centerpiece, and he originally intended it to be so after the delivery company had dropped it off at his condo a few days before. After bribing Adam and Niall with the offer to buy out their bar tabs for an entire month, the three of them had spent the afternoon rearranging the furniture in his living room to display the Steinway in the center of the room. He’d thought that, knowing how excited Y/N had been to hear him play the piano in the antique store, she’d like to hear him play in his own home, on an instrument he knows like the back of his hand. He’d even begun kicking around the idea of teaching her a few songs, but those musings had quickly turned sour as the instrument brought back more memories of his foggy human life. In the end, he’d decided to restore his living room back to its original state with the addition of the Steinway thrust into the corner, where the ghosts of his past could plunk the keys quietly without drawing too much of his attention. He’d done his best to ignore the instrument over the last couple of days, and in his hurricane of thoughts that had centered around Y/N, he’d nearly forgotten about its existence completely.
He can’t be mad that Y/N is asking about it; after all, he’d brought it out of storage with her specifically in mind. But seeing the newfound object of his affections with her fingers poised over the keys brings back a rush of emotions he’d been repressing for the better part of two hundred years.
“It—” Harry clears his throat once more, trying to rid himself of the lump that is rising up like bile. “It took up too much space in the center of the room. Wasn’t very cohesive.”
“That’s too bad.” The mortal girl’s words fall from her mouth in a murmur as her gaze remains locked on the keys, almost as if she’s in a trance. Her finger begins to press down on the ivory with a slow and meticulous motion. “It seems like such a shame to—”
“Let’s— Let’s not get into that now, sweetheart.” Harry says hurriedly, his fingers catching her own before she can trigger the instrument to make a sound. “Dinner’s almost ready, and you—” He forces a grin onto his lips. “—still haven’t picked a record out.” Threading her fingers through his own, Harry gently tugs the human girl up from her seat on the piano bench. “Would you rather I do it instead?”
As he expected, Y/N wrinkles her nose with distaste as she rises to meet his emerald eyes. “No.” She scoffs as a quiet snort rises from her throat. “I don’t need to listen to some weird experimental 60s music while trying to eat dinner.”
While Harry would normally bite back at her dig, he just responds to her with a thin laugh and a smile without dimples. “Exactly. So why don’t you pick something out,” He jerks his head over his shoulder to where his record player and vinyls sit neatly on a shelf lining the wall, ignoring the ghastly spike of pain that twinges his neck as he does so. “And I’ll plate dinner, yeah?”
“Alright.” She agrees, and Harry nearly breathes a sigh of relief before she finishes her phrase. “But you’ll play for me later tonight, won’t you?”
The phantom pain grows until it extends down Harry’s entire spine, filling every nerve in his body with a sense of anxiety and trepidation. The last thing Harry wants to do is move his fingers over those weighted keys, and with the burning sensation now shooting through his fingers, making his hand twitch around Y/N’s, he’s not even sure he can.
But he is sure of one thing, and that’s the fact that he can’t ever seem to say no to Y/N.
“Yeah, dove. Of course.” Keeping his voice even, Harry pulls her away from the extravagant instrument as inconspicuously as he can. “Later tonight.”
///
There are so many things that Harry has done over the last two centuries that have both angered and confused him.
He’s held grudges against himself over the way he’s acted, the people he’s surrounded himself with, the people he’s allowed himself to trust, and the blatant disregard for human decency he’s allowed himself to succumb to. In the last twenty decades, Harry has amassed enough vendettas for fifty lifetimes, let alone the one endless life he’s been given. And yet, even with all of those missteps in mind, the fact that Harry ever looked at Y/N and deigned her an ordinary human might be one of the biggest mistakes he’s ever made.
It’s so clear to him now— sitting across from her at his kitchen island, the few scented candles flickering between them doing almost nothing to cover her sugar and flower scent, her eyes reflecting back the burning flames and something else that Harry can’t quite put a finger on— that he’s not sure how he ever missed it. How had he once leaned against the counter in her own kitchen, looked into those very same eyes, and managed to convince himself that it was only her blood that drew him to her? How had he listened to her sweet and sensual voice murmur delicate phrases about her day and her emotions, and not realize that he was inching closer and closer in order to hang on every word, as if she had the supernatural ability to compel him as he did her? How had he seen her in the smokiness of the club, with her fragile skin practically luminescent under the pulsing strobe lights, and thought that she was so utterly unmemorable and unnoticeable that he could easily take her home for one night without anyone wondering about her whereabouts? How had he convinced himself that it would only be one night?
There are so many things that Harry will always be angry about, will never forgive himself for, and his initial perception of Y/N is one of them.
If he has any redeeming qualities, he thinks as he watches the mortal girl spear a bite of gnocchi onto her fork over the rim of his wine glass, it’s that he can, at the very least, admit when he’s wrong. He can admit to himself that this girl— this self-assertive, stubborn, vivacious, kind-hearted mortal girl— is the most interesting and most intriguing human he’s ever met. And as terrifying as that is, it’s also a little thrilling; it’s been so long since Harry has felt a pull to someone like this. The sensation, while unfamiliar and something he’s severely out of practice with, is just as electrifying as he remembers, and now that he’s had a taste of it, he can’t stop chasing that high.
It’s that undeniable pull which drive Harry to murmur an unauthentic apology about not having a dining table (he’d chosen a larger living room over a dining area when he moved in, and his friends just settled for eating at Niall’s when they wanted to sit down somewhere) because he’s secretly pleased that he has an excuse to sit next to Y/N. It’s that pull that makes him hang on her every word about her day like she’s relaying the plot of a Greek tragedy, his facial expressions perfectly mimicking hers as she describes the customers she dealt with. It’s that pull that sends his fingers forward of their own accord to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the soft melody of Hozier’s “Like Real People Do” floats between them like a comforting lullaby. It’s that pull that, when she inquires about the entrée he’d prepared for them, causes him to proudly admit that he’d recreated the recipe from Bella Vita after wrestling it from Vincenzo. It’s that pull that urges him to scoop up one of his own gnocchi and bring it to Y/N’s lips to feed her the first bite of the meal, his hand cupped delicately under the utensil to catch any sauce that might drip onto her shirt (which is really his shirt, and that fact alone delivers so much more pleasure than he ever would’ve thought possible).
It’s that pull, that adrenaline rush, that indescribable sensation, but underneath it all, it’s her. It’s always been her, since the moment they’d first met. From the moment he first laid eyes on her. How is it, Harry wonders, that his first sighting, enhanced by his supernatural senses, had managed to make him so blind? How is it that he’d had this girl in front of him all along, and he’d managed to delude himself into thinking that he’d be able to stop himself from becoming vulnerable for her? And maybe, he wonders slowly as he clears Y/N’s empty dinner plate from the marble island to the sink, he’s still deluding himself, because for some strange reason, being vulnerable for the mortal girl doesn’t seem to be as terrifying as he thought it would be.
The vampire suddenly recalls a specific day all those weeks back, when Y/N had stayed over and they’d taken their first bath together in his jacuzzi. He thinks about how he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable for just a fraction of a second, when he had admitted to her that she often caught him off guard. She had returned the sentiment, and he remembers the words he'd uttered to her amidst the warm steam and quiet splashing of the water. He had said that he found her influence on him— the influence they had on each other— to be scary, but exhilarating. And now, after spending so much time together and allowing himself to grow closer to her than he ever could’ve imagined, he’s come to find that his attraction to Y/N is no longer incredibly scary. Yes, there’s still a sliver of fear in him at the notion of opening himself up to her, but it’s only natural— there isn’t one person in existence who isn’t scared to strip themselves emotionally bare for someone else. However, his genuine excitement soothes his hesitations, and it startles him in a pleasant manner he can’t quite decipher.
Setting the dirty dishes into the sink to be dealt with later, Harry risks a glance at Y/N over his shoulder. He watches as she wipes the corner of her mouth on a napkin before raising her stemmed glass to her lips, delicately draining the last of the crimson liquid before placing it back down with a clink. When he catches her sparkling eyes, Y/N shoots him a smile that, even with only one corner of her lips lifted, manages to dazzle him from across the kitchen. Harry can hear the fresh flush of blood that overtakes her cheeks, as if the wine itself is settling beneath her fragile skin.
Yes, vulnerability should petrify him. Vulnerability means danger. It means giving someone the ability to break you, and Harry knows this from firsthand experience. Harry might be the only monster in the room, but in this moment, Y/N is the ominous threat. She’s the vague silhouette that hides in the shadows, the mysterious mass circling just beneath the waves, waiting for the right moment to strike.
But now that he’s dipped a toe in, Harry can’t stop himself from diving headfirst into those dangerous depths.
“D’you want another drink, love?” He asks, turning back around and leaning his hip against the marble counter as he cocks his head to the side in a questioning manner. “Some more wine before dessert? Or another cocktail?”
Y/N glances at her multiple empty glasses in front of her, but shakes her head slowly. “No, I’ve had enough to drink. But I’d love a cup of tea, H. If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. A cup of tea, coming right up.” Harry reaches for the sleek kettle that he keeps set on the backburner of his range, flicking on his tap with his other hand before settling the hollow object under the stream of water. “You know, I think this is the first time I’m actually making tea for you. S’a real treat, isn’t it?” He flashes a toothy grin at the girl before placing the now-full kettle back onto the burner and twisting the knob to high. “A proper cup of tea made by a proper Brit. Can’t get much better than that.”
Y/N rolls her eyes playfully as she circles her finger around the rim of the empty wine glass, her motions just starting to get heavy with the liquor. “It’s just some dried leaves and water, Harry. Don’t get too full of yourself.”
“I think you’re the one who’s usually full of me, aren’t you, pet?” Although his back is turned towards the stove, Harry can hear the effect his words have on the human girl by the small, nearly imperceptible gasp that leaves her lips. “‘M not sure you’re allowed to make that observation.”
Despite the choked feeling that’s welled up in her throat at his comment, Y/N quickly clears it out with a small cough, capturing Harry’s sea glass eyes with her own to stare him down stubbornly. “I’ll make any observations I want.” She says firmly, crossing her arms over her exposed chest in a mockingly angered pose.
A fond laugh rolls from Harry’s stained lips as he opens his cupboards and extracts two tea cups that are painted with vines of wisteria flowers. He’d found them a few years back at the very same antique mall he’d brought Y/N to, included in a china tea set that he hadn’t been able to resist buying. The hand painted violet flowers had caught his eye from the moment he’d glanced at the china cabinet they’d been locked inside, and he’d barely been able to tear himself away from the glass case to retrieve the key from an employee.
He’d always had a soft spot for wisteria; there had been a wisteria tree outside of his childhood home, and he and Gemma used to collect the bunches of blooms and bring them inside for their mother. That had been a long time ago, of course. When they were children. Harry can’t quite remember at what age they’d stopped digging through the garden for flowers— it might have been when Gemma turned eleven, which would’ve made him…. Seven? Harry frowns at the uncertain memory as his grip tightens around the delicate china cups. Yes, he reminds himself, he would’ve been seven. His sister had been four years older than him, and it was around age eleven when she’d declared herself a lady, and said that it wasn’t ladylke to dig through a garden and walk around with dirt under one’s fingernails, and Honestly, Harry, you must wipe your feet before stepping into the house, or else you’ll track mud everywhere—
With trembling hands, Harry sets the wisteria tea cups down on the marble counter, flexing his fingers to get rid of their shakiness before reaching for the respective saucers. It seems that Y/N’s ability to make him feel more human isn’t just resurfacing the manners and emotions he’d long suppressed, but the memories, too. How long had it been since he’d heard his sister’s voice ring in his head as clearly as that? How long had it been since he’d thought of the tiny foyer of his childhood home, which he’d tracked mud into countless times as his mother and, eventually, his sister clicked their tongues at him? Is the tree still there, he wonders as his thoughts continue to spiral. Or had it been cut down in the two hundred years since he’d last seen it, long after his family had all…
Harry places the saucers carefully down against the marble before bracing himself against the edge for just a moment. Barely thirty seconds have passed since Y/N’s retort, and although his enhanced mind had begun to spiral, it’s not too late for him to give a half-sane response.
“I know you will, sweetheart.” He finally murmurs, hiding his face as he pulls open his fridge to extract the carton of oat milk he’d purchased last week. Y/N, he’d come to learn over the last few months, prefers milk over cream in her tea, just like she prefers sugar over artificial sweeteners.
Harry can feel the burn of her eyes into his back as he extracts a teaspoon from his kitchen drawer and the kettle begins to whistle. Focusing and relishing in being the object of her attention, Harry removes the kettle from the heat, flicking the stove off before reaching for the canister that stores his tea bags. In an effort to fully distract himself from the troubling thoughts of his past, he begins to hum the tune to the Hozier song that had been playing earlier, before the record had spun to stop just before they’d finished their entrees. With the near murmur of the melody reverberating through his throat, he spends a moment debating on whether or not he should use the matching wisteria-adorned teapot that sits on the highest shelf of his cupboard, but quickly decides against it— it’s too formal for the occasion. But tossing two separate tea bags into the two teacups, he finds as soon as he does it, doesn’t feel right either; after all, he’d told Y/N that he’d be making her a proper cup of tea. That fact settles the manner in his (moreso than usual) changing mind, and within a few moments, he has the two teabags deposited into the teapot before pouring in the boiling water to steep the satchels of dried leaves.
Halfway through his preparation, his ears had perked up with the distinct sound of Y/N rising from her chair, which had been followed by the muted pattering of her feet against his hardwood floor. Not bothering to ask where she’d been going, Harry had instead decided to wait for his suspicions to be confirmed. Sure enough, just as he’s stirring the sugar and oat milk into Y/N’s cup of tea, he hears the quiet press of one of the keys of his piano. C4, if his aural skills are still as tuned as they used to be.
Setting the two cups of tea onto their respective plates (Y/N’s with milk and sugar, and Harry’s plain), the vampire easily balances both cups of tea in his hands and makes it to the living room without spilling a single drop.
Just like before, Y/N seems entranced by the piano, plunking out different notes and letting them ring into the open air. Harry can’t help but wince slightly as he approaches— as talented as Y/N seems to be at some things, music theory does not appear to be included.
“Christ, love, a tritone?” He protests, his voice hinging on a whine as he approaches the piano bench. “What, your fingers couldn’t make it a perfect fifth, hm?”
The answer to his teasing question comes in the form of Y/N’s entire body jumping as her fingers stutter over the keys, an audible gasp falling from her mouth while her hand clutches to her chest and her head turns to stare at Harry over her shoulder. “Jesus, you scared me!” She says breathlessly, her palm massaging over her the area where Harry can hear the rapid pulsing of her heart. “Have you always creeped around like that?”
A playful grin tugs at the immortal’s lips as he extends an arm out, handing the china saucer and cup to the human girl. “Only when I’m carrying boiling tea. Scooch over, will you?” Nudging his way onto the newly unoccupied space of the bench, Harry nods his head towards the keys she had been previously playing. “Was that an original composition?”
“Beethoven, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize it.” Y/N blows gently over her tea with pursed lips before taking a small sip. Harry knows that his sister would have condemned the action, along with the following slurp, by calling it unladylike, but the inelegant manner leaves a fond feeling buzzing through his body once more.
Raising his own teacup to his lips, Harry chuckles quietly over the rim of the cup. “I wouldn’t have pegged it for the classical era, actually. Sounded more atonal to me.” He takes a small sip of tea, the liquid scorching down his throat in the best way. “You said you took lessons when you were younger, didn’t you? Do you remember anything?”
“Twinkle twinkle little star, maybe.” Y/N takes another small gulp before setting the cup back down on the saucer. “I was, like, eight. Nursery rhymes were as far as I got.” Her gaze drops to the caramel coloured tea with a curious gaze; Harry had remembered exactly how she takes it, despite him only having seen her make a cup of tea once a few weeks ago. “But you, on the other hand… Mr. Good Lookin’...” Her lips jolt into a teasing grin as her eyes flicker to the side to capture his own. “You’re quite the musician, from what I remember. And you promised to play me something.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Harry’s smile grows imperceivably tighter as he takes another drag of the boiling drink, his throat growing thicker with every swallow. “And you still want me to?”
Brow furrowing at his reluctance, Y/N cocks her head to the side in bewilderment. “Of course I do, H. I loved listening to you play for me at the antique mall.”
Harry thinks back to that day, when he’d stuttered his way through a Chopin piece before his stumbling fingers had given up entirely. “I’m just a little out of practice, love. It’ll be a bit messy.”
“I didn’t ask for perfection; I asked for you to play.” Her warm fingers find Harry’s upper arm, massaging the tattooed muscles just underneath the tucked sleeve of his shirt as she regards him with wide, curious eyes. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but if you’re nervous because you might mess up… Well, you heard me play.” Her light laugh rings through the cavity of the piano, reverberating off the highest strings in a way that only Harry’s immortal ears can pick up. “I won’t be able to tell the difference.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Despite his reservations, a half-hearted smile finds its way to Harry’s lips over the rim of his tea cup, which he sets down on the living room side table after taking one last sip.
Flexing his ringed fingers, he repositions himself on the piano bench, moving more towards the center of the seat as Y/N moves down to the edge to give him full access to the piano. For a brief moment, his hands hover over the ivory and ebony keys as he evaluates the repertoire he knows he can muddle his way through without too much trouble. He’s already played a few Chopin pieces for the human girl, so that composer is out. Liszt doesn’t seem to fit the mood, either, as his pieces are much too ornamented for their quiet living room ambience. Debussy is out before Harry can even consider him; the last thing he wants to do is invoke any more memories of sitting at a piano with the much too familiar composer. And Beethoven and Mozart seem too contrived for this setting, as well.
With a frown on his wine-stained lips, Harry spares one glance at Y/N, whose own eyes are glued to his floating fingers. She reaches out with a tentative touch of her own, gliding them across Harry’s tensed knuckles with a pressure so soft that, if not for the heat of her skin, Harry might not feel it at all. The cautiousness of the motion is not lost on him— it’s almost as if Y/N is worried that she’ll spook him out of playing, like any sudden movements could break him. It reminds the creature of the awareness he has whenever he touches her; how he always carefully evaluates the amount of pressure he uses whenever he glides his fingers over her vulnerable skin.
As if she were a butterfly, he thinks, not for the first time. His butterfly.
Harry doesn’t remember making the conscious decision to start playing. He doesn’t even recognize the piece that’s tentatively ringing from the piano until the repetition of the first motive, when Y/N emits a satisfied breath and her warm hand falls back to Harry’s thigh, rubbing gently over his olive trousers with that same delicate touch, almost as if he were a butterfly.
The creature’s fingers continue to glide over the ivory keys, his phrases growing smoother and more confident with every passing moment. He pays careful attention to the dynamics of the piece, trying his best to recall the sheet music that he hadn’t looked at in decades, but it only takes about thirty seconds for him to realize that it’s easier to just let himself feel the music. With Y/N’s hand continuing to dance over his thigh in time with the tune, Harry lets himself play around with the score, peppering in crescendos and decrescendos as he sees fit. He draws out some of the minor phrases, hoping to wrench on his obsolete heartstrings the way he had when he first learned the piece in the early 20th century, and hovers his fingers over the bass notes as he uses the pedal to make them ring out into the living room.
Halfway through the composition, Harry realizes that he’s breathing with the phrases, timing each inhale and exhale of his lungs with the musical lines. It only takes him another two measures to realize that Y/N is doing the same, her body leaning into Harry’s as Harry leans into the instrument. And that, he finds as his jeweled fingers slide over the keys, tugs on his heartstrings more than any melody ever could.
As he approaches the end of the piece, he softens his touch, his fingertips almost ghosting over the keys as he gently presses the final notes. Harry keeps his foot hovered over the pedal, allowing the quiet cadence to fade to silence in its own time, and as it does, he can feel his body coming back into itself— which is strange, considering he hadn’t noticed the trance-like space he’d slipped into.
Y/N, however, must have noticed, because her voice is hushed and hesitant when she speaks again, waiting until the final notes have completely faded to silence, as if she’s afraid that she’s interrupting something.
“That was so beautiful, H.” She praises, her hand still rubbing over his clothed thigh. The motion would normally drive Harry mad, but for some reason, all it does to him in this moment is bring a strange lump to his throat. “What’s it called?”
In his unfamiliar haze, it takes Harry a moment to find his own voice. “Uh, Papillons.” He says through his thick accent, clearing his throat subtly as he lowers his hands to his lap. He hadn’t even realized they were still lingering over the last notes. “It means—”
“Butterflies.” The mortal girl nods in recognition, a thoughtful look over her face as she taps a finger against his trousers, her tone slightly jesting as she murmurs her next sentence. “I know enough sixth grade French to understand that. Is it a French piece, then?”
“No.” Harry jerks his head in the negative, only remembering to soften the agitated motion after it’s happened. He raises his keen eyes to meet Y/N’s, a reminder of where he is. And a reminder of who he’s with. “It’s the fifth movement in a suite by Robert Schumann— the “Polonaise,” in B-flat major. S’one of my favourites.”
“I can see why.” Y/N murmurs, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “It was wonderful, really. ‘Out of practice,’ my ass.”
Even with the residual anxiety still coursing through his veins, Harry manages to force out a chuckle at her teasing. “Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are. But Schumann has always been a favourite composer of mine—” Harry takes Y/N’s teacup from her, noting how her eyes had flickered to the ground, as if she was looking for a place to set it, and she sends him a thankful grin as he sets the cup next to his own on the end table. “—along with his wife. They were both incredibly talented musicians.”
“His wife?” Intrigue threads through Y/N’s voice as she props up an elbow on the piano, resting her chin on her loose fist as she turns her body towards Harry. “She was a musician, too?”
Harry hums affirmatively as he cracks his knuckles, flexing his fingers in his lap to loosen them from the buzzing sensation that’s still prickling his skin. “She was, yeah. They had a pretty passionate love story, y’know. That’s why his music is so beautiful— he wrote it all for her.”
Y/N doesn’t miss the reminiscent tone that seeps into Harry’s voice, and she threads her fingers through his own as her eyes widen with a gentle plea. “Will you tell me about them? Schumann and his wife?”
“I—” Hesitating at her request, Harry squeezes her hand tightly, half in affection, half in warning. “It doesn’t have much of a happy ending, darling. A bit of a tragedy, that one.”
“I want to know.” The human girl nods her head stubbornly as her eyes flash with determination. “Just because it has a sad ending doesn’t mean it’s not worth knowing.”
Harry pauses for a moment, allowing her words to fully sink into his mind and spark the beacon of hope that’s sat coldy in his head for so long. “I suppose that’s true.”
He mulls over where to begin, thinking back to all the newspaper articles he’d read about a child prodigy in Germany in the 1820s, who was the daughter of—
“So the story really begins with Friederich Wieck.” Harry’s voice falls into a smooth cadence as he begins, thumbing over Y/N’s warm knuckles absentmindedly as he recalls the information. “He was a music teacher, most known for piano, but what he really wanted to be known for was raising a child prodigy. He had a few children, but the one who filled that description was Clara, his second oldest.”
As Harry begins to spin the tale, Y/N can’t help but focus on his expression. Although his eyes are set on their linked hands, she can tell that his gaze is far away, as if he’s seeing the scene play before his eyes as he tells it. It’s fascinating, she thinks, seeing him focus so intently on something as niche as an old love story between musicians, but more than that, it’s new to her. This is a new side of him that she hasn’t seen before— not cocky, or charming, or playful. This side of him is intent, as if he wants to make sure that every word he speaks is the truth. His expression is almost as interesting as the story itself.
“Clara’s parents, Friederich and Mariane, didn’t really get along very well, and Clara had a lot of trouble when she was young; she didn’t really speak until she was four. But music always came easily to her, which made sense, considering her parents.” Harry’s free hand drifts back to the ivory keys, just resting over the lacquered surface. “Her mother was a musician, too— an accomplished singer. But after her parents split when she was five, when Mariane had an affair with a family friend, Clara was left with her father. And her father wanted to focus on her music career. He gave her hour-long lessons every day, and made her practice for two hours on top of that. She made her performance debut when she was just nine years old, in 1828, at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig.”
“Okay, wait. Pause.” Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she waits for Harry’s faraway eyes to refocus on her confused expression. “What does playing in Leipzig at age nine have to do with a love story?”
An amused laugh slips from Harry’s lips at Y/N’s impatience. “I’m getting there, sweetheart. A little bit of patience would be beneficial to you, I think. And a little bit of trust in me, yeah?”
Although she huffs a little bit, Y/N relents, squeezing Harry’s hand in acknowledgement at the phrase he always seems to end up repeating: Trust me. She vaguely wonders why it’s so important to him. “Alright, fine. Continue.”
“Thank you.” Harry swipes a hand through his tousled curls before settling it back down on the keys, running his fingertips over the smooth surface absentmindedly in the same rhythm he’s swiping over Y/N’s knuckles. “Okay, so… She played in Leipzig a few times that year, and once was at a private music party at someone’s house, where she met Robert Schumann.” At the mention of the name, Harry shoots Y/N an ‘I told you so’ look, which she meets with a roll of her eyes. “He was a gifted pianist, and was so inspired by Clara’s playing that he got permission from his mother to quit his law studies in order to study piano under Clara’s father, Friederich. So in 1830, Robert moved into the Weick household as one of Friederich’s students, and—”
“Sorry, I— pause again.” Brow furrowed, Y/N’s eyes narrow in suspicion as she mulls over Harry’s words. “So— if Clara was, like, nine—”
“Eleven, actually. It’s 1830 now, remember?”
“Alright, eleven. If Clara was eleven… You said Robert quit law school to study music.” Y/N’s narrowed eyes widen as she regards Harry, as if asking him to contradict her suspicions. “How old was Robert?”
“Around twenty, I think.” Harry says casually, lifting his shoulder in a light shrug. “He was born in 1810, so— yeah. He would’ve been twenty.”
“Twenty?” Y/N yanks her hand from Harry’s as she fully twists her body to face him, as if just hearing the horror in her voice isn’t enough. “He was twenty? I thought this was a love story?”
“It is! It’s just—”
“No, it’s not! It’s gross!” Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Y/N shakes her head harshly, her loose hair spilling over her flushing cheeks. “A twenty year old shouldn’t—”
“He didn’t! Nothing happened until they were older, love.” Harry captures Y/N’s hand within his own again, smoothing over her knuckles as he hurries to reassure her. “And it was the nineteenth century… a nine year age gap in a relationship wasn’t exactly uncommon.” For a brief moment, Harry wonders what Y/N would think if she knew just how much older he really was than her. Would she react with the same horrified expression she had now? Yank her hand from his again as she had just done?
“Yeah, well…” Y/N’s appearance is still bristled as she shoots Harry a condemning look. “There’s a difference between a nine year age gap and a child—”
“Nothing’s happened yet, sweetheart.” Harry bites back the involuntary laugh that bubbles through his chest at the indignant tone of her voice. “Now can I continue? Or do you want to yell some more?”
Although her response is grumbled, the mortal girl mutters, “Fine. Continue.” as Harry lifts her knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her hand.
“Thank you.” He lowers her hand back down to his thigh, smoothing it over his trousers before continuing where he’d left off. “So Robert studies under Clara’s father and stays with them for a year. And although Clara and Robert were just friends, Friederich could tell that they were becoming close, which he didn’t like. And before you say anything,” Harry watches as Y/N’s lips twitch into a frown. “It wasn’t because of Robert’s age. Friederich didn’t want Clara to fall in love with anyone; he just wanted her to focus on her music. He still wanted his child prodigy, you know? So he began to take her on tours through Europe. But by the time Clara was sixteen, it was clear that she and Robert had feelings for each other. They wrote countless letters to each other, signed them ‘your special friend’... And when Clara turned eighteen, Robert asked Friederich for his permission to marry his daughter. And Friederich said no, because that would ruin his plans for Clara’s music career.”
Despite her hesitation at the relationship, Y/N still mutters a quiet “Harsh.” at the story.
Harry’s hands return to the keys, but this time, they do more than hover. He begins to press a few notes slowly, letting one ring out completely before moving to the other, and it takes Y/N a few moments to realize that he’s playing an actual melody, albeit a deconstructed one.
“Because Clara wasn’t twenty-one yet, they needed her father’s permission to marry, so Robert took the case to court. And it was…” His fingers stutter over the keys for a moment as his face twists up, remembering how the story had decorated the society pages of newspapers back then. “Messy. Really messy. But in the end, Robert won the case, and he and Clara were married. And they wrote all this beautiful music together…” Harry’s left hand joins his right over the piano, moving with more intention now as he adds a quiet harmony to his slow melody line. “They weren’t good with words, but they were good with music. That’s how they communicated with each other. You can hear the love in everything they wrote, the devotion they had for each other. Listen,” He says in a hushed voice, the melody of the music becoming unbearably sweet. “D’you hear it?”
“I do.” Y/N nods softly, her fingers massaging Harry’s thigh muscle as he continues to play. It’s not a lie, either; there’s a sincerity in what Harry’s playing that twists within her chest.
Or maybe, she thinks, her eyes trained in the profile of the man beside her, it’s just Harry.
“Didn’t you…” Y/N hesitates both in her words and her motions over Harry’s leg as a new thought tugs at her mind. “Didn’t you say the story had a sad ending? That all seems good, isn’t it? Clara and Robert got married, wrote music together…”
Harry’s fingers begin to slow down, returning to the reduced melody he’d been playing previously, as if weighed down by the knowledge he’s about to share. “Uh, yeah. Robert had a lot of problems— mental health issues. Later in their marriage, he became manic, had episodes where he saw angels and demons… and he was worried he’d hurt Clara.” Harry says quietly, risking a glance at the girl beside him, who’s watching him with such wide and trusting eyes that he almost can’t bear it. Harry knows what it’s like to fear hurting the ones you care for. “He tried to kill himself, and when he was unsuccessful, he asked to be taken to an insane asylum. And he never went home again. He died there, just a few days after Clara was finally allowed to visit. S’like…” Harry’s fingers pause over the piano once more. “S’like he was waiting for her. Before going.”
Detecting the emotion in his voice, Y/N raises her hand from his thigh, smoothing back a few loose curls before gently setting her palm over the curve of his neck. “That is a bit of a tragic story, I’ll admit. To have fought so hard for each other for so long… And then to lose all of it like that…”
“Yeah.” Harry clears the lump from his throat as subtly as he can. He’s certainly no stranger to loss, to feeling helpless at being unable to save someone you love… He knows that pain all too well.
As if she can sense the darkness in his mood, Y/N rubs a comforting hand across his shoulder and down his arm, drifting over his inked skin with a warm touch. Her comment, however, is more lighthearted than her caring caress.
“I still think the age gap is a little weird. How do you go from writing letters about being ‘special friends’ to falling in love?”
Harry rises to her baited joke, doing his best to shake himself from his introspective thoughts as his fingers begin to drift over the keys once more. He focuses on just his right hand now, playing out an absentminded yet tender tune as he speaks. “So if I started to call you my special friend, you wouldn’t like it?”
“God, no— that sounds awful.” Y/N scoffs, her own hand drifting to the ivory keys. “We’re sleeping together, not making mud pies in a kindergarten class.”
Harry’s laugh is more genuine as he begins to slow down his playing, plucking only single notes that Y/N echoes in the lower register of the piano. “Alright, fine. Not special friends, then.”
“There’s just so many cooler historical ways to say we’re having sex, y’know? None of that ‘special friend’ bullshit.” Y/N continues to match Harry’s notes as best she can, wincing every so often as she plays a dissonant key. “Like… ‘lover.’ That’s a good one. Nice and simple. Or—” Her eyes light up with mirth as the thought pops into her head. “Courtesan to the queen. Not as simple, but it certainly rolls off the tongue.”
Harry quirks a brow at the suggestion. “And you’ll be the queen in question, I presume?”
“Of course. Do you have a better idea?”
“‘Paramour’ is a neat little name, don’t you think?” Harry asks, his fingers pressing down a simple perfect fourth on the piano to punctuate his question. “Sounds pretty elegant. Understated.”
“If you want understated…” Y/N matches the top note of Harry’s interval, already knowing she wouldn’t be able to match the actual notes without hurting both of their ears. “We could do what historians do when talking about ancient queer couples. Say we’re just good friends.”
The creature hums in acknowledgment at the back of his throat. “We could, yeah. Or we could be mistresses. Is there a word for a male mistress?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his lips pull into a quizzical frown. “A master?”
“Jesus Christ, never refer to yourself as a master again.” Y/N groans loudly, her fingers slipping from the keys as she feigns a shudder. “That just sounds creepy. Even creepier than a special friend. How about…” She tries her best to stifle a wry grin as a more vulgar alternative pops into her head. “The Whore of Babylon?”
“Fuck’s sake, what did I say about slut-shaming me?”
“I just thought it’d fit! It has a nice ring to it! But if it really irks you that much— Oh, wait—” She quirks her head to the side, a new wave of amusement lighting up her eyes as she thinks of her next step in their game. “What about ‘special advisor’? You know, like we’re in a historical drama, and I have a kingdom to defend from oncoming war, and you’re my most trusted advisor, and when my husband is away with the army, you and I sneak off into my chambers…”
Although he giggles boyishly at the suggestion, Harry can’t ignore the twinge of jealousy that shoots up his spine at the mention of Y/N’s— albeit imaginary— husband. He doesn’t like being referred to as her side relationship, even in an imaginary world of queens and wars. Even then, he wants to be Y/N’s first choice.
Because she’s his, he realizes, his fingers continuing to pluck out single ivory notes as a way to deal with the impending ball of tension that’s growing inside his abdomen. Even in a game, in an imaginary world, in any way imaginable— Y/N is his first choice.
He just— he wants her, in every sense of the word. And he knows all the reasons he shouldn’t— he knows how reckless it is to allow a human to get so close to him, how he’ll never truly be able to be honest with her, how he’ll always be using her for her blood, how he can’t give her the human relationship she deserves. But he can’t stop from thinking about Robert and Clara, who fought for each other from the very beginning, who persevered through every challenge thrown their way, and who still only got sixteen years together before circumstance tore them apart.
Harry is here. He is— for all intents and purposes— theoretically alive. And the girl he wants more than anyone else is right next to him. There’s no doubt in his mind that it’ll be difficult, but does he not owe it to those who ran out of time to try? At the very least? Does he not owe it to himself to fight for the happiness he’s spent so long evading, all out of fear?
He can manage that. He can manage his cravings around Y/N enough to take only what he needs, and never anything more. He can manage his double life and keep her from falling victim to the darkest corners of his mind. He can manage his strength enough to treat her as delicately as he’d treat a butterfly. He can manage the most monstrous parts of himself. He can do that for Y/N.
But only if she wants him to.
It’s that hesitation that brings a tremor to his hands as they pause over the keys, poised over the lacquered surface that he can barely tear his gaze from. “A special advisor sounds fun, yeah. Or you could…” Harry clears his throat roughly, sweat pooling across his brow as he fiddles with the opal ring on his pinky. He twists it back and forth around the digits, only managing to spare one look from the corner of his eye at Y/N’s quizzical face before dropping his stare back down to the piano.
“Or you could, um… you could just… call me your…” Say it, the voice in his head practically yells. It’s just one word. It’s not that hard. “Boyfriend. You could just call me your boyfriend.”
A heavy pause fills the air in the large room, and Harry feels like he’s being suffocated. His voice grows fainter when he detects the sudden hitch in Y/N’s breath, but nothing else. He finds himself wanting to fill the empty space between them with something, or else he might pass out from the nerves. “If you… If you want, that is. It would just keep it simple. Plain and simple.”
Plain and simple, Y/N thinks as her hands curl together in her lap, slotting between her thighs as if the pressure of her clamped legs can keep her from feeling how they shake. It would keep it plain and simple.
But when has their relationship ever been simple?
It should’ve been simple, and the mortal girl knows this. Two consenting adults, calling each other every once in a while for a bit of release— that’s simple. That kind of relationship doesn’t have any pressure. There’s no need to try and impress one another, or to meet any expectations. That kind of relationship is no muss, no fuss, and no strings attached. That was how they had started, and it had been simple. It had been easy. It had been uncomplicated.
And it also hadn’t been that way for a long time.
Y/N’s known for a while now that the line between two friends having sex and being in a committed relationship has become increasingly blurred; that was all but confirmed when Harry nearly pitched a hissy fit when he saw her coming home from her date with Jacob. But even with all of the dates, the gifts, the phone calls during her lunch breaks, the homemade dinners and drinks and desserts, even with all of that— Y/N never thought that they’d actually arrive at this moment. This moment, in Harry’s apartment, their bodies pressed together on the small piano bench, his fingers fidgeting nervously as hers are pressed between her thighs, with the word boyfriend dangling over their heads like a sword.
She can’t pretend she hasn’t thought about it, because she has. And she can’t pretend that her thinking about it doesn’t usually lead to her daydreaming about it, because it does. It’s why she spends the majority of her downtime wrapped in Harry’s rainbow cardigan, and why she’d picked out his button down shirt to wear tonight. It’s why she’s talked about him to her friends, why she’s begun to speak about him casually to her coworkers, instead of hiding in the storage closet when he calls her on her break. Because even though they aren’t together— even though they’re friends in the least and seeing each other at the most— it had been nice to pretend that either of them were capable of being more.
Y/N is no stranger to heartbreak, and she’s spent long enough studying her own commitment issues to be able to recognize them in someone else. Harry had pretty much told her in the beginning that relationships weren’t his thing, that he didn’t want to be defined by a label that could so easily be broken. And Y/N, who hadn’t opened herself up since Bradley, had been inclined to agree. Relationships are messy, and labels only bring expectations that would eventually not be met. Seeing each other is easy. Seeing each other is breezy. Seeing each other leaves room for interpretation, for allowances, for excuses to be made if one of them suddenly changes their mind. Seeing each other is plain and simple.
Boyfriend.
The truth of the matter is that Y/N shouldn’t be so terrified of such a simple word. In all forms and fashion, Harry practically already is her boyfriend— he literally calls her his girl during sex, for fuck’s sake. They do everything that a normal couple does, and have been doing it for a while now. She’s fairly certain that calling Harry her boyfriend instead of the guy she’s seeing wouldn’t actually change their relationship that much. But if she’s honest with herself, Y/N knows that it isn’t their present day situation that’s sending a cold sweat down her back. Boyfriends, from her limited experience, lead to fiancés, which lead to husbands, which lead to children and a white picket fence in an unassuming suburb. That was the exact life she’d come to L.A. to escape— how could she willingly fall back into it?
And then she hears Harry exhale shakily, his thumb fumbling with the opal ring on his pinky, and she knows exactly how she could willingly fall back into it.
This is Harry. Harry, who tells her the stupidest jokes that can somehow still make her laugh. Harry, who gives her all of his attention every moment that they’re together. Harry, who listens to every story about rude customers without complaining once, hanging onto her every word as if what she says matters more than life itself. Harry, who makes her believe that it does. Harry, with entrancing emerald eyes, shining chestnut curls, intricately inked skin, and the most comforting arms she’s ever been held in. This is Harry. Not Bradley. Bradley wanted the wife, the white picket fence, the house filled with children. Harry— as far as she can tell— just wants her. And she just wants him.
Plain and simple.
Y/N extracts one of her hands from between her legs, snaking it over Harry’s, where she captures one of his fiddling hands in her grasp. Intertwining their fingers, Y/N fixes her gaze onto his opal ring as she hesitantly swipes her thumb over his cool knuckles.
“Yeah,” She whispers the word, as if speaking any louder could break whatever it is that’s brewing between them. “Yeah, that could work. I’d really like that.”
The human girl watches from the corner of her eye as Harry’s lips, which he’d been gnawing on nervously while waiting for her response, slowly curl into a hesitant grin, as if he’s nervous to show how anxiously he’d been waiting for her to answer. He keeps his sea glass eyes glued to their tangled hands, his own fingers contracting to test their grasp.
Harry knows that it’s selfish of him to be so happy that the girl he cares for is entering into a relationship with a monster. But seeing as how he’s the monster in question, he can’t make himself feel guilty for it. All he feels is the elation that’s slowly spreading through his entire body, and the determination that’s chasing it. He can do this. He’s strong enough. He can be strong enough for her.
“Can I…” His voice is just as quiet as hers, nearly cracking at the end when he finally lifts his gaze to her heated cheeks, wide eyes, and stained lips. “Can I kiss you?”
A tender laugh falls from those stained lips as Y/N combs his curls back over his ear, dragging her thumb over the sharp lines of his jaw. “You do that all the time, so the answer is obviously yes, isn’t it?” She thumbs down the muscles in his neck, until her palm settles over the collar of his shirt to fist the fabric between her grip. “You don’t even need to ask anymore.”
“It never hurts to ask. And this time…” Harry worries his bottom lip back between his teeth before he soothes the bite mark with his tongue. “It’s different. We’re different.”
“Not too different.” Y/N leans forward until their noses nudge against each other, their mouths kept apart only by an inch. She cards her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting the locks around her digits in a way that’s so much softer than Harry thought possible. “Still us, yeah?”
The taste of honey and lavender is so thick on the back of Harry’s tongue that he’s almost choking on it, but he’s never felt less thirsty in his life. He has this under control. He can tame this. He can.
“Yeah.” He inhales deeply through his mouth, as if he were relishing the bouquet without tasting the wine, and slots their lips together with ease.
Although they’ve shared countless kisses over their months together, this might win the record for the gentlest that they’ve ever shared. There’s no rush, no animalistic need to pull Y/N closer and tighter against his body. There’s only her burning warmth, her silky skin, and her sugar and flower flavour washing out the black tea that had been lingering on his taste buds. Harry has never felt closer to being human again than he has in this moment. Right now, they’re not a predator and his prey; they’re simply two people who, against all odds, have managed to find each other. And Harry is owed this happiness. He knows he is.
The rest of the night passes in a blissful haze of comfortable domesticity. They eat dessert on Harry’s couch, feeding each other bites of raspberry sorbet in between giggles and banter. It’s something they’ve done countless times before, but there’s something different about it now; maybe it’s the fact that Harry knows that Y/N isn’t going to push him away now. She wants him. She wants him. She’s leaning into his touch every time he brushes his knuckles over her cheek, laughing at his poorly-timed jokes, gazing at him through her lashes in a way that stirs desire in the very pit of his belly. They’re comfortable together, and for the first time, Harry is realizing just how wonderful that is.
It’s the only thing on his mind as they stand side by side in front of his double vanity in his en suite, his gaze tilted to the side to watch as Y/N removes her makeup with some wipes she’d packed in her overnight bag (Harry makes a mental note on the brand so that he can pick them up the next time he finds himself near the drug store). He’s never had such casual comfort and ease with someone like this before; the last time he’d found himself in a relationship, it had been in a time where maids were required to help lace and unlace corsets and valets prepared him for bed. There was never a chance to watch as someone he cares for ties their hair back in a loose ponytail before rubbing cleanser into their skin. He never got to observe the quiet, intimate moments of someone’s bedtime routine. In the early days of their relationship, Y/N had never had a chance to properly take her makeup off before Harry was tugging her into bed, her lipstick smeared across his face as much as hers. This is his first time really witnessing that transition, and he likes it more than he thought he would.
There are, however, a few things that he knows Y/N likes before bed, and he gives her a moment of privacy to change into her pyjamas while he makes the quick trip to his kitchen to fill a tall glass with cold water. He doesn’t need to grab an extra blanket this time— he’d already made sure to toss the knit afghan onto his bed before Y/N arrived, and he finds it draped over her body when he returns to his bedroom.
“You look cozy.” He comments with a fond smile, handing the mortal girl the glass of water as he pulls back the other half of the blankets. He climbs underneath the covers, propping his elbow up on his pillow as he lies on his side to watch as she takes a sip of the drink. “Y’alright, love? Need anything else?”
Y/N shakes her head as she sets the glass down on the bedside table and settles back into her pillows, stifling a yawn into the back of her hand. She always gets sleepy after she has a few drinks, something she’d explained to Harry— much to his amusement— a few weeks prior, after a movie night at her house when he’d made his famous margaritas. They’d been having a Harry Potter marathon, and they’d barely begun the second before her eyes had started to flutter closed.
“I’m good, I think.” She tugs the blankets up to her chin, tilting her head to the side to find Harry already staring at her with a soft expression. “Actually…” Extending a hand to him, she lifts her covers off her body enough to indicate what she wants. “C’mere.”
A boyish giggle falls from the vampire’s strawberry lips, and he flicks off the lamp before crawling towards Y/N in the enveloping darkness. He folds himself right into her side, opening his own arms for her to slide into, but is surprised when her hand finds his shoulder and tugs him closer to her.
Harry takes the hint and hesitantly settles himself onto her own body, allowing the mortal girl to rest his head along her collarbones, his ear finding a home just above her beating pulse. One of her hands knots itself in his hair, delicately detangling his messy curls as the other finds a home on his naked shoulder blade, rubbing over his defined muscles with the hottest touch Harry has ever felt.
It’s a vulnerable position, one that Harry hasn’t been in for decades. And yet, instead of feeling the usual mix of fear and trepidation, all Harry can feel is comfort. The combined sensation of Y/N playing with his hair and massaging his shoulder is more pleasurable than he ever could’ve assumed. A month ago, that would have confused him. But now… he exhales softly as Y/N’s nails lightly scratch along his scalp. He can be vulnerable with her. He trusts her. And, to his extreme luck, she seems to trust him.
A few minutes pass with nothing said between the pair, the silence around them punctuated with only the sound of their breathing and Y/N’s lone heartbeat. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think that Y/N had fallen asleep, but his sharp senses know that’s not true; her pulse is still a few beats faster than it normally is, and her breathing hasn’t completely evened out yet.
Sure enough, Harry’s suspicions are confirmed when Y/N whispers into the darkness a moment later, as if she could hear him mentally assessing her body language. “Harry?” Her voice is gentle, halfway between a whisper and a murmur, as if she’s afraid to be any louder. “Are you awake?”
Harry bites back the smirk that threatens to overtake his lips. “Mhmm.” He hums, nuzzling his head further into Y/N’s caring touch. “Still awake.”
She matches his hum of acknowledgement, the pads of her fingers pressing deeper into the knots of his back. “I was wondering…” Her voice thickens with hesitation. “Would you, um, would you sing for me?”
Without completely lifting himself from her chest, Harry raises his eyes to meet her own, her fingers pausing their motions through his locks as he does so. “Sing?” He asks, taken off guard by the out-of-the-blue request. “Y’want me to sing?”
Although there’s a shadow of shyness across her face, Y/N nods slowly. “I heard you humming earlier today, while you were cooking, and it sounded nice, so I was just thinking about it…” She clears her throat nervously, and Harry can hear the wave of blood that rises to her cheeks. “But you don’t have to. I know it’s late—”
“No, petal.” Harry hurries to ease her, a frown settling onto his face as he hears her breathing grow shallower with anxiety. “S’fine. No need to get shy.” Harry is amazed at how smoothly the reassurance falls from his lips. “Yeah, I’ll sing for you. Any requests?”
Despite him telling her not to be shy, Y/N just shrugs her shoulders in response to his question, her eyes locked on the ceiling above them as if she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze. Harry plants a kiss along her clavicle before settling back into her plush chest, mentally running through the catalogue of songs he’d been humming earlier. He should pick something soft, he thinks. Something like a lullaby.
Y/N resumes her gentle combing through Harry’s locks, mostly to distract herself from his thoughtful silence. She shouldn’t have asked him to sing something— he’d made it clear earlier that playing the piano for people was something that made him nervous. They’d sung together playfully multiple times, and Y/N could tell that Harry has a pretty voice, but half-singing, half-rapping along to the Hamilton soundtrack is so different than singing to her in the darkness of his bedroom. She shouldn’t have asked. In fact, she should tell him to just forget it, and—
“I had a thought, dear, however scary, about that night, the bugs and the dirt.” Harry’s low vibrato echoes around the previously silent room, his voice no louder than a murmur. Y/N can feel the vibrations of his vocal chords against her chest, a quiet hum that soothes her like nothing else ever has. “Why were you digging? What did you bury, before those hands pulled me from the Earth?”
Harry clears his throat quietly between the stanzas, his own eyes drifting close. He’s never been one for stage fright— he’s always been eager to show off his vocal skills, and there’d been a time when all he wanted was to sing on stage in a smoky speakeasy. But this— singing in the quiet of his bedroom for an audience of one— is more intimate than he’s used to, and he knows if he catches Y/N’s observant gaze right now, he’ll lose his nerve.
“I will not ask you where you came from; I will not ask and neither should you.” Harry tunes his ear to the steady pulse of Y/N’s heart, using the rhythm as a makeshift metronome to keep his time. To keep himself steady. “Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips; we should just kiss like real people do.”
Harry feels a spike of warmth against the top of his head, and it takes him a moment longer than normal to realize that it’s Y/N’s lips pressing against his hair. As he continues to sing, she times her caresses of his ringlets with the beat of his words, which he keeps timed with the beat of her heart. They’re in a cycle, he realizes as he quietly sings the second verse into her skin. She’s lined up with him as he lines up with her. They’re locked together, steadying the other while relying on them to keep them steady in return. For the first time in two hundred years, Harry feels truly in sync with someone.
“Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,” Y/N’s mouth smudges against his temple once more as he nudges his nose along the base of her throat, allowing himself to press his own lips against the satin skin of her chest, just over her heart. He feels like he could stay in this moment forever, which means something given that he truly does have forever. He’d spend every second of the rest of eternity frozen in this instant, if the world allowed it. He’s content, and relaxed, and cradled in his duvet with the one other soul who has somehow managed to thaw the coldness from his stony heart. For the first time in too long, he feels like an actual person again. He isn’t bogged down by his carnal instincts, or by the fear of losing his composure, or by the fact that he doesn’t have a thumping rhythm behind his ribs.
He doesn’t need all of that because he has Y/N, and she makes him feel more real than all of those aspects ever could.
“We could just kiss like real people do.”
#harry styles#harry styles x reader#harry styles x you#harry styles x y/n#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fic#harry styles imagine#harry styles fluff#harry styles angst#harry styles smut#vampire!harry styles#vampire au#one direction fanfiction#one direction fic#one direction imagine#harry styles au#writing#ysijwa
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NXX Mystery Theater: Once Upon (Several) Midnights Dreary (Part 4)
Please check out the previous parts in the Masterlist.
Vyn needs his beauty sleep! The shenanigans have kept him from getting his full nine hours for the last three days. Let the doctor and the detective (Luke) get some rest this time!
Or not
Rosa's Notes (Currently Known Facts)
- NXX Investigative Team is in the small coastal island of [REDACTED] to chase a lead about a clandestine laboratory purportedly used to conduct human experiments related to NXX cases
- Artem Wing is currently missing
- Mobile phones are cut off from the network carrier, rendering them useless
- The loss of network carrier connection is attributed to interference, whose nature is not yet established
- The Leiseg patriarch, Kristoff and Laurent Leiseg's father, is dead
- The Leiseg patriarch was killed with a firearm or any other ballistics weapon
- The NXX Team was on house arrest from 11 AM to 7 PM of Day 2
- There are two active staff at a time tending to the two mansions in the island (Main and guest lodgings). One butler and one maid
- Leiseg firstborn Kristoff Leiseg considers Artem Wing as a suspect to Leiseg patriarch's death
----------------
- There is a dense area in the forest with deafening silence that may cause symptoms similar to tinnitus
- Laurent is hiding something re: the thicker part of the forest
- Five bodies dead in the cabin resthouse for groundskeepers. (It is later established that they were the groundskeepers working for the Leisegs - Vyn)
- Shot at point blank with a ballistics weapon, possibly shotgun. Some of the faces are only partially identifiable.
- According to Vyn's assessment of the state of the corpse's rigor mortis, the groundskeepers were killed within the window of morning until before evening of Day 2.
- After the discovery of the second murders, all occupants of the island including NXX Team are now occupying the main mansion along with the remaining Leiseg sons Kristoff and Laurent.
Day 4: Daytime Phase (The Portraiture)
08:12 AM
After a rather tense yet uneventful breakfast at 6 AM, it was decided that Vyn be allowed to sleep in for a bit, with Luke staying in the room with him for insurance.
Last night the NXX team had been given a single bedroom to spend their nights in the main mansion. This was upon Vyn's rather strong recommendation for everyone currently in the island to stay put in a single location to better look after each other.
Or, if needed, to watch each other.
While still relatively comfortable, the room was getting quite cramped as it is.
And so Marius and Rosa decided to stretch their legs a bit and walk around the mansion, letting themselves familiarize with the layout of the place, just in case.
Accompanying them was Sarah, the housekeeper working for the Leisegs.
"How do you even manage, Sarah?" was Rosa's question after the maid mentioned about being in charge of general upkeep for both mansions.
"It's not really difficult, Madam," Sarah said as they made their way down the corridor where the NXX's room was located. "It doesn't look like it, but the cleaning for both mansions are automated, and can be managed remotely if required."
Rosa thought about the lone vacuum robot deployed in the NXX Headquarters. "Oh, like those automated vacuum robots?"
"That, among other things, yes."
"Whatever system it is, it's quite well hidden though," Marius noted. "I haven't seen any automated cleaning devices roaming around yet. Not even in the first building that we stayed in."
"Unless you roam around after midnight until before 4 am, you will not see any of them," Sarah said as she stepped aside to let Rosa and Marius get ahead of her as they were approaching the stairs leading to the foyer. "This way please."
"Interesting..." Marius muttered to himself, thinking.
The foyer was already quite dark when they were shown to their room last night, so the large, almost life-sized family portrait hanging over the center of the grand staircase took Rosa by surprise.
There were four people in the portrait: Standing at the back was a graying man in well into his fifties, who Rosa supposed was the patriarch.
Two blond boys in their late teens: Kristoff and Laurent, both flanking a red plush chair on which a preteen young girl with black hair and blue eyes was seated.
"Sarah," Rosa began, "The girl in the portrait. Who is she?"
"Oh, um." the question seemed to take Sarah by surprise. "She's the youngest daughter--"
"She is my sister, Cerin," Kristoff's voice cut in from the bottom of the staircase. "Sarah, you may take your leave now. I will need to speak with these two."
"Of course." Sarah took a small bow and hurriedly descended the stairs, going off towards the blockaded entrance of the mansion's west wing.
Rosa and Marius approached Kristoff, who regarded them both coolly.
"You said you need to speak with us?" Marius said. "What about?"
"Nothing really," Kristoff said. "I just heard you inquiring about my sister. I saw it fit for you to get the information from an actual family member and not one of the staff."
"Oh...Thank you, Kristoff." Rosa said. Indeed, it seemed like a courteous gesture coming from someone who had been on the receiving end of Vyn's scathing one-man inquisition the previous evening.
As expected, Kristoff had completely denied the existence of a laboratory in the island, or any such facility used to conduct any illegal experiments.
Rosa had supposed that Vyn also expected Kristoff to not admit to anything, but was instead aiming for the man to eventually slip and provide opening for any further questioning.
Alas, Kristoff was as guarded as they come, and even if Vyn could tell the man was lying, there was no way they could twist the truth out of the Leiseg first born.
They were indeed lucky that Kristoff still had enough graces in him to assign them a room in the main mansion, in agreement to Vyn's recommendation.
"If I may ask, where is your sister now?" Rosa asked.
"She is overseas, studying," Kristoff answered, voice curt. "That is all you need to know about her."
"Oh, right." Marius cut in. "How is Laurent? He...he didn't look good since what happened yesterday."
"My brother is recuperating in his room," Kristoff said, face pensive. "I doubt he will recover from the shock anytime soon. The discovery of the grisly scene is something that no one should ever go through."
"That, I have to agree," Marius concurred. "Since we are cut off from the network, do we have any means of contacting for help? Like the police?"
"No, unfortunately." Kristoff said. "My...father required utmost privacy after hightailing us out of Svart. We will need to wait it out until communication services are restored."
"About that..." Marius mulled whether or not he should speak more on the matter, but the desire to pick Kristoff's mind won out. "It is not just mobile network services that have been cut off. I have direct access to satellite, and even that is cut off as well."
"Which would mean...?"
"Basically this is an active interference, Kristoff, not just a matter of simply losing access to the network." Marius said. "I thought you should know, in case you didn't yet."
"It is true that I am not aware of it, yes," Kristoff crossed his arms. "And so? Supposing the signals are actively blocked--"
"Then we can fix it. That's my point." Marius said. "But we need to look at possible locations where an elaborate set up like that can be placed. Do you have an idea?"
"No. Nothing that comes to mind. I don't even know what is causing the block, as it were."
"Ah, too bad." Marius scratched his head. "Back to square one for that, I suppose."
"And what about the matter of your missing friend? Any word about it?" Kristoff asked, as if he did not strongly express his accusation about Artem being a suspect in the murders.
"None so far." Marius crossed his arms. "If you're fishing for info, I'm giving it to you now. We haven't seen him, and while we're worried about him the fact that his body hasn't turned up yet is, well...at least Vyn is still able to find it in himself to sleep."
Kristoff's lips curled in distaste at the mention of Vyn's name. "Imagine seeing the runaway Haspran here. Of all places. As if the politics that my father was desperate to run away from has chased us all the way here."
"Um, if I may," Rosa finally chimed in. "You don't know this, but Vyn--Vilhelm--deserted Svart because he felt the same towards the nobility. I'm sure both of you would have hit it off well if you had met under better circumstances."
Kristoff frowned. "Don't act as if you know me. You outsiders do not know the pain our family has gone through," he hissed. "My father alone has tried to pull our family from the brink, starting life anew in an island after being treated as outcasts due to differences in philosophy, and what has he to show for it? Decomposing and stinking up the entire west wing of his very home, not even getting the dignity of burial he deserves?"
That promptly shut Rosa up.
"Don't take it out on Rosa, man," Marius said, voice steely. "I mean, yeah, I don't blame you, but she meant well."
"I would be more civil if it weren't for the fact that six bodies are decomposing in this island as we speak," Kristoff's voice was low, but terse. "I would be more civil if we didn't have an unknown killer with an unknown motive, so please forgive me for being this way. I have been thrust into this very difficult role myself, now that my father is gone, and Laurent too traumatized to be of any help."
It was becoming obvious to Rosa that Kristoff was already close to breaking point. If he did break down, is there anything left of Leiseg family who could still function?
Her gaze flits towards the black-haired young girl in the portrait. I wonder how she'll take it once she finds out what's been happening here, in her absence.
Day 4: Daytime Phase (The Exploration)
8:31 AM
After Marius and Rosa have left them to their own devices, Vyn once again tossed Luke another candy to ask if the place was bugged.
This time, it was an affirmative. "Yes," Luke said as he sucked on the strawberry-flavored candy. "I mean, yes. It's delicious. Give me more."
Vyn groaned as he rolled in bed, pulling a nearby pillow and burying his head underneath it. "Ah to hell with it. I cannot sleep," came his muffled voice from under the pillow.
But of course. They were in the main mansion after all, and those in charge of the family's safety may understandably be concerned about the...behavior of their guests.
"I'm trying to ration out the candies, Luke, unfortunately," came Vyn's flat voice as he tossed the pillow he just grabbed aside.
I should have devised a coded language instead with Luke. He seems well adapted for that kind of practice. If only I had the time.
"...Well, if you can't sleep, want to walk around like Marius and Rosa are doing right now?" Luke asked. "Though really, I'd rather you rest up as much as you still can. I mean..." Luke struggled to filter his message into something innocuous for the devices listening into or recording their conversation. "It's probably going to become hectic from here on out."
"I know. But I cannot help it," Vyn sighed, then bleary eyed he reached to the bedstand for his glasses. "You know what, let us follow Marius and Rosa."
"Agreed."
===
But of course, they did not look for Marius and Rosa. That was only mentioned for the listening devices to pick up.
With Laurent debilitated, all five groundskeepers killed, Kristoff most likely preoccupied with the chaos of the situation, the island was now essentially free estate for their exploration.
Luke was a lightfoot thanks to his NSB training, and he easily moved through the thick, untamed (or carefully cultivated to be untamed) forest as easily as he would an urban jungle.
However Luke did not count on Vyn, the usually mild-mannered, sarcastic doctor to keep in step, even toe-to-toe with him.
Luke also did not expect to see Vyn move about like an experienced hunter in his element in the forest, effortlessly slicing through obstacles like vines and dense foliage with a karambit knife in hand.
"Vyn, tell me something," Luke whispered as they scaled a large log on the way to the other side of a dried-up river.
"Go on."
"Are you sure you're Dr. Richter that we all know and not love, or are you the body snatcher who is killing us off one by one?"
"Heh. If you must know more, ask Rosa." Vyn would have given Luke his usual self-satisfied smirk, if it weren't for the gravity of the situation at hand.
"Tell me, Mr. Body Snatcher, what were Vyn's last words before you killed him?" Luke murmured, totally ignoring what Vyn just said. "Was it 'oh woe is me, tell my Rose I love her', or something that needs a thesaurus to decipher?" he deadpanned as he sliced through a thick fern with his survival knife.
"Do shut up," Vyn muttered. "I am in no mood for gallows humor while we are stuck here in this island."
"Sorry, just trying to cope with a bit of sense of humor, is all."
"I know. Your sense of humor just needs a lot of work."
"Anyway, I think we're finally back here," Luke murmured. "That spot that's eerily quiet. Are your ears ringing?"
"As long as we keep quiet, yes."
"I don't like how it's suddenly quiet here." Luke said. "Hang on, stay put there--I just need to confirm something."
Luke then took his knife out and backtracked his steps, tapping his knife at the wood every few steps. He did this for until he is at least several paces away from Vyn. Tap tap. "Okay."
Tap tap.
Tap TAP. The sound of his knife tapping suddenly became more resonant, with a fuller sound, as long as Luke kept to a certain distance away from Vyn.
Then he tried walking towards Vyn again, and the sound once again thinned out, with the white noise of tinnitus filling his ears.
"I can't say anything definite yet," Luke said, "But I think we've entered an aural version of a thermocline. You know--"
"Yes, I know what a thermocline is, even if I do not do diving myself," Vyn said, urging Luke to hurry up and cut to the chase. "And?"
"I don't know what purpose it serves, but it's like there is a sphere, that we are currently in, which has a sound dampener--I mean, apart from the forest itself. The tinnitus we're hearing is from our eardrums being affected by whatever that is."
"That is indeed puzzling." Vyn tried tapping at log with his karambit, and true enough the sound that came out was thinner than expected. "Do you have any ideas as to why? Maybe in relation to what we're looking for?"
"Like I said, no idea," Luke muttered. "I'm wondering if its a manifestation of extreme levels of EM, but that's not really an expected behavior."
"Then we will be better off forging on into the thick of things," Vyn said as he stretched his arms and shrugged to crack his neck joints. "Let us go."
===
"Well, shit."
"Shit indeed."
"Hit jackpot?"
"I think we did, yes."
Luke and Vyn had just spent around half an hour traversing the thickest part of the forest, which Laurent had tried his hardest to avoid and draw their attention away from.
Sure enough, as soon as they emerged from what felt like the thickest layer of verdure, they find themselves standing in front of what is, unmistakably, a construct of metal, concrete, and glass.
A modern building right smack in the middle of a dense forest.
"I guess this is what we're looking for, eh Vyn?"
"Yes. Make sure to take as many pictures as you can, in several angles. I would like enough for me to base a 3D model on."
"Gotcha."
After cursory check on the premises, and Luke confirming that there were no crazy installations like automated turrets or anything of the sort that he could at least identify, Vyn set out to work.
He went around the building to check for any possible entry points, making sure to keep by the surrounding greenery and in shadow as much as possible.
There.
Vyn spied a window that was large enough to climb in, provided that he had the right tools to cut through it. He expected Luke to have them on his person, so he decided to stay put and content himself with peeking through the window as he waited for Luke to be done with gathering photo evidences.
Then he saw something very interesting.
Ah. No more damning evidence than this. Vyn suddenly felt his lips go dry; he unconsciously ran his tongue over his now chapped lips.
For in his sights, clear for anyone who could be looking in through the window to see, was a teenaged, black-haired girl hooked to several apparatus. She also seemed to be on an assisted breathing machine, and her limbs were indicative of some sort of wasting disease.
"Finally."
#tears of themis#vyn richter#mo yi#artem wing#luke pearce#marius von hagen#tears of themis fanfic#xia yan#lu jinghe#zuo ran#tot vyn#tot marius#tot luke#tot artem
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the devil judge + the seven deadly sins
so, i made a gifset about who i thought falls under the seven deadly sins. and also shameless plug - please go reblog the gifset i made for this. took me ages to do.
but i figured i might as well make a meta post to correlate. so this is that post. it’s not everything i could discuss. i could be here for hours more, truth be told. but i hope it’s enough to chew on.
while i feel like a lot of these are going to be a no-brainer, i still want to talk it through because idk. i can, and i want to, and i feel like it, lmao.
gluttony
the elite are privileged and have an opportunity to indulge so much more than the general public, but in many different ways. this is shown throughout the show in the fact that they can indulge on luxury food, have political power, they can make a phone call or snap their fingers and everyone must follow their orders.
and the thing about gluttony is that there is always more to be had. you take a little and then realize it’s not enough and so you ask for more. case in point: in episode 11 when sunah suggests that yohan could be the new president, the current one gives her an alternative: dictatorship. because it wasn’t just enough for him to be an actor and the presiding president.
you’ll also know they turn in on themselves - the two other guys in the elite group. one who owns the company and the other dude - i really cannot remember their names and what they do, but y’all know who i’m talking about. it was so easy for them, when threatened, to fabricate documents to give to yohan about each other in order to get ahead. gluttony is only shared in the relationships we have until one realizes they can take a little extra of the pie. it’s the selfishness of having all the leftovers. gluttony cannot necessarily exist without someone else’s sacrifice.
lust
i kind of had an ah-ah moment when i was talking this over with @technitango. i was trying to decide who was going to be lust because lust is portrayed very, very differently in this show than what most of us are used to. we, of course, know sunah who lusts after a life of indulgence and riches because she equates that with respect more than actually wanting it because it’s monetarily worth something.
but then i realized the public is lust because of their need for justice. i won’t say revenge necessarily because they’re doing as they’re told when given the judge show. but we can quickly see how that evaporates into something akin to bloodlust, for criminals and people who normally get away with shit, to have their fair taste at conviction for their misdeeds. we even see it with yohan’s fanboy club - the lust that comes from adoration and dedication.
and even more so, the public is easily swayed and so is the nature of lust. it follows in the vein of needs and wants, and as soon as new information is presented, however may false, so does the wants and desires of what people want sway. how easy was it for them to turn on yohan for a split second on two occasions - on two accounts of bribery.
envy
envy, above all, is about wanting what others have because you do not have it yourself. it may not be exactly what they have, but a form of it. some people don’t necessarily want money - they want what it can by, which is time, health and material goods.
sunah is the perfect example of this. she envies respect and recognition. she talks about bright and shiny objects, and that’s true to her kleptomania tendences, but more than anything, she wants to be seen as an equal because being poor with a vastly different upbringing means she’s looked down upon by those she thinks matters.
which also begs the question why she feels the need to seek validation from people in higher statuses to begin with when she can be the exception and not the rule - form her own understanding and environment to show others that the typical way of the elite is not actually all it’s cracked up to be - to which we see when she has no one to celebrate her victory with. it’s lonely being at the top. you get to your goal you thought you wanted but then what?
more importantly, sunah also envies family, relationships and simply put, human interaction. she wants to be cared for and treasured, and she looks for that in her position of power. because then all eyes are on you. because then that’s what people care about. what she fails to see is that those eyes are just as fruitless and just as wavering. to be a leader means people loving the idea of you but not you as a person.
“people of envious nature are sometimes stimulated to seek to emulate those who have completed some great achievements and in doing so achieve something great for themselves,” according to Understanding Philosophy.
wrath
while i realize that gaon not might entirely fit the wrath trope, he certainly has his moments, and i think he’s lived with a tampered flame since his parent’s death. he just learned to briefly put it out in the form of distractions and a false sense of righteousness and justice. it isn’t until he meets yohan that someone finally gives him the okay to feel the entirety of his emotions, that lets him breath and tells him it’s okay to feel anger and hurt. and while gaon ultimately chooses not to exact revenge, his wrath is what led him to becoming a judge and walking away from his teenage crimality.
gaon transposed his wrath into seeking justice, transformed it into livelihood, and reformed his narrative so that he was no longer angry and a teen with rash emotions. it was simply redirected and never really forgotten. yohan turned that redirection back around onto gaon’s ultimate heartache. fueled with that, it became easier to justify himself and his actions.
the most pivotal moment of turning his back on this mindset is, of course, the minister’s suicide, where he takes a good look at himself and doesn’t like what he sees. at this point, gaon’s upset isn’t necessarily at yohan but at the situation in which they got themselves into. because the thing is, gaon doesn’t absolve himself from what they did. he doesn’t turn a blind eye to that and try to dismiss it. he owns up to what happened and confesses how he feels to yohan and how he has to leave for his own good, and in some indirect way, for yohan’s, too.
with yohan, his ultimately weakness, despite never admitting to it, is family. his wrath comes in the form of anger when the ones he loves are threatened. yohan lives by a moral code of loyalty because that means you won’t be abandoned, and as a child who lived with that verdict since the day he was born, it’s an ever-pressing theme of his.
thing is, wrath comes in two particular forms for yohan. again, one is family and the second is the rose-colored glasses he’s given himself in his revenge story. he’s always had a goal to presumably make right the wrong for taking away isaac, but within that, 10 years is a long time to plot revenge, to the point where it becomes so much easier to lose yourself to that, to become enraged with it and forget the initial goal all along. we see this in his inability to form the bonding moments needed with his niece and his casual throwaway comments over people’s lives - the comment he made to gaon about moving on to the next plan, and the ultimately nail in the coffin of pushing gaon to leaving him.
his fury has also led him to convince himself his own humanity is nothing short of a lie. therefore, it’s easier to justify the means to an end because of his own self-worth and self-deprecation. it’s almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy: he even admitted to gaon’s mentor that he is an abyss. he’s referred to himself as nothing but an animal or a monster - all characteristics of despondency to survive and to justify what he’s doing. sort of like a catch 22, yohan claims he’s an animal/monster and behaves as such, but because he behaves as such, it means he’s an animal/monster.
wrath for gaon and yohan are very different yet the same. they are slow-burning, and that’s a dangerous type. it’s actually interesting when you think about the fire imagery surrounding the two of them because flames are quick to lap at anything in its wake, to destroy within a matter of minutes. and yet for the two of these men, their internal fire eats them from the inside out, painfully, until they’re almost unrecognizable to others and to themselves.
sloth
sloth was a little more difficult to pinpoint because of its characteristics. it was either the minister versus the mentor, both of which i think could work in this role. however, i chose the minister simply because she’s featured more and intertwines heavily with the plot line.
soth is a medieval translation of the Latin term acedia, meaning “without care.”
the ultimate characteristic of sloth is often identified as laziness, and while it’s easy to argue that the minister hasn’t been lazy in her ability to get where she is, she became as much when she started lying to get to her position. isn’t lying known as the easier way out? it absolves you of responsibility, of putting in the hard work, of apologizing and making things right. in the end, she had a goal and found the easiest solution to get there through her lack of responsibility for the roles she more than likely swore an oath to.
but that also translates into the other attributes of sloth: a failure to do the right thing, lack of emotions for people or of the self, and the fact that it “hinders man in his righteous undertakings and thus becomes a terrible source of man’s undoing” according to The Seven Deadly Sins: Society and Evil.
while i think there are a lot of components of sloth that may not necessarily fit the minister, the apathy and carelessness are enough to showcase her aggression, despondency and restlessness when what little efforts she does put in do not go her way. another interesting thing to note is that many of sloth’s traits correspond with symptoms of mental illness, such as depression and anxiety. it’s an interesting thing to note given the way the minister chooses to end her life.
greed
i don’t know that jinjoo would’ve had any provocation to the limelight if it wasn’t for sunah’s direction, but she’s eager to please and wants to be useful. it’s only natural for her to want more because it’s clear she’s a career woman, loves her job and has a heart for serving the people.
but like gluttony, greed is also that little thing that plants itself and can take on a life of its own. you start looking for justifications as to why you can’t have more than what you do, and in jinjoo’s situation, she’s already overlooked through no fault of her own. and it’s not that gaon and yohan are doing it purposefully, which is what makes their neglect heartbreaking, because truthfully, they’re after the same thing jinoo is. sure, it looks different and the foundation of it is different, same with their motives. but they’re all three judges on a residing bench working to exact justice - even if all three of them have their own personal agenda.
i don’t think jinoo fully aligns with greed, but she does want more for herself, and i think that’s only natural. you can tell she has a heart, and she’s keen not to be overlooked. this isn’t her pain point so much as it is she knows her worth and is more than ready to do what it takes to get where she wants. this, in and of itself, isn’t necessarily a bad trait, but we can see how it leads to being deceived, especially for someone who’s been left in the dark for so long.
she is enticed by the glitz and the glamour of being a head judge, but you can tell she feels some remorse and guilt for those thoughts at times. i think her sense of greed is a battle within herself more than it is extremely outwardly.
pride
soohyun’s pride comes in the form of her imbalance with right and wrong. her sense of righteousness and justice is so far leaning, even more than gaon’s. it can be chalked up to her being a cop, but we’ve seen instances of this outside of her role within that agency. her pride doesn’t let her see beyond saving gaon and getting to the bottom of every mystery that comes her way.
it also comes in the form of impulsiveness and her savior complex, putting elijah in danger, for example, instead of waiting for backup. it’s not necessarily from a belief that she can fix things all on her own, but she sees injustice and immediately jumps in. another case in point is her and gaon watching yohan wreck the minister’s son’s car. she’s ready to go stop him, but gaon pulls her back, most likely because at that point, they hadn’t been observing the situation for very long to get a read on it. also the fact that at that point, neither of them truly knew yohan and his capabilities.
but as to where her characteristics come from, we simply don’t know beyond that of gaon. it’s unfortunate because we don’t have much of her backstory, so there is no real understanding why she so firmly believes in entities of regulation beyond keeping her friend out of jail. she prides herself on her work and what she’s able to accomplish, which is why it’s devastating to her to have to protect gaon by cleaning up his bloody handprint.
aristotle is of the belief that, “pride, then, seems to be a sort of crown of the virtues; for it makes them greater, and it is not found without them. Therefore it is hard to be truly proud; for it is impossible without nobility and goodness of character,” from Nicomachean Ethics.
but pride for soohyun isn’t about honors or rewards. it’s for herself and her capabilities, her ability to protect gaon, and the virtues she’s set as the precedent for herself. because sometimes it’s not even about establishing morals and ethics upon yourself. it’s about feelings/intuition, logic and observation. and no, i don’t mean the feelings she has for gaon. there are things that humans do, both actions and words, that we inherently know are bad without someone telling us as much and without the rules of the world seared into our brains. there are some things we know, for a fact, are wrong to us as individuals.
for soohyun, she knows that gaon’s actions, and even her own, have consequences. from what we’ve seen, i think it can be argued that it’s really about not doing those actions to prevent an outcome - not necessarily from a place of being just and right. that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand good morals/ethics, but again, we have no background of what her internal guidance actually is.
to put this in layman’s terms, we’ll use gaon wanting to stab the conman in his youth. soohyun knows it’s wrong because it will incriminate gaon and therefore she stops it. gaon’s gone to her because he sees her as a moral compass. but is her own internal navigation rooted in justice the way gaon had to find it in the judicial system, or is hers rooted in her pride of keeping gaon safe? she stops him from doing things that will get him in trouble, but is she stopping him because the action itself is wrong or because the outcome will result in undesirable consequences for the two of them?
and of course, there is a flipped argument to be had there - i’m not arguing that gaon stabbing the conman would be right or justified. but what i am saying is that for her, her worldview is the only right one, and when anyone steps out of that, even gaon, it becomes a bit of an issue: the pride she has for that is palpable.
every character indulges
truthfully, every character has at least one form of these sins rooted in their characterization. some are larger than others, but the breadth of it can be explored even further for each. and that’s what makes them more realistic and not just characters written on a page or following a linear progression of their writing deity.
the seven deadly sins are also notoriously rooted in religion. they’re also a defining feature of aristotle’s works that represent the golden mean, in which each vice is parallel to a virtue.
the devil judge is so layered, but i think at the heart of it, it’s about humanity at its core. sprinked in are the philosophies and contradictions and what it means to look in the mirror, what happens when we’re blind to seeing our true selves and most importantly, how much changes when we’re swayed by our own misgivings. it really asks us to understand nature versus nurture, that people must find a belief in something to keep them going, and how futile our hopes and desires can actually be if we’re not carefully regulating ourselves, nevermind the entities established by society to regulate us, too.
the entirety of the show genuinely begs the question as to who is truly right, who is truly wrong, and if it’s even possible to find the correct answer.
#x#the devil judge#the devil judge meta#*#*the devil judge#so i have some Thoughts#probably not very good ones but ya know
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Only One Choice, Chapter 6
Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic
Mulder stands at the coffee pot in the bureau break room, pouring a mug full of the shitty burnt bean water and thinking back to the look on Scully’s face as he told her about the Icy Cape X file.
Valerie had always shown interest in his work, but she had her limits. She listened politely, but if he mentioned details like black nodules she made a face and told him he was going to ruin her dinner. It’s understandable that people would be turned off by the nitty gritty of his work; heck, even the Gunmen ask him to tone it down sometimes. But Scully displayed only fascination and curiosity. He suspects he could tell her about the Tooms case and she’d be more interested in discussing the plausibility of a one-hundred-twenty year old man than she’d be disgusted that he stuck his hand in bile.
“Who is she?”
He turns to see Agent Kissop, one of the more senior analysts on the team, smiling at him over her bifocals.
“I’m sorry?” he asks.
“You’ve been staring at that coffee pot with a shit-eating grin on your face for the last ten minutes. Only reason a man does that is if he has a lady on his mind. So who is she?” Kissop asks pointedly.
Mulder blushes and her smile broadens.
“I’m glad to see you putting yourself out there again, Agent Mulder,” she says with a maternal pat to his arm. “Sweet guy like you deserves to be with someone who makes him happy.”
He smiles politely and escapes to his desk, disappointment gripping his chest. He’s got someone on his mind, alright, but he’ll never be with her. Trying to put Scully out of his thoughts, he logs in to check his email. Among requests for updates on various cases, a message from HR about his 401k, and a reminder not to store entire gallons of milk in the shared refrigerator, he sees an email that makes his heart leap into his throat.
He swallows hard and opens it, hoping against hope that it is what he thinks it is.
From: [email protected]
Sent: July 1, 1996 11:36am
Subject: X Files
Hi Mulder,
I hope you enjoyed the rest of your sunday.
If the offer still stands, I’d love to take a look at those X Files of yours. Perhaps one weekend? It’s hard for me to squeeze anything in on weeknights with my commute to Quantico. It just occurred to me that I don’t know where you live, either.
Anyway, let me know. Take care.
Scully
If Kissop thought he was smiling like an idiot before, she should see him now. He feels like doing a fist-pump, or a touchdown dance. Oh god, she’s going to come by his apartment, he needs to clean. What if Priscilla takes one of her colossal stinky shits while Scully’s there? Jesus Christ, he’s getting ahead of himself.
He hits reply and spends forty-five minutes writing and rewriting his response.
————
She’d written the email the moment she got to the office at 7:00 am, then left it in drafts for hours, re-reading it and changing a word here and there, adding and removing different parts. Should she sign it “sincerely, Scully,” or maybe “regards, Scully”? Or should she sign it Dana? He doesn’t call her Dana.
Maybe she shouldn’t send it at all. Isn’t it inappropriate to meet with a male coworker alone in his apartment, given that she’s engaged? But this is about work. It holds scientific significance. She wants to see the files, not Mulder. Right?
Finally she couldn't take it anymore and hit send, immediately going to her outbox to see if she could still call it back, but it was too late. Now all she can do is wait. Wait, wait, wait. She checks her email compulsively between classes and autopsies. What if he never responds? Finally, just after 1:00 pm, it arrives.
From: [email protected]
Sent: July 1, 1996 1:19pm
subject: RE: X Files
Scully,
I’d admonish you for discussing this via a monitored channel, but then you’d remind me that I very specifically told you to email me.
I’m free this Saturday, if you’d like to come by. Anytime is fine, but let’s say 6 so we can justify having a drink. I hope you’re partial to shitty beer.
I live in Alexandria, at 2630 Hegal Place, apartment 42. Don’t let the dilapidated exterior fool you; it’s a very respectable slum.
Talk to you soon,
Mulder
She bites at her lips, trying to fight off the flush of delight she feels as she reads his reply over and over. Should she just admit that she has a giant crush on him? Probably. It’s not illegal to have a crush as long as she has no intention of doing anything about it. Maybe his apartment will be filthy, or plastered with Star Trek paraphernalia, and it will effectively quash her affection for him. She can only hope. She hits reply, and this time doesn’t hesitate to send it right away.
———
Her reply is waiting for him when he returns from his lunch break, and he smiles before he even opens it.
From: [email protected]
Sent: July 1, 1996 1:31pm
Subject: RE:RE: X Files
Mulder,
Forgive me for neglecting to speak in code. Perhaps we should establish one for future need?
Saturday at six sounds great. Who told you about my affinity for low-quality malt beverages?
I’m not overly concerned about your questionable neighborhood. I may not be a field agent, but I’m still typically armed. Consider that a warning.
See you on Saturday,
Scully
He leans back in his chair, his love struck-face shining up at the ceiling like a full moon. Why he is torturing himself by spending more time with her he doesn’t know, but he can’t seem to resist.
————-
“What about October thirteenth?” Ethan says, and she turns to look at him, confusion pulling at her face.
“What about it?” she asks.
Her mind was wandering again as they chatted over chicken and rice. Wandering back to Mulder, to their email correspondence and their plans for Saturday. Plans she hasn’t shared with Ethan.
“Dana, are you okay? I feel like you’re not listening to me,” Ethan replies with a wounded tone, his expression equally concerned and hurt.
She sets her fork down and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Ethan, I’m just distracted by some work stuff. What’s happening on October thirteenth?”
She focuses on giving him her full attention.
“For the wedding, Dana. The church is available October thirteenth. It’s a Sunday.”
Suddenly she’s not hungry anymore.
“Oh. Um, okay. Why do we need to get married this year, again? Isn’t that a pretty short engagement?”
He makes a quizzical face. “I guess...when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible?” he offers with a soft smile.
When Harry Met Sally is one of her favorite movies and he knows it. She can’t help but feel a swell of affection for him, with a hefty side of guilt.
“October thirteenth sounds perfect,” she says with a forced smile and a squeeze of his hand.
Ethan beams. “Great. I’ll go by and put a deposit down to hold it for us. We have a date, babe, that’s big progress!”
She holds the smile steady, excusing herself to the bathroom as soon as he stands to clear the table.
That night he goes down on her for an eternity, and she is sure that she is the absolute worst fiancée that has ever, or will ever live. She does not deserve this man’s love, but she wants to. She’ll try harder.
#the x files#txf#dana scully#fox mulder#gillovny#msr#sculder#x files#x files fanfic#alternate universe
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Promised Part 9 - Tom Riddle x reader
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Masterpost | Masterlist
Summary: In this story, Tom didn’t grow up as an orphan, but with his grandfather and uncle. Reader’s sister got very sick and the Gaunts offer their help. But not without asking for something in return.
Disclaimer: Please be aware that I don’t condone any of this in real life. (GIF is not mine)
Warnings: Arranged marriage
Word count: 3.3k
Part 9 - Never trust a Snake
Tom’s dorm was the nicest one you had ever seen in Hogwarts. Single bedrooms were offered to head boys and girls only, as a further reward to their title. His room was the size of a normal five-bedroom, but instead of four additional beds, it was furnished with a welcoming couch, a nice wooden desk and chair, a fireplace and provided overall much more space. It wasn’t located next to the other dorms either, which had its virtues and disadvantages. The good thing was that you didn’t have to walk through the hallway of all the Slytherin boys’ dorms to get there. The bad thing was that Tom’s room was right next to Freda’s, so you had seen her a couple more times than you had wanted to. She had never said anything though and usually stomped off right away, brows knitted and red in the face.
Tom had ordered you to his room the day after Slughorn’s party, which was a privilege not many students were granted. Maybe not that much of a privilege if one was engaged to him. But thinking of it from your perspective, his fiancée, who he hadn’t even proposed to, who he wasn’t even in love with when the engagement took place, it certainly felt special. And like he wanted you to be there. He let you study there even when he had to attend to his duties as head boy, which took up quite a bit of his time.
And then there was the Moly. A magical flower, used to counteract enchantments, that Professor Beery, the Herbology teacher, had given to pairs of students to take care of. They were weakest the last days before blooming and needed tending multiple times a day. It was a tricky task to keep them alive, so Beery had promised to give everyone who could manage it extra points for the Herbology N.E.W.T.s in advance.
Tom had suggested keeping the Moly that had been given to the two of you in his room, as it would increase the chances of keeping it in good condition, seeing that no one else could get their fingers on it. Even though the plant looked quite healthy, he insisted on your help to look after it, as he was not willing to share points if you wouldn’t. So you had come to his room every day, only for the Moly of course.
Other times, when you were just reading or writing another Charm’s essay there, Tom used to stay nearby. He didn’t talk much, as per usual, and rather stared at you from across the room, but the fact that he never told you to leave and always asked when you would come back, for the Moly obviously, made it quite clear that he enjoyed your presence.
And you did too. So much that you had even spent the night accidentally. Accidentally, as in, you had stayed up way too long reading and making notes in your Guide To Advanced Transfiguration textbook, had really, absolutely, doubtlessly planned to go back to your own dorm, but couldn’t be bothered to get up from the sofa until you had finally fallen asleep.
You woke up in Tom’s bed, not remembering how you had ended up there and sat up slowly, looking around, until you noticed him sitting on the edge of the mattress.
“Have I overslept?” you asked, hastily fixing your hair and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.
“It’s Saturday,” Tom answered, grinning at your attempts of getting up. “8 a.m. You can sleep a bit longer if you want.”
“Oh, Saturday, yes. How did I… What happened last night?”
“You fell asleep on the couch. It didn’t look comfortable, you were all sprawled out and twisted. So I put you into bed.”
You swallowed thickly. He had put you into his bed?
“Did you-”
“No,” Tom shook his head. “I took the couch.”
“Noble,” you said sarcastically, leading him to roll his eyes at you. “Why can’t I remember how I got into bed?”
“I used a Levitation Charm.”
“Oh. Weren’t you afraid I might’ve ended up on the floor?”
He chuckled, shaking his head as if doubting his skills wasn’t a thing Tom Riddle would do. “I tend to know what I’m capable of before I do it.”
“I see,” you answered. “Come here then?”
Tom looked at you questioningly before you reached out your hand, holding it in the air for him to take it. He did and you slowly pulled him closer, until he lay down next to you.
Your hand went up to his face and you ran your fingers through his hair, to which he closed his eyes, letting you play with his locks for a while.
Now that you were fully aware of where you were, you noticed how different Tom’s linen smelled compared to your own. They had his clean, warm scent, of tangy embers dying in the fireplace, mixed with leather and something fresh like dewy iron. The scent had rubbed off on you while you had slept there and it felt like he had marked you, without even coming close.
“You didn’t have to sleep on the couch,” you whispered.
His eyes opened again. “You were completely knocked out. That would have felt off.”
“Well, for next time then,” you smiled, took his chin between your fingers and pressed a kiss to his lips. “We’re engaged after all. Have you forgotten?”
“Oh piss off,” he scoffed and pulled you in for another kiss.
Some hours later, when you were tending to the Moly, you looked over towards the fireplace, where Nagini was sleeping in front of. At least you assumed she was sleeping. Her eyes were open and her tongue flicked out of her mouth every now and then, but she seemed calm. You laughed to yourself at the sight, as it reminded you of a cat seeking warmth. Well, a pet was a pet, you figured.
“How’s the Moly doing?” Tom asked and went up to inspect it.
“Good. Great actually,” you said. “I think we’re going to earn those extra points from Beery.”
“Don’t you think it looks a bit sickly?” he asked, holding the thin black stem between his fingers.
“No, it’s alright.”
He uttered a humph. “You don’t have the book on you, the one I gave you for Christmas, do you?”
“No, it’s in my dorm. Why would you need that now?”
“Have you read through it? All the way?”
“No, I haven’t yet. I just flicked through it and read some recipes that sounded interesting,” you answered, not knowing what he had in mind. “I wanted to try one of the Potions after we’re done with school. They all seem to take a while.”
“Which one?”
“The Vial of Auras for starters. Why?”
He nodded, still looking at the Moly. “I think there’s a recipe for plant cultivation in there. Could be of use.”
“But it looks fine, why-”
He turned his face toward you, looking into your eyes. “Just bring the book next time.”
“Okay,” you said, although it sounded more like a question. “I can bring it tonight. I’m going out to Hogsmeade with Camille in the afternoon. I’ll be back around 7 I guess.”
“That’ll do,” he said and smiled, finally sounding satisfied.
It was five minutes past seven when you returned to Tom’s room. The date with Camille had been wonderful, although you had had one too many toffees at the sweet shop. You had also gotten the Potions book from your dorm, still wondering why the Moly would need extra support. It looked totally fine to you.
Tom’s room was empty, aside from Nagini, who had curled herself around one of the bedposts. You went over to the desk, where the Moly was standing and put the book beside it. Next to the plant lay a handwritten note:
“Coming back soon - Dippet needs me for head boy duties”
Killing time it was, then. You took Tom’s Charms book from the stack and practised a few spells for a while, trying to revise those that would most likely be tested in the N.E.W.T.s. About ten minutes later, the door opened and Tom entered the room. He dragged his feet as he shuffled in and was slightly out of breath.
“Are you alright?” you asked while putting the Charms book away.
He nodded. You walked over and took a seat on the couch, patting the space next to you for Tom to join you.
“I brought the book,” you said and pointed towards the desk.
Tom sat down, looked at it from afar and squinted. “The book?”
“The Potions book you asked me to bring. Don’t you remember?”
“Ah, yes. Sorry, I totally forgot.”
You frowned, slightly worried. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
Tom nodded and scratched the side of his face. “Yes, yes. I’m just a bit tired.”
Tired wasn’t exactly what you would have described the state of him. He seemed nervous and completely out of it, his shoulders hanging down limply.
“Did something happen? What did you have to do for Dippet?” you asked.
His eyes roamed the floor while he pondered. “Nothing important. Just some scheduling for the prefects.”
Something cold rubbed against your foot and when you looked down, you saw Nagini, who had slithered over. She placed herself between Tom and you on the floor, her hisses a tad louder than usual.
“What does she want?” you asked.
Tom stared at Nagini vacantly and didn’t answer.
“Tom?”
“Hm?”
“What is she saying?”
“She’s hungry.”
“Hungry? We’ve just fed her recently. Strange,” you said and bent down to pat her head. “I’m going to get you some more mice soon, don’t worry.”
Tom’s gaze roamed the room as if he was looking for something.
“Do you want to take a look at the book now? For the Moly?” you asked.
“No,” he answered. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Go ahead then.”
“You remember the day we got engaged, right?”
“Of course. Why?”
“Well, it was obviously an arrangement between our families,” he stated, waiting for you to confirm.
“Yes.”
“So I was wondering… What’s in it for you?”
Your stomach dropped. What did he mean ‘what’s in it for you’? Your sister’s curse was the most evident thing in this whole situation.
“You know exactly what’s in it for me,” you said while folding your arms. “Actually, I could ask you the same thing. Don’t tell me you forgot why we’re doing this.”
He took a moment to think before answering. “Of course I haven’t. I just thought there could be something else. Like, perhaps your parents bribed my family.”
You blinked irritatedly. He had not just said that.
“Are you serious right now?” you asked. “You’re suggesting my parents took advantage of the situation, went and killed two birds with one stone? So that they could marry me off and make me your problem?”
He stared into your eyes for a moment, then retracted. “No, I didn’t mean-”
“Because I’ll have you know, my family would never do such a thing,” you interrupted him. “I know yours probably would, but my parents are not like that, believe it or not. I thought you knew that by now.”
“I was just wondering. No need to make a fuss about it.”
“You know what?” you said and got up from the couch, making sure not to step on Nagini. “You sound exactly like Ben. Only more rude. And I thought you didn’t trust him. But it seems that you don’t trust me either all of a sudden.”
“Wait, I’m sorry,” Tom said and followed you. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“We’re done here,” you huffed, making your way to the door, followed closely by Nagini, until Tom grabbed your hand.
“Don’t leave now,” he said, pulled you in a bit closer and a whiff of cologne wafted your way. He reeked of sweat and coughed so loudly you thought he might throw up any moment.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Tom,” you answered, your hand still in his. “Maybe you have a cold coming on or something because you don’t seem like you’re in your right mind. Now let me go.”
“No,” he said but turned his face away from you.
Suddenly the door flew open and you sucked in a sharp breath when you saw who it was. Tiernan Lestrange. And next to him was... Tom? Standing in the door frame, his eyes darting back and forth between you and… You looked to your left, to the person next to you and saw that Emlyn Avery was standing in Tom’s place, still holding your hand.
You wrenched your hand out of his grip and took several steps backwards.
“Avery?” you asked. “What is going on?”
Tom, the real Tom, still stared at you, a fire burning behind his eyes as he quickly walked into the room. Lestrange followed and closed the door behind himself.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Tom hissed, both at Avery and you.
Avery kept silent, a nasty grin forming on his face.
“He… You,” you stammered.
“You two? Holding hands in my room?” Tom yelled, his chest heaving. “Are you kidding me?”
“I can explain.”
Could you really?
“Well, I hope you can. Taking Avery into my room to do who knows what? Care to explain that?”
“He was you!” you said, only then noticing how crazy you must have sounded.
Tom shot you a look that told you better not to take him for a fool. His thoughts must have raced at top speed inside his head, as you could practically see him thinking. His eyes scurried from your hand to Avery’s, then up to his face. His knuckles had turned white from how hard he clenched his fists and he couldn’t seem to stand still. You wondered what his next move would be. Punch Avery in the nose, curse the two of you, or rush out of the room? It reminded you of the time he had seen Ben and you at the Black Lake.
“Please,” you whispered. “Let me explain.”
Tom sighed and avoided looking at you. He shook his head as if he was fighting an internal battle against himself. It almost looked painful. Finally, he went up to Avery, pointing his wand right below the boy’s chin.
“Sit down,” Tom spat. “You too Lestrange! And I don’t want to hear a single word from either of you.”
They did as he said and Tom led you to the other side of the room, followed by Nagini. He cast a Muffliato Charm on the two boys so that they wouldn’t be able to hear what you had to say.
“Go on,” Tom then said, still avoiding eye contact.
“I came here around seven, as we agreed. I brought the book but you weren’t here. Then I saw your note on the table and waited for you. You, I mean Avery, came in shortly after. But he looked exactly like you. Just until you showed up right now. I swear to Merlin.”
“What do you mean he looked like me?” Tom asked, an annoyed frown on his face.
“He looked and sounded just like you. I thought he was you. He acted weird and I didn’t trust him, but I thought you were just stressed out. The only way I could possibly explain this would be Polyjuice Potion.”
“You don’t really think one of them would be able to brew that correctly, do you?”
“I don’t,” you mumbled. “But how else would it be possible? You have to believe me. I would have never brought him here. Or anyone.”
He looked at you now, so intensely, it felt like he was reading your thoughts, trying to see if you were lying to him.
“Why would he do that?” he then asked.
“I don’t know,” you answered and gave it a good thought. “He asked me about some things. About the engagement. Maybe he was trying to convict me. They haven’t trusted me ever since the school year began, remember?”
Tom nodded and exhaled strongly, walking in circles around you.
“Did he touch you?” he asked.
“No. He just held me back when I wanted to leave. Just my hand, nothing else.”
“Are you sure? Don’t lie to me. If he touched you, I swear I’m going to-”
“No. He didn’t.”
Silence. Nagini’s quiet hisses disrupted your thoughts and you noticed that Tom seemed a lot calmer now.
“Why was Lestrange with you?” you asked.
“He came up to me when I was done at Dippet’s. Tried to babble on for ages about assignments.”
“That makes sense. So you wouldn’t disrupt their plan.”
“What did Avery ask you exactly?”
“If my parents had bribed your family. So we would get married.”
“Idiot,” Tom muttered.
“That’s what I thought too.”
Tom eventually stopped circling you, placed himself beside you and you both watched Lestrange and Avery sitting next to each other on the sofa. They didn’t dare look back at you and simply stared down at the floor like two ten-year-olds waiting for their parents
to punish them.
“Oh, and another thing,” you began. “Avery stinks.”
Tom, to your surprise, laughed.
That made you a bit more confident, so you asked: “Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
He did? You looked at him, taken aback.
“Nagini,” Tom said to you while watching as the snake’s head reared up. “She’s your witness. She confirmed you’re telling the truth.”
“Good girl,” you said and smiled at her, to which she hissed happily. You really had to get her some more mice. “Now, what were they thinking? What point were they trying to prove?”
“Let’s ask them,” he said, broke the Muffliato Charm with a swift motion of his wand and walked over towards the couch.
“I’m going to ask you some things,” he said to them. “And don’t you dare lie to me. You know I can tell. You’re lucky you caught me on a good day, actually.”
They both nodded.
“Polyjuice Potion?” Tom asked.
Avery looked over to Lestrange. They both nodded again.
“Where did you get that from?”
“Stole it from Slughorn,” Avery mumbled so lowly, you could hardly understand.
“Speak up!” Tom ordered.
“We stole it from Slughorn’s stock,” Avery repeated. “At the party, when everyone was dancing.”
Tom sighed and pinched the skin on the bridge of his nose. Of course they hadn’t brewed it themselves. They were far too daft.
“Why?” Tom went on. “What’s the reason for all that?”
“Well,” Lestrange cleared his throat. “We were only doing it for you, Tom. To make sure she’s not betraying you. To find out if she and her family were using you, you know.”
“So we could help you,” Avery added and nodded vehemently.
Tom grinned coldly. “And you thought I wouldn’t have found this out myself by now? That I would need your help? Seriously?”
“We thought-”
“No! You didn’t think at all,” Tom interrupted. “You went behind my back, stole from a teacher and disrespected my fiancée. You’re both an embarrassment for Slytherin and I swear, if I ever see one of you just looking her way, it’s not going to end this lightly.”
Both of them nodded again and looked down onto the floor, not saying anything.
“Now follow me,” Tom said, still angry with them.
“Where are we going?” Avery asked as he got up.
“I’m going to report you to the headmaster of course. And trust me, you’ll be glad Dippet is going to choose your punishment and not me.”
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Masterpost | Masterlist
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HASO, “Abort?”
Happy Tuesday guys, I hope you are all enjoying your week. Forgive me any mistakes I make here as I only have a few hours to write before work, and I am usually in a rush.
“Both of you get your suits back on.”
“What the hell is going on!” Richards demanded
Adam took a deep breath, “Captain Richards that was not an opening for a discussion, that was an order. Now put the damn suit on, or I swear I will knock you out and do it myself. The three of them were floating in the module staring at each other, hands resting against what must have been no more than a few millimeters of aluminum.
He stared at them, and they stared back.
Adam did not break eye contact willing the two willing them to do as they were told. Chavez was the first to move, hurrying over to her space suit and struggling to pull it on in a near panic as bright lights flashed from outside. Inside his heart was pounding but he tried to remain calm for the two standing before him.
He hurried over to help Chavez pull on her gear, finally sealing the helmet in place as Richards finally moved to do the same.
Adam helped pull the hard torso over the man’s head and link it to the waist before helping him pull on his gloves and, eventually the helmet. Before he let go, he kept hold of Richards by either side of the helmet staring at him through the glass, “I promise, if you listen to me, I will keep you safe.”
He kept eye contact with the other man until Richards finally nodded, and Adam let him go to float over and put on his own suit. His hands were steady, for now, but he knew as soon as the crisis was over he'd be shaking like a leaf.
If he survived.
He gritted his teeth, cursing himself for thinking like that. He was Admiral VIr for crying out loud. He had survived far too much to go and die now. He returned to the helm of the command module as he looked out the thick window at the lights flashing on either side of them. Despite the war that was raging around them, everything seemed so strangely quiet. There was no sound no rumbling, not even a vibration as one of the jets flew past.
Despite being at the controls of the vehicle, there was nothing he could do. They only had a certain amount of fuel to get them to the lunar surface, and if he wasted any of it at all, they would be either caught in orbit, or miss the moon entirely.
He had to keep his cool.
Another bright burst of light lit the window to his right. This one was closer this time.
His heart leaped up into his throat.
Richards and Chaves joined him buckling into their seats.
“What is going on.” Richards demanded again, his mike distant and tinny with the sound of very old technology.
“I believe anti alliance forces are attempting to assassinate me. They have been trying for months now, and I think they are being encouraged by very powerful members of the government.”
They watched as another set of ships zoomed past.
He saw a flash of a silhouette, just enough to know that one of them was a thunderhawk and the other was a silver Rundi drone.
It confirmed his worst fears. The Chairwoman had been behind this the whole time.
***
Red nearly collided with the rocket. The Thunderhawk had pulled up the last minute, but he had almost been too late. He jerked the stick to the side, throwing up his wing ust in time to avoid hitting the rocket as it made it’s slow way through space. He dove down on the other side forced to break off pursuit and cut in front of another thunderhawk coming in from above. He made to look like he was going to ram them, playing a dangerous game of chicken which he won at the last second as the other pilot panicked and cut to the left.
There were too many of them. Only five out of the original twenty had been destroyed, and he and the rest of their pilots were busy just keeping the thunderhawks away from the rocket, much less to have any time of firing at them.He had sent one of his people down to earth and one of them off towards the moon for backup. The moon was still hours away yet, so the hope that some help would be sent from them was unlikely, and even the man he had sent down to earth’s surface was cutting it close.
He didn’t have much hopes that they would be able to hold out that long.
Inside the cockpit his warning lights began to blink and blair as one of the other jets got a lock on hi. He rolled right to avoid them and dove down, cutting off the lock but still being pursued by those behind him. Up ahead he saw one of the silver balls erupt into flames as it was targeted by an expert hit from one of the thunderhawk pilots.
He rolled right.
Someone else rolled left. He cut up just in time to avoid being hit and raced forward to cut off another bird that was heading directly towards the rocket.
***
Eris hurried down the hallway, her knees screaming as she did her very best to sprint, but despite her human anatomy, she was a little too much like a starborn. With a cry of frustration she reached up and tore off her hoodie, throwing it to the ground and engaging her anti gravity belt. The ribbons on her back billowed out behind her.
Light spilled in from the windows on either side of the catwalk she was now on, filling her with a buzzing energy that she could feel radiating through the ribbons like electricity. She knew from her study of starborn that they could travel at thousands of miles an hour in the vacuum of space, especially when under the power of a star. She didn’t think she needed to go THAT fast, but anything would be better than what she was doing now.
As if in response to her will, she suddenly began to glide forward, picking up speed as she swooped towards the end of the hall, wind catching her in the face and roaring along her cheeks. WIth her starborn skin, she barely felt a thing as she raced around the corner and out of the waiting door. Two men dressed in military ACUs dived to the side as she blew past them crying out in alarm and confusion as the “Alien” floated by.
Somewhere distantly, she could sense Conn racing in the opposite direction towards the base.
Sunny and captain kelly had Admiral Massie in their custody and were dragging him out into the hallway.
She blew across the open ground her ribbons snapping and billowing behind her as she did. She didn’t even have time to imagine what she looked like as she roared over the open field and towards the waiting news vans which were just beginning to pack up their things. They were close to leaving, but she set out a sharp hard telepathic pulse ordering them to stop.
Compelling them to stop.
They froze in their tracks and looked up to see her coming.
Someone scrambled to turn on their camera, not sure what was going on but sure it had to be something good.
She tried not to think about what they would see as the camera flared to life following her approach.
“Make us live.” She ordered
The news people glanced between each other in confusion, “But no, we aren;t”
“What are-”
She came to a sudden jolting stop before them, her billowing black hair fanning out behind her like a curling halo.
“I said, put us on air.”
This time the telepathic pulse was too strong to resist. Mostly that pair with the fact that none of them were sure they wanted to resist. She was too interesting to pass up. They hurried to do what they were doing, and Eris was given just enough time to feel nervous before the camera was turned to her.
They were live.
She read it in the minds of those behind camera who she cut off as she began to speak, “Citizens of Earth, there has been a horrible conspiracy against you. The UN president has ordered the assasination of Admiral Adam Vir and has continually attempted to sabotage the mission. Just now General massie was taken into custody after ordering the deployment of twenty thunderhawks to harass the rocket and make its destruction look like some sort of collision with space debris.”
The group gawked at her as she raised her hand with the small silver device and began playing the recording. She knew something like this would never be admissible in court. She was pretty sure it would be considered entrapment of some kind, which is why it must be heard now, before everyone, so that the actions of the president could be judged by a jury of the world where it could not be hidden by political machinations.
“Communications have been lost with Apollo 11. And it is….. Well…. It is likely that he is already dead…..” Her voice broke, “No matter what happens, I need you, and this nation to understand what is happening before it gets swept under the rug. I saw it with my own eyes, heard it with my own ears and experienced their meeting in the thoughts of a man who is both xenophobic and hateful to his own humankind.”
She kept talking trying to give them all the information she could, spilling thoughts she had heard in the head of the UN president. Every meeting, every liaison, every name until her voice was beginning to crack.
***
The UN president was just standing to enter her vehicle when a slow muttering began in the crowd behind her. SHe turned as the ground before her went silent. She watched as a wave ran through the people. A wave of nudging and whispering and showing off news feeds they had pulled up on their wrist implants. It wasn’t long before the entire crowd was either staring down at their arms or clustered around someone else for viewing.
“What is going on.” She wondered turning to one of her men who was staring down at her own wrist.
“Madame president?” He said with a look of confusion.
She could hear it now.
“Her and general massie have ordered members of the UNSC to adjust funds in order to hide the twenty thunderhawks they were squirting away for just such an event.” She hurried forward grabbing the secret serviceman by the arm staring at it as she watched the streaming newsfeed and the freaky white alien with the large dark eyes and flowing black hair.
“She is afraid of aliens, she wishes to isolate and eventually use humanity’s superior forces to overtake trade in the galaxy-”
The muttering behind her had turned into an angry grumbling, and she turned to see the eyes of hundreds hat turned towards her.
“Get me out of here.” She hissed
The Secret Serviceman took a step back with a look of confusion and indecision on his face.
“It’s your job.” he snarled
He just stared at her.
She hurriedly ran over to her car as the crowd began to filter in around them pressing close. A few of the secret service men pulled guns but a large majority of them were frozen with indecision and were taken over by the crowd. She scrambled into the back seat of her vehicle and slammed the door shut screaming at the driver to get moving.
The crowd was surrounding them now pounding at the glass.
She could hear their angry voices raised for her to be heard behind bullet proof glass.
Outside, she watched a lone figure step onto the platform where the lectern was and stare at her with it’s beady black eyes. The Chairwoman of the GA stood over the crowd like it’s filthy alien lord.
And even though Rundi could not smile, she could swear it was smiling.
***
Baby K hit a rough patch of turbulence coming down from the atmosphere. She struggled with the controls as she was thrown left and right inside the cockpit of her rickety shuttle. Donovan red had ordered her down here to grab the UNSC, but she was so scared and full of adrenaline that she had dropped it at too steep an angle. The ride was much bumpier than it was supposed to be, and her teeth were rattling inside her head.
“Unidentified vessel, you have crossed into UNSC airspace, identify yourself or be destroyed.”
She scrambled for her communications, but her fingers felt as stiff as wood as she scrambled for the button.
“I repeat, unidentified vessel, you have entered UNSC airspace, you are ordered to identify yourself or be destroyed.”
She slammed her first into the comms button nearly panicking, “UNSC.” Her voice was rattling, “This is B-baby K, and I….. The Apollo 11 is under attack!” she was breathless as she forced the words out.
There was silence over the coombs, “Say again.”
“Apollo 11 is under attack!”
More silence, “Roger that.”
Two jets pulled up to the side of her, those she recognized as two F-90 Darkfires.
One of them adjusted its angle and cut engines before switching to the fusion engine that rocketed it up and out of site.
The other stayed for a moment, “Unidentified vessel, please land on UNSC base airstrip one.” Before turning and following it’s comrade.
***
Conn raced towards the airstrip feeling the wind in the ribbons at his back. He couldn’t go nearly as fast as he wanted too with air resistance . Wythe hell did Adam always have to get into so much trouble, why did he always have to be the center of attention.
Everyone either hated him or loved him, but the problem was people who hated him also wanted to kill him.
Why did he have to be so controversial?
Why did he have to be hated for something that was such a big deal. Why couldn't he be hated for having controversial political opinions . Conn paused.
On second thought, controversial political opinions were kind of what had gotten them here in the first place, so he guessed that was kind of a useless comparison. How about being the kind of guy who liked to talk too much about fishing. That was a great way to make people hate you for being boring, but it didn’t usually mean that people wanted to kill you.
Maybe they could get the man a hobby doing something that wasn’t so controversial.
Like
Kicking small Animals or.
Cannibalism.
He came roaring to the stop at the edge of the airfield ust in time to watch an entire platoon of pilots racing towards jets. He could hear their minds and looked up to see a rather dinky shuttle descending from the sky. He floated forward towards one of the jets as a pilot leaped inside.
He was going to need a ride.
The pilot turned to look at him but Conn just shook his head.
The pilot decided to ignore him in the confusion and Conn Grabbed on tight.
Starborn he had come to learn were a very interesting species in comparison to others. Vertically as from the top down he was very fragile and likely to break his neck or collapse his spine if there was any undue pressure, but with horizontal forces, he was practically indestructible. Below him the ship roared to life and soon they were gathering speed along the runway.
His grip was tight, and he used the extra energy from his ribbons to sped himself up along with the jet to reduce the pull on his arms.
His brip wasn’t that strong.
They went vertical almost immediately, and he made sure to orient his body in the correct direction as they went hurtling into the sky.
***
Red’s right wing had been hit. If there had been atmosphere around him he would have been a goner, but there was no air resistance here, so once he regained control of his roll, he pulled back into position and fired one last shot as the opportunity arose. The sixth thunderhawk was destroyed in an eruption of debris, which he dodged only with difficulty limping without the aid of the maneuvering jet on the end of his one wing. Things were only speeding up now, the Runid were almost gone and the pressure was being laid thick on his people. They were hard to hit but the pursuit made it almost impossible for them to do any real maneuvering of their own. He was almost hit again as another darkfire sped underneath him. They rolled this way and that rocking from one side to the other. Flying through debris and over strips of silver metal.
Below them the earth hung as a clowning orb.
Red cut in a wide circle coming in with the sun at his back using it to blind one of the enemy darkfires as he came in. he watched the group of them form up suddenly as a ring around the slow moving rocket intending quite certainly to rush it all at once. He screamed into the comm trying to order his men around, but it was going to be too late, he could already see it coming.
The jets rushed forward, and he did too screaming inside his helmet as they went to broadside Apollo 11.
And then with all the silence of space, sixteen F-90 Dark Fires came spitting overhead all at once raining down a line of ordinance that cut through the group of unsuspecting thunderhawks. Space around them was filled with a silent explosion as each and every one of them was ripped to shreds.
All except one.
He saw it at the last moment.
It had been hit in the tail and had gone wildly off course.
It turned sideways, but had just enough force….. For its wing to tear straight through the aluminum siding of the rocket.
Chavez and Richards had been ordered to strap into their seats. Adam had taken it upon himself to lock down the rest of the main cabin. Outside the flashing lights were like a fireworks display without sound. He grabbed onto one of the rails, forcing equipment back into the palace so that if anything happened it wouldn’t fly out.
His legs were kicked up behind him as he floated forward reaching for some of the controls as a sudden bright wash of light filtered in through the windows. He heard a scream over his com, and then the air around him was rent with a horrific tearing noise, which suddenly went silent. There was a rush, and he jerked forward as he was sucked back….. And out of the ship entirely.
His hands and legs kicked and flailed as he tried to right himself, hearing his own breathing as the only sound as he watched the rocket begin to spin debris erupting around him as air, and whatever wasn’t strapped down was sucked through the small opening.
The rocket was spinning wildly, he was spinning wildly in a silent abyss. Grunting against the force of his spin, he reached down for the controls to the CO2 canister built into the pack of his spacesuit.
He groaned not sure which way was up or down or back. He tried to right himself against the spin by firing in the opposite direction to slow his spin.he could see the rocket now spinning in the opposite direction with the sudden loss of oxygen. He hoped the other astronauts were ok. He saw the silhouette of a jet fly past in the distance making its way towards the spinning rocket.
At least there was someone here to help.
Maybe the others would survive-
And then he stopped, coming to a confusing halt in the middle of space.
That shouldn’t have been right. He should have kept going forever. He tried turning his head, but he felt like the pillsbury doughboy in this two thousand year old suit.
What was happening
“Did you miss me.”
Well shit, now he sort of wished he could keep spinning.
There was a tugging on the outside of his suit, and Conn floated into view in front of his helmet.
“Hey sweetheart.”
“You are probably the last person I wanted to see.” he said though he didn’t entirely mean it, and unfortunately Conn knew that too the mindreading asshole that he was.
I could hardly let the father of my child go spinning off into space without taking accountability for his family.”
“Shove it up your ass Conn.”
“No really, not even the vacuum of space is going to save you from your responsibilities. Now, about custody, I was thinking you could have every other weekend and a couple of major holidays”
He gave a ruful sort of smile as Conn grabbed him by the life support pack and started floating them towards the rocket, which the F-90s had somehow managed to slow the spin of the rocket, and pull it back on course with grappling magnets.
All around them space was filled with debris. No more darkfires were present and those that were were quickly being grappled. One sleek racing jet slowly cruises past them. One of its wings was damaged, but whoever was inside waved with one hand as he rolled past.
Adam lifted a hand as Conn brought him the last few hundred feet to the torn opening in the side of the ship, allowing him to step through.
Conn patted him on the side of the helmet, “make sure to be home by dinnertime sweetie.” Before blowing him a kiss and vanishing back out the hole.
Adam floated there a bit nonplussed for a moment before turning back to the front of the ship where Chaves and Richards were still strapped into their seats. He floated over to strap himself in.
“Admiral! You’re ok.”
“Yes, it seems that I am, thanks to a….. Friend of mine.”
Just then Conn appeared again just before their right side window, and like the classy gentlemen that he was began rubbing his butt up against the glass.
He sighed, “Friend is kind of stretching it.”
“Apollo 11 this is Houston, do you copy!”
The man on the other end of the line sounded close to tears, and Adam hurried to respond, “Houston this is Apollo 11.”
On the other side he thought he heard the sound of voices cheering in relief.
“What is your status, over.”
“We are a bit beat up Houston, we have a tear in our hull, but our suits are ok, and we have help.”
“Prepare to abort mission.”
Adam frowned, “Now wait a second there Houston, I didn’t get sucked out the side of my own rocket to just quit now. Tell the boys to come up here and patch us up and we can finish the mission. All systems are still functioning, and we are back on course.” he glanced over at the others, “That is, if the crew wants to continue.”
There was a pause and then Chavez timidly piped in, “I’d be ok with that.”
Richards sighed, “Roger Houston, patch us up.”
Granted it may have been cheating. Apollo 11 hadn’t had support with special tools that cold just patch a space ship within ten minutes, but then again the original Apollo 11 hadn’t been in the middle of a firefight while on their journey to the moon. So it was with some trepidation that Houston allowed it, and before long they had air back inside the cabin back up to pressure, but they also had a sixteen man rotating escort for the rest of the way.
The group of them were even shocked to see Rundi drones join the formation only to learn that it had been the UN president who had allegedly called the hit on him. It was hard to believe, but they were only getting snippets here and then from over radio and from Conn, who floated around occasionally to rub another part of his anatomy against the window and give them teasing updates
The moon was growing slowly in their vision.
“I can see my house from here.” Adam remarked as they prepared to detach the lunar module from the rest of the ship.
They landed without incident observed by mobile camera crews and news reporters as he made his own footprint on the never changing dust of the moon’s surface. He gave them a thumbs up to let them know he was fine and hesitated only once before setting up the UN flag in the dirt. He refused to let his enthusiasm be dampened by the day’s events and hopped around dancing and leaping for joy as another one of his childhood dreams was fulfilled. That was before he plowed face first into the moon’s surface and required help from Richards to stand back up again.
They left soon after taking another three days of escort back to earth before strapping themselves in for final entry.
Conn left them just as they were entering orbit with a middle finger for all three of them.
“Your friend is super delightful isn’t it.’
“Try having a child with him.” Adam muttered refusing to elaborate even as they stared at him in confusion.
They fell from the sky and landed somewhere in the Pacific ocean, picked up by the waiting navy vessel who was within nine miles of their landing site. They were fished from the water and returned safe and sound to the ship to cheers and cameras. Adam’s legs felt a little like jelly after days of not using them, and he was finally able to relax lying on the deck of the ship under the sun as people ran around them on either side.
His hands shook slowly building up after the stress of the last week. He took long deep breaths and closed his eyes.
The next few days were going to be a real shit show.
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