#wait it was about the dangers of capitalism all along? always has been
Note
Silver I know next to nothing about the alien franchise and movie, I am giving you full permission to use this ask as an opportunity to spread propaganda to get me (and anyone else) to finally watch it
So it's, so like, the thing is, right. I'm not a movie tech kinda person [though it is technically impressive, the funny little tricks they did, like not having the budget for a Big Space Ship Derelict so they are a scaled down model that the director's kids in space suits walked up to so it would look bigger, and it was shown to the audience on a shitty CCTV because they didn't do a big matte painting of the set they filmed the tiny one, projected it onto a wall, and then filmed that.] So my rant isn't going to be about how technologically cool the movie was for 1979 on a less than optimal budget. But what I do like, what I excel at, is breaking down themes and tropes. And my god. My god. Just. Ugh. [Flails my arms.]
So a basic rundown for the movie, spoilers ahead, and my analysis of how fucking cool it is:
Basic gist of the movie: The crew of the commercial mining vessel Nostromo are awoken halfway through their trip back to earth by a mysterious signal, calling for help on a far away planet. Upon going down to investigate, one of their crew members is attacked by a strange alien parasite which attaches to his face. This kicks off a tale of increasing horror as the new alien kills off the crew one by one, culminating in Ripley [the main character] blowing up the ship and fleeing in an escape pod, not sure if she'll ever be picked up in the vastness of space -- with the ships cat, who miraculously also survives. [We all know Jonesy is the real main character 💜.] Along the way a plot by the Weyland-Utani corporation is revealed, one of the crew is discovered to be an android, and there is a lot of alien screeching.
Now! The themes that I go absolutely feral over can commence.
The horror of the movie, the reason why the alien is scary, and lethal to humans specifically, is it is a creature built for efficient survival, and this is a trait that Ash, the ship's science officer [and resident hiding android] highly praises in the critter. He describes it as beautiful, elegant, pure in its efficiency. The perfect organism. Efficient.
Humans, by comparison, aren't efficient. We are social. And efficiency preys on social needs. For example:
The xenomorph eggs can survive for ages [in the derelict they're found on, the dead alien who drove the ship is described as fossilized. These eggs have been here for thousands of years. But they activate immediately when a curious human pokes around them. It isn't a fast process. Kane is poking around for a few minutes, looking at the movements of the creatures in their eggs, making observations. Curious. Curiosity is an inefficient trait -- he would have survived if he had climbed out of the hole the eggs were in and left, or even waited for the rest of his team to enact quarantine and investigation procedures.
Speaking of quarantine! When Dallas and Lambert bring Kane, newly infected by an alien parasite, back to the ship, Ripley locks them in the airlock. There are quarantine procedures. We can't risk the whole crew. But they are scared for Kane's safety. He might die without help. They break quarantine. If they hadn't broken quarantine, the baby alien would've been born in the airlock, where it would get spaced the moment it was born.
When the face hugger parasite dies and Kane seems to return to normal, what they should have done to attempt to reinstate quarantine was put him in hyper sleep. His body would have been frozen in a stasis which might have frozen the parasite or, if it hadn't, would have left the new baby alien trapped in a stasis pod. But Kane, haggard and scared from his ordeal, asks can we please have one more meal together before I go to sleep? And that one meal is long enough for the new xenomorph to be born, and release terror on the ship.
There is more. Parker would have lived if he hadn't gone to find the cat by himself, leaving the safety of his group. Dallas would have lived if he let Ripley go through the vents, but he was the captain and he didn't want to risk someone else's life so he went instead. Brett would have lived if he'd left Lambert behind when she was being attacked, or if he'd hit the xenomorph with the flamethrower instead of insisting Lambert get out of the way first. And Lambert would have lived if she'd run instead of being paralyzed in fear by the creature killing her friends. And the xenomorph? Wasn't even eating it's kills. No gore. Little blood. It was killing them because it knew they would kill it, and it was neutralizing threats. Efficient.
The xenomorph is very clearly engineered for survival, and it's survival depends on killing the inefficient organisms around it. Even it's acid blood is described as a survival mechanism, not an offensive mechanism.
Okay Skye, we hear you talking about how scary the critter is because it's not a social creature. That's an interesting observation, but it's still just a monster story, right?
Well, let me tell you an alternative story. Just a little to the left of the original, but one I would argue is still very very canon.
You are an android built by Weyland-Utani, a company which is jealously hunting alien tech to use for its many space programs. You are placed on the Nostromo because there is a known anomaly in the area, and they want to find it. Your job is to get a specimen back to the company, all other protocols expended.
You are programmed to be efficient, so you get to work.
You wake the crew when you find the signal. You give them only the information they need to investigate: it is a signal that repeats every 12 seconds. You let them make the conclusion it is an SOS. Humans are social creatures. They want to help other social creatures in need. There is some arguing about whether they should go, but in the end an extra push from you sends them. Ripley, one of the more efficient members of the crew, keeps asking you why you haven't decoded the message.
"Mother [the super computer running the ship] is still working on it." This is true. She has only translated part of the signal. By the time Ripley realizes it's a warning, the crew is already on the way to the derelict. You tell her if she walks out there, they will have already figured out if it's a warning or not by the time she makes it to them. She agrees.
When they return with a specimen, Ripley [efficient, following protocol] doesn't want to let them on. But Ripley doesn't know you're an android, so when you break quarantine, and you tell her you just wanted Kane to be safe, she begrudgingly believes you.
When the alien is loose, it is easy for you to keep them from killing it. Humans are social, inefficient creatures, and you feel no empathy for their deaths. You do pity them though. Between you and the alien, their chances of survival are slim.
If only they were more efficient.
The horror in Alien is not the xenomorph. The horror in Alien is when anything, primal creatures, androids, a particularly greedy corporation, preys on human social needs in order to get what it wants. There is significance in that Ripley, despite everything, chose to save the cat. She needed companionship. All humans do. She needed to save that cat. A cat that was cantankerous and mean, and hissed whenever it was held, was better than the cold efficiency of empty space.
Any system that prioritizes absolute efficiency will be inhospitable to human life.
#spazzcat barks#alien 1979#xenomorph#i could go on actually#the entire second movie Aliens is about a colony falling prey#about families torn apart#about a little girl who survived because she was quiet and saved by her brother#about how a thousand times they should have left that child behind to save themselves but they didnt#and how an android not powered by the company helps them survive#i just..... the movies are about corporate greed#wait it was about the dangers of capitalism all along? always has been
23 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Craft and The Lost Boys crossover prompt! This was inspired by a dream I had. Pls tag me if you’re inspired by any of the ideas below and I’d love to read it! ❤️🩸
You fall in with a group of witches after you witness Nancy Downs murder your brother, Chris. She threatens you to keep quiet about it or else. The witches don’t welcome you into their coven but you learn the hard way that there are worse fates than death when you’re still forced to hang out with them. They can’t risk you exposing their secrets but if they killed you, especially so soon after your brother’s death, it’d look too suspicious. The only witch you like and get along with is Sarah Bailey; she’s different from the other outcasts at school. She’s a natural born witch and is much more powerful than the others but maybe hasn’t realized it yet. Nancy is power-hungry, lacks empathy and often engages in reckless behavior that endangers herself and others, Bonnie is aggressively narcissistic, and Rochelle is bitter and vengeful. The three of them start abusing their powers and misusing their magic. Unlike them, Sarah is really sweet and has a lot of self-control over her powers. She treats you like a friend and has your back despite the circumstances.
You’re dragged into joining them on a girls trip to Santa Carla - the murder capital of the world! By the time you get there, it’s night and the boardwalk is crowded and bustling with many attractions such as tattooers, piercers, shops, rides, music, and more. Performing on center stage is The Lost Boys, one of the hottest rock bands in the country, fronted by Michael Emerson. He and his band members are local heartthrobs; They’re all devilishly handsome and talented young men who seem to have it all. Their stage presence is incredibly sexy and alluring, almost provocative with how they love to strip and tease during their sets. The way they dance and move to their frenetic music is almost hypnotic. Word on the street is that Michael replaced the former vocalist shortly after he moved here with his mother Lucy and little brother Sam. He’s always seen hanging out with The Lost Boys after dark, especially David.
You have such a huge crush on Michael at first sight but who doesn’t? While watching him perform, you feel as if his eyes are piercing straight through your soul and he’s singing only to you. But c’mon, who are you kidding? The thought that he’d notice you out of the hundreds in the crowd is pure fantasy. But maybe that fantasy has a chance of becoming reality when you slip away from Nancy and her fellow witches (possibly in part thanks to Sarah causing a distraction and/or covering for you). You catch the attention of boardwalk security guards and try to explain you witnessed your brother’s murder and need help, but there’s been so many murders in Santa Carla they’ve become desensitized to it. It’s the murder capital of the world, kid. Have you not seen the missing posters littered everywhere? When you mention witchcraft, they laugh in your face and assume you’re on drugs and making shit up. They ignore you and walk away before you can even tell them the murder didn’t take place in this city. God fucking dammit.
Michael overhears your plight and is willing to help you get back at Nancy for what she did to your brother. While talking to him, you keep nervously glancing over your shoulder as hairs raise on the back of your neck from the feeling that the witches may be waiting nearby and closing in on you. Michael notices how scared and uneasy you are, so he offers to take you somewhere private where you won’t be disturbed. You know you shouldn’t hitch a motorcycle ride with a man you just met and let him take you to an unknown location in an unfamiliar city that’s the murder capital of the world, Stranger Danger and all that, but fuck it.
You meet David, Paul, Dwayne, and Marko at their cave. They’re practically Michael’s brothers and welcome you to the club (even if they pull pranks on you and mess with your mind a little bit with their vampire powers before Michael tells them to knock it off.) They urge you to spill and tell them all the deets about what’s going on, so you tell them everything about the absolute hell you’ve been through because of Nancy and her outcast witch friends. After listening to your story and deliberating quietly amongst themselves, they agree to take care of the witches for you so they never bother you again. Do you want them dead or alive, babe? Do you want them to be scared to death or just plain scared so that they leave town forever? You tell them to spare Sarah since she’s your friend and respects the laws of magic. While she put that love spell on Chris that went awry and inadvertently played a part in his death, it was an accident on her part and she didn’t mean any harm. She just wanted to be loved. She regretted her actions and tried to find a way to undo her spell on Chris, but failed. But the rest of the witches are fair game for the boys to do whatever they want.
Hell fucking yeah, this calls for a toast! They pass you an ornate wine bottle and tell you to drink up, baby! It’s been a very long night for you. Hell, you’ve had several very long nights ever since your brother’s murder. You haven’t really had time to mourn him before now. You could really use a drink, so you chug from the bottle without even thinking about it while the boys applaud and cheer. Unbeknownst to you Michael and the Lost Boys are vampires, and you’re Michael’s mate. Vampires are immune to witches’ magic since their hearts are no longer beating and thus can’t be swayed - but witches are not immune to vampire mind tricks since they’re still technically human, living and breathing. Their flesh tears from their bodies just as easily as ordinary humans, and there’s no protection or warding spells against vampires - so feeding from them should be easy. They’ll come up with an insidious plan and help you get retribution for Chris’ wrongful death.
You might regret letting the boys do whatever they want to Nancy and her friends after you learn the full extent of their true nature, but it’s too late to take it back now. The deal has already been struck. In just a few days, you won’t be human anymore either. Michael will be there for you when you begin to change into a half vampire. It’s painful and confusing; your heart feels like it’s on fire, your lungs feel like they’re filled with water, you feel like you’re dying - because you are. He’ll comfort you (possibly with sex) and teach you everything. David, Paul, Marko, and Dwayne will help you too. Maybe Nancy or one of her witch friends will be your first meal. You’ll need to feed to complete the transformation and become a full-blooded vampire. Have you ever had witches’ blood, baby? It’s a rare delicacy but is absolutely delectable. It just hits different than regular human blood. It’s to die for, literally!
#the lost boys x reader#michael emerson x reader#the craft#nancy downs#sarah bailey#rochelle zimmerman#bonnie harper#Chris Hooker#the lost boys and the craft crossover#crossover fic#david the lost boys#paul the lost boys#marko the lost boys#dwayne the lost boys#pls tag me if you write this#i’d love to read it#random fic ideas#fic ideas#random prompt
41 notes
·
View notes
Text
'Emily in Paris' season three – Netflix hit loses sight of the real city
LONDON
Everyone in Paris knows it: Emily Cooper (Lily Collins) is at the top of her game.
Since her arrival in the French capital in season one of this immediate Netflix hit, Emily has used her American influencer flair to successfully promote all manner of luxury products to the French market via her viral social media campaigns. And with all the usual drama along the way, she goes from strength to strength in season three.
The show’s love affair with big-name brands makes it a product placement dream. But it is, of course, the city of Paris that is its most successful product by far.
The show is not set in the real Paris, the French metropolis of more than 2 million inhabitants, but a parallel “Paris™” – a perfect version. This is Paris the brand, one that has been carefully curated by generations of writers, artists and filmmakers over hundreds of years.
Paris in the global imagination
Paris is everybody’s favorite fantasy city.
There’s Emma Bovary’s imaginary wanderings around the city in Gustave Flaubert’s 1857 masterpiece, and Amélie Poulain’s playful treasure hunt in the eponymous 2001 blockbuster. The Impressionists painted dreamy scenes of outdoor cafes and sunsets on the Seine. And who could forget Juliette Binoche’s firework-illuminated antics in Leos Carax’s 1991 classic "Les Amants du Pont-Neuf " (The Lovers on the Bridge)?
As well as the City of Light, Paris has always been a city of dreams, romance and beauty in the global imagination.
Like its on-screen predecessors, Emily’s Paris is instantly recognizable as “Paris™”. But it is simultaneously unrecognizable, bearing very little resemblance to the real Paris you encounter when you step off the Eurostar at the Gare du Nord. Indeed, even the fleeting representation of this train station in "Emily in Paris" is unrealistic.
When Emily goes to surprise her English love interest, Alfie, on his return from London in the middle of season three, she waits for him outside the station’s main entrance. But anyone who has arrived in Paris by Eurostar knows that travellers from London either vanish underground to the station’s many Métro lines, or turn right to head for the taxi rank at the side-exit. Either Alfie is walking or he is taking the bus – which, given these characters’ addiction to taxis, seems highly unlikely.
In fact, Paris has an efficient, affordable and comprehensive public transport system. The city is served by 14 metro lines, 58 bus routes and three trams. Most Parisians (65%) travel to work by public transport And the numbers who travel to work on foot like Emily and her boss Sylvie (Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu) are much smaller (10%).
Despite the enduring cliche, only about 5% of Parisians cycle to work like Emily’s colleague Luc (Bruno Gouery). Yet except for a couple of fleeting shots of the picturesque above-ground sections of Métro lines 6 and 2, Emily’s Paris is devoid of public transport. It is equally empty of cars.
Despite recent improvements in pedestrian access, especially along the Seine, Paris is still absolutely full of traffic. Taxis, cars, bikes, mopeds, electric scooters, emergency vehicles, dustbin lorries and roller bladers all battle for space on its always congested roads. And yet Emily and her friends spend hours sitting in outdoor café terraces without ever being affected by noise or air pollution.
Where are all the Parisians?
Emily’s Paris is also eerily empty of people. And those who do walk its streets are almost all young and attractive. This gives us dangerously unrealistic expectations of the city. “Paris Syndrome”, the shock experienced by tourists when Paris does not live up to expectations, is responsible for around 50 episodes of serious mental illness per year.
Real Paris is a bustling metropolis whose pavements are always crowded with people of all ages, races and economic status. Like other European capitals, Paris has seen a huge increase in homelessness over the last several decades. Whole areas of the city near the ring road and under bridges have been transformed into makeshift refugee camps.
These harsh social and economic realities are airbrushed out of Emily’s Paris along with rubbish bins, police sirens and the building sites that always seem to proliferate in this city.
During filming for season three, the iconic Notre-Dame cathedral was shrouded in scaffolding following the devastating 2019 fire – yet the cathedral appears completely unscathed in several shots of the river.
Some comfort can be taken in the fact that the show’s characters are refreshingly aware they are living in a fictional Paris. They frequently acknowledge that life in Paris is a dream and compare their lives to a film with a Hollywood (rather than “French”) ending.
Season three even begins with a dream sequence which is repeated in real life later in the same episode. This blurring of dream and reality reminds us that Emily in Paris is a guilty pleasure, a marvel of escapism which is about as good at impersonating Paris as Emily is at speaking French.
0 notes
Text
Book Review: ‘Forest of a Thousand Lanterns’
Forest of a Thousand Lanterns by Julie C. Dao
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Xifeng has submerged herself into the hypnotic darkness of a forgotten god whose long-game vengeance poisons all it touches. She knows the risks. But she doesn't care. Her honesty is barbed and bittersweet. Her hunger for power is aggressive, war-like. And her beauty yields a dangerous, almost mythic quality. Xifeng is a peasant. But not for long.
FOREST OF A THOUSAND LANTERNS is a long, hot gasp. The book rakes its nails along rivers of scarcely visible veins, it curls its fingers around the throat of a young woman whose anger and ambition quest to burst their confines. Xifeng makes her way to the court of Emperor Jun. It's her fate. To become Empress. She believes this. She knows this. Her fortune has never been wrong before. The journey will be difficult, rife with suffering, betrayal, sacrifice, political scheming, and murder of every kind. But Xifeng knows the risks. And she doesn't care.
To become Empress of Feng Lu, a land recently at peace and bordered by an aged forest and faraway mountains, this young woman pushes her way into the royal court. Each relationship she possesses will be tested. Were the actions of her abusive aunt all for this moment? (Xifeng would never have learned poetry and politics without her Guma.) Are the sunny and oafish predilections of her childhood friend, Wei, naught but the dreams of a lover boy who never grew up? (Xifeng has convinced herself that a woman can only devote herself to one desire at a time.) And what is she to make of the kind, calculating eyes of the Emperor himself? (Xifeng believes him both cautious and brutal, and yet she cannot keep her eyes from trailing his magnificent silhouette.)
And then there's the darkness. It haunts her, yes, but it also helps her; it feeds her. Xifeng's aunt calls it the "black magic" of an old god, others call it madness; Xifeng feels the dark, echoic voice reverberate in her chest, but she cares not from where it came. Will it help her become Empress? All powerful and duly respected? Guile. Affectation. Deceit. Indignation. Cannibalism. Readers of FOREST OF A THOUSAND LANTERNS will actively question whether the darkness encroaching on the heart of young Xifeng was always there, or whether its muddy grip is a taunting addendum to her fated lust for power.
Literature-at-large needs more novels about young women who grit their teeth and sharpen their duty with such a furious heat that their resolve nearly destroys the whole world. Xifeng becomes a lady-in-waiting, at one point little more than the empress of a concubine's chamber pot. But cheeky commentary here, clever insight there, and a feminine entreaty to Empress Lihua, sickly and pregnant and dreaming of a daughter, earn the young woman the social capital she requires to wedge herself into position. Such are the more innocent curiosities of courtly affairs in which only the reader and the protagonist are aware of the benefits of splitting people's chests open with a fancy knife, of poisoning someone slowly over the course of several years, of feasting on animal hearts raw.
The glory of a novel of this nature rests in Xifeng's relative comfort in her descent into darkness. The young woman imagines foes around every corner, and to some degree, ascertains the likelihood of whether her actions balance the scales of fate, but in the wrong direction. For Xifeng, all the abuse, suffering, and emotional turmoil she has survived will not be for nothing. She will take what she is owed.
The author makes it clear that every action Xifeng takes is her own. And in terms of narrative mechanics, the protagonist's doubts and uncertainties ensure she thrives in ways that obscure the truth (for others) and manipulate what is necessary to persist (for herself). She is peaceable, intelligent, irascible, violent, and charming, all at the same time. Xifeng is a fully-dimensional character whose successes and failures are so tightly bound as to be entertainingly indiscernible from one another. To call her an "evil" character disregards the quality and tenacity of her endurance.
The worldbuilding is tight as well. In FOREST OF A THOUSAND LANTERNS, readers would be smart to view the landscape from a wider perspective. The land of Feng Lu is run by Emperor Jun, but is bordered by grassland traders in the land of Dagovad, the sea and its ship-faring warriors in the land of Kamatsu, and the Great Forest, whose mythic guardian-beasts, the tengaru, are a righteously agonistic bunch. Readers should take note: Dagovad, Kamatsu, and the tengaru are all guided, to some extent, by female rulers. Also, there are rumors of a legion of violent women, called the Crimson Army, residing on the Dragon Scales mountain range, who loathe the company of intruders.
The novel wields these and other environmental details to craft an atmosphere that is enchanting and dangerous at all altitudes. One must be attentive to the needs of the land if one is to survive an evening in the ever-dark Great Forest, but one must also rest easy enough to know no demon provokes an interloper without good reason. The human realm is no different. One must be cunning to survive in the court of Emperor Jun and his advisors, but one must also be humble so as to reap the court's many gifts, rewards, and pleasures.
Xifeng acquires an array of rivals (who get what they deserve), allies (who are not quite who they appear), and friends (who simply do their best, day by day). But as the woman matures, she must balance what is necessary for her ascension, apart from what may be essential to her humanity. The darkness within, she quickly learns, cares for only one of the two.
Light-Novel Reviews || ahb writes on Good Reads
#writeblr#review#fiction#forest of a thousand lanterns#5 stars#xifeng#julie c dao#guma#tengaru#feng lu#dark fantasy#asian fantasy#narrative mechanics#honesty is barbed and bittersweet#innocent curiosities#feasting on animal hearts#human realm#emperor jun#dagovad
0 notes
Text
nikola tesla’s night of terror salt commentary
wait this one doesn’t have a cold opening either? i thought they were brought back for s12? did i imagine this?
again im not well versed in history so unsure of any historical accuracies
finally the companions are wearing historical costumes!! 🎉🎉🎉
something something bad pacing you know the drill
it’s not an ‘alien’ gun if it’s silurian (amateur hour chibs)
the doctor is calling tesla a liar because ‘first thing I asked you I said have you seen anything weird?’ but tesla doesn’t have any chance to reply before being shot at?
and then she asks who they are and who was shooting at them which tesla replies he has ‘no idea’… which is true?? why she calls him a liar is bizarre. he’s not exactly lying just hiding some tech and it’s not like she asks him ‘what are you hiding? or have you seen any alien tech around?’ why is she so adamant he’s lying? it comes across as really harsh/ dickmove. oh he didn’t immediately tell a stranger everything, he must be up to something(!)
‘and i have no intention of handing it to total strangers’ at least tesla brings this up.
‘strangers who just save your life’ i mean for all he knows the doctor and fam could be the reasoning someone is trying to kill them, he doesn’t know that yet. why are they acting like tesla is the dick in this situation. clearly the doctor and fam aren’t very good at making friends.
after kane, and now tesla, the doctor is being quiet hostile to people she’s only just met. im gonna guess this is suppose to be intentional characterisation???
unsure why tesla and dorothy just lets the doctor and fam follow them into his lab. they don’t know them at all and they’ve been pretty hostile to him since meeting them
‘he should have been the first billionaire by now’ hmmm what a weird thing to say… anyone would think this doctor is pro capitalism or something…
nah but honestly this is way out of character for the doctor to be promoting capitalism in regards to invention. the doctor doesn’t care about profit and is an awful assumption to make that someone would only invent something for the pursuit of profit rather than scientific curiosity which is what the doctor would actually advocate for.
‘changing the world takes time. you have to be patient.’ god what a shit message. also this is very funny as last episode the doctor was saying we need to do something now before it’s too late and in this episode she’s like lmao wait a bit.
it’s very much that doctor always dictates what they’re doing. like you rarely see the companion take much agency in their actions (apart from that one time in praxues with yaz).
‘no guns ryan!’ sorry but the pacifist shit takes the piss, you’re clearly in danger, it’s not completely unreasonable that ryan may want to defend himself.
why doesn’t yaz reply to the doctor that the disguised skithra have got in already?? she just puts the phone down.
also she’s using her phone right in front of tesla, lol im sure he didn’t notice that at all(!)
having anjli mohindra in dw and she’s not playing rani chandra is an absolute crime. i mean at least ch*bnall can’t butcher her character this way so small wins i guess.
im sorry but why the fuck is edison allowed in the tardis??? i guess we’ll have to wipe his memory at the end of this, right doc?(!)
like there’s no need for dorthoy or edison to be in tardis?
‘you’re in here strictly on the QT right, so get them dollar signs out of your eyes cos this lot ain’t for sale’ why is he here in the first place then? it’s not like you trust the man or anything.
im confused why graham is trying to act like he knows more than he does in this episode. like is this in his character? has he ever done this before?
really don’t understand why we’re letting edison tag along with us.
oh look yaz is showing initiative in trying to escape the skithra ship, keep this up hun and we just might make a companion out of you yet(!)
i would say that yaz almost contributes something but again she gets kidnapped to be immediately recused so 🤷♀️.
‘that’s gotta mean rich and famous’ again why should the necessary motivation for inventing by profit and fame??? such a weird angle.
‘ tesla keeps on inventing, but no money no fame, he dies penniless’ why is this episode obsessed with money. is that the only way you can equate someone’s worth? 🙄
‘history leaves him behind’ why does the doctor sound seemingly okay with this??
‘either way, it doesn’t change what’s he done’ i mean he probably does deserve fair credit for his inventions.
concluding thought: a pretty decent episode, iron out the kinks, and give the companions something to do and this would good.
sonic uses: 11
1 note
·
View note
Text
crash landed on you.
pairing. kang yeosang x fem!reader.
synopsis. amidst scandals and parties, kang yeosang is on thin ice with his parents: one more screw up and he’ll be cut off. when he accidentally injures a college student, he quickly makes a deal with them to avoid being sued: attend her brother’s overseas wedding under the pretense that they are madly in love to save her from her mother’s plans to marry her off to a stranger.
warnings. mild enemies to friends to lovers, fake dating au, nepobaby!yeosang, student reader, angst, fluff, he most wattpad-esque type shit i’ve ever written (fr a lot of this story is so unrealistic bye), unhealthy family dynamics, emotional abuse & manipulation, discussions of arranged marriage, so many stereotypical tropes (yes… there’s only one bed.), classicism, the reader hates capitalism but don’t we all? smut: switch!yeosang (extreme sub lean), switch!reader, nipple play, light degradation, edging, overstimulation, dacryphilia!!! (idk what it is about yeo but almost everything i write with him involves this kink... idk, it just suits him, okay?) use of pet names whore and kitten, implied oral (f receiving), implied cum play/eating, unprotected sex.
word count. 20.3k
hyde’s input. lmao rereading this just gave me an idea for a fic within the same universe.
seoul; 6 months before the wedding.
“the browning of the leaves and the reappearance of the wind is a tell tale sign that it’s finally the season again. yes, autumn has returned to our wonderful country but, something even more anticipated has arrived with it: kang-tech enterprises’ annual science fair!”
the envelope sits untouched, an offensive egg-shell white among the stained wood of the dining table.
you’ve been staring at it for the past ten minutes, caught up within your own inner conflict. see, logically, when one receives an envelope in the mail, they open it to get a grasp on what is written inside of it. this one, however, feels dangerous to touch. you were half convinced you were about to break out in a rash during the time it took you to pick it up off of your floor and drop it onto the first stable surface you could find.
you didn’t need to check the mailing address to know who it was from. everything about the packaging, from the expensive envelope- a perfect shade of egg-shell the she-devil always rages on about, the red thread detailing that had been sewn perfectly to hold the paper together, the wax seal that keeps the envelope shut- to the perfectly written cursive letters, stained onto the paper with the blackest of ink, is already enough to tell you that this is from none other than your beloved brother and his bride-to-be.
“-a whole 3 months of amazing displays, announcements of technological advancements, conferences with countless special guests, all culminating in the end-of-season science competition, where a lucky young student will win the privilege to work as part of the kang-tech enterprises’ amazing team of inventors!”
you dare to reach forward and brush your fingers along the envelope. it’s somehow both rough and soft, all at once, as if to demonstrate just how costly it really is. your brother- no, your whole family, in fact- has always been obsessed with money and lavish things. even when times were rough, with your father having to work three different jobs and your mother picking up extra shifts, they would always insist on buying the latest piece of tech or the most expensive brand-name handbag, despite the fact they were struggling to put food on the table everyday.
the beginning of the end was when your mother had the genius idea of setting up your eldest brother with a known socialite. one child down, she repeated her little game of money-hungry-cupid with her middle child, the golden child of the family. and, just as she wanted, his wedding is now months away, a pretty little wife with a favorable bank account waiting to be walked down the aisle.
which is why opening this envelope, this wedding invitation, is your condemnation. there will be no more denying the inevitable or pretending you don’t see her text messages. you’ll have to face your mother, and therefore meet whichever mindless, self-centered, daddy’s-money-having asshole she has lined up for you to marry.
your hand shoots forward all at once, ripping the envelope open like one would remove a band aid: quickly, painfully and regrettably.
the egg-shell white stains an iron red, a paper cut indenting itself on your finger.
"but kang-tech enterprises are also making other headlines this morning, for less exciting reasons. kang yeosang, son of the companies ceo and expected heir to the family business is no stranger to scandals."
it's been forty minutes of the same words being thrown in his face, over and over, both of his parents acting like a tag team set out to destroy him. and, oh what a pity, for them to not yet have realized how little he really cares.
what he does care about, however, is the fact he's now running twenty minutes late to a night out with some foreign model he’d met during london’s fashion week. she’d been working the runway and he’d been working at knocking back as many glasses of wine as he physically could.
kang yeosang lives by one life motto: the nights he doesn’t remember are always the best.
"you must be some sort of imbecile!" mr. kang is the current one taking the lead, pacing the large conference room while yeosang remains seated, face expressionless as he takes another bite of his steak.
the chef has messed up, yet again, not cooking it to his exact liking.
“...photographed as he was pulled over by the police. within moments, a sobriety test was done, as you’ll be able to see on the screen, and the cops did not seem pleased. yet, with nothing but a simple call from someone, the head officer allowed kang to walk free. many now wonder if this is what the future of kang-tech is choosing to do with his life: flaunting daddy’s money to bribe his way out of criminal charges.”
“you’re not even listening to me.” finally, his father has spoken words they can both agree on.
in his weak and unasked for defense, it’s a little hard to focus on anything when you’re busy watching yourself being reported on on a screen, on national television. right now, in who knows how many homes, strangers with no right to see his life are digging their judgmental eyes into the images of him and his disheveled clothes, stood on the curb next to his car as two police officers questioned him.
“do you understand how detrimental your behavior is to the company? to everything your mother and i have built?!” still, his father insists on continuing.
it’s always the same, a conversation yeosang knows by heart at this point. they cry about how they’re simply worried about him for a few minutes before they get to the real reason they care so much: their image.
god-forbid the world see them as parents who failed their only child.
“very well, if you won’t listen to me when i’m being nice then maybe you’ll listen when i’m being cruel.” it’s a new one, yeosang will give him that. it’s about time his dad found new names to call him, something a little harsher than imbecile or dim-witted.
“hit me with the worst you got.” arrogant, cocky, naive kang yeosang sinks further back into the office chair, arms crossing over his chest in a display of unwarranted confidence.
it only makes his father’s smile twist in more amusement as he pierces him with his dagger-like words.
“one more slip up and you’ll be cut off, for good. no more inheritance, no more place within the company, no more being my son.”
seoul; 5 months before the wedding.
kang yeosang is beginning to think he’s too comfortable with lying.
the party was arranged for no particular reason, other than an excuse to get drunk, and the atmosphere of the house makes that very clear. every corner turned, yeosang encounters another group of stumbling, mumbling messes who cheer his name and demand to know where he’s been “hiding out” all these weeks. with great ease, he tells them a tale of a last minute trip out of the country, that lead him to many drunken, forgettable nights.
it’s what’s expected of him, he knows, and that is why they all believe him with no great effort put in from his part. he’s kang yeosang, legendary partying rich-boy, known for his reckless behavior and utter lack of care for life. none of them would know how to act if they knew the truth, of how he’d been practically put on house arrest by his own parents, of how he’d had his car taken off of him and was now stuck being driven around everywhere by a chauffeur, like when he was a kid.
of how his own parents are on the brink of disowning him.
what’s worse about the situation, for yeosang, is having to come to terms with the fact perhaps he’s more like his parents than he’s willing to admit: obsessed with keeping up appearances. they don’t want to be known as bad parents just as much as he doesn’t want to be known as a rejected son. still, he needs to find a solution to this little bump in the road, even if it means parading around for a few months like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
he needs to make his parents regret even so much as thinking of cutting him off.
in the mean time, he’ll play the role of a goody two-shoes. he’ll trade in his reckless parties and foreign models for charity events and business relationships. maybe he’ll even commit to a romantic relationship, if seeing him feign being in love would please his parents. he’s willing to do just about anything, so long as none of his friends find out about his situation.
“yeo!” speak- or, in this case, think- of the devil and they shall appear, for right at the moment the familiar face of jeong yunho comes barreling right into his line of sight. he's quickly followed by song mingi. in all the time he’d known the two boys, both sons of politicians, they’d been attached at the hip, a true two-for-one deal. “you could have given us a heads up that you were back!”
he only manages out an uncomfortable yet believable enough laugh before mingi’s got him wrapped up in his sweater covered arms, patting the smaller boy on the head. yeosang thinks of pulling back but knows it’ll only encourage them to tease him and his intolerance for physical contact.
“you’re like a cat!” the seven boys he considers friends always joked. “the minute someone tries to hug you, the claws come out and you push them away.”
“figured i’d use the element of surprise or whatever.” before he knows it, his gentle giant of a friend is guiding him not so subtly out of the house, yunho trialing behind them both as they step out on to the messy front lawn. yeosang almost trips over an empty cup on the ground, which earns him a round of laughter from the remainder of his friends who are all huddled out together down on the grass.
“there he is, mr. fast & furious!”
“san, he got done for drunk driving, not speeding, you dumb-ass!” it’s wooyoung who scolds the smiling boy, slapping him over the back of the head.
it’s comforting to see nothing about them has changed in the past few weeks. not that yeosang had expected them to, but so much about his own life has already changed in that short time, he’s unsure he would be able to handle any more of it.
“oi, yeo, get your skinny ass over here and teach these idiots how to fly this drone.”
it’s an offer he could never refuse, sending him onto the damp grass to snatch the remote out of san’s hand before poor seonghwa loses yet another gadget to their idiocy.
it’s only three minutes into him tutoring them when disaster strikes.
karma may just work in mysterious ways after all, for as yeosang begins to condescendingly explain to them how to properly lower the drone back down onto the ground- instead of the brusque way they’d both simply been vertically dropping it back down- a resounding crash followed by a high pitched scream rings through the community.
“what...” hongjoong, finally taking his eyes off of his phone, speaks with confusion, even more so when he finds every other one of them staring back at him with a matching expression. “was that?”
“i think yeosang just broke hwa’s drone.” wooyoung doesn’t hesitate to throw him under the bus, even if it’s just by saying what they’re all thinking.
it’s an unspoken mutual decision for all of them to go in search of not only the drone but whatever had screamed. hwa spends most of the search making snide comments, repeating over and over how yeosang should be glad he can rely on daddy’s money to pay back seonghwa for the damages he’s inflicted. normally, he wouldn’t mind such teasing words but today, when he’s so aware of how close he is to losing it, it stings.
“hey assholes, this yours?”
all of them turn to look in the direction of the voice in unison, and there they find it: the drone, no longer the beauty it once was, tangled in the front wheel of a bike. atop of the bike sits you- more like, lays you, trapped under the weight of it- and you look far from happy.
“uh, yeah,” hongjoong takes lead of the conversation, despite not even having been a part of the drone flying, and steps closer to you, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “sorry about that. are you okay?”
“me? oh yeah, i’m great! i just like riding my bike laying down!” if your sarcastic tone isn’t evident enough, you punctuate your words with an eye-roll and an insincere smile.
“hold on, let me help you!” yunho is the one to interject the conversation next, showing no hesitation as he moves forward to carefully untangle you from the bike, discarding it- and the drone still in the wheel- to the side before offering you a helpful hand.
once you’re stood up straight, yeosang feels the need to fade further back into the group. you’ve scraped one of your knees, blood pooling from the gash, and a few more scratches rest upon your legs but it’s your hand that catches yeosang’s attention. a few of your fingers seem swollen and angled in directions unnatural for any normal person. he’s no expert but they almost seem broken, and that’s worrying.
what if you decide to sue him, for injuring you?
“mingi, go get the car and drive it round here.” yunho tosses the keys the boy’s way, who catches them and heads off back to the house party they’d all come from. “we’ll take you to the hospital, yeah? your hand doesn’t seem too good and your knee might need a few stitches. yeosang, you’re coming with us.”
great, so much for staying in the background, he’s now got the spotlight on him and a strange guilt when he meets your glaring stare.
“me? what for?” don’t say i done it, don’t say i done it, don’t say-
“because you were flying the drone,” yeosang silently spites everything that makes up the kind-hearted man that is jeong yunho. “the least you can do is pay for any medical expenses and make sure she’s okay.”
“wait, you were flying the drone?” for the first of what is soon to be many times- even thought neither of you know it yet- you address yeosang directly, scoffing with that same attitude hongjoong had received. “your piloting future ain’t looking too bright, buddy.”
“wouldn’t have happened if you’d had lights on that hunk of metal.” he nods his head in the direction of the discarded bike, instinct telling him to defend himself against this stranger with a smart mouth. “i mean, who rides a bike at two in the morning?”
“who flies a drone in the dark? maybe if you’d put had some lights on that hunk of plastic.”
yeosang can only dread the thought of how annoying this car ride to the hospital will be.
seoul, 3 months before the wedding.
with a deep sigh, you clench and unclench your hand.
there’s a stiffness in three- the pointer, middle and pinkie- fingers. it’s the only sign that remains from when they’d been broken, a side effect you’d been warned about by your doctor. if a little stiffness for a few months is the consequence of being able to finally bend your fingers again, you’re glad to endure it.
the computer screen lays open in front of you, a soft white light as you stare back at your zoom profile, your online tutoring lessons finally done for the day, meaning you’re free from having to use your fake, overly cheerful customer service voice.
the clock reads quarter to six.
he’s later than usual today. normally, by four o’clock, he’s knocked on your door over ten times and rang your doorbell even more, exhausting you to the point of ripping the door open to see what he wants, even if you’re already more than aware of what he’s here to say.
it’s been going on for two months, or however long it’s been since him and his irresponsibility lead to you flying over your handlebars. every few days- some times multiple in a row- kang yeosang shows up at your front door with some kind of edible arrangement and pleads for you to accept his apology, to not go through with suing him. you rarely have to go grocery shopping anymore thanks to him.
and, you suppose, there’s no one you can really blame other than yourself. both for making the threat in the first place and for allowing yunho, along side the boy you’d come to know as mingi and the notorious yeosang, to drop you outside your home after the unexpected hospital visit. had you not done that, the prissy boy who visits you would have no idea where you live.
in the midst of reminiscing over every time you’d opened the door to find him there, baseball cap on backwards and a mask over his easily recognizable face, your ringtone begins to play.
it’s the devil incarnate
“mother.” your greeting is as dry as stale bread, perfectly conveying how you feel regarding the woman on the receiving end of it. were someone to assume you hate your mother, they’d be wrong. you love her, dearly, which makes disliking her as a person so much more difficult to manage.
“oh good, you picked up. i worried you were busy... doing whatever it is you do.” it’s like she’s incapable of comprehending how someone could ever choose a different path in life from her, a high school drop out who simply had the luck of weaseling her way up in the world. she’d laughed in your face the day you announced you were going to university, even though your brothers had not received that reaction. to her, education and hard labor is for men, whilst the women are simply supposed to hang off their arm as decoration and spend their cash. “i’m calling to ask if you’ve booked your flight yet, and to confirm what hotel you’ll be staying at. your father and i, plus your your eldest brother and his wife, will be staying at the groom’s house but there won’t be enough room for you. your brother says there’s a hostel nearby that should fit your budget.”
with the way she speaks about her children, not even bothering to name them, you’d think they were no more than strangers to her.
“i booked my flights last week, mother, after minsoo texted me on your behalf to berate me about it.” you don’t hold back on the attitude in your voice, more than eager to make her realize your distaste for her behavior. and, in your defense, you have every right to feel this way towards her. what kind of woman goes and suggest her own daughter, who is already having to fly half-way across the world unlike the rest of them, stay in a cheap hostel while they all live it up in your brother’s townhouse.
“perfect. now, for your date to the wedding-” whatever she says next, you completely miss, thanks to the ringing of your doorbell.
“look, mom, as much as i’d love to sit and discuss the ins and outs of my love life with you, someone is at my door.” your finger itches to hit the red button on your screen.
“text me your flight details! and let me know when you book a place to stay. i’m already stressed enough with your brother’s wedding plans, don’t give me a reason to have to worry you’re too disorganized to make a simple trip alone.”
she hangs up before you get the chance to do so, getting the last word in, as always.
the doorbell rings again.
“coming!”
you pull the door open and are sent spiraling back into your reality, outside of superficial mothers and unbooked hotels, all from a simple glance at the black haired boy on your doorstep. today, he brings a bouquet of flowers instead of an edible arrangement.
you’re a little relieved, having begun to grow sick of the cheese, the chocolate, the sheer cheek of his gifts.
“i didn’t think you were coming today.” is all you can really say, to stop yourself from thanking him for interrupting your phone call. for once, he seemed to have a purpose.
“aw, did you miss me?” even with the mask covering half his face you know he’s wearing that snarky smile, like he’s better than you. in a way, you suppose he is.
“don’t flatter yourself, your visits remind me to take my anti-stress meds.” you say, stepping a little further out of your doorway, the cool wind licking up your heated skin in a way that has you keening into it.
while you focus on the cold, yeosang focuses on the warmth. more specifically, the warmth traveling right down his bloodstream to the vein that runs along the base of his member, the very subtle hint of cleavage peeking through the top of your shirt and your bare legs on display sending his disillusioned mind into a spiral of x rated thoughts.
he needs to get laid, desperately. family fortune be damned.
“what can i do for you today, kang?” it takes a few minutes for you to ask, after you watch him stare off into space.
“uh...” he blinks slowly, like he’s taking in his surroundings again and realizing he’s stood on your doorstep, flowers in hand and eyes on you. “flowers. i mean- yeah, they’re for you. you know, cause i’m sorry for-”
“crashing into the wheel of my bike, causing me to break my fingers, and then trying to put the blame on me, instead of your own shitty piloting skills?”
“hey! i’m the best drone flyer in my group-”
“being the best of a bad batch is not the flex you think it is.”
“anyway!” he changes the topic of conversation, mostly just to stop himself from playing into his own frustration and showing his true colors. the last thing he needs is to further anger someone on the brink of suing him. “yes, i’m sorry. i hope you can finally see how sincere my apology is.”
an idea pops into your head, then and there. the kind of idea that’s so ridiculous you convince yourself it isn’t.
“look, kang yeosang, cut the crap. i know you don’t really care about what you done to me, you’re just interested in getting me to say i won’t sue you.” despite what you’re saying, your hands still find the time to pluck the flowers out of his grap. they’re pretty, expensive and the perfect thing to send a picture of to your mother, in hopes of getting her to cancel out any plans of finding you a wedding date, likely a man she’s trying to force you to walk down the aisle to someday. “right?”
he’s unsure if it’s safe to respond truthfully, and he tells you so, only for you to reassure him he can be as honest as he likes. “then yes, you’re right. i mean, i am sorry about your hand but i’m only doing this to get you to drop any idea of suing.”
“why? aren’t you filthy rich or some shit like that?” you may or may have not done some googling of him, for safety reasons, of course. it most definitely wasn’t to find wind up on his instagram page, enjoying the various picture of him and his rich friends living life to the fullest.
“a lawsuit would reflect badly on my family’s reputation.”
it seems your mother isn’t far off from being the rich snob she so desires to be, she has the right attitude yet lacks the money. and, suddenly, the light bulbs are turning on inside your head, your neurons beginning to send out signals of what you needed to do, say, offer next.
“i’ll agree to never sue you over all this,” his whole face lights up in relief instantly, like you’ve given him the keys to heaven. “but, on one condition.”
“i’ll do anything.” he then hesitates, reevaluating his words. “if it’s legal.”
“accompany me to a wedding, as my date.” his eyebrows raise at this, and you spot the curling of his lips under his mask.
“i wasn’t aware you thought of me like that. you’re not usually my type but i guess you’re pretty attractive-”
“not actually date me, you idiot.” you need to stop him in his tracks, before he gives you another reason to beat him over the head with the bouquet in your hand. how anyone, even with a face as pretty as his, could be so full of themselves, you’ll never understand. perhaps money breeds ego. “just... spend a few days pretending that we’re madly in love.”
“let me guess, an annoying cousin you’re too embarrassed to face single?”
“something like that.” you can’t help but wonder if he too awaits the same fate as you, condemned to having a relationship created inorganically. you may not know much about their lifestyle but, through watching your mother and your own sister-in-laws, it doesn’t seem uncommon for the elite to set up their children, marriages being used as strategies to benefit two different riches.
“okay, sounds easy. i’m in, just tell me when and where to show up.” yeosang gives in to the proposal far easier than you’d expected, and now all your arguments as to why he should agree to it feel wasted.
“oh...” you trail off, processing everything he’s said again. “that’s the catch, the wedding is in paris.”
so maybe you’d lied about having booked your flights, and maybe you’d never really had enough money to hire a lawyer, never mind actually begin the process of suing him, but he needn’t know that and you aren’t about to share that information.
at least you’ve now got a date to the wedding.
seoul, 4 days before the wedding.
“you’re unbelievable.”
it’s all you’ve been able to repeat, over and over, for the past twenty minutes. but what else is one supposed to say when the mad man that is kang yeosang shows up at their apartment, four in the afternoon, beeping the horn of a limousine? you aren’t naive to the stares you’d gotten from all the nosy people who’d stepped out their homes due to the noise, all watching how yeosang dashed up the steps of your door to grab your luggage.
you’re surprised there aren’t already pictures of him all over the gossip sites, questioning why the little rich boy held the car door open for you, a common nobody, hand on the top of the opening to stop you from bumping your head against it.
“you’ve only got yourself to blame, you’re the one who put me in charge of transport.” yeosang sits across from you, leisurely spread along the row of leather sofa that makes up his seat. he’s so relaxed while you’re rigid, back straight, knees perfectly bent, hands carefully resting on your thighs to avoid making contact with the leather. “you should be used to this by now.”
he’s right, you’ve had the better part of three months to get accustomed to his extravagant lifestyle.
would you say that you and yeosang have become friends? no, but you can tolerate a full day with him and not return home with the urge to commit homicide, and that's better than nothing to you.
it was all yeosang’s suggestion, an idea birthed by his own boredom of trying to keep up his game of playing the good, civilized son. he’d called you up, four in the morning on a wednesday, and had the audacity to judge you for being awake, as if he wasn’t in the same position. teasing aside, he swiftly asked if you were free on thursday, to which you confirmed you were.
since then, every other thursday has been spent together in one location or another, running over the intricate details of your fake relationship. according to him, it was the best way to ensure it's as believable as possible to your family. you two need a plan, a story-line to give answers to whatever questions are thrown your way.
in those three months, you’ve come up with a very basic yet compelling love story.
a story where you’d met through mutual friends, at a house party- which, isn’t a complete lie. yunho has become your friend and they had been at a party when he flew his drone into you-, and exchanged numbers. after a standard amount of dates, the first one being at a bowling alley, yeosang told you he wanted to make things official, and that’s how things have been for the seven months you’ve been together. if asked about future plans, you're to brush it off with a giggle while yeosang is to “accidentally” let it slip that he has plans of asking you to move in together after the holiday.
leading perfectly into your reason for breaking up, once things are over and done with: you just aren’t ready to take that step and yeosang takes the rejection badly.
he now knows he’s too good at lying.
“what time’s our flight?” you ask a while into the drive to the airport, eyes fixated in watching the world pass by through the tinted window.
when the agreement had been made for yeosang to join you on the trip to the wedding, it was easy for you to relinquish all control for the security of not having to scrape together whatever pennies you could find, in the small hope of affording a two-way trip. which, by default of kang yeosang being the most secretive bastard to grace the earth, has lead to you not knowing a single detail of your trip. the transport, the accommodation, the flights, everything was planned by him.
it’s both exciting and unnerving.
“you’ll see.” is all he replies and rouses a groan from you.
“can you not just be straight forward for once?”
“where’s the fun in that?”
what remains of the drive you two spend it in silence, an occasional buzz from either of your phones and the radio serving as the only noise. it’s unexpected but not unwelcome, the way you two have grown to easily coexist in the same space, no need for constant bickering or bragging.
in all the time you’ve known the rich boy, he’s seemed shy. not shy in the ways of silence and a reserved nature, but a shyness that presents itself in the form of blushing cheeks and hand-covered laughter. he's confident with certain things, like the way he looks or the status he possesses, but anytime it's just you two conversing casually, like you're anything more than strangers stuck in a deal, yeosang fumbles over his words.
you hate to admit how cute it can be, to watch his eyes light up in excitement whenever he tells you about his work in his father’s company and to hear his unapologetic fascination towards all things technological. hell, your computer had broken three thursdays ago and he didn’t hesitate to shove right past you into your home. within less than an hour, he was bidding you goodbye and dismissing your praise for having fixed the damned thing.
so far, kang yeosang is proving to save you a lot of money.
“wait!” you’re forced to exclaim, as you watch through the window as the car grows further away from the airport entrance. “i think the driver missed the exit! can we tell him-”
“he didn’t. we’re not going through the airport.” yeosang watches you with amusement, which only serves to unnerve you.
the vehicle continues to move, each turn of the wheels driving you a little more insane. you’re starting to worry about what exactly kang yeosang has planned. for the first time since you’d handed him the metaphorical steering wheel, you’re debating slamming your foot down on the brakes and calling off this whole plan. it’s not like you’re really going to fool your family, anyway. they’ll see right through your lies, from nothing more than your body language towards one another.
you don’t hold love in your eyes for each other. your touches are rare and never linger. your words are sparse and very much not lovey-dovey. your worlds are completely the opposite: you struggle to pay your netflix bill and he buys netflix.
like, the entire company.
your mother will know it’s fake the moment she spots you two, arriving to the family brunch from hell that she’s organised to run over wedding details with you all. in other words, she wants an excuse to sus out the supposed boyfriend you're bringing along before the wedding, to figure how long she needs to wait to tell you about the man- more like, the wallet with legs- that she has planned for you.
you’re doomed. absolutely, certifiably condemned to a life of misery and champagne and being cheated on by a husband you don’t even want, and now you’re dragging poor little kang yeosang into this mess, and for what? all because he made a silly, drunken mistake? i mean, who hasn’t crash landed a drone into the wheel of-
the car is no longer on the main road.
it’s not on any road at all, in fact.
“yeosang...” you begin, eyeing the runway the vehicle is traveling along at a moderate speed, storage units larger than your whole block stationed along in a perfect row.
“before you freak out,” it’s irritating to know he’s already predicted your reaction. “i couldn’t figure out how to book a flight, and all of the ones i could find were going to have us stuck in a lay over for six or seven hours, and i figured you wouldn’t want to miss out on time with your family-”
“oh, you’ll soon change your mind.”
“so i asked my dad if we could borrow the family jet.”
“family...” each time you think you understand the extent of his riches, he pulls a stunt like this. on the second thursday you’d ever spent together, he’d noticed the wear and tear of your bag strap, shamelessly pointing it out to you in true blunt kang yeosang fashion. you waving it off as nothing a little superglue couldn’t fix translated in his brain as buying you a brand new one, this time the real deal instead of some fake copycat you’d bought down at a flea market. “fuck, you’re like rich rich.”
“we’re comfortable.” he shrugs, unbuckling his seat-belt and bringing your attention to the fact the car has stopped a few feet away from a jet-black... well, jet. the perfect way the sun reflects itself in the dark finish screams wealth, and you have to resist gasping as you watch the door open.
“that’s what all rich people say!” following him out of the car, you come to a halt in your tracks while he grabs both of your luggage. the plane feels so much more intimidating now, like a barrier you’re not allowed to cross, a metaphoric no trespassing sign for yeosang’s entire lifestyle.
“well,” your head snaps to look over at yeosang, who’s somehow already stood on the first stair, a suitcase in each hand, dark hair blowing a little with the afternoon breeze and a teasing smile on his face while he stares right back at you, frozen in your spot. “are you coming or what?”
“you’re unbelievable!”
paris, 3 days before the wedding.
“so, no horse and carriage?”
the driver slams the door shut after yeosang squeezes his way into the back seat, just in time for you to catch his eye-roll. throughout the whole flight, you’d ripped into him with jokes and comments about his family’s wealth, going as far as wondering what extravagant transport awaited to take you to your hotel. the car you sit in is certainly no royal carriage but it is a bmw and the seats are lined with the softest of leather.
“afraid not this time, darling.”
“darling?” you muster what little energy you have, biting back a persistent yawn. “cool it, lover boy, we’ve still got...” the blur of sleep in your eyes makes it hard to read the time on your phone screen. 1 am. “eleven hours until we need to see my family.”
“i find method acting works best for me.” there’s a wiggle of his brows and a teasing smile on his face, all which cause you to shove his shoulder. he overreacts- something he has a tendency to do, really- and sends himself crashing against the window of the car, feigning a pout as a hand rubs over his injury. “2 minutes into this relationship and we’re already having a domestic.”
“sorry, babe,” you shrug and plaster a smile on your face. past the windows, you can see the car has begun to move, carrying you away from the airport and towards the blinding lights of the city of love. “just trying out your method acting thing.”
all cities are the same. it’s a very easy conclusion for you to come to, despite only having been in two. cities are bright and loud. they’re overwhelmingly big looking. they make you feel like nothing more than an ant traipsing through a garden of towers or a speck of dust floating through the grand space of earth.
next to you sits someone who disagrees. kang yeosang, well traveled and well versed in the intricate details that make every city unique, finds them small. compact. cramped. there’s never enough room for the people living there, and that is why man-kind had to begin building upwards, creating more space. he feels like a giant in cities, like someone with purpose and a place to go, as he rushes past people, little care shown for if either of them bump into each other.
“i’ve always liked pa-” yeosang’s words come to a halt in his throat, only to bubble right back down from where they’d come from when he turns to find you with your eyelids shut and your head leaning against the window.
he doesn’t mean to reach across the seats and touch you but a strand of hair threatens to brush over your face and he can’t risk you waking up, knowing you’d stayed awake the whole flight just to sync your body to the french timezone.
your hair is softer than he’d thought, and the intimate action of brushing a thumb over your cheek comes a little too easily. everything has seemed that way with you lately. it’s alarming for yeosang to see someone fit so easily in to his life, to feel less like an accessory bought by his family fortune and more like a human choosing to waste their time on him.
he’s grown used to the feeling of sitting next to someone, whether that be in a car or a plane or any other mode of transport, and feeling like they don’t belong, like they’re intruding on his personal space. you, however, fit right in, like you’ve never been anywhere else but his side.
and that is a feeling he’s not ready to get used to.
the thump of your head clashing against the window worries him more than the confusion in his own mind and heart. he jolts in his seat, unbuckling himself only to scoot over into the middle, closer to your sleeping form. he hesitates, only for a moment, to question what exactly he should do.
the answer comes in the form of him carefully leading your head on to his soft, warm shoulder. seventeen seconds pass and then he spots the goosebumps forming along your exposed legs, this time not even thinking before grabbing for his jacket and draping it across you, doing his best at shielding you from the cold and the solid window.
when you awake, it’s already nearing two in the morning.
there’s a newfound weight atop your body, one you’re more than certain was not there when you unknowingly drifted off to sleep. you’ve yet to open your eyes, instead focusing on curling further under whatever is blanketing your frame. it’s soft, far more pleasant to touch than any of your overly washed and faded bed sheets, and there’s a scent attached to it that has your mouth watering, your insides twisting and your nose itching to bury itself in it. it’s musky and sweet and fresh all at once, a concoction of contradicting smells that blend too easily.
something moves beneath your head.
“wakey wakey, sleepyhead.” it’s yeosang, so much closer than you remember him being when you’d both entered the car. “c’mon, we’re at the hotel. twenty minutes and you can rest that pretty head of yours on a pillow, instead of giving me a dead shoulder.”
at least he called you pretty.
“can’t you get one of your servants to carry me up?” opening your eyes, you shift off of him to sit up straight. a cramp has settled in the base of your neck, the feeling increasing when your lips part to release an untamed yawn, which quickly prompts one out of yeosang too.
“what kind of boyfriend would i be if i let someone else carry my girl around?” he watches the way you shrug his jacket off of yourself, with a questionably heavy heart in his chest.
“quit calling yourself that,” there’s a rush of cool air as you open your own door, unbuckling yourself as quickly yet as naturally as you can, a fresh wave of heat settling into your cheeks. the chill of the night is welcomed, anything to cool you down before the rich boy notices your physical reaction. maybe you’re coming down with a fever. “or i’ll have to assume you’re catching feelings.”
stepping onto the street, you feel like you’ve stepped onto the set of a movie, one of those cheesy romcoms, like midnight in paris. everything is a plethora of beige and browns, streets lined with the quaintest like patisseries and cafes. the streetlamps cast a golden hue over it all, enhancing the romantic feeling. everything feels old, and historical, and fictional, and european.
you almost forget, for a moment, you’re not here to spend a vacation comprised of sweet treats and historical landmarks and unpromised romance but, rather, a long weekend of judgmental glances and uncomfortable conversations and fake relationships.
“is it really catching feelings if i already caught them a while back?” as if to punctuate his own statement, he sneaks an arm around your waist and pulls you closer, till both your sides are pressed against each other and you feel the brush of his thigh against your own with every step forward, with every stair you climb, burning into your skin with a foreign warmth.
you only part ways from each other when yeosang drops his arm down to make his way over to the reception. you trail behind him slower, eyes too busy taking in the lobby area, which is comprised of way too much marble, carpet and expensive yet uncomfortable looking chairs for this to be an ordinary, run of the mill, three star hotel.
at the desk, you pick up on the sound of the receptionist typing away quickly on her computer, mouth moving a hundred miles an hour as she speaks what you can only imagine to be french. what’s more surprising is when you hear yeosang easily replying. the knowledge of his multi-lingual talents only adds to his air of sophisticated riches.
by the time he’s gotten a hold of your room key, and completely ignored the flirty eyes of the receptionist, yeosang struts his way over to where you still stand in amazement. as if sensing this, he offers you shrug and a smile, non-verbally telling you it’s your fault for leaving him in charge of the trip.
the elevator ride up to your floor is relatively quiet, the jet-lag slowly seeping into both of your bones and threatening to drown you under it’s weight. the both of you stand on opposite sides of the small moving box, the baggage between you filling the space perfectly.
it’s oddly metaphorical, a clear separation of classes.
his bags are expensive, new, littered in the logo of some expensive brand you wouldn’t even be able to buy, even with all your life savings put together. meanwhile, yours are old, battered and they stand lopsided, thanks to the wheel missing on one of the corners.
before you can focus too much on it, the door dings open and out you both step, into a hallway just as lavish as the lobby.
“this door’s ours.” he sounds as tired as you feel, yet that doesn’t stop him from taking your bags off your hands, key-card resting between his teeth.
one look at the door isn’t enough to make you realize where you are, what room he’d booked. but a second, third, fourth glance certainly helps cement it into your mind.
“would you stop checking out the door and open it?” yeosang speaks carefully through gritted teeth, working at not dropping the card. “jeez, what did you pack? your whole wardrobe?”
“i didn’t know what the weather would be like.”
“then look it up on the internet!”
fed up of his complaining, you swipe the key-card out of his mouth, wiping his excess saliva on the shoulder of his jacket. your eyes land back on the door and properly read the elegant words splayed across it. you have half the mind to demand he cut the cameras to whatever cheesy romantic comedy you two appear to be starring in, because men like this and situations like this only happen in those.
“i can’t believe you booked...” you have to pause in amazement before you can actually say it. “the coco channel suite. that’s... insane. like, really crazy. it probably would have been cheaper for you if i had just sued you.”
“not in the long run.” his reply is stoic, something hidden in the meaning of it that you don’t feel quite comfortable questioning. “now, if you’d like to open the door, you’ll find there’s a perfectly well-made bed waiting for us to crash down on it.”
unlocking the door, it opens almost in slow motion, each movement slowly unveiling more and more and more of the wonders hidden in the extravagant room: the marble, the decor, the art, the furniture. it’s all beautiful, spotless. you could easily convince yourself, with how clean everything looks, that you and yeosang are the only people to have ever stepped foot in it.
the luggage thumps onto the ground behind you but you ignore it, and yeosang, in the name of venturing further through the suite.
then his words settle in.
“wait,” you do a one eighty and nearly scream when you find he’s already stood right behind you, jacket and shoes discarded at some point. “did you say bed, as in only one bed?”
yes, you’re definitely trapped in a romance movie.
though, approximately ten hours later, as you and kang yeosang hurriedly race through the streets full of busy parisians and starry-eyed tourists, it’s beginning to feel more like a thriller movie.
you slide to a stop in front of the appointed cafe, where just beyond it’s cute, baby pink colored door, lies the very core of your problems: your not-so-loving family. behind you, yeosang is struggling to catch his breath and, if you weren’t in the same position yourself, you’d have half the mind to laugh at him. your ankles ache under the pressure of your heels but you’re honestly a little too impressed by the fact you never tripped while running in them to care.
“did we,” yeosang starts and stops almost immediately, his heaving chest getting in the way of his words. “make it?”
“we’re fifteen minutes late.” your reply is disillusioned, knowing you’ll only be entering to more attention on you and the dark haired boy by your side. ideally, you’d wanted to be the first to arrive but mister daddy-pays-my-bills was too busy styling his hair.
“pft, at least i look good.” it’s like he can read your mind. “we’ll just call it being fashionably late, giving your family a nice view of us walking in.”
“wait, wait!” you grab his arm before he can make the move to open the door. to anyone watching, you look like nothing more than a girl trying to get a hold of her boyfriend’s hand, but yeosang is the only one to feel your deathly tight grip on him. “just... be prepared, okay? my mom can kind of be a bitch about things, especially given that we’re late. don’t let anything she says get to you, okay?”
you almost sound like you care about his feelings getting hurt.
maybe you do.
“i appreciate the warning, darling, but i guarantee i can take whatever she throws my way and return it by tenfold.” too easily, his arm slips around to hold you by your waist, lips landing on your forehead when both of you notice the audience watching you through the windows of the cafe. yes, the game has finally begun, for real now. “besides, if she tries to say anything about us being late, i��ll just tell her all about how her pretty little daughter jumped my bones in the shower and kept us a little busy.”
if your mother’s eyes weren’t burning a hole in the side of your head, you would slap the smirk right off of kang yeosang’s stupidly pink lips.
paris, 2 days before the wedding.
the first thing kang yeosang registers is warmth.
he knows it can’t be the morning sun, casting it’s heat down in through the windows and onto the bed. the curtains had been firmly shut last night, by none other than himself, when you’d both stumbled back in to the suite and collapsed on the bed, too tired for formalities and too emotionally drained to care about the fact you were sharing a bed.
when you’d first arrived in the room, and yeosang had seen you register the fact there was only one bed, you hadn’t hesitated once before grabbing a pillow off of it and dropping it down onto a couch, bidding him goodnight and good luck with finding a spare blanket while you crashed down onto the luxurious bed, laying smack in the middle of it to drive the point home: you would not be sharing.
twenty hours, a whole lot of running around and the awful company of your mother later, there was no time to fight over who got the bed and who got the sofa.
it’s big enough for you both anyway, right?
he’s reluctant to open his eyes, despite having woken up five minutes ago. it’s that same old feeling anyone gets, the denial of knowing the day is about to start and there’s no longer an excuse to lay around doing nothing in bed. this morning more than ever, he wants to fall back asleep.
yeosang had slept like a log for the first time in months, the combination of the expensive egyptian cotton, the cloud-like comfort from the mattress and the jet-lag coming together to create a perfect blend of ingredients for a good night’s sleep. the security of someone laying next to him, even if you were hanging off the opposite end of the bed just to keep distance from him, became the cherry on top.
the warmth grows closer, like it’s becoming tangible, something he can trail his fingertips over and feel it burn his skin.
even if it burns, he’d still touch it again.
curiosity finally catches up to him, culminating in his eyes finally parting. it’s uncomfortable at first, to feel the crisp in the corner of his eyes, where sleep has made it’s mark physically evident, and the dried drool on his lips. there’s a reason yeosang makes it a point to kick out any hook-up once the deed is done and, contrary to popular belief, it's less because he's a careless asshole and more so because of his embarrassing sleep face.
the first thing he sees is you.
you’re still peacefully asleep, a fact that makes yeosang envy you whilst relieving him at the same time, knowing that you needed all the sleep you could get, after the night you’d had. his eyes trace over your face, from the hair stuck to your forehead, down to your eyes, all the way to your lips. it’s not hard to spot the dried tears on your cheeks, not when he already expects them to be there.
he’d heard you crying during the night, a while after you’d both lay down. he’d made no attempt to comfort you, not when you clearly had waited for a time where you thought he would be asleep to unleash your waterfall, unaware that something unknown had been keeping him awake most of the night.
his heart had clenched a million times as he listened to your soft hiccups and stuttered breaths.
and, if you're sleeping, it also means you aren’t aware of the distance between you two right at this moment. or, better put, the lack of distance.
you, on your side, a leg nestled between both of yeosang’s while your head lays resting on his shoulder. every warm breath of yours he feels it on his skin, heating him up in ways he’s never experienced. him, arms around your waist to hold your firmly in place and chin resting atop of your head. on the king sized bed, the two of you combined take up less than one person would on a single mattress.
for no more than twelve seconds, he lets his hold tighten around you and he curls himself further into the warmth provided by your skin. it’s short and not lasting, but it’s a moment where he can let his eyes close and fool his heart into thinking this is a constant in his life, that he wakes up everyday to a familiar face and loving hold, that the nights pass with him anchored down into reality by someone who loves him rather than the brutal truth of his lonely, cold, unfeeling bed sheets being the only things to embrace him.
come the thirteenth second, he let’s you go and rolls over, eyes staring out at the extravagant room that suddenly dims in comparison to the sight of you and your messy hair.
paralyzed, he stays glued in his spot when he feels you move under the sheets, when you slowly sit up, when you stretch and yawn, when you slip out the bed, when you make your way over to the bathroom, when he hears the door shut and the shower start.
kang yeosang makes no attempt to let you know he’d woken up before you, brain too fried from his own confusing actions.
hours later, the events of the morning continue to haunt him as he throws back another shot of bourbon, caramel colored liquor burning into his throat with no mercy as he stares off into the distance, complete disregard for the scantily clad girl occupying herself in his lap and rutting against him in the hopes of a few tips.
she could take all his money, for all yeosang cares, he just wants her to fuck off so he can stop picturing your face instead of hers.
“so, you and my sister, huh?” it takes yeosang’s drunken mind a few moments to register who is talking to him, due to the fact he’d only met everyone at the table the day prior, over lunch and an uncomfortable stroll around the city.
it’s seyoung, the oldest of your two brothers. when he’d planted himself in the empty seat next to him, yeosang has no idea, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes and some glitter along his chin, which he can only imagine was originally stuck to the body of one of the strippers.
“yeah, me and your sister.” he’s not sure what else he can say, not given much of a prompt to go off of. it doesn’t help, the fact that yeosang has never experienced the talk with any family members of his past concubines.
the stripper in his lap finally gets the hint that he’s uninterested and moves over to seyoung, who welcomes her into his lap with open arms and a wolfish smile, one yeosang can only imagine his wife wouldn’t be happy about. instead of dwelling on the marital problems of a family he’s not related to, he shrugs it off and leans forward to grab the bottle of bourbon, refiling his glass while he tries to ignore the ache in his eyes, the clubs flashing lights feeling like a nuisance more than a mood-maker.
“you must be serious about her.” your brother lays a hand on the stripper’s hip, one yeosang knows the no touching policy forbids but the girl excuses with a few extra notes stuffed into her bra.
“why?” yeosang’s began to feel defensive. really, he should be glad to hear such a thing from your sibling, it means you two are succeeding at fooling them. yet, more than anything, he’s feeling called out, like he’s being forced to confront something he’s trying so hard to bury under his own consciousness.
something that’s caused him to cover you in his jacket, and carry your bags, and call you pet names, and pull you closer under the covers.
“dude,” the girl in his lap is swirling her hips in ways that would usually hypnotize yeosang, have him keen to find out what time she gets off, and how long it would take him to get her off. tonight, it makes him think more of how awkward the whole scene looks, how she’s not even on-beat with the song blaring through the strip joint. “we’ve been around naked women the whole night and you’ve looked nothing but bored. you keep checking your watch and looking around at the decoration. i don’t know how or what she’s done to you, but y/n’s got you pussy whipped.”
the way he speaks of you feels far too vulgar for any ordinary caring brother.
“where i come from we just call it being in a committed relationship.” there’s spite in his voice, an aggression. he’s glad to be angered by seyoung, because it gives him something to focus on other than the underlying meaning and reason behind everything the man has just called him out on. “but i’m sure a married man like you knows all about that.”
your brother rubs over his ring finger, a tan line where his wedding band should be.
the same wedding band he’d slipped into his pocket on his way into the club.
“so, you sure you’re serious about my sister?” an ironic question to come from a married man with a half naked woman in his lap and a semi-hard dick. “because if i find out you’re just messing around with her, like you little rich boys like to do with girls like her, i’ll skin you alive.”
it would be oh so easy for yeosang to call him out on his hypocrisy, on the fact he’s trying to act so different to yeosang when, in reality, he’s decked out in a tailored suit, with expensive shoes and a watch on his wrist worth more than the average yearly salary of most workers.
instead, he settles for another sip of his drink and a roll of his eyes.
“i don’t know what you mean by girls like her but,” finally having had enough of the music, of the flashing lights, of the invasive questioning from a man lacking morals or loyalty, yeosang stands up. there’s an itch in his fingers, one he knows will only be sedated by holding a cigarette between them. “i assure you, if anyone is going to skin me alive for messing around, it will be your sister.”
seyoung’s reply falls on deaf ears as yeosang abruptly walks away, carrying his half empty glass in hand. he watches the other members of the bachelor party as he makes his way through the club. some littered near the stage, others with their heads buried in the glittery chests of women, and the rest at the bar, engaging in some emotional confessional with the groom-to-be, minsoo.
the paris air is cold, refreshing, filled with the feeling of an upcoming spring when he steps out of the grim club. it’s like stepping into another world, into a movie set. the club, a slimy and cheap mockery of a vegas strip club, and the streets, a perfect replica of anyone’s favorite rom-com.
yeosang’s legs carry him over to a bench, where he sits himself down and, for the first time in hours- since you’d both went your separate ways for the bachelor and bachelorette parties, really- he feels himself relax, his shoulders untensing while he sags himself further down on the bench.
he’s spent, exhausted, lonely.
with one hand, he lights a flame with his lighter, dragging the dancing ember toward the nicotine stick waiting between his lips, and, with the other hand, he fishes his phone out of his jacket.
unlocking the screen, he skips past the missed messages and social media interactions, thumb heading straight to click on his contacts and scroll until it finds the person he’s desiring.
for a few minutes, he contemplates hitting the call button, tries to factor in every pro and every con of igniting a conversation. making his mind up, insecurities and complicated feelings getting the best of him, he clicks his phone screen shut.
it lights up a moment later, your name splayed across the screen.
he wonders if you also needed to weigh the pros and cons of calling him.
“did you really miss me that much,” yeosang doesn’t bother with a greeting, jumping right into teasing you. it’s what he’s familiar with, what he’s good at, what he’s wanted to do all night instead of talk about football matches he hadn’t even watched and bare witness to several infidelities. “you called me in the middle of a party?”
“oh, shut up, lover boy. you’re the one that answered before the second ring.” the way the r rolls off your tongue lights a spark in him, makes his stomach coil with an indescribable feeling. he wants you to only call him that, to be your only lover boy. “so maybe it’s you who missed me.”
“okay, sherlock, you’ve made your point. maybe i did.” neither of you want to acknowledge the sincerity in his voice or the hum of joy you reply with. “having a good night?”
“well,” you pause, a dried laughter slipping out of you. he can picture you, when he blinks, throwing your head back, eyes staring up at the sky. he wonders if you’re looking at the same star he is, bright and burning yet so far away, keeping it’s distance to protect itself from any unwanted calamity. “i called you, that should answer your question.”
“i’m glad we’re both having a shit night, then.”
“we’re truly radiating soulmate energy.”
“miserable without each other.”
“painfully so.”
for the second time that day, he allows his heart to be fooled into thinking this is a constant part of his life. phoning you, checking up on you, hearing about your day. talking about the most mundane shit yet still feeling high as a kite, sat on the most uncomfortable bench in all the world and feeling nothing but comfort.
“kang yeosang.”
he might prefer the way his name rolling off your tongue over the letter r.
“i-don’t-know-your-last-name y/n.” has your laugh always sounded so sweet? he could have sworn it used to be more like a witches cackle, not the symphony of sound he’s hearing down the line.
“it’s l/n.” he can hear the smile in your voice and laments that he can’t actually see it, having to rely on the you his conscious paints against his eyelids each time they close. “i’m hungry.”
it’s only two words. a statement, a way to fill empty space in a conversation and kill the awkward silence. yet it feels like more.
like an invitation.
“it’s late,” his watch tells him it’s just passed two in the morning. “most places are closed.”
you sigh in defeat, yeosang’s heart clenches. “i know.”
“though,” the pause is only for dramatic affect, to gain your attention, something he’s unaware that he’s actually had all night, even as you sat among drunken women and a man in the fakest cop outfit you’ve ever seen. “i did see a fast food place near our hotel.”
it takes him little to no time to arrive at the address you send him, where he finds you eagerly awaiting outside a brightly lit club, dress glittering under the reflection of the moon and your make-up smudged ever so slightly, only making him wonder how you still manage to look beautiful.
you two almost hug when he reaches you, but a drunken stranger stumbles into him and ruins the short lived moment.
“c’mon, let’s go get you some food.” he holds his hand out, not expecting you to take it.
you don’t.
“kang yeosang, you little flirt.” instead, you tangle your arm around his. “didn’t your mother ever tell you the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach?”
“the biology of that makes little to no sense.” he prefers the soft street lamps to the fluorescent lights in the club he’d abandoned. he prefers the smell of fresh air to the smell of too much cologne. he prefers the company of you to the bachelor crew. “i mean, it implies starting with anal-”
“you know, you’re real cute till you open your mouth.”
“i can’t tell if that’s a back-handed compliment or just you telling me to shut up.”
“maybe it’s both.”
just like that, an evening of unpleasant conversations and uncomfortable situations turns into one of lighthearted talking and subtle brushes of skin and grease covered fingers from the bag of chips you both got to share on your walk back to the fancy hotel, both of you already making plans to rent out some french movie and take a shot each time someone says oui oui.
and as he walks by your side down the old cobbled streets, he smiles.
he smiles so softly, that he doesn’t even notice it until he catches the image of his own reflection in a shop window. in fact, he watches both of your reflections and takes in the normalcy of it all. you in your beautiful outfit, glitter sticking to your skin and his jacket draped over your naked shoulders, him with his wrinkled shirt, matted hair and your heels dangling from his hand. you look no different to every other couple who would walk these streets.
he can only hope he’ll remember this night for the rest of his life.
paris, 1 day before the wedding.
the first thing you feel is warmth.
this time it is because of the sun, it’s first few rays that paint the sky also finding a way to bring their heat into the hotel room. neither of you had closed the curtains last night, too caught up in the thrill of cheap liquor and your awful attempts at mimicking the french accent, and exchanging war stories from the parties you’d both successfully ditched.
while yeosang was busy being quizzed on his intentions with you, you were being judged on every little aspect of your life. to be more specific, the mundane parts of your life. the wedding party is made up of girls with riches upon riches, family owned fortunes, and sugar daddies willing to spend half their salary just to keep a pretty girl in their life.
the moment you joined them all, you could already tell in what direction the evening would be going, based solely on the dirty looks and the way they all gave your dress a once-over, sneering among themselves like they just knew you’d hardly spent fifty bucks on it.
“you really should ask yeosang to let you borrow his credit card next time you go shopping.” seyoung’s wife had no shame in verbally shaming you, passing it off as a concerned comment, one of her clawed hands landing on your shoulder and giving it a squeeze, not hard enough to bruise but enough to leave the indents of her fake nails.
it took everything to not tell her to just focus on her failing marriage with your brother rather than concerning herself with the money you choose to waste on clothes.
at some point, with your intoxicated mind running a million miles per hour, the feeling of being an impostor, an outsider, an unwanted guest began to overwhelm your senses. the other girls were all caught up in their own conversations, gossiping about their husbands or bragging about their recent trips to bali, or the maldives, or any other ideal destination you’d never have the money or time to visit. it’s what drove you outside, to call the only form of moral support you seemed to have in paris.
yeosang.
who, many hours later, has his arms wrapped around you and a little bit of drool peeking out the corner of his lips. if you weren’t so frozen in your spot, the temptation to wipe it off of him would be irresistible.
anyone with vision could easily tell just how beautiful- perhaps ethereal is more suited- yeosang is. his features are a combination of sculpted details and perfect skin and soft locks of hair, topped off by his impeccable sense of fashion and the intoxicating scent of his cologne. but yeosang in the early morning sun is a whole new level of beauty, where his face is peacefully innocent and the birthmark adorning his left eyelid becomes more prominent, a symbol only he gets to bear on his skin to remind the world of how unique he is.
he’s deceptively vulnerable in the morning, you come to realize in your first attempt to roll over and unwind yourself from his hold. instead of doing the expected, aka setting you free and finding something else to clutch against his chest, he pulls you closer and tighter to him, a silent promise to not let go.
still, you try to pull away again.
he pulls you closer.
you give in to your fate, condemned to the hardly unenjoyable experience of a sleeping, cuddly kang yeosang, and let yourself relax again, melting against the mattress, eyes slipping closed once more as another round of sleep creeps up on you.
the next time you awake, the spot next to you is empty and you’re admittedly disappointed. you can hear water running in the bathroom, the realization that your travel buddy has decided to hop in the shower dawning upon you. the music blaring from his speakers is loud, but nowhere near as loud as the man himself, who’s voice you hear echoing against the tiled walls as he sings along to the chorus.
“have fun in there?” yeosang nearly jumps out his skin as he strolls out the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his slender waist as another is in his hand, working at drying his dampened dark locks, and obviously not expecting to see you sat upon the messy bed, awake and smiling like the cat who caught the canary.
“i don’t know what you mean.” used to putting on an act, yeosang takes no time to regain his composure. he spares no indication to being shy as he approaches you. a single drop of water falling from his hair and down his chest only makes you more aware of the fact he’d be naked if not for the towel covering him.
the room feels warmer.
“sure, whatever you say,” for a moment, you think he’s about to drop the towel from his waist. instead, he sits himself down on the end of the bed and, as you watch the short towel skirt further up his muscular thigh, it almost feels more scandalous to witness. “i wonder how the tabloids will feel when they find out infamous playboy kang yeosang sings along to mariah carrey when he showers.”
“they’d be too focused on the concept of me naked to care about the rest.” his face is smug, even when you whack him over the shoulder with a pillow. “and, i won’t accept your mariah carrey slander, thank you very much. she’s a skinny legend.”
“nothing makes me more uncomfortable than hearing you use twitter slang.”
“stop complaining,” like a child, the man sticks his tongue out at you and his hand reaches over to mess up your hair. “and hurry up and get dressed, i wanna go already.”
“wait- where are we going?”
“to get you,” he punctuates the word with a boop to your nose, setting off an inexplicable amount of butterflies in your stomach. “some breakfast, or else you’ll be grumpy the rest of the morning.”
kang yeosang’s theory of feeding you happy proves to be incorrect, for hours later, you sit with a frown etched onto your forehead and an empty drink in your hand.
the restaurant is lit up brighter than a thousand sunsets, a quintessential french aura encompassing the michelin star location: bright, expensive, lavish, like something straight out of a vogue magazine shoot. only, instead of models with luscious hair and bodies achieved with an array of blood, sweat and tears, the place is filled by middle aged men who’s years of drinking has caught up to them in the form of a beer-gut straining the buttons of their shirt and elderly women with more pearls on their neck than remain in the ocean, young girls in designer gowns and elevated shoes and young men with far too much gel in their hair.
yeosang’s hair sits freely on his head, every so often moving with the rest of him as he shakes with laughter.
you’ve been wondering for the past five minutes about just how soft it might feel to touch, if he uses a treatment on it. he has to, right? no one’s hair, no matter how healthy, looks that shiny, that soft, that inviting to comb your fingers through or grip in your hand as his head is nestled between your-
“if you keep glaring at me like that, they’re all going to think we’ve been fighting.” despite his words, there’s a smile on his face. it grows when your drag your stare away from his hair to meet his eyes, the awfully bright lights not looking so bad when they’re reflected in them.
“well, you did steal the last onion ring.” there’s noise all around you both, the many guests at the rehearsal dinner by no means shy to shout and holler and laugh amid their own dinner table conversations, but all you can hear is each other. “maybe we fought about that.”
“for the last time, i offered you it and you said you didn’t want it-”
“i didn’t say anything!”
“same difference!”
the events of your late brunch still weight heavy on your minds, from the onion ring incident all the way to the stolen glances over the table and the walk through the city you’d taken afterward. it's almost offensive that you’ve been in paris for so many days and not gotten the chance to see the sights, too caught up in your family’s incessant need to impose frustrations on your life.
starting off with the reunion brunch you'd all been forced to attend at your mother's demand. the moment you and yeosang waltzed into the cafe, the tension began. your mother had stared him down most of the time, whilst your brothers’ partners had unashamedly drooled over the skin peeking out at the top of his shirt. your mother sent you home with unshed tears that day, for only she knew how to rip down the self-esteem you've worked so hard to build up.
the bachelorette party had only been an improvement thanks to the absence of your mother, and that had still managed to be a night that left you nauseous and doing the last thing you's ever wanted to: running to a rich man for help.
"you're doing it again." this time, yeosang reaches forward, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear and using it as his excuse to dip his head down, his voice a deep whisper by your side. "what's got you frowning, darling?"
he's only calling you that because there's people around.
"nothing." his thumb brushes over the frown in your forehead and, all too easily, it slowly melts away. "i'm fine."
"that's your code for i'm not fine, but i'm too stubborn to admit it to anyone, never mind you." as the words pass his lips, you make eye contact with your mother, who’s been sat at a table talking to a man you’ve never seen before for the past thirty minutes.
she gives you a knowing look, like she’s seen through you and yeosang’s fake smiles and unloving caresses all night.
the room is beginning to heat up, uncomfortably so. the bright lights feel blinding, like you’re a deer caught in headlights. all the laughter feels aimed at you, like you’re the center of everyone’s joke, a joke you’re unaware of. the remnants of your dinner twist and turn and jump in your stomach, threatening to bring themselves back up and out of the way they entered you in the first place. yeosang’s subtle touches feel heavier, emptier, more insincere than they’ve ever been before.
he’s only touching you like that because there’s people around.
the screeching noise your chair makes as it drags across the floor while your body shoots up to a stand attracts a few onlookers nearby and prompts the raven haired boy next to you to take your palm in his, thumb rubbing soothingly over your skin as if to coax you to look at him. his lips move, but you don’t hear a word he says.
you can’t hear anything but your own breathing, your own heartbeat, your mother’s voice as she continues to converse with the stranger.
“i’m going for a cigarette.” the words are monotonous, and yeosang physically flinches as you pull your hand from his clasp.
“i didn’t know you smoke.” he makes it so difficult to spite him, to hate him, now that you know him. before, he was just a rich boy with a failure to take ownership of his mistakes. now, he’s the boy who takes you for breakfast and brings you apology flowers and flies you across the globe just to offer moral support with your family.
moral support he’s never questioned once, never pried into why you need it.
“i don’t.” it’s all you say before grabbing his coat off the back of his chair.
your arms slip into the expensive material as you step out onto a balcony, cold air filling your lungs in one breath. already it feels easier to breathe. your hand dips into the pocket of the jacket, grasping at the cardboard packet the moment your fingers brush against it and dragging it out to reveal his cigarettes. the box is a mixture of white and blue, with warnings all over it about how smoking kills, accompanied by a picture of blackened lungs.
it’s a bit of an oxymoron, really.
his lighter is overly complicated, one you don’t doubt he spent far too much money on, and it takes you a minute to properly light the stick. with the first puff, you’re already coughing up a storm, lungs rejecting the foreign feeling of the smoke dancing down your throat.
you only manage to take one proper drag before footsteps approach you.
“smoking really does make you uglier.”
“thanks for the unwanted feedback.” smoke dances around the night sky as you exhale it upwards.
the paris night is one that carries a chill, from a winter now slowly fading away into warmer times where flowers bloom and the sun’s return brings back the smile to people’s faces. but the moment your mother steps into your line of sight, the air feels ice cold, like it’s burrowing itself into your skin and sinking into your bones. you breathe in and swear you get more of her perfume in your body than actual oxygen.
it’s overwhelmingly sweet, like she’s lathered herself in the bottle to cover up the stench of her foul personality.
“tsk,” she’s loading up another criticism, you can feel it. one of her hands lands on your shoulder, where it begins to sooth over the material of your dress, as if she’s removing dirt from you or fixing a crease you were too idiotic- in her eyes- to see. “your posture is awful, dear. how many times have i told you to stop slouching, especially when you sit down? it’s not lady-like.”
you attempt to take another drag of the cigarette and it takes all your will power to not cough when it enters your lungs.
“with all due respect, mother,” even calling her that feels too close of a word to describe your relationship. you love her, of course you do. but she’s a woman full of spite and empty of affection. “would you stop beating around the bush and get to the point? i know you followed me out here.”
shock paints her features, only for a flash of a moment but it’s still a small victory you’ll take. any chance to do what she doesn’t expect is something you’ll jump at, bend over backwards for, turn the world upside down in honor of. “can’t i just want to talk to my daughter? it's been, what? seven months? since i last saw you face to face.”
“fourteen months.”
“what?”
“it’s been fourteen months.” it’s never upset you, all this time spent not seeing your mother. until now, when you’re having to recount the timeline to the very same woman. it’s like you’re so insignificant in her life that she hasn’t even bothered to keep count since the last time she saw you.
“oh, that’s right! you never bothered coming on the family trip to iceland.”
more like they never bothered inviting you.
“but, sure, if you want to talk, let’s talk.” you inhale once again with the cigarette between your lips. all too quickly, the smoke burns you less and the nicotine is flooding through your veins, giving you the boost you need to endure this conversation. maybe you can understand why smokers insist it’s relaxing.
your mother doesn’t look you in the eye. it’s something she’s never done, not since you were a young child, and something you’re beyond questioning the reason behind: if you’re too beneath her or if she’s too ashamed to do so. she stares out into the paris skyline whilst her fingers sneak the stick from your hand and, as you go to protest in fear that she’ll fling it over the balcony edge, she puts it up to her mouth and inhales it deeply, eyes closed and face relaxed.
it’s the first time you’ve seen her without a frown in years.
“i never thought, out of all my children, you’d be the one to end up dating the heir to a multi-million company.” your mother speaks so casually that it strikes a nerve in you. she sweeps her gaze over your face and snorts back some laughter, irritating you more. “oh, come on now, you didn’t seriously think i wouldn’t recognize him, right? you should give me more credit.”
“so, what? do you spend your free time googling about your daughter’s boyfriend?” you almost wish you’d said my, but it gets trapped in your throat and exchanged for what comes out instead. speaking about yourself in the third person feels easier, a way to disconnect from you and yeosang’s fake love. “bit invasive, don’t you think?”
“what kind of a mother would i be if i didn’t look out for my daughter?”
“like you done when i told you i wanted to go to university? oh, wait! no, sorry, i believe you just laughed in my face.”
“he’s not the kind of man you should marry, y/n.” she’s pulling out the big guns, even going as far to address you by name. sometimes, when you were a teen, you’d joke around with your friends that she actually forgets what your name is sometimes.
the joke no longer feels as funny now, just painful.
“how do you know what kind of man he is?” you demand answers from her, for the first time in your life. there’s an unbridled need to defend yeosang. your mother can drag your name through the mud, but you aren’t about to stand back and listen to her degrade a man she hardly knows simply because he’s getting in the way of her forcing a stranger with a wallet on you. “shouldn’t you just be happy he’s rich? i done the hard work for you, you’re welcome.”
“he’s rich, yes, but he’s not the right man for you. he’s the kind of man that fills your head with poetic words and expensive gifts, so you can have something to think about while he goes out and cheats on you.” it’s the fact she doesn’t see the irony in her own words, how she’s describing the very kind of relationship she’s trying to force you into, that makes you laugh.
it’s humorless and dry, and oh so dangerous. the prospect of causing a scene in such a fancy establishment no longer feels so daunting, maybe you’ll even get yourself kicked out the wedding and-
“even a girl as naive and inexperienced in love as you should be able to see kang yeosang is a player, who talks a good game and has a lot of money and time to waste on it.”
“remind me again how this is any different from the kind of man you’ve been waiting my whole life to marry me off to?” by now, you’ve given up on the hope of getting the nearly finished cigarette from your mother and have resorted to lighting another.
poor yeosang might just have to buy a new packet soon, at the rate you’re going.
“i can’t believe you think that little of me. all i’ve ever wanted, for you and your brothers, is a life free of stressing over finance and romance. i would never have you be with a man like kang yeosang.” admittedly, this is the most emotion you’ve ever seen your mother display. it’s not something you’re willing to doubt, that she wants a comfortable life for you, but she seems to have forgotten to factor in one simple fact: it’s your life, not her’s. “i know what you think about me, about my meddling in your love life and setting up a marriage for you. but there’s a man in there, y/n, who’s been dying to spend time with you all night. you should have seen his eyes when they landed on your outfit when you walked in. he’s wealthy, he could take care of you, give you all the love in the world, be a man who’s truly serious about having you in his life. his name’s choi-”
“kang yeosang.”
two gasps escape into the night, both of you spinning around to stare back at the entry of the balcony. your mother gasps from outrage, unwilling to believe the man’s timing. yours, however, is out of pure shock at the flame in his eyes, the way it feels like neither of you can tear your stares away from each other, not even to blink.
you’ve never seen yeosang look so serious.
“it’s rude to interrupt someone, boy.” your mother is red in the face with anger. she never did master the art of patience, and walks through life believing her words are worth more than they are.
the fact he’s so perfectly ruined her chance to tell you about the husband she’s trying to dump on you has only served to make the situation more hostile.
“it’s rude to talk about people behind their back, ma’am.” yeosang snaps back, admittedly with a lot more composure than your mother, and you really can’t help but giggle. which you quickly cover up as a cough when your mother’s dagger like eyes stare at you.
“he has a point.” is all you can say in your defense, shrugging while flicking some of the ash off the cigarette burning in your hand.
“and so do i!” her voice has begun to rise in volume, something she rarely does. yes, your mother has a way of beating you down with her words but they’re always soft, condescending, lacking a real sense of emotion. “me and my daughter were having a serious discussion about her future, so if you’ll please excuse us and-”
“your daughter’s future is also partially my future, so this seems like a conversation i should stick around for.” you could kiss him. you might do just that. “forgive me if i’m coming off rude here but-”
“you are.” it’s quite comical, if you remove yourself from the situation, to think of your well-dressed, stuck up mother allowing herself to be wound up by yeosang.
yeosang who’s standing with a mess of hair covering half his line of sight, and a loose tie around his neck, and the most charming of smiles when he makes eye contact with you.
“but,” he presses again, determined to talk circles around your mother. “i’ve tried to be polite and kind all week with you, and all you’ve given me is dirty looks and called me boy. i don’t know what your issue is with me, nor do i want to know, but from what you said, you don’t seem to trust me with your daughter’s heart-”
“with a reputation like yours, what kind of mother would?”
“you’re right, i’m not really the poster child for commitment or parental approval. but i don’t regret anything i’ve done. making some of those mistakes literally lead me to meeting your daughter.” he’s speaking to your mother but he’s looking at you, eyes pleading you to see something you don’t quite understand. it would be so easy to get caught up in his words, to believe he’s not just saying this because of your deal. “this isn’t some rom-com with a toxic love story, where i’m the player who just needs to meet the right girl willing to fix him or your daughter is some sad virgin with a savior complex. she’s not fixed me, rather given me one more reason to be a better person for myself.”
had he rehearsed this? watched a thousand romantic movies, just to perfect the big confession scene, to master the art of giving a long winded speech where you say things you don’t really mean and glorify your relationship to a sickening extent?
“i’m serious about your daughter. more serious than i’ve been about most things in my life.” yeosang at some point has taken the steps needed to cross the distance between you both. there’s a tingling sensation in your fingertips when the thought of reaching out for him, brushing the hair away from his eyes or tracing the soft skin of his face, crosses your mind. “so try all you want to convince her to consider being with the man you want for her, because i’ll just keep working harder to prove why i can be the right man for her, if she let’s me.”
his hand finds your’s first, clasping onto your fingers in a gentle grip. he gives your hand a squeeze, one that’s filled with reassurance and an unspoken amount of sympathy, like he’s finally understood the great puzzle that is your strained relationship with your mother.
your mother who is now scoffing next to you both, eyes like vipers waiting to bite into yeosang and kill him with their poison.
“anyway, i only came out here to tell you minsoo was looking for you.” yeosang, for the first time in what feels like forever, breaks eye contact with you and faces your mother, a playful smile on his face yet a scowl accompanies it, subtle and only noticeable in the twitch of his eyebrow.
“really?!” back in wedding-planner mode, your mother has forgotten all about the not-so-pressing issue that is your love life.
“yeah, something about cold feet ahead of tomorrow? i don’t know, he was kinda hard to stand through all the sobbing and crying about wasting his youth away.”
her footsteps echo as your mother begins to make her way back inside, slowly but surely leaving you and yeosang alone on the balcony. you spin around to face him, back now facing the entry as you stare at him with suspicious eyes.
“did minsoo really say that?”
“no,” yeosang laughs, not even flinching when you can no longer hold back and brush the hair out of his eyes with your hand. he almost leans into the warm touch. “i just wanted her to leave you alone.”
neither of you have addressed the fact he’s still holding your hand.
there’s a pregnant silence, a heavy feeling in the atmosphere that’s only growing the longer you both continue to look at one another. closer than ever before, in more ways than just physically, your mind drifts back to how it felt to wake up to him this morning, to the way he’d sleepily pulled you closer in a protest to you waking up, to the strange feeling that had nestled itself in your heart as you sat on the bed and listened to him sing in the shower, envisioning him with a bottle of shampoo acting as his microphone.
it was a domestic kind of feeling you never expected to have, especially not aimed at some trust-fund baby in a million dollar hotel room he’d rented out for you both.
“kiss me.” he’s not as surprised by your request as you want him to be, more like relieved.
“why?” even if yeosang is dying to plant his lips on yours, he needs to hear your reason, needs to know it’s for more than some stupid deal or because of your-
“my mother,” his heart breaks a little but he won’t let it show, won’t betray you by letting you see the way you effect him, the way you’d both non-verbally agreed on not feeling towards each other. this was never meant to be so real feeling. “she’ll turn around and look at us, trust me. just do it.”
it’s selfish, of both of you, and yeosang knows this. he knows you just want to further drive the point home to your mother, knows he only wants to try sedate the burning hunger for you, knows there’s no universe where this should end well for either of you.
but he still follows your orders.
there’s no time to second guess things when his hand is cupping your cheek and tilting your chin to meet his lips at the perfect angle. the kiss isn’t rushed. there’s no urgency to begin or to end, it’s just lips molding against lips and sighs of relief. your own hands find perch on his chest, where they tug and crease the material of his white shirt.
yeosang pulls away first, just as he feels himself teetering on the edge of insanity.
your eyes remain closed a moment longer, a moment he takes advantage of to imprint the image of your glistening lips and your rising chest into his memory. it takes everything to not allow his mind to stray off into more explicit scenarios where he could garner that same reaction from you.
“is she looking?” you ask, eyes finally fluttering open to reveal the image of kang yeosang in all his enamored glory.
his eyes flicker over to the entry, where the hall leading up to the balcony can be seen.
the hall that lays empty, not a soul in sight.
“yes.” there’s many things that yeosang has said, done, caused that he shouldn’t have and, with each of them, he’s regretted it.
kissing you again is not something he regrets.
this time it is urgent, heads tilted, chests heaving, mouths glued to one another as he pulls you closer by the waist and you drag him further down, arms interlocked behind his neck. it’s not a burst of fireworks between you both, or the feeling of a million butterflies in your bellies.
it’s raw, real, burning embers.
he’s kissing you like that because there’s no one around to witness it.
paris, the day of the wedding.
“do you know you drool in your sleep?”
a resounding burst of laughter erupts from him, chest shaking beneath your head as he does so. there’d been no delay this morning in either of you waking up. as if on cue, no more than a few seconds after yeosang’s eyes had opened to find you laying next to him, limbs entangled like the previous parisian mornings, your own eyes had followed suit.
an infinity of time passed before either one of you spoke a word to each other, like wishing him good morning would only serve to jinx it. instead, you both welcomed in the comforting feeling of the sun hitting your skin and your tired bodies huddled close together.
“why do you care? trying to get my permission to lick it off me or something?”
if you weren’t so exhausted, arms in a state similar to jelly as they lay by your side, you’d have half the mind to rip his pillow from under him and smack him in the face with it.
“what the fuck, yeosang?” you settle for that instead, voice softer than you intended. your actions contradict you, as your body instinctively keens into his soft touch along your spine and your face nestles further into the crook of his neck. “you’re so weird!”
“hey! if you can think it, then it’s definitely someone’s kink.” his stomach rumbles for the trillionth time, much like your own has been doing ever since you’d woken up. “stop kink-shaming, y/n!”
there’s been a strange atmosphere between you both all morning. the banter has been playful and the conversation lighthearted, but there’s still the over-looming knowledge that you’re both avoiding the topic of last night. of your mother and her balcony battles. of awkward dinners and uncomfortable cab rides back to the hotel.
of the kiss only you two had been around to witness.
“is this your way of telling you have a drool kink?”
“maybe, maybe not. you’ll just have to wait and see.”
“is that a threat or a promise?” you never have time to hear whatever yeosang’s comeback is, the sound of your ringtone filling the space between you both. with a disgruntled groan, you lean further into him and pray his warm skin and the soft blankets will drown out the noise. “i don’t wanna answer.”
you feel yeosang shifting around, doing his best under the circumstances handed to him to reach his arm over you whilst also trying to avoid crushing you under him.
not that you’d completely be opposed to having kang yeosang hovering over you as you lay on your back.
“it’s your mom.” he announces, which only rouses another groan out of you.
“ignore it.” after the events of the previous night, you’re more than eager to avoid any conversation with her. “better yet, hit decline.”
“she could be calling for something important.”
“not as important as my beauty sleep.” you cement your point by rolling out of his hold and planting your head on your pillow, eyes screwed shut and blankets pulled up to your chin.
“okay but, when we’re late to the wedding, this time i really can blame it on you keeping me in bed a little longer.”
“good thing we’re not going to be late.”
to no one’s surprise, you’re both late to the wedding.
your mother doesn’t look pleased to hear yeosang’s excuses, even less so when she watches one of minsoo’s groomsmen pat him on the back and and try pry further details about your hotel misadventures out of him. thankfully, before the she-devil can leap at the chance to lecture you, the wedding begins and you’re all forced to your seats.
the ceremony is similar to any other wedding you’ve attended in your life- which admittedly aren’t many.
there's the typical scene of the bridesmaids, clad in the richest of fabrics, and the groomsmen, decked out in perfectly tailored suits, making their way down the aisle with their arms linked. your brother at the alter, nervously fidgeting with his tie, eyes widening just in time for the wedding music to begin. his bride to be moves gracefully towards him, gown covering her feet and creating the illusion that she's literally floating, walking on air.
vows are exchanged, tears are shed, kisses are shared. and, all the while, yeosang and you have been sat side by side, fingers bumping and brushing against one another as if a constant reminder to you both of how easy it would be to just take a hold of the other’s hand.
sometimes he glances at you, other times you glance at him.
once, your eyes drift over to one another at the same time and, instead of shying away after being caught, the faintest of smiles are exchanged before your attention is back on the marrying couple.
the reception is where the real fun begins to unfold. a birthing ground for interactions with family members and strangers alike, the two of you more or less making an olympic sport out of sharing the most amount of bullshit, false and made-up backstory to your relationship as you can, putting all that thorough planning to good use.
yeosang even gets to throw in a comment about moving in together soon, just like he’d wanted to.
which only serves to remind you of the fact this is not real, that “moving in” is the very excuse you will be using in a few months time to explain why your relationship has ended, a few months time in which you two will no longer have any reason to waste another second in each other’s company.
he’d return to the life of a rich, socialite bachelor while you’d go back to online tutoring lessons and avoiding your mother’s phone calls.
“they haven’t left you all night, you know?” the question is thrown your way at some point by your sister-in-law, still clad in her elegant white gown. both of you stood at the bar, you awaiting the cocktail yeosang had forced you to order and her just finding a moment of peace from the hectic feeling of being congratulated by someone every ten seconds.
“huh?” this might just be the most she’s ever said to you, the longest form of conversation you two have ever engaged in since she began seeing minsoo way past two years ago.
the fact she sounds so unrestrained, so friendly, only aids in increasing your confusion.
“yeosang’s eyes.” she has the gall to nudge you with her elbow, eyebrows wiggling as if to imply something you’ve yet to catch onto. “i swear, that boy’s always watching you. i’d be telling you to get a restraining order by now if i didn’t know he was your boyfriend.”
this conversation is one you’d never prepared for during the many planning-hangouts with yeosang, and certainly not one you’d anticipated having with your brother’s wife.
it feels far too casual, too colloquial.
“i think always is a bit of an exaggeration.”
“oh, trust me, it’s not. he’s whipped and you’re hot, give yourself some more credit.” she says it all with a smile you’ve never seen on her before, one that seems so much more genuine than the ones she wears in front of your mother and her own parents. if this is the kind of smile minsoo gets to witness, it’s not a surprise he fell in love with her somewhere down the line. “some of your uncles just waved me over, so i gotta go. wish me luck!”
you’re not sure when nor how you make it back to your shared hotel room that night, the copious amount of alcohol flowing through your bloodstream working it’s wonders and turning the night into a kaleidoscope of messy and blurred memories: unabashed laughter and hand-holding, stuffing your purse full of napkin-wrapped pastries and family reunions featuring you and yeosang’s fake fairy-tale, tearing up the dance floor with your two left feet and a dance partner far more smooth on his feet than you.
you can count on both hands the number of times you accidentally crush poor yeosang’s feet under the weight of your stiletto.
the only thing you are sure of, by the time your head hits the pillow and you don’t even try turn away from the warmth laying next to you in the bed, is that you’re thankful yeosang was there, that he agreed to help you deceive your family, that he’s given you the privilege of remembering how beautiful it can be to feel seen, cared for, loved.
even if it’s all pretend.
somewhere above eastern europe, 1 day after the wedding.
there’s fresh tears in his eyes.
this shouldn’t be the focus of your attention, given the situation at hand, yet it intrigues you far too much to ignore or simply shrug off.
soft lips, lips you’ve had the privilege of feeling against your own, tremble in the lowly lit room, quivering with every choked whimper he erupts. doe eyes stare up at you, reddened with the overwhelming pleasure coursing through his veins and brimming with tears from all the times you’ve denied him in the past hour or so the very thing he’s been craving for over half a year. thighs twitch as his hips fight the urge to disobey your warnings, to throw caution to the wind and buck upwards into you, letting your aching cores finally meet in a puddle of melting warmth designed only to bring the most sinful of fantasies to light.
yes, you’ve so easily made a whore out of kang yeosang.
and in record timing.
the day had began in a different bed, a different country, a different atmosphere between you both. after wrestling back and forth with the undesirable idea of attending brunch with your family, the final meeting between you all before this hell-iday was officially over and you’d get to return to ignoring your mother’s calls and occasionally receiving a snarky text from your brothers, yeosang forced you out of bed and into the shower.
after brunch- which, admittedly, was less uncomfortable than the one you had all shared on your first day in paris- all of them had bid you and yeosang goodbye and good-luck with your flight home, giving the two of you a few hours to kill before the jet was ready for take off.
time which you took advantage of, dragging poor yeosang to just about every iconic landmark you could possibly visit in such a small time limit. the eiffel tower, the louvre, arc de triomphe, it all left you with a familiar sinking feeling, a dread in the pit of your stomach, made up of time wasted and opportunities lost. there was only one conclusion you could walk away with: you have to return to paris, someday, and not with a fake relationship and your family breathing down the back of your neck, but with someone who loves you enough to waste hours, days, infinite amount of time just wandering around the parisian culture.
this time around, it was yeosang who fell asleep in the car journey to the airport, and you who wrapped him up in a jacket and lent him a shoulder to rest on. unsure of when, you’d come to the conclusion that you quite enjoy the feeling of having him close to you, and not just because he's someone to fill an empty space, but because he's kang yeosang, a man made up of too much money and toned-down smiles, awful piloting skills yet wonderful ballroom moves.
because he’s him, and you’re you, and for some reason it just makes sense to be alone with him.
boarding the plane was easier this time, with less hesitance and an absence of anxiety welling in yourself. the same flight attendants greeted you as you stepped in, smiles on their perfectly polished faces as they divulged into questions about your time in the city of love.
the first few hours after take off, while the sun was still visible in the sky, were fine, ordinary, calm. peaceful, even. to pass the time away, yeosang brought out a stack of cards and began an impromptu lesson in poker. after three trial rounds, you successfully beat him and, consequently, his ego. after the card games came the mind games, in the form of a childish drinking game aptly named truth or shot.
yeosang had confessed to sleeping with one of his teachers, while you had opted to take a shot. when you admitted to the time you cheated your way through a whole year of classes, he finally decided to skip the round and took his first shot. eventually, you both confessed to your parental issues: you with your mother and her unquenched thirst to live a wealthy life via her children, and yeosang with his absent parents, years of being raised by strangers who only stuck around because it payed to take care of him and, most importantly, the recent of threats of being disowned.
call it pity, or discomfort, or just a sudden burning need inside of you, but you soon found yourself leaning over the space between your seats and planting your lips on his. hands heavy on skin, mouths desperate to taste more, bodies scrambling to grow closer, closer, closer, till there was nothing between you but oxygen and complicated emotions that blur the line of reality and fiction.
falling into bed together was never part of the agreement, was never a possible scenario you two had rehearsed in order to know how to handle it. if you weren’t so focused on trying to get his pants off, maybe you would have taken the time to question and marvel over the fact the jet harbored it’s own bedroom, one far more extravagant than the messy one awaiting your return back in seoul.
alas, interior design was not your main focus.
“please, y/n-” his own whimpers cut him off for the millionth time, head thrown back in a strangled cry of missing pleasure. two more tears breech the premises of his eyes, rolling down the sides of his face in a beautiful trail of wetness. it’s too tempting, how easy it would be for you to reach down and taste the salt on his cheeks. “please!”
“please what, sangie?” despite your question of false ignorance, your body works at grinding your soping core over his hardened member. you feel yourself grow wetter each time you watch your lower lips rub over his pretty cock, it’s painfully red tip disappearing between your folds only to reappear as it bumps against your aching clit, drenched in your wetness and his own precum.
“teasing me,” he tugs once, twice and then thrice at the satin material around his wrists, pinning him against the headboard. ultimately, yeosang is unsuccessful at releasing himself from the binding you’d created out of his tie. “please stop!”
“stop teasing you?” you echo his pleading back at him as a hand snakes it’s way up his naked, muscular torso until it finds hold of one of his nipples. the combined rolling of your hips against him and the rolling of his sensitive bud between your fingers has him seeing stars. “but you seem to be enjoying getting teased, baby. look at the mess you are.”
before the poor boy can so much as whine again, you give in, to not only his pleads for release but your own burning ache to sink down on his length finally. the stretch of your walls around his cock is perfect, a wonderful blend of overwhelming fullness and liquid serotonin in the form of your own slick running down your thighs and painting a mess over the boy and the sheets beneath you.
“is this what you wanted, kitten?” you give an experimental roll of your hips, reveling in the sweet drag of his member inside your pussy, too greedy to let more than a couple inches slip out of you before sinking right back down. “someone to fuck themselves on your pathetic cock? hmm, to use you like a pretty little sex doll?”
“yes, yes!” he’s chanting, like a preacher calling out praise to their most divine being. legs squirm behind you, unsure what to do with themselves amidst the electrifying feeling of your slowly increasing bounces, hypnotizing him into forgetting all about the other people on board the plane. “i’ll be your good boy, okay? just, just please don’t stop!”
luckily, your plans never involved doing such a thing. rather the opposite, in fact, riding him into oblivion one time, two times, all the way to a fourth time that leaves him in a mess of tears dripping down his face, cum pouring down both your thighs, all while starving lungs try to take in as much oxygen as possible while his brain short circuits around the pleasure of you.
by the time his cock slips out of your soaked hole, who knows what country you’re flying over or just how much of your sexcapade was overheard by the flight attendants and pilots alike. and who really cares, when you're too busy basking in the way yeosang, muscles finally being put to use, rips himself out of his binding only to get a firm grasp on your meaty thighs, nothing more than an unapologetic smirk before he’s dragging your body up to his face, tongue diving right in to clean up the mess he’s left inside you.
who knew that mommy issues really do bring two people closer.
seoul, 8 days after the wedding.
“spring is finally here, bringing with it the sweetest of smells and the freshest of fruits! we highly urge you all to go out and visit any nearby parks or nature sights, to bask in the glory of our blooming spring!”
waking up is disappointing, to say the least.
not just because you are, once more, inside your own bedroom, that lacks in the interior design and comfy bed department, but because returning to the reality of what your life is is like waking up from a very long, overwhelmingly real dream.
you’re still unsure if it wasn’t all a dream.
and the fact you’ve heard nothing from yeosang does nothing to aid in this feeling. it isn’t like you were expecting anything to happen between you once you touched down back in seoul. the boundaries between you, and everything that involves your relation with each other, were set very clearly from day one, with both of you in complete understanding of the fact this was all fake.
so what if lines were crossed when you woke up in each others arms, when he whispered sweet nothings in your ear on the wedding reception dance floor, when you felt the need to defend him against your mother, when you caressed each other’s naked skin in the most primal way know to man?
outside of the little bubble you’d created in paris, it all means nothing.
at least to him, it seems.
“spring is notorious for symbolizing rebirth, a trait which we can find in such mundane things as new flowers blossoming and fruits turning ripe under the sun’s warmth. it’s a burst of color gifted to the world, mother nature’s reward for making it through yet another cold, fierce and gloomy winter. this year, however, we can also see this rebirth in the recent rumors surrounding korea’s favorite socialite, kang yeosang!”
the she-devil has yet to call you.
which stings, in all honesty. one could argue that this is all you’ve ever wanted, to be left alone by your mother and her control issues, her money hungry tendencies. and, while that much is true, you also are only human and can’t help the part in you that just wants the most basic thing a mother could give her daughter: love, care, validation.
your mother does love you, just the same as you love her. it’s something that’s taken years for you to understand, never mind accept. her love doesn’t come in the form of heart-warming messages and calling to make sure you’re okay, but rather back-handed compliments and care veiled under a hint of criticism aimed your way. it’s toxic, no doubt, but it’s the best you’re going to get from her.
minsoo calls you instead.
“...so expect us in seoul in a few weeks, little sis.” he’s animated, so happy as he details him and his wife’s travel plans that you can almost picture his wide smile and the accompanying dimples he spent years hating as a kid. “and tell yeosang to get his wallet ready, it’s your guys’ turn to treat us after we treated you to the luxury of our wedding.”
“luxury?” you scoff as you struggle to keep the phone squished between your shoulder and the side of your face, both hands occupied with trying to fix your kitchen blinds. “please, at least you won’t have to endure an entire meal while being stared down at over the table by mother.”
“please, y/n, she’s hardly that bad.” though his words come off in her defense, the way he laughs at your comment tells you more than enough to know he agrees with you to some extent. “either way, you two better start planning the double date of a lifetime, i’m talking private islands and rented out restaurants, especially with all of yeosang’s money-”
the doorbell rings.
it takes a second ring for you to realize it’s your own door it’s coming from, rather than the television playing in the background or down the line on your brother’s end.
“min, i’ll call you back, okay? i think my takeaway delivery just arrived.”
tossing your phone down onto your sofa, you animatedly make your way over to the front door, stomach growling in anticipation of getting your hands on some fried chicken.
only, there’s a different kind of snack standing on your doorstep.
“after months of flying under the radar, with an uncommonly low number of scandals, the heir to kang-tech enterprises has reemerged into the spotlight in a way none of us were expecting, possibly not even himself! spotted over the past week several times in the streets of paris, he appears to be sporting a new girl on his arm. with the way they look at each other alone, many are speculating over who this mystery girl could be and what exactly has she done to make a man out of a playboy.”
“what are you doing here?” it’s not how you imagined you’d greet him, should the two of you ever reunited unexpectedly, yet it’s something your impulses are incapable of stopping, needing to get across just how unexpected the sight of him is.
yeosang seems undeterred by your words, and it reminds you of the fact he knows you too well. he smirks and it’s like he’s telling you he was already awaiting your shock, that it’s something he’s reveling in and gaining pleasure from.
“it’s thursday.” his reply is simple, two words and a careless shrug, like he’s just told you the most mundane, well-known fact in the world.
of course, you know better than to believe it’s simple. nothing between you seems to turn out that way, no matter how hard you try convince yourself otherwise. months ago, him appearing at your door would be nothing out of the ordinary, a black car with the engine still on and an impatient driver sitting by the side of the curb as yeosang coaxed you out of your front door and off to another day of planning out the details of your relationship.
but that was then and this is now, where there’s no need to plan your fake backstory.
“the wedding already happened.” maybe it’s coming across like you don’t want him to be here, like you’re disappointed to see his pretty face.
that not the case, in the slightest. if anything, you’re disappointed it’s taken him so long to come around, not even a text thrown your way to let you know he was still a part of your life. then again, you hadn’t made any better effort yourself.
“i know.” the way he’s taken a hold of your hand, intertwining his fingers with your own like they’re puzzle pieces only destined to fit each other, contradicts everything about his words, about you two. there’s no family to witness this action, no audience you need to put on a show for. “anyway, i was thinking we should go paragliding for this date.”
“are you sure you won’t accidentally crash that too?”
“if i do, you better get ready to be my pretty knight in shinning armor and catch me.”
#ateez smut#kang yeosang smut#ateez oneshot#kang yeosang oneshot#ateez angst#kang yeosang angst#ateez fluff#kang yeosang fluff
738 notes
·
View notes
Text
Born To Be Yours | Part Xl
Sansa Stark x Fem! Baratheon! Reader (Daenerys Targaryen x Fem! Baratheon! Reader eventually) 
Season 1-8
Word Count: 1,375
Note: Hey guys!! It’s been a year since I started this series and I was really excited to continue, I really was. But months flew by and my life began to take a different course, now, I can’t make promises that I’ll be uploading soon again, though I will try if I have time to spare and my imagination cooperates :) Hope you enjoy this chapter! And thank you all for your patience, it’ll be rewarded!
Pt.1 Pt.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5 Pt.6 Pt.7 Pt.8 Pt.9 Pt.10
Months have flew by way too fast. And now you were feeling more confident around the northern lady and your family. You’d keep her from any harm they would try to inflict on her no matter the consequences, yet you were cautions cause Joffrey was still so damn annoying. Though since Margaery arrived to the capital she has been keeping him rather distracted.
“Because the truth is always either terrible or boring.”
“Am I boring?” You approached Sansa from behind, daintily kissing her cheek.
“Not at all.” She answered with a broad simper.
“You shouldn’t be too obvious in plain sight.” Shae subtly advised.
“You are right. We should be more careful.” You peered up to see if the guards were staring your way, when you confirmed they were not you stole a kiss on her silky lips. She giggled.
“Have a lovely day. I’ll meet you later. My grandfather requested my presence.” It was true... Tywin wanted to speak privately with you, and you sort of imagined why.
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
“My ladies.” You winked playfully at Sansa before walking away.
“You really like her, don’t you?” Shae asked Sansa well knowing the answer to her own question.
“She is perfect.” She let out a love sigh.
“You trust her?”
“The princess has always treated me with respect. I always dreamed with a handsome knight or a sweet prince, then I met her and she is far more better than any of that.” Sansa confessed.
“She seems to be a good girl.” Lord Baelish approached the two women.
“Lovely day for it. May I speak with lady Sansa alone for a moment?” Shae stood up and walked back to Ros.
“I saw your mother not long ago. She’s very eager to see you. And your sister.” He commented.
“Arya’s alive?”
“Oh yes. Indeed she is. But... I’ve noticed you’ve grown quite attached to princess Y/N.” He chose carefully his words.
“I have. She is and extraordinary friend.” Sansa added. “I’m very lucky to be her friend.”
“You are. I’m waiting for word on an assignment that will take me far away from the capital. When I set sail, I might be able to bring you with me. But you’d need to be ready to leave on a moment’s notice.” Sansa widen her eyes. She didn’t really want to leave now... did she? After all she knew she’ll never be truly free here.
“I... I’m not sure if that’s a wise idea, Lord Baelish.” She conflicted admitted.
“And why’s that? Other than the risks it involves of course.”
“Well, as I said before, King’s Landing is my home now. It has good things despite the corruption.” Only Y/N, she thought.
“All right then. The offer stands, my lady. Keep it in mind.” He turned around to leave Sansa wondering if she’d abandon you to return home or staying here by your side.
“You are glowing, granddaughter of mine.”
Tywin was jotting down something with a quill. “Is there a boy already?” It sounded more like a statement rather than a question. You tried not blush as Sansa’s picture coming to your mind.
“Mmm... no. There is not a... boy.” You concluded kinda nervous.
“If there is not then you should be looking for a suitable swain. I reckon you have many admirers waiting to receive your attention.” He said with a serious tone. Does he really mind? Of course he does. He wants to get a hold of another loyalty for House Lannister. “Many lords would give their whole lands to marry you. And we might need that.”
“But that’s not what I need.” You responded nonchalantly. It was true. All you truly needed and longed for was the love of someone who valued you. And you already found that in a northern lass. You knew he disapprove entirely your “reckless” choices, same as your mother. You’d fight back and won’t allow them to throw you into some random man’s arms.
You stepped inside Joffrey’s dining table. You always enjoyed to hang with the Tyrell siblings, but now that she’s engaged to your brother... you wonder how she’s been managing to handle him. After all, she’s one of the cleverest persons you know.
“Margaery does a great deal of work with the poor back in Hightgarden. I’ve heard Y/N do charity for the poor here as well.” Loras commented. You nodded. The soon to be queen smiled softly your way.
“The lowest among us are no different from the highest if you give them a chance and approach them with an open heart.” You mirrored her act.
“An open heart is what you’ll get in Flee Bottom if you’re not careful, my dear. Not long ago, we were attached by a mob there. We had a full complement of guards that didn’t stop them. The king barely escaped his life.” You hid your smirk.
“My mother’s always had a penchant for drama. Facts become less and less important to her as she grows older. Our lives were never truly in danger.” You rolled your eyes at his lies.
“Oh but they were. You didn’t even care about sending the guards to get lady Sansa back to the Keep. A king is supposed to ensure the safety of all the ones that are in need. You seem to keep failing on that, big brother.” You sensed his furious glare upon you.
“Who cares about her anyway.” You clenched your jaw tightly. Loras and Margaery keep their eyes on their dinner.
There was an awkward pause as the main course was brought to the table. The rest of the evening was all about the same. Joffrey flaunting about his “bravery” and Cersei flattering him all along. Margaery showing off a wide smile at his non sense.
~~~~~~
You strolled to your room exhausted after training with the bow and horse-riding with little Tommen. Before that you decided to pay a visit to Sansa’s chambers. You knocked the door twice and she beamed with delight.
“I hope it isn’t too late to stop by.”
“No, I was about to get under the sheets. Perhaps you can join me?” She suggested with a gaily grin. You chuckled. Seeing Sansa being so... awfully bold was so nice and pure. Being around you made her forget about the fact she’s a prisoner. It didn’t matter as much when you were together.
“I’d love that.” You entered the room, holding her by the waist and leading both of you to the bed.
“How was your day then?” You smoothly asked. She tossed to be face to face with you.
“Actually, it was wonderful! Ser Loras escorted me to the gardens with Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna. They were very kind to me. We had lunch together and chatted for a while.”
“That sounds lovely, my lady. I’ve always consider Lady Olenna as the grandmother I never had. She knows me since I was a baby. Now that they are here I’ve been reminiscing about the good old days when we wouldn’t stop joshing Loras about me beating him on a single duel. We were so young back then... I’ll always hold dear those moments. He may be moody and brash at times, still, he is complete gentleman. Water’s sometimes thicker than blood. That’s for sure.” The Tyrells were your second family, they welcomed you with open arms and never once judge you. Unlike your own blood, with exceptions of course.
“Back in Winterfell I was so focused on learning how to properly be a lady and all that, that I missed many things... I should’ve been closer to Robb, Arya, even Jon. I was mean.” Sansa’s voice cracked.
“Don’t lose faith, Sansa. I know it’s too much to ask for but life takes unexpected turns.” You brushed one of her ginger locks with your right hand.
“I found a new home.” She whispered lightly. “Not Kings Landing. Not this castle. You.” She unhurriedly closed her crystal eyes. Your heart was at her mercy, that was a fact. You caressed gently her cheek and sealed the night with the most tender kiss anyone could dream of.
“You are my home too, my love.” You breathed against her lips.
#game of thrones fic#got#sansa stark x reader#sansa x reader#sansa x fem baratheon reader#sansa stark imagine#dany x reader#daenerys x reader#daenerys targaryen x reader#game of thrones
301 notes
·
View notes
Text
you’re someone i just want around: IV
“I had a few, got drunk on you
And now I’m wasted
And when I sleep, I’m gonna dream of
How you tasted.”
— Medicine, Harry Styles
A/N: if i said i’m apologizing for the way i left off ch3, yes i did ❤️ no i didn’t ❤️ it was fun ❤️ as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!! and if you enjoy the piece, please reblog it!!! it keeps content creators motivated!! without further delay, hope you enjoy what’s in store for Sherlock and Watson this chapter cause it’s uhhhh quite a bit of uhhhh ~stuff~ 😌
harry’s condo : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : ysijwa playlist
word count: 26.4k
content/warnings: a mild addiction to sexting, some pretty sparkly lingerie, a very interesting photo, a strange but satisfying gift, rough sex and degradation, pillow talk about the validity of the men in Twilight, the satisfying gift being put to even more good use, Y/N going over to Harry’s apartment for the first time, mild mentions of blood, and an impromptu Hamilton re-enactment amidst more lemon blueberry pancakes
///
For the next three days, the sexting grows more frequent.
Harry feels somewhat humiliated by it, really. He’s an adult— a full-grown, two hundred and nine year old man— and trading nudes with a simple girl shouldn’t be getting him as worked up as it does. He should know how to handle his hormones better, and the thing is, he usually does. But no one in the last few centuries has made him feel as desperate as Y/N does; he hasn’t felt this helpless for someone since he was alive. The vampire just wasn’t prepared to handle the needy responses she so easily yields from his body and he’s horribly rusty on how to skate this thin sheet of metaphorical ice. It’s like he can feel it cracking and crunching beneath his feet, but he has absolutely no power over how to stop it. Any minute, it’s bound to take him under, and he has no choice but to allow himself to drown in it.
The following seventy two hours are full of so many dirty promises and explicit images, his phone might as well be a porno hard drive.
After coaxing Y/N into a few orgasms through the phone and receiving just as many in return, a dangerous game is set into motion that Harry knows is probably unhealthy not only for his self-worth, but for the sensitivity of his anatomy. He can only get off so many times before his joints are begging for a break.
He wakes up Wednesday morning with a stiff ache running along his inner thighs and ebbing across the underside of his balls, but there’s an undeniable contentment stewing behind it. He doesn’t truly mind the throb, comforted by the fact that Y/N is probably facing similar issues at the moment. He finds himself smiling coyly as he flips an omelette onto one of his marble-print platters, recalling the events from the night before.
According to what he’d heard on the other end of the phone, present throughout the array of shaky gasps, cracked whimpers, and wet sounds of pleasure that had echoed from the speaker, Harry had made Y/N squirt.
That was a tremendous stroke to his already huge ego. The idea that he’d been able to make her cum so hard that she’d soiled her brand new sheets had been circling around his head for the last couple of hours, fluffing his confidence. It’s a milestone achievement, to be honest. He’d done something that very few men have the skill to achieve in person, meanwhile he’d done it just by using his voice and extensive imagination. The arrogance he’s sporting right now is more than justified. His cheeks are starting to ache from how hard he’s grinning.
The vampire is so lost in his recollections that he nearly misses the chime of his phone, the unique ringtone that beeps out being as welcomed as ever.
Harry scoops up his device while spooning a piece of his green pepper and mushroom egg dish into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he swipes into Y/N’s text conversation. He smoothers the giddiness fluttering in his stomach; he’s not a child.
As it turns out, he’d killed those butterflies for no solid reason because the instant her message pops up, they come right back to life.
Morning! Thought I’d show you what I’m planning on wearing to work today.
Harry roughly swallows down his breakfast at the attachment following the caption, a shiver coiling down his spine. “Fucking hell.”
The photo is a mirror shot, taken in her tiny bathroom. It’s a full body image where she’s clad in a matching set of bra and panties, the material sparkly bright red lace. The bottoms are high-waisted, hugging her tummy and hips in a way he deems perfect, the lace decorating her skin beautifully. The bra is see-through, so he has an unrestrained view of her chest and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks he might love the way her breasts look in lingerie more than without it. Make no mistake, he’ll willingly drool over her no matter what, but there’s just such a refined beauty in seeing her figure in such an elegant piece. She’s like a present set out for him to unwrap, preferably with his teeth.
Then he notices the garters and the next forkful of food lodges in his throat. They hug around her legs deliciously, the bands settled midway down her thighs as the straps run up the sides and clip onto the hem of her panties. Yeah, he would definitely use his teeth.
After gawking at the artwork for a minute, Harry finally gathers himself enough to type back a decent reaction.
I’m pretty sure that outfit doesn’t apply to the workspace dress code.
Y/N shakes her head in amusement at his response, giggling softly as she finishes shimmying into her black skinny jeans, buttoning them over the skimpy lace.
I’ll cover up for the sake of the customers. But it’s just such a nice set, I figured someone else should get to appreciate it with me.
Harry sets his utensil down on top of his plate, omelet only half eaten. His appetite has molded into a very different type of hunger. He pads out of the kitchen, feeling the ten AM sunlight filter through the glass wall of his living room and warm his bare chest and back. He heads for the bathroom that branches out of the entrance corridor, coming to a stop right in front of its mirror. He begins to clean up his appearance, combing his bed head into a presentable state (he hadn’t slept, per usual, but rolling around his pillows last night while he indulged fantasies about Y/N had done his curls in something fierce), fixing his royal blue briefs along his hips and dragging the waistband down to show off the dip of his prominent pelvic bones.
Once the immortal is done, he taps back with eager strokes of his thumbs.
I can’t believe you’ve never worn that for me. That’s a criminal offense. Literally worth capital punishment.
Oh, really? Capital punishment? And who are you to decide my verdict?
I’m the executioner, obviously. I’m in charge of dispensing the verdict and I promise you, I’ll see to it that you get what you deserve. It’s my civic duty.
Y/N scoffs at his quip, tugging her navy polo shirt over her torso and quickly running a brush through her hair. She puts it up into a neat ponytail, sighing lightly as she stares at her tired reflection. She wishes she could ditch work for the day and entertain more conversation with Harry, but she literally can’t afford to.
Well, you’re gonna have to wait while I go perform my own type of civic duty. Making the world a better place, one grilled panini at a time.
Harry’s lips jolt. She’s so clever and witty, he doesn’t know how she could possibly be from such a dull, monochrome town.
I understand. Justice calls. But before you go, can I send you a picture of what I’M wearing today? Could use a few style tips.
That’s pretty ironic coming from someone whose last name is literally ‘Styles.’
I know, I know. But even fashion icons have their insecurities sometimes.
Fair point, nobody’s perfect. Lemme see your OOTD, then.
The outfit of the day appears to be no outfit at all, according to Harry’s picture. It’s taken on a mirror, like her own, and it depicts him standing with one hand holding his phone in front of his face while the other seems to be doing jazz hands down his body playfully. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of deep blue briefs (probably because he’d completely ruined the maroon pair he was wearing last night, if his broken moans and heavy panting had been any indication) and they hug his frame flawlessly. The fabric is bunched around his lean thighs, tiger head tattoo peeking out to accompany the rest of the collection, which includes all the inkings running the length of his left arm as well as the butterfly and swallows across his torso. His v-line is evident as ever, dipping below the elastic band teasingly. His chest is broad and his biceps are taut, despite the fact that he’s not even flexing. He looks like a Greek statue and Y/N is positive the higher powers designed Harry with that specific thought in mind.
Y/N doesn’t realize drool is gathering in her mouth until it tickles the inside of her bottom lip. She snaps her jaw closed, clearing her throat sheepishly. Over a minute has passed of her just ogling and she can feel heat layering across her cheeks. She knows Harry probably has the cockiest expression on his face at the moment, obvious in the tone of the next comment he delivers.
Damn, it’s that bad, huh? Guess I’ll have to change.
No, it’s perfect. Simple, but effective. Very professional.
Why, thank you!
My pleasure.
Here, take this as a token of my appreciation. Hopefully it can help get you through the day.
This specific photo is taken from an above point of view, as if Y/N were looking down at Harry’s body along with him. His pectorals and stomach muscles appear more defined, tattoos darker and skin more evidently sunkissed. Lower down, there’s the obvious outline of what lies within his boxers, snuggled up against his thick thigh and tempting her to let out a soft whine. Then, resting casually against his abdomen is his free hand, sporting a thumbs-up that gives a purposefully goofy vibe to the risky image. He’s such an idiot.
The mortal’s answer is just as silly and lighthearted as his gesture.
Thank you, I’ll keep it locked in my heart forever.
I wouldn’t want it any other way.
That’s the first interaction of many that further opens the door to their virtual sex life. Things hardly stay that innocent.
That night when Y/N gets home from work, they undergo another round of phone sex. It starts off the same: cheeky banter that leads to cheeky pictures that eventually leads to utter filth.
And that’s how they spend the next few days— taking care of each other’s needs digitally until Friday rolls around. There’s plenty of those encounters, but there’s definitely favorites.
A session during one of Harry’s self-care baths, when he puts her on speaker and she talks him through tugging one out while the scent of lavender salts— which he’d chosen because they smell like her— leave his heated skin feeling soft and supple. Another instance where he makes her orgasm while she has gotten bored watching a scary movie marathon on her couch, the screams of the horror film mere background noise compared to all the sweet nothings Harry huskily mumbles into her ear, his dominant voice filtering through her headphone and instructing her on how to make herself feel good.
Harry messages her at three A.M. at one point, wide awake as ever, all of his thoughts occupied by the concept of Y/N laying on her tummy between his thighs and sucking him off at a slow pace. He can practically see her small hands wrapped around his girth, stroking up to meet her pretty lips, her tongue lapping at his tip eagerly as she whines around a full mouth. She’s always just so eager. Even at the crack of dawn, she’s awake by some miracle, and happily willing to delve into that fantasy with him. Her soft, timid tone drifts across the shells of his ears, explicitly sketching out how she’d take him all the way down her throat until she gags, and how she’d kiss all over the head of his prick just to smear his precum over her lips to then lick it off, and how she’d rock against his lap fast and hard while he takes her nipples between his teeth. How she wouldn’t stop until he’s dripping down her thighs and groaning into her throat. How she’d let him fuck her as many times as it takes to tire himself out.
Harry obviously repays her, and it comes in the form of him painting out a scenario where she’s gotten home from a long day at the café. He tells her about how he’d be there waiting for her in nothing but his underwear, sitting back on his elbows in her bed, touching himself over his briefs just at the thought of pleasuring her. About how he’d lay her out and taste every inch of her body with his tongue, and how he’d run his teeth across her inner thighs tenderly while his fingers play with her clit, and how he’d have her ride his face deep and sloppy until she’s shaking and sensitive. How he’d tie her to the bed and toss her legs over his shoulders while he pounds her into the mattress, marking bruises across her neck as she sucks on his fingers and tightens around his cock like “the snug little thing you are.”
They even take their fun out of the confines of their houses and into public settings, just to give it an adrenaline high. Those situations are foreplay; it’s how they prep each other throughout the day for when they’re both finally alone and can truly help one another to the fullest.
It happens Thursday on two occasions.
First, to Y/N, who is sitting in the backroom on her lunch break, though she’s barely touched her food. She’s much more interested in what Harry has to say. Much more interested in how he says he wishes he could be there with her right now. That she could sneak him in through the back door of the restaurant and they could lock themselves in that tiny supply room, making sure no one would disturb what he’s about to do to her. That he would drop to his knees and drag her jeans down her legs, pressing damp kisses in the denim’s wake, biting hickies in the areas he knows she loves to receive them. He would mount her knees over his shoulders and bury his face between her thighs, looking up at her through heavy lashes as he licks into her desperately. He would have her grab onto his curls and guide his tongue just the way she likes it, and she’d have to bite into her cheek to keep from getting caught.
He talks about how he’d take her against the supply shelves, one hand clamped over her mouth while he pants praise into her ear, her body jolting roughly upwards against the surface as she clings to his back. How he’d hold her up with the other arm and slam her down onto his cock, cooing things like, “Gotta keep quiet for me, sweetheart. Can’t make you cum if we get caught.” and “Such a filthy girl, sneaking me in here just to fuck you. Baby just wants to walk around the rest of the day full of me, doesn’t she?”
That fantasy leaves her in a bothered haze the rest of the work day. It’s bad enough that she almost drops her tray three different times and has to ask multiple customers to repeat their orders.
Y/N gets back at Harry, though. That revenge is the second occasion.
The vampire had mentioned that he would be going out with his friends that evening to a bar and she takes full advantage of that. When the picture comes through, Harry nearly spits out his Manhattan drink.
He’s sitting in a booth surrounded by his entire group and he’d been talking shit with Niall about golf. The vampire doesn’t care for the sport, but Niall loves it, and Harry loves getting on Niall’s nerves, therefore it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Mitch and Adam join in, with Mitch obviously supporting Harry, when he randomly decides to check his notifications. Even in the shrunken little banner, Harry can immediately tell the photo is graphic. Xander asks if he’s alright, telling him he looks freakishly pale and to get his eyes under control because they're in public. Harry blinks the red from his irises, hurriedly excusing himself and clambering up from his seat, jetting across the restaurant towards the restrooms. It’s occupied, much to his luck, so he settles for simply pressing his back against the wall of the corridor, leaning his head against the bricks and taking deep breaths to calm the raging in his stomach. He gingerly opens the message and his knees nearly give out.
The image is taken from the back, probably using a timer. Y/N is wearing one of her big tees and another pair of cheeky lace panties, but this time around, they’re pastel peach and crotchless. She’s bent over with her ass up and spine arched, knees parted for balance, her shirt bunching downwards due to the angle. Her arms are pulled behind her back and her chest is flushed to the bed, wrists crossed submissively as she gazes at the camera over her shoulder. There’s an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes and he can tell she had sent this now on purpose just to fuck with him, knowing good and well that he was out and occupied.
The shot is more than he can handle and he has to swallow down the urge to stomp out of the bar, get into his car, race to her flat, and make her rethink her decision. Preferably, in the form of harsh spanks and overstimulation. He can see everything— the intentional rip at the crotch of the panties are meant for that sole reason. The closer he looks, he comes to realize that she’s wet, which in turn means she had been touching herself. She’d set this up perfectly, knowing that he’d easily be able to deduce that fact and that it would haunt him for the rest of the night.
The monster releases a quivering exhale, typing back slowly and carefully, sight bleary.
You’re going to regret that.
Pinky promise?
///
When Harry arrives at Y/N’s apartment the next night, as he has for the last three Fridays, he doesn’t saunter up to her door and bang on it angrily. He doesn’t grab her by her hair and drag her into her room, how he’d intended. He doesn’t even have a single cinch in his sculpted brows.
Instead, he raps softly on the door with one jeweled knuckle and waits calmly.
The human goes to answer, her stomach twisting in excitement at all the possibilities of what punishment she might face for her antics. A small, sly smile buckles the corners of her lips at the thought, her fingers trembling as they wrap around her cold doorknob. She expects to find a furrow-browed, intense-eyed, red-faced Harry behind the threshold, who would shove past her, nab her by the arm, and throw her onto her bed. She expects him to yank his belt from around his hips while a distinct darkness swallows his emerald irises, his mouth curling into a sinister grin. She expects him to roughly command she get on her hands and knees, his palm finding the back of her head to shove her face-first into the sheets while he rips her panties down her legs and drags the cool leather of his accessory over her backside tauntingly.
What she gets is something— and someone— completely the opposite.
When her door swings open, Harry is standing standing there, sure. But instead of looming over her with flaring nostrils and cruel intent, he’s decided to lean against the door frame with his arms folded casually. His body is completely empty of tension, his ankles are crossed offhandedly, and a small, bright red paper bag full of sparkly black tissue paper is hanging off his wrist. His expression is a relaxed facade of indifference, lips set into his usual signature smirk, no explosive emotions present whatsoever.
That startles Y/N. This has to be an act; it feels like the calm before a violent storm and it has her shifting in her socked feet. Did he...Did he forget what she did?
There’s no way he forgot. It was too brazen a move to dismiss.
Harry steps forward into her home, comfortable enough that he no longer has to wait for an invitation. Y/N moves to the side to let him through, hesitantly closing the entrance behind him, contemplating the man as if he were a ticking bomb. She does a quick sweep of his physique, looking for some other clue as to what he could be plotting, aside from the mysterious gift bag in his hand. He’s wearing a pair of flared denim jeans, a white tee with a royal blue cartoon bee printed in the center along with the words Enjoy health! Eat your honey! surrounding it, his white Vans, and an oversized colorful patch-work cardigan. The outfit is surprisingly domestic compared to his usual taste, but she finds it’s easily one of her favorite fits on him. He just looks so boyish adorable.
The human comes up with nothing suspicious, glancing back up to lock eyes with her guest. Harry beams at her innocently and she knows for sure he’s planning something, but she can’t place what.
“I got you this.” The vampire speaks up first, holding out the paper bag towards Y/N with his index finger, bouncing it encouragingly. “Take a peek.”
The girl accepts the gift gingerly, giving him one more hard look before breaking away to investigate what lies beneath the tissue paper. She pulls out a small cardboard box, her eyes squinting slightly as she reads its print and surveys the label. The image on the surface appears to be of five silicone finger gloves, each about the size of a thumbtack, tiny metal plates embedded into the pads. She’s voicing her curiosity before she’s even finished studying the container.
“What...What are these?”
Harry rolls his eyes jokingly, tapping the object for emphasis. “Read the fine print, love.”
Y/N focuses on the region he’d pointed out, reciting aloud. “‘Vibrating silicone finger gloves. For the use of personal pleasure or with partners.’”
Then it all clicks.
“Oh my God, you got me— what?!” Y/N’s head snaps up in shock, mouth parted and brows creased. “Harry, what?”
The young man laughs airily, gently opening the seal of the box in her hands, which she is now holding as if it were a weapon of mass destruction. It’s such a weird present to give in general, moreso all out of the blue, so she can’t be blamed for her reaction.
He uncaps the packaging, rummaging through its contents and pulling out two of the tiny rubbery gloves. They’re transparent and ribbed, obviously meant to deliver as many sensations as possible, and they’re about two inches in length. He slips them onto his index and middle finger, making scissoring motions for the purpose of symbolism, but mainly just to watch Y/N fidget. “I remember how you said you don’t have sex toys because you’d never really thought about buying any, so I went and picked these up down at my favorite shop. Jessi said they’re good for beginners.”
“Jessi?” Y/N’s voice is tight. She’s not sure how to respond to this; she’s never been in this situation before. No one has ever just given her a sex toy as if a were a candy bar. “Who’s Jessi and why do they need to know about my sex life?”
“She’s the manager.” Harry says matter-of-factly. He doesn’t seem to find anything strange about this encounter. “She helped me pick out my first pocket vag, so I trust her with my soul. Here, look. You just slip them on and—” He makes finger thrusting motions in the air, wiggling his digits playfully. “Big O. Not as good as what I can give you, obviously, but close enough.”
“Harry, you do realize this is a little…odd, right?”
The boy blinks at Y/N blankly. “What? Why? Sex is literally the basis of this whole thing.” He signals back and forth between them with his gloved forefinger. “It’s really not that weird at all, if y’think about it.”
“I just...it’s like…”
Her argument fizzles to an end the longer she stares at him. He has the most wholesome expression painted across his handsome features, his eyes glossy with excitement. He looks genuinely elated about the present and she can’t find it in herself to question him any further. As unorthodox as this may be, it’s the first true act of kindness anyone has shown Y/N since she had moved to California. It’s the first time anyone has given the girl anything without her having to request it. She comes to the realization that Harry really is the only friend she has at the moment, and she refuses to pick and prod at that, lest he retract from her on the grounds that she’s ungrateful. Yes, this is a little atypical, but so is their whole dynamic. In his own twisted way, this is how Harry shows his friendship.
The more she ponders on it, she starts to understand that this truly is something she should accept. He went out of his way to get her this gift, which solidifies their acquaintanceship. It’s sweet.
“You know what, never mind. Thank you! I love them.”
The giddy smile that cracks his face melts her heart. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”
Harry then softly grasps her hand with his, tugging her down the entrance hallway, his intentions set on her bedroom. His voice takes on a deeper sultry twang, the corners of his mouth twitching suggestively. “Because on my way here, I was thinking, yeah? And I figured: who better to teach you how to use these than the person who picked them out.”
“Of fucking course.” Y/N huffs in amusement, shaking her head but allowing herself to be guided forward. “I should’ve known you had an ulterior motive.”
“Heyyyyy!” Harry’s whine is offended, but the coy simper dimpling his cheeks ruins any defense he could possibly try to spin. “This isn’t an ulterior motive, it’s simply a supporting one.”
“Right.” Y/N states flatly, shuffling forward slowly as he backs down her corridor, momentarily glancing over his shoulder to orient himself. “Buying a fuck buddy a sex toy is totally selfless and mutually exclusive of the agreement.”
Harry takes a turn and crosses the threshold into her bedroom, releasing her arm and instead, he opts for wrapping his fist into the loose material of her large Transformers tee, twisting the fabric around his knuckles and giving it a sharp yank. She stumbles into his chest and almost drops the box.
The vampire gazes down at her with half-lidded eyes, long lashes tempting and plush lips the color of roses. “I never said it was mutually exclusive. I just said it wasn’t meant to be evidently inclusive.”
He takes the box from her grip, sliding it onto her nightstand so that any obstacles between them are eliminated. He beckons her closer with a flick of his wrist, feeling heat erupt across his chest as her palms slap down against it to steady herself. She’s always so warm, almost like a furnace. It’s a nice contrast to his ever-present coldness.
Harry’s cupped fingers nurse the slope of her jaw, tilting her chin up to level his, Cupid’s bow ghosting over her own teasingly as a grin threatens to betray him. His accent is thick, heavy with condescension. “Now do you want me to fuck you or not?”
Y/N gulps audibly, the sudden jump in her heart rate causing Harry’s cock to give a foreshadowing twitch in his designer jeans. Her eyes soften with a form of weepy desire, head nodding in his grasp.
Harry’s top teeth catch on his lower lip as he appraises her from over the crest of his defined cheekbones. “I don’t think I heard you, pet. Must be the AC draft.”
The mortal’s eyes fall shut as she composes herself, a shaky sigh faltering past her nostrils. She tips forward onto her toes, connecting her itching mouth to his. Harry allows it, listing his head to the side to grant her more access, his free arm roping across the dip of her spine and pressing her front flushed to his. The kiss is soft and heated, full of drunken tongues and muffled whimpers. It’s tame compared to most of the others they’ve shared, but Harry likes it. It’s sloppy and intimate; only the beginning of what he knows will be a long night.
Her words sting the ridges of his lips, hot and bated. “I want you to fuck me.”
Harry speaks into her mouth, tone gentle but packing a punch. “Get my belt off for me, will you? I’m tying you to the bed tonight.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice, a dark chuckle vibrating across his tongue when her fingers immediately begin to fumble with his belt buckle.
Once Harry has looped the leather tightly around Y/N’s wrists and has knotted them to one of the wooden railings of her headboard, he sits back on his heels to admire his work. Y/N is splayed out across her mattress with her arms suspended above her head, bare thighs clasped in anticipation as her t-shirt gathers around her waist. Her hands are curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she watches Harry leisurely shrug off his cardigan, keeping eye contact with her the whole way through. His tattoos stand out against the buttery light of the single lamp on the table, tanned arms flexing sinfully.
He shifts around, laying down onto his stomach and coasting his palms up her quivering legs, kissing over her kneecaps and along the crease of her inner thighs, bunching her shirt further up her body as he goes. As soon as he spots the first garter, he blacks out for a millisecond, vision washing red.
“Fuck, wait— did you…?” His voice is strained and desperate as he shoves the rest of her clothes up her torso, pulling her shirt over her head and letting it rest at her elbows. He hums appreciatively when he’s met with the full cherry-colored lingerie set from a few days ago, garters and all. “God, you did.”
Y/N’s gaze falls timidly, a sheepish smile brushing over her face. “I thought you’d want to see it in person, since you seemed to like it so much.”
“Mm...” Harry struggles to swallow, fingers hooking under the straps that clip to the hem of her underwear, pulling the fabric from her skin and letting them snap back into place. He revels in the tiny noise she lets slip, the pads of his digits now toying across the frilly bands encircling her upper legs. After a thoughtful heartbeat, Harry speaks up, wistful but vehement. “I’m going to make you soil your sheets again.”
Y/N bucks a tad at his promise, wrists stressing against the leather belt, but Harry’s practiced enough bondage in his lifetime to know she won’t be getting out anytime soon. He parts her knees open with his palms, dragging his silicone-covered fingers down her clothed clit and tutting when she lets out a stuttery gasp.
“Always so sensitive, aren’t you, angel?” The vampire pets at her core patiently, heat pooling at the base of his abdomen as he feels her panties damped with every stroke of his touch. “Christ, you’re already soaking through.”
“Want more.” The girl’s plead is strangled as she actively forces herself to keep her legs wide open, knowing that if she were to allow them to snap shut, Harry would only pry them apart again. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. Please.”
“All week?” Harry drags tongue across the inside of her thigh, nipping at the flesh tauntingly, the amber specks in his eyes glittering amidst his lashes. He continues to rub through her underwear, drinking up all the little noises streaming from her throat. “Tread lightly, dove. You’re swelling my ego.”
“I just…” Her hips give another jerk when he wriggles two rubber-clad fingers into the crotch of her bottoms, spreading her open just a bit and grinning against her skin at how wet she’s become. “I just need it hard tonight, Harry. Need you to leave me sore.”
“I always leave you sore.” The monster reasons mockingly, taking one of the garters between his teeth and tugging, releasing so it stings her like before. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
Y/N trembles out an exhale, gathering herself enough to give him what he wants. “I need you to fuck me like you hate me.”
Harry grabs onto either sides of her panties, slowly peeling them down her legs and then scooting closer forward, planting an open-mouthed kiss right onto her bare clit. She mewls in return, her restraints creaking the bed. He continues pressing messy wet pecks to her cunt, feeling her tense up each time his soft lips suckle her fervently.
“Is that why you sent that picture?” Harry wonders aloud, pausing his motions and raising one eyebrow at her. “Because you wanted me mad?”
The human nods, face wracked with guilt. It’s cute that she feels bad, especially because Harry had, in actuality, enjoyed her little stunt. Seeing her bent over like that, in a position that shows she couldn’t wait to please him— that she couldn’t wait until Friday came around so he could do to her whatever he deemed fit...It was the best form of edging he’s ever experienced. But for the sake of giving her what she wants, he’ll bite the bait.
Harry rises up onto his knees, parting her thighs further as he fits himself between them, the pads of his gloved digits dancing across the thick of her damp clit. He bends down until his nose smudges over hers, the breath of his low words hot against her parted mouth.
“Well, it fucking worked.”
Harry taps his index and middle fingers against his palm in one quick flick and the tiny metal plates situated along the tips purr to life. He sinks knuckle-deep inside of Y/N, cold rings catching on her folds as he curls upwards to get at that special spot that resides along the pit of her tummy. The moan she releases it so raw and broken, it sends a zip of lightning through his veins.
He fucks her like that for a while, with his strong chest poised against her heaving own as he marks love bites onto the cleavage spilling from her lace bra, his skilled fingers pumping into her at a harsh pace that has her legs shaking on either sides. He thumbs over her clit messily, the silicone molds sending waves of vibrations through her clenching walls as he relentlessly toys with her g-spot, her arms thrashing against his belt. Fragmented sounds of bliss freely stream from Y/N’s mouth without shame, his name intermingling amongst the whimpers as her head throws back against the headboard. Harry grips her throat in one hand, holding her to the sturdy surface as his other bobs between her thighs roughly, the bed groaning as a result of their intense actions. His wrist begins to ache from how hard he’s going, but the tears trickling out from the corners of Y/N’s eyes and the way she’s panting into his mouth are enough to keep him going.
“Look at me.” Harry squeezes her jugular tighter, garnering attention. She forces her eyelids open, inhales hiccuping when he braces his cool forehead to hers, his irises the color of a forest at midnight, pupils blown out of proportion. His teeth dig into her bottom lip just to feel it swell, a growl stirring the gravel in his chest. “Is this what you wanted?”
“Y-Yes.” Y/N boggles her head feverishly, glimpsing down over her sweaty cheeks to see the way his veins are chiseling along the forearm that is flexing between her drenched thighs. “Fuck, it’s so g-good.”
“Yeah? How about we go a little higher, hm?” Harry scrapes the pads of his fingers against that spongy place inside her, pressing the vibrators down and the motion clicks the toy into a higher level of intensity.
Y/N writhes in his grasp, back arching off the headboard as deeper, more concentrated rumbles lap throughout her body. “Harry— I— that’s— God, just please!”
Harry takes ahold of her jaw as he continues finger-fucking her without remorse, his short breaths warm against her burning lips. “That’s my girl. Taking it hard and loving every second.”
Y/N’s eyes lull back into her head. She doesn’t know why, but hearing Harry call her his girl satisfies her in a manner so deep, she didn’t know it existed. Just hearing him recognize her as his— as something he claims for himself, almost like an extension of who he is— stirs a foreign form of fulfillment in the back of her mind.
“I’m—” The girl chokes on her sentence, finding it difficult to concentrate with so much pleasure coursing through her system, as well as with Harry painting hickies across the side of her strained neck. “I’m gonna cum.”
The immortal’s voice is stern and authoritative. “No, you’re not.”
“I am, I can’t hold—”
“Yes,” Harry’s grip firms, pace sharpening into unapologetic slams, “you can. And you will. If you cum before I let you, you’re not getting anything else from me for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”
Y/N’s cunt tightens around his fingers, warning him that she’s about to peak. “Harry, I’m sorry—but— but I—”
“Do I make myself clear?”
Y/N has no hope that she can keep it in, but she adores the darkness swirling in Harry’s eyes at the moment and she’ll do anything if it means getting to witness it for a while longer. “Yes.”
“Good.” She winces when she feels his teeth skim her earlobe, his whisper dripping with arrogant amusement. “I told you I’d make you regret it.”
And he really does keep his oath. Minutes simulate hours as Harry continues to flirt her just along the seams of relief, pulling her back every time he sees her about to tip. Whenever he feels her begin to spasm around his slick fingers, he gives her a cautionary quirk of his brows accompanied by a testing, throaty, “Don’t you fucking dare.” or a simple, silent shake of his head. By some miracle, she manages to reign herself in every time, but each ruined orgasm makes it harder and harder to stifle the next. She doesn’t know how many times it happens; she stops counting after four.
After what feels like decades of torture, Harry finally releases his hold around her jugular, allowing her to properly gulp air for the first time in a while. He sits back against his heels, pulling his hand from between her thighs with a sarcastic sympathetic hiss. “Poor thing.”
He watches as a trail of her juices strings from his digits to her cunt, eventually snapping in the middle as he lifts his hand to study his work. Her release drips down his knuckles and palm, gleaming in the dim lighting. A mildly sadistic glint washes over Harry’s irises and for a split second, they look almost red, but Y/N dismisses it. Her brain is too fogged to trust right now.
The boy’s sight flickers past his hand to where Y/N lies limply, wrists bruised from the bonds, arms quivering weakly, and legs trembling in overstimulation. He’s never seen her look more beautiful than now.
He locks his bright eyes to her exhausted own, watching them shatter to pieces when he pushes his drenched fingers past his pillowy blushed lips. His lashes flutter as her taste washes across his tongue, sweet and decadent as always, a soft groan thrumming deep in his throat. God, he can only imagine how delectable her blood must be at the moment, honeyed by the plethora of endorphins he had repeatedly coaxed into her. He can't wait to feel its warmth fill his mouth later tonight.
Harry removes his fingers with a wet pop, licking across the back of his hand with finality and giving her a daring once-over. “Do you still want my cock? Or are you too sensitive for it, darling?”
He sounds so conceited and self-assured, it causes Y/N’s pride to flare. She wants to make him eat his stupid words.
The mortal licks her chapped lips, wetting her dry throat and clearing it softly, wiping away the sweat on her forehead with her shoulder. “I still want it.”
An impressed expression decorates Harry’s features. “You think you can take it?”
Y/N’s jaw clenches with dedication, her thighs spreading open a tad more and she wills herself not to flinch. Her chin cocks upwards. “I know I can.”
Harry’s brows kink challengingly, a borderline evil smirk sewing onto his face. “Let’s see, then.”
As it turns out, Y/N can take it. However, she knows for a fact she won’t be able to walk right for at least the next week.
Harry lowers his jeans and kicks them off, reaching into his navy briefs and tugging himself out, giving his length a few pumps for good measure as he shifts forward toward her. He flips the girl onto her belly as easily as he’d turn a sheet of paper, tying one arm around her hips and lifting them up as he slides a pillow below. He situates her accordingly onto the cushion, her ass slightly elevated to give him more range of depth. He pats at her backside lightly, telling her to part her knees and she does so obediently, gripping onto the leather strap around her wrists anxiously when she feels the bed shift with his weight. Harry lowers himself over her body, the tee covering his broad chest soaking up the thin sheet of sweat on her back. He moves all of her tangled hair to the side, burying his fingers into her roots and yanking her head back cheekily. He runs his nose across her damp cheekbone and chuckles when she jumps slightly at the feathery sensation.
“You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you?”
Y/N gnaws on her bottom lip as she struggles to swallow, throat taut from the angle he’s put her in. Her voice carries a confident bite, despite her compromisable position. “I like to think I am, yeah.”
“Well, you know what that makes you, right?” Harry murmurs as he lines himself up with her entrance.
“Mm-mm. What?”
The vampire presses a lingering kiss to the tittering pulse in her temple, feeling it thunder below his skin as he forms his next comment slowly with an ominous edge. “It makes you a brat.”
He feels her heartbeat trip.
“And you know what I do to brats?”
Y/N shakes her head as much as his dominant grasp will allow, body tightening in suspense.
“I fuck them until they break.”
Y/N learns that he’s telling the truth. The first thrust Harry delivers is swift, hard, and unbelievably deep; it causes her to let out a choked scream that no one else has ever drawn from her before, except for him. It’s like he can tap into certain aspects of her body she was unaware of; parts of her waiting for the right person to come along and reveal them. She feels that stroke rip into her tummy, but the pain of his size is something she’s become accustomed to in the last three weeks. She hardly feels it anymore; it had molded from a sharp throb to a dull ache, due to how often she’s experienced it.
Harry doesn’t waste any time, quickly picking up a sloppy, adamant pace that has her hips bouncing against the mattress. He twists her hair around his fist, mouth pressed to the side of her head as his hot pants of exertion send a prickling through her scalp. His other forearm keeps him anchored to the bed as he pounds into her with absolutely no hesitation, the sound of skin slapping, cracked whines, and raspy grunts filling the tense atmosphere of her chilly room.
“Is this what you were hoping would happen when you sent that slutty picture?” Harry grits out, short nails digging into the comforter beneath. “Wanted to get me all riled up just so I’d do your back in?”
Y/N mewls weakly in response, hands clinging to each other within the makeshift cuffs.
“If you wanted me to fuck you like I hate you, you could have just asked. I’m more than happy to give you whatever you want. You don’t have to tempt me.” The vampire gives a particularly deep slam, laughing breathily when the girl’s back instinctively arches forward, paired with a watery yelp of, “Oh!”
Harry’s tongue grazes across the shell of her ear, teeth catching the skin. “But since you did, I’ll give it to you just— like—that.” His thrusts match to each word, fingers coiling harder into her locks. “You deserve it. Especially when you had the nerve to act like such a spoiled little brat right to my face.”
Y/N’s not sure what emboldens her to speak, but her snarky remark is already halfway down her numb tongue before she can stop it. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”
Harry hums tauntingly, circling his hips in long strides that urge a series of fractured whimpers to scrape out of Y/N’s sore throat. “Say it again. Go ahead, say it. I want to see you try.”
She remains silent, spine shuddering as she bites down on her tongue to avoid making any more noises that might condemn her.
Harry roughly cranes Y/N’s neck to the side, buttoning their lips together in a filthy kiss that has her cheeks boiling. “That’s what I thought. The only thing that sharp tongue is good for is licking down my cock.”
She gasps against his mouth shakily, tears of sheer bliss gathering along her waterline. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
Harry can tell her comment holds no true malice behind it; she’s too sweet on him— too whipped on what he gives her— to ever mean it. She’d only said it to provoke him into a power dynamic struggle. But the thing is, Harry’s dealt with feeling powerless before, so he had spent years teaching himself how to win. How to always win.
“Am I, now?” His next line dismantles her entire plan. “Would an asshole let you cum?”
And just like that, her whole demeanor crumbles. “I take it back. I’m s-sorry.”
Harry releases her hair and nips at her ear mockingly, beginning to withdraw himself. “Oh, I think it’s a bit too late for that, minx.”
“No, no! Harry, please. I’m sorry. Genuinely. I promise I won’t say it again. Just…” She tugs helplessly at the belt restraints, trying to twist around to look at him directly. Her voice is wringed out. “Just please.”
The boy pushes a few stringy curls out of his eyes, pressing his tongue into his cheek coyly as he glances down, suggestively smoothing one hand over her ass. He gives it a firm squeeze, lifting his palm teasingly and feeling her tense in anticipation. “Do you want it?”
Y/N glimpses at his bejeweled hand with hunger, then back at his eyes. “Yes.”
“Tell me you want it.”
“I want it.”
“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten what ‘it’ was, exactly. Jog my memory, will you? What is it you want?”
Her irises harden in spite at his shit-eating comment. He’s well aware of how shy she can be when it comes to admitting she wants a spanking, and he’s playing that to his advantage. He’s swimming in the way she squirms.
“I...I want you to spank me.”
He tsks, shaking his head as he twists his HS rings around to face inwards. “You forgot something.”
Y/N’s fingers tighten into begrudging fists. “I want you to spank me, please.”
“There’s a good girl.” His low, accented purr sends electricity through her nerves. “You’re so cute when you beg.”
Harry’s hand comes down swiftly, digits fanned out so that all of his rings print across her backside. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough to leave a satisfying sting. He loves the way she jolts forward with a hushed curse of surprise, and he adores seeing the shape of his initials marked across her clammy skin. It’s poetic, almost.
“So pretty.” His mumble is wistful as he massages deeply over the region he had just bruised, but it holds unyielding authority. “Whose is it, doll?”
“Yours.”
“And don’t you fucking forget it.” The creature lifts one palm to do it again, pausing once more just to rev her further. He reaches forward with the other, shoving her face-first into the mattress to get her back to straighten out. “Look forward and don’t make a single sound.”
Y/N obeys, but manages to sneak a peek at his reflection through the waxy wooden surface of her aged bedframe. He looks so good perched behind her with bare heaving shoulders, looking down at her exposed figure over the crests of his sharp cheekbones, brows furrowed into a starved expression that gives away he’s enjoying this probably more than she is. Her voice comes out small and weak. “Yes, sir.”
Harry’s entire face tightens at the word and she feels him throb against her backside.
“Now beg me to let you cum.”
///
The next morning when Y/N’s eyes flutter open to the grey light streaking in through her curtains, the first thing she senses is a pair of eyes staring at the side of her face.
She turns her stiff body over toward where the sensation stems and sure enough, she’s met with a pair of sea glass irises filled to the brim with humor. Harry’s laying on his side with his hands tucked below one of her pillows, tousled ringlets sticking up in wild tuffs (thanks to the activities they’d engaged yesterday), he’s completely bare since he likes sleeping nude (though he’d had the decency to cover himself with sheets from the waist down), and his voice is slower and raspier than usual (a result of being dormant for the last eight or so hours).
“You drool in your sleep.”
Y/N tucks her hands against Harry’s cold pectorals, snuggling deeper into his chest and pinching at one of his nipples in playful revenge. “No, I don’t.”
“Yes,” he reaches up and shoos her hand away, proceeding to wipe at the side of her mouth, where dried spit had accumulated. He makes a theatrical gagging face, cleaning his thumb off across the collar of her t-shirt. “You do.”
Y/N sighs in exasperation, making a bold leap to a different topic to avoid talking about her embarrassing sleep habits. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring at people while they sleep is weird? Like, serial killer weird?”
Harry tucks a few matted strands of hair behind the human’s ear, thumbing over her cheekbone tenderly. He hardly ever indulges in such actions, simply because they’re typically reserved for actual couples, which he and Y/N are definitely not. But last night— after he had finally finished being a prick and allowed her cum along with him, and after she had fallen into the bed with exhaustion taking her under, and after he’d had his greedy fill of her blood for the week— he’d gotten bored of playing on his phone. He’d burned through three cold case documentaries on Netflix and played enough Mario Kart to memorize the race charts; it had grown old quickly, and he eventually just locked the device and placed it on her nightstand. He spent the next hour staring at her hideous ceiling, and the one after that fantasizing about taking down her tapestry and burning it in the oven. And finally, after hours of mindless daydreams and letting his eyes chase the city lights dancing across the walls of her room, he had settled onto his side and watched her sleep.
Harry did it simply because he had nothing else to distract him. He figured it would eventually bore him enough that maybe— just maybe, if he was lucky— he would fall asleep alongside her. But he didn’t, so he just ended up gazing at her slumbering face until dawn. He had been surprised by how oddly beautiful Y/N looked sleeping— how relaxed and tranquil, with her features soft and skin seemingly made of flawless porcelain. That intrigue had bled into the moment they share now, resulting in his touch drifting down the curve of her jaw and across the faint dimple on her chin. He follows the slope of her neck and admires the smoothness of her flesh with the ridges of his fingertips, hearing her breathing stutter ever so slightly. His heightened senses make it feel as if he’s running his digits over velvet and the only concept he can compare it to is touching forbidden artwork at an exhibit. It’s exciting, but he knows that if he keeps going, he could end up getting himself into a crock of shit.
When the pads of his fingers land on two prominent purple bruises he’d forgotten existed, he’s broken from his soft stupor. He retracts his touch as if she were made of iron, forcing himself to ignore the pout that automatically plumps her delicate lips.
He clears his throat awkwardly, a tight chuckle stringing his vocal chords. “Staring at someone in their sleep seemed to work just fine for Edward Cullen, though.”
Y/N snorts sharply, rolling her eyes up towards her headboard. When she sees his belt is still hanging off of it from the night prior, she hurriedly glances back down, pretending not to have seen it.
“It’s funny you say that because as I recall, he literally admitted to being a murderer. I believe his exact words were,” she exaggerates her voice into an angsty cry, grasping at her chest dramatically, “‘This is the skin of a killer, Bella!’”
Harry bursts into boyish giggles, falling fully onto his back and swiping his palm up his face, fingers remaining perched over his closed eyes as he laughs. He sighs airily, shaking his head as an afterthought. “What a moron.”
“Truly. His dad was hotter.”
“Way hotter.” Harry agrees passionately, burying his hand into his messy curls, attempting to comb out some of the tangles. “And he was a doctor. What a man.”
“Bella really fucked that one up. She had a midlife crisis over choosing between a sad vampire who looked like he had chronic constipation, and a yappy dog with a shirt phobia. All when Carlisle was right there. Brain damage, honestly.”
“A moment of prayer for the mentally incapacitated. Couldn't be me!”
“Couldn’t be me, either.”
“Fuck, yeah.” Harry throws his hand up, inviting Y/N to give him a high five. “To good taste.”
She gladly delivers. “Exquisite taste.”
An instance of comfortable silence suspends between the pair of lovers, filled with the soft thrum of the air vent and the distant chirping of birds outside Y/N’s windowpane. She traces her index nail over the wings of the swallow tattoos along Harry’s collarbones, seeming to be deep in thought. She then speaks up once again.
“Emmett was pretty hot, as well.”
“You know what? I’m happy you mentioned that ‘cause— full disclosure here— I’d ride him like a fucking bull.”
Now it’s Y/N’s turn to explode in a fit of giggles, nose scrunching and eyes crinkling shut as she loses herself at Harry’s graphic confession.
“Why are you laughing?!” The fact that he sounds genuinely appalled only spurs her sounds of glee. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take that chance if you got it. Like, okay, he’s an airhead, yeah? I’m aware. But fuck’s sake, look at his body. I’d happily let him beat me at arm wrestling if it means I get that celebratory dick afterwards.”
The mortal manages to calm down a handful of heartbeats later and Harry feels strangely proud of how he’d made her pulse spike.
“You’re valid for that, don’t worry. I couldn’t have said it—” A single giggle interupts her sentence, but she reigns it in before it can spiral. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Literally. There’s no way to express it better than exactly how you stated it.”
Harry smirks softly up at the ceiling, folding his free arm behind his head as the other wraps securely down Y/N’s back, absentmindedly rubbing in gentle soothing circles. “My mind. It’s amazing, innit?”
“It’s definitely something.”
Another span of cozy quietness fills the atmosphere of the room, longer than the last. Harry doesn’t mind. He finds it appeasing, and he continues to delight himself with running his touch up and down Y/N’s spine. He’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s aware that it’s probably a bit. His theory is supported by how he witnesses the beam of watery light that filters over the duvet gradually fade from silver to a sunflower yellow, indicating full daybreak.
Even then, he doesn’t say a word, too caught up in this innocent bubble of domestic bliss to pop it so suddenly. He just lays there and listens. Listens to the birds harmonizing with each other across the branches of the tree outside. To the steady breaths that fill Y/N’s lungs with cool air, faltering past her nostrils in the same manner and fogging the metal of his cross necklace. To the faint sound of footsteps trotting down the staircase outside her apartment, and to the vague spritz of the sprinkler system going off at the front of the complex. To the distant honking of car horns in traffic, and to a random conversation between two friends as they walk past the pavement just under Y/N’s balcony. He hasn’t felt this at ease in eons.
Harry just allows himself to grow in tune with the world around him— a world he’d been convinced was against him for the longest time. A world he was convinced stole his happiness and replaced it with the shackles of a blood-driven afterlife, for no other reason than because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong person. But now, he feels like he’s in the right place, at the right time, spending it with the right person— or at least a half-decent person— and he doesn’t want to let it slip between his fingers so soon. He wants to bask in it, even if he knows it’ll pass.
And eventually, it does pass, and Y/N is the one who brings it to an end.
The girl slowly peels away from Harry’s side, his lips dipping downwards slightly at the loss of the warmth she radiates. He thinks she’s about to get up to probably go use the bathroom or to make breakfast, but instead, she just bends her upper body over the edge of her bed to retrieve something from the floor. She comes back up with the box he’d brought her the evening before (which had ended up on the ground as a result of her bed rocking violently), setting it in the small space between their laps. She then returns to her place cuddled into his torso, looking up at him with an expression that Harry can only interpret as expecting.
The vampire glances down at the container and then back up to Y/N’s face, raising his eyebrows curiously, voice tinged with comedy. “What did I say about bringing sex toys to the dinner table?”
Y/N stares up at him flatly for a second, fighting off a smile. “I just wanted to thank you again. It’s nice of you to bring me a present, even as strange as this one.”
Harry sucks at his teeth, waving a hand dismissively, blinking down at her with slyness sparkling around his pupils. “What are friends for, if not for buying you vibrating finger gloves and then fucking you with them until you cry?”
Despite having been acquainted with Harry’s crude humor for three weeks now, it still manages to make Y/N’s cheeks sizzle. It could also be the fact that this is the first time Harry has openly accepted Y/N as a friend. It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned her name and that word in the same sentence, meaning that she can now shake a weight off her shoulders— a weight that had insisted he was only using her for sex, that he would eventually grow bored of her, and that he would throw her away once he was done. It’s good to know that’s not the case, and that the friendship aspect of their agreement is true to its name.
“Right.” Y/N’s smile is full of so much genuine warmth, Harry feels like she could outshine the sun. “What are friends for, if not that. Thanks, Harry.”
He wonders what she’s thinking, and he finds himself wishing that he had the one valid trait that idiot Edward Cullen possesses: mind-reading. But he doesn’t have it, so he simply returns her gesture and skates the conversation how he best deems fit. “You don’t have to call me ‘Harry’ all the time, you know?”
Y/N’s brows cinch in entertained confusion. “What would I call you, then? Sherlock?”
Harry scoffs lightly at the inside joke, shrugging one shoulder casually. “I mean, you could, if you want to. It might take some getting used to, but I think I can shoulder a full-time second identity. Just for you.”
“How chivalrous.”
“You ain’t ever met a man like me, sweetheart.” He boasts in an over-the-top American southern accent, prying another round of laughter from Y/N, similar to the one before. “But you could also just call me ‘H.’ It’s what most of my other friends use.”
“H.” Y/N repeats, getting a taste for the new nickname. It’s simple, unlike him, but it somehow fits. She then recalls something from a show she’d watched when she was younger and she can’t help but bring it up. “So, like, just your first initial? Like in Gossip Girl?”
Harry’s face immediately drops at the comparison she makes to the cringey teenage soap opera. “You know what, I take it back. You’re not allowed to use it. Illegal. Banned. By an official court. Gavel and all.”
“I’m just making a point!”
“Yeah, a shitty one.”
“Oh, whatever. You’re just mad I debunked your little hipster alter ego. ‘That’s a secret I’ll never tell. Xoxo, H.’”
“Restraining order.” Harry pinches at one of her love handles, an evil grin dimpling his cheeks when she squeals. “Actually, nevermind. We’re going straight to the electric chair. Immediately.”
“You don’t get to decide my punishment, remember?” Y/N slaps at his wrists, trying to ward off his attacks but failing miserably. “You’re just the—stop!— just the executioner.”
“That’s right. I get to strap you to the chair.” Harry finally lets up on the tickling, his lighthearted grin taking on a slightly seductive hue as he momentarily glimpses upwards towards where his belt is hanging. “Though you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Fuck off.” Y/N smothers her palm against his face, breaking eye contact as she feels her ears bristle with heat.
“Mm, exactly.” Harry gnashes at her hand playfully, but she manages to yank it away before he gets a bite in. “You can’t even admit you like being called a whore.”
“Hey!”
“What?” The vampire gives her a cocky look, wagging his head knowingly and then mimicking her voice in a higher pitch. “‘I’m just making a point!’”
“You’re a dick, you really are.”
“And yet you still ride mine, so who’s the one with the real issues here? Specifically, daddy issues.”
“I’m done with this conversation.” Y/N huffs, returning her attention to the box beside her thigh, muffling the twitching across her lips.
She takes the cardboard into her hands, tracing over the small flap used to pry the top open. Harry watches her with interest, pondering as to what could possibly be scurrying around her skull that she seems so caught up with the context of the gift. He’d gotten it because he knew they would both benefit from it. It’s as simple as that.
“You know,” she starts, but her gaze remains glued to the box, “I feel kinda bad ‘cause, like...You got me this gift, I have nothing to give you in return.”
Harry’s face contorts into a silly frown for a moment, tone humorous. “It’s fine, Y/N. You don’t have to give me anything back. I got it ‘cause I knew we’d enjoy using it together, and because this way, you have something to play with when I’m not around. And you can send me videos of said instances. It’s truly a win-win. A double-ended gift.”
“I suppose.” She mumbles softly, continuing to pick at the lip of cardboard sticking out. “But I feel like it’s only fair that you get to use it, too, don’t you think?”
And then the reason she’s insistent about this dawns on Harry. The way she’s avoiding looking at him directly, how her heart rate is slowly ebbing upwards, how she is gradually scooting closer to his body, how he can feel her thighs are clasped tightly below the comforter. How the scent of honey and lavender has intensified. How she keeps glancing towards where the sheets are crumpled messily around his hips in a haphazard attempt to remain civil.
When the monster speaks, it carries all the arrogance brought forward by his discovery. “If you wanna give me a handjob with the toy on, just say so.”
The human’s head snaps upwards, her expression one of utter alarm at his lewd comment, but he can see right through her act. It’s obvious that was her intention all along— the desire in her eyes is poorly masked. She looks so adorable, pretending not to know what he’s referring to, her palms gripping the box slightly tighter than before.
Harry twirls a strand of her hair around his finger nonchalantly, giving it a jesting tug. “I just find it funny how much of a horny menace you can be.”
“What—?”
“And it’s not even ten A.M. yet.”
“What do you—?”
“Y/N,” Harry sighs tiredly, giving her an omniscient look, “I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you want something. It’s written all over your body language and you’re pretty shit at hiding it in your eyes. Just admit you want to and I’ll let you.”
The faux shock slowly melts off her face, replaced by sheepish humiliation at being so easily sussed out. She chews on her bottom lip pensively, struggling to sew together the appropriate words to communicate the very inappropriate activity she wants to engage in. Harry has to withhold from leaning down and taking a bite from her tempting mouth.
She inhales a deep breath through her nose, puffing it out slowly and tapping her fingers across the box nervously. Her voice pipes up so softly, it’s almost inaudible. “I want to give you a handjob with the toy.”
Harry gently cards his fingers into the mussed roots along the back of her head, using that hold to guide her sight upwards until it meets his. He leans down, smearing his lips over her own, feeling static pass through the ridges of their skin. “That’s all you had to say, darling. Go ahead, then. Make me cum.”
Y/N swallows thickly, lashes fluttering bashfully as she pastes her mouth to his in a soft kiss. It’s a simple action with just their lips and nothing else. No tongue, no teeth, no sucking, nothing sloppy or desperate— not yet, anyways. He can tell she does it as a way to ease herself into this. She wants to, that much is arousingly obvious, but for some crazy reason unbeknownst to him, she’s still shy about it. That’s what happens when you come from a conservative raising: you get intimacy issues. He of all people— with his Victorian era background— would know.
The hand Harry has cupping the nape of her neck shifts over a smidge, ending up splayed across the side of her face. His palm rests on her cheekbone and his fingers in her locks, his wrist cradling the back of her skull as he patiently deepens the kiss. His chest begins to heave slightly, a familiar sensation already frothing at the trench of his stomach. Harry can feel Y/N’s clumsy movements as she unboxes the vibrators, digging through the packaging and trying to slip them on blindly, not wanting to break away from his embrace. The way he’s flirting his tongue along the inside of her top lip is just too consuming to leave.
After a few seconds of grappling and a string of annoyed curse words, Harry giggles lightly into her mouth, nudging the tip of his nose across the bridge of hers. The jade tint in his irises is waltzing with amusement, all at her expense. “Sometime today, love.”
“I know, I’m sorry, I just— I can’t— they won’t—” The mortal releases an irritated growl into their kiss, reluctantly splitting away when it becomes clear she won’t be able to get the rubber gloves on without giving the task her full attention. “God, I’m such a...Sorry.”
Harry rolls his eyes in mirth, pecking sweetly along the angry creases present over her forehead and between her brows. He thumbs over her cheek affectionately to soothe her nerves, his other hand scratching distractedly at the back of his neck. He filters curls through his fingers as he waits, bicep jolting in the process. “It’s fine, I’m just teasing. I’m not going anywhere, babe.”
“Thanks. Just give me—” The girl pauses her actions for a second, jutting her chin back up towards him and locking the vampire into another quick kiss, solely for the purpose of keeping him interested while she figures herself out. She breaks away again, returning to her mission. “Just give me a minute.”
Now that she can see, Y/N successfully wriggles all five of her fingers into their designated molds. She prods at them gingerly, copying Harry’s actions from the night prior, using that experience as a manual. The mini-vibrators purr to life, a buzzing sensation trickling down her fingers. She glances back up at an awaiting Harry, who gives her such an easy, good-natured smile, she instantly reaches up and glues their mouths together again.
“You’re so eager.” The boy grins into the kiss, jumping a bit when he feels her tittering fingers duck beneath the covers around his lower torso. “It’s hot.”
“I just want to make you feel good.” Y/N mumbles, one palm braced to his strong shoulder as the other rides down his bare abdomen. She can feel his grip on her hair tightening the closer she gets to his cock. “That’s all.”
“Guess I’m just the luckiest— shit.” Harry’s quip is interrupted when Y/N wraps her digits around his length, giving it one slow, testing pump. His jaw drops open and he begins panting into her mouth, the corners of his lips ticking upwards into a smirk as an intense pleasure swells between his thick thighs. “Jesus fucking Christ, that feels— fuck, that’s incredible, oh my God.”
“Yeah?” The human asks timidly, gazing up at him dreamily from below her lashes as his eyes lull back into his head. “Not too much?”
Harry loves how attentive she is— how she’s checking to make sure he’s alright before continuing. If he had a heart, it would surely be glowing right now.
Harry gulps down the lump in his throat, voice more strained and needy than she’s ever heard it. “No, I’m good, I’m good. Keep going.”
Y/N gradually sinks her palm back down to his base, feeling his cock twitch desperately as the vibrators work their magic. She slowly slinks back up to his tip, thumbing over it carefully, pressing the toy on her thumb pad right over his slit. The garbled moan that emits from Harry is a sound her ears will never forget. It’s a sound she wishes she could record and listen to on a loop.
“Fucking hell, don’t— please, just— oh—” Harry stutters through a plead, voice bleeding, naked chest now heaving wildly against her own. His hips buck forward into her hand, but she maintains a steady grip, keeping the vibrator pressed to the center of his cock’s head.
“Don’t what?” She whispers into his mouth, suckling at his Cupid’s bow and reveling in the little broken noises he pours onto her tongue.
Harry’s breaths are shallow and pained, the grip on her hair stronger than she thought possible as the fingers of his opposite hand yank at his own feverishly. He’s barely able to choke out his next sentence. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t.” Y/N begins to fish for a solid rhythm, her strokes setting into medium pace and gauging the receiver's reaction. “How’s that?”
Bright colors web across Harry’s eyelids and he feels like his soul is being torn from his body. “Y-Yeah, that’s perfect, baby. It’s so good— you’re so good.”
“I am?” Y/N swipes her thumb over his tip again, and when he whimpers brokenly against her lips, she does it again. It urges the same exact reaction, but more shattered. So she does it again. And again, and again, and again. And each time it happens, his hips jerk more violently, chasing her intoxicating touch. She can feel Harry’s precum drip down his length and leak between the cracks of her fingers.
“You are, you’re just so fucking good to me.” Harry’s spewing words at this point, brain half conscious, half floating in bliss. Whatever dam of common sense holds his mind together crumbles, all of his thoughts rushing out in the form of jumbled phrases and cracked whines. “You get me going like nothing else, pet. You get me going so easily, it’s embarrassing. You make me cum so hard, it feels like I’m touching h-heaven. And your mouth— God, y-your mouth. It’s the best I’ve ever had. It’s so soft and warm, and your lips are so pretty and silky. I could kiss you for hours. And your tongue— you know how to use it so well. You lick me once and I’m already on edge. And every time you get down on your knees, I think I’m gonna pass out.”
Y/N sighs shakily at Harry’s string of confessions, staring up at him with wide eyes as his own stay shut loosely, long lashes perched on his rosy cheekbones, handsome features slack with euphoria. She doesn’t halt her motions, continuing to pump him excitedly. The girl passes her thumb over his tip every time she gets to the top, and gives a hard squeeze every time she thunks down against his base, twisting her wrist as she glides back and forth between the two points of reference. That combination seems to work well, evident in the steady stream of vulgarities falling from Harry’s swollen lips as he thrusts upwards to match her pace. His groans splash across her tongue, traveling down her throat and burning into her stomach. She wants him to cum probably more than he does.
Y/N glimpses down, watching her sheets tent as she works Harry over, the outline of her knuckles pressing into the turquoise fabric. It’s such an erotic scene and she knows it’ll be branded across the front of her brain for years to come. She cranes her neck back up to look at the vampire, her breath catching in her lungs. He looks so pretty with his dark pink lips parted in pleasure, his damp ringlets matting along his sweaty hairline, his structured jaw ticking, and his usually sharp traits softened by ecstasy. She’ll do anything to make that image last.
“Tell me more.” Y/N murmurs, swimming in the praise he is so willing to dish out.
His eyes flicker for a heartbeat and in that instance, they look oddly darker than normal. Almost crimson, but she knows it’s due to the shadow of his lashes. The words that spill from his mouth next make her forget all about that occurrence, his voice melodic and dark, sticky against her wet lips.
“Your hands are one of my favorite things about you, I think. They’re smaller than mine and I love how your fingers don’t touch when you wrap them around my cock. I love how they leave my back raw with scratches, and I love how they look tied to the bedpost. I love it when they press flat against my chest when you ride me, and how you lean back on them when I’m on my knees with my head between your thighs. I love how they yank at my hair when you’re about to cum, and how they grip my upper arms when we make-out. I love how your nails dig into my thighs when you're going down on me, and how they look fisting at the sheets when I’m taking you from behind. And I love how they feel tugging me off, like you’re doing now. I just love how perfect they are— how perfect you are.”
Y/N is left speechless, Harry’s monologue ringing in her heated ears as he gazes at her intensely amidst heavy, barely-cracked eyelashes. His broad chest gasps for air and he takes it upon himself— despite his wrecked appearance— to smush their mouths deeper together, pooling moans across the roof of her own.
“I’m—” His breathing throttles, voice coming out softer than she’s heard it in the last three weeks. “I’m gonna cum.”
Y/N nods her head numbly, strokes becoming lazy and fast, eager for him to finish. “I want you to. I want you to cum for me so bad. Please?”
Harry’s hips writhe in a tell-tale sign that he’s about to tip. His whimper tastes sweet on her tongue, the meaning behind it pure syrup to her ego. “You’re the only one who makes me feel this good.”
The mortal whines gently in return, eyes falling shut as she feels him grow heavier in her palm. “You’re the only one I want to make feel this good.”
The knot of white hot pleasure in his belly begins to unravel, his entire spine shuddering as a result, all strain beginning to wash out of his system in spurts if blissful electricity. He can feel his orgasm racing up his prick, pulling his composure along with it. He gives one last jerk against Y/N’s cupped fingers, feeling her press her vibrating thumb over his slit one more time for good measure. When the first milky ribbon spurts out, that’s when he feels it.
Harry’s eyelids fly open in alarm as black veins protrude along the whites of his eyes, all his muscles contracting at once, defense mode activated. Y/N’s lips are on his neck.
His first instinct is to do what he always does and guide her away from that sensitive, highly forbidden area. His fist tightens in her hair and he’s about to yank her back up to his mouth when suddenly, the icy tension present in his veins disappears. It’s replaced by a soothing warmth, which travels through every crevice in his body and kindles his climax, his impulsive hatred for being touched in that specific region funneling away completely. He can’t remember a time where this has happened before.
Harry’s grip loosens hesitantly as he treads into this unexplored territory, allowing her to continue suckling along his throat. The sensation would usually garner a reaction similar to that of a molten metal brand being placed on his skin, but now— for some startling reason— he doesn’t feel any contempt. He just feels relaxed and cradled in the best way imaginable. The impact is pleasant this time around, and he finds himself wanting more of it. So, he lets her give him more. He lets this strange girl kiss and gasp and lick against his jugular while she finishes getting him off, his own desperate sounds of need bouncing around the brick walls of her bedroom. He lets her coax wave after wave of cum out of him, feeling it splatter against her bedspread and coat over her hand. He whines and grunts into the hair along the crown of her head, tears blearing his eyes as her scent of sugar and flowers clouds his mind. And when his release finally sputters to an end, he lets out an elongated groan so deep, it makes his chest ache.
“Fuck. You’re...You’re an absolute angel.”
Y/N draws her hand out from beneath the bed sheets, turning off the vibrating finger pads by pressing them against her palm. She looks down at the milky substance covering the toys and before Harry can make even a sound of encouragement, she’s already licking it off each individual piece. The girl looks up at the vampire as she cleans every trace of him off her fingers, swallowing it all down with a doe-like tint across her hazy gaze and murmuring a soft, “You taste good.” over a full mouth. Harry just watches silently, heavy breathing slowly starting to even out. God, she really is such a fucking godsend.
The next couple of minutes list by in a blur, all of his focus taken up by the feeling of unsettlement pricking at the back of his brain. Why had he let her touch him there? Why had he let her touch him in a place no one has since before his death?
Y/N puts the toys back in their box, putting them off to the side to thoroughly clean later. She reaches down, bunching up her bedspread in her hand and wiping Harry’s pelvis, thighs, and tummy down until he’s decently clean, as well as whatever is left on her hand. She then snuggles up to his side once again, laying her head into the crook between his arm and pectoral muscles, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully along with him. The irritating red tint across Harry’s chest, stomach, and neck gradually fades away, and he barely flinches when he feels her sponge her lips against his Adam’s Apple. She lulls the tip of her middle finger up along the vein of his cock one more time for finality, smiling slyly when he hisses in sensitivity.
The immortal tilts his head down to appraise her, sniffling lightly and allowing a weak, watery smile across his raw lips. His tone is feathery and detached. “That was…Christ.”
Y/N giggles softly, nodding along to his unspoken opinion. “It was fun. Really fun. We should do it again sometime.”
Harry splutters into a drunken laugh, mind still floating around the room. “I don’t think I could survive that again.”
Y/N grins up at him cheekily. “Pussy.”
Her friend breaks into an expression of utter offense, cheeks still slightly rosy. He shoves her head roughly as vengeance. “Hey! Piss off. Don’t blame it on me, blame it on the male anatomy.”
The girl shakes her head up at him, eyebrows shrugging mockingly. “Excuses, excuses.”
“Whatever.”
A moment passes, and then Y/N speaks up again, her index finger poking playfully into the center of his bare chest, right over the butterfly tattoo. “Also, you’re washing my sheets. Your mess, you clean it up.”
Harry grins against her forehead, scratching lightly at the back of her scalp. “Fair enough…Wait, is that why you wanted to do this? ‘Cause you knew I’d soil your sheets and you could force me to do your laundry?”
That hadn’t been her motive at all, and Harry knows that, but she plays along anyways for the hell of the joke. “Perhaps.”
“Wow. I feel used.”
“Too bad. Go do it. Now. Before it stains.”
Harry stares at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “I literally can’t walk right now! I can’t feel anything below my waist.”
Y/N lifts the comforter off her body, symbolically showing off the bruises his fingertips and rings had left the night before. “Well, neither can I!”
Harry reaches down and touches the marks, chuckling to himself. “How unfortunate. Who’s gonna make breakfast, then, if neither of us can even stand?”
“We could UberEats some iHop.”
“Who’s gonna get the door?”
“Well, I can’t solve everything on my own, now can I?!” Y/N slaps his hand away from her body. “Contribute! You’re the lead detective, after all.”
“I am, aren’t I?” Harry cocks his head to the side in recollection, remembering his role in their imaginary dynamic duo scenario. “And because I’m the lead, I say…” He ropes his lean arms around the human and buries his face into her warm neck, pulling her close and intertwining their legs together, trapping her to the mattress along with him. “I say we just bum around for a bit longer. Just until one of us can actually muster up the strength to leave the bed.”
Y/N makes an exasperated noise in the back of her throat, but makes no apparent attempt to leave his embrace. “Fine.”
“Mystery solved, then! Elementary, my dear Watson.”
“You’re so dumb.”
The pair stay cuddled for a bit, with Y/N’s hands loosely gripping Harry’s forearms, tracing across his mermaid tattoo absently. She wanders in her thoughts for a period of time, lost in the sensation of Harry’s warm breath fanning down her neck, his hot lips pressing small kisses behind her ear every once in a while. She likes their morning after routine; it’s innocent and fun and sharing moments like this makes it easy to forget her troubles. She wants more of this, and she finds herself trying to come up with ways to convince Harry to spend the night more often. This is only the fourth time he’s stayed until morning and she wants that number to grow.
An idea dawns on her and she’s voicing it before her inhibitions can kill it off.
“Do you...Do you maybe wanna stay over the rest of the weekend?”
Harry draws his face from the alcove of her soft neck, eyebrows poised in curiosity. “The rest of the weekend?”
“Yeah!” Y/N shifts her gaze up to look at him, hope swirling around her pupils. “Like, spend the rest of today and tomorrow over, and then leave tomorrow night ‘cause I have work on Monday. Does that, like...Does that make sense?”
“Yeah.” Harry says slowly, mulling over her offer, thinking back to his schedule. He doesn’t think he has any commitments this weekend that would require him being home— none he can’t cancel easily, anyways. He’d told Mitch he’d go see him play again at the pub later today, but it’s the same set as last time, so he doesn’t think his best friend would mind if he missed it just this once. Niall was planning a barbecue at his place on Sunday, but the Irish bloke does one almost every other week so it’s nothing Harry can’t make up. Plus, what type of idiot would pass up two day’s worth of amazing sex? The more, the merrier.
Y/N watches the vampire’s expression carefully, trying to interpret whether her request was out of their boundaries. She doesn’t want to make him feel like she’s trying to tie him down or suffocate him, she just wants to spend a bit more time in his presence, rather than through a phone screen. Her tone comes out dismissive, with just the tiniest hint of panic. “It’s okay if you can’t, though. Like, if you have other plans and stuff, I totally get it. Or if you just don’t want to, that’s fine, too! I just thought it’d be a fun little thing we can do since we already talk so much on the phone and everything, so I guess I just kinda figured you wouldn’t mind—”
“I get it, Y/N.” Harry interrupts Y/N’s unhinged word vomit, voice amused and nonchalant. “I think I’d like that, yeah.”
Y/N blinks in giddy surprise. “Really?”
“Well, don’t sound so shocked.” Harry laughs lightly, fingers toying with the pearls laying across his clavicle. “The sex is pretty fucking good and I’m more than happy to have it at my disposal.”
“Right.” Y/N gives him a deadpan look, shaking her head at his bluntness, reaching forward to fiddle with the chain of his cross necklace for the sake of having something to distract her from smiling like a fool. “Great, then. I have some old boxers that I know will probably fit you and an unopened pack of toothbrushes under the sink, so I think you’re set.”
Harry’s lips purse at the mention of the men’s underwear, brows creasing a tad. “You just casually have men’s boxers laying around?”
“They were my ex’s and I kept them out of spite. But don’t tell anyone, I don’t wanna get locked up for robbery.”
The tightness in his chest— which he hadn’t even realized had formed— melts away. “My lips are sealed.”
“Good, or else I’d have to kill you.” The girl states darkly, a theatrical seriousness to her appearance.
“Oh no.” Harry wails sarcastically, knotting a fist into her oversized tee and pulling her closer, connecting their lips and grinning into the kiss. “I’m shaking in fear.”
Y/N gives in without much of a fight, hands still clinging to his forearms, a smile of her own creeping across her cheeks. “Asshole.”
“The only thing I’m relatively afraid of is my dick falling off. You have the sexual drive of a rabbit.”
“Oh, like you’re any better?”
“I’m innocent in all this! You’re usually the one instigating. I’m just a mere pawn— a poor, unsuspecting nun led astray.”
“God, I can’t believe I let you fuck me.”
///
The following weekend, Harry officially invites Y/N over to his house.
It had been talked about in passing a while back, and he figures it's only fair considering all the time they’ve ever spent together has been solely at her place. Plus, he could tell she was curious to see what his living situation is like, which is valid. You can tell a lot about people through their home, and when you’re sleeping with someone on the regular, you want to learn as much about them as possible. It’s important to know who you’re getting into bed with. Literally.
Harry’s proud of his condo. He keeps it clean, he keeps it organized, and he keeps it styled in a manner that combines his Victorian gothic roots with modern day aesthetics. The floorboards of the apartment are made of waxed light-wash wood, most of the expanse of his living room covered in a furry dark grey rug. The lightness of the ground is contrasted by the matte mahogany walls, of which the largest is covered in Harry’s collection of first edition artwork. He had picked out every single piece himself throughout the span of the last two centuries, ranging from modern digital technique canvases to nineteenth century oil paintings, all arranged in neat alternating rows from oldest to newest. He can’t help that he’s such a stickler; his mom had raised him so.
Though his art wall is his pride and joy, the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline comes in at a close second. Harry loves the city, despite the fact that he was born in a seemingly irrelevant town whose only redeeming quality was the bustling public market. Urban regions are just full of so much life, excitement, and potential, which are all concepts he never really got to explore before he transitioned. Cities represent everything he wanted as a young man, when he thought he had prosperous years ahead of him and an entire life left to build; they represent diversity, unique experiences, and endless possibilities. When that was stripped from him, he began to bounce around different countries and cities all over the world, seeking a place that would fill the hole his dreams had left behind. Los Angeles fit that space like a puzzle piece.
That glorified window just means more to him than anyone could possibly know. Sometimes at night, he’ll just stand by it with his arms relaxed across his chest, watching the city gleam and glitter as individuals from all different backgrounds go about their business, blissfully ignorant to the beautiful concept that they all contribute to something much bigger— a concept that only centuries of wisdom could reveal. When he’s not wracked with jealousy and spite, looking out that window and witnessing the world change and evolve is therapeutic, in a way. It allows Harry to live vicariously through others who get to have what he never did.
Aside from his art collection and the glass wall, the chandeliers that hang from his cavernous ceiling are third on his list of treasured possessions. They’re special and no one on this earth owns anything like them; Harry made sure of that. They were created by a Swedish interior designer Harry commissioned about ten years ago, so they are custom-made in every aspect of the term. They took months to construct and finalize, which is hardly difficult to believe, given their grandeur. Each chandelier is made of two extensive layers of delicate golden chains, all arranged around a wire center, connected by light bulbs at each peak. It gives his home a chic, avant-garde atmosphere that mirrors his personality down to the last chain link.
The rest of his flat is tailored to compliment these three major determining factors. The wood paneling all around his apartment is carved with intricate, loopy designs, his two rounded coffee tables are made of the same marble that resides across his kitchen counters, and his kitchen sits directly under the second story ledge with elongated fluorescent poles embedded into the room’s ceiling, eloquently highlighting the creme walls and polished detailings of all his appliances. His sectional couches are made of an off-brown leather, covered in large rectangular couch cushions with a checkered print embroidered across the pillow cases, and weighted fleece blankets litter some areas of the elegant sofas. A wide staircase leads up to the second floor, made of grey glass steps and metal railings.
The top story of his condo is less Victorian era, more modern composition. The ground is dark maroon carpeting, and the ledge leads to one singular corridor that splits into two seperate rooms at either ends. One is the master bedroom, and the other is an accompanying bedroom which he uses for storage. His room isn’t anything extravagant, per se. It’s big, but his decor is minimalistic, covered in all different muted shades of blacks and greys, from the comforter on his king-sized bed to the tall dresser. A fifty inch flat-screen is mounted on the wall, but he hardly uses it since the one in his living room is larger; it’s only really there as an ornament. Starburst lights hang from his ceiling— smaller, downplayed versions of his chandeliers— and his walk-in closet stands parallel to the entrance of his bathroom.
The humongous bathroom was meant for two people, pretty obvious in the double-sink set up, but he doesn’t dwell on it much. He isn’t one for dating, and he’s just happy to have that luxury because it comes in handy the morning after one night stands. He has a jacuzzi-like bathtub, lined with water jets and all, and a big walk-in shower with a large overhead panel instead of a regular showerhead. The whole room is made of dark marble and porcelain, and he couldn’t possibly adore it more. Some of his best experiences had happened in this room, explicit and otherwise.
In the end, Harry has every right to be arrogantly proud of his apartment. It had taken him months to decorate, years to fill with fond memories, and an immortal lifetime to find. He loves it with every trace of his soul, even when others disagree. Namely, Niall, who had mocked his sophisticated relics and old-timey architecture from the first time he’d set foot past the threshold; “You went the dark gothic route? Really? Way to feed into the stereotype, Dracula.”
But no matter what anyone says, this is who he is, and he couldn’t be happier. After decades of migrating and aimlessly searching the globe, he’d finally found a place he could call home, and absolutely no one could take that from him. Especially not some Irish moron who doesn’t even know the definition of “foyer.”
How Harry manages to afford his flat is a whole other intriguing tale.
It had come up in a pillow talk conversation with Y/N once, and he had told her the story he feeds to any human who asks. He’s a regional manager for an offshore company and it’s mainly a lot of online work. Handling duties through business emails, videochat meetings, job portals, and things of the such. It paints a valid image as to why he’s home all the time. He also claims to be the company’s lone contact stationed in California, so he handles all of the responsibilities that would normally be bestowed upon three or four people. This paints a valid explanation as to how his imaginary position would tether such a high pay grade, which justifies his luxurious living arrangement.
That story is part of the truth. Harry does indeed have ties with corporate businesses. That is, ties to their CEOs’ pockets. It’s surprisingly easy to get past secretaries and security dressed in a nice suit and thousand dollar leather shoes, especially with the help of compulsion and Harry’s golden charisma. Thanks to those tools, he has managed to convince some of the biggest leaders in corporate California to quietly deposit generous sums of money into his bank account once a month. And with his persuasive supernatural abilities, he convinces them to write it off as regularly scheduled charity donations in their minds. That’s how he makes a living for himself— by scamming the rich. Xander likes to take the piss and call him a sugar baby, but Harry sees himself as more of a modern day Robin Hood, instead.
Mitch says his charade is unlawful, but considering how corrupt the business world already is, the vampire feels next to no guilt. The one percent have always taken advantage of those poorer than them— that was obvious even back in Harry’s time— and he doesn’t see anything wrong with taking advantage of them right back, now that he has the means to. How’s that saying go? “Fuck the bourgeoisie” and all that.
Everything taken into consideration, Harry’s pretty excited to show Y/N his condo. Watching people’s faces break into awe the second he turns the lights on always gives him such a deep surge of satisfaction. It makes all the hassle worth it.
The immortal is currently sitting in his vintage car, flicking through his Spotify playlist to find something to entertain him while he waits for Y/N to finish her shift. He had offered to pick her up, knowing that it’s what any courteous host would do, and she had appreciatively accepted, telling him she’d be out by eight P.M. It’s seven fifty-three now and Harry had arrived around seven fifty, taking the slot right in front of the cafe’s entrance so she can spot him as soon as she walks out. These ten minutes are the longest he’s ever had to endure, which says a lot considering he’s endured tons of patience-testing moments in his two hundred years.
Harry swipes his thumb down the glass screen of his phone, sampling songs left and right to see what will stick. After listening to the first few chords of an array of forties dance music, seventies rock and roll, and twenty-first century bubblegum pop, he settles for Rodeo by Lil Nas X. Harry has a very intricate taste in music— it’s one of the traits he’s most proud of— and Mitch often tells him he’s too snotty when it comes to his preferences. He’ll admit it freely that, yes, he can be a piece of work musically, but just because he thinks the industry peaked in the seventies doesn’t mean he hates modern music. He likes most of it, including rap, and Lil Nas X happens to be one of his favorites, much to everyone’s surprise. Most of the artist’s songs are eccentric not only lyrically but also instrumentally, to the point where it’s almost comical— who names a song Panini, of all things?— but the music is catchy and Harry can let loose to it easily.
The vampire also happened to meet the musician, on one occasion. He ran into him at a club and after a few drinks and some banter, somehow ended up getting invited over to a party at the celebrity’s Malibu mansion. That night is a blur, definitely due to the copious amounts of alcohol and psychedelics, but Harry remembers they had fun and that the guy was worth a listen. In fact, he was the genius that came up with the theme for the rapper’s Rodeo music video.
A light knocking on the passenger’s seat window brings him out of his memories. Y/N stands outside, hugging her arms loosely over her tummy, decked in her usual work uniform of a navy polo and black skinny jeans. When the two lock eye contact, she gives him a soft wave and a tired smile. Harry lifts two fingers in greeting, returning her polite gesture and swiftly lowering the window. He leans forward across the center console, his grin taking on a playful hue, voice carrying the same effect.
“Uber for Y/N?”
The girl snorts and rolls her eyes, but plays along, reaching forward and jiggling the handle of his black Cadillac symbolically. “That’s me, yes. Open up.”
“Eh, eh, eh.” Harry tuts, wagging a finger in her direction and then making a motion that tells her to back away. “I’m gonna have to see some ID. It’s one of our new safe driver policies. Gotta make sure you are who you say you are, miss.”
Y/N’s expression drops flatly, eyes half-lidded as he smiles up at her brightly, batting his eyelashes innocently. “Open the door before you end up sucking your own dick tonight.”
Harry’s shit-eating face falls so fast, it causes her to burst into laughter. A soft click vibrates through the handle below her fingers. “I’ll waive the background check. Just this once.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.” Y/N taunts, yanking the door open and ducking into the shotgun seat, gently tugging it closed behind her.
Once the human is situated in her spot, she releases a lengthy sigh, sinking down against the cushions as she grabs her seat belt and clicks it into place.
Harry puts his cell phone down into the cubby hole below the stereo set, setting the car in reverse and slinging an arm behind her headrest to get a better view as he backs out of the parking space. His gaze momentarily flickers to her slumped form as the car retreats slowly, tone curious. “Long day?”
Y/N glimpses over, giving him a quick once-over and taking in his olive green Nike jumper, ripped denim boyfriend jeans, and pastel yellow Vans. He looks so boyishly cute, which is ironic given the premise of tonight’s rendezvous. The shoes (which he had worn the night they’d met all those weeks ago) and the position he’s in (perched above her with his sharp jaw and neck flexing as he cranes his torso to look for oncoming traffic) flashes her back to the first time she had been in his car. They had been way less acquainted, she had been much less relaxed, much more nervous, but the encounter very much carried the same exact intentions. That recollection makes her lips quirk a bit. The pair had grown so comfortable with each other since then, that Friday evening feels like it happened decades ago.
“Yeah.” Y/N murmurs softly, gladly indulging a deep inhale of the vanilla and tobacco scent she had become familiar with, allowing it to soothe her nerves and wash away the stress of a hard day. “I’m just happy it’s over and that the weekend’s finally started. Wanna forget all about it.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here for, love!” Harry plops back into his seat, shifting his car into drive and gifting her his famous brilliant smile, dimples winking to life as he taps his ringed fingers across his steering wheel humorously. “I’ve made you forget your name plenty of times before; I’m pretty sure I can erase one shitty work shift just fine.”
Y/N scoffs at his pompous claim, reaching up and prying the hair tie out of her locks, looping it over her wrist and shushing her stiff roots. She tucks strands behind her ears, the corners of her mouth twitching in endearment at the giddiness of his aura. “Just drive, Sherlock.”
The mortal isn’t surprised to find that building in which the vampire lives is one of the tallest in the city, and that it’s basically smack in the center, as well. One look at Harry and anybody could immediately tell he thrives off being the center of attention, so of course his home is a direct reflection of that. Refined boy, refined personality, refined environment. It’s practically a law of science.
Once Harry’s car is parked and the ignition rumbles to a smooth stop, Y/N unbuckles her seat belt and goes to unlock the passenger’s side door. Right as her hand is wrapping around the handle bar, the door swings open of its own accord and she just barely manages to stifle a blood-curdling scream full of shocked fear. When her eyes focus, Harry is standing there holding the door open for her, features painted with cocky amusement.
“How did you—?” The girl whips around to look at the empty driver’s seat, eyebrows cinching in bewilderment as she turns back to face him. “How did you get around so fast?”
Harry shrugs his shoulders offhandedly, reaching one bejeweled hand down to aid her out of the vehicle. “I did track when I was younger. Made me a fast walker.”
Y/N hesitantly takes it, body language still slightly tense from the jump scare. With his help, she gradually climbs out, the door shutting behind her as she sweeps her sight around the parking garage in wonder. This is the first time Harry has ever invited her anywhere, let alone to where he spends most of his life. She doesn’t want to miss a thing. Even the simplest aspect can tell you a lot about a person.
Y/N jerks a tad when she feels her friend’s cold fingers slipping down her palm, sifting between her own. She glances down at their intertwined hands for a second, a warm glow bursting through her chest. She’s always admired how his are so much bigger.
Harry tugs her forward toward the elevator at the other end of the parking lot, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a sly smirk. “C’mon, Watson. Let me show you around.”
Y/N stumbles after him, allowing the boy to guide her to where she needs to go as he weeds through cars effortlessly. She suddenly chimes up from behind, asking a random question to fill the leftover silence their footsteps spare. “That car next to yours had such a weird license plate. What the fuck does ‘craic’ mean?”
Harry chuckles knowingly, perfectly aware of whose car she is referring to. “It’s this odd thing Irish people say. Utter rubbish, honestly.”
A comfortable quietness fills the air of the elegant elevator as it shoots up towards the twenty-fourth floor of the skyscraper, the only other sound being the gentle lullaby of a nameless tune wafting through the speakers above their heads. Harry finds himself studying Y/N as she looks out at the city through the glass walls, the lights of the exterior buildings casting a beautiful buttery gleam across her relaxed characteristics, along with a radiant glint over the surface of her glossy eyes. Despite the slightly smeared mascara staining her waterline and the inherent frizziness her hair carries after being pulled into a tight ponytail all day, Harry finds that she looks nice. Pretty, even.
The girl senses him staring, craning her head to return his gaze, the edges of her lips lilting upwards lightheartedly. He returns the gesture, peeling away to focus on something— anything— else. He deems the control panel a worthy replacement.
As the numbers on the dial drag by, Harry finds himself absentmindedly thumbing over Y/N’s knuckles. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind, so he continues doing it, massaging the crest of each bump and pressing down gently along the troughs. He enjoys the sensation of her silky warm skin heating his icy own, and he ponders whether she likes how cold his touch is, or if she hates it as much as he does. He expels that notion from his mind; he refuses to let such a stupid concept upset him. He just keeps caressing her hand, restraining his mind from ambling too far into its meaning. It’s just to pass the time.
He keeps the movements going until their ride skates to a joltless halt with a sharp ding! and then he steps out, having to give his full attention to leading her down the long corridor to his flat. Y/N is so caught up in drinking up her surroundings, she almost bumps into the creature when he comes to an abrupt stop in front of the entrance of what she can only deduce is his home. Harry drops her hand, much to her disappointment, fishing into his back pocket for his keys. He patiently filters through his keychain, picking out the right one and working it into the lock, a soft click emitting from the mechanism.
Harry pushes the door open with his palm, standing off to the side just outside the threshold and tilting his head towards it, posture bowing slightly. “Ladies first.”
Y/N thanks him quietly, taking a cautious step forward into his hallway. She can’t help the way her heart skips a beat at his gentlemanly tendencies; she rarely meets anyone as respectful as Harry seems to be and she finds his old-timey attributes to be refreshing. Helping her out the car, taking her hand to guide her through the parking lot, rubbing at her knuckles innocently, holding the door open for her— it’s all such an archaic form of chivalry she wishes she’d see more often these days. She doesn’t know if it’s a British thing, if he had just been raised like that, or if he simply does it to get laid, but she’s thankful for it either way.
With one last glance at her friend over her shoulder, she begins wandering down the dark narrow path unsurely. The sound of the door slinking shut behind her and Harry’s footsteps ease her.
She stops once she senses the corridor open up into a larger space, which she guesses is his living room. A soft gasp escapes her at the sight before her. The whole area is washed in darkness, the only source of light stemming from the large glass pane that stretches from the floor of the apartment to its tall ceiling. Dozens of buildings and cars glimmer below, the breath-taking image of the lively city looking almost like a snapshot from a professional movie. It’s absolutely gorgeous and she feels like she could stare at it for eons.
A chilly hand suddenly presses along the dip of her spine, ushering her forward an inch or two, Harry’s invisible voice and warm breath hitting the shell of her left ear. “S’cuse me, dove.”
The boy reaches behind her for the light switch and the condo bursts into radiance with one simple flick of his wrist.
“Oh...my God.”
Harry’s home is something straight out of a luxury catalogue. The light floorboards and the mahogany panels. The massive leather couches and hand-sewn cushions. The extravagant chandeliers and glass staircase. The marble kitchen and generously packed liquor shelves. The ginormous wall of priceless artwork, littered with pieces from all different eras of history. It feels like stepping into a decor wonderland.
“Not too bad, huh?” Harry pipes up playfully, anchoring her back into reality from the floaty stupor that had consumed her mind.
“Not too—? Are you kidding?” Y/N sputters incredulously, whizzing her head to the side sharply. “You were keeping an entire Four Seasons royal suite from me?!”
Harry belts out a bundle of childish giggles, the edges of his eyes crinkling and the tip of his button nose twitching. “I never thought of it much, to be honest. I’d grown to like your place.”
“Right. Because a creaky mattress and a kitchen the size of a broom closet is so much more satisfying than chandeliers and a fucking glass wall.”
The vampire glimpses around his flat indicatively. “Okay, I see your point.”
“Exactly.”
Y/N drifts forward, running the tips of her fingers across the backrest of the aged leather sofa and along the corners of the throw pillow, doing a slow circle at the middle of his home, taking everything in a second time around to make sure it isn’t a mirage. “Fuck, this is incredible. Is your boss looking for any more regional managers, by any chance?”
Harry follows after her, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his boyfriend jeans, chewing along the inside of his cheek to suppress a proud smile— a result of her explosive reaction. “I’m afraid my position is the one and only, sorry.”
Y/N droops her shoulders in exaggerated contempt, presenting a shitty English accent to tease him. “Bollocks.”
It garners the designated feedback, her tummy somersaulting at Harry’s exorbitant laughter.
The boy comes to stand before her, cocking his head to the side questioningly towards his kitchen. “Can I offer you a drink?”
Y/N glimpses over at his bar area, eyes dancing over his extensive array of fancy bottles. “Oh, please do.”
Despite only having known Y/N for a few weeks, Harry has gotten quite acquainted with her tastes, even outside of sexual matters. She doesn't like the taste of alcohol, but she likes its effects. And he likes them, too, if he’s being honest. Her blood always begins to smell more appetizing after just a few sips and the way her cheeks heat up so easily when she’s buzzed always makes his breathing trip.
He works his extensive skills, pulling from his liquor cabinet and mixing flavored liquids and syrups until he comes up with something that he thinks the girl will enjoy. It’s fruity, with hints of peach, lime, and strawberry, but also warm and fulfilling, with a rich whiskey and a few dashes of bitters. He plunks in a couple of ice cubes and mixes it together with a bar spoon, tapping it against the rim with finality and swiping it over his tongue in a quick taste test. He’s pretty happy with his concoction.
Harry glances up to where Y/N is leaning against the armrest of his couch, her legs crossed before her as she stares at one of the abstract paintings mounted on his wall. It’s an original, as are the rest of them, which he had purchased some odd seventy years ago from a barely known artist whose talent had gone to waste in the world. It’s a deconstructed sunflower, with the color palette inverted and the strokes of the brush uneven and jagged. Odd and complicated, but beautiful, nonetheless. Its complexity is what makes it significant.
The vampire slowly wanders over from his kitchen, holding her drink in one hand and a cloth napkin in the other. He takes the spot beside her along the armrest, speaking wistfully as if recalling a fond memory. “It’s a flower.”
Y/N nods slowly in recognition, peeling her gaze away with the corners of her lips jilting. “Mmhm, a sunflower.”
Harry’s brows jump in shock. Barely anyone ever guesses the identity correctly. He’s found that as time passes and humanity becomes more reliant on technology rather than cognizant knowledge, society in general has reduced to a more pea-brained state than ever. As a result, the amount of people who can interpret and understand the meaning behind complex artwork has greatly diminished, unfortunately, so he’s pleasantly surprised to find that one of the few who still possesses that talent happens to be the girl he’s shagging. “Wow, that’s a first. It’s so unusual, no one ever really gets it.”
“I guess I just have an affinity for the unusual.” His guest quips, giving him a jesting shrug of her eyebrows and a suggestive grin.
You have no idea.
“You underestimated me, Holmes.”
“That I did. My sincerest apologies.” Harry returns her joking simper, proceeding to then dip an index finger inside the stout glass in his grasp, bringing it up before her face. “Taste.”
Without breaking eye contact, Y/N parts her lips and allows him to coax the wet digit in, the tangy flavor of the mixture making her taste buds tingle. She encloses her mouth around his finger, lulling her tongue along it slowly with a mischievous glint shining across her irises.
Harry’s prominent jaw clenches as he watches the scene unfold, breath bated and a moan threatening to betray him. She truly wastes no time.
He gradually pulls his finger from her tongue, struggling to clear his throat, missing its texture already. “How is it? More syrup? More biters?”
Y/N gazes up at him drunkenly, though it’s definitely not from the liquor. Her lips quirk cheekily as a result of how visibly frazzled she’d gotten him. “It’s perfect. Better than anything I’ve had at a club, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah?” Harry taps his opal ring against the bottom of the lowball glass, trying to reign in his previous composure. “Think I could be a bartender?”
“You don’t hit me as the type of person who has the patience for it.” The girl remarks wittily, slinking her head to the side and biting back a giggle when Harry makes a face at her.
“You make a valid point, I suppose.” The vampire responds with an airy sigh, nodding in surrender. “The stupid blabbing from drunk morons and impending fear of being vomited on would be too much for me. I wouldn’t last a day.”
“You wouldn’t last a single night, let alone a whole day.”
“Alright, pipe down!” Harry deadpans, bumping her shoulder with his vengefully. “You’re bruising my ego.”
“It’s humongous,” Y/N snorts, shoving him in return, “it can take a few hits.”
The pair sit there in silence for a suspended moment, just taking in the expanse of the art before them. Harry then turns his torso towards her once more, bringing the drink in his grip up to her mouth. “Here, have a proper sip. Put my all into it.”
Y/N obliges, looking up at him with her signature doe-like air of trusting innocence, allowing him to tip the hem of the cup against her mouth. The cool beverage filters through her taste buds and down her throat, the sweet and sour mixture leaving an enjoyable tingle in its wake. A few streams of the liquid bead out of the corners of her lips and Harry impulsively gathers them with the side of his index finger, the napkin in his other hand completely forgotten.
As he goes to pull back in order to clean up, Y/N leans forward and traps his digit between her lips like before. This time, there’s a more insistent sultry hint sparkling around her pupils.
“Christ...” Harry pants, watching Y/N work her way down his forefinger with a silent groan hinging on his teeth.
He doesn’t deny himself from indulging the dirty action this time around. Her mouth is as soft and warm as ever, sending chills racing down his spine despite the sweater hugging his body. His mind slips for a second, reminiscing in all the other ways he’s felt the inside of her mouth before, a faint red tinge splattering across his cheekbones.
Y/N draws his finger out, kissing messily across its length and over the pad, looking up at him through tension-heavied lashes. She doesn't speak a word, but her intentions are clear in the electricity between them.
He can’t hold back any longer, his next comment coming out as a pained growl. “God, you’re such a filthy little thing.”
She hums softly in the back of her throat at his explicit compliment, suckling at the center of her bottom lip needily. “I like being your filthy little thing.”
Harry swallows thickly in order to keep himself somewhat tame, fangs suddenly pricking his tongue in warning.
The mortal scoots closer to him, sifting her fingers between his around the drink and bringing it upwards, downing the last couple of inches in one go. She draws the cup from his grasp, reaching over to set it down carefully on the coffee table before turning back and snuggling deeper into his heaving chest.
Harry scoffs in amusement, but he can feel a certain charring scratching at the back of his throat. “Drinks like that are meant to be savored, darling. You’re not supposed to just pound them.”
Y/N stretches her neck upwards, taking his earlobe between her teeth, lips wet and cold from the alcohol. His lashes flutter when her warm breath hits his skin, contradicting the sensations from before.
“Why don’t you let me worry about how I drink, and you can worry about a different kind of pounding.”
And that’s all it takes, really. That’s all it takes for Harry to completely drop any self-control he has left.
The creature jars his face towards her, large hand shooting upwards to grip her jaw firmly, holding her in place as he crashes their mouths together. It’s all tongue and clacking teeth, desperate whines and stuttered gasps. Y/N’s hands fumble for something to tether to while Harry takes it upon himself to grasp at her opposite hip with his free hand, yanking her onto his lap. She buries her fists in the cotton fabric of his jumper, balancing her knees on either sides of his parted thighs. The boy’s fingers coast from her jaw down to her throat, tightening ever so slightly. The action is minimal, but it reveals that flare of dominance Y/N has become addicted to.
“Do you want it here?” Harry rasps against her eager tongue, smirking into the kiss when he feels her start to rock along the bulge that is beginning to tent his denim pants. “Do you want me to bend you over the couch and fuck you, baby? With the chandelier making your skin glow? Where we can put on a show for the whole city to see?”
It’s a tempting offer and his words obviously have some form of impact, seen in the way Y/N’s grinding takes on a hungrier, deeper pace against his clothed cock.
“I want…” Y/N finds it difficult to voice her desires, the responsible party being the manner in which Harry glues cracked mewls onto the roof of her mouth. “I want it in your bed.”
She doesn’t know why, but she just wants him to take her some place where the moment they share is intimate, unseen by the prying eyes of others. She wants to christen his bed exactly how he had done hers; she craves that strange connection, for some reason. Y/N isn’t naive, she knows she’s not the only person Harry has had in his home and in his sheets. But she wants that experience, nonetheless, even if it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She knows she’s not his only, but at least she’s one.
Harry slowly breaks their kiss, brushing the tip of his nose across her own in a small comforting gesture. He blinks at her groggily, the copper specks in his eyes glitzing under the golden hue of the lighting. When he speaks, its soft and low, almost as if he doesn’t want to risk another soul overhearing. “Okay. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
Y/N almost doesn’t get anything she wants, given that she nearly kills herself on the trek up the stairs, courtesy of her weakened knees and wobbly ankles. Harry just barely manages to save her, but he finds the occurrence too hilarious to spare her the embarrassment.
“Stop laughing, it’s not funny!” She exclaims indignantly as he helps her up the last few glass steps, clinging to him like a scared puppy, her hands still shaking with adrenaline. “I could have died!”
Her shrieking only makes him laugh harder and he nearly keels over, palm clutching his stomach as if to keep it from popping. “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s just— your face when you— and how you tripped sideways— I—”
Y/N shoves him hard towards the corridor where his bedroom lies, but it’s hard to maintain an angry demeanor when the young man’s giggles sound like bells and when he looks so cute with his curls flopping across his forehead. “Dickhead.”
They’re almost at his bedroom door when Harry grabs onto her wrist, tugging her roughly so that she lurches forward into his chest. He plants a wet kiss onto the bridge of her nose, expression entertained. “Stop being such a bad sport. It was pretty funny.”
“Yeah, okay.” She huffs begrudgingly, glancing down impatiently at his plump lips as he walks backwards down the hallway with her in tow. “You can invalidate my rage once you have a near death experience yourself.”
The irony of it all.
Harry kicks the door open, ghosting his mouth over Y/N’s and watching her sight do a quick sweep around the area. “Welcome to my lair.”
The human likes his aesthetic. The room has different hues of the same color, so it all ties together nicely, and the hanging lights look like miniature versions of the two large ones downstairs. The bed is huge, which is a relief because for once, they won’t have to actively worry about accidentally rolling off the edge mid-fuck. “It’s nice. Very chic.”
“Thanks.” Harry reaches up and cups either side of her neck with his palms, dragging his damp lips over her chin and down the center of her jugular, smiling against her skin when he feels her shiver. “It doesn't have a bookshelf wall like yours, but I make due.”
“Yeah.” Y/N wisps out weakly, leaning her head back as he speckles his mouth across that sensitive point on her throat he discovered ages ago. “I bet.”
She feels Harry’s touch travel down her torso, cold fingers suddenly smearing across her love handles beneath her work shirt. His grip tightens at the hem with the intention of pulling the polo off, breath hot as it washes over her collarbones. “Wanna find out just how good I make it work?”
Y/N’s arms instinctively raise on command, her reply shaky and fragile. “Yes, please.”
Harry makes it work. He makes it work so fucking well. He doesn’t need crazy positions or any vibrating toys to make her feel good; he just knows her so thoroughly by now that he’s able to tend to every single one of her needs like it’s his sole purpose. The sex is missionary, with her splayed out across her back upon his mound of feathered pillows, her thighs clamped over his hips as he slams into her at a harsh, curt pace. Her calves are tied around the backs of his thighs, her nails are carving memories into the broad expanse of his shoulders, they’re both panting curse words and encouragement into each other’s mouths, and he’s cradling her to his chest as if he wants to absorb her heartbeat right through her ribs. If only obtaining one were that easy.
Y/N allows her head to fall back against the cushions, drawing away from the prolonged kiss only because she needs air to continue. Harry’s lips busy themselves elsewhere, running down the valley of her chest and toying with one of her pebbled nipples. Y/N’s back gives a sharp arch the second he brushes across the sensitive nub and the taunting coo he releases goes straight to her core.
“Liked that, darling? Like it when I kiss you there?”
The girl’s lashes have fallen shut, her eyes lulling around in their sockets as he maintains a steady rhythm between her thighs, ramming into her with so much force, the headboard is knocking into the wall. It’s loud and intense enough that Harry has to fit one of his palms between the railings, bracing the weight of the bed in order to prevent a hole from forming.
Y/N’s voice fills the dense atmosphere, so shattered and raw, she can hardly understand herself. “It feels so— so good, H.”
“I love it when you call me that. Sounds so pretty coming from your lips.” The vampire’s tongue flicks over her nipple a handful of times, dark veins momentarily webbing over the whites of his eyes at the cracked whimper she lets loose. “And of course it feels good. I always make you feel good, don’t I? Always make my girl cum so—fucking—hard.”
Y/N’s trembling fingers card into the curls along the nape of Harry’s neck as he thrusts to his words, twisting them around her knuckles and swimming in the throaty groan he pours over the clammy skin of her breasts. Her whisper sounds distant and dreamy. “Please...Please don’t stop.”
Harry gazes up at her through heavy lashes, lapping at her chest more fervently, accent thick and deep. “I won’t, baby. Not until I have you dripping all over my sheets.”
After a few more minutes of fractured moans bouncing around the panels of the room and the noise of wet skin slapping together, something catches Y/N’s bleary eyes. She wills past the blissful fog in her mind, focusing on the intriguing object hanging from one of the railings of Harry’s bedpost, swaying back and forth wildly due to his strong tempo.
“Are those...Are those handcuffs?”
Harry’s attention jumps to where hers is pinned, his powerful stride coming to a gradual stop. He’s heaving and shuddering above her, ringlets matted to his jaw and across his temples, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of cherry red. His Adam’s Apple bobs once and he gives a short nod. “Y-Yeah. I’ve had them for a while...”
The hope dripping from his voice is practically palpable and Y/N interprets it easily. She glances down at him as he takes quivering inhales against her chest, his eyes bleeding lust. Her mumble is so quiet and soft, he wonders how it’s possible for her to make some of the preposterously loud sounds he’s used to hearing whenever he’s buried this deep. “Use them on me. Please?”
Harry bends to her request without hesitation. He locks her wrists into the restraints, sponging a kiss onto each before giving them one hard tug to check for security. He then regains his rough slams, but with more fervor than before.
The monster sits back onto his heels, groping her waist roughly and working her against his thighs, watching welts form on her flesh along the pads of his fingers. Y/N unconsciously begins circling her hips to match his speed and the fractured groan that rips out of him makes her walls tighten. He looks incredible looming in front of her, head toppled back between his shoulder blades, bouncing to his every ram. His throat flexes with the weight, jaw taut and inked pectorals glistening with sweat under the dim lights dangling from his ceiling. “That’s it, pet, just like that. Love the way you ride it. You’re so fucking tight and warm and...and just— Christ, just fuck me.”
She wishes she could frame this moment in time and drag it out forever.
Harry swings his head forward again, blinking the blurriness from his vision to take in the image before him. Y/N just looks so fucking gorgeous like that, tied down at his beck and call, her chest bouncing pertly as her fingers bunch around the chain link, thighs clinging to his waist as she chews her bottom lip raw in an attempt to control her noises.
The vampire ducks down, connecting their mouths in a sloppy kiss that cajoles her into spilling all the moans she had been withholding. He feels them trickle down his lungs and diffuse into his bones, flames lapping across his insides as their foreheads bump and noses smudge, ragged breaths intermingling. “Let it out for me, hm? Wanna know how I’m making you feel, don’t care who hears.”
As if that isn’t enough, there’s an instance where Harry’s animalistic senses suddenly enhance and he comes to the realization that the metal cuffs have made a tiny laceration along her skin.
A thin trail of blood travels down her suspended arm, but she doesn’t seem to notice, too lost in the pleasure Harry is pounding into the pit of her stomach. So he simply leans upwards and licks the sweet droplet clean, feeling heat spark across every fiber of his being. He laps up the entire stream and then presses a tender kiss to her palm for good measure, grunting out a gentle, “There’s a good girl.” when she whines at the affectionate gesture.
The release Harry is getting from between Y/N’s legs mixes with the ecstasy her blood brings, and it shoves him over the edge in a manner he hasn’t experienced since that first time they slept together all those weeks ago. Since the first time he tasted what lies in her veins, while also simultaneously getting to taste the indescribable relief her body so readily brings him.
After all is said and done that night, something peculiar happens. After they both milk their orgasms for everything it’s worth, and after Y/N gives into exhaustion in his arms with her wrists bruised and a content watery smile on her face, and after he gets a heftier drink from her neck and heals the two little puncture wounds with his own blood...The most bizarre, unexpected event occurs.
Harry falls asleep soundly for the first time in months, and all he dreams about is how Y/N tasted.
///
Y/N wakes up the next morning to her body covered in Harry’s Nike jumper, to an empty spot beside her in the messy duvet, to a familiar tune tinging her ears from a distance, and to a satisfying ache between her thighs.
As soon as she cracks the bedroom door open, the smell of pancakes wafts in through the chilled morning air. Specifically, lemon and blueberry pancakes. Her grandmother’s lemon and blueberry pancakes.
A shiver runs down Y/N’s spine the second she sets a toe along the cold glass panels of Harry’s staircase. She takes a deep breath, pulling the extra length of the sweater’s sleeves over her fists and tugging the hem of the article downwards as if she could convince it to cover more than just half her thighs. She carefully works her way down the steps, flinching at the iciness that travels up her legs with every motion. When she finally thunks down emptily onto the light-wash floorboards, her body has grown accustomed to the temperature. As she pads across the furry rug in Harry’s living room, she finds herself wondering why everything connected to him is always so unusually cold— colder than any normal person could withstand. His touch, his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, his chest, even his thighs; everything is always freezing, and she doesn’t understand how he can bear it. It’s such an odd affinity to have.
The human gradually wanders into the vampire’s kitchen, peeking inside the room from behind one of the archway’s walls. What she sees throws her for a loop.
Harry is cooking breakfast, as she expected from the sweet scent she’d awoken to, but he’s doing it in a manner she never really expected from him.
Music stems from a portable speaker he has situated at the center of the marble kitchen island, blaring loud enough to fill the entire giant home with high notes, guitar chords, and acapella riffs. The young man is dancing across his kitchen as he cooks, clad in nothing but a set of black Calvin Klein briefs and a pair of fuzzy magenta socks. Y/N rakes down his body, admiring the crimson and purple love bites she had left on his chest and the raspberry red scratches zig-zagging across his back, the marks flexing with the movements of his muscles. They’re strangely faint, for some reason. Practically barely there.
She chalks it up to the fact that maybe she hadn’t bruised him as much as she’d thought.
Y/N forces herself to keep her mind from straying onto anymore explicit topics; it’s probably not even ten A.M. yet. She needs to get herself under control.
Grooving while in the kitchen isn’t necessarily weird (she’s guilty of it herself), but Harry’s dancing techniques very much are. The only accurate depiction of it is that for a boy in his twenties, he dances like an old geezer in his eighties. His moves are choppy and old-schooled, almost like what you’d expect to see in a nineteen fifties disco hall, and watching him ebb and flow across the tiled ground to choreography similar to that of Dirty Dancing and Footloose... It would send anybody into a fit of laughter. Especially since Harry is so tall and lanky, so how he manages to move in such a way is beyond her understanding.
Aside from that, his choice of music is baffling, as well. Not only because she recognizes the soundtrack, but because she would have never expected someone like him— with his cocky behavior and overly-confident caliber— to be into these types of songs at all. She always pegged him for the seventies rock and roll type.
“You like Hamilton?”
Harry’s actions creak to a halt and he whips around towards where the disturbance had stemmed, spatula clutched in one hand and a marble plate stacked with pancakes in the other. His face breaks into a bright smile, voice slathered with dramatic friendliness. “Well, look who finally got up! I was starting to think you were dead, Sleeping Beauty.”
Y/N narrows her eyes at him mockingly, walking over to the kitchen counter and propping herself onto her elbows, chin in hand as she watches him set down the platter of food before her. She tips forward onto her toes, taking a deep inhale of the homey, sugary smell, letting it wash over her in flashes of childhood memories. “Are these like the ones I make?”
“Lemon and blueberry, yeah.” Harry bobs his head casually, turning around to place his metal spatula down into the sink, as well as to retrieve a glass bottle of maple syrup from one of his cupboards. “They’re pretty close, I think. I’ve never seen you use a recipe or measuring cups or anything when you make them, so I kinda eyeballed it to the best of my ability. Hope I did your nan justice.”
He pours a decently-sized glop of syrup over the mountain of treats and Y/N watches excitedly as it trickles down all the layers. He then pushes back from the table, pulling open a drawer and rummaging through, continuing to whistle along to the tune of Satisfied as he bops the cabinet closed with his hip and sets down an extra pair of forks and knives beside the plate.
Harry cuts a neat triangle out of the pancake at the top, pointing at her with his fork as he shrugs his brows nonchalantly. “And to answer your question from before: yes, I do like Hamilton.”
“Hm. Interesting.” Y/N murmurs, going cross-eyed as Harry offers her the forkful of food in his possession, poking at her mouth playfully and getting maple syrup all over her lips. She opens obediently, allowing him to feed her the piece. “You don’t really seem like the type of guy— oh, wow, these are actually really good!”
Harry bites into his lower lip with his two front teeth, a proud smile dimpling his cheeks as the light draft from the air vent ruffles a couple of his sex-mussed ringlets across his forehead. “Yeah? You mean it?”
The mortal nods her head vigorously as she finishes chewing and swallowing, wiping away some of the leftover syrup from her top lip with her middle finger and sucking it clean. “Yeah! You hit it spot on.”
“Aces. I should be on The Great British Bake Off.” Harry makes a small, celebratory fist bump next to his hip and the childish gesture makes Y/N snort softly.
“Like I was saying, you don’t really strike me as the type of guy who would be into musicals.” The girl comments, watching her friend cut another triangle out of the first pancake and pop it into his own mouth.
The vampire chews thoughtfully for a second, lifting one shoulder offhandedly and swallowing fully before talking. “I’m really not, to be honest. But this specific musical is pretty good. The songs are catchy.”
He nudges the other pair of utensils across the counter for emphasis, silently inviting her to dig into the dish along with him. She accepts, slicing down the other side of the stack as he leans forward onto his elbows, mimicking her stance. He gives her a curious glance. “What about you? Do you like musicals?”
Y/N shrugs, poking a few chunks of food onto her fork. “Not really, but I had a major Hamilton phase back in college. That’s why I recognized it.”
Harry hums in understanding, picking a blueberry off and chewing it slowly, a sly smirk beginning to tweak the corners of his mouth. “So were you, like, a nerd back then?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say a nerd, but I had decent grades and was pretty quiet.”
He swallows down audibly, blinking impassively. “That’s literally the definition of a nerd.”
Y/N returns his flat expression. “Fuck off.”
Harry throws his palms up in peaceful surrender, but he still has that shit-eating grin present. “Alright, fine, fine...It’s okay if you were, though. You were probably one of those cute ones, y’know? With the clunky glasses and innocent goody-goody face.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, and with one of those short little plaid skirts?” He releases a pained groan, clutching his chest and closing his eyes for a second. She has no doubt he’s sketching some type of graphic image of her in his mind. “God, I bet you looked so good. Do you still have it? Can you wear it for me?”
“I said shut up!” Y/N reaches forward and stabs at his tummy lightly with her fork, ignoring the warmth crawling up her neck and across her cheeks. “Fucking perv.”
Harry smacks her utensil away with his own, giggling lightly as she tries to prick him again, continuing to fight her off. “I’m just asking a question! For science!”
Y/N twists her fork around his, trying to outmaneuver him into dropping it. “How could my fashion sense in college possibly contribute to science in any way?”
The vampire easily catches onto her play, slipping himself out of her grasp and trying to trap her makeshift sword down against the tabletop. He purses his lips into a simper, glimpsing up at her through his lashes and quirking his brows cheekily. “Biologically, of course. It contributes to my solo reproductive activities.”
“You are vile.”
“Really? ‘Cause you seemed pretty happy to help with said activities last night.”
Y/N drops her fork onto the brim of the platter, reaching up to massage at her temples and keep herself from swatting Harry’s eyeballs out of their sockets. “I’m finished.”
“Yeah,” the jade of his irises glimmers coyly as he sets down his utensil beside hers in a ceasefire, “you definitely finished.”
Harry chuckles boyishly as Y/N drags her palms down her face, trying to hide away how flustered he’s getting her. She decides to change the subject, not caring to steer the conversation smoothly at all, but rather jumping to another topic right away. “So does this mean you have all the lyrics memorized? Since you like them so much?”
“I do, yeah.” Harry taps his fingers against the marble counter to the beat of the song currently playing. “Do you?”
“I was obsessed, so of course I do.” Y/N reasons, her own digits following in tune with the immortal’s. “I think Non-Stop was probably my favorite to sing. It made for a good shower concert.”
“Well, it’s settled then.” Harry quips happily, reaching for his phone and tapping across the screen. “We’re duetting this. Right now. C’mon, Burr.”
Y/N’s motions stop, shyness creeping in from the back of her brain. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry. I never really—”
Her refusal is interrupted by the beginning of the arrangement mentioned, the notes blasting through the speaker as Harry purposefully turns up the volume to drown her out. He taps at his ear symbolically, mouthing, “Sorry, I can't hear you!” and he doesn’t even attempt to ward off the evil grin creeping across his face.
“Harry, I’m serious—”
But it’s already too late. Harry juts his hand out in front of him, pointing at his companion with a theatrical edge as he begins to serenade, picking up the slack of her part.
“After the war I went back to New York. A-After the war I went back to New York. I finished up my studies and I practiced law. I practiced law, Burr worked next door!”
He looks at her expectantly, urging her to jump into the next half as her assigned role. Y/N muscles down her hesitation and recites the lines timidly with her brows creased in hesitation, but at least she’s participating. “Even though we started at the very same time, Alexander Hamilton began to climb. How to account for his rise to the top?”
Harry joins her in the next stanza, grabbing her hand midair in encouragement, trying to shake her out of her rut. “Man, the man is non-stop!”
Y/N is surprised at how well they sound harmonizing together, and she can feel her discomfort slowly begin to melt. She watches as Harry freely boasts his solo with absolutely no remorse, making grand gestures as he slides down the side of the counter, his movements dragging her along.
“Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious, bear with me. Are you aware that we're making history?” The boy taps at his chin to symbolize that he’s thinking, acting out the story the lyrics construct. “This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation, the liberty behind deliberation.”
He points at Y/N once again and she does the supporting vocals, gradually beginning to gain more confidence. “Non-stop!”
“I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, with my assistant counsel—”
Harry doesn’t even have to cue Y/N this time around; she picks up her half immediately, falling into line with him flawlessly as if they’ve done this a million times before. “Co-counsel. Hamilton, sit down. Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness.”
Harry quickly rounds the corner of the kitchen island, giving her body a grand spin as he draws closer, coming to stand right before her. She gives him a fake exasperated look to match the attitude her character depicts, shaking her head in disapproval. “That's all you had to say.”
“Okay…” The creature yanks Y/N forward into his bare chest, leaning down and flirting his lips right over hers tauntingly, eyes half-lidded in amusement. “One more thing—”
“Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room?” The girl rolls her eyes dramatically, shoving past Harry’s shoulder and she finds it humorous how these lines fit so well, almost as if they were actually directed at him, calling him out on the arrogance he always seems to dote. “Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude may be your doom.”
Harry swivels on his heel, following her as she scurries outside the kitchen entrance, running into the living room.
“Why do you write like you're running out of time?” Y/N grabs onto one of the couch cushions, pretending to scribble over it with a fake pen. “Write day and night, like you're running out of time? Everyday you fight, like you're running out of time.”
Harry swipes at her from across the couch, trying to grasp onto the jumper she’s wearing. “Keep on fighting in the meantime.”
Y/N ducks out of the path of his grabbing hand, chucking the pillow forward and it bonks him square in the face. She sticks her tongue out at him as Harry scowls dully, climbing onto his sofa and scuttling towards her on his hand and knees.
She jumps just out of reach, diving across the other end of the furniture. The vampire throws his weight to try and tackle her to the sofa, but she just barely escapes. He ends up toppling over the backrest due to his over-abundant momentum.
“Non-stop!” Y/N waves her middle up at him triumphantly as he pushes himself up off the ground, giving her a challenging look as he takes off after her once again.
The pair continue to sing back and forth, with Harry chasing Y/N around the living room and kitchen as he belts out his part of the song, Y/N always somehow managing to slip from his grasp as soon as her turn hits. They’re a mess of giggles, silly faces, and boisterous actions as they reenact the play and neither can recall a time they had ever had more fun. There’s never been an instance when they felt so comfortable with another soul that they are willing to run around half-naked, screaming lyrics at each other in their underwear, not caring who sees or overhears. It just feels so second-nature.
A section of the song comes up where a woman is singing and Harry immediately takes up the part, placing his hand on his bare hip and standing in the most feminine fashion he can possibly muster, fanning at his face. “I am sailing off to London, I am accompanied by someone who always pays.”
The exaggeration makes Y/N bend over laughing and her distraction allows Harry to nab her. He pulls her into his embrace by her forearms, cackling through the following stanza as she wriggles and squirms to try and get free. “I have found a wealthy husband who will keep me in comfort for all my days.”
Y/N finally gives up on trying to thrash herself free, going limp against his chest and glimpsing up at him with begrudged annoyance, but a fond smile is unmistakably buckling her cheeks. Harry leans down, singing right in her face just to flaunt his victory, their noses brushing. “He is not a lot of fun, but…”
And then, there’s a shift in the ambiance between them.
Harry gazes down at her as she giggles up at him from his arms, full of so much genuine warmth and excitement, she could power the entire city if she wanted. Her shoulders are heaving slightly as a result of all the running, there’s still faint traces of black mascara smeared under her waterline and down her cheeks from the previous evening’s exertions, she has some acne scarring littering her cheekbones that look fairly recent, and her hair looks like it could nest a family of at least ten birds. But despite these imperfections, Harry finds himself feeling oddly endeared by it all. These flaws are all things he’s gotten used to and has grown to treasure in Y/N. They make her who she is. They make her witty, and they make her clever. They make her fun, as well as trusting. They make her likeable, and energetic, and kind. They make her a good friend and a generous lover. They make her... her. Harry gets the feeling that if she didn’t have all of these traits— if even one was missing— this little arrangement they have going wouldn’t have flourished the way it did.
Yeah, maybe he would have slept with her once or twice more just to scratch an itch, but he most likely would have let it fizzle to an end after the fact. Her personality paired with these small details— albeit, not all entirely attractive— that make up her existence play a key role in the dynamic they share. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything else— wouldn't trade Y/N for anyone else. Not anytime soon.
A warm surge travels through his chest, filling his veins like kerosine, heating him from the heels of his socked feet to the tips of his ice cold fingers. An unorthodox swelling sensation twists inside his ribs, right where his heart used to beat, and he finds himself reciting the next line in a soft voice packed with more emotion than he’s shown or felt in the last two centuries.
“There’s no one who can match you, for turn of phrase…”
Y/N seems oblivious to all of the unsettling experiences he’s undergoing, her amused expression not changing in the slightest. Harry allows the rest of the song lyrics to pass by, the lump in his throat too heavy to fight. Instead, he just keeps staring down at Y/N with brows frowning in confusion, his breathing coming out bated and shaky, and that knot in his chest continuing to tighten until it becomes painful. He gets the sudden urge to kiss her— to feel her lips press to his and feel her give into him the way she always does. The way she has for the last four weeks. He doesn’t want it to be sloppy or desperate or sexual; he wants it to be intimate, soft, and caring. He wants it to be special. Something they share. Something only they share.
Then, that moment passes. That flicker of weakness that had leaked through vanishes and Harry feels like he can breathe properly again.
He breaks their locked eyes, releasing Y/N from his hold and taking a swift step back, coughing awkwardly to try and rid the tickling sensation in the back of his throat. He scratches at the nape of his neck nervously, fiddling with his baby curls and attempting to piece himself back together after that unexpected and unwelcome intrusion of his innermost feelings. Though, he doesn’t know if that spectacle even files under the category of emotions; from what he remembers, they aren’t supposed to tangibly attack you in such a manner. It felt more like a violation— like someone had gone in and started poking and prodding at his subconscious with a metal skewer.
“Harry…?” Y/N inches closer to him, concern prevalent in her voice and across her features as she stretches her hand out caringly. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to be sick.”
“I-I’m—” His voice comes out higher than usual and quivering, so he coughs once again to get it under control, taking another step back. He's scared that if she touches him, that horrible burning sensation will come back. “I’m fine. Just...Just forgot the lyrics.”
“Oh, okay…” The girl doesn’t sound convinced with the answer, but she lets the subject falter anyways, her hand dropping back down beside her thigh. “Just checking.”
“Yeah, I got that. Uh, thanks. But I’m all good now.” He holds up a clenched first and juts out his pinky, wiggling it for significance. “Promise”
Y/N scoffs gently at his playful deed. “Alright, then.”
Harry eyes her attentively as she returns to her previous spot in front of the plate of pancakes, retrieving her fork and starting to pick at them like before, as if nothing had happened. As if Harry hadn’t just almost had a cardiac arrest, despite the fact that the organ responsible had crumbled to dust ages ago.
“Are you gonna eat anymore?” Y/N signals down at the stack of pastries before her questioningly. “Because if you don’t get some now, I’ll eat them all myself. Don’t think I won’t. They’re better than the ones I make and—”
The vampire suddenly feels like bile is rising up his throat and his words spew out before he can think to stop them, though he’s not so sure he would.
“Do you want to stay over the rest of the weekend?”
#harry styles x reader#harry styles x y/n#harry styles x you#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles fic#harry styles smut#smut#harry styles series#vampire!harry#harry styles#1d fanfiction#1d fic#one direction fanfiction#one direction smut#one direction fic#1d smut#ysijwa#harry styles one shot#harry styles dirty imagine#harry styles dirty one shot#harry styles dirty fanfiction#harry styles blurb#harry x y/n#harry x reader#harry x you#harry styles au#vampire au
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Extracurricular, An Analysis
Oh Ji-soo and Bae Gyu-ri
“Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won’t adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is sign on as it’s accomplice.”
- Tom Robbins
You know the story. You’ve heard it before, right?
Boy meets girl.
Girl finds out that boy is running a side protection business for prostitutes.
Girl decides to blackmail boy into letting her join his business.
Classic high school criminal shenanigans ensue leading them into more dangerous situations where they are forced to make desperate decisions to stay alive.
Oh, and they fall in love along the way.
Oh? You haven’t heard this one before? Then let me introduce you to this delightful kdrama called Extracurricular.
I watched this one while waiting for the newest Hometown Cha Cha Cha episodes to drop and ended up binging the whole series in two days. There are many remarkable parts of this series: it’s a crime drama, first and foremost, that showcases high school teenagers caught in a cycle of violence and crime, abandoned by the society and adults that are supposed to be protecting them. There are no clear good guys and bad guys in this drama; everyone is cast in shades of grey. Our main leads, Oh Ji-soo and Bae Gyu-ri, run the prostitution business, and are both from broken family backgrounds. Their actions are morally questionable at best, but the top tier performances from Kim Dong Hee (you might remember him from Itaewon Class) and Park Ju Hyun make you cheer for them anyway. You want them to have a happy ending, despite the horrible things they do. The audience is always reminded that despite how clever they are in staying ahead, their actions have consequences, and they’re just high school kids. The drama never pulls it punches.
But, weirdly enough, it’s also a love story. And that’s the part the really sticks with me until now. (The chemistry between the main leads is absolute dynamite and I could watch ten episodes of them just verbally sparring with each other. They don’t even kiss. They’re that fantastic when together on screen.)
I’m writing this because this is undoubtedly one of my all time favorite kdramas and I have a lot of feelings about our main pairing, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri. I can’t call them a couple (wait, didn’t I just say they fall in love) because their relationship can’t be labelled simply as that. Think of it as something similar to the main leads in My Ahjussi. Two people who should have become soulmates, yet met at the wrong time.
This kdrama is not particularly happy, and while I do encourage people to watch this, I am warning that the subject matter is extremely dark. If you’re sensitive to scenes depicting sexual assault, graphic violence, or anything in that zip code you’ll want to steer clear.
Also, I’ll be diving into spoiler territory in this analysis. So if you want to go in clean, then stop reading here.
Still here? Awesome. Let’s dive deep into the messy, amazing pairing that is Oh Ji-soo and Bae Gyu-ri. First, let’s do a brief character background on our two main leads, starting with Ji-soo.
Oh Ji-soo is one half of our main pairing and this story starts with him. He lives by himself and has been essentially abandoned by his only parents; his father is a failed businessman who gambles whatever money he acquires on scams and his mother ran away. His apartment is small, sparse, but functional. He owns only a few outfits aside from his school uniform. The only unique item he owns is a pet hermit crab that he takes care of. His life outside of school is non-existent; he has no friends, no one to hang out with and do typical high school teenager activities with. He takes care of himself and lives only for himself and his “dream”: to graduate, attend college, get married, and have kids like a normal person.
But to do that, he needs a large amount of money. He has no other financial means to do so (his father is largely absent, as is his mother), so he decides, at some point, to start up this protection business for prostitutes. The drama doesn’t go into detail about the how and why he came to this conclusion that this was the best way to make a lot of money in a short amount of time, so you’ll have to suspend your disbelief from the get go. Considering the themes of the story (how youths abandoned by society tend to act out in extreme ways to make it in this world), it’s not hard to believe his desperation would drive him to make such a decision.
Ji-soo, despite his shady business, is actually a decent person. There’s a streak of humanity that exists inside him that refuses to go out, despite the increasingly dark and bleak events that start to overtake his life. He’s attached to his hermit crab, cares for his “employees” outside of them being tools to make him money, and doesn’t want to see anyone get hurt. He goes above and beyond what’s required to help out people at the risk of his own life (in particular, Gyu-ri, and we’ll get into that shortly).
What we learn from the first few episodes is that Oh Ji-soo is extremely smart and methodical in how he approaches his life. At school, he is known as a model student - quiet, top of the class in terms of grades, doesn’t draw any attention to himself, always follows along with what the teachers ask of him. Only his homeroom teacher, Mr. Cho, seems to consider his quiet style of existence to be concerning and tries to make him less socially awkward by pairing him up with another student in a new extracurricular club. This leads to the introduction of Bae Gyu-ri, Ji-soo’s longtime crush and future partner-in-crime.
Meet Bae Gyu-ri, the other half of our dynamic duo. Her introduction into the story kickstarts the entire plot, as one of her earliest actions leads to a domino effect that spells increasing doom and tragedy for our main leads. She messes with Ji-soo’s operation at a critical moment and she spends the rest of the drama doing her best to make up for the consequences that follow.
In my personal opinion, she is probably the best main female lead I’ve ever seen in a kdrama. Hands down, no other character exists (currently) that rivals her sheer cunning, wit, and badassery. Gyu-ri is Crazy, capital C, and is the chaos to Ji-soo’s control; the fire to his ice. Despite being the direct cause of half the events that happen to Ji-soo in the drama, he can’t help but need her because of what she offers. They make an incredible team. Her competitiveness, her need to win no matter the odds, helps them survive time and time again.
Gyu-ri is from the opposite end of the spectrum of Ji-soo; he’s dirt poor and she’s insanely rich (always nice to see a reversal of typical kdrama tropes). Her mother and father run a successful entertainment company. Gyu-ri is popular at school, friends with seemingly everybody, pretty, cheerful and gets along well with her teachers. Ji-soo, and the audience, believe from the beginning that she has the perfect life. It’s not hard to believe that she’s just involving herself in Ji-soo’s business because she’s bored and needs an outlet, at first.
We soon learn otherwise. Gyu-ri has more in common with Ji-soo than he initially realizes, in that they’re both trapped in circumstances beyond their control - it’s just that Gyu-ri’s cage is gilded, whereas his is not. Her parents are strict and have her life planned out for her, all without her consent or input, leaving her feeling frustrated and powerless despite her rich lifestyle. A suicide attempt hasn’t done much to change her parents attitude towards her, only serving to further their control over her life.
So, when she learns of Ji-soo’s operation she immediately seeks to angle her way into it. First, she tries to rip him off, believing that he’s an evil “pimp” and thus deserves it. But after spending some time with him, she changes her mind last second and decides to help him out instead.
And, now, let’s get into their relationship, which is one of the best (if not the best) aspect in the entire series.
I need to be upfront about something: the relationship between Ji-soo and Gyu-ri is not exactly healthy. I wouldn’t describe it as toxic - the circumstances surrounding them aren’t exactly the best environment to encourage open and honest communication - but it’s definitely not what should be considered ideal, especially for young adults, and especially for young adults who are dabbling in crime instead of studying.
So, why do I love them so much? If you’ve read some of my previous posts, you know that I loathe toxic relationships in kdramas, so I understand if you think I’m coming off as hypocritical here. Why do I like Oh Ji-soo and Bae Gyu-ri when I didn’t like, for example from recent history, (oh boy, here I go again on my Nevertheless BS) Park Jae-eon and Yu Na-bi?
First, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri are way cooler than Jae-eon and Na-bi ever could be. They run a criminal enterprise that involves having a high amount of intelligence, cunning, and daring to do so. Do Jae-eon and Na-bi run a criminal enterprise as a side business? No, they don’t, because they’re boring art students.
Secondly, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri actually progress in their relationship and change their views as they learn from each other. Now, granted, that progress isn’t towards becoming better versions of each other - quite the opposite. But at least they have progress. Jae-eon and Na-bi stayed in the same stupid cycle for the whole series and then decided that it was better staying that way as opposed to trying for something else.
Last, but certainly not least, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri are actually interesting to watch for me. The chemistry between Park Ju Hyun and Kim Dong Hee is explosive and they way they spar, exchange looks, and just generally exist around each other on screen is something I can watch forever. I’ve said this before but Han So Hee and Song Kang’s on screen chemistry, outside of their intimate scenes, really didn’t impress me.
Okay, back to Extracurricular. This relationship, man. It’s all I can think about (other than HomeCha’s Du-sik and Hye-jin, but that’s another post). Ji-soo and Gyu-ri are so good together.
I’ve noted before that Ji-soo is methodical in how he approaches his life; he plans out everything ahead, and rigs any situation as much as he can in his favor. It’s brilliant, but when a crisis happens, he doesn’t know how to deal with it effectively. He panics and flounders; becomes indecisive at a time when clear, decisive action is required.
Enter Gyu-ri. She quickly becomes the partner he never knew he needed. When there’s a situation, she becomes invaluable in her quick thinking and wit, coming up with solutions on the fly. It’s not perfect, but it keeps them just one small step ahead of whatever is coming their way.
The only thing preventing them from becoming unstoppable is the lack of communication and trust they have with each other. A lot of that has to do with how Gyu-ri entered Ji-soo’s business - she blackmailed him first, and, when that failed, she strong armed her way into getting him to accept her help. It’s implied in the drama that Ji-soo has had a crush on Gyu-ri for a while (since ninth grade, I believe) and in the first episode he actually gets the chance to spend time with her outside of school on a sort of quasi-date.
It goes sideways pretty quickly because of some shenanigans from his business, but not before she gets to know him and says some pretty touching words regarding his situation. Poor guy is head over heels - even after finding out that she’s the one blackmailing him, his feelings are only dampened, not extinguished. When he catches a glimpse of her family’s situation, he gains a deeper understanding of her and why she acts the way she does. Even more importantly, Ji-soo treats her the same after finding out this information which, to someone like Gyu-ri, means more than if he comforted her about it.
If you want to see a physical representation of how he feels, other than paying attention to his actions, you can see it in him keeping mementos from Gyu-ri. She has an interesting habit of folding bags into origami shapes and giving it to him. Even after the blackmail reveal, you can see that he continues to keep these in a container on his desk. It’s really cute that he keeps these, when it probably doesn’t even matter that much to Gyu-ri.
Towards the end of the drama, Ji-soo prepares to turn himself in to prevent Gyu-ri from being implicated in the crimes they committed. And it costs him almost everything to protect her. Ji-soo, the quiet, nerdy kid, puts himself on the line time and time again to protect Gyu-ri, knowing that it puts his life and his dream at risk to do so. And all for what? For some girl that he thinks doesn’t even like him in return?
Well, let’s talk about that. Because I’ve seen some comments that Gyu-ri was only using Ji-soo for her own selfish gain. And I can agree that was how it was at the beginning for her; she definitely was only interested in acquiring money, like Ji-soo was, in order to achieve her own goal of being free from her parents.
But, oh man, that is not what is motivating her at the end.
It’s actually pointed out relatively early by some of her friends that it’s obvious that she likes Ji-soo more than he likes her. Understandably Ji-soo is keeping her at arms length from him given the whole recent blackmailing, so it would make sense that it looks that way.
Further questioning reveals what she likes the most about him:
“It’s not like I’m crazy about him. He’s fun. And amusing. He’s smart. And there’s a certain charm he has. He also has a wolfish side to him. But he thinks he’s a puppy.”
- Bae Gyu-ri
But, as she gets to know Ji-soo better, you can certainly see that she starts to fall hard for him. As a cover story for why they hang out so much together during and after school, Gyu-ri states to everyone that they’re dating. The reactions across the school definitely imply that this is a shocking development, which means that Gyu-ri hasn’t dated anyone before. So why Ji-soo other than the reasons she herself states?
He challenges her, just as she challenges him. Gyu-ri may be the more dynamic, quick thinking of the pair but Ji-soo is every inch her intellectual equal - just in different ways. She doesn’t seem to be the type to be easily impressed, but you can tell that she’s definitely impressed by Ji-soo’s operation and how thoroughly set up it is. When Ji-soo is frustrated at the beginning by his setbacks, he blows up at another student (knocks him out in a crazy punch) and immediately walks over to Gyu-ri afterwards (who saw the whole thing) to inform her that she is now his partner in crime.
The look in her eyes, and the small smirk she has speaks volumes about her attraction to him in that scene. Smoldering.
And, oh yes, she’s prone to jealousy. Another classmate, Min-hee, gives Ji-soo a present out of the blue (it was supposed to be for her boyfriend, Ki-tae, but that’s another sub-plot) - all within view of Gyu-ri. It’s hilarious how she tries to brush it off. Later, for plot reasons, Ji-soo has to spend more time with Min-hee which only furthers Gyu-ri’s annoyance.
And her motivations stop being entirely about the money and more towards helping preserve the dream that she and Ji-soo share about being free. There’s a scene in episode 8 where it’s revealed that, due to a business partnership with a local gang (set up by none other than Gyu-ri herself in a desperate move), Ji-soo would have to drop out of school permanently to work on their behalf. Gyu-ri overhears this and, despite badly needing the gang’s help in sustaining their own business, immediately terminates the partnership.
All because it would interfere with Ji-soo’s dream.
Man, if that isn’t love.
In the following episode, Gyu-ri, and later on Ji-soo, is kidnapped by the same gang in retaliation for terminating their partnership. Ji-soo comes to her rescue but Gyu-ri is already almost free (again, she’s really, really badass) and is demanding that they bring Ji-soo to her instead of running for her life.
Surviving this latest attempt puts the two in a reflective, vulnerable mood and Gyu-ri asks Ji-soo why he keeps saving her. Ji-soo asks later on why she keeps risking her life to be with him. They don’t say the answer in words but in an almost kiss (yeah, you read that right - almost).
And then, if you aren’t already convinced, Ji-soo crosses his one last remaining line in an effort to keep Gyu-ri safe; he accidentally pushes a fellow classmate down some steps and, instead of helping her, leaves her to die after grabbing the evidence she has on him and Gyu-ri.
Extracurricular pulls off quite the magic trick here, hiding this well done love story in the middle of a serious crime drama.
The real tragedy is that Ji-soo thinks that Gyu-ri views this whole business, and by extension his life, as one big game. It’s something that she takes offense at, visibly becoming upset when he says that.
But even if that were true, he should be assured since Gyu-ri doesn’t like to lose.
As they hurtle towards the end and face up to the consequences of their actions, Ji-soo and Gyu-ri undoubtedly lose sight of their original goals and dreams. They do some fairly horrible things to stay alive and ahead of the police who are close on their trail. You can’t really blame them for doing what they did; in the face of a society that has abandoned them, what they’re doing is a logical outcome to gain what they want so desperately and deserve so much: the chance to be free to live like normal, care-free people.
I can’t say for certain that they achieve that. The drama is serious in consequences and, at the end, the net around them is drawing tighter and tighter. I won’t spoil the ending scene for you, because I highly encourage you watch this drama yourself but I will say this: Ji-soo and Gyu-ri seem stuck in an impossible situation with nowhere to go, and no one to help them, with a clock ticking down towards either death or discovery by the police.
But, all the same, I’m always the optimist. They’ve gotten through situations like this before and they can certainly do so again. Maybe not as bad as this one, but not too far out of their league. And, like I mentioned before, Gyu-ri doesn’t like to lose. Especially when it comes to Ji-soo.
Their relationship is truly dangerous, as Ji-soo himself notes. Them being together is the source of their problems; they’re too much alike now, as opposed to the beginning of the drama where he stated that they’re too different. Their love is the kind of love where both of them are willing to burn the whole world down if it means keeping each other safe.
I’m a real sucker for those kind of love stories. No one’s a hero here. They’re just kids in high school, doing the best with what they know.
Who are we to judge what is right and wrong? Especially when the one committing the acts are high school kids who don’t know any better and just want to save each other?
Do we have that right?
Do they really deserve that punishment? Shouldn’t we be pointing fingers at the society that forced them to act this way?
Extracurricular really makes you think about that. Is it really so outlandish and terrible what Ji-soo and Gyu-ri do to survive when the adults who are supposed to be protecting them, teaching them better, have failed in their duty?
Maybe they really did win at the end. Not so much in succeeding in their goals but in gaining something that not even regular people are likely to find - a partner, a soulmate, someone who will stand by you no matter what.
If you do watch the ending, and are not an optimist like I am, then all I can say is this: whatever happened, they were together at the end.
They were together.
#extracurricular netflix#human class#netflix#kdrama#oh jisoo#bae gyuri#park joo hyun#park ju hyun#kim dong hee
59 notes
·
View notes
Note
How do you think Roose will meet his demise? Or will he survive? What's your best Roose end game predictions?
Thank you for the question! This will be a long post under the readmore, going into my thoughts on the show ending and exploring what the books may have set up in regards to themes and characterization, as well as a bit of general analysis of Roose' story arc in a Dance with Dragons (and some speculation about Ramsay as well).
If you click on the readmore i will have divided the post into sections with bolded Headers, if you want to only read my specific endgame ideas you can skip ahead to the "His Endgame?" section.
In The Show
The show had him get killed by Ramsay in s6, which informs a lot of the fandom speculation about this storyline.
I am not a fan of the show's scenario as it was both similar to tywin and tyrion as well as a mirror of robb's death; it would also be offscreen in the books since neither of the characters are PoVs and Ramsay would need to do the act in secret. This would ultimately undercut Roose' role and impact, being a death scene that is not very unique and also isn't shown to the reader directly. Since no PoV is even in Winterfell currently, we would just hear of it from afar and not witness the consequences.
The show also has a different dynamic in the Bolton storyline, emphasizing Ramsay as the "main character" of this arc, and elevating him to the main villain for s5-6 to fill Joffrey's shoes as an evil character played by a very charismatic actor. Ramsay's show writing is informed by the needs of a TV setting that wants shocking moments and capitalizes on "fan favourite" actors; his rising importance in the show thus is not necessarily an indicator of his book importance. The show was also missing many central characters like the northern lords and the Frey men in Winterfell.
The show had a tendency to kill off characters early when they wanted to cull storylines or had no plans to adapt more of the character's story (like Stannis, Barristan, possibly the Tyrells...); In Mance Rayder we have the most obvious example, where they killed him off for real in a scene that in the book was a misdirection. We also have characters like Jorah where it appears the showrunners had their own choice of how they want his storyline to end, even if Grrm has his own ending in mind.
"For a long time we wanted Ser Jorah to be there at The Wall in the end," writer Dave Hill says. "The three coming out of the tunnel would be Jon and Jorah and Tormund. But [...] Jorah should have the noble death he craves defending the woman he loves." - Dave Hill for Entertainment Weekly
So a death in the show does not need to be an indicator that the books will feature an equivalent scene, even if it gives a hint as to what may happen. By s5 the show has become its own beast, and the butterfly effects from radical changes they made as well as the different characterizations results in the show having to cater to its own needs in many cases when it gets to resolving a plotline.
"We reconceived the role to make it worthy of the actor's talents." - Benioff and Weiss for the s5 DVD commentary, on Indira Varma's casting as Ellaria
In The Books
(Since this post was getting out of hand in length a lot of these arguments are a little shortened/not as in-depth as i'd like! Feel free to inquire more via ask if something is unclear or you disagree)
In the books i find it hard to make a concrete guess as to how it will end. Occam's razor would be to assume the show sort of got it right and that it will vaguely end the same, which could very well happen and i will not discount the possibility; Ramsay is cruel, desires the Dreadfort rule, and is a suspected kinslayer and has no qualms to commit immoral violence.
"Ramsay killed [his brother]. A sickness of the bowels, Maester Uthor says, but I say poison." - Reek III, aDwD
Reek saw the way Ramsay's mouth twisted, the spittle glistening between his lips. He feared he might leap the table with his dagger in his hand [to attack his father]. - Reek III, aDwD
Arguments against this or for a different endgame come down to interpretations of the themes in the story arc and opinions on dramatic structure/grrm's writing, and are thus very subjective.
The way the story currently is going, Ramsay killing Roose treats Roose almost as a plot device; his death brings no change or development to Ramsay's character as we already know his motivations and cruelty align with such an act, and we can assume that he would feel no remorse about it either. The results of such a scene would be firmly on a story level, as it brings political changes and moves the plot along into a specific direction. Roose himself cannot have any relevant character development about it as he does not have a PoV and we would not be able to witness his reaction from the outside.
“The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself.” - William Faulkner, often quoted by Grrm
Further, killing his father is very difficult to pull off in secret (Roose is frequently described as very cautious, and employs many guardsmen). And even if Ramsay pulls it off (people often interpret Ramsay as Roose' blind spot, assuming he might be caught by surprise, not expecting Ramsay would bite the hand that feeds him), Roose is the one that holds his entire alliance together; The Freys would be alienated by Ramsay who would antagonize Walda and her son as his rivals, The Ryswell bloc appears to dislike Ramsay (especially Barbrey), and the other northmen are implied to not even like Roose himself. Killing Roose would quickly combust the entire northern faction, and hinder Ramsay's further plans (another reason why I am not convinced of a book version of the "Battle of Bastards"). Though this might of course, if we look at it from the other side, be grrm's plan to quickly dissolve this plot and move the northern story forwards.
"Ramsay will kill [Walda's children], of course. [...] [She] will grieve to see them die, though." - Reek III, aDwD
"How many of our grudging friends do you imagine we'd retain if the truth were known? Only Lady Barbrey, whom you would turn into a pair of boots … inferior boots." - Reek III, aDwD
"Fear is what keeps a man alive in this world of treachery and deceit. Even here in Barrowton the crows are circling, waiting to feast upon our flesh. The Cerwyns and the Tallharts are not to be relied on, my fat friend Lord Wyman plots betrayal, and Whoresbane … the Umbers may seem simple, but they are not without a certain low cunning. Ramsay should fear them all, as I do." - Reek III, aDwD
Roose' death at Ramsay's hand also removes him thematically from the Red Wedding, as we can assume such a death might have happened regardless of his participation in the event (seeing as Ramsay is getting provoked by Roose constantly in normal dialogue, and has a general violent disposition). Roose already took Ramsay in before aGoT started, and married Walda very early in the war, which is already most of the buildup that the show's scenario had. It also has little to do with the The North Remembers plot except set dressing, since the northmen are presumably neither collaborating with/egging on Ramsay nor would they appreciate the development.
Themes: Ned Stark and the rule over the North
Roose is treated as a foil to Eddard; They are often contrasted in morals and ruling styles, while also having many superficial similarities that further connect them (they are seen as cold by people, grey eyed, patriarchs of rivalling northern houses, etc...).
Pale as morning mist, his eyes concealed more than they told. Jaime misliked those eyes. They reminded him of the day at King's Landing when Ned Stark had found him seated on the Iron Throne. - Jaime IV, aSoS
They both have a "bastard son" that they handle very differently; Roose treating Ramsay in the way that is seen as common in their society. Ramsay and Jon as a comparison are meant to show that Catelyn had a reason to see a bastard as a threat (since Domeric was antagonized by his bastard brother), but also shows that her suggested plan for Jon would not have stopped any danger either (as Ramsay being raised away from the castle didn't help).
And if his seed quickened, she expected he would see to the child's needs. He did more than that. The Starks were not like other men. Ned brought his bastard home with him, and called him "son" for all the north to see. - Catelyn II, aGoT
"Each year I sent the woman some piglets and chickens and a bag of stars, on the understanding that she was never to tell the boy who had fathered him. A peaceful land, a quiet people, that has always been my rule." - Reek III, aDwD
It appears to me that Roose' story functions in some ways as an inversion to Ned. He makes an attempt to grab a power he was not destined to (becoming warden of the north), where Ned did not want the responsiblity thrust upon him ("It was all meant for Brandon. [...] I never asked for this cup to pass to me." - Cat II, aGoT). Where Ned rules successfully and his northmen honor his legacy ("What do you think passes through their heads when they hear the new bride weeping? Valiant Ned's precious little girl." - The Turncloak, aDwD), the Boltons are largely hated and there are several plots conspiring against them ("Let me bathe in Bolton blood before I die." - The King's Prize, aDwD).
It seems possible to me that in terms of their family and legacy, Roose might also live through an inverted version of Ned's story; where Ned died first, leaving his family behind, Roose already lived to see the death of his wives and trueborn heir, and might thus also live to see Ramsay's death. Ned leaves behind well raised children and a North who still respects his name, and even though he dies it will presumably all be "in good hands" in the end (in broad strokes, obviously this is all much more morally complex). Roose however built up a bad and toxic legacy, and also built his way of life around evading consequences; it makes sense to me that he would be forced by the story to finally endure all the consequences of his actions and witness the fall of his house firsthand. After all we already have Tywin who fulfils the purpose of dying before his children while his legacy falls to ruins, and a Feast for Crows explores this aspect thoroughly.
Roose' arc in A Dance With Dragons
The story repeatedly builds up the situation unravelling around Roose, and him slowly losing a grip on it and becoming more stressed and anxious.
Reek wondered if Roose Bolton ever cried. If so, do the tears feel cold upon his cheeks? - Reek II, aDwD
Roose Bolton said nothing at all. But Theon Greyjoy saw a look in his pale eyes that he had never seen before—an uneasiness, even a hint of fear. [...] That night the new stable collapsed beneath the weight of the snow that had buried it. - a Ghost in Winterfell, aDwD
Lady Walda gave a shriek and clutched at her lord husband's arm. "Stop," Roose Bolton shouted. "Stop this madness." His own men rushed forward as the Manderlys vaulted over the benches to get at the Freys. - Theon I, aDwD
It also directly presents him as a parallel to Theon's rule in aCoK, who similarly experienced a very unpopular rule and his subjects slowly turning against him. Presumably, the point of this comparison will not just be "Ramsay comes in at the end and unexpectedly whacks them on the head". Both Theon and Roose invited Ramsay into their lives, giving him more power than he deserves, and causing Ramsay to make choices that increasingly alienate others from them (the death of the miller's boys for example has repercussions for both Theon and Roose). Grrm is likely steering this towards a difference in how they will deal with this situation.
It all seemed so familiar, like a mummer show that he had seen before. Only the mummers had changed. Roose Bolton was playing the part that Theon had played the last time round, and the dead men were playing the parts of Aggar, Gynir Rednose, and Gelmarr the Grim. Reek was there too, he remembered, but he was a different Reek, a Reek with bloody hands and lies dripping from his lips, sweet as honey. - a Ghost in Winterfell, aDwD
"Stark's little wolflings are dead," said Ramsay, sloshing some more ale into his cup, "and they'll stay dead. Let them show their ugly faces, and my girls will rip those wolves of theirs to pieces. The sooner they turn up, the sooner I kill them again." - The elder Bolton sighed. "Again? Surely you misspeak. You never slew Lord Eddard's sons, those two sweet boys we loved so well. That was Theon Turncloak's work, remember? How many of our grudging friends do you imagine we'd retain if the truth were known?" - Reek III, aDwD
Roose' arc is deeply connected to the relations he shares to the other northern lords, which has been heavily impacted by the Red Wedding. It stands to reason that they are going to be an important part of his downfall, and we see many hints of them plotting to betray him.
The north remembers, Lord Davos. The north remembers, and the mummer's farce is almost done. My son is home." - Davos IV, aDwD
Themes: Stannis and kinslaying
The books set up Roose and Stannis as foils as well; Both lack charisma and have trouble winnning the people's support, Stannis and Roose both parallel and contrast Ned, Stannis appears as a "lesser Robert" where Roose is a "lesser Ned", Stannis represents the fire where Roose represents the ice, both struggle over dominion in a land that doesnt particularly want either of them, etc... What i find interesting is how they are contrasted over kinslaying:
"Only Renly could vex me so with a piece of fruit. He brought his doom on himself with his treason, but I did love him, Davos. I know that now. I swear, I will go to my grave thinking of my brother's peach." - Davos II, aCoK
"I should've had the mother whipped and thrown her child down a well … but the babe did have my eyes." [...] "Now [Domeric's] bones lie beneath the Dreadfort with the bones of his brothers, who died still in the cradle, and I am left with Ramsay. Tell me, my lord … if the kinslayer is accursed, what is a father to do when one son slays another?" - Reek III, aCoK
Stannis is set up as someone who is very thorough and strict in following his own code and his "duty", even if he does not like what it forces him to do.
Stannis ground his teeth again. "I never asked for this crown. Gold is cold and heavy on the head, but so long as I am the king, I have a duty . . . If I must sacrifice one child to the flames to save a million from the dark . . . Sacrifice . . . is never easy, Davos. Or it is no true sacrifice. Tell him, my lady." - Davos IV, aSoS
The armorer considered that a moment. "Robert was the true steel. Stannis is pure iron, black and hard and strong, yes, but brittle, the way iron gets. He'll break before he bends." - Jon I, aCoK
Roose however is frequently characterized as someone who tries to get as much as he can while avoiding negative consequences, and who does not have a consistent moral code and instead bends rules to his benefit to be the most comfortable to him.
It is often theorized that Stannis will end up burning his daughter Shireen; the Ramsay issue might then serve to contrast the two men. If Grrm intends it to be compared by the reader, I can see it going two ways: Either Roose will be forced to finally act in a drastic way after avoiding his responsibility in regards to Ramsay and he will be forced to get rid of his son, making him break the only moral hurdle he has presented adhering to during the story (though analyzing his character, the kinslaying taboo is probably less a sign of moral fortitude and more him using the guise of morals to explain a selfish motivation). Or he might not act against Ramsay and suffer the consequences, presenting an interesting moral situation where some readers might consider his action "better" or more relatable than Stannis', breaking up the otherwise very black and white moral comparison between the two men. It serves as an interesting conflict of the morality of kinslaying compared to what readers might see as a moral obligation of getting rid of a monster such as Ramsay; contrasting Shireen whose death would not be seen as worth it by most. Ramsay as a bastard (who was almost killed at birth if he hadnt been able to prove his paternity) also makes for an interesting verbal parallel with the bastard Edric Storm, and might be used for a look at the utilitarian principle of killing a child (baby ramsay/edric) to save countless people from suffering that underpinned Edric's story.
"As Faulkner says, all of us have the capacity in us for great good and for great evil, for love but also for hate. I wanted to write those kinds of complex character in a fantasy, and not just have all the good people get together to fight the bad guy." - Grrm
"Robert, I ask you, what did we rise against Aerys Targaryen for, if not to put an end to the murder of children?" - Eddard VIII, aGoT
"If Joffrey should die . . . what is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?" - "Everything," said Davos, softly. - Davos V, aSoS
However Grrm decides to present these conflicts or which actions the characters will take in the end, it will result in interesting discussion and analysis for the readers.
His Endgame?
Looking at the trends of the past books, it is probably going to be hard to predict any specific outcome; every book introduces new characters and plot elements that were impossible to predict from the last book even if their thematic importance or setup was aptly foreshadowed.
Roose has a lot of plot importance and characterization that has, in my opinion, not yet been properly resolved in a way that would be unique and poignant to the specific purpose his character appears to fulfil. However I also have a bias in that i did not like the show's writing of that scene which makes me averse to see a version of it in the books, and i really like Roose as a character and want to see him have more scenes in the next book(s). This leads me to discount plot speculation that cuts his character arc short offscreen early. Roose is only a side character; however, i have trust in grrm's writing abilities and that he would give him a proper sendoff that feels satisfying to a fan of the character.
"…even the [characters] who are complete bastards, nasty, twisted, deeply flawed human beings with serious psychological problems… When I get inside their skin and look out through their eyes, I have to feel a certain — if not sympathy, certainly empathy for them. I have to try to perceive the world as they do, and that creates a certain amount of affection." — George Martin
Considering my earlier analyis, there is a case to be made for Roose killing Ramsay; however it appears grrm might have a different endgame in mind for Ramsay, foreshadowed in Chett's prologue:
There'd be no lord's life for the leechman's son, no keep to call his own, no wives nor crowns. Only a wildling's sword in his belly, and then an unmarked grave. The snow's taken it all from me . . . the bloody snow . . . - Chett, aSoS
I tend to think something might happen to Roose/the Bolton bloc later in the book that would cause Ramsay to attempt to flee the scene again like he did back in aCoK fleeing Rodrik's justice; perhaps Ramsay is sent out to battle but then flees it like a coward, or he sees his cause as lost. This time, the fleeing and potentially disguised Ramsay would not make it out to safety though, and get killed without being recognized as Ramsay, dying forgotten. This would serve as dramatic irony since Ramsay so strongly desired to be recognized and respected as a Lord of Bolton, without being too on the nose.
As for Roose, i could see him getting captured and somehow brought to justice (either when someone takes Winterfell or in some sort of battle). I see it unlikely that he will be backstabbed like Robb was, because it seems very "eye for an eye" and ultimately doesn't teach much of a lesson except "he had it coming"; But the various people conspiring against him could lead to his capture by betraying him (giving a payoff to the northern conspiracies and the red wedding). I would find a scene of him standing trial interesting since i believe we didn't have one of these for a true non-pov villain yet, and it would be an interesting confrontation that he cannot escape from (he also loves to talk so it would be a good read to see him make a case for himself).
I assume Roose will be out of the picture when the Other plot finally properly kicks into gear (whether dead or "in prison"). With Stannis as a false Azor Ahai and Roose as a false Other (with his pale, cold features), their struggle in the north seems to be a representation of the false "Game of Thrones" that distracts people from the "real threat" of the Others.
As always this is just my opinion, and it could all go very differently in the books! There could always be something that completely uproots my analysis and goes into a direction i did not expect from the material we had; But i have fate that Grrm as a writer will deliver and give me something i can be satisfied with.
119 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ramblings of an Old Soldier Part 3/3
Sorry about the wait. The second dose of COVID vaccine drains you a lot more than the first dose. Anyways here’s part 3, part 1 and part 2 can be found here.
Admiral Sturm sat on the park bench as he always did. Sipping on his coffee and reading the latest news from his datapad. Once again, the Unkall boy approached him and sat beside him on the bench. He noticed that the aging Terran was wearing a strange uniform, with the image of a furred beast embroidered on the chest and upper right arm.
“Good afternoon Mr. Sturm.”
“Ah, hello there son. Back for story time again?”
“Yes sir. I was wondering what happened after the summit. Almost all traces of you vanished from records 8 cycles ago, and the only mentions of you after that were how the Terran Navy wanted you back.”
“Well, as I said the other day, I became a merc. My crew and I were the best. We took contracts from the Segmentum Norrus, all the way down to the Serectan Void. We didn’t work like most mercenary groups. We sought out our clients, and saw a lot of business. Everything from running escort duty on supply runs to desperate worlds, to taking down entire groups of bandits and pirates. Wherever we went, outlaws and tyrants alike feared the sight of The Wolf’s Den.”
“The Wolf’s Den? I think we heard about a group of people using that ship last cycle in our Galactic History class. Something about taking part in the Gingral war, only a few cycles ago.”
“Ah yes, the Gingral war. Some of the bloodiest fighting I’ve ever seen. That was the last contract my crew and I took. We started off in a small role; mostly just escorting supply freighters to the border colonies since most of the supply lines had been cut and the colonists were starving. Our last supply run had been going well, until 6 light cruisers decloaked and opened fire. We did the best we could, but the supply freighter carrying food and civilians was destroyed in only a few minutes.”
“We could have escaped after that. Made a jump to the nearest Unkall station and gotten reinforcements, but My crew and I all knew what had to be done. We knew that the Gingral had to pay. They may have outnumbered us 6 to 1, and they may have had us outgunned, but they didn’t account for us having a mark 7 jump core. We warped around behind them and took down 2 of the light cruisers rather easily, but then we took a hit. The jump core cut out, and we were relying only on engine power.”
“But The Wolf’s Den must have survived somehow. The history logs said that it served through the entirety of the Gingral War.”
“That’s almost right. We knew that we wouldn’t be able to keep her together much longer, so we did what all Terrans do in situations like this. We became unpredictable. We gave all power to weapons and blasted the furthest ship from us, then mustered to the airlocks. We put on EVA gear and as soon as we were close enough to the next ship, we boarded.”
“Wasn’t ship boarding added to the prohibited activities of War after the Terran war?”
“It was, but targeting civilians has always been among the prohibited activities of War, so we were still committing a lesser infraction. We blasted open the port hangar with a plasma charge, and cleared the first room. Then we cleared the rest of the ship up to the bridge and took out the last remaining light cruiser. Changed the comms channels to the ones we had on The Wolf’s Den, then modified the IFF tag accordingly. When we arrived at the Unkall station we had just left, they demanded an explanation, so we told them what happened.”
“And you weren't reprimanded?”
“Oh, we were. There was even a small tribunal held to determine if we could still fight. That’s when the call came in. Rakthis had been attacked, with only a handful of survivors. I immediately got up and started heading to my ship. The Unkall admiral demanded to know where I was going. After calmly telling him that there was now a full scale war, we had work to do. I went to the hangar and got the light cruiser repaired and ready for combat, but not before renaming it. The Wolf’s Den was never destroyed, it just became another ship.”
“What happened next?” the Unkall boy asked. “Weren’t the forces around Rakthis said to be uncounted?”
“They were, that’s why we didn’t go to Rakthis. We went to Waalon instead. Then to Rek’lon, and finally to Scrurros. Everywhere we went, we pushed back the Gingral horde. My first mate, Sarah Callingham, had family on the outer colonies back in the Vrumoid war. Saw most of them killed in front of her when their shuttle was shot down leaving atmosphere on Vrall VII. Scrurros was a tough nut to crack, and she had more crafty ideas than I did. We landed The Wolf’s Den on the uninhabited side of the planet, then bought a grav truck from one of the farmers. It was hard to weld the armor plates on it at the right angle, but mounting the lasguns and mortar was rather simple. I stood in the back, manning two of the lasguns and the mortar while she and two other soldiers were up front in the cab. We got almost to the planetary capital before we faced any resistance.”
“But the history logs said that Scrurros didn’t fall until the later end of the war.”
“That’s right. We couldn’t take the planet as easily as we’d taken the others. When the first mortar hit the shield on the planetary governance center, we knew we were in for a fight. We got the truck away with only a few shots on the armor, but we were pursued by the planetary militia. One of the armored gun trucks fired their heavy las gun and took out the rear grav drive. With the back end of the truck along the ground, our speed tanked to a crawl. I was able to keep the militia back for a while by pinning them down with the lasguns, but then another shot hit us, dead center mass.”
“How bad was it? Were you alright?”
“I made it out with only a few scratches, scrapes, and bruises, but Sarah and the others up front weren't so lucky. The shot penetrated the cab and blew up at the steering linkage. Only Sarah, myself, and the one crewman in the back with me made it out of that. We ducked into a nearby building for cover, only to find that it was a school. Not wanting to put the civilians in danger, we lightly dressed Sarah’s wounds and went on into the forest surrounding the city. We came to a cave at the foot of a mountain, and made camp inside.”
“Who was the other crewman that was with you? I notice that you haven’t said his name yet.”
“His name was Richard Grumman. He was the newest addition to The Wolfpack, joining us less than a cycle ago. We hadn’t had much time to get to know each other. The Militia found us in the first week, and he was shot to death on the night they raided the cave. Sarah and I managed to get away, but we were far from being safe. The next night we got a transmission from The Wolf’s Den; They had been found, and were wondering what to do. Sarah and I were at least four days away from the ship, so I made the call and told them to leave while they had the chance, to keep fighting and never forget about us.”
“So you willingly stranded yourself and an injured crewmate on a hostile planet just to save your crewmates? The stories about the Terrans must be true.”
“You’ll learn that those stories don’t even tell half the story if you stick on a Terran ship for even half a cycle. Anyways, there we were, just me and Sarah on Scrurros. I treated her wounds the best I could, but she wasn’t getting much better. Eventually she died, less than half a cycle into our time on that world. I retired with her body to the farmer who sold us the truck, and paid him to let me bury Sarah on his property. Much like with the freighter, the Gingral would pay. I took stock of what I had. Two lasguns, three fragmentation grenades, an energy grenade, and a plasma charge. Not nearly enough to take on the forces of the planet, but maybe enough to make it possible.”
“So what did you do? The Gingral don’t just let prisoners get away. Especially not in the middle of a war.”
“Well, I couldn't just storm the Planetary Governance Center. That would accomplish nothing but my own death. Instead I went for something better. Three grids away from the Governance Center was the Defense Center. The plan was simple. Get inside, break as much stuff as I could, and hope that was enough to take down their defenses. It took me ten days to reach the capital again, and another three to figure out how to get inside. Turns out the Gringal didn’t make their roof as secure as they should have. I opened up the ventilation system and got inside. From there it was a short trip to the bunker exterior.”
“Aren’t Gingral bunkers some of the hardest to break open in the entire galaxy? How did you get inside?”
“Simple; I didn’t break in; I snuck in. I kicked out the vent and got inside the bunker, then closed and locked the door behind me and smashed the controls. There were only technicians and a few soldiers inside, who were easy enough to dispatch. The harder part was accessing the communications room. Aside from the door of the bunker itself, the communications room was the most secure place in the facility. The door was half a meter thick, and barred at six points. That would prove to be a great challenge, so I left it for later. I quickly found the controls to the weapons system, and took it down. The planet was now mostly defenseless against ships in orbit and low atmosphere.”
“So you took down the guns, but how did you get in?”
“The door was too hard to get through, so I made my own instead. I went above the room and opened up the three fragmentation grenades. Terrna frag grenades use a pressure sensitive explosive to detonate, so I poured it out above the room, then placed the plasma charge on top of it. I ducked out of the room and waited for the explosion. When that charge went off, it was as if the whole planet shook. When I went in to check on the hole, the charge had only just broken through the floor. It took hours for me to get the hole wide enough for me to wriggle inside, but it was worth it. I contacted the Unkall fleet, and they were there within the week. The planet fell and I was pulled from the bunker before the food and water stores were even dented.”
“So that’s why taking Scrurros was so easy for the fleet. There wasn’t as much resistance as the planet originally had. And you were the one to take it down?”
“That’s right. After the war, I was broken. My knees were all but useless for fighting, and I could barely stand without swaying. The Unkall empire never forgot what my crew and I did. We were paid many times more than what was written in our contract, and they even got me a home right here on Unkall Prime. Now I sit here, enjoying retirement in my old age. Though the Terran lifespan is almost 50 cycles, we’re usually out of our working years after only 30 cycles. Our bodies are too old and weak to do most of the hard tasks that we normally would.”
“So what do you do now? Surely after a life like yours you want to do something just as exciting after you’re done working.”
“I mostly just read now. When you spend your life as a soldier, you miss out on so much. I never settled down and had kids, and my time for that is even drawing to a close. I did take up a few hobbies here and there, but nothing really stuck. I still work part time for the Unkall empire, training their soldiers in virtual reality simulations is about all I can do, but I’ve given the Unkall the strength to protect their planets, and given their generals and admirals the knowledge not to go on any missions they will regret. I’m happy with the contributions I’ve made in my life, and if I had the chance, I’d do it all over again. By the way, I never did catch your name.”
“My name is Ruthal Nerzak, and I’m slotted to be a soldier in the Unkall Defense Force.”
“Well Ruthal, I hope we will meet again someday.”
With that, Ruthal stopped recording and went home, finishing his final report.
A few days later, Ukall prime came under attack. A colonial independence group made numerous strikes around the city, and Ruthal had been caught outside on his way home from class. He tried to run away, but was chased by one of the insurgents down an alleyway, when suddenly two lasgun shots rang out. Ruthal though he was dead, but he slowly opened his four eyes and saw that the terrorist was dead on the ground in front of him. Looking up, he was me with a familiar face
“Thank you Mr. Sturm, I thought I was surely dead.”
“Don’t thank me yet, we’re seven grids away from the nearest shelter, and there’s enemies all around us. You said you wanted to be a soldier, well your training just started early.”
Sturm handed Ruthal the lasgun from the dead insurgent, and after showing him how to fire and teaching him how to make sure it doesn’t overheat, he led the Unkall boy out of the alley and down the street. Two blocks later, Sturm pulled the Unkall boy into an alley.
“Alright son, listen up. There’s about fifty armed and angry people between us and shelter. Our espace routes have been mostly cut off, so I need you to listen to me and listen well. When I tell you to run, you run as fast as you can. We should be able to get past most of them by taking the alleys across the street. I picked up some kit off one of these guys. The flashbang should buy us enough time to cross the street, but I’ll have to think of something after we get to our next crossing.”
Sturm threw the flashbang far into the crowd of terrorists, blinding a dozen of them and allowing them to cross the street. After seeing how many insurgents were at their crossing point, Sturm and Ruthal entered a tall residence building across from a big shootout between the insurgent and Unkall forces.
“Alright, we don’t stand a chance of crossing that. Here’s the plan. We’ll get up high, and then open fire on them. If nothing else, we’ll draw their attention away from the defense forces and allow them to break through.”
“I can’t. They’re people, just like us.”
“Look around you kid. There’s men, women, and children all gunned down by these guys. I’m not sure what that makes them in Unkall society, but to us Terrans, they’re no longer people; they’re monsters. As a soldier, our job is to get rid of the monsters, so that everyone can sleep soundly at night knowing they’re safe. Taking a life isn’t something one does lightly, but it’s still something that has to be done. It’s better that we take them out, because if we don’t, who knows how many more people they’ll kill. We don’t do this because we like killing, we do this because we love the people we protect, and we’d give anything to keep them safe.”
“But I don’t want to hurt them.”
“I understand. I’m not sure if the Unkall have a saying like this, but Terrans sure do. You have a big heart. You want to keep people safe, not put them in the ground. But sometimes the best way to keep people safe is to put bad people in the ground. We’re between a rock and a hard place. If we sit here and do nothing, they will continue to hold this street, but if we can take them down, even just one or two of them, we can make them fight on two sides, which is the easiest way to break through an enemy line. I recognize a few of the soldiers I can see from up here. I trained them myself. They’ll realize what’s going on and they’ll do the heavy lifting; we just need to give them a helping hand. So, are you ready?”
The young Unkall nodded, then Sturm and Ruthal braced their lasguns on the windowsill, and opened fire on the street below. As Sturm said, the insurgents shifted their position, attempting to defend against incoming fire from two directions. As the Unkall defense forces broke the lines, a single shot came from the street and hit Sturm in the neck
Bleeding badly, Sturm stumbled back, Ruthall catching him in his arms. As he was losing his grasp on consciousness, Sturm held Ruthalls hand
“Never forget what happened here. Never forget the atrocities you saw with your own eyes, and never be afraid to rise up against the monsters who make things like this happen.”
With that, Sturm closed his eyes. Unkall security forces soon burst into the room, seeing the state of the old Terran, they gave him the best aid they could, and sent him off to the hospital, with Ruthall at his side.
After a lengthy surgery and two pints of blood, Sturm woke up in his hospital room, Ruthall asleep on his lap. Colonel Rengar, a soldier in the Unkall defense forces entered the room.
“So Admiral, I see your retirement is going well.”
“Can the crap Colonel. How many did we lose?”
“Casualties are still being counted, but even one is too many.”
“And what about the boy, Ruthall. Why is he still here?"
"His family were among those killed in the attack. We haven’t told him yet, just that we’re still looking for them.”
“So what will happen to him?”
“We don’t know. He doesn’t have any living family, and in our culture friend’s do not step in for situations like these. He will likely be left to become an adoptee for some family here, but after this, I’m not sure who would adopt him.”
“I will.”
“What? You can’t be serious. The looks he would get, especially here in the capital. I’m not sure if he can take it.”
“He knows my story. He knows that I take care of the ones I call family. He didn’t hesitate to pick up a rifle and follow me through the streets today, and he only barely hesitated to fight beside me. He’ll make a fine soldier, and he’ll make a damn good son. Get me the documents dammit.”
“Very well.”
Ruthall woke up, and was told about what happened. He didn’t take his family dying too well, but was glad that he would not be alone. The next day that school was in session, Admiral Sturm put on his old Terran uniform, and walked his son into class. It was not easy adjusting to caring for a young Unkall child, but it was a change that Sturm was happy to make. He had known what it was like to be alone, and now he could keep Ruthall from knowing that pain.
The End
Let me know if you guys want a follow up series about Sturm and Ruthall on Unkall Prime, and how they live their lives together.
#humans are space orcs#humans are space oddities#humans are weird#earth is space australia#humans are space australians
143 notes
·
View notes
Note
Fallout 4 characters (who've been to the capitol or at least heard about what happened there) react to sole survivor finding a tunnel snakes jacket and/or meeting butch and the lone wanderer who came to the commonwealth to meet sole survivor and co. after the railroad ending
Sorry if I made it too complicated
Thanks so much for the ask! This was a super interesting prompt! I only did a few companions (including Danse despite this being a railroad ending because I just couldn't help myself) but if there's someone I didn't include that you still want to see, just let me know! I hope you enjoy :)
Danse:
Danse stopped in his tracks, forcing Sole to halt in place a few paces back. They peeked their head out from behind his tall, power-armored frame, looking for signs of danger. In the distance, two figures made their way towards them, and Sole raised their sniper rifle in preparation, curious as to why Danse made no sudden moves to ready his own weapon. Sole held the scope of their gun to their eye, trying to find a good shot in case the pair turned out to be hostile. Noticing their action, Danse turned his head, bringing a large hand up to push the barrel of the gun roughly downwards.
“Hey!”
“There’s no need to have them in your sights, soldier. These civilians are no threat to us.”
“How do you know? What about exercising caution?” Sole adjusted the grip on their rifle, still not completely convinced that they weren’t in danger.
“I know because I’ve met these people before."
“You can tell who they are all the way from here?” They squinted their eyes at the figures in the distance once again, trying to make out any discernible features, but failing to do so.
“Yes, look at their vault suits.”
“Okay,” Sole started, “I know it all turned out fine with me, but not everyone wearing a vault suit is automatically a good person.” Danse closed his eyes for a moment, a bout of air escaping his nose in an expression of his annoyance.
“I know that. But look closely,” His voice lowered a bit as the two strangers in vault suits grew nearer. Now, Sole could almost make out the general features of their faces.
“Their suits say ‘vault 101’ on them.” Danse said the words with a weight that left Sole feeling as though they should know what he was talking about. He turned to look at them expectantly, almost confirming their theory, before noticing their distinct lack of recognition at his words.
“Vault 101 is in the Capital Wasteland," he explained, "only three people I know of have ever left that particular vault; I know one to be dead, and the other two travel the wastes together, performing selfless acts to aid the settlers in the Capital. One of them is called Lone, and they were once a great ally to the Brotherhood of Steel; they walked beside Liberty Prime in our war against the Enclave ten years ago.”
Sole furrowed their eyebrows, their gaze still trained on the blue-clad pair as they drew ever closer.
“And you’re sure this is them?” Danse nodded his head as he looked towards them, Sole continued, lowering their voice even more as their gaze rested on the approaching vault-dwellers, “And they’re no threat? If they’re still allied with the Brotherhood, that could be an issue, Danse.” They said the last bit rather softly, hinting at the ex-paladin's now severed relationship with the faction he was once so devoted to.
“I suppose we shall see.” Danse said, and Sole looked on as one of the pair acknowledged them with a wave of their hand, their partner behind them keeping his pistol lowered reassuringly.
“Greetings, civilians.” Danse said, effectively outing himself as a (former) member of the Brotherhood, as if the power armor hadn’t already helped with that a bit. This is why I do the talking. Sole thought as they let out a breath, trying to release some of the anxiety they felt building up in response to this strange situation.
“Hello.” One of them said, their eyes slightly narrowed in suspicion of the soldier and his companion. “Nice outfit,” they nodded towards Sole’s own vault suit, but before Sole could respond, Danse took another step forward.
“Do you still go by ‘Lone’?” he asked, and the one in front snapped their gaze up to look him in the eye, their bewilderment plainly written on their face.
“Hey!” said the man in the leather jacket behind them, “how do you know Lone’s name?”
“So, I suppose that’s a ‘yes,’ then.” Sole interjected. Lone looked back, flashing a perturbed look at the man behind them, and Sole’s gaze went up to Danse, hoping he would explain more. For both their sake, and for Lone’s.
“We haven’t met, but I was at the Citadel when you arrived after the Enclave took over your father’s water purifier.”
Lone's eyebrows seemed to raise slightly at that, as they nodded in remembrance.
"So, are you still with the Brotherhood, then?" The air seemed to sizzle and crack around Danse at the pressure Lone’s question exuded on him. Should he lie and say that he is? Or has Lone since cut ties with the faction as well? There was certainly no physical indication that they were still allied with the Brotherhood, but…
"Not currently." Sole answered for the ex-paladin, "I don't know if you've heard, but the chapter of the Brotherhood that was stationed here was wiped out." They felt Danse tense at their words. Now Sole was taking the risk, mentioning an event that had nearly demolished their relationship with the former Brotherhood soldier, but they had to say something. And this way, they weren’t giving away their position in relation to the Brotherhood.
"So I'd heard. It's a shame, really."
"I’ll tell you what’s a shame,” Lone’s companion spoke up, “that they lost their sweet ass ride. That's what I think. Never seen anything like it, now the whole damn thing’s been blown to smithereens."
Danse’s eyes seemed to glaze over at the mention of the destruction of the ship he once called home, and Sole knew he wouldn’t be much help to them now.
“So, you’re from the Capital? What is it that’s brought you out here?” They asked in an attempt to veer away from this troubling subject. Lone narrowed their eyes slightly, and Sole could practically see the gears turning in their head as they thought through what sort of information they wanted to divulge to the strangers in front of them.
“Wait, slow your roll there. We might kinda-sorta know this guy," Lone's companion gestured to Danse, "but who are you supposed to be, huh?” Sole noticed the man’s hand remained firmly grasped around the 10mm pistol he carried, and they wondered if perhaps Danse had been wrong about these two. It has been 10 years, these people could have changed. They could be anyone by now.
“My name is Sole.” They said simply, unsure how they should further embellish their title, given their uncertainty surrounding the pair in front of them. But, as it happens, it seemed they didn’t have to, for as soon as their name left their lips, Lone turned abruptly to their companion with wide eyes.
“You’re Sole?” Lone asked, their gaze turning to fall heavily on Sole, their eyes round in recognition.
“No way we just bumped into them like this. No way.” Lone’s partner shook his head in disbelief, and Sole looked up to see Danse’s stare break from the nothingness he’d been focused on to rest upon Lone’s perplexed face.
“I-- well, yes, I am. How do you…?” Sole trailed off, not sure what exactly they were trying to ask.
“Well, you asked why we came here.” Sole nodded to them, “It was to find you.” At that, Danse raised his laser rifle from the restful position it had held throughout the entire exchange thus far, as the possibly threatening words left Lone’s mouth.
“Easy there, sergeant major. We’re just gabbin’, no need for a defensive position.”
“And that’s exactly why I’m taking one. Always best to be prepared, civilian.” Danse looked down at Lone’s companion with furrowed brows, hands holding steady in their poised position on his rifle.
“Alright, everyone, let’s calm down. We just want to talk to you, Sole.” Lone said, hands slightly raised in an inoffensive gesture.
“Why?” Danse said, utterly unconvinced that the pair meant no harm. My, how the tables have turned so abruptly. Sole thought, I’d like to tell him I told him so, but something tells me now’s not the time for that.
Lone just smiled as Danse glowered down at them,
“If all I’ve heard is true, Sole is a hero." They said, "my aim is to find out what really happened with you and the Institute, and maybe, if I like what I hear, we’ll have a few favors to ask of you.”
“Favors?” Sole spoke up, “What did you have in mind?”
“We’ll go into more detail later, but let’s just say that the Capital Wasteland hasn’t exactly benefited from the Brotherhood’s… change in management. For now though, I’ll leave it at that. And we should get moving if we’re going to find shelter before sundown. I hear it can get pretty chilly up here at night.” Sole nodded as they considered all that Lone had said, and as their eyes found Danse’s, the pair silently decided to trust the Lone wanderer and their partner. For now, at least.
“Sole,” Danse said, “why don’t you take point.”
“Good idea.” Sole moved to step ahead of the others, heading north along the dirt road they had been following, before glancing back at the sound of Lone’s voice.
“Butch, why don’t you take up the rear.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Butch turned to Sole and winked before doing as Lone had suggested, and the group set off to find shelter for the fast-approaching evening.
MacCready:
“Holy crap, where the heck did you get this?!” MacCready held up the leather jacket in front of him, eyes widening in awe. Sole looked over from where they stood outside their house in Sanctuary, squinting their eyes at the seemingly inconsequential jacket.
“That’s not mine.” They told him, turning back to unloading the scrap they’d acquired from the mission they and MacCready had just returned from.
“Do you even know what this is?” You looked back at him with a cocked brow,
“Does it look like I do?”
“This is a Tunnel Snakes jacket!” MacCready held the jacket with one hand, the other gesturing animatedly to the artwork on the back of it, Sole’s expression remained devoid of recognition, so MacCready felt the need to continue, “The Tunnel Snakes! It’s a gang. They’re from the Capital Wasteland. I’ve only ever seen one of these jackets once, and--”
“Oh, and what have we here?” A man in a vault suit with slicked back hair stepped out from the side of the house, flicking a cigarette butt to the ground, “hey, come check this out! Told you the Tunnel Snakes’ name got around.” The man gazed proudly at the jacket, a smug expression formed on his face as another stranger rounded the corner of the house. They also donned a vault suit, an amused smile playing at their lips as they rolled their eyes at their companion. The new stranger was odd, despite their age, they had an air of knowing about them. They were young, but their eyes seemed old, light lines shown on their face, telling the story of a life fraught with loss and tough decisions.
“Butch, we’ve been over this.” They said, “There’s like three people in the gang, and two of them live underground. The guy probably just thinks it’s a cool jacket.”
“Then how did he know the name, huh?”
“It’s on the jacket, Butch.”
“No!” MacCready interjected, “I do know you guys! We’ve met before, remember? Little Lamplight?”
Sole was now to the point of utter bewilderment as their head darted back between Mac and the two strangers. What the hell is going on here? Who are these people? Has MacCready ever mentioned a ‘Butch’ before? The stranger looked hard at MacCready, taking a few steps towards him, before recognition sparked in their eyes. Sole took a few steps forward in response, uncomfortable with the strangers’ proximity to their companion.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” They whispered, just loud enough for Sole to hear from where they stood beside the group. “I wouldn’t forget those wide, blue eyes. Look at you, little mayor MacCready, how’s it feel to be a mungo now, huh?”
“Holy shit!” Butch exclaimed, moving closer to MacCready to get a better look, “It’s the little mayoral punk from the kid cave!”
MacCready just laughed, his hand still clasped firmly around the leather jacket, as Sole stepped towards them.
“The hat’s changed a bit, but I see you’re still fond of sniper rifles.” The stranger nodded to MacCready’s rifle that lay on the ground next to where he stood. “Tell me,” they continued, “you still an asshole?”
Sole opened their mouth, only to be shut down by a glare from MacCready.
“You’re not allowed to answer that.” He pointed at them as he said it, and Sole rolled their eyes at him. MacCready then looked to the strangers, as if to answer their question, but before he could utter a word, Sole stepped forward.
“Okay, hold on, before anybody else says anything, I need to know what’s going on here. So, you going to introduce me to your friends, or what?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course!” MacCready seemed to jitter with excitement as he bounced over to them, and Sole wondered who it was they saw energetically bobbing around in front of them, this certainly wasn’t the MacCready they knew. And judging by their befuddled expressions, Butch and the stranger thought the same.
“Sole, this is Lone, the one I told you about, who helped with the mutants at Little Lamplight? And purified all that water for the people in the capitol? Yeah, that’s them, and this is their partner, Butch, he was from the same vault and was an OG Tunnel Snake.”
“Yeah, the OG Tunnel Snake.” Butch said, bringing his hands up to flick his collar up, before realizing he wasn’t wearing his jacket. He smoothed his hands over his chest awkwardly instead as Lone looked on, a mix of disappointment and amusement playing on their face, before they turned their attention to Sole.
“So, Sole, you’re the one everyone’s been talking about.”
“I-- I am?”
“Yeah, you’re the reason we came all the way up here. The vault dweller from before the war, the legendary railroad agent, and the one who brought down the Institute. You're a hero, even down in the CW. But it's strange, you’re younger than I thought.” Sole blinked, and smiled a little bashfully, unsure how to respond to such praise coming from Lone, who certainly was a legend in their own right. Instead of speaking to them directly, Sole turned to MacCready,
“You told me that Lone was dead.”
“What? No, I--”
“No, MacCready, you said they gave their life for the people of the capitol, in that water purifier thing.”
Lone chucked from beside Sole, shaking their head.
“It’s okay. You’d be surprised by how many people think that's true. Anyway, you’ve clearly heard my story, but we’re here for yours, Sole. What do you say we go inside and talk?”
Sole nodded, gesturing for them to head inside the house. They glanced over to MacCready, who made an attempt at handing the leather jacket back to its owner. But Butch just slapped him on the back,
“Tell you what, daddy-o, you keep it. I’m always happy to meet a fan. Plus, I got plenty of those back home.”
Deacon:
The pair entered the memory den and Sole nodded to Irma as they made their way towards the stairs leading to the basement. As they headed down, Sole heard Deacon’s footsteps behind them falter. They turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised,
What is it? They asked him silently, the words written in their expression. He took a few steps closer to them, keeping his voice low as he answered.
“Do you hear that?” He asked, and Sole held their breath as they listened for whatever it was that had their companion concerned.
“Voices?” they whispered back, and he nodded.
“I don’t recognise them. Better let me do the talking.” Sole nodded to him, and stepped aside, allowing Deacon to take the lead. They were coming to escort a recently mind-wiped synth to their new home in the Jamaica Plain settlement. The only ones meant to be present were Dr. Amari and the synth, Charlie. Deacon and Sole had helped the synth, designation C1-44, all the way from Mercer safehouse to Goodneighbor, so they knew his voice well enough at this point. Sole had hoped that, with the Institute effectively gone, processes like this would become much less common, and the existing synths could live their lives in peace, with their memories intact. But C1 had specifically asked for a mind-wipe, the Institute’s depreciating thoughts and acts towards him had left him with an abhorrent self-image that he felt he needed to escape from. Deacon had been right, it seemed, even without the Institute, the Railroad’s work was never done.
Sole might’ve waited to peek around the corner before entering the room, but Deacon sauntered right in while they held back in the hallway. They had always admired the spy’s confidence, but how many times had he warned them about waltzing into a situation without preparation? They seemed to recall a number of instances…
“Bullseye, you comin’?” They rounded the corner at the sound of their Railroad codename, a little alarmed, only to find the room devoid of both Charlie and Dr. Amari. Instead, two strangers stood beside the memory pod in the room. One stood in front of the other, at the ready, while the man behind them leaned against the back of the memory pod.
“Where..?” Sole started, turning to Deacon, but he was looking back at the stranger in combat armor,
“See, Lone? Told you I knew them. I don’t always lie, despite what you seem to think.”
The one named Lone rolled their eyes at him,
“You may not have lied about bringing them here, but I seem to remember you describing them as much more… well, not quite as they are. Say, Bullseye, how tall are you?”
Sole opened their mouth to respond, but Deacon cut them off before they could voice a thing.
“Is that really what matters? So, I may have exaggerated a few details about their appearance, but everything else is true. They really took down the Institute after working undercover for months without detection, and they've saved well over a hundred synth lives.”
“Deacon.” Sole said, their uncertainty keeping them frozen in place by the entrance to the basement, “who are these people? Where is the-- ah, where is our client?”
“Oh, where are my manners?” Deacon brought a hand up to his chest dramatically before approaching Sole, throwing his arm around their shoulders, and urging them forward before gesturing to the people in front of them.
“This is Lone, the famed Railroad ally from the Capital wasteland. And you two have quite a bit in common, cuz, you see, Lone has also managed to take down a potentially world-destroying organization that happened to be bigoted, and inappropriately sanctimonious and self-obsessed. So I thought it’d be cute for you two to spend some time together, you know, swap war stories and pre-war recipes, stuff like that. You had pre-war food in vault 101, right?”
“It’s good to finally meet you,” Lone said, ignoring Deacon's attempt at humor, “I’ve heard so much.” Sole went to properly introduce themself, but was once again interrupted, this time by the man in the leather jacket behind Lone, who cleared his throat loudly.
“Oh,” Lone moved slightly out of the way so that Sole and Deacon could better see their companion, “This is my partner, Butch, he’s also from the vault.” Butch cleared his throat again, frowning at Lone.
“And? C’mon partner, you’re not telling me that’s all I am to you?”
Lone frowned slightly, appearing unphased, as though this were a common occurrence for them, “Butch also helped me take down the Enclave, and he assists me with the Railroad missions I’m involved with in the Capital.”
“Butch, pleased to make your acquaintance.” He said, walking forward and extending a hand towards Sole, who shook it tentatively.
“There, now we’re all on a first-name basis, why don’t we get moving? If we’re going to reach HQ before sundown, we’d better go now.” Deacon withdrew his arm from Sole’s shoulder, and started towards the door.
“Hold on a moment, Deacon. What about our mission? You never answered me,” they continued, lowering their voice at their next question, “and now we’re taking these people to HQ? Does Des know?” Deacon looked at them with a disappointed expression,
“You’re killing me here, where’s the mystery if I explain everything? Where's the fun in that?” Sole flared their nostrils at him and heard Lone snicker from behind them.
“Really, we’ll talk when we get to HQ.” He said, turning back towards the stairs, “And of course Des knows.” He called over his shoulder, “I would never presume to waltz right into HQ with a couple of perfect strangers without her permission. Who do you think I am? Who do you think I think I am?” Sole caught the smug grin that spread across his face as he turned to take the first step up the stairs to the ground floor.
“Don’t worry,” Lone said, walking up from behind Sole, “We know Des. I’ve worked with her more times than I care to count, though I never have actually met her. That’s why we’re here, actually. To meet her, and the others I’ve heard about. And to meet you. Believe it or not, I’ve heard the most about you.”
“I suppose that means I’m not a very good agent.” Sole said, a little laugh escaping them as Lone’s words gave them some peace of mind regarding this odd situation they found themselves in.
“Eh, who cares about that. The Institute’s gone, so I don’t know why we’ve gotta still be all secret-y now anyway.” Butch’s voice came from a few steps down the stairs, and Lone shook their head at him, their exasperated expression seemed to mirror the one Sole usually had upon their face when Deacon opened his mouth. Maybe Deacon was right, they thought, as they reached the top of the stairs and the group made their way to the exit. Maybe Lone and I do have some things in common.
#fallout#fallout companions react#fallout companions reacts#fallout companions reactions#fallout companions#fallout 3#fallout 3 companions#fo4 companions#fo4#fo4 reacts#fallout 4 companions reacts#fallout 4#fallout 4 companions reactions#fallout 4 companions react#fallout 4 companions#sole#sole survivor#lone wanderer#butch deloria#fallout butch#danse#fallout danse#paladin danse#maccready#fallout maccready#rj maccready#fallout deacon
147 notes
·
View notes
Text
some rojascorp mayhaps??
Once upon time, Andrea Rojas would've been the first person she would call about this. Ask her if it would really be a good idea to drop everything and just leave. In her mind's eye, she can already see what Andrea would've said. She would say, yes. And most possibly even tell Lena she'd drop everything too and fly right along with her.
You jump. I jump.
She was sure of it. After all, they did it once before.
So, really it wasn't a surprise when she opens the door and sees Andrea on the doorstep.
"Andrea." The door opens wider and Lena lets her in. "What are you doing here?"
Even though based on the unreadable expression on her face, Lena already has an inkling.
"I overheard my emp-" she clears her throat, waits for Lena to turn and face her. "I overheard Nia and Kara today," Andrea speaks slowly, "You're going to Ireland."
Lena merely raises a questioning brow.
"I-" Andrea fidgets and that's the first time Lena sees that there is something in her hands. A folded piece of paper, it looks like.
Andrea catches her eyes, and says, almost a whisper, "I have something to confess."
Lena inhales deep, crosses her arms.
"Well, let's hear it then."
Andrea takes a step forward, debates putting a hand on Lena but settles for fidgeting with the paper again.
Now upon closer inspection, Lena notices its yellow color, an old parchment and if the inky bleeds are any indication, Lena's suspects it to be some old letter.
This rattles the heart in her chest, for reasons she would not dare name.
Andrea starts to speak again and Lena tears her gaze away from the letter.
"I-I've been investigating Lex," Andrea tells her.
"Seems like that's what everybody is doing these days, or so I heard." Lena's stalling she knows, but who wouldn't? Andrea's serious yet sincere gaze is terrifying. It has been so long since that's been directed at her, and Lena does not want to fall victim again.
Andrea ignores her, continues on, her voice now more sure, most likely the effect of noting Lena's reaction. Andrea knows all too well what she can do after all.
"And in order to do that," she explains, "I had to infiltrate the Luthor Mansion."
As Acrata, Lena adds in her head. She remains as stoic as possible and what Andrea does next almost knocks her.
"Lena," she says, "I really think we should sit down for this."
The rattling has now become pure chaos inside her.
Lena says nothing in response, just turns around again for Andrea to follow. She guides her to the enormous couch. She crosses her legs and Andrea does the same next to her. Lena pointedly avoiding the thing in Andrea's hands.
"So?" Lena prods.
Andrea inhales, swallows, "I went to Lionel's study."
The room springs clear in Lena's mind.
The rows of books; the smell of cigar and grease when Lionel brings his projects home; Lex's diploma framed and hung, Lena's report card pinned next to it. A single family picture. The stiffest Lena has ever felt for the camera.
"And I- I found something."
Lena snaps back to the present.
"It's from your mother."
Andrea looks regal in the open moonlight of her apartment, and God, she thinks, it truly would never be over, would it?
"N-not Lillian." Why Andrea felt the need to clarify that, she wouldn't know. When she's the first person Lena had confided to about how Lillian was never a mother to her.
"A letter," Lena states, her voice is quiet and calm, the opposite of the tempest deep inside.
"Yes," she confirms, "here." Andrea starts to hand her the letter-
"Can you please-" she blurts out suddenly, Andrea halting mid-way.
"Can you please hold my hand? While I-" she inhales deep, "While I read it? Please?"
Andrea only nods, reaches for Lena's hand, wraps around it tightly.
It's the anchor Lena needs, but she would never admit that. It looks like she doesn't need to though. Andrea already knows she's afraid of drowning.
Lena takes the paper gently, afraid that it will crumple the dust the moment her fingers touch it.
The paper is old and yellow. The ink blurred at some parts, drops of something Lena suspects to be alcohol, marring the words. He imagines Lionel reading it for the first time in his study. Did he feel the same churning in his stomach as Lena did now? Was he too drunk to even read it?
God, Lena so badly wishes she was drunk right now.
Andrea squeezes her hand and drags her back.
The writing isn't anything like hers. Each word in capital letters, which should've made it look a bit robotic and too uniform, yet to Lena's eyes it looks elegant. As if the hand that had written took great care in laying down the words.
She reads the first line.
"To my dearest Lionel,
I am sending this directly to the mansion, I apologize in advance. I tried calling. But your assistant, I have to commend her--she gets creative with those excuses--never fails to inform me that you're unavailable. I've also tried your various emails, to no avail. And well, this is my last resort.
All this to say, I know when I'm not wanted anymore. But I do just need to send you this one last letter. If you don't want me in your life anymore, well, who am I to stop you? You're Lionel Luthor.
But I do think you might want to know about your daughter, our daughter. Lionel, we never did make any good decisions together, but I think, our daughter, she's the one good thing to ever come out of this mess.
She's turning two on the 24th. She's perhaps the best thing that could have happened to my life. She's a menace, she started walking early and I've babyproofed the house yet I'm still afraid she'd knock her head somewhere. She's a babbler, and a smart one at that. She's going to do great things, Lionel. I just know it. I'm so proud of her already. She has your eyes. Always green. Always bright. I miss you, I'm not going to lie. Yet, when I hear her laugh, it doesn't hurt so much anymore.
Her name is Lena, in case you've already forgotten. Don't worry, her birth certificate doesn't say Luthor. Lena Kieran, I've decided, would be the safest for her. She will be untraceable. Nobody will manage to link her to you.
Then why name her Lena at all? If she'll never be a Luthor, right? Naming her with an L seems a bit sentimental, I admit. A selfish part of me, I think, is still hoping for you to come back. To see you hold Lena for the first time, matching eyes lighting up. Maybe give her your name.
Someday.
She's the love of my life, Lionel. I would do anything for her. I keep wondering if you would do the same if you met her. If you will ever meet her. I'm afraid, you know? I'm terrified of the day she'll come asking for you. I'm terrified that even though I love her fiercely, it would never be enough. Will my love ever be enough? It never was for you.
But well, I never was one to dwell on sad things, so I'm afraid I have to end it here, Lena will wake soon. And how such a small thing can make so much noise, I don't know.
Goodbye, my love.
If you ever have a change of heart, you know where to find us.
Yours..."
And that was it, Lena realizes, that was the end. It wasn't signed. She turns the paper over frantically, searching for any clue, anything, any sign.
A signature, a name, an initial.
Nothing. There's nothing.
"Where's the- there's no-"
She doesn't realize she's sobbing till Andrea's tearing the paper away from her hands and pulling her close; doesn't realize she's hyperventilating till Andrea's squeezing her tight, tight, tight.
"Lena, you have to breathe. Lena, breathe."
She lets herself be carried away by Andrea, heaving gasps coming out of her lungs.
She's the love of my life.
I would do anything for her.
She'll never be a Luthor.
I'm terrified-
"Lena, Lena," somebody's calling her.
"Lena, you have to look at me. Look at me."
Her eyes focus and Andrea is there, soft and strong and here.
Lena's fully in her lap, one arm wrapped around her, one hand cupping her face.
"Lena, Lena," she keeps saying her name, her palm warm on Lena's cheek, and all Lena can do is nod. Tears are still streaming down her face and if she opens her mouth, she's afraid of what will come out.
So, she nods. She nods and she tries to breathe, tries to follow Andrea's counting.
Her breathing settle, and she can feel the whoosh of relief from Andrea.
"There we go, just breathe, just breathe," she coos, running her fingers through Lena's hair.
"I'm sorry," Andrea tells her, "God, Lena. I'm so sorry, I should not have sprung it on you like that. I'm so stupid. So, so stupid. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
She says sorry over and over. pressing it to Lena's hair, to Lena's forehead, anywhere within reach.
"T-there's no signature," Lena manages to say, she feels Andrea tense beneath her. "No name. I don't know why- I don't know why I can't remember her name."
Her lips move against Andrea's exposed collarbone, and she wonders if that's the reason something is drumming loud beneath the skin Lena's pressed to.
"She couldn't sign it, I think."
"I think so, too," Andrea agrees quietly.
She was the other woman, of course, she couldn't sign it. It was already an act of bravery to send it to a place where Lillian Luthor resides. Signing it would've meant more than danger.
"You were a kid," Andrea whispers, "You were a kid, Lena. It's okay if you don't remember."
But it's not. Because, because her mother loved her so much and Lena can't even remember her name.
"She said, I wasn't going to be a Luthor, in the letter, she said."
And that, that must mean something, right? That must mean that everyone else is wrong, she's not just a Luthor. She wasn't supposed to be one anyway.
Kieran.
"I'm so sorry, Lena," Andrea says again and Lena's unsure what she's still apologizing for.
"Kieran, Andrea. Kieran. I don't think that's supposed to be my middle name." She pulls away from her place on Andrea's chest to look at her.
She turns around, reaches for the letter discarded on the table. Her hands doesn't tremble much this time.
"Look, there, see," she points at the line, "She said, Lena Kieran. I think, I think that's a surname."
A clue.
A thread to pull on.
A part of her that connects them together.
Andrea stares at her silently, "I think you might be right."
Lena's mind is going a mile a minute now, she would have to research. She would need Brainy's help, a database, she needs access to a database, lists of orphanages, records that Lillian might have hidden about her.
"Lena," Andrea calls, "Slow down."
"I- I wasn't-" A blush rises to her cheeks, "I wasn't doing anything."
"Yes, you were. I can hear you thinking."
She doesn't answer, just slumps back into Andrea again, buries her red face out of sight.
"I'll help you," Andrea murmurs, "I'll help you. You don't have to do it alone. Not anymore."
"Okay," she says, dares to kiss at Andrea's jaw. "Thank you," she breathes against her skin.
There's so much to unpack, so much to do, so much to say.
But it can wait, it can wait.
"You jump, I jump."
#when this came into my brain it would not go away#so instead of listening to oral comm class i made an outline for this fic#and instead of going to sleep for a 6:45 am class i'm writing this#it's always the mommy issues isnt it?#dead moms club represent!#if u see a typo no u didnt#the reckless writer writes#a rojascorp ficlet of sorts#look at that a new tag!#rojascorp#rojascorp fic
46 notes
·
View notes
Text
Thinking about Marcy Wu
There’s just… A lot of grounds for Marcy to end up really bitter and jealous after all of this, when it’s said and done; Especially the longer she spends healing in a vat. One might say ‘green with envy’ even, if they were to be cruel…
This all started because Marcy was about to lose it all. She was about to lose her home, life, and friendship with her two deep and intimate childhood best friends… Anne and Sasha may have had their toxicity that resulted in Anne’s birthday being somewhat ruined, but they weren’t going to lose anything.
Things would always stay the same for them, between them; Because I can see Marcy, in her admiration of them and self-loathing of herself, thinking that her friends wouldn’t REALLY miss her, that she values them, far more than they value her… And even if the feeling was mutual, well, at least Anne and Sasha had each other and their own social skills.
And if Marcy spends all her time in Season 3 just healing in a vat, having lost agency, needing to be rescued and just being left out… It’ll suck. She doesn’t get to be cool, to become a powerful warrior who goes on adventures, the way Anne and Sasha do. Marcy doesn’t get to assert herself, to put herself out there in the world, to really leave her own mark and exercise her initiative, she’ll just… Passively wait. Passively wait and do nothing, be miserable and lonely.
I can easily see Marcy becoming bitter over how Anne and Sasha got traumatized like her, but at least THEIR trauma came in the form of fun adventures with real friends, instead of just… Boring, crippling loneliness, floating around with nothing but her own bad memories and coma to keep her company; That and Andrias and his master, whose presence only makes things worse.
Warning: LOTS of text below!!!
Anne and Sasha get to be cool and confident, something Marcy always admired them for; For being something SHE’s not, because she thinks lowly of herself. Because she doesn’t like herself, it’s why she’s so excited about the idea of metamorphosis and change and becoming something new… Which is ironic, because she didn’t like the change her parents presented, and frankly, who would? Marcy wanted change but in a good way, of course- And hopefully with her motifs of metamorphosis, they’ll come to fruition with Marcy really getting to grow, heal, and recover into someone who can feel good in her own skin, just like the Anne she so admires and sang a song about how she’s finally herself and it’s no big deal with.
Marcy’s friends get to be the charismatic leaders, the heroes everyone else looks up to; But Marcy, when she tries to be the same? She just loses things. She only becomes more pathetic. Anne and Sasha get to have real families, Marcy just gets betrayed and manipulated and is just as lonely, if not moreso, because now she’s lost her friends! Which would be ironic to think I imagine, because I feel Anne and Sasha would probably be much more willing to rekindle connections with and forgive Marcy, than towards one another… Well, at least Anne. Sasha would be willing to forgive Anne, because there’s not really anything she needs to forgive in the first place, she was the perpetrator…
But anyhow, it’s easy for Marcy to be caught up in what she thinks her friends have over her, and in a lot of ways, she’s right! It’ll be important that she remembers what Anne said, how Anne admired Marcy’s intelligence, how she seemingly won the hearts of Newtopia’s citizens… But then, who there seems to genuinely care for and admire Marcy, the way Anne is considered a member of the community back in Wartwood, or Sasha’s own leadership? Will the people of Newtopia mourn Marcy, ask questions of her? It’d be so sweet if they did so, and Marcy found out that these strangers who she didn’t think she’d made an impression on, were dazzled and grateful for all of the little improvements she made to their life.
Yet, even if Marcy still has/had some good things… It really would be easy for her to feel, and not without justification, that Anne and Sasha may have gotten traumatized- But at least they got to learn things and have fun along the way, make real friends in the process. Marcy didn’t get to do any of that, and got even more trauma than those two, more loneliness, in addition to the loss she was going to experience at home, the loss she couldn’t imagine THEM understanding;
At least until Anne was separated from her own parents, Anne did lose that herself and Marcy needs to understand that. Anne did have something to lose, unlike Sasha at least. So yes, Marcy, Anne would understand… Because you ended up making her go through that same kind of loss, a loss that was arguably worse because Anne’s relationship with her parents is at least fully positive, a loss of her own loved ones and life at home, so you wouldn’t have to feel the loss of your friends who you considered home- Not that you really meant it, because would Marcy have really believed that the box would work?
But still, Marcy didn’t truly intend it, which is in some ways worse, because now she has to grapple with the realization that- Not only did her attempts to preserve her life and relationship result in an even greater separation, as a result of the betrayal Anne and Sasha felt… But Marcy unwittingly caused Anne to also lose a life and loving relationship at home, too- Not just with the girls, but with her parents, losing her life back on Earth! Marcy just wanted to keep HER life, but she made Anne lose her own in the process… At least, until Marcy made things right by giving Anne that life back, in addition to keeping her own real friends, in the Plantars.
And then Sasha has her physical scar, but Marcy’s wounds are even worse, and potentially debilitating for the rest of her life… If there are scars, they’re definitely worse than Sasha’s. At least Sasha’s scar was a lesson, in a sense. It was an accident, not necessarily intended by Anne, who just wanted to defend her family; And it came as a result of Sasha’s own very real mistakes in trying to kill Anne’s innocent found family. Sasha was the aggressor here, all Anne did was fight back and defend, and not even with intent to truly hurt- And Anne of course felt remorse at any of Sasha’s pain.
Marcy was manipulated. She was gaslit, betrayed, and used. She was blamed for something that wasn’t her fault, by an adult who MEANT to kill her, who didn’t care, who openly mocked her in front of her own friends. Marcy got her scar from doing the right thing, for trying to fix her mistakes and be a better person, for actually listening to her real friends… Marcy was punished for doing the right thing, and it’s so easy to see why she’d become bitter over that.
She was punished for reasonable things, for valid feelings, for understandable mistakes; Worse than Anne or Sasha, the latter of whom REALLY made mistakes, intentionally, but seems to have gotten off far better than Marcy for it! Not that I think Sasha should suffer more, no, Marcy should suffer less, and really none of them should suffer- But to Marcy, it really would seem bitterly unfair how things are effortlessly better for her friends, who just have things naturally better for them that way… While when Marcy tries to have the same, she just makes things worse, and apparently needs to be content with her lot in life or something? Even when that lot DOES get worse, because resisting that will only ruin things even more?
It’s so cruel- Marcy wanted that new life more than anyone else, she welcomed it more than the others, embraced it most, arguably worked the most to get it; At least, she tried to get the box, that’s how she might see it. So why does it elude her most, compared to the girls who reluctantly went along with it, and at times outright resisted? Of course, Marcy’s situation started off in a lofty capital with a king who attended to her every need, so in many ways her situation isn’t comparable to Anne and Sasha’s… But then, Anne and Sasha got real friends and connections and weren’t manipulated and used, betrayed and murdered. Really, you can’t compare trauma like that…
But to Marcy? Well, she just got murdered… And honestly, that could easily be considered just as, if not moreso, traumatic than whatever horrid things Anne and Sasha went through. Her world collapsed around her, she was impaled and torn down to the bone spiritually and physically; So yes! The suffering she was owed, when Marcy initially got off scot-free, while Anne and Sasha had to grapple with a dangerous environment- It DID arrive! And arguably worse, at least to Marcy, not that she’d fully admit it because she thinks she deserves it; Because she was beaten down for doing the right thing, for admitting how she felt.
You can’t compare trauma, Anne and Sasha DID suffer, even if they got real friends; But then again… Marcy didn’t get real friends, and while she didn’t suffer at first, well- You could easily say that everything that transpired in True Colors, the genuine betrayal and wounding there, more than made up for that initial lofty easiness that Marcy had. Suddenly her luxuries compared to Anne and Sasha’s don’t seem as unfair, especially when Marcy was murdered, by someone who was never her friend, and never even got the family she desired.
And even when this is all over… What about her life back home? Will those things change… Assuming her parents haven’t already moved without her? Her own blood family has left her beind, just like the found family Marcy hoped to have, if she ever had it at all to begin with- Either through Anne and Sasha, or Andrias? There’s nothing back there, besides her two friends… And they had been in Amphibia. But now Anne’s back on Earth with her blood family… But Sasha, does she have someone there?
If Anne is happier there, if Marcy and Sasha don’t have anyone to go back to besides the girl who DOES have others besides them… Then, maybe those two can find solace with one another in Amphibia, together. Sasha didn’t seem all too eager about her parents, and seemed fine with staying in Amphibia forever… Perhaps, hopefully, her and Marcy can talk over this. They can bond over their loneliness towards Earth, and then Marcy can realize that she wasn’t so lonely after all… That the other girls DID understand what she was going through, or about to; Anne understood what it was like to lose a family and home she loved… And Sasha, well, she knows what it’s like to have nothing to go back to, not really.
Maybe Marcy just needed to be brave enough to just trust and ask them, openly, up-front, since the beginning… To tell Anne and Sasha about her predicament, even before they were transported to Amphibia. But when she did finally tell them, it was too late, not by Marcy’s choice but by Andrias’ as a means to spite and belittle her further… And it just resulted in Marcy feeling at her loneliest and most isolated, most terrible and self-loathing, than she had ever been. Lonely but when surrounded by others who had each other, a cruel irony that makes it infinitely more terrible.
So, maybe she shouldn’t have spoken up at all to begin with, or done it sooner; But doing it again, or any other time from now on… Honestly, it might be better if Marcy just kept things to herself, as always. Maybe she’s better off by herself, her own pain and insecurities and loneliess heard only by herself. But then, maybe, just maybe… There’s Sasha, who’s still in Amphibia, as someone who also wants to stay in a sense. As someone who like Anne arrived there against her will and hated it, but then learned to like it… And unlike Anne, has no reason to go back. Of the two other girls, the one who really has no reason to go back to earth and all the reason to stay in Amphibia, is the one who did stay there; With Marcy…
In some ways, Sasha is also lonely like Marcy. She’s definitely got less found family than Anne with the Plantars, and Grime, while good in a lot of ways, is admittedly pretty imperfect. Who knows, maybe Sasha is there to rescue and save Marcy, as the girl most capable of understanding her in a sense, of appreciating what Marcy did, but also condemned, her to. Maybe Marcy can understand, if she doesn’t already, because she probably already does, that while the two girls found good amidst all of this, they didn’t really need to go through that trauma and risk and separation from their old home and family to do so, not without consent at least.
Maybe if Marcy had been open and upfront about running away with the two girls, to begin with… Maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe one in particular would’ve agreed… Or they’d have both worked to help her out, to work something out. And Anne… Anne, she knows what it’s like to not want to lose that family and life of hers, she DID just go through that so Marcy didn’t have to, in a sense… But now, Marcy lost that too. So Anne understands, and even if she’s angry that Marcy accidentally projected that pain onto her, initially forced her to bear the brunt of it for her; Maybe Anne can understand, and make peace with that realization. To understand Marcy’s choices, in a way that still preserves Anne’s own autonomy of course.
And that family that Anne did lose, or feared being taken away from… Maybe Marcy can be a part of that family, too. Maybe she can understand Anne’s fear in losing them, by learning to love them in that same way too- Not so she can also lose those people, but maybe, just maybe, Marcy can be included. They can both understand one another, and Sasha can understand them, all three towards one another, can truly get what the others are going through, while still standing up for themselves, and helping the others.
…Even so; It doesn’t change how Marcy was betrayed, used, and murdered, and never got the family that her friends found. There’s bound to be some understandable bitterness there, and hopefully, Marcy can catch up to Anne and Sasha and not be left behind… Maybe she doesn’t need to make her own separate family of her own; Maybe all she has to do is share in the one her friends have made themselves. And, maybe it’s never too late to succeed in the first place- Marcy has met Yunnan, Olivia, and Maddie. Just because Anne and Sasha did it first, doesn’t mean Marcy won’t ever…
…But it will suck to be left behind initially, especially if it ends for Anne and Sasha, just as it begins for Marcy. She just wishes she was there with them, instead of just having the same things –confidence, family, happiness- as them… Honestly, Marcy would prefer to be with Anne and Sasha, than to have those same things as them; But here’s hoping she can have both in the end. Here’s hoping, at least, that she won’t be lonely any longer… Even if it’ll hurt to see Anne and Sasha be together in ways that leave Marcy behind.
Then again- It seems Marcy has things she can participate with in each friend, that the third doesn’t understand; Her and Sasha not having anything back at Earth, Marcy and Anne having that family and life they were torn away from. Each girl is also lonely in a sense, and feels like they’re left out and not understood in certain ways; Sasha and Marcy betrayed Anne, Marcy and Anne hung out together… They’re all going through the same pain, and if they understand what the others go through, and let the others know that they understand-
Well, they might be able to reconcile. Because as Hop Pop said, actually talking about and confronting the problems you have, will allow one another to know about and recognize and accommodate those issues, to actually work with them. And again, Marcy was used and murdered and never got that chance to make connections, and if she spends so much time in a vat, will definitely be bitter over a lot of things she unfairly missed out on. But… here’s hoping the future can make up for all of it, and heal over the losses and loneliness of the past, and make the past’s pain redundant. Here’s hoping.
#amphibia#amphibia marcy#marcy wu#amphibia anne#anne boonchuy#amphibia sasha#sasha waybright#meta#angst#speculation#character analysis
75 notes
·
View notes
Text
This one’s a long one, sorry for all the backstory!
Potential tw for those who need it: body horror, loss of function, referenced violence and death
Horrorswap
A Fallen Human’s rampage has left the Underground in shambles. The monarchs and all of the collected souls are gone, many monsters are dust, the Royal Scientist has vanished, and the food supply is running out.
Alphys, the Captain of the Royal Guard, ascends to the throne. In spite of her grief over loved ones lost, she takes her new mantle with grim stoicism and makes a plan for the hope and safety of all monsterkind. They only need one more human to fall and then... she’ll take their soul and absorb it to cross the Barrier, the plan Queen Toriel had wanted to follow all along, but had been too afraid to; afraid of leaving her people without a leader in case she never came back.
Being left without a leader again is no longer the worst potential outcome for monsterkind and Alphys is willing to take the risk.
The waiting for that one last catalyst-human is...hard. On everybody, but especially the new Queen, thrust under so much responsibility with such high stakes, after so much loss.
Sans, one of the only best friends she has left, does his best to talk to her and to get her to open up instead of internalizing her feelings, but she’s in no way ready to talk and when he keeps pushing...
Well.
Even a little angry shove with Intent can do damage to a monster. Only half an HP in this case, but when the monster only has 1 HP to begin with, it’s still nothing to sneeze at.
Alphys is horrified, no matter that Sans is ready and willing to brush it off--his fault for pushing, he understands it was an accident, he’s usually a much quicker dodge--and however brief, the Incident just makes her shut down even more.
It also sets the stage for Sans to return home with half his HP gone to horrify his brother in equal measure.
Papyrus hadn’t liked the talk of killing humans when Toriel was alive Queen, but now it’s worse and everything else is getting worse by the day, sometimes by the hour. The Fallen Human betrayed them, Undyne is just gone, everyone is starting to go hungry, and now his brother’s at risk too?
Papyrus is scared and he’s not used to the feeling. He never thought about Sans’ 1HP before; he never had to. Sans was always just his tough and energetic big brother, and in their peaceful world it had never even occurred to him that something could... happen.
He can’t lose Sans too...
Sans, expectedly, gives Papyrus the same ‘IT’S FINE’ speech he gave Alphys, to similarly dubious effect, but his pep talks just aren’t in top form these days--he’s got a lot on his mind too.
In this plan of the Queen’s, for the Next Human, he’ll be the one with the responsibility of escorting them straight to the Capital to meet her axe. His sentry station is the first out of the Ruins, no one in the Underground can travel quicker than he can...and he was the Judge who let the Fallen Human pass, he didn’t stop them when he could have, it’s only right that this responsibility now should fall on him no matter how guilty the thought of leading a probably innocent human to their death makes him feel.
Eventually, the Next Human falls. Sans does his duty and escorts them to the Capital, promising them a way out… And in the split second before Alphys pulls them into their final Encounter, after they realize the friendly skeleton has betrayed them, they swing on him.
Sans dodges it, just as he promised Alphys he could, and as he promised Papyrus he would...
But it’s close, and it digs the thorn of doubt just a little bit deeper.
Alphys kills the human and absorbs their soul, subduing it beneath her will to save what’s left of her people. She crosses through the Barrier to retrieve more souls, promising to return in a few weeks, a month at most. If she’s not back by then...
.........
In the meantime…Sans stews.
He’s in charge while Alphys is gone. Another human could fall. They could fall at any time and it would be on him to...well he wouldn’t want to kill them but he’d surely have to contain them somehow, so they didn’t wreak the same kind of destruction that the Fallen Human did…
And now, with everyone’s doubts in his head, layered on top of his own...
What if he can’t?
What if he needs...help?
Sans used to be a scientist, back in the day. He knows where the Royal Labs kept their DT, extracted but never used--deemed too dangerous to experiment with, even on monsters who were already Fallen Down.
It’s unfortunate that Undyne of Underswap never ran the DT experiments, because if she had, Sans might’ve used an even lower dose of the raw Determination he injected himself with in his anxiety-driven attempt to become stronger.
And Sans does get stronger. His HP increases significantly above the single-digit it’s been his whole life... but it’s... not without its drawbacks.
He doesn’t go home for several long days until he can get it all under control, and by then, Papyrus is suspicious, all too aware that Sans seems different somehow, more...muted and serious, intentionally calm...
He doesn’t understand it, and he definitely doesn’t like it, but figures it’s stress getting to him or something… They’re all stressed these days, food growing scarcer and scarcer as they wait for the Queen to come back or not.
Papyrus doesn’t really understand what’s happened until another human falls, before Alphys has returned.
Sans sees the human too, and he’s frozen with indecision of what to do. He’s stuck between his pacifist code and the need to at least act, for the good of all monsterkind...!
And right there, right in front of Papyrus, Sans starts to melt.
Papyrus, naturally, freaks out, launching himself into his first panic attack in literal years--and why wouldn’t he? This is obviously his brother dying, the last person he had to hold onto in all of this and Sans is dying, in a horrible, awful, messy way that he didn’t even know monsters could die, and…
Papyrus isn’t proud of it, but he runs away.
Beaten down by weeks and weeks of hunger, of worrying about his brother, of grieving for Undyne, of thinking about all the undeserving and probably innocent humans that were being hunted down and killed up on the Surface just to get them out, his body and soul are at their limit.
Papyrus Falls Down.
By the time Sans, not as dead as previously suspected, finds his brother, Papyrus is already unconscious, his condition looking bad—already starting to disintegrate to dust—and there’s only one option that remains.
As much as Sans fears being wrong again; condemning his brother to his own semi-solid existence…
It’s Papyrus.
And he’d rather Papyrus be alive than not, so he gives Papyrus a dose of DT, too.
This time, it works.
Papyrus stops dusting and only remains comatose for another day before coming to and having a horrendously upsetting heart-to-heart with Sans, just a little too late to do either of them any good.
The hapless human who triggered the whole scene wanders straight through the Underground, all the way to the Barrier without ever encountering another monster—the survivors of the last human they remember too weak and afraid to even think of confronting the new one.
They arrive just in time to see Alphys’ only mildly overdue return through the now shattered Barrier…and quite naturally, panic and flee up to the Surface, never to be seen again.
Monsters are free.
Alphys turns herself in for the humans she killed as a gesture of goodwill and ensures that the rest of monsterkind can live peacefully amongst humans once and for all.
And everyone else just has to learn how to keep going with the scars of the experience.
Horrorswap Sans (Merc)
The DT injection destabilized his form, tied directly to his emotional state: relatively pleasant or middling emotions can make him drip a bit, while strong or negative ones can reduce him to a puddle making disturbing attempts to form limbs. He can still maintain structural stability, but only by staying in tight control of his emotions as much as possible
He’s researching ways to properly blend the DT into his magic to stop having to worry about melting at inconvenient moments, or at least to give himself control over when and how he liquidizes. It’s…a slow-going process…
Absolutely blames himself for his brother’s near-death experience and partial dusting (and the consequences therein), and for what he did to himself. If he’d just waited a few more days, if he hadn’t gotten so caught up in fears about the future and self-doubt, then… Well. It was senseless and there’s no changing it now, that’s what kills him the most
There’s a rift between him and his brother now and it’s jarring from how close they used to be. He doesn’t like it that he can’t get Papyrus to talk to him anymore, or spend time with him just…hanging out… but he figures it’s probably no less than what he deserves, for his own stupid hubris…
He gets into yoga at some point so he can still train his body in a lower stress way, and runs a small home cake-decorating business out of his kitchen, and between that and a deep, abiding love of all the science-fiction media there is on the Surface to engage with, he’s actually mostly hopeful about the future
Horrorswap Papyrus (Ell)
Not unscarred by his brush with Falling, low-energy and missing his legs above the knee, both turned to dust before he could properly stabilize. Wheelchair-bound and not too happy about it, but nowhere near ready to even have a discussion about prosthetics just yet
Definitely struggling with the loss, and the rest of the trauma of everything else that happened Underground, and doing himself a pretty huge disservice by figuring he should just ‘get over it.’ Grappling with a lot of bitterness and frustration over it all and trying to either blow it off or ignore it
Absolutely blames himself for his brother’s instability and the loss of his own legs—if he hadn’t psyched Sans out, if he hadn’t immediately freaked out and jumped to conclusions like an idiot when he saw… Well. It was senseless and there’s no changing it now, that’s what kills him the most
He hates the rift between him and his brother now too, they used to talk openly about whatever, they could just be brothers... but then The Human and the secrets and the lies… He wants to fix it all somehow but it’s so raw and he just doesn’t know what to say—he can’t read his brothers face like he used to anymore, and half the time it feels like he’s living with a stone-faced stranger…
He’s teaching himself some programming languages in his spare time around the house, thinking he might try to freelance someday. Still into writing and fiction, but his tastes have taken a turn for the darker fare, and horror/ghost stories are becoming a great outlet for him—he spends a lot of time with creepypastas from reddit playing in the background while he tries to figure out why his stupid code won’t work
440 notes
·
View notes
Text
concubine nhs pt8 / on AO3
It’s always nice when Nie Mingjue comes to visit, and it’s always awful.
Most days, Nie Huaisang can pretend that he’s doing fine. Three years is a long time to get used to living like this, and he doesn’t miss the world outside the imperial palace, because there's nothing beyond those high walls. As long as he can believe that, he's fine.
On the first year of his life as a concubine, the emperor took him along when he went to the summer palace for the hotter months of the year, but that went poorly. In the summer palace it was too hard to avoid imperial relatives, ministers, and all manners of people eager to get in the good graces of Nie Huaisang, hoping it would give them influence over the emperor. Nie Huaisang had to ask to return to the capital, to hide in his little house where nobody can use him for their own schemes. The year after, the emperor eventually gave up when Nie Huaisang refused to return to the summer palace.
It's easier like this.
There's nothing outside Nie Huaisang’s little house.
There's nothing, until Nie Mingjue comes to visit and brings the world with him.
In those last three years, Nie Mingjue has visited five times. It is always the most exquisite of tortures when they are alone together. Nie Mingjue won't put up with his brother's attempts to cut himself from everything that's outside the palace, and tells him about what life is like out there.
He talks about the war, about home, about the people Nie Huaisang once counted as his friends. The Jiang siblings are doing well, he'll say, and Meng Yao, whom he stole from Nie Funyu, is the best personal servant he's ever had and will get promoted. The Wen have besieged Yunmeng for two month and nearly got in, until Wei Wuxian came up with another of his stratagems and saved the city. Last month, Nie Mingjue captured Wen Xu, who chose to kill himself with poison rather than be dragged in front of the emperor or used as a hostage. And just like Nie Huaisang suggested last time, they're sowing discord among the Wen's ranks, which might give them a chance to weaken them, and then perhaps they'll be able to get to the Nightless City before the end of the year.
When Nie Mingjue arrives, Nie Huaisang is always subdued at first, and reluctant to hear about these things. It no longer concerns him, he's already doing his part, he can't get involved, concubines who do politics never end well, and… and Nie Mingjue doesn't care. He continues talking until Nie Huaisang, his curiosity awakened, finds himself asking questions because Nie Mingjue is the worst storyteller, always leaving things so vague, forgetting important details.
Maybe he does it on purpose, so Nie Huaisang will become hungry for more, hungry enough to ask about this world he's become so good at forgetting, his question growing more and more precise as the afternoon passes. He needs to know what Wei Wuxian did exactly, how dangerous it was, whether it can be reproduced somewhere else. How was Wen Xu captured? What became of his wife and son? Are they really hoping to get Wen Zhuliu to their side? And what about that city they’d captured last year, do they still have it? Why not use it then?
Nie Mingjue smiles and answers everything, so Nie Huaisang continues asking more questions. Like every good caged bird, he knows more than one song to please those around him, because not everyone wants to hear the same tune.
There is only one topic that Nie Mingjue normally avoids, it might truly hurt his brother. At least, he usually avoids it. But not this time. This time, perhaps because the end of the war is finally on the horizon, Nie Mingjue asks his brother if he’s happy.
The question takes Nie Huaisang by surprise.
Of course he’s happy. He’s well fed, he has everything he can ask for, clothes and ink and books, he’s even going to have birds, his very own birds, all because he mentioned in passing his childhood love of them, and so the emperor decided to build him a whole aviary, all for himself, one where other people won’t be allowed to pester him.
Who wouldn’t be happy? Who wouldn’t be satisfied?
Nie Huaisang would have to be stupid to be unhappy.
But he can tell, also, that this isn’t what Nie Mingjue wants to hear. Nie Huaisang has become a little too used to reassuring people and being what they want him to be. The emperor likes to have a loving little songbird who worries about nothing. Nie Mingjue likes people to be clever and determined, to be independent.
It’s so easy to be what Nie Mingjue wants him to be. To say that no, he’s not quite happy, but willing to endure it all for the good of the empire. It’s not even a lie, Nie Huaisang is glad to be useful, and he’d do this even if he hated it, as long as it can help his brother.
“I’m going to take you back home someday,” Nie Mingjue, so fierce that it startles his brother. “The day Father dies, I’ll ask to have you back, I swear.”
Nie Huaisang hesitates. Home is an odd concept. Home is here, in his perfect little cage, living his perfect little life, happy in the arms of a perfect man who would give him the moon. This is home. It has always been home. It will always be home.
Home, he vaguely remembers, is also a great house where he was always busy. A place where people talked to him just because he was there, or because they had a task for him to do, and it was all they expected of him. He remembers laughing and sharing gossip, he remembers going fishing with some other boys. He recalls his aunts and uncles, working in his father’s home or in the nearby town, feeding him candies, asking after his studies, reminding him to be a good obedient son. And there were also evenings spent with Nie Mingjue when he was there, listening to his tales from the border, sharing jokes, being comforted by him when he missed his mother.
Home was all this, once, but now that feels like someone else’s dream.
Nie Huaisang scolds his brother for speaking like this, for not understanding that, much like wild birds kept too long, he’s not sure he could survive outside his cage anymore. He’s happy here. He’s home here.
Nie Huaisang knows he’s lucky, and he knows he must protect his brother, so he quickly changes the conversation to something safer, and waits for the emperor to return. Then Nie Mingjue will see that Nie Huaisang is, in fact, happy enough, that the emperor is good to him, that this little cage is a great place to live.
Everything always feels better when the emperor is there.
It's odd that the emperor isn't there yet.
Eventually, some servants arrive carrying a meal for Nie Huaisang and his guest, as well as an apology from the emperor who cannot join them. Something came up, as happens sometimes. Nie Huaisang is sad, as he always is when the emperor cannot join him, but Nie Mingjue's company makes up for it. They chat some more about the war, using weiqi stones on a map to imagine how things might go. Nie Huaisang, who plays the Wens in black, almost wins that little game.
"You're really wasted as a concubine," Nie Mingjue says as they tidy everything.
"Maybe, but the food here is better than in the army," Nie Huaisang laughs.
-
Nie Mingjue doesn't come the next day, and neither does the emperor. The two facts are linked, since they and some other ministers are stuck in a council that lasts until nightfall. Nie Huaisang misses both of them, but knows it’s already lucky either of them has any time at all to waste with him.
-
Nie Mingjue does come the day after, but it's to say goodbye. He really only came to the capital to ask for more funds and more men. The war is going well, but if the Wens find out that he's gone they could try to take advantage of his absence, so he cannot linger.
Again, the emperor cannot join them. Three days without a visit is unusual, but not unheard off. Nie Huaisang tries not to show that it depresses him, for Nie Mingjue's sake. His brother understands when this whole thing is about duty, but gets puzzled or angry whenever Nie Huaisang tries to explain that he truly enjoys the emperor’s company because it is also about love.
He thinks Nie Huaisang is lying.
Nie Mingjue doesn’t like being lied to.
It's easier to just say the right things, to be what others expect him to be. It's the best way to ensure that people never stop loving him.
There's no lying in that, Nie Huaisang figures. Not really. He really is the loving little bird who loves poetry and painting. He is also the dedicated little brother who studies the war and guesses at its outcome.
He's never lying, and it's his own fault if he's too complicated to be loved as his entire self.
-
The emperor doesn't come.
Four days is a long time, unheard of.
The emperor doesn't come.
Five days now.
The emperor doesn't come.
But his brother does, on that sixth day, because the prince has never yet missed one of their weekly meetings.
"Has anything happened recently?" Nie Huaisang asks him, trying to sound calm and collected.
The prince likes the quiet. Usually Nie Huaisang respects that, copying the behaviour of his guest, silent and elegant, wanting the prince to like him. They rarely ever speak while having tea togethr. But today, Nie Huaisang is too worried to keep his mouth shut.
The prince throws him a puzzled look. He puts down his glass of tea, slow and elegant and irritatingly perfect.
"You don't know?" the prince asks in a voice devoid of emotion.
"Know what?" Nie Huaisang asks, wishing for once that he'd made more connections . He doesn't even trust his servants with any confidences, worried they might turn against him given a chance, but maybe that was a mistake. He's relied too much on the emperor as his only source of information about the palace, and now…
"I don't know either," the prince clarifies. "But he stopped visiting you. It has been noticed. A dispute?"
Nie Huaisang shakes his head. The last time they saw each other, the emperor was in an excellent mood. He seemed so happy that Nie Mingjue was coming to the capital, so excited to see his old friend again. It had been a happy night, they had chatted and laughed, they had gone to sleep holding each other close… in a rare stroke of luck, Nie Huaisang had even briefly woken up early enough to see the emperor as he left the bed the morning after, begging for a kiss before going back to sleep.
“Did he have an argument with my brother?” Nie Huaisang wonders, before shaking his head again. “No, da-ge would have said… Could your uncle have been pushing him to get a wife again?”
“He would visit you more, not less,” the prince calmly argues, starting to look puzzled as well. “I hope it does not last.”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Nie Huaisang says with a polite bow. “When I find what I have done wrong, I will endeavour to improve myself so I do not disappoint again.”
The prince says nothing. He picks up his tea again, finishes it, puts down the empty glass again.
“It will not last,” the prince says. “Brother cares too much.”
That’s the end of their conversation. The prince has obligations, and cannot stay. Nie Huaisang, ever the polite host for his brother-in-law, thanks the prince for coming, apologizes for bothering him with private matters, and promises again to do better in the future and avoid worrying anyone.
He’s then left alone again, and feeling lonely in a way he hadn’t in a long while. The emperor isn’t visiting on purpose, then. The prince did not say it exactly like that, but if the emperor had merely been busy, he would have said so. Has Nie Huaisang done something? Did he fail to do something? But it’s so odd. They’ve never had an argument, not really. The closest they’ve been to that was disagreeing here and there on the value of a poet’s work, and even then they’d always made up again before the evening was over.
It makes no sense.
Still there is that hope, however frail, that the prince might talk to his brother. Maybe he will complain against being dragged into their private life, and demand that the emperor sort this out so he doesn’t have to deal with Nie Huaisang’s emotional outbursts again. Or perhaps he’ll be nicer than that. The prince did seem concerned, and apparently he likes Nie Huaisang, or at least gets as close to it as he can ever get, so perhaps he will put in a kind word to his brother about that poor neglected little bird, all alone in his pretty cage…
But the emperor doesn’t come that night, and Nie Huaisang, alone in a bed too cold, struggles to fall asleep.
-
Then, after a week, while Nie Huaisang is reading the commentary to a military treaty, there is a knock on the door.
When he opens that door, the emperor is there, severe and distant like a true son of heavens, showing no hint of the gentle and tender man Nie Huaisang is used to seeing inside his little house. He is terrifying and distant, almost reminding Nie Huaisang of his father. Reminding him, also, who this man he loves truly is, when he's not playing pretend with him in their little house.
“We must talk,” the emperor says in a cold voice that tolerates no defiance.
And just like that, Nie Huaisang knows that it’s over.
#xisang#nie huaisang#nie mingjue#lan xichen#mo dao zu shi#mdzs#jau writes#concubine au#well now we're all caught up to the first chapter yay#and all this just because I'm procrastinating on my time travel fic lol#but also yeah this au might go quiet again as I try to figure out where this all goes next
36 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
thusspoke
『 ヘブンズ ・ ドアー。』
unlikelybananaoafpony
Untitled
largando
Untitled
theabstruseone
Darryl Mott