#something wrong and inhuman yet melodious all the same

[corvidaeconundrum]

My Mimic!Cesar playlist thus far! ( @mustangs-flames )

I think it’s pretty okay, wanted to order it in the way he changes and advances through the story, but havent really gotten to that yet so it’s pretty mixed up. Somewhat in that order though.

Sorry if any of these are odd, I’m going off my personal feelings here✌️ Working on a human cesar and mark one currently, both are making me kick scream and cry

#corvidae says things #spotify playlist #hail true body #htb #htb mimic!cesar #htb playlist #this was made at 3 am but I think it looks fine probably #he is verg jack stauber and vocaloid coded to me though #something wrong and inhuman yet melodious all the same #i want to rant so bad about how im making these playlists cause OUGH #i am putting way yo much connective thought into these #Spotify

[firephoenix2305]

This is a Rory Williams appreciation post

Because I have recently finished season 6 and I need to shout about it to someone.

(Disclaimer: Severe season 5 and 6 spoilers ahead. If you haven't watched them yet, run away very very fast. Or don't, it's up to you. But you have been warned)

Okay, don't get me wrong. I love Amy, she's great. And I love The Doctor, because well, he's The Doctor, and also Matt Smith, so he's great too.

But.

But. But. But

If I had to pick a favorite...

Rory. Fucking.Arthur. Williams.

I don't even know where to start with this man.

The way he loves Amy. The way he cares about her more than the entire goddamn universe. The way he DOES NOT BUDGE from her side even when she kisses another man the night before their wedding, then proceeds to severely third-wheel him in a very Mickey Smith sort of way for the better part of two episodes (which in retrospect isn't really that much, but STILL) and takes her sweet time to realize she is in love with him.

We are talking, ladies and gentlemen, about the Last goddamn Centurion. This is a man who willingly lived through every single second of 2000 years of human history only to protect Amy Pond. 2000 years without so much as a wink of sleep, or rest, or any synonym of the word. How does this man's heart not physically burst from the sheer amount of love he has for Amy?!?!

I just...I want one. I want a Rory. Does anybody know where I can find a Rory? Pretty please?

And another thing. I'm not sure what it was that Rory did to the writers of this show but JESUS CHRIST. Why so much hate?

And just to prove I'm not even exaggerating, here's a brief summary of some of the things which have happened to this poor guy in seasons 5 and 6. (From the point where he officially joins Amy and The Doctor in the TARDIS onwards, that is)

- S5E7. Killed by the Eknodine in the Dream Lord's fake reality. (And given that horrible ponytail, btw)

- S5E9. Murdered in cold blood by a rogue Silurian, then absorbed by a time crack and hence deleted from the memory of the entire universe. (Being murdered obviously wasn't enough, no)

- S5E13. This is a big one. Revived as an Auton, realized Amy doesn't remember him, then when Amy finally does remember he unwillingly kills her because of his programming (which he eventually breaks free from), stays with the Pandorica for 2000 odd years and finally, after all of that, gets erased from reality. Again. (But it's okay because The Doctor has rebooted the universe, so real Rory came back. Or, rather, never left in the first place. Doctor Who is complicated, okay?!)

- S6E3. To start off the season well, he drowns and practically dies, and is then transferred to a spaceship healing facility where he is essentially hooked to a live support system until Amy brings him back to life.

- S6E4. Tortured and "killed" by the thing controlling the TARDIS, who had a blast warping time and making him go crazy and ultimately making him die of old age. (Not sure if it even counts as a death, but his rotting skeleton was there, so I'm counting it)

- S6E6. Finds out that his wife is not actually his wife but is instead a bunch of sentient flesh which is pretending to be his wife; and that his actual wife is nine months pregnant and currently giving birth to their daughter God knows where. (I did say it was complicated).

- S6E7. Finds Amy and baby Melody, only to lose Melody to the creepy eye patch lady because having lost Amy in the exact same way the previous episode clearly wasn't enough torture for him.

- S6E10. Has "other" Amy (the older version) absolutely hate his guts for something which isn't his fault at all, and has to re-convince her that she loves him. Again. (Seriously, Amy?). Then, he has to sacrifice the other Amy to save his Amy, which was extremely painful for him. (Man, this season gets weirder and weirder, doesn't it?)

- S6E13. Suffers inhumane amounts of pain and almost dies (again) when he lets himself be electrocuted by the eye patch thingy to give Amy, River and The Doctor time to escape. (I know this wasn't technically the same Rory that went through all those other things, but I decided to include it anyway)

AND I HAVEN'T EVEN STARTED SEASON 7 YET. Give the man a break! And stop killing him, for God's sake!

(I know this won't happen, because although I haven't watched S7 I accidentally spoiled the whole weeping angel business to myself, so yeah)

And lastly, this scene >>>

Do. Not. Fuck. With the roman.

I just love him.

That is all. Thanks for hearing me out, I feel better.

(@capinejghafa was the furthest back I could track these gifs, but I don't know if they were the one who made them).

#doctor who #eleventh doctor #rory williams #amy pond #doctor who season 5 #doctor who season 6 #the last centurion #don't fuck with the roman #whovian #phoenix just rambling

[mordoriscalling]

Seeing Him For the First Time Again

In which Geralt, when waking up after tonsil removal surgery, suffers from temporary memory loss. The stunning stranger at his bedside claims that they're married. Geralt has trouble wrapping his head around it.

A little addition to the Singer and the Sailor series, but can be read as a stand-alone. Inspired by this video. Also available on AO3. 

There’s a cacophony of sounds around him but he doesn’t fully process the noise. He only knows that he’s had tonsil removal surgery. His throat sure hurts like it. His head is heavy, his mind fuzzy, it’s all wrong. He wants it to stop.

His thoughts go directly to his mouth as he mumbles, “I need medicine.”

From the right, there comes a beautiful, mellifluous voice.

“They’re bringing you some,” it says.

Startled, Geralt looks to where the words came from and –

His breath hitches in his throat and his heart skips a beat; there, right at his bedside, sits a vision.

The man is not just a man. He must be an elf, or a fae, or some other inhuman being. His face is straight out of a fairytale, and his eyes are so wide and blue. He could be an angel, with those eyes, but his body – strong neck, broad shoulders, chest hair – invites Geralt to sin.

Why would someone like this be here, watching over him?

“Did the doctors send you?” he wonders. With mouth-to-brain filter absent, he adds, “You’re eye candy.”

The otherworldly creature laughs – which is such a gorgeous melody – but god, his smile. His smile is the Sun itself.  

“Wow,” Geralt breathes out. “You’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, thank goodness Yenna isn’t here,” the guy replies, grinning. “You’d say that to her instead if she were.”

“Yenna?” Geralt echoes. The name feels familiar on his tongue for some reason. “Yenna... Yenn... Yen...”

“Yes, Yen,” the stunning stranger chimes in. “She’s visiting you with Ciri later.”

He’s somehow sure that he knows Ciri too. The next moment, he realises that Ciri and Yen are important. He feels it down to his very bones. Why? That escapes him, even though -

This train of thought is cut off by a snicker. Geralt looks at his bedside angel once more. The surreal man is holding... something, in one of his hands. It’s a really beautiful hand, as if an artist carved it from marble. The whole of him is like an artwork. He must be widely admired, with such compelling facial features and those eyes.

“Are you a model?”

“No,” the stranger denies.

That doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s so pretty. He’s pretty like a... like... somebody. He’s certainly someone. Geralt needs to get to know him.

“Who are you?” he asks. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Jaskier,” the man introduces himself. “I’m your husband.”

“You’re my husband?!” Geralt gasps in shock, not believing his ears.

“Yeah,” the model-but-not-a-model – Jaskier, yes, that name suits him – confirms.  

“Holy fuck!” he exclaims, smiling, his chest fit to burst with joy.

Jaskier chuckles so beautifully again and Geralt closes his eyes, savouring the sound. Then, a wave of nausea hits him and he can’t really focus on anything. When it passes, Geralt turns his head back to the vision at his right. His husband. That’s so incredible. And serious. They could be parents, even.

“Do we have children?”

“Depending on how you look at it,” Jaskier explains, “We have between zero to two kids.”

Geralt frowns, dumbstruck. How do you have between zero to two children with someone? He’s quite sure that having children with someone doesn’t work like that. Having children starts with... kissing... and then... Wait.

“Have we kissed yet?” he asks.

Jaskier throws his head back, laughing with his whole body. Geralt’s breath is taken away again.

“We’ve kissed a lot, darling,” Jaskier answers.

“Is that what we call each other? Darling?”

“We call each other many names, dearest.”

Suddenly, there’re many thoughts at once running through his mind. Something about “Lead me, dearest”, sirens and sea. Yes, sea, he knows that too. He knows that he knows many things; he isn’t young. But since when has he got a husband?

“How long have we been married?”

“Three years,” Jaskier replies, smiling warmly.

“Fuck yeah, I hit the jackpot!” Geralt cries triumphantly.

Jaskier is his husband. He’s his. His to love, his to touch –

“Let me see your face,” Geralt says as he reaches out to cup Jaskier’s cheek. Turning his husband’s head to the side, he gushes, “Your profile is perfect!” Then, he loses the strength to touch Jaskier, but that’s all right. He has another idea. “Turn around.”

“No,” Jaskier objects with a delighted giggle.

Geralt pouts. He just wants to see if Jaskier’s ass is as perfect as the rest of him. Not that he doubts it. Wouldn’t hurt to check, is all. Checking up facts is good.

“We’re married!” he repeats with wonder and his husband nods. “Oh fuck.”

Jaskier only laughs again and tells him to settle down. Geralt, being a good husband to his surprise husband, listens. Still confused as to how he got so lucky but overjoyed at the fact nevertheless, he drifts off to sleep.

***

Later, as the anaesthesia starts wearing off, Geralt’s memory returns, dispersing his confusion. Slowly, all the pieces fall into place:

Jaskier is not a model, but a well-known singer, who Ciri was a fan of as a teenager.

Jaskier and Geralt got together after they pretended to be engaged and actually pulled it off. They have been together for six years now.

Geralt and Jaskier call each other a sailor and a siren. “Lead me, dearest, to the coast of tomorrow” is engraved on the inside of their wedding rings.

Technically, they don’t have children together. Geralt has Ciri with Yennefer. Jaskier is Dara’s guardian. Yet, Ciri and Dara are inseparable like siblings, and Jaskier and Geralt treat them as such.

Jaskier and Geralt also have a dog and a boat. Both are of the same name.

As a retired Royal Navy commander, Geralt finally has enough time to cherish his family. He often takes care of his nephew - Eskel and Essi’s son - Nao. He does that especially when Eskel is deployed, just like Eskel used to help him with Ciri. Lambert and Aiden help Essi too. So do Yennefer and Triss. And Jaskier and his sisters with their families. Plus Ciri and Dara. And Vesemir. Jaskier’s parents as well. Really, Nao, at two-and-a-half, might already be the most spoiled child in the world. Not that he minds. He loves the attention nearly as much as he loves Jaskier’s niece, Zofia. Zofia and Nao are so adorably taken with each other that no one can quite handle it.

All in all, Geralt’s life is just so good.

“I really did hit the jackpot,” he says after they return from the hospital.

“No, my heart,” Jaskier replies, “I did.”

Then, they kiss, and the anaesthesia incident is happily forgotten.

Or so it should have been.

The reality is this: at a family gathering a week later, it turns out that Jaskier recorded the whole thing. He shows the video to everyone. Geralt has never been simultaneously laughed at and called “precious” so much in his whole life. In fact, he never wants to hear the word “precious” spoken in his vicinity ever again.

More or less fleeing this predicament, Geralt takes Roach (the dog) and goes to hide on Roach (the boat) for solid three days. He wants to stay there longer, he tries to be mad, but then Jaskier appears with an apology song.

Geralt thinks to himself he’s a rather shitty sailor, unable to resist a siren’s call.

#myfic #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfiction #modern au

[bokettochild]

We need more Time and Wild bonding

For you, Anon! And also for @1142 who requested the same thing!

Summary: Time sees his family, friends and other loved ones in his boys, but Wild especially is reminding him of himself this morning, and he wants to offer some encouragement to the poor kid.

It's quiet to read alone, listen to this!

Epona’s song drifted through the cool morning air.

The sound brought a smile to Time’s lips as he snuggled closer to the warmth pressed beside him, breathing in the clean morning air and tugging the blanket up higher on his shoulder.

He really didn’t want to wake up.

Although, he didn’t remember opening the bedroom window last-

Wait. They weren’t on the farm! They’d gone to sleep in the forest last night! There was no window to leave open, and no Malon singing or lying beside him. He shoots awake, pulling himself up with the intent of looking around camp, only to have something pull him back down towards the ground.

Looking down, he feels his scarred heart melt. Twilight twitches in his sleep, arms locking around his shoulders, sleepily groans sounding as the lad hangs off him, cold nose pressed to his neck. Tiny, whuffling snores sound from his pup as the younger man nuzzles closer, and he can only chuckle softly and rub his protégé's back lightly as he settled back down to let Twilight sleep.

He is curious who had been singing though.

A single blue eye takes in the camp as he props himself up slightly on his bedroll, careful not to disturb Twilight as he takes in where each of his boys lay.

Legend and Hyrule lay curled into each other, Legend clinging to his protégé while Hyrule’s hands lay buried in his mentor’s silky hair, a smile on the face of the younger and drool on the face of the elder*. Warriors lies close by, sprawled across his bedroll and snoring fit to wake the dead, utterly content and comfortable in the safety of his brothers and proving it with his noise. Opposite the three, Wind and Sky curl close, Sky’s sailcloth and their blankets thrown over the two leaving only Four’s left foot visible from between them.

His pup curls close to his side, one leg thrown over his waist and arms locked tight around his shoulders, holding him in place and preventing him from rising, but the bedroll on his left...

Epona’s song continues to dance through the camp, and Time’s single eye finally falls on Wild, the cook busily scrubbing out his favorite cooking pot on the very edge of camp, the familiar tune dancing off of the young one’s lips, suds rising halfway up his arms and hair thrown back in a messy bun that reminds Time strongly of Lullaby’s own hair when the woman loses patience with it. Decorum be shot, the queen will throw her own hair back with a simple hair tie in front of the whole court, ignoring how it makes her appear and continuing her duties without hair hanging in her face and her neck free from the oppressing heat of its constant curtain.

If ever he doubted that Lullaby and Shiek were the same person, each time he sees his princess behave in such a way, he’s reminded that, different time lines or no, there is still the same fiery spirit and passion for change in his friend that there had always been, and it is something he is happy to see reflected in some of his boys, along with Malon’s stubborn personality and incredible strength and kindness.

Maybe he is looking for the traits of those dearest to his heart in the boys that had pushed their way in. Be it by force or by accident as the hero might be, but it brings him no small joy to see Lullaby in Legend’s sharp glares or in Warriors’ brisk manner when planning. In Hyrule’s swift fingers or Wild’s sharp and calculating eyes. To see her in Four’s dark eyes, always thoughtful, always knowing, or in Sky’s burning passion.

It’s a wonder to see Malon in Wind’s boisterous cheer, and in Twilight’s rolling laughter. To see his wife’s mischief reflected in Wild’s luminescent gaze or her love of life in the way Legend cares for his orchard and animal friends. And the glimpse of unbelievable strength in Four’s easy lifting of weapons as big as himself, or the echo of her in the firm set of Warriors’ shoulders always makes him smile to himself.

There are others at times. Saria in Hyrule’s smile. Kafai in Wild’s laugh. Romani in Wind’s eccentric ideas, Nabooru in Legend’s firm stance and heavily lidded gaze, Navi in Sky’s light scolding and Tatl in Four’s acerbic wit. Glimpses of home and family echo around him, pulling close what reflected it and making them home and safety themselves. And over it all he can hear the winding of tunes that both tore apart and hold together the memories of his youth.

And now, one such tune, one especially close to his heart, one meant only for the Lon family and their famous steeds, dances over the edges of the camp and past the ears of the sleeping heroes as Wild lifts his cooking pot and carries it over to the fire, singing softly with faint and muddled words, many of them wrong, mumbled or tripped over, but sung all the same as food winks into being from the champion’s slate.

“-ne-ver far from home. Epona, Epona, can you hear hmm hmm, singing from in my heart, hmm-hmm-hmm.” Mumbled hums break the words as the champion works over the fire, measuring and stirring. “Something if you’re wandering far away hmm-hmm, listen for this melody calling you! Re-mem-ber that you have something-or-other to complete! I trust hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hm!”

The muddled version of the song makes him chuckle softly, startling the younger hero into spinning around, the spoon that Sky carved him brandished like a weapon as the champion prepares to defend himself against whatever he thinks may have startled him. Face beet red and growing redder.

“You have a nice singing voice.”

Wild looks instants away from combusting on the spot. “hOW- How long were you awake?”  Gone are the stumbling yet melodious trills of the cook’s voice, instead replaced with a panicked squeak only made worse by his age.

It was like the first time he’d successfully startled Shiek, both of them both still so young that their voices broke under pressure, and the thought makes him smile as he meets the startled child’s gaze.

“Long enough.”

Wild’s ears droop, quivering with shame and embarrassment as the kid’s shoulders hunch up to brush against them, eyes darting down and refusing to meet Time’s as boot scuffs the dirt softly. “I thought you guys- that is- I thought it was-” Cornflower blue glances up, meeting his own for only a second before darting away again. “I thought it was safe.”

Safe? What does the cub- Understanding dawns and he finds himself chuckling low and soft. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“It’s not that.” The champion whispers. “I just- I don’t like people...hearing.”

Oh.

Also familiar, also so very familiar. Only this time he doesn’t see his wife or sisters and brothers, or mother or friends in the flushed face of the hero before him.

A squeaky voiced young hero, who’d pulled his cap over his face more times than anyone would guess when looking at his scarred face now, had time and again been encouraged by a darting blue fairy.

“You’ve got a lovely voice Link. No shame, come on!”

Of course, fairies always like hero their Chosen sing, but Time himself had, admittedly, stumbled over notes and keys nearly as badly as his pup still does, but he’d lacked any of Twilight’s playful self-confidence to be able to own up to the harsh squeaks and shrieking chirps that erupted out of him whenever someone else tried to get him to sing, or caught him singing.

He was fine, when Navi was fast asleep or the Kolkiri were half a forest away, or when it had just been himself and Epona, trailing through the dark woods in search of a light he’d have given anything to hear encouraging him to keep trying to raise his voice. It’d been the first time he’d really tried to Sing for his fairy, but it hadn’t done anything but tempt over two fairies who already had their own Chosen, a skullkid who’d pulled him along into a world where his voice had hidden with his face behind mask after mask.

It took Malon catching him singing while at work in the barn before he’d been able to et the guts up to actually try for her, but it’d been worth it when he hadn’t had to fumble with fancy words to ask her to marry him, not when there was a song and a dance just for that that he’d learned for Kafai while in Termina. Malon made his heart sing, but she also made him sing, and while her voice far outdid his own, it always made him happy to hear the two ringing together.

He’d once hoped, once he found out, that he’d one day hear Twilight’s voice rise up with theirs on some starlit evening, but after hearing his pup sing...

He loves Twilight like a son, but heaven forbid he ever force his wife to listen to that tone deaf mess!

Wild though, oh, Malon would love to tempt Wild into singing and guide him along until his voice could ring with hers. The child had the voice of a fairy, ethereal and inhuman, but in a way that made him feel light and airy and almost like he could fly.

“Well...” He wants very much to stand and walk over to Wild, but he was still trapped and Twilight was both a brick and incredibly strong, leaving him trapped until his pup is good and ready to wake up, something he fully believed Wild would prefer to prevent happening for the time being. “I can’t not hear it, Wild.”

“Try?” The kid pleads, eyes wide and face nearly purple from embarrassment.

“It’d be an insult to whoever created the voice to do so!” The words spilled out before he could stop them. He was supposed to reassure the kid, not make him panic more by pressuring him! “That is- Wild, you have the voice of an... I suppose Legend would say “an angel” whatever those really are. To be frank, I wouldn’t choose to forget it if I could.”

“I’m not a good singer.”

“Bullshit.”

The newest hero’s gaze shoots up to meet his own, shock written across scarred features at hearing him swear. “You-”

“Don’t tell Warriors.” He whispers with a wink- blink- whatever, it was meant as a wink, and hopefully Wild would read it as one.

“You swore.” Wild breathes

“And you lied.” He returns. “You’re a good singer. Confident, maybe not, but I thought I heard Maon when I first woke up, and unless you want to tell me that my wife has a poor singing voise-”

“No! Of course not!”

“Settled then.” He smiled. “You’re a good singer.”

The champion stares at him, ears twitching slowly and eyes blinking as he processes the words, before a light scowl pulls at the kid’s scars as he crosses his arms. “It- no!” At the grin he shoots at the kid, Wild whines softly. “Dad!”

Both freeze at that. Or rather, Time blinks repeatedly, shocked, and Wild’s hands fly up to his mouth, eyes wide and horrified.

“I’m sorry!” Wild blurts out, still hiding behind his hands. “I slipped I-”

Laughter, deep and rumbling enough that Twilight is happy grumbling against him in response, sounds through the camp as Time throws his head back. He can’t stop it, but he will embrace it. This is the best morning he’s had in ages and Hylia have him if he doesn’t take a moment to enjoy it! “You’re fine, Cub. I’ve been called much worse than that more than once. Unless of course,” He grins at the young hero, brows pulling down in a mock stare, even if he can’t hold his smile back to be convincing. “You think I’d be a bad one?”

“No! You’re an awesome- You’re going to be-” Wild is somehow redder than he was before and he stomps his foot almost petulantly as he catches on to the laughter that still rumbles in Time’s chest. “Time!”

“I don’t mind.” He rumbles out, and more than anything he wants to walk over and ruffle the kids hair, or wrap him in a hug, but he’s trapped by Twilight, and instead can only lift his free arm in an offer that Wild hesitates to take. He’s almost considering lowering his arm and rescinding his invitation when the champion barrels into his side, face buried in his shoulder as Golden hair fills his vision.

“I hate you.”

“Such disrespect to your father.” Time scolds playfully, gently pinching Wild’s ear and making the champion giggle at the touch. “What will your Mamalon say?”

“Ma-” Wild sits up again, staring down at him in confusion. “Mamalon?”

His lips pull into a smile again, something he’s done more this morning than he has nearly all week. “Something Legend calls her, which I’m stealing because she and I both like it.”

The champion’s eyes trail down to where scarred fingers still tangle into his tunic. “Can I call her that too?”

“Well,” He chuckles. “If I’m your Father Time, I think it’s only fair she’s you Mamalon.” At Wild’s smile he smirks. “Ad she’ll be delighted to learn you already know the family song, if only in part. Her mother wrote that for her you know, and I’m sure she’d love to teach you the rest of it. She taught it to me after all, and I used to sing as poorly as Twilight!”

Wild’s mouth opens and closes a few times as a light blush colors the kid’s cheeks before he shyly nods. “I’d- I think I’d like that.”

“Good.” And breakfast or no, Time thinks the others can wait for a half of a minute to eat after waking up, because if Twilight’s going to pin him down than he’s going to return the favor with his other son.

#tell me y'all don't also sing like this #i dare you #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu wild #lu time #fluffics #linked universe fic requests #1142 my dearest #mulder my dear #anons my loves #father time #and references too #mamalon #also #I know ppl headcannon Legend as sleeping NEXT to hyrule #but as someone who has to sleep in pain most of the time #I will tell you he couldn't #sleep only comes if we are on top of something or curled around it #head on top of chest/pillows #am i projecting? #yes #but it means snuggles #so we're all good #wow #did y'all really read this far in the tags? #what kind of power do I have over y'all? #don't you have better stuff to be doing? #like checking out the other amazing works nearby? #scroll down hun!

[sunflowervolvimp3]

you’re someone i just want around: VII

Sunflower, my eyes

Want you more than a melody

Let me inside

Wish I could get to know you

Sunflower Vol. 6, Harry Styles

A/N: okay so this part was so much fun to write!! it originally was going to have four more scenes but uh. as we all know. i am very wordy. so the other scenes I have planned will have to be split into what will probably become two more parts and you guys will just have to deal with getting another two chapters 😌 but this part is really exciting because we are getting a lil bit of angst mixed in with harry’s general dumbassery!! love to see it love to hear it!! and please if you like what you are reading here!! reblog it!! leave reactions in the tags (we read every single one)!! send a message to andrea and i!! feedback and interaction is what keeps content creators motivated to keep cranking out nearly 30k every one to two weeks!! and that’s a general rule for all content creators not just us!! we do this for free so a lil love note is always appreciated 💌 alrighty now that that’s out of the way!! let’s dive in!!

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

word count: 26.6k

content/warnings: another good dose of denial, Fajita Friday with a side of blended margs, waking up on the wrong side of the coffin, brutal analysis of niall’s non-existent love life, ribeye!y/n x rotisseriechicken!harry, a horrible impersonation of Bob Barker, “are you there, God?  it’s me, harry,” degradation, the violation of worksafe laws through the improper use of a ladder, mild pain kink, alexa, play ‘kiss it better’ by rihanna, and the rise of kinkrry (dir. j.j. abrams)

As Harry climbs up the stairs to Y/N’s apartment the next Friday night with a bag containing tequila, orange liqueur, and limes clutched within his jeweled hand, there are two thoughts flickering through his mind.  

The first, which weighs more heavily on the vampire, is if Y/N prefers her margaritas blended or over ice, as Harry feels that tells a lot about a person, and it would be such a disappointment to realize now that Y/N isn’t a fan of the blended beverage.  The second, which should weigh more heavily on his mind if he had his priorities sorted out, is how Y/N had managed to convince him to let her cook dinner for the two of them.

In reality, it hadn’t actually taken much convincing on the mortal girl’s part at all.  When she messaged him on her lunch break earlier that day, asking what he was up to that night, Harry had sat up on his couch, drawing Niall and Xander’s attention to him in a confused manner. He’d stared at the message for only three seconds before opening his phone and pressing on her contact name.  The action had come so easily to him that he didn’t even think about hiding his eagerness to speak to her, and instead pressed his phone tight to his ear as the other line rang three times before she picked it up.

“Harry?” Her confused voice rang through his phone speaker, the sound of the bustling cafe apparent in the background. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, love. I just, uh…just wanted to talk to you, s’all.” Harry had replied, shushing the questions he could see hanging off of Niall and Xander’s lips. “How’s work today?  Busy?”

“As busy as it always is on a Friday afternoon.” Y/N answered with a sigh, and a small smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s lips as he heard a loud slurp through the phone, leading him to picture a stressed out Y/N sipping the last remnants of her iced latte. “But I’m over halfway through my shift, at least, so… it’s all downhill from here.  In a good way.”

Harry had nodded slowly, as if the mortal girl could see him through the phone. “I’m glad to hear that.”

His friends, however, seemed to be less glad to hear it, and paused the golf tournament that was playing on TV to stare at him with incredulous expressions on their faces. 

“Who are you talking to?” Niall had demanded, kicking his foot into Harry’s calf with more force than what was necessary. “We’re going to miss the first swing!”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Xander snickered to the Irishman next to him, a devious smirk lighting up his face. “It’s that human he’s been obsessed with for the last, like, two months.  His little plaything.”

Harry had stood up then, flipping the pair off with a pointed glare before turning towards the kitchen, intent on finding some peace and quiet where he could carry on his conversation without having to worry about Y/N overhearing something she shouldn’t.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your break,” He murmured, resting his elbows over the cool marble countertop of his kitchen island that was nearly the same temperature of his skin. “But calling you seemed easier than texting.  I’m free tonight—” He always kept his Friday nights free for her; had she not realized that by now? “So I was thinking I could be at your place around eight?  Or nine?  What works for you?”

And it was then that he had heard it, breaking through the cafe ambient noise that caught Harry’s inhuman ears, and the inquisitive whispering of Niall and Xander in the other room.  As clear as if it were really right in his ear, Harry had heard the sharp intake of breath, the slow exhale that followed, and the melodic voice that he’d become so familiar with, shaking ever so slightly.

“I was, um, actually thinking you could come over a bit earlier.” Y/N had replied, the tapping of her fingertips against her back room’s linoleum table reverberating around Harry’s head. “I got groceries yesterday, and I was going to make fajitas tonight, and I realized I had enough food for two people, and so if you don’t have anything else planned—”

Harry hadn’t meant to cut Y/N off— listening to her nervous rambling is one of his favourite things, and he’d never purposefully forfeit the opportunity to hear it (and that fondness aside, cutting off her speech would be rude)— but shock overtook his body and triggered the response before he could stop it. “You want to cook me dinner?”

“I—” The speaker crackled again, and Harry could practically picture the hesitation wrinkling across Y/N’s face, the caution in her tone a clear indication of how hard she was working to stay upright on the tense tightrope known as their relationship. “Yeah, I do.  I’m not a chef or anything, but my friends and I used to cook for each other all the time, and Fajita Fridays were one of my specialties, so—”

“I would absolutely love it if you cooked for me.” A slow grin had spread over Harry’s face, pulling the dimples from his cheeks in a way that he’d recently noticed only she could. “What time should I be over?  Do you want me to pick you up from work?”

“No, that’s fine.” Y/N had assured him quickly, the breathlessness in her voice leading Harry to picture the light rush of heat that was probably working its way over her cheeks. “You can come over around six, if that works for you…?”

Harry had checked the Rolex hanging off his wrist, which displayed the time of 2:33PM back to him. “Six is perfect.” He’d replied with an airy yet firm voice, nodding to himself once again. “Can I bring anything?  Is there anything you need me to pick up?”

“Oh, uh...no.  No, you don’t need to bring anything.  Just your appetite; I make a lot of fajitas.” The surprise that echoed in Y/N’s voice and the small laugh that followed had drawn an pleasurable ache from Harry’s dormant chest in a way he couldn’t explain. “Thank you for asking, though.  So… I’ll see you at six, then.”

“Sounds good, love.  I’m looking forward to it.” Harry had smiled again, despite no one being around to view it, and continued to smile even after he had hung up and made his way back to the living room, where his two friends had greeted him with an array of exaggerated vulgar motions and kissy faces.

He had waved them off, and though he’d glowered at them hotly and shrugged off their prodding questions, he couldn’t find it in himself to stifle the grin that the human girl’s offer had left behind on his cheeks.  She wanted to make him dinner. Just the two of them. It’d been so long since anyone had gone so out of their way for him like that, he hadn’t been able to help his giddy reaction.

As he reaches the final stair leading to Y/N’s floor of her building, a tired sigh falls from Harry’s pink lips.  He should’ve known better than to call her with his friend present, he thinks, as his footsteps echo around the empty hallway.  The moment he’d plopped back down on his couch, Niall and Xander had ignored his dismissive attitude and proceeded to continue to bombard him with a million questions about her, and a million more digs at his ego when he had later excused himself from their tournament to get ready for the dinner.  Although he’d normally be able to ignore their obsessive inquiries without so much as a second thought, he’d berated himself throughout his entire shower and get-ready routine, the harsh judgement ever-present in the back of his skull as he’d picked up his favourite ingredients for margaritas from the grocery store.  He should’ve known better.

It’s bad enough that he’s toying around with Y/N’s feelings just for his own selfish needs, but every time the topic of Y/N came up around his friends, it ended with the exact same question, just as it had earlier that day.

“So when do we get to meet her?  Like, officially meet her, and not just hear her moaning through your wall.” Niall had asked as he took a sip of his Guinness beer, layering a childish snicker on top of his curiosity.

“Yeah, I’d love to see the girl that domesticated you.  Always thought she’d be fictional, actually.” Xander’s laugh had matched Niall’s as the two of them watched Harry slip a fresh t-shirt over his head. 

A tightness had developed in Harry’s chest then, so tense that it had nearly stopped him from smoothing the shirt over his inked chest. “You don’t get to meet her.” He had replied curtly, shooting the two vampires a stern look. “She’s not something for you two to gawk at, she’s—”

Niall had interjected then, the mirth in his eyes refusing to bow despite Harry’s seething. “Your girlfriend?” 

Harry had stared witheringly at the Irish immortal. “No.  She’s not my girlfriend.  She’s just a friend I have an arrangement with.  An arrangement that will become much more complicated if she starts hanging out with other vampires and notices that there’s something… off about us.”

“Off?” Niall had questioned, grinning cheekily with a flash of his fangs, his blue irises dying blood red. “I have no idea what you’re referring to, mate.”

Pausing in front of Y/N’s front door, Harry takes a moment to swipe his hair back from his face, tousling his curls until they fall into just the right place.  His chestnut locks are beginning to get a little long again (they curl around his ears and tickle the nape of his neck now), but he can’t quite bring himself to cut them just yet; Y/N has a habit of reaching for them whenever he goes down on her, and the sensation of her tugging on his hair is too satisfying to let go of so easily.  As for the rest of his look, Harry has opted to keep it casual tonight, wearing a blue and pink flamingo patterned button down over his Chicago Cubs t-shirt, paired with a rust-coloured pair of corduroy pants and his white vans.  If their usual routine is any indication, then Harry will be staying the night, and he’s learned over the years that it’s much comfier to leave the next morning in loose clothes than trying to yank on a pair of tight leather pants in a stranger’s bedroom.  Not that Y/N is a stranger; in fact, he could probably get away with bringing an overnight bag now.  But there’s something so presumptuous in showing up to a dinner date with a bag, and in a shocking— though fleeting— change of heart, the last thing Harry wants is to seem presumptuous. 

Harry raises his jeweled knuckles and raps on Y/N’s door in a rhythmic pattern, straightening his back and leaning against the frame as he waits for the door to open. 

Even through the wooden barrier, Harry can hear the old music floating through the bluetooth speaker that he knows sits on Y/N’s kitchen counter, the sizzling of peppers and onions in a pan, and Y/N singing to herself softly under her breath, the latter of which pauses as soon as Harry knocks.  Instead, it’s replaced with the soft padding of bare feet against the laminate floor, the click of a lock, the removal of a door chain, and the turning of a knob as the door swings open. 

And then Harry sees Y/N, and the sight of her catches the breath that he doesn’t really need. It lodges in his lungs and at the back of his burning throat, causing an odd sensation to churn the pit of his tummy as a sudden wave of heat pours into his cheeks. 

If Harry’s pride wasn’t as steadfast as he likes to portray, he would openly admit that it truly is frightening how just one glance at her can make his entire nervous system flare. 

It’s obvious that Y/N’s been at work all day; her mascara is slightly smudged beneath her eyes, and the ponytail bouncing at the top of her head is loose, with wisps of hair falling out and framing her face.  Her clothing, however, has been changed from her usual work polo and jeans to a cotton bralette that clings to her chest and displays a strip of her stomach that makes Harry’s mouth water.  Her black leggings have mesh cutouts on the side, and while that detail would normally draw Harry’s eyes by default, it’s the multicolour patchwork cardigan hanging loosely off her shoulders that really catches Harry off guard.  Or, more specifically, it’s his multicolour patchwork cardigan that catches him off guard. 

“Hi.” Y/N smiles up at him warmly with the edges of her eyes crinkling, her hands grasping the side of the door tightly. “Six P.M. on the dot, Holmes.  I’m impressed.”

“Solving mysteries isn’t my only speciality.” Harry matches his grin to hers, his dimples making an appearance as his expression grows. “Although speaking of mysteries… I think I just solved the case of my missing cardigan.” With his free hand, Harry reaches forward and tweaks a button on the article of clothing, his fingers brushing against Y/N’s bare tummy when he pulls away. 

A wispy giggle falls from Y/N’s cheeks as she opens the door wider to invite Harry in. “Right, that case.  I was about to call you about it, actually.  We got a big break-through last night.”

“Did we?” Harry raises an eyebrow as he steps into her apartment, shifting the fabric tote bag in his right hand to his left as he squeezes into the narrow corridor beside her. “And what was the big break, exactly?” 

Y/N wraps her arms around Harry’s neck as he snakes his now free hand around her waist, clutching her close to his cool body. “Well, I was trying to go to sleep, and I was cold, so I went searching in my closet for an extra blanket, and found this tucked in the back from when you let me borrow it last weekend.” She explains lightly, twisting her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Case closed.  Elementary, my dear Holmes.”

“I thought that was my line?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as fond amusement dances through his emerald eyes, his cold palm giving one of her love handles a playful squeeze. “First you steal my cardigan, and now my catch phrase.  What’s next?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Y/N says with a shrug, her smile growing wider with every passing moment as she nudges his chin teasingly with the tip of her warm nose. “I could steal a kiss, I suppose?  That’s a very you thing to do.”

“Not quite.  Usually you’re the one trying to steal one, and I make you ask for it. Beg, even, if I’m feeling a bit meaner than usual.” Tilting his head to the side and shaking it slowly, Harry lets out a long sigh. “You’re losing your touch, Watson.”

“Tragic.” Y/N matches his sigh as she begins to untangle her hands from his hair, but when she tries to extract herself from Harry’s grasp, he just holds on tighter. 

“But for the sake of tradition…” Harry’s eyes fall to the mortal’s lips as he wets his own with his tongue. “How about a hello kiss?”

Despite the usual iciness of Harry’s touch, heat begins to blossom through Y/N’s chest as she tilts her head up to meet Harry’s mouth.  The kiss, unlike many they’ve shared before, is tender, and only lasts for a brief moment before Y/N settles back down on the balls of her feet. 

“Hi.” She whispers, her hands curling around the fabric clinging to Harry’s muscular shoulders. 

“Hi.” The vampire replies easily as he finally releases his grip on her waist, taking a step back from both Y/N and the bashful instance they’d found themselves in.

He allows her to lead him down the entrance hallway and into her living room, drifting behind her towards the kitchen and glimpsing over all the ingredients she has scattered around her counters.

“You look beautiful in my cardigan, by the way.” Harry throws out casually, admiring the way the article hangs off her figure in the most adorable oversized fashion. “If I didn’t make that clear enough before.  And,” the monster takes a sudden deep whiff for emphasis, “it smells delicious in here. Seems like Gordon Ramsey doesn’t have shit on you, huh?”

Although the initial compliment brings a flush of pleasure up Y/N’s spine, she chooses to focus on the latter half of Harry’s comment. “I’d like to think so, yeah.  Dinner is almost ready, if you want to take a seat at the table.  Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Actually…” Harry holds up the bag in his hand and bounces it jestingly, fully bringing it to Y/N’s attention for the first time. “I thought I’d make us margaritas to go with the fajitas.  Really commit to the theme, y’know?”

All of the previous drinks that Harry has made for her float through Y/N’s mind, and her mouth salivates at the thought of drinking another of his incredible creations. He really does have such a wise talent with liquor that she finds herself subconsciously wondering how that had come to be. “Of course; we can’t do Fajita Fridays halfway, now can we?”

“No, we can’t.” Harry agrees with a firm nod, setting the bag down on her small kitchen tabletop and unpacking the ingredients he’d toted with him. “Do you prefer your margaritas over ice or blended?”

The correct answer immediately rolls off the mortal’s tongue. “Blended— I’m not insane.” She states with a scoff, picking up her spatula to stir the pepper and onion mixture on the stove as she bobs her head towards the cabinet at the far end of the room. “The blender is just up in that cupboard there.”

The corners of Harry’s pink lips tug up at her response, and he nods to the girl as he drifts over and reaches for the cabinet she’d motioned to. “Gotcha.” He says, pushing back a few decorative serving platters before extracting the blender sitting on the back of the shelf. “Oh, this’ll do nicely.”

His comment is met with a quiet snort from Y/N, who glances at him from the corner of her eye as she turns her attention to the sautéing chicken in her skillet. “Oh, it will, will it?” She asks sarcastically, her lithe fingers adding pinches of seasoning to the dish. “Are you a blender connoisseur, then?”

“Of course I am, angel.  Y’have to be, to make a half decent margarita.” Setting the kitchen appliance in the counter, Harry studies it with a keen eye, running his fingers over the smooth glass and slightly worn buttons. “It has a little bit of wear and tear, but that’s to be expected; the rest of it seems to be in decent condition.” He unwraps the cord from the base of the blender, plugging it into the wall before pressing the pulse button a few times to make the machine roar to life. “Listen to that engine purr… A blender like this could bring a man to tears.”

“That’s good to know.” Y/N snorts again, shaking her head at Harry’s antics as he begins to prepare his ingredients. “If you need a knife for the limes, there’s one in the block there.  And ice is in the freezer—”

“That’s good to know.” Harry mimics her prior reply with a shit-eating grin on his face, his hand wrapped around a bottle of Don Julio he’d snagged from his bar shelves. “I was about to check the cabinet again.”

With a shake of her head, Y/N steps past Harry to open a cupboard and fetch a serving dish. “Alright, smartass.” She bumps her hip against Harry’s as she passes him, the motion sending a jolt of electricity across the vampire’s pelvic bones. “Keep it up and you’ll lose dessert privileges.”

Although she tries to step away, Harry twists a cool arm around Y/N’s waist, pulling her back against his chest as he smudges a kiss over her pulse point. “‘M sorry.” He murmurs, keeping his voice low in an attempt to hide the smile brewing on his face. “I’ll be nicer, then.  I’d hate to lose dessert—it’s my favourite part.”

With his lips over her neck, Harry can feel the exact moment Y/N’s heart rate increases, his ears pricking with the now familiar and adored sound.  Her warm hand cups his over her belly, fingers tracing over the knuckles of his icy touch. 

“I know it is.” Y/N tilts her head to the left, trying to provide Harry with more access to her neck as his mouth continues to ghost over her skin. “So I’d hate to take it away.”

The human girl’s familiar and achingly sweet honey and lavender scent fills Harry’s nostrils as his nose brushes against her jaw.  When he refers to her as dessert, Y/N doesn’t know how genuinely Harry means it. “Alright.  I’ll behave.” He relents, but he squeezes her tummy tightly as his teeth graze her skin one last time before pulling away. “For now.”

When Y/N detangles from the cage that is Harry’s arm, she busies herself with cooking again, doing her best to hide the light sheen of sweat that is beading her forehead.  It’s almost embarrassing, really; despite only being here for five minutes, Harry’s already pulling reactions out of her that she didn’t even know she had.  If she doesn’t get a hold of herself soon, she’ll be on her knees for him before he’s had a bite of dinner. 

With that thought in mind, the mortal forces herself to focus on the tasks at hand, continuing her banter with Harry while making sure to keep the subject matter PG as she plates the food and Harry blends drinks for them.  Her tiny table, which she’s already set for two, is soon filled with dishes containing sautéed vegetables, chicken, and other various toppings, and Harry pours his margarita mix into two glasses before sitting across from her with a curious air. 

“So this is what you and your friends used to do back home, is it?” He asks, crossing his arms and resting them on the table as he regards Y/N with a tilted head. “Fajita Fridays?  Taco Tuesdays?  Meatloaf Mondays?”

“Meatloaf Mondays sound depressing.” Y/N shoots back with a scoff, her hand wrapping around her margarita glass and lifting it to her mouth to take a sip. “We weren’t that pathetic.”

Harry exhales a sharp but quiet breath from his nose once—the beginnings of a laugh— before offering a dry reply. “No, it doesn’t have a very nice ring to it, does it?” He says, watching eagerly as her eyes widen at the first taste of the drink rolls across her tongue. “Do you like it?”

Y/N clears her throat as she lowers her glass from her mouth. “It’s...strong.” Y/N replies slowly, taking another gulp and smacking her lips in an exaggerated fashion. “But yummy.  This is a repeat recipe, I think.” 

The praise warms the pit of Harry’s stomach as he raises his own glass, motioning to the girl before him before bringing the edge of the cup to his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He murmurs, setting his drink back down after taking a sip and letting his eyes roam over the food before them. “So how did you and your friends do this?  Everyone would just reach in at once, or—?”

“Oh, well, we—we used to say grace first, actually.” Y/N admits after a moment, her eyes momentarily flickering to the gold cross dangling from Harry’s neck.  Although his usual cross earring is absent tonight, his pearls out of sight as well, and he’s only wearing his opal and lionhead rings, that familiar cross necklace is present as ever. “And then we’d move everything around the table clockwise from the person who actually led saying grace.” 

Despite Y/N previously mentioning that she’d been a regular church goer in her hometown, this new information sparks an interest in Harry’s mind. “Really?” He quirks an eyebrow as the human girl reaches for a warmed tortilla and begins to spoon her toppings inside. “But you don’t do that now?”

“Nope.” Her lips pop on the final consonant sound of the word. “Did you say grace growing up?” She asks curiously, nodding to the chain around Harry’s neck. “You always wear that cross, so I was just wondering…”

“Oh, uh—yeah. Yeah, we did.” A crease furrows the space between Harry’s brow as he selects his own tortilla, keeping his eyes glued to the food. “My father used to lead it every night.” Although he could leave the comment there and be done with the topic, more words of explanation spill from Harry’s mouth without him realizing how much he’s actually saying, his gaze remaining trained on the way he’s filling his tortilla, almost as if it’s a monumentally difficult task that requires his utmost attention. “I liked to listen to him say it.  My father had a very calming voice; he could be loud and boisterous when he wanted to, but at home, he always kept cool and collected.  It was comforting.”

Y/N notes the use of past tense when discussing Harry’s father, but doesn’t comment on it.  With the knowledge that his mother had passed away in her mind, she assumes the same has happened to his father, and the realization twists her heart in a new and aching manner. “You speak like that, you know.” She tries to steer the conversation into a lighter direction, registering the sadness in his emerald eyes when he discusses his family. “When you’re telling stories about your life.  Your voice is low and even, quieter than usual.  It sounds a bit like a…lullaby, I guess.  Or like— like an audiobook, like someone’s reading some old poetry, or—” Her cheeks flame beneath her skin as she drops her eyes to her plate. “Sorry.  That, um, that sounds strange.”

The outpouring confessions from the girl across from him brings an awed expression to Harry’s face.  He had always assumed his voice was more of a siren song than anything— capable of luring his victims into a false sense of security before he showed his true monstrous form.  But if the stuttering of Y/N’s heart and the brightness in her eyes is any indication, maybe that isn’t quite the case.  She described him as a lullaby, yes, but she didn’t sound betrayed at the thought of him spinning stories in order to keep her pliable under his grasp.  If anything, her words give the impression that she enjoys it.

“I’ve heard stranger.” Harry murmurs after a moment, his unusually bare forefinger rubbing over his lips pensively as he waits for Y/N to raise her head again. “Thank you.  That’s a compliment, really, saying that I sound like my dad used to.”

“Well, I mean, I’ve never heard your dad speak, so take it with a grain of salt—” Y/N forces out a laugh, despite her cheeks and neck still feeling uncomfortably flushed, “—but I imagine it’s similar.  After all, he raised you, didn’t he?”

Harry nods slowly, his mind so wrapped in his own memories that he doesn’t even think about the incriminating answer about to fall from his lips. “He did, yeah, but it’s been a while since I’ve been able to speak to him.” He admits, pinching his chin between his thumb and index finger as he lifts his left shoulder in an empty shrug. “Memories fade over time.  Things change.  People change.”

Although she can feel that they’re beginning to breach a more serious topic, Y/N doesn’t pull back like she did in the restaurant.  She rationalizes this action to herself as she sips her margarita and collects her thoughts, saying that it’s just because it’s easier to be honest in her apartment than a brunch restaurant. But the truth of the matter is that the longer she spends with Harry, the more Y/N wants to know him. Really know him, outside of their usual arrangement. 

“That’s true,” She agrees with hesitancy etched into her voice, keeping a measured glance on Harry’s body to read his reaction. “But you can’t have changed that much since you last saw him.  When…” Her words trail off when Harry locks his emerald eyes with hers, but she takes a deep breath and finishes her question in determination. “When did he pass away?  How old were you?”

In the immortal’s mind, the answer forms without any delay.  His father had been the first to go in his family; the combination of breathing in smoke from the forge and his age being four years his mother’s senior had stopped his heart before hers.  The news of his death reached Harry a few days after it had happened, and he had just made it back to Holmes Chapel in time to watch the funeral service from afar.  

Despite his appearance being frozen at twenty-six, as it always would be, Harry was nearly twenty-nine to the day of the funeral.  Gemma had been thirty-three by then, standing with their mother and a tall man by her side, who whispered what her brother hoped were reassuring words in her ear.  His sister's eyes had been nearly a perfect mirror of Harry’s, with the exception of a few crow’s feet beginning to show around them.  And his mother had been dressed in widower’s black, a veil pulled over her weeping face to allow her the bit of discretion that was expected in Victorian times.  Harry had been distressed when he saw the veil, despite expecting it to be there; he’d hoped he could get one more glimpse of her eyes before he had to leave that day.  He had entertained the idea of walking over, expressing his condolences, and compelling her to forget she’d seen her lost son, but the thought had twisted an ache into his chest that had nearly brought him to tears, and—

“I was twenty-one when he passed away.” Harry spits the sentence out, and the familiar lie burns his throat in an entirely foreign way than the thirst he’s used to. “He had lung cancer.” At least, that had been Harry’s assumption after he read up on the disease years after his father’s undetermined passing.  It made sense, given that all the grit and soot from the coal and metal grime had found its way into the air of the blacksmith’s shop, and after slaving away for years in order to keep food on the table, it had also eventually made its way into his father’s system… “It progressed quickly.” 

As he watches sympathy glaze itself over Y/N’s eyes, all he can think about is how undeserving he is of it.  Even though he’s compelled the mortal girl in front of him, gained her trust, been invited into her home, and is kindling a connection with her, all for the simple act of drinking her blood, Harry thinks that this might be the most monstrous thing he’s done yet— paint himself as a victim of circumstance, hiding all the wrong-doings he’s ever committed, and allowing Y/N and her softly-beating heart to feel sorry for him. 

The conversation moves to an lighter tone after that, which Harry does on purpose; the less he needs to tell her about his fabricated sob story, the better.  And, truth be told, he’d much rather hear about Y/N’s day-to-day life.  It’s been so long since he had human concerns, and when he did, his concerns certainly didn’t have anything to do with being betrayed by customers because the cafe wifi was down.  It’s almost amusing to him, listening to her rant about all these insignificant people, and he can’t help the way his dimples begin to peek out of his cheeks as she raises her voice at imaginary customers. 

“So I told him, in my most polite voice, that we were aware the wifi was down, and that we’d called the provider to let them know, and that they were sending someone as fast as they could to fix it. And do you know what he said to me?” Y/N widens her eyes in incredulous disbelief as she takes a bite of her fajita, chewing and swallowing quickly to continue with her story with more emphasis. “Do you know what he said?”

“No, I don’t.” Harry shakes his head in endearment, hiding the laugh forming on his rosy lips behind his margarita glass. “What did he say?”

“He said—” Y/N twists her face to mimic the customer’s expression, dropping her voice down five octaves lower as she speaks with a ridiculous tone. “‘Oh, well, can’t you just fix it?  You work here, don’t you?  What else do you get paid for?’ Can you believe that?” She states the last phrase in her normal voice, scoffing at the memory as she crosses her patchwork covered arms across her chest. “Like, I’m a waitress!  I don’t work at an internet company!  I’m trained to bring you water and sandwiches— which are more cucumber than anything with actual substance—  so it’s not my responsibility to figure out why you can’t load Candy Crush on your phone!”

A snicker finally breaks free from Harry’s throat as he watches Y/N angrily stuff a piece of chicken into her mouth. “Sounds like you had a rough day today.”

“That’s pretty average for me, honestly.” Y/N sighs again, rubbing her hand over her forehead as she polishes off the rest of her second margarita. “Ugh, it pissed me off.  I wanted to shove his phone right up his ass and ask if his wifi connection got better.” A small smile breaks out across Y/N’s lips in spite of herself as Harry stifles another giggle at her witty comment. “But I’ve talked about it enough.  How was your day?  What did you do?”

“I did a bit of work in the morning, nothing too noteworthy.” Harry replies, deliberately keeping his answer vague as he twists his lionhead ring around his finger. “And I was about to watch a golf tournament with Xander and Niall when you called.”

Harry thinks nothing of mentioning their names, but is surprised when Y/N’s brow cinch in thought. “Which ones are Xander and Niall?  Is one of them the long haired one?” She asks curiously, pulling her (his) cardigan off one shoulder as the tequila begins to course through her veins and heat her body. 

“The— no.  No, that’s Mitch.” Harry says slowly, cocking his head to the side in confusion. “How did you know that?”

Y/N feels a spike of embarrassment in her stomach, and shyly avoids Harry’s eyes as she answers. “There was a photo of you with a group of guys in your apartment, in the living room.” She mumbles, tapping her fingers against her newly cleaned plate. “One of them— I think he was next to you in the photo?— had long hair.  Another had blue eyes, glasses… and brown hair, I think?  I don’t really remember the rest…”

Harry hums in the back of his throat, quiet and low. “That was probably Niall.” He guesses, finishing his own margarita and setting the glass down gently. “If I’m thinking of the right picture, then Xander was the one standing next to him.”

Y/N pictures the faces in her mind’s eye, imagining the two brunette boys in the clothing from the photo, slumped next to Harry on the couch of his stunning condo, knocking back pints of beer and plates of nachos as they watch golf on TV.  It seems strange to picture Harry doing something so… normal.  She forgets, sometimes, that he’s a regular twenty-six year old man.  In her head, when she thinks of Harry, regular is the last word that comes to her mind— even when he’s sitting across from her in a casual outfit, doing something as simple as eating dinner while he asks her about her day, Y/N struggles to remember that this man is just that: a man.  

Maybe, she ponders, as Harry stands up with the explanation of making more margaritas falling off his lips, it’s because she’s only ever really been alone with him.  With the exception of the club where they met, and his friends interrupting their weekend a few weeks prior (her cheeks flame at the recalling of the embarrassing memory), Y/N has only ever seen Harry in her own context.  

As the blender whirs to life behind her, the human twists in her chair to catch a glimpse of the object of her thoughts.  Even beneath his opaque shirt, she can see the muscles of Harry’s back flexing as he bends down to slice a lime, squeezing the juice into the top of the blender while holding his jeweled hand underneath to catch any seeds.  When Harry is around her, he’s charming, cocky, self-assured, and— on the extremely rare occasion— vulnerable.  What’s he like around his friends?  

Just as cocky, Y/N is sure; she can’t picture Harry letting go of his signature smirk so easily.  But does anything else about him shift when exposed to different company?  Is there different vocabulary that slips from his mouth?  What about his tone of voice?  Does that change, too, like Y/N’s used to when she was around Bradley, or when she’s with customers?  He mentioned earlier that he’d been watching golf, and that was the last sport she'd ever think he’d have an affinity for, let alone one he’d enjoy enough to make a day out of watching tournaments.  What other personality traits and pastimes is he keeping from her?  If she were to be a fly on the wall while he was with his friends, would she see someone completely unrecognizable in his Gucci boots and translucent shirts?

The sudden lack of noise from the blender snaps Y/N from her thoughts, and Harry detaches the pitcher and carries it to the table, filling her empty glass with a smile. 

“There you are, miss.” He winks at her quickly before filling his own cup and standing back from the table with a grin, his free hand folded behind his back as he straightens his posture. “Now,” He begins, his accent slipping into a more posh tongue as he bows his head lightly. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Despite her worries, a soft laugh rolls from Y/N at his impersonation of a server. “Yeah, actually.” She drops her voice lower again, plastering an angry expression onto her face as she reaches into her cardigan pocket and retrieves her phone. “Your wifi is down.  What kind of restaurant doesn’t have wifi?  Can’t you fix this?”

A loud snort echoes from Harry’s mouth as he sets the blender back down on the counter before sliding back into his seat across from her. “Sorry, love,” He laughs, his regular accent back in its place. “That’s a bit above my paygrade.  I can, however, offer you some compensation.”

Wrapping her fingers around the icy margarita glass, Y/N leans forward, resting her chin on her free hand as she appraises Harry with a kinked brow. “Is that so?” She replies in her regular voice as well, her interest piqued. “What kind of compensation?”

“It’s part of our Friday Night Special,” Harry slides his hand across the table and pushes the baggy rainbow sleeve of Y/N’s cardigan down her arm in order to brush his cool fingers up and down her bare skin. “And it features bottomless margaritas paired with cunnilingus from our most handsome waiter.”

A fluttering warmth begins to knot itself around Y/N’s core, but she does her best to keep her composure as she straightens her spine and glances around the apartment. “Sounds intriguing.  So where’s the handsome waiter?”

Harry’s pillowy lips plunk down into an exaggerated frown as he presses a hand to his chest, his other hand continuing to stroke over Y/N’s forearm. “Ouch, Watson.  That hurt.  Might need you to kiss it better.”

“Oh yeah?” Y/N challenges, lifting her drink to her lips and sipping it slowly. “Where exactly does it hurt?”

Instead of answering her query, Harry simply stands from his chair and rounds the table to stop in front of Y/N, extending his hand to her.  She lays her fingers inside his cool grasp, allowing him to pull her from her seat.  He’s closer than she realized, she thinks, as her chest brushes with his and the intoxicating scent of his cologne fills her senses, only getting stronger as Harry nudges her nose with his own, his lips just barely gliding over her own. The copper specks around his pupils glitz under the muted lighting, electric from the alcohol, from the sensation of her close proximity, and from the ever-present intention of getting between her legs.

When Harry finally speaks, his thick cadence washes over her just as much as his tequila-scented breath, his free-hand tugging suggestively at the waistband of her leggings. “If we go to your bedroom, then I can show you.”

“Mm, is that so?” The girl gives in to his gesture, stepping forward as the vampire begins treading backwards towards their new— though entirely familiar— destination. “You’re gonna show me, then?”

“I most certainly am.” The boy keeps their bodies close, making sure that his lips continue to just barely graze hers as he moves, teasing her nerves into a frenzy. “I plan on showing you over, and over, and over…”

Y/N can’t bring herself to resist the offer.  She’s only human, after all.

///

The next morning, Harry wakes up tangled in Y/N’s sheets to two surprises: the sheets on Y/N’s side of the bed are cold and bare, and that Harry is actually waking up.  

Although he remembers falling back onto the scattered sheets the night before (after coaxing three orgasms out of Y/N and her coaxing two from him in return), he doesn’t remember drifting off into the sleep he so rarely needs, and because of that, Harry feels disoriented and groggy in a way he hasn’t in a long time.  He does his best to blink the haze from his usually sharp eyes, knuckling at them with his cool fingers as he attempts to get his bearings.

His sleep-fogged mind struggles to recall what had happened after Y/N had fallen asleep.  She’d drifted off easily and quickly, her sweat-soaked body tucked into Harry’s with her head resting in the crook of his neck.  That noted detail sticks out in his memory because it had made Harry pause before biting her.  She’d been so comfortable next to him, and in such an inconvenient position that Harry didn’t want to shift her to drink. After debating with himself for a few moments, he’d eventually decided on an alternative and had lifted her fragile wrist to his lips.

Even half awake, Harry’s lips quirk up at the hazy memory.  He recalls the feeling of her hummingbird pulse thrumming beneath her delicate skin, practically vibrating against his lips as he stamped a kiss over her vein before biting down.  Her blood had a weaker flow there, but that was alright; he’d just sucked a little harder to coax the liquid from her body, feeling his mouth overflow with her welcomed taste as well as with the supernatural chemicals that inject into her system and dull any pain his feeding might cause. He’d been careful to gauge his consumption by the strength of her heartbeat, and when he’d finished, he’d sealed the wound with a bit of his own blood, as usual. He’d made sure Y/N was healed and settled back in his arms before relaxing into the pillows to listen to her breathing, the soft pillows and her radiating body heat feeling more soothing than usual. Somewhere between counting the movement of her lungs and the sun rising, Harry had fallen unconscious.

It’s strange, being up after Y/N.  Harry has grown used to rising before her and making breakfast, or even just coffee, and there’s something disorienting about being in her bed alone, without her inherent warmth and soft skin, and only the ghost of her sugary scent left behind.  He briefly wonders if this is how she feels when she wakes up to cold sheets and no one beside her (although Harry suspects the lack of his frozen body would make the bed a more comfortable temperature), and thinks that maybe he should begin to lay in bed with her a little longer; if he’s going to fake a relationship with her, it should be a relationship where her partner wants to be around her, and isn’t awake before the sun.

And that’s another thing.  The golden orange light of the rising L.A. sun is just beginning to stream through the closed curtains, so what time is it?  It can’t be any later than seven— on a Saturday, no less— and at such an early hour, Harry would expect Y/N to still be dreamily dozing in bed.  What had drawn her away from her comfortable position in Harry’s arms?

As the sun continues to rise, the light begins to streak onto Y/N’s empty side of the bed and, instinctually, Harry begins to reach for the beam, craving the warmth she took with her when she abandoned the sheets.  Instead of the expected touch of heat, however, Harry is jarred by a burning sensation ripping across his icy flesh.

The vampire yanks his hand back in a flash, his face screwing in silent pain as he bites back a yell of anguish, but the damage has already been done.  The tips of his fingers are puckered with red blisters, which throb as he flexes his hand in the safety of the shadows. Harry digs his sharp teeth into his lip harder, forcing himself to inhale slowly through his nose and exhale shakily through his mouth.

It takes a few moments for him to collect himself, breathing deeply with his eyes closed as he does so, and as he counts his own breaths like he’d counted Y/N’s the night before, what should’ve been an obvious thought enters his mind: why had he burned?  He’s wearing his lionhead ring, which has eyes made of those precious crystals that protect his inhuman skin from sunlight, and as long as he’s wearing it, the sun shouldn’t be able to…

Harry’s sight snaps completely open as he jerks forward in bed, his head throbbing from the sudden movement.  When he’d first awoken, he’d attributed his grogginess and dry eyes to sleeping for the first time in weeks, but as Harry’s jade gaze settles upon his uninjured hand, he realizes the truth.  That disorienting feeling isn’t from sleep, but from the sunlight that had begun to seep through the curtains and affect his body, bouncing off the glossy walls of Y/N’s room and reflecting off her picture frames and furniture.  What would normally not be an issue suddenly becomes the bane of his existence, and what usually isn’t able to affect his body immediately does, obvious in the agonizing sweltering writhing through every single one of his dormant arteries. And all because his lionhead ring is missing from its rightful place.

Granted, Harry hadn’t worn most of his rings to Y/N’s apartment the night before, seeing as how they planned to spend the night in, but he’d kept his mother’s opal and the lionhead securely on his middle finger and pinky, just as he always did.  The former brings him memories of his mother, and helps him keep a piece of her— and who he once was— with him in this strange modern time.  The latter had been a rebirth gift from a family he’d rather forget, and if it didn’t keep him from flambéing himself every time he stepped into the sun, he wouldn’t wear it at all. In all honesty, he probably would’ve chucked into Hell, if he could. 

But the reality of his afterlife is that Harry needs that ring.  So why is it missing from his hand?

Cradling his blistered digits to his bare chest, the wounded vampire tosses back the covers, careful to avoid the streaks of sunshine beginning to light up the small room.  His icy chest soothes the burn in his fingers, which are taking longer to heal than Harry would’ve thought, but if the grating itch of his dry eyes is any indication, the effects of the sun aren’t just limited to direct physical harm, but are also stopping his body from healing itself as quickly as usual.

Harry presses his good hand to his dizzy head and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet onto the ground as firmly as he can to center himself, refusing to cripple under the extraneous circumstances. He fishes his grey boxers from their signature spot on Y/N’s floor, slipping them on slowly as even the smallest of movements seems to strain his muscles beyond reason. As the elastic band snaps around his hips, another frightening possibility seizes his body: his mother’s ring could also be gone. He yanks his hand away from his head, and it takes his eyes a moment to focus on the opal ring.  At least he can breathe a sigh of relief about one thing— if his mother’s ring had disappeared, Harry’s not quite sure what he would’ve done.  

And that thought brings his spinning mind back to the present.  His lionhead ring is gone, and he can’t so much as step into sunlight without undergoing intense, insurmountable pain, so how is he going to find it?

Another groan falls from Harry’s mouth as he rests his forehead in his palm, propping his elbow against his knee so he can shield his eyes from the sunlight by hiding in between his legs.  Daylight talismans are extremely rare; he can’t exactly waltz into the nearest Wal-Mart and pick one up.  The crystals that give vampires such cherished immunity all date back to the medieval era, when vampires were considered mythical legends instead of just plain myths, and what few of the crystals are left are hidden deep within old ruins in the remote wilderness of Europe.  If Harry hadn’t been given his shortly after he was turned, he’s not sure he would have been lucky enough to own one.  He remembers Niall telling him how he had to search every night for months before he found a crystal hidden inside a ruin in Wales, and Xander had once recounted the story of stealing his from the vampire that turned him.  Even Mitch had struggled with the crystals before; although his ring had originally been a gift from the vampire that transformed him, he had to crack the crystal in half and set it into a new ring for Sarah when she had met her untimely demise. 

Vampires have been known to beg, lie, cheat, and steal in order to get their hands on a daylight crystal, so if someone managed to sneak in and take Harry’s lionhead ring while he and Y/N were sleeping, then Harry is going to have a fucking hell of a time trying to get it back. 

As the thought enters Harry’s dazed mind, a chill runs down his back, crawling across his spine and down his tailbone in an unsettling shiver as he slowly turns back to Y/N’s empty side of the bed.  If someone— if another creature just like him, who would be the only other person capable of recognizing such a treasure— got into the apartment and took his ring, and found an unconscious mortal girl with the sweetest honey and lavender liquid pulsing through her veins, then…

The sheets and curtains of the room blow in a breeze as Harry jets off the bed, forgetting to control his inhuman speed as he throws the sliding door open and stumbles into the hallway.  More sunlight streams through the windows of the living room, and it’s taking all of Harry’s dulled concentration to avoid the beams as he staggers towards the kitchen.

It’s not until the immortal smells Y/N’s familiar fragrance and hears the beating of her heart, in tune with her quiet humming, that the fear Harry hadn’t realized had tightened his chest flows out of him in one fell swoop.  He does his best to force even breaths in and out of his lungs, watching as Y/N raises her coffee mug to her lips and blows on the hot liquid before taking a small sip.

She’s dressed in his multicoloured patchwork cardigan again, buttoned up to provide her with warmth and modesty, but it slips down her bare shoulder in a way that allows Harry to see she’s wearing nothing underneath it.  Although the cardigan pools around her silky thighs— which are marked with bruises from the night before— Harry can see the tiniest peak of her panties beneath the fabric, and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might’ve noticed how they’re not the pair she wore last night (that pair had been ripped right down the middle in his frantic attempt to get them off).  However, Harry’s eyes quickly settle on Y/N’s hands, which, after she sets down her coffee cup, pick up Harry’s lionhead ring and begin turning it around in her fingers.

When he sees the ring in her delicate grasp, a wave of sheer rage begins to rumble through Harry’s chest, and it takes every fiber of his undead being to keep it at bay as he approaches the mortal girl. “Y/N,” Harry rasps lowly, voice heavy with the exhaustion that his newfound vulnerability has stacked onto his shoulders. He stands in the one spot of shadow near the kitchen counter, trying hard not to glower. “What are you doing?”

When Y/N turns her head to look at him, her sleepy face smiles softly, eyes nearly as bright as the infuriating sun. Maybe that’s why, Harry thinks, it feels like it burns.

“Morning,” She says quietly, her own voice just as sleepy as Harry’s as she picks up a grey cloth from the table and begins to run it over the ring with precision and care. “How did you sleep?”

It’s a simple, innocent question, and Harry knows that, but his mind can’t think in simple and innocent terms right now.  As the light filling the room begins to pound his head even more, Harry’s thoughts revert back to his most instinctual behavior— rough carnal impulse. “What are you doing?” He asks again, his voice lower than before.  He sounds dangerous, and he means to.  How could she possibly think that taking something from him without his permission is fine?

“I’m polishing your ring.” Y/N keeps that good-natured smile on her face as she replies, but Harry can see the smallest waver in it as she begins to sense his distorted energy from across the room. “It was tarnished, and I have a polishing cloth, so I thought I’d—”

“Give it back.” Harry doesn’t mean to snarl the phrase, but he can’t stop himself from doing it as he thrusts out his hand expectantly; it’s taking all his concentration to keep himself from baring his teeth and letting his eyes bleed red. 

Y/N doesn’t fight him on it, and drops the ring carefully into his awaiting hand without letting her warm skin meet his.  She watches with confused eyes as Harry slips the newly shined lionhead ring onto his finger, a breath of relief sighing from his red lips the moment the metal meets his skin. He finishes twisting it into its designated spot, and he feels like he can actually breathe again.

The human girl waits a moment for an explanation from Harry, some spoken word or action to justify the hostility rolling off of him as he clutches the jeweled hand to his chest.  As the moments pass, however, Harry offers no explanation, or anything at all as he takes deep and measured inhales through his nose, as if he’s trying to relax. 

“I’m sorry.” Y/N offers the words quietly, turning in her chair to properly face him with sincere eyes. “I just noticed that it was more tarnished than your other jewelry, and I thought I could—”

“You can’t take my rings from me.” Harry answers in a harsh voice, his face reflecting about as much warmth as stone on a winter’s day. “I thought I’d lost it.  You can’t do that.”

“I’m sorry.” Y/N repeats the phrase again, gentler this time as she wraps her hands around her steaming mug.  She had guessed that the opal ring was his mother’s, but like Harry’s ruby ring and initial rings, she’d deduced this lionhead decal was more for decoration than anything.  If it was something important, one would figure that he’d take better care of it.  But it seems she’s not as adept at reading Harry as she’d like to think, because his explosive reaction had been totally unexpected.  For the first time since she met him, Y/N feels uneasy in his presence.  Had she really offended him that much?

The truth of the situation, unbeknownst to her, is that Harry’s reaction is no more purposefully malicious than Y/N’s intentions. Although the ring is back on his finger, and the crystals are beginning to protect him again, Harry’s thoughts are still muddied as he glances around the apartment, carefully surveying the circumstance like the top predator he pretends not to be.  There’s still a throbbing in his skull, and his eyes remain painfully dry, despite the fact that his healing has kicked in and mended his blistered fingertips.  In this moment, Harry feels weaker than he has in centuries; if someone were to attack right now, he wouldn’t be able to react quickly enough to protect himself. How could his aching head afford him any clear plan of attack?  How could his burning eyes show him every approaching danger?  How did he let himself become so relaxed— so stupidly lax— that he didn’t notice a mere human slipping off his most precious and needed object as he slept soundly in her bed?

“I really am sorry, Harry.” Rising from her chair with her quiet speech, Y/N steps towards him, hand outstretched to touch his inked forearm. “I didn’t know—”

Her hot fingertips against Harry’s frozen skin jar the vampire, triggering his fight or flight instincts as he tenses beneath her touch. “No—” He wrenches his arm away hurriedly, the searing graze reminding him of the sunlight that had harmed him just seconds ago, his wild eyes meeting Y/N’s in a feral frenzy. 

Although her chest barely moves, Harry can hear the stuttering breath that the girl sucks in through her teeth, her eyes widening at the severity of his actions. “I’m sorry.” She whispers the phrase again, her fingers jerking back from Harry’s arm in shock. “I…”

The more time passes, the more Harry regains control of himself, and as Harry melds his shattered composure back together, he can see the fear beginning to stain its way onto Y/N’s face.  The uneven beating of her heart pricks his ears, as does the scuff of the floor beneath her bare feet as she takes a step back from him.  When that uncertain fear reaches her irises, Harry is suddenly flashed back to their first date, when he’d been worried that she might be scared of being alone with him, and how delighted he’d been when he realized that wasn’t the case.  And now, as a sick feeling begins to settle in his stomach, he knows he’s blown it. 

Inhaling deeply through his nose, Harry urges himself to relax. 

“No, I’m sorry.” He softens his voice as much as he can muster in order to apologize, rubbing his charred eyes with one hand, hoping they’re still the canopy green Y/N is familiar with. “M’just half asleep still, and I was worried that— I’m sorry.” Harry extends his ringed hand in invitation, desperately craving the warmth of Y/N’s touch now that he’s leveled out, but not wanting to take it unwillingly. He wants her to feel safe enough to give it to him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

There’s a moment of hesitation that flickers in her eyes, but it quickly passes as the mortal lays her hand within his. “You didn’t scare me.” She reassures him, but Harry can hear the falseness of her response immediately, and that guarded demeanor only intensifies the nausea rattling inside him.

Is she lying to save his feelings, he wonders, or to make herself look tougher?  No matter which may be the truth, Harry hates that she has to feel the need to lie.  He’d been upset, yes, but he should know better.  And he should know that she doesn’t know better.  She thought she’d been doing something nice for him; she has no idea about the torturous results his ring protects him from.  And she doesn’t know because Harry refuses to tell her— because he refuses to subject her to that perverted knowledge.  This is his own doing. 

“I did. I did frighten you, and I was rude, and I’m truly sorry.” Harry sighs heavily, dragging his fingers through his sleep-tousled curls. “My ring is just— it’s very important to me, and I don’t really like to take it off, so maybe just—just ask next time, yeah?” He murmurs the words in a soothing tone, his thumb sweeping over her knuckles in a poor attempt to make up for the way he’d berated her. “I know you didn’t have any bad intentions, and I’m not angry with you for taking it, but it just scared me when I woke up and it was gone.” 

“I’m sorry.” Y/N repeats yet again, and although Harry can feel her melting into his touch, there’s still a hint of uncertainty lingering beneath her words. 

Harry forces a grin on his chapped lips, which he wets with his tongue before speaking again. “S’alright, dove.  No harm, no foul.  And no more apologies, yeah?” He brushes a finger over her cheek, trying his best to put on a lighthearted front for the girl. “It was rather tarnished, actually— needed a good cleaning.” 

A shy smile finally creeps its way onto Y/N’s face, and Harry has to stop himself from breathing an audible sigh of content at both the gesture and the lack of prying about why that ring was dirtier than the rest (the answer to said question is just as simple as it is complicated: it reminds Harry of someone he’d rather forget, and if he didn’t need it, he’d drown it in the deepest ocean he could find— keeping it clean is the least of his concerns).

“How about breakfast, hm?  It’s early, but we could make some pancakes, or—” Harry glances at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, reading the time with surprise before his gaze travels back to Y/N with a confused look. “It’s not even seven yet.  What time did you get up?”

“Around 6:15?  6:30?” She lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug, and Harry’s cardigan slips down her arm with the motion. “I don’t really remember.”

With his other hand still squeezing her own, Harry rugs the sleeve of the cardigan back up her shoulder, smoothing it over her morning-cooled skin. “It’s a Saturday, darling.  What were you doing up so early?”

Despite her heartbeat having not quite returned to its usual tempo, Y/N nuzzles into Harry’s touch as he pulls her closer to him. “Couldn’t really sleep, I guess.” Tucking her face into his neck for a moment, Y/N indulges a penetrating inhale, enjoying the remnants of his mahogany and vanilla cologne before stepping back and past Harry to the cabinet.  

Standing on her tiptoes, Y/N opens the door and retrieves a pink flowered mug before sliding down the counter to her coffee maker. “Want some coffee?” She asks, touching the glass of the carafe lightly to make sure it’s still warm. “There’s butter in the fridge, I think, if you want to make your disgusting drink.”

Ignoring the dig at his beverage of choice— which Harry has explained to her, multiple times, has many health benefits (not that he needs them) and just tastes better than coffee with cream— the vampire leans his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his bare chest as his brow furrows over his darkening eyes. 

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” He questions, his attention glued to Y/N’s actions as she seems to deliberately avoid his gaze.  He analyzes the dark circles under her eyes, apparent even from just her side profile, and a spark of concern ignites his chest.  Could this be his fault?  Is drinking her blood beginning to take a physical toll on her body?  His blood has been healing her bite marks, but what about her iron levels?  Is her circulation being affected?  Mitch has told him multiple times that drinking from humans is okay once or twice a week, as long as there’s a grace period in between feeding, but Mitch has also never had the same human for as long as Harry has had Y/N.  Have the weeks they’ve spent together begun to unravel her?

When Y/N simply shrugs in response to his question, and offers no other words of explanation, a tired sigh falls from Harry’s lips as he steps towards her, taking the now-filled coffee mug from her hands and setting it down on the counter.  He wraps his arms around Y/N’s shoulders, hugging the girl into his chest for a moment to get a gauge on her body’s response.  Her heartbeat stutters, yes, but that’s a usual response to being wrapped inside Harry’s embrace, and it returns to normal after a few beats.  Her body feels just as warm as it usually does, and her chest is rising and falling just as it should be.  Nudging his face into her hair, he breathes in deeply, filling his lungs with her fragrance.  No, nothing smells out of place, and her blood had tasted as delicious and as strong as ever last night.  If she’s having trouble sleeping, the cause isn’t anything tangible. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Harry mumbles the words into her hair before lifting his head up, extracting the girl from his arms just enough so that he can see her face. “If something is bothering you and keeping you up, then you can wake me up, too.”

Y/N worries her pillowy bottom lip between her teeth as her eyes become entranced by Harry’s rosemary gaze. “I know I could, but I didn’t want to.  You—” She swallows hard in an attempt to clear the thickness from her throat as her cheeks begin to burn. “You were sleeping, and I never see you sleep.” Y/N’s voice retreats into a sheepish tone at the admittance, her eyes falling from Harry’s stare to the floor between them. “You always fall asleep after me, and you’re always awake before me.  You need rest, too, H.”

While Harry would normally laugh at that simple phrase— at the fact that Y/N doesn’t know how wrong she is— Harry’s dimples remain dormant as he focuses on the concern in her voice. “I—” His voice catches in his throat, and he has to clear it before he can say anything else. “I sleep just fine.  Better, in fact, when I’m with you.” He confesses, his thumbs brushing over the exposed skin of Y/N’s neck. 

And after Y/N has extracted herself from his grip to take a sip of her coffee, after she teasingly groans while watching Harry drop a pat of butter into his own steaming mug, after he begins to crack eggs into a pan as Y/N starts to lay bacon on a baking sheet, after all that, Harry finally realizes what lodged in his throat. It dawns on him just as Y/N slips a pink apron over his bare, faintly hickey-bruised chest to protect him from splatters of grease, giggling to herself as he poses with his hand on his hip and makes a vulgar joke about how this looks like the setup to a cheesy porno. 

The vampire comes to the realization that Y/N takes notice of him. 

She notices when he doesn’t sleep.  She notices his exposed skin that could potentially be burned while cooking.  She notices the expressions on his face, reads the tone of his voice, knows when to press a matter and when to leave it be.  And she’s concerned.  She’s concerned about not seeing him sleep.  She’s concerned about him accidentally getting hurt.  She’s concerned about the swings in his moods, the shortness of his answers.  And while Harry knows her real concerns should be about allowing herself to be in such close proximity to someone— something— like him, he can’t help but feel a warmth in his chest at the thought of her worrying about him. 

As much as Harry likes to pretend otherwise, he knows he’s not easy to be around sometimes.  He can be vain, self-centered, self-serving, and inconsiderate.  He can be selfish, dishonest, and manipulative.  His mood can teeter at the drop of a hat, and he changes his mind like the weather on the best of days.  And on his worst of days, sometimes Harry wonders if anyone could care for him, or even stand to be around him, if it wasn’t a necessity. 

Although he’d never admit it, when Harry reflects on his friendships, he can feel a degree of insecurity in the threads that tie him to his crew.  He’s fairly certain that if he and Mitch met under different circumstances— circumstances when both of them were human— they would likely still be friends.  Maybe not as close as they are today, but friends, at the very least.  When it comes to Niall, Xander, and Adam, however… he’s not so sure.  Yes, he cares for them more than he’ll ever care for anyone again, and his loyalty to them is unwavering, but on his worst days, Harry can’t help but wonder if they would be friends if their connection hadn’t been forged on the basis of what they are, and understanding something that no one else can.  If being vampires hadn’t placed them in each other’s lives and sealed them in a bond of venom and blood, would they even have given the others a second thought?  Would any of them have wanted Harry in their lives?  Harry wants to think yes, but it’s not a question of what he wants; the truth is, Harry is uncertain. 

But when Y/N sits across from him with a smear of ketchup on her bottom lip, smiling softly at Harry as he wipes it off with his thumb, and he can’t stop himself from smiling back, he realizes something that’s never occurred to him before.  He’s able to be cared for by someone who is drawn to him for all the reasons humans are normally drawn to each other, and not because they have a mutual understanding of what it’s like to be an other.

Of course, he knows there’s a certain degree of falsity in that; part of his charm and addictive qualities come from what he is, and Y/N, like any other mortal, isn’t immune to that.  But instead of allowing herself to be driven away by the usual uneasiness that pairs with being so close to a vampire for so long, Y/N is leaning closer to him, laughing as he cracks a bad joke, kissing him over their breakfast, and showing evidence that she— against all odds— wants to know him.  And the thought sends a fluttering below Harry’s ribs. 

He wishes, just for a moment, that he could be capable of feeling the same. He wishes he could have the decency to give this girl the proper relationship she wants, or even the decency to break her heart quickly before she gets too attached to someone incapable of seeing her as anything more than a takeout meal.  He wishes he could get to know her— truly get to know her, without any ulterior motives.

But Harry is vain, self-centered, self-serving, and inconsiderate.  He’s selfish, dishonest, and manipulative.  And he has his fangs too deep in this mortal to let her go. 

///

“Are you sure I can’t pick you up?” Harry slides his phone between his ear and his shoulder in order to snag his keychain from his pocket, fumbling for the right key before inserting it into his locked door. “I can just drop my groceries off and then swing by your cafe, love.  It’s no trouble.”

“No, really, it’s fine, H.” Y/N insists from the other end of the line, her voice nearly drowned out from the roar of L.A. traffic around her. “I already left work, and I’m nearly home.  I’ll be over at your place within, like, forty-five minutes, I think?  I just have to change out of my uniform.”

With his front door now unlocked, Harry grabs his phone from its perch on his shoulder before pushing open the door with his hand full of groceries, stepping inside his apartment and nudging the door shut with his foot. “I know, but it’s a long walk to my place, isn’t it?”

“It’s, like, twenty minutes— practically nothing.  And besides, I have to stop at the post office and mail a letter to my parents.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth quirks up as he rounds the corner to his kitchen, setting his grocery bags on the island before leaning his hip against the kitchen counter, his now free hand braced against the cool marble. “You still send your parents letters?  Can’t you just call them?” He asks, tapping a ringed finger against the stone.

“If you knew my parents, you’d send letters, too.” Y/N sighs into the speaker, and Harry’s inhuman ears can hear the jangling of her keys in her hand.  He can picture her searching for them like she did the night they met, digging into her purse until she’s elbow deep, her tongue tucked between her teeth in concentration.

Despite the distinctive sound of a lock turning, Harry can’t stop himself from asking about her well-being. He’s so used to doing it with his other friends, it slips out on impulse. “Are you home now?  Made it alright?”

There’s a hint of exasperated amusement in Y/N’s voice when she responds. “Yes, I managed to walk home all by myself.  Didn’t even get murdered.” There’s another thud, and Harry imagines her shutting her door, pushing her weight against it to lock it properly. “I’m pretty good at taking care of myself, you know.  I have good instincts.” 

If she’s allowed him to get this close to her, Harry thinks, then her instincts aren’t exactly the caliber she imagines them to be, but he bites his tongue to stop himself from correcting her. “I’m sure you do, darling.” He murmurs the reply as he opens his fridge to begin stocking it with the items he’d purchased earlier. “Oh, by the way, make sure you’re wearing comfortable shoes, yeah?  We’re going to be doing a bit of walking later.”

“Right.  And you’re not telling me where we’re going because…?”

“Because surprises are fun.”

When Y/N huffs in response, Harry pictures the girl with a scowl on her face, her arms crossed tightly over her tummy as she gives him an endearing glare. “Not when you’re the one who’s being surprised.” 

Still, despite her protests, Harry hears the rustling of clothing as she pulls off her work polo, followed by the clanking of her belt, the snap of a button, and the familiar rustle of her jeans being peeled off her legs. “You just worry about undressing yourself, alright?  It must be difficult, since you’ve grown so used to me doing it for you.”

“Uh huh.  I’m hanging up now.” Y/N deadpans into the phone, but Harry can tell there’s a lingering smile underneath her flat words. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Alright, doll.  See you soon.” Harry sets a carton of eggs in the fridge before closing it, hanging up the call and slipping his phone back into his black slacks.  

It takes Harry a few more minutes to put the rest of his groceries away in his pantry.  He made sure to stock up on all the ingredients needed to make pancakes at the grocery store, as well as picking up a carton of the fancy pomegranate juice that Y/N had mentioned she was fond of.  In fact, as he was wandering the aisles of his local Whole Foods, he’d found himself seeking out the snacks that he’d seen in her cupboards.  He knows that humans need to eat much more often than vampires do, and seeing as how all the activities Y/N engages in at his condo are rather exhausting and energy-burning, he thought she’d need proper fuel.

After he folds the reusable cloth tote bags he’d brought to the grocery store and puts them back in the pantry, Harry climbs up his glass stairs to his bedroom.  He takes a moment to evaluate his appearance in the full length mirror hanging on the back of his door, sweeping over every detail with a careful eye.  His outfit is alright for what he has planned, he decides; his black slacks and scuffed white vans are comfortable, but more importantly, his white t-shirt embossed with a Hollywood Bowl print that clings to the muscles of his inked arms and broad chest, which Harry knows Y/N will enjoy.  His curls, however, need a bit of tending to, and Harry slinks into his bathroom to add a bit more product to his chestnut locks, getting rid of the little frizz that had developed in the L.A. heat in order to fix his curl pattern.  

As for his jewelry, he leaves on his usual rings: his gold initial pieces, his mother’s opal, his ruby, an engraved band, and his lionhead ring, which shines under the bathroom lights thanks to Y/N’s careful efforts the week before.  Once those are secure, he fastens his pearl necklace around his neck, and fixes the clasp of his cross before slipping a plain gold hoop into his pierced ear.  Once he’s satisfied with his accessories, Harry spritzes his favourite cologne across his body, giving his appearance one more look over as he leaves his bathroom and passes the full length mirror in his bedroom again.  

The Rolex on his wrist tells him that Y/N is due over any moment, and he’s just making sure his Gucci wallet is securely tucked in his trouser pocket when Harry’s ears prick up at the sound of two pairs of feet stomping into his condo downstairs.  It only takes him a moment more to identify the intruders based on their step patterns, and a frown tugs at the corner of his mouth as he checks the time again before sauntering down the stairs.

“And just what do you two,” Harry calls to his unexpected friends as he rounds the corner of the stairs, his eyebrow quirked in question as he steps down from the last platform, “think you��re doing here?”

“We wanted some change in scenery.” Niall quips sarcastically, emerging from the end of the entrance corridor with his hands in his pockets, shoulders shrugging casually. “And I told Xander you might be shirtless, which got him to tag along. But you’re not, much to his disappointment. Though I do think the way you’re about to burst out of that tee suffices. Isn’t that right, Xanny?” 

“That’s not true!” Xander snaps hotly, his cheeks blazing and glare electric as Niall cackles boyishly, stepping around him and towards the kitchen, like he always does when he walks into Harry’s apartment. The tanned man glowers at the other vampire as he makes a beeline for Harry’s refrigerator, slowly pinning his gaze back onto the owner of the condo. He clears his throat awkwardly before offering a solid explanation for their sudden visit. “Adam cancelled on pub trivia night, so we thought you might be available instead.”

Harry shakes his head with a sigh as he makes his way into the kitchen, as well— mostly to make sure Niall doesn’t reach for any of the expensive liquors he has arranged on his bar shelves; they took too long to collect for him to just allow a single person to down one bottle like a shot— and leans both elbows against the marble island. “Sorry, mate.  I’ve got a date with Y/N.”

“So bring her.” Niall pipes up from the fridge, a stolen bottle of Harry’s favourite beer already in his hand. Harry doesn’t complain— it’s a better substitute than his forty year aged scotch. “She went to uni, didn’t she?  She must be smart.”

“I’ve got better things planned for us than pub trivia with two obnoxious knobheads.” Harry retorts, his lips tugging into a smirk at Niall’s responding eyeroll. “That’s not very romantic, is it?  Taking her on a double date with you two?”

“And that’s not very nice, H. I’m offended you wouldn’t go on a double date with Xander and I.” The Irishman sniffles with fake sincerity, biting the bottle cap off his beer despite knowing that Harry keeps a bottle opener in the kitchen drawer to his right. 

Xander watches the spectacle with distaste, his nose wrinkling as Niall spits the cap from his mouth into his hand. “And I’m offended you’d think I’d date someone who does that.”

“It’s not like you have standards.”

“Hey!”

“But then again, no one sets a bar the way I do.”

“The only bar you set for me was potential alcoholism.” Xander mutters spitefully.

“I’d make a great boyfriend.” Niall interrupts with airy confidence, ignoring his friends bickering and taking a deep swig of his beverage, smacking his lips appreciatively. “But humans are too fragile to keep around for long, and most vampires are fucking psychotic. Unfortunately.”

“What about Charlotte?” Harry suggests nonchalantly, hooking his index finger into the cabinet beneath him and fishing for a coaster. He shuts the drawer and skims the item across the top of the counter towards Niall, just in case the man wants to put his glass container down. This is real marble, after all. “She seems pretty tame.” 

Niall glances at the coaster, but doesn’t make any conscious effort to set his drink down. Harry should’ve known; Niall isn’t one to put a pint down until it’s empty, but the possibility is there, nonetheless. It’s not his fault he likes taking care of his home. 

Niall sighs through his nose dismissively, following it with a light rattle of his head. “Charlotte’s too...smart. She’s a bit out of my league, and I feel like she’d get bored of me easily. Also, how would you know if she’s tame or not? You rarely hang out whenever she’s around.” 

“That’s because she hates me.” Harry states flatly, as if it should be obvious. And it should, considering the young woman had not held back on expressing her strong dislike towards the curly brunette. Harry has thick skin and words never hurt him, but Charlotte has a surprisingly vicious vocabulary; if he hadn’t been amused by her anger, she would have come pretty close to genuinely chipping his ego. 

Niall chortles softly. “Well, I mean, you can’t really blame her, can you? You’re kind of a prick.”

“A proper asshole, actually.” Xander chimes in, drumming his digits against the table’s surface and giving Harry a bright, innocent smile. 

The immortal momentarily casts his eyes towards the ceiling in mild annoyance. “Yeah, well, that’s just the way I am. If her and Miss Billy Ray Cyrus can’t handle some dark humor and dirty banter, that’s not my problem. Everyone else seems to like me just fine.” 

“That’s debatable.” Xander corrects. 

“You’re just mad I fucked you once and decided that was enough.” 

“Anywho,” Niall interferes, waving around his beer in order to catch his friends’ attention and prevent a catastrophic World War V, he proceeeds to swivel the topic back onto himself, “like I said, I’d make a great partner. I’m funny, I’ve got a whole shelf full of PS4 games, I like to think my oral skills are pretty decent, and—”

“Have you ever made a girl wet her sheets?” Harry prods with entertained curiosity, cocking an eyebrow questioningly.

Niall pauses mid-sentence with his drink perched to his lips, eyes flitting around thoughtfully as he shovels through cluttered memories of drunken one night stands and fleeting relationships. He relents with a sheepish scoff, shoulders sagging. “...No.”

“Then you’re not as skilled as you think.” Harry remarks passively, titling his head to the side with finality. “And I’m willing to bet Mitch’s next stock of O negative that eighty percent of your hookups probably faked it.” 

“Oi, bet, then.” Niall snorts, grinning around the spout of his beverage as he finishes his sip. He wiggles his brows playfully, squaring his shoulders proudly. “You can’t fake a leg-shake, darling.” 

“A leg-shake?” Harry inquires carefully, pursing his lips to keep from sputtering into pompous laughter. “You mean like this?” He then proceeds to dramatically buckle his right leg, immediately debunking Niall’s ridiculous theory. “Just like that?” 

The Irish bloke’s face drops into a scorned scowl as Xander and Harry break into a round of mocking giggles. He draws into himself with childish pettiness, narrowing his eyes pointedly. “Piss off.”

“Unless she couldn’t walk right afterwards, you didn’t really do what you think you did, Ni.” 

“It seemed pretty real to me!” The blue-eyed boy rebuttals sharply, cheeks tinging bright pink in embarrassment. 

“That’s the point.” 

“This is precisely why I’d never entertain a relationship with you, even as a joke.” Xander pipes up towards Niall, smirking cruelly at his friend’s bruised ego. “I like my orgasms to be real, and I’m not willing to put up an act to spare your fragile masculinity.” 

“Your dick’s probably small, anyways.” 

“Bigger than yours.”

“Is that a challenge? I’ll pull it out right now, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Well,” Harry cuts in loudly, not necessarily keen on watching two grown men compare penis sizes in the middle of his home, “it seems you two have some issues to work out, so the double date is a moot point, anyways.” His jade eyes flicker to his watch again; Y/N should nearly be here, and he doesn’t want these two goons present when she arrives— especially not with their balls out. That wouldn’t be a decent introduction, despite being an unforgettable one. “So I’ll talk to you two later, then.  Thanks for stopping by.”

“Hold up, I practically just cracked my beer.” Niall whines in return, holding up the chilled bottle in protest, leaning his backside against the marble countertop with a decisive motion. “Y’can’t kick us out yet.”

Harry laughs once, the noise sounding more strained than he would like. “Seeing as how I didn’t invite you over, I think I can.” He retorts, tapping a jeweled finger against the table. 

“The blood bag isn’t even here yet,” Xander reasons as he pulls out a chair from the kitchen island, taking a seat and making himself at home as if Harry hadn’t just told him to get the fuck out. “So what's the rush?”

The hair on the back of Harry’s neck prickles at the crude nickname, and the older vampire shoots daggers at the younger as he pushes himself off the marble counter. “There isn’t one, except I think hearing herself be referred to as ‘the blood bag’ may make her a little suspicious, don’t you?”

“We’ve referred to her as worse.” Xander shrugs offhandedly, kicking his feet up onto the bar stool next to him.

Harry’s brows furrow as he pushes Xander’s shoes off his furniture, dusting the leather cushion off. “Referred to her as what?  And when?”

Although Xander lifts one shoulder again as a vague answer, Niall smacks his lips loudly once again as he swallows the rest of the beer, and answers in a matter-of-fact tone. “In Vegas, after you ditched us to get your dick wet.  I think Xander called her a fuckable slab of kobe beef, and—”

“I said ribeye, actually.  Nice flavour, but a little chewy.” Xander corrects the Irishman, but has the decency to look halfway embarrassed when he catches Harry’s stony glare. “And it’s not like we’re wrong, right?  That’s all humans are.”

Niall gives an affirmative nod as he sets his empty bottle down on the marble counter, completely ignoring the coaster Harry had slid to him. “Don’t take it personally, H.  Xanny refers to his own dates as McDonald’s Happy Meal Twinks— at least a ribeye steak is expensive.”

“I’m not taking it personally.” Harry mutters the words in a low voice as his jaw twitches, tensing under the sunlight streaming through his floor-to-ceiling windows. “But comments like these are why you pricks need to get out of here before she shows up, or else I’ll be feeding from one of you tonight.”

A beat of silence falls between the three vampires as the palpable tension flowing off of Harry thickens the room.  Xander and Niall glance between each other and Harry, hardly able to hold the latter’s eyes, before Niall offers a small comment.

“I don’t think Xander would mind that, really—”

“Out.” Harry points a jeweled finger at the entrance corridor with a firm motion. “Both of you.  Go bother Mitch.”

He can see the disappointment and frustration that lingers on Niall and Xander’s faces, but neither of them fight him as they rise from their perches in the kitchen and walk dejectedly to the front door.  Harry briefly entertains the idea of walking them out, but decides against it; there’s a strange buzzing sensation rising through his ribs, and he’s not quite sure what he’ll say as he bids his friends— he has to remind himself that, yes, they’re his friends— goodbye.  It’s safer, he thinks, if he stays where he is and cleans up the mess that they managed to leave behind in their short visit. 

He comes to regret that decision, however, approximately three milliseconds after he hears the front door creak open, and a familiar but unexpected voice echos down the entrance hallway.

“Oh— hi.  Sorry, I may have the wrong apartment…?”

Harry freezes with Niall’s empty beer bottle clutched in his hand, his grip contracting so hard that he hears the thick glass begin to splinter.

“No, no, this is Harry’s apartment.  We were just leaving.” The grin on Niall’s face is audible underneath his Irish accent. “You must be Y/N.”

“I am, yeah.” Harry can hear the tiny thread of surprise at him recognizing her in the human’s words, and the even tinier thread of pleasure that undercuts it.  “And you must be...Niall, I think?  And Xander?”

Niall’s smug reply grates against Harry’s frozen skin, even from down the corridor. “Harry’s told you about us, huh?  Only good things, I hope.”

“Oh, I—”

Harry forces his legs to move with inhuman speed, the beer bottle not even having hit the marble counter by the time Harry appears at Niall and Xander’s shoulders. “Hi, darling.” He says through a strained smile, digging his stony fingers into the back of the two vampire’s arms, an unspoken warning of behave. “Y’made it alright, then?”

When Y/N shines a warm— albeit, slightly confused— smile in his direction, Harry wishes that he’d been faster in shooing his friends out the door, because the action nearly knocks the unrequired breath from his chest.  

She’d dressed in comfortable and casual clothes, as per his suggestion, and is standing just outside the doorway in light washed denim overalls, with a black and white striped t-shirt layered underneath, and her familiar cotton candy pink vans on her feet.  But the detail that digs its way to the forefront of his mind— more so than her satin lips, her heated cheeks that are appled with her smile, and the tousled locks that are pulled back from her face in a low ponytail— is the shining silver cross pendant that hangs on a chain around her smooth neck.

It’s a new addition that Harry has never seen before, and while he knows he shouldn’t be surprised— after all, she’d told him how she grew up in a religious town, how she’d attended church, how she used to say grace before dinner with her friends— the jewelry still piques his curiosity.

“I did, yeah.  It’s really not that long of a walk, H.” Y/N replies, flicking her eyes between Harry and his two friends, who are still watching her every move as if she’s a specimen to be observed. “Sorry, am I interrupting…?”

The Irishman with glasses— Niall, Y/N reminds herself— opens his mouth to respond, but Harry quickly cuts him off as he pushes past his mates to take Y/N’s hand and step outside the apartment, fetching his keys and yellow sunglasses from the small side table by the door in one smooth motion.

“Not interrupting anything, doll.  Niall and Xander were just on their way out.” Although Harry is smiling at her throughout the comment, the mortal can’t help but feel like the last phrase was aimed at the pair still lingering in the doorway.

“We were just stopping by to see if we could steal Harry for a last minute trivia game, but he said he was already booked.” Niall answers with an accepting shrug, glancing at Xander next to him, who’s still yet to say anything to Y/N, though he is carrying an unreadable empty expression as he gives the girl a calculating once-over. “Apparently, whatever he’s got planned for you two is more interesting than a few beers and watching Xander struggle to remember all the battles in World War I—”

“That’s not fair,” The brunette finally chimes in, breaking his attention away from her body to meet the blue-eyed boy’s gaze. Y/N is surprised to hear an American accent fall from his lips. “I’m the only one who wasn’t there, so how would I know—?”

“And you two are already arguing,” Harry cuts over his friends’ bickering, shooting them an annoyed glance as he wraps a cool arm around her waist, cautioning them to watch what they’re saying. “Which will only get worse once you get alcohol in your hands, and that is why I’m not going to subject Y/N to a headache-inducing night of torture.” 

Y/N looks up at Harry with innocent interest swirling in her eyes. “I don’t know, H, it could be fun.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth as a crease forms between Harry’s brows. “Don’t you think?”

Niall catches Harry’s eye, taking advantage of Y/N’s distraction to cheekily flash him his crimson irises for a split second, voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm that only he can detect. “Yeah, Harry. Don’t you think?”

Jaw tensing, Harry bends down to brush his lips over Y/N’s ear, dampening his irritation down into a smooth and silky tone. “Don’t try to spare their feelings, love.  I’ve got something fun planned for us, I promise.” His teeth graze against Y/N’s skin, and he nearly drags his lips down towards her neck until he remembers her stuttering heartbeat can be heard by the other vampires in their presence.

The two creatures gawk at the image before them, utterly baffled at Harry’s unusual tenderness. It’s very out of character for him, that much is obvious. In all the decades Niall and Xander have been acquainted with the Victorian era immortal, neither have ever seen him be so gentle and touchy with another soul, let alone a human. It feels as if they’re looking at some type of warped parallel universe version of the normally stand-offish young man. 

Xander is the first to clear his throat, throwing Harry an annoyed grimace before pulling Niall out from the condo’s entryway. “We’ll see you later then, Harry.  C’mon, Ni.”

The Irishman offers a quick goodbye, gifting the strange girl a frail wave and a parting smile before being half-dragged down the hallway by Xander. Niall wrenches himself free and shoves Xander’s shoulder playfully as they round the corner to the elevator, their quiet voices— no doubt spinning juvenile gossip— fading out of earshot.  The look in Xander’s eyes had been concerning, Harry thinks, but nothing he needs to worry about right now.  If anything, he wants to forget that encounter as quickly as possible, and needs Y/N to forget it, too.

“So,” he pastes an easygoing grin onto his face as he locks his front door, turning to the mortal with a giddy twinkle in his forest green eyes. “Shall we be off, then?”

There’s a lingering look of confusion reflecting back at him, but Y/N doesn’t press the odd encounter as Harry intertwines his icy fingers with her own warm digits. 

“Alright.” She agrees, raising a questioning eyebrow back at him. “And just where are we going?”

///

“The Los Angeles Antique Mall.” Harry announces proudly when he opens Y/N’s door, extending a ringed hand to help her out of his low-riding car. “Twenty thousand square feet of vintage collectables, artwork, furniture, and anything else you could possibly want.”

Y/N stares up at the massive building in front of them, observing the worn wood facade and the collection of what seems to be (half faded) stained rocking chairs adorning the wraparound porch.  There’s also an impressive amount of wrought iron planters with various greenery scattered between the furniture, with groups of people milling between them as they enter and exit the giant mall. 

“You brought me antiquing?” She asks, an bemused look in her eye as she turns to Harry for an explanation. 

Wrapping his large grasp around her smaller one, Harry nods enthusiastically as he begins to lead her towards the door. “Yeah.  It’s fun, actually.  I’m always up for a bit of a treasure hunt, and I thought, since you’re still furnishing your apartment…”

“You know, now that you mention it… I could use some new curtains for my living room.  Maybe a nice side table.” Y/N allows, stepping over the wooden stairs to the door as Harry tugs her along. “But I’m surprised you like antiquing.  Doesn’t really seem like your thing, if I’m honest.”

A mischievous glint flits through Harry’s jade eyes as he treats her to a grin that’s all teeth. “I’m actually quite fond of antiques, truth be told.  I’ve got a good eye for vintage collectables.  And…” He lazily tugs on the handle of the door to open it, stepping to the side to allow Y/N to walk through first. “Maybe we’ll find a nice painting to replace that god awful tapestry in your bedroom.”

A scoff of indignation falls from Y/N’s mouth as she turns on her heel to punch Harry’s sturdy upper arm, nearly getting too distracted by the ropes of muscle beneath his tight sleeve to give a response. “I like that tapestry!  And, seeing as how you’re either sleeping or fucking me when you’re in said room, I’m a little offended that my tapestry is the thing you focus the most on.”

Harry bites his bottom lip between his teeth.  If only she knew how much time he actually spends staring at it. 

“Well, there’s certainly other things I focus on…” He replies with a casual air, slipping his hand into the back pocket of Y/N’s overalls to cup her ass suggestively, guiding her along the aisles of antiques. “But nothing ruins a post-orgasm glow like poor interior design, sweetheart. S’a bit of a buzzkill, y’know?”

“So is being patronized.” Y/N deadpans, extracting Harry’s hand from her back pocket as a hot flash begins to creep up her spine. “You keep mocking my interior design choices, and your orgasms are going to get a lot less frequent.”

The vampire belly laughs as he throws an arm around her shoulders, the action as natural to him as breathing once was. “I don’t believe that for one fucking second.” He replies gleefully, smudging an open mouthed kiss to Y/N’s temple. 

“You don’t, huh?” The human girl raises an eyebrow, cocking her head to scan the towering racks of oddities all around them. “I wonder if we can find you a vintage fleshlight here?”

“Already got one, doll,” Harry rolls his eyes as he brushes his cool fingers along Y/N’s exposed collarbone, his eyes catching the cross pendant again and brimming with curiosity. “And it’s just the tip of the iceberg that is my toy chest, y’know that—” 

Y/N feels Harry’s arm suddenly tense around her, his muscles contracting as his touch jolts away from her collarbones, his hand flexing beneath the open skylights of the building. “Everything okay?” Y/N asks, all her teasing fading away, replaced with concern as she pauses her steps toward the shelves. 

“I—” Harry flexes his fingers again, slowly removing his arm from her shoulder to examine his hand.  The tips of his fingers are a bright red, crimson burns contrasting against his pink skin, and although it only takes a few moments for the marks to fade, the uneasy feeling bubbling in Harry’s stomach lasts. “Yeah.  My, uh, my hand just cramped.  But it’s fine now, I think.”

Who the fuck, he wonders as he cautiously slings his arm back around Y/N’s shoulders, wears a cross made of, not silver as Harry originally suspected, but polished iron?  

Iron jewelry had fallen out of fashion a century ago, and Harry had never been more thankful than when it did, given how his flesh scorches at merely brushing the metal. When he took his family’s trinkets as a way to remember them before he had to leave, Harry had snuck into his father’s forge in the dead of the night to dip the jewelry in gold that he’d stolen from a local merchant who cheated poor peasants out of their valuables.  It had been a tedious task, and rather dangerous due to the threat of being caught, but it had also been necessary; if he hadn’t taken the risk, he wouldn’t have his sister’s cross earring, or his father’s matching cross necklace.  His dad’s pocket watch, luckily, had been made of silver, and didn’t need a golden bath, but everything else had to be encased to protect Harry’s skin.  

Iron jewelry had been a deterrent to him in the years to come after he was turned; it wasn’t uncommon for him to find a pretty young girl from a village and sneak her away for a night of fun, only to discover an iron chain dangling from her neck when he leaned in to take a bite.  It wasn’t a permanent problem, of course, as there were plenty of other soft places he could sink his teeth into, but it had been an annoyance then, and it still annoys him now. 

Harry does his best to push the irritation to the back of his mind, he really does.  He shows Y/N around the twisting maze of antiques, and does his best to showcase one of his favourite hideaways in L.A.  He points to anything and everything that could interest her, and doesn’t hesitate when she asks him to reach something heavy perched on a high shelf, even if she just wants to examine it out of curiosity.  Harry pulls out typewriters, vintage cameras, tarnished cigarette lighters, and a pastel yellow bicycle with an attached wicker basket from 1941, presenting all of the objects with the enthusiasm of a showcase model on The Price is Right, spouting falsified information about each product in the best impression of Bob Barker he can pull off (“This ancient, rusted bicycle— once owned by the Queen of England herself— can be all yours for just one easy payment of $8.99! Taxes and shipping not included.”). 

And although all of that incites multiple tinkling laughs from Y/N, and lights a glimmer in her eye, and compels her to walk closer and closer to Harry until she lets him sneak his palm back into the backside pocket of her overalls, the mystery of her necklace still eats at the far end of his brain. And it’s that insipid, insistent pest of a thought that causes Harry to readjust his grip on the framed Monet print he’d spotted in the racks (Y/N had tried to deny how much she liked it in order to thwart Harry’s triumphant smirk, but she still asked him to grab it for her with a grumble) and spare another glance to the innocent looking cross resting atop her clavicle. 

“That’s a pretty little piece.” Harry slips into a nonchalant tone with ease, nodding towards the necklace as he navigates the two of them around a corner. “Why have I never seen you wear it before?”

Y/N brushes her fingertips over the iron cross with a gentle motion.  Her fingers don’t scorch with a mere graze of the metal, Harry notes scathingly.  Not that he expected it from someone like Y/N. 

“Because I don’t wear it often.” She replies, lifting one shoulder without a second thought. “It was my grandmother’s— not, like, originally, but she’d owned it, and gave it to my mom, who gave it to me, so I guess it counts as a family heirloom, huh?”

“Guess so.” The vampire murmurs in agreement, prickles of wonder still coasting against his skin. “So what made you drag it out today?” Did you subconsciously realize that your neck needs protection when I’m near? Harry tacks on in his head, his brow furrowing at the troubling thought. 

And at that question, Y/N’s eyes drop to the floor, as if her bubblegum pink vans need an audience for every step they take. “Uh, I was just a little homesick, that’s all.” She mumbles the reply, her shoulders sagging as a dark shadow passes through her usually dazzling eyes. 

Homesickness.  The one human feeling that Harry can still relate to. “I’m sorry to hear that, darling.” He removes his hand from her back pocket to wind it around her shoulders again, mindful of the jewelry in question. “Did anything in particular happen, or…?”

Y/N lifts her shoulders once again as she tucks her hands into her pockets, her posture closing off more and more with every passing moment. “Not really.  I don’t know, I— normally I’m fine, but when I addressed my letter to my parents today, it took me a moment to remember my ZIP code.  It’s the same ZIP code I’ve had all my life, but… I nearly forgot it.” She glances at Harry from the corner of her eye, and Harry realizes that dark shadow is guilt.  She feels guilty. “I’ve been in L.A. for less than six months, and almost forgot my parent’s ZIP code.  I didn’t think that could ever happen.”

Harry hums low in his throat, a noise of understanding and finality.  It’s homesickness, that’s all.  That’s explainable, and understandable, and should be enough information to silence the gnawing irritation in his chest. 

And yet...

“Do you believe in God?” The question escapes from Harry’s mouth before he can even think to censor it, his own eyes widening on his behalf as his grip on the Monet print nearly releases from the surprise. 

“What?” Y/N stops in her tracks, although she nearly stumbles forward when Harry’s sturdy arm catches behind her shoulders as her eyes boggle at him. “I don’t— what does God have to do with antiquing?”

If Harry didn’t have to worry about digging himself out of the whole he created, he’d laugh at the incredulous expression on his lover’s face. “I was just curious, s’all.” He struggles to keep his voice casual, steadying his feet against the wooden floor in an effort to ground himself mentally. “I know you were raised with religion, but you don’t really go to church here— not that church equals a belief, but—”

“Um, I don’t…” Y/N extends her arm to let her fingers graze over the shelf of old lunch boxes next to them, feeling each dip of every embossed cartoon character. “I don’t know.  I don’t really believe in, like, a concept of God— at least, not the one I was raised with.  But I believe in…” She trails off as she attempts to gather her thoughts, chewing on her bottom lip absentmindedly as she searches for the right words. “Something.  I don’t really know if it’s a deity, or an energy, or just coincidence, but… I think there’s something out there that guides us.”

“So you believe in souls.” Harry’s mouth presses into a flat line, his jaw clenching for just a moment as he grits his teeth and then reiterates her previous point. “The thing that allows us to be guided, that is.” 

Or allows her to be guided, Harry thinks bitterly, casting his eyes towards their path ahead of them to avoid Y/N’s prying gaze. That’s really the only reason he’d brought up this entire religion conversation— the only reason he ever brings it up: he wants to know if she believes in souls, because in order to be guided by whatever higher power supposedly exists, one needs a soul.  And Harry’s fairly certain his was stolen from him in 1837. 

“I suppose.” Y/N allows, tracing the embossed lettering of a vintage Wonder Woman lunch box. “A soul, an energy, an aura— they’re all kind of the same thing to me.  The thing that keeps your heart beating.  I don’t think it needs to be tied to a religion; there’s so many different religions, but everyone has a heartbeat, you know?”

Harry nearly laughs out loud at the irony, but manages to stifle the sound into a non-committal hum. “Does your something include heaven and hell, or is that too based in Christianity?” He asks, half out of curiosity and half out of necessity. “If someone were to lose their soul…” He knows he sounds insane asking the question, but it bubbles out of him before he can choke it back. “Would you think them damned?”

The mortal girl stares at him blankly for a moment, her mouth just barely open as she considers his words.  He shouldn’t have asked, and he knows that— he knew it the moment the first question fell from his lips.  But the more they discussed the topic, the more it nagged at him.  Y/N, with all her good nature, her listening skills, and her soft heart, are most certainly bound for whatever good lies in store when a soul actually leaves a body.  Harry, on the other hand… If the monster’s conscience were to ever leave this Earth, he knows it’s not for the metaphorical pearly white gates. And for some reason, that notion bothers him more right now than it has in the last twenty decades.

“Um…” A nervous laugh echoes from Y/N’s mouth, the smile curling the edges of her lips not quite reaching her eyes. “Okay, this topic is way too serious for me to discuss sober.  Can I take a rain check on the damnation questions?  I’m getting Sunday school flashbacks, and living through that once was bad enough.”

Harry wills a smile onto his own face, but the expression is more apologetic than anything as he grips Y/N’s hand in his to tow her down an aisle of antique kitchen equipment. “Yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you with such heavy questions. I guess I just wanted to get to know my partner in justice a bit more.” 

Y/N takes it in good stride, just as she usually does, her smile relaxing the moment she sees Harry’s dimples peek out from his cheeks. “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock.  I’d expect nothing less from such an established detective.”

As the pair pass under another skylight, Y/N’s cross glints at Harry as if to mock him. 

///

Y/N isn’t lost.

To the untrained eye, the mindless path she takes through the towering and twisting rows of the antique mall may seem like the wandering of someone who has no recollection of where they came from, nor where they’re going, but Y/N is adamant that she isn’t lost.  She isn’t, because when she split from Harry to take a trip to the washroom, he’d warned her not to get lost in the internal maze of the mall.  And Y/N, with a glare in her eyes and a scathing remark on her lips, had assured him that she, a grown woman, would be able to find her way back after she was done, and “Honestly, H, just wander a bit.  I’ll be able to find you easily.”

So Y/N isn’t lost, because she refuses to prove Harry right.  He’s already a cocky asshole with a huge ego, and she couldn’t bear seeing that ego enlarge as a triumphant smirk paints over his face the moment she calls him on his cellphone, admits defeat, and asks him to come find her.  She’ll do a lot of things for that man, but that isn’t one of them.

With that in mind, she turns down a corridor of the labyrinth of collectables, trying to find any discernible items that she could use to pinpoint her location in the labyrinth.  The yellow bicycle, maybe, or one of the vintage cameras Harry had pretended to photograph her with, or even the strange five foot carving of Bugs Bunny that she and Harry had agreed is probably possessed by a demon.  A haunted Bugs Bunny could lead her to her destination— or kill her, truthfully, but either option seems preferable over the solidifying future of having to call Harry.

After another five minutes of aimless ambling, Y/N retrieves her phone from her pocket, a grimace crawling its way onto her face as she opens her contacts to click on Harry’s name.  Her finger hovers just over the phone icon, mere millimetres from humiliation, when a few out of place piano notes float by her ears and catch her attention.

Y/N tucks her phone back into her overall pocket as her curiosity takes over, urging her ears to strain towards the distant melody, as well as for her legs to follow. It’s not long before Y/N is walking with purpose again, albeit a different purpose than before.  As the music gets louder, Y/N begins to pick out more details— how the piano notes that prick her ears are slightly out of tune, how the player begins and stops and begins again, dragging out different phrases, speeding through others with no clear intention.  The minor key of the piece makes Y/N feel like she’s walking into a memory as she wades through the shelves of long-forgotten belongings, old photographs of deceased people in Victorian fashions watching while the young woman falls back in time.

The music grows louder as Y/N reaches a dark corridor with wood paneling lining the walls, and a painted sign saying “Music Room” beckons her down the passageway.  She follows with slow steps, and while she knows that maybe leaving the main mall area and losing her way down here isn’t a smart idea, the music that’s beginning to grow impossibly sweet pulls her forward.  Y/N rounds the corner to find the oak doors to the music room swung open, and when she lays her eyes on the figure sitting at the mahogany ground piano, she recognizes the silhouette of Harry’s back and shoulders immediately.

Y/N’s gaze falls from his flexing shoulder blades to his inked hands, the jewels on his rings catching the low light of the room as his lithe fingers dance over the dusty ivory keys.  He coaxes a melody from the instrument without any difficulty, as if the music had been simmering beneath his skin for ages.  Maybe it has, Y/N thinks, as she watches from the doorway with quiet wonder, and although she plans on silently observing for as long as she can, Harry only completes a few more phrases before the music drifts to a halt.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d find me.” He murmurs, clearing his throat of the rasp that had settled in his vocal chords as he played. “Thought I’d be getting a scared phone call any moment now.”

The human girl steps into the room slowly, gliding around to the cut out of the piano and leaning across the lacquered wood. “I wasn’t scared.  And I would’ve found you sooner if you’d stayed put. I said wander a bit, not all the way across the building.” She retorts jokingly, trailing a finger along the smooth edge of the piano. All of the sarcasm in her voice melts right out, replaced by intrigue. “I didn’t know you played piano.”

“I, uh, I don’t.  Not much anymore, anyways.” Harry runs his digits between the keys again, using only enough pressure to dust the top of the ivory covers. “I wasn’t sure I’d remember how, honestly, but this…” He lifts an index finger to brush the dust off the gold embossed brand name. “It looks like the one I learned on, so…”

Y/N takes a seat on the wooden bench next to Harry, her shoulder bumping against his as she leans in to smudge a kiss across his cheek. “It sounded beautiful.” She assures him, noting the hesitation in his explanation. “What’s that piece called?”

“It’s one of Chopin’s Nocturnes, in C-Sharp Minor.” Harry curves his fingers over the keys, as if he’s about to begin again, but then relaxes the digits as he exhales harshly. “I don’t play it as well as— as the person who taught me.”

There seems to be a hidden story beneath those words, but Y/N doesn’t press it; if Harry wants to tell her, then he’ll tell her.  If not… Well, she’d rather not drag a sour memory from him in the middle of an antique mall.  Instead, she drags her fingers over his thigh, rubbing just above his knee in a comforting manner. 

“How long have you been playing?” She asks softly, tracing over a black lacquered key with her free hand.  When she pulls away, her finger is coated in dust, and she wonders how long it’s been since the piano has been touched by someone else.

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch, as if her question is particularly humorous. “A while.” He answers simply, and he tilts his head to the side to press his face against the top of Y/N’s head, inhaling the scent of her favourite shampoo. 

“A while?” Y/N repeats the vague answer to prompt further explanation, but when she gets none, she switches to another inquiry. “Can you play me something?”

The moment she utters the question, Harry shakes his head adamantly. “No, I— no.  I’m not that good, love, and I don’t really play for people.”

Surprise colors Y/N’s voice when she replies, lifting her head from Harry’s shoulder to look him in the eye. “This isn’t the time for false modesty, H.” She says, tapping two fingers against his knee as punctuation. “Since when have you been humble?”

A bark of a laugh escapes Harry’s chest in spite of himself, and he curls his fingers over Y/N’s to move her hand further up his thigh. “I’m not modest!  Don’t insult me like that, darling.  S’not nice.”

“Prove it, then.” Y/N massages over Harry’s inner thigh as she issues the challenge, baiting the vampire’s ego with ease. “Play me something.  Show off a little bit.”

Harry squeezes Y/N’s hand once as a quiet groan twists his lips into a pout. “You’re getting pretty good at manipulating me, y’know that?” He mutters, poising his lacquered fingertips back over the instrument. “Fine.  Do you want something sad or happy?”

Y/N ponders the question as she leans her head back onto Harry’s shoulder, her lips finding the edge of his jaw and pecking his cool skin for just a moment. “Both.”

“Both.” Harry repeats with a snort, shaking his head in exasperation as his hands drift to a new position on the keys. “Indecisive little thing, aren’t you?”

The mortal girl lifts her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug, scratching her nails along the fabric of Harry’s pants. “Just play me something.  Please?”

It’s the simplest request with the most complicated implication, but Harry can’t find a good reason to refuse it. 

“This is, um, another Chopin piece.” He feels clumsy in his explanation, struggling to remember the details that he’d once memorized in an effort to seem impressive. “Another Nocturne, in E-flat this time.”

Harry’s fingers begin to dance over the keys, and Y/N listens in amazement as a melody that is both happy and sad begins to spiral out from the body of the piano, wrapping her inside the warmth of the music.  

Not every phrase is even— the more Harry plays, it seems, the more the music phrases, bending and shaping itself around his elegant fingers, rolling with his every movement.  As the music begins to get sadder, however, Y/N notices the change in Harry’s face, and how each phrase begins to get choppier as his fingers stumble their way over the keys. 

Y/N smudges another kiss against Harry’s jaw when his fingers trip up again, squeezing his knee with reassurance. “Keep going.” She murmurs, rubbing his leg lightly as the music stutters again. “It’s nice.”

“I—” The music halts with a jerk of Harry’s hands, which he retracts from the keys as if the ivory burns him. “I don’t remember the rest.” He mumbles, laying his stubbled cheek against the top of Y/N’s head. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.  I really liked it.” Y/N trails her own fingers over the keys, pressing a few of the lacquered notes with idle interest.  The melody she spins out isn’t nearly as nice as the one Harry played, and she laughs at her own expense. “I’m not nearly as good.  I took a few lessons as a kid, but begged my mom to let me quit.  I wish I’d stuck with it.”

“That wasn’t too bad.” Harry’s dimples wink at her as he smiles boyishly, nodding to the keys with false reassurance. “That little tune sounded a lot like Mozart.”

“Uh huh.” The mortal girl rolls her eyes at the lie, bracing her palms against the polished wooden bench before rising from her seat. “Despite that praise, I don’t think I’ll be adding this piano to my shopping cart.” 

“Hm.  Too bad.” Her lover trails his fingers after her, reaching for her hand and intertwining her grasp with his. “It could make a pretty addition to your apartment, I think.”

“It would take up my entire apartment, more like it.” Y/N scoffs as she raps the fingers of her free hand against the side of the piano. “I don’t even think I could fit this in my living room.  Your apartment, however…” She raises an eyebrow as a grin works its way over her face. “You could fit it easily.  You should buy it.”

Harry rolls his eyes as he lets her hand fall from his palm, touching the keys one last time before shutting the cover over the keyboard. “I’m not buying the piano.”

“Why not?” Eyes widening in surprise, Y/N leans onto the instrument, gesturing with her arms the same way Harry did earlier as she shifts her voice to mimic Bob Barker. “It’s made of genuine mahogany, was once played by Beethoven himself, and can be yours, for the low, low price of—” She reaches around the side of the instrument to grab the tag tied around the leg. “Eight hundred and—holy shit, are you kidding me?”

Harry hums in response as he rises from the bench, shrugging his shoulders before crossing his arms around his tummy. “That’s actually a fairly good price for a used piano, you know.” 

Y/N blinks at him, her mouth opening and closing as she struggles to find words. “I— okay, yeah.  Sure.  So you should get it, then, if you consider that a ‘fairly good price’.” 

“I could,” Harry agrees, his muscles flexing beneath his tight t-shirt as he reaches to pick up the painting leaning against the instrument. “But I won’t.”

Her brow wrinkling in confusion, Y/N watches as Harry begins to examine the other objects in the room, turning his attention to the book-lined shelves and antique lamps. “Why?” 

The man sighs as he fingers the tassels hanging from a— in Y/N’s humble opinion— particularly ugly lamp. “Because I already have one—”

“You do?”

“—but it’s been in storage ever since I got to L.A. And while I usually love things in excess… alcohol, statement jewelry, orgasms—” He flashes a toothy grin at Y/N. “I don’t think overly-heavy instruments fall into any of those categories.”

“Why is it in storage?” Y/N asks, bemusement laced through her voice.  Before Harry began to stumble through the piece, there was a look on his face that Y/N hasn’t seen very often; a serene air swirled through his eyes, hiding something beneath it that Y/N couldn’t quite make out.  And she wants to. 

“Because I don’t have any interest in playing anymore.  Honestly, darling, I haven’t thought about it in years.” Harry laughs in a nonchalant manner, moving from the antique lamp to the creaking rocking chair in the corner. “Y’can have it, if you like.  Probably do you more good than me.”

Y/N rolls her eyes at the deflection, turning her attention away from the topic at hand. “I’m good.” She responds dryly, drifting over to the floor to ceiling bookshelf bolted to the wall. 

Her eyes trail over the exposed spines of the books, reading over the variety of titles with piqued interest.  The amount of genres she sees is countless, ranging from trashy paperback romance novels to timeless classics embossed in gold.  The farther up Y/N glances, the older the books appear, and she gets more and more curious as she glides her fingers over the rippled covers of the books within her reach.

While the novels climb up the height of the bookshelf to the ceiling, Y/N can only manage to reach halfway up the length she needs to, even while stretching on her tiptoes.  She settles down on the balls of her feet with a pout playing on her lips, her attention turning to the wheeled ladder that runs along bars bolted to the bottom of the shelving unit.  It looks rather old— like everything in the antique mall— and Y/N isn’t quite sure it’ll support her weight, despite her test of gripping a rung and pushing on it.

“Harry, c’mere,” She calls over her shoulder, hands gripping the sides of the dusty ladder as she balances a foot on the bottom rung.

Upon her beckoning, Harry saunters over, the painted print she’d selected still grasped in his ringed hand. “Yeah?” He asks, raising an eyebrow in question. “What is it?”

“Can you help me climb up the ladder?” Y/N nods her head towards the far-reaching shelves, biting her bottom lip with pleading eyes. “I want to see what’s on the top shelves.”

Harry’s gaze follows Y/N’s gesture towards the top of the library wall, a look of trepidation flickering through his eyes. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes,” Y/N answers curtly, lifting her other foot onto the bottom rung before moving from her original step to the next. “And it’ll be a lot easier if you help me.”

Despite his protests, Harry sets down the framed print and complies with the request, grasping Y/N around her waist with firm hands as she scurries up the rickety ladder.  She can feel his fingertips pressing into her love handles over the denim, and it would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy it, but she refocuses her attention onto reading over the embossed titles that she couldn’t see from below.

“Y’know, on second thought… take all the time you need, dove.” Harry calls from below her, the smirk evident in his voice as he squeezes her hips once with a laugh. “I’ve got quite the view from here.”

Rolling her eyes, Y/N releases one hand from the ladder to tug a novel off the shelf, examining the half exposed cover before sliding it back into its place. “I bet you do.” She retorts, wiggling her hips just enough to tease him without losing her precarious balance on the ladder.

Although the motion is meant to be a joke, Harry can’t stop the flash of genuine fear that ignites in his chest.  Humans are fragile, he knows, and a fall from the height that Y/N has climbed to could sprain her wrist, or injure her back, or crack open her skull like an egg, or—

“Careful there, Watson.” Harry attempts to disguise the worry in his voice behind a lighthearted joke as his grip on the human girl strengthens. “Wouldn’t want an accident to happen, now, would we?”

“That’s why I’ve got you, Holmes.” A tinkling laugh falls from her lips as she risks a glance over her shoulder at him, her eyes alight with amusement, before turning her attention back to the old novels. “You wouldn’t let anything happen to me, would you?”

There’s a nervous truth hidden underneath her words, and Harry knows it, but that doesn’t stop it from making his skin itch as the casual phrase sinks into his body.  In all his years, however, Harry’s gotten quite good at hiding his emotions, and this is no different.  

Instead of giving a sincere answer, Harry hardens his reply of “F’course I wouldn’t, pet.  Y’can never be too careful.” by letting one jeweled hand drift from Y/N’s hip to her backside, cupping it gently to support her, and taking delight in the way he can feel her body tense beneath his new touch.

It takes Y/N a moment to find her breath again, and when she does, all she can muster is a hum in the back of her throat. “Mhmm.” She sighs, trying her best to refocus on the books lining the shelves in front of her as she climbs higher. “Is that why your hand is grabbing my ass, you pervert?”

“Y’know, that seems to be your favourite nickname for me.” Harry’s smirk deepens as he contracts his hand, squeezing her fleshy backside after she takes another step higher. “I wonder why that is?”

“I wonder.” The flat response echoes from Y/N’s mouth as she pulls another book from the shelf to examine it before replacing it a moment later. “Maybe— and this is just a suggestion, so take it with a grain of salt, but— maybe if you didn’t act like a pervert, you’d get a nicer nickname.”

Although Y/N’s retorts are droll and to the point, Harry can hear the way her heartbeat begins to stutter each time he massages her, and it’s that fluttering rhythm that encourages him to grasp the sides of the ladder with both hands and pull himself up a couple rungs. 

“A nicer nickname, huh?” He breathes in her ear, pressing his chest to her back both to be close to her and to give her more support on the ladder. “Like ‘slut’?” Harry stifles the groan that nearly rolls from his throat when he feels Y/N stiffen. “That’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?”

“I—” Swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat, Y/N grips the sides of the ladder tight between her hands, her skin stretching over her tense knuckles as Harry’s breath begins to hit her neck. “Maybe. I...I suppose.”

Harry laughs quietly as he takes another step up the ladder, keeping himself braced against Y/N as he begins to smear kisses along the side of her neck, mindful of the iron cross that still hangs there. “You suppose?” He repeats, his tone slightly mocking when he hears the mortal shudder. “What about your other favourites?  Y’like when I call you my pretty little plaything, don’t you?”

The honey and lavender fragrance wafting over Harry intensifies as Y/N’s blood pumps faster and faster, the only sound emerging from the human girl being a quiet whimper from the back of her throat.

“There’s another one, though… another nickname…” Letting his teeth gently graze her earlobe, Harry whispers directly in Y/N’s ear, keeping his voice low and throaty as he does so. “It’s on the tip of my tongue, baby...” He suckles sloppily along her pulsing neck, delighting in the taste of her sweet skin in his mouth. “Remind me what it is?”

Already, Y/N’s breathing has grown ragged, and he waits a moment for the aroused girl to form a response, encouraging her with every nip of his teeth.  Just when Harry is about to ask again, she manages to choke out a reply.

“Whore.” She whispers, the embarrassment in her voice overpowered by the lust running through her veins. “I like it when you call me your whore.”

“That’s my good girl.” A satisfied smile tugs at the edge of Harry’s lips as he stamps a gentle kiss to Y/N’s jaw. “That’s another one, too.  My good girl.  And because you’re my good girl…” Harry snakes his right hand from the rung of the ladder to the buttons of Y/N’s overalls, deftly undoing the side snaps and gradually slipping his hand into the space between the denim and her clammy skin. “You’re going to keep looking for your books while I have some fun.”

Y/N lets out a broken gasp as Harry’s fingertips graze over her cotton panties, and her grip on the railing slackens as a rush of heat falls between her legs. 

“Careful, baby.” Harry cautions her, his left hand wrapping around hers and resetting her grasp on the ladder. “Can’t have any fun if you let go, hm?”

“We—” She twists her head to the side, straining to look over her shoulder and towards the entrance as Harry’s digits dance over the dampening spot on her panties. “Someone could walk in, Harry—”

Of course someone could, Harry thinks, but exhibitionism is so much easier to indulge when one has inhuman hearing that can detect the pounding of an approaching heart from fifty feet away.  He doesn’t disclose this information to Y/N, however, for a number of reasons, and instead chooses to scrape his teeth along the shell of her ear once more, his ruby lips soothing the marks instantly. 

“You let me worry about that, alright?” He murmurs lowly, sliding Y/N’s cotton panties to the side and dragging his index and middle finger through her dripping folds, enjoying how she shivers against his chest. “You just focus on finding the book you want and being a good little whore for me, princess.  Let me take care of the rest.”

When Y/N reflects on this moment in bed tonight, her clammy palms twisting around the sheets as she inhabits the memory of Harry’s mint-scented breath swirling around her as he massages two fingers around her throbbing clit with a teasing touch, one specific detail will stick out to her.  She won’t focus on how her heart is pounding so hard that she feels her chest might burst, or how her fingers shake as she reaches for another book on the shelf, per Harry’s quiet but intent instructions.  The thing that Y/N will remember in wonder and— on some level, self consciously— is how quickly the anxiety that spikes through her veins at the possibility of someone walking in and finding the two of them in such a compromising position bleeds into a high like no other.

Y/N likes to entertain the idea that she’s fairly adventurous, and has been open to a lot of things, especially since meeting Harry, but this— allowing him to finger her in a music room at an antique mall, where any customer or employee could discover them— is something so outside of her character that Y/N can’t think straight.  When Harry first slips his long middle finger inside her slick center, the girl nearly collapses, and Harry’s broad chest braced behind her is the only thing that keeps her upright on the ladder.

“Y’like that, doll?” Harry’s hot breath rolls over her neck as he purrs the words, adjusting his grip on the side of the ladder as his other hand skillfully toys with the human in slow and deep strokes. “Filthy little thing, you are, letting me play with you like this.”

The sinful remark draws a mewling moan from Y/N’s mouth as her head dips back onto Harry’s sturdy shoulder, her hands dropping all pretense of searching for a book and clutching the ladder like she normally clutches her sheets, or the headboard of whoever’s bed Harry has tossed her onto. “H-Harry…” She whimpers, her eyelashes fluttering as he circles his thumb around her clit. “Fuck…”

“You pretend to be so sweet, but you and I know the truth, don’t we?” The vampire sponges another kiss along her throat as he delights in the wet sounds his fingers make, which easily become drowned out by the quiet noises of bliss leaving his lover’s mouth. “You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

Y/N nods fervently as she allows her weight to fall back against Harry’s sturdy chest, trusting him to support her as he thrusts another finger inside her. “Anything, H, I—” The desperate proclamation is cut off as Harry curls his digits, bumping against the spot in the pit of her tummy that sets her entire nervous system on fire. “Shit, right there, baby, right there…”

Harry’s smug voice rings in her ear as he slows his stride, dragging his fingers in and out of her hot core at a pace that’s nearly criminal. “Y’don’t need to tell me, I know.” He pushes himself forward again, flushing Y/N between his chest and the ladder with just enough room to continue his activities. “I know what you like, how you like it, where you like it… Know my girl so well.”

As Y/N adjusts to the newly close proximity, the bulge in Harry’s slacks grows more apparent, rubbing against her backside over and over with each plunge of Harry’s fingers.  She lets out a strangled whine at the feeling, carving her teeth into her bottom lip in an effort to keep herself quiet. 

“You feel me, don’t you, minx?” Harry moans into her ear, catching his teeth along the shell before dragging them down her jaw to settle his lips just above her throbbing pulse point. “You feel what you’re doing to me?  How just a single whimper from those pretty lips, and one touch of your soaked cunt makes my cock ache?”

Despite her best efforts, a ragged sob breaks through Y/N’s self-imposed gag order, and her chest heaves within Harry’s tight embrace as her head lolls to the side. “I-I want it.” She pleads, her half-lidded eyes struggling to find Harry’s emerald irises in her haze. 

Those sea glass eyes, darker than she’s ever seen them, widen with fake surprise as his mouth curls into a smirk.  When Harry replies, his normally soothing dulcet voice is filled with insincere mocking. “Oh, you want it, do you?  You want me to fuck you in here?” Dropping his voice to its usual low resonance, Harry growls the next phrase in the human’s ear. “I know you want it, you fucking slut.  But you can’t have it right now.  So if I’m going to let you cum—” The conditional phrase pulls a sound of protest from her throat. “—then you’re going to have to do it around my fingers.” 

The begging girl cries out against his neck as her walls clench around his touch, the stifled pants that she gasps into Harry’s ear urging him to speed up.  Instead of giving her what she wants, Harry curls his fingers inside her, pressing deeper into that spongy spot to elicit another broken whine from her.  When he receives it, however, it’s accompanied by an unexpected blinding burn. 

The iron cross that hangs so delicately around Y/N’s fragile throat has slung to the side in her writhing pleasure, finding its way from her flushed collarbones to the base of Harry’s icy neck.  The vampire grinds his teeth as he feels the brand begin to form, choking back the sound of agony that fights its way out of his mouth.  His left hand clenches around the ladder, his knuckles stretching white as the waxed wood nearly splinters under his palm, while his right hand stutters its pace inside his lover, prodding harshly at her G-spot as a single grunt makes it past the cracks of his teeth.

Harry knows he needs to remove the cross from his skin, but he has no way of doing so without alerting Y/N to his discomfort.  If he lets go of the rung, both of them will tumble off, and Y/N has made it obvious how much she trusts him to keep her safe; that option is hardly an option, Harry thinks, struggling to keep his mind present as he fights through the pain.  The other option— the only one, really— is to retract his fingers from between the mortal’s thighs, feign some excuse as to why, and do his best to keep her from noticing the cross-shaped burn mark on his neck that will surely disappear within a few moments of the iron being removed.  It’ll be jarring, he knows, to pull Y/N from the subspace he can tell she’s beginning to slip into, and Harry hates it, but there’s nothing to be done.  His hand contracts inside her, desperately massaging her walls one last time before he retreats to—

The sharp action drags a mangled whine from Y/N’s throat, the sound more shattered than anything Harry has ever heard from her before, and it pulls Harry’s attention from the charring sensation of the cross branding his skin to the overwhelmed girl in his arms.  As Y/N lets her entire body fall against Harry’s chest, her eyes completely shut as she gives into the pleasure bubbling in her tummy, a realization dawns on Harry, searing him nearly as much as the metal on his inhuman flesh: he can’t let go of her.  He’s in too deep— literally, obvious in the way she tightens around his fingers— and if he were to stop now, Y/N would go into a sensitive daze that he can’t deal with in a public space.  If he lets go of her now, he’ll lose the connection he’s spent the last two months making. She might get over it, given that it’s just an orgasm, but subconsciously, there’s a possibility she could resent him for it. Especially in the extremely delicate phase she’s in at the moment. 

He knows it sounds stupid, but he can’t risk that.  He just can’t.  He’ll take burning agony over that any day. 

When Harry reflects on this moment in bed tonight, his jeweled fingers carefully combing through Y/N’s knotted locks as she shifts in his arms, the bite mark on her neck freshly faded to a light bruise, her chest rising and falling gently with quiet breaths, one specific detail will stick out to him.  He won’t focus on the blinding pleasure of Y/N grinding against his hardened bulge, her body moving of its own accord as she gives in completely to the sensations Harry pulls from her.  He won’t focus on the explicit moans that show she’s given up on attempting to quiet, her voice reverberating in Harry’s mouth as he inhales every desperate breath she exhales.  When Harry reflects on this moment, the thing he’ll remember the most is how the second he accepted his fate— that he’d have to bear the pain in order to keep Y/N happy, and he feels like there’s probably some deeper subliminal message hidden beneath that realization, though he refuses to indulge it— the mortal girl tilts her head to the side and begins to kiss Harry’s neck, soothing the scorched mark with her silky tongue. 

The relief is so sweet that Harry nearly cries out a fractured mewl, letting his head fall forward into Y/N’s shoulder to hide his desperate expression.  She continues to whimper into his skin, smudging kiss after kiss on his marked neck as if she knows how badly he needs it.  Even as her orgasm begins to rise in her belly, consuming her every thought, she continues to suck bruises onto his jugular, dragging her tongue over his cool skin repeatedly after every action.  Although the iron still stings, the sensation of Y/N’s textured tongue swiping over it turns the pain to pleasure, and it’s not long before Harry has himself centered once again, refocused on the task at hand. 

He speeds up the movement of his fingers, focusing on curling them inside her as his thumb rubs quick circles over her throbbing clit.  The sounds bouncing around the room are so lewd that Harry almost wishes someone would walk in, even if only to see how good Harry is capable of making his lover feel. 

“Y’can cum for me, baby.  Cum all over my hand.” He mutters in her ear, his teeth scraping against her fragile skin in desperation. “I know you have it in you.  Show me how good you are.”

Y/N feverishly grinds against his hand, all of her senses overwhelmed by the immortal as she licks across his neck. “So—so close, Harry—I—”

“I know, I know you are.” The vampire soothes her in a tone more gentle than he thought possible, palming her soaking cunt with as much pressure as he thinks she can stand. “Let go for me.  I’ve got you.”

The reassurance is the final thing Y/N needs to fall apart, and once she knows that she can, it happens with an intensity that shocks even her.  When the coil inside her belly snaps, a guttural moan tears from her mouth, and she grasps the pole in front of her as tightly as she can while collapsing back into Harry’s chest. 

“Fuck, there we go, yeah? Shhh, keep it down for me, angel. Don’t wanna have to stop until you beg me to.” 

Her grip on the ladder does nothing to support her, but as Harry’s hushed words ring in her mind, she knows she doesn’t have to worry about that.  Harry’s arms and chest are strong enough to do it for her, allowing her to sink into her pleasure as much as she needs to. 

When Y/N slumps in his arms, her neck finally shifts enough that her cross falls back into its designated position between her collarbones, providing Harry with relief from the scorching pain he’d been beginning to adjust to.  He can feel his skin begin to heal itself the moment the iron leaves it, and with that small fear tamped down, the creature can turn all his attention to the girl in his arms. 

He slowly and carefully retracts his hand from her panties, shushing the weak squeak that rolls from her lips at the motion. “Good girl.” He mumbles into her ear, kissing her temple softly as her breathing begins to regulate itself. “Shh, you’re alright.  Y’did so well for me, darling.”

The comforting praise comes easily to him, and as he continues to hold Y/N as she regains her previous headspace, Harry begins to wonder just how far he’d be able to push her before she reaches her limits.  How far into subspace can she go before she hits the point of no return?  Could Harry successfully guide her there and lead her back?  Could she ever trust him enough to submit fully to his every request, taking solace in the knowledge that he can take care of her as well as— or better, even— she can take care of herself?  Harry wants to think yes, but he can’t dwell on the idea any longer; Y/N’s beginning to shift against him again, and he’ll never be able to earn that wholehearted trust if he doesn’t tend to her now. 

Lifting his hand to his own lips, Harry wraps his tongue around his drenched fingers, lapping at the sweet wetness that coats them down to his rings.  He hums in appreciation, stippling another tender kiss to Y/N’s neck when he retracts his fingers from his mouth. 

“Taste so sweet, y’know that?” He whispers, the question half a test to see how aware Y/N is as her head begins to clear. “C’mere, I want you to taste.”

Y/N lazily tilts her head to the side, a small smile playing on her lips as they meet Harry’s for a slow kiss.  Trailing his fingers down her side, Harry skillfully buttons the side of her overalls again, adjusting the fabric to lie comfortable against her skin.

“How are you feeling, hm?” He murmurs, rubbing his large hand soothingly over her belly as her breathing begins to regulate again. “How was that?”

“I feel…” Y/N struggles to make sense of her swimming head, resting it against Harry’s shoulder as she tries to form a coherent response. “Good.”

Harry sighs with relief, smearing a quick kiss to her cheek as he grins. “Good.  That’s good.” 

With his right hand still wrapped around her middle, he carefully lowers himself and Y/N from the ladder, keeping a tight grip on the girl until he knows her feet are planted firmly on the ground. 

As the afterglow of her climax begins to fade, a heated flush begins to crawl up Y/N’s spine to settle on the apples of her cheeks. “I, um—” The corners of her lips tug upwards with a bashful tone, and she twists around in Harry’s arms to shyly meet his canopy green eyes. “I can’t believe I did that.” 

“You didn’t do anything.  It takes two to tango, pet.  And, honestly…” Harry flashes a boyish simper at her as he yanks her closer to him by her hips. “I think I did most of the work.” 

“That’s true.” A breathless laugh stutters from Y/N’s chest as she curls her hands around Harry’s bulging biceps, steadying herself from the after effects of her orgasm, which are turning her legs to jelly. “I could, um…” She flicks her eyes from the door to the prominent bulge in Harry’s black slacks before capturing his gaze in hers again. “Return the favour?”

Harry snorts as he gives a quick shake of his head, his teeth catching on his bottom lip while he runs his hands down the back of her rumpled shirt. “Not here, baby.  How about we wait until we’re back at my place for you to show me how my sweet girl sucks cock, hm?”

“So it’s alright for you to distract me from my book search to finger me in a public area,” Y/N fakes indignation to distract herself from the ache that’s starting to pulse in her core again at Harry’s proposal. “But the moment I want to suck you off, you say ‘not here’?  What kind of double standard is that?”

Lips twitching in amusement, Harry stifles a laugh as he turns the girl in his arms, pressing her back to his chest once again before wrapping his arms back around her waist. “You’re right.  I distracted you from your book search. How rude of me.” He coos, nodding up to the shelf as he grazes his teeth against her pulse. “Think I see a pretty copy of Sense and Sensibility up there.  Y’think you can reach it, or do you need me to do it, sweetheart?” 

The shuddering of Y/N’s heartbeat contrasts with her heated reply. “I can reach it just fine if you behave yourself.” She shoots back, smacking the hand that’s beginning to wander towards her center again. “Or is that too difficult for you?” 

“It’s extremely difficult when I’m near you.” The reply, while truthful, sends a quiver down Harry’s spine, and he presses a chaste kiss to the human girl’s shoulder before releasing her from his grasp. “I’ll get the book.”

Y/N tugs the hair tie from her locks, shaking them out before pulling them back again in a neat manner. “You know, I never thought I was one for antiquing, but today was fun.” 

“Well, it doesn’t usually involve getting finger-fucked on a ladder,” Harry states bluntly, glancing over his shoulder with a dimpled smile on his face. “So I’m not really sure if today can be the marker for an average antiquing session.”

Y/N’s face boils at the brazen comment, and she tucks a strand of loose hair that she’d missed behind her ear as she swallows hard. “No.” She replies with a soft and timid laugh, shaking her head gently. “I suppose that’s true.” 

Harry hums in reply as he snags the old copy of the Jane Austen novel from the top shelf, climbing down the ladder effortlessly and landing back on the ground with a soft thud. “But I’m glad you had fun.” Harry steps towards Y/N with a satisfied air, gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger as a teasing smile plays on his ruby lips. “And I’m even more glad we found a replacement for that terrible tapestry of yours.”

Y/N rolls her eyes as she smacks Harry’s hand from her chin before snatching the novel from his hands. “Stop being mean to Amanda!  You’ll hurt her feelings.”

A snort boasts from Harry’s throat as he recalls the day she had told him what she’d named the piece hanging from her wall, and he bends down to scoop up the Monet print while shaking his head impassively, clutching it in one hand as he snakes the other around Y/N’s waist once again. “Well, I hope Amanda doesn’t have feelings, because I’m going to burn her.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not, because I’m going to hang her over your bed, just so you can stare at her while you fall asleep each night.” 

Harry groans loudly as he guides his lover from the music room and back to the open space of the antique mall. “Please.  If anything is going over my bed, it’s a mirror, not a college freshman’s poor excuse of an attempt at interior design.” 

Y/N wrinkles her nose at the comment, shaking her head at the crude suggestion. “A mirror?  That better be a joke.”

“It was, but now that I’m thinking about it…”

“You’re disgustingly conceited.” 

“Oh please, you lo—” Harry catches himself just before the word love rolls off his lips.  Though he’s said it before when referring to certain aspects of their sex life (like how he loves the way her mouth feels, or how she loves the way he stretches her out), it just seems oddly repulsive to say at this very moment. Too intimate, almost.

Therefore, the creature bites back the offensive phrase and tugs her closer by the waist, covering up his sudden hesitation with his signature smirk. “You like that idea, don’t you, dove?”

Y/N keeps her face neutral as they pass by an older couple examining a grandfather clock. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Sure you don’t.” Harry laughs sharply, nuzzling his face into the top of Y/N’s hair and pressing a casual kiss to the crown of her head. “Need I remind you that your request for my interior design skills is what started this whole thing?”

“And if you had suggested I mount a mirror over my bed, this whole thing would’ve been over before it even had a chance to start.”

“You say that now, but if you were to see the way my cock looks while it slams into your—”

“Harry!” Y/N hisses, blood rushing to her cheeks as he guides her around a corner stacked with porcelain dolls. 

“Fine. No mirror.” Harry relents, a disappointed sigh falling from his lips as he palms Y/N’s waist closer to himself. “But the tapestry needs to be burned.”

“No.”

“Thrown away.”

“No.”

“Folded up and tucked under the bed?”

“Possibly.  And that’s as good an ending as you’ll get.” 

That night, after Harry has satisfied his craving for both Y/N and the sweet liquid that pumps through her veins, and has settled in for his usual nightly routine of rhythmically caressing her back to lull her into a deep slumber, and as he counts the breaths the mortal sighs between nightfall and sunrise while her soft snoring sings a lullaby to his ears, he can’t help but think that…

That yes, this really is as good an ending as he’ll ever get. 

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #vampire!harry #vampire!harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #one direction fanfiction #one direction fic #harry styles au #one direction imagine #one direction blurb #ysijwa #vampire au

[obae-me]

Comforting Nights

Oneshot Fic

Words: 2034

Description: The demon of pride finds you in quite an unprideful state after you’ve had a nightmare.

Author’s Note: I’ve had a rough few days, so for me and anyone else who’s going through a tough time, here’s some unapologetic fluff.

You were unaware of what time it was at this point. The endless starry sky and eternal soft moonlight was making it difficult for you to determine how many hours were left until the brothers would be waking up. Everyone was going to have another long day at RAD and Lucifer was adamant on making sure everyone got adequate rest. You had tried to get some sleep like he wanted, and yet here you were, restless and riddled with anxiety on the roof of the House of Lamentation.

The bedroom you had grown accustomed to was much too stuffy and, at the moment, being inside left a weird feeling on your skin. Signs pointed to the nightmare you had experienced, bordering on the line of a night terror. The sweat on your skin and the heat of your breath after you gasped back into consciousness persuaded you to get some fresh air. The roof was as good a place as any. The venue provided an unobscured view of the Devildom sky and city outline.

With your knees tucked to your chest, you went back to picking out constellations, names and shapes much different than the ones you knew in the human realm. The stars were little multi-colorful orbs that proved time and time again to take your breath away. Even with all the light coming from the city, they refused to let themselves be blocked out. They didn’t twinkle though, not like the stars you knew. You could hear Satan’s voice in your mind’s eye as he explained about the reason why. Something about how the stars twinkle in the human realm because of the atmosphere.

However, not even the stars nor the sights of the city from your perch could stop the burning in your body, the fight or flight response still tremendously strong. A little noise escaped from your mouth as you hugged your own body, curling up against your legs as you tried to erase the dream from your mind. Blood, screams, flashes of teeth and bone against a shape so inhuman you didn’t even know how to describe it other than with one word. Demonic. Whatever it was had torn you apart and done it with no mercy, no hesitation. Your flesh and bone was rendered into scraps, and the only thing louder than the creatures growls was the shrieking of your own voice. When you woke up you could still feel lingering pain pulsate throughout your entire body, your throat dry and sore. This wasn’t the first time you experienced this turmoil either, for some reason it had been plaguing you every night for the past week. You were exhausted, you didn’t remember the last time you had gotten a good night’s rest, and you were starting to wonder if you’d ever sleep peacefully again. Your nerves were fried, your chest tight. You felt like such a child letting something as simple as a shadow in a dream to have you so frazzled.

Your mind was so abuzz with worries you didn’t notice the sound of someone taking soft steps towards you in the darkness. The figure didn’t speak your name or give away any announcement, they only placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. You quickly snapped your head back, much too quickly, the reaction of someone who was on edge.

The eldest brother, the demon of pride, the forceful Lucifer was in his full form behind you, wings folded against his back, his horns sticking out from a head of messy hair. His usual resplendent clothes were replaced with silken pajamas. Just a quick glance down let you see red fluffy house slippers, ones you had bought him just a few weeks before, the same ones he always wears at night now.

His outfit mixed with his bed-head and sleepy circles under his lids put you surprisingly at ease. Lucifer squeezed your shoulder, blinking away remnants of drowsiness from his eyes.

“MC, what’re you doing up here at a time like this? Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?” He moved his hand, standing up straight and crossing his arms. He frowned and shook his head, black tendrils of his hair falling in front of his red irises. “Why aren’t you in your room? I was worried something had happened.” His unusually soft expression and the comforting sight of having someone there let some tension ebb from your lungs. It flowed out of you through your eyes, silent tears drifting down your cheeks. Your handle on your emotions weakened by your fervent fatigue. Lucifer was taken aback, hesitating by your sudden state for only a second before getting to his knees to check you over, worried you were hurt somehow. “What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

You chuckled a bit, your lip slightly quivering. “Just a bad dream...it’s…” You wanted to tell him how haunting it was, but you stopped yourself. “It’s stupid, nothing to be worried about, nothing to be crying about.” You lifted your arm to brush your own tears away, turning your head away from his gaze in embarrassment. Surely the prideful firstborn would ridicule the idea of being so distraught over subconscious hallucinations. With a soft hand large enough to cover your whole cheek, he brought your face to look back into his.

“I noticed something has been going on with you for a while. Why didn’t you come tell me? Coming straight to me would’ve been a much easier solution than searching the house for you in the dead of night.” With a hand under your arm, he brought you to your feet, holding you by the shoulders to keep you steady. Rubbing the sides of your arms gently to try to cease the convulsions in your chest. His grip was just addicting enough to encourage you to stay in his touch further.

“I’m not a child, Lucifer,” you mumbled under your breath. “I don’t need to run to someone over a bad dream. I can handle this alone.” You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep you focused. You wanted to handle it alone, you wanted to prove to yourself and the other brothers that you were stronger than they gave you credit for. At the same time you also yearned for them to take care of you, that finally you could be vulnerable and they wouldn’t judge you for it because, after all, you were only a human.

“Alright, you’re not a child. So I take it you don’t want me to put you to bed? I can ensure you have no more nightmares.” One of his eyebrows raised, his hand cupping your chin as he finished drying your eyes.

You had to focus to keep from squirming, your jaw clenched, your heart fluttering. The last thing you wanted to admit is when you awoke, the first thing you wanted to do was tell someone, to have them wrap you in their arms and tell you it was okay. You had paced back and forth in front of Lucifer’s bedroom door for a good five minutes before heading up to the roof. “I…”

“Hm?”

He really was going to make you say it. Of course he knew what you were thinking, what you really wanted. He possessed an inhuman sense of observation, as well as a desire to see you flustered. He acts like he’s the bigger man compared to his brothers, but there was no hiding his mischief. “I want to go to bed.”

“Alone?” The sleep was fully gone from his vision, you could fully see a glint in there, something behind his eyes that wasn’t the rays from the moon. Something taunting, leering, but hopeful, expectant. If you didn’t know any better, he wanted you as much as you wanted him. But god, how he just loved to push you.

His glare almost made you want to cry more, but you could no longer find the strength to tear up or fight your own longing any longer. “Can I...sleep with you?”

That was all he needed to hear, the confirming words to the fact he already knew. Hearing it come out of your mouth was music to his ears. He’ll take you by the hand, his skin warm in comparison with the chilly nip of the air outside. With long calm strides in his slippers, he’ll lead you to his room. It’s so warm and cozy in here, vastly different compared to the cold and hard demon that had first invited you to the Devildom. It was almost poetic in its metaphor. With a little time and patience, and admittedly some close scrapes with death, you got to know a whole new side of Lucifer. He had music playing from a record player above his fireplace, the sound of a somber piano already lulling you into peace. Lucifer folded back his sheets, letting you crawl in first before he got in beside you, eyes bright, resembling the expression some kids had whenever their parents told them they would be taking them to an amusement park. He was excited, but he didn’t need to tell you, you could feel the rush of blood pulsing through his body.

He wasted no time with his embrace. He brushed the hair away from your face before pulling you close to his body. Each of his grand wings extended to fold around you both, trapping the two of you in between a sea of ebony feathers. They were impossibly soft, brushing against your skin like gentle whispers. Instinctively you let out a surprised squeak. In return you felt a supportive hand protect the back of your neck. His other pressed against the small of your back, the fingertips gently kneading your body in comforting patterns. He’d make sure you felt like both of you were the only living beings in the world, that anything that dared threaten you would have to go through him first. You’d feel his face come in close near the top of your head, his breathing slowly syncing up with your heartbeat. A soft, silent melody would emanate deep in his throat only just loud enough for you to hear inside the cocoon he had created. A consoling concert just for your ears, the echoes of the peaceful sounds drowning out whatever worries you had held deep within your heart.

You buried your face in his chest, making a mental apology for wrinkling his pajamas as you gripped them in your hands. You shut your eyes, feeling the back of your mind tug at your consciousness as it threatened to let you slip under. Before you let it take you, you let out a relieved sigh, the air on your breath coming out in shudders, the prickles the nightmare had left on you were far gone. Even now you couldn’t even recall the shadow creature that had scared you so. A blur of a figment already forgotten. The only thing occupying your thoughts was the rumble of Lucifer’s voice, the texture of his wings against your skin, and the solace in his every touch.

The notes in the tune led you to where you needed to go, Lucifer looking at your tranquil state as you slumbered in his arms. He pressed his lips gently to your forehead, a silly gesture he had once been told would ward away torment in the night. With his eyes shining like the stars outside, he melted into you before going back to sleep, searching for you in his dreams.

It was the best sleep you had ever gotten, and now your only worry was having to get used to sleeping alone in your quiet bedroom. However, you were unaware that Lucifer was already making plans to ensure that for the rest of your stay you would be sleeping in his room, under his blankets, right next to him. You had no idea that just your presence gave him the most comforting and fulfilling rest he had ever had in his long life, and he wasn’t about to let it go now. He wasn’t about to let you go.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me lucifer #obey me lucifer x mc #obey me lucifer x reader

[yokelish]

Worth millions II

✏ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Chūya Nakahara, Dazai Osamu  ✏ Word count: 1,977 ✏ Warnings: Ansgstober in November. ✏ Part I.

Dazai abandoned him after promising he wouldn’t. “People change, Chūya.” What a devious bastard. This miserable vagabond is incapable of change. Nakahara wasn’t disappointed. Not that he had much strength to hold on to disappointment, only persistent resentment. That crafty bastard was twisted to his very core. Nothing changes, and nothing can touch him. Maybe that quality was fanning the embers of Chūya’s hatred: Dazai’s ability to escape any sort of retribution. Slippery like a snake, crafty, and absolutely unscrupulous. The moment you think the hand of fate is about to touch him, it’s absolutely nullified. Dazai didn’t lose any people to Q’s curse, while Nakahara had to count the body bags. Dazai was never stabbed in the back since he was doing the stabbing, always. He was the one making the deals and collecting dues. He never lost, even in silly arcade games. Always unaffected, always unhurt, always a perfect player. The taller they stand the harder they fall. Deep down Chūya knew it was no longer about what his ex-partner deserved. It wasn’t about rivalry or revenge. He rather sadistically wanted to witness there was something that could touch Dazai, something that could hurt. Something to prove the bandaged bastard was just a tiny bit capable of feeling pain. Pity Chūya couldn’t do it himself. It would bring him immense satisfaction. No money he wouldn’t pay to see an expression of hurt, of pain, on Dazai’s face. To behold such masterpiece. Unfortunately, he can never buy it. He cannnot bring it to life, can’t push for it. Perhaps, it was time to admit he couldn’t hurt Dazai the way he wanted him to hurt. That sort of anguish Nakahara could never inflict to begin with. To twist the sinews of that rotten heart only for it to begin to beat? To bear witness to that moment, to look him in the eye… That would be truly marvellous. Chūya would relish in that moment if only he could. But it wasn’t in his power.

If there was no enemy who could take on Dazai — if karmic retribution was just a fancy tale to soothe a grudging soul, — then there could be only way for Chūya to get what he wanted. He refused to believe Dazai could forever remain untouchable. It had to be just the right sort of…touch. “Plus, I don’t know how I would look them in the eye.” It was never an issue before. Dazai was a perfect machine, an Executive with mafia-black blood. Hesitation wasn’t a part of his nature. The Agency might be riding the high horse, but why would it stop someone like him? Lie, writhe your way out. Dazai detested Q and their ability, Chūya knew firsthand. He felt the same, especially after the massacre. So why did that bandaged wretch resist it? People might change, but people and humanity have nothing to do with Dazai. “A logical decision.” No, it couldn’t simply be that when it came to someone as crafty as Dazai. He held himself back and it had to be for some selfish, miserable reason.

The only person who was good at getting to Dazai was he himself. His own arrogance got him wrecked by that inhuman thing from the Guild. His taunting what got him punched in the face. The only person who could bring down Dazai would be Dazai himself. People might be capable of change. Dazai wasn’t. Something about tonight’s escapade made Chūya sure of that. The bastard said it himself, and his prediction do always come true. “But relationships are built on trust and honesty.” The things Dazai could never offer: trust, honesty, loyalty. And nothing has changed. The vagabond could never run away from his shady nature, he wouldn’t this time either. Shadows only grow longer at the end of the day. Someone would have to wipe that sickening smile off his face. And Chūya would do anything to see that. If he couldn’t do it himself, he would still gladly watch as Dazai becomes his own undoing. For that one single sweetest moment of Dazai’s self-realization and anguish of knowing he did it himself, Chūya would gladly give millions. And the thought of it alone brought a sweet, vanilla ice-cream taste to his mouth.

Dazai was returning to his laughably cheap Agency-issued apartment somewhere before dawn. Still snickering about what had happened with his ex-partner. But aside from humour, he also felt a long-forgotten satisfaction from taunting the small dog. A good book is always good, no matter how many times you read it. Something about taunting Chūya was of similar nature, never getting boring. The anger painting a face sharp and vivid, the resentment amplifying now estranged voice. Lovely and complete picture. Dazai walked up to the door of his apartment, humming a soft melody of amusement. Yet the best moment was hat rack’s horrible realization dawning slowly yet powerfully. Knowing that he was toyed with, read with ease like a children’s book. That expression took away some of the pain from the punch thrown. Dazai turned the doorknob. The metal felt cold against his skin. “You like them, don’t you?” He found the answer as he was phrasing the question. He knew his ex-partner all too well. Nakahara really did not have a good enough mask to hide behind. Nothing had changed there. Was it strange to know they happened to be drawn towards the same person? Hm, ‘drawn towards’ isn’t quite the expression Dazai would use in his case. He sighed as his amusement disappeared, gone without a trace or even an echo to follow it into the distance.

“Oh god, finally.” All too familiar voice inside his apartment. It echoed, filling him with dread. “I was worried.”

He entered without much noise, expecting nothing. Yet they were here, waiting patiently despite sounding exhausted. He didn’t expect to see anyone. He didn’t want to see anyone.

“Are you alright?” they asked, worried. “Let me turn on the—”

“Don’t,” Dazai interjected, making half a step towards them. But that was the end of it. Two silhouettes frozen in the splitting darkness of the room. The first light of the day beyond the horizon creeping inside.

“I have first aid kit with me,” they offered. Dazai could feel the shaking of disturbed silence like a slumbered beast prodded. And he couldn’t make himself move or say anything. He felt blank, optionless, knowing, perhaps, that any choice he’d make would be the wrong one. Of course, they entered his apartment. Amusingly good pick locker that one. What grated him is that he didn’t notice the disturbance or predicted this situation. And that, somehow, that felt like a betrayal.  

“You are both blessed and cursed that you can’t rely on Yosano’s help to fix you up,” they continued talking, moving towards him cautiously. “I hate to do it in this light, but…” The willed objected floated behind them suspended in the air, beckoned by their ability.

“I’m sorry,” they spoke quietly, cautiously. There was a light touch against his forehead, he used it as an excuse to turn away, create more distance. Looking askew, anywhere but at them. As the light of the day was slowly filing the room and creating long shadows. The silence between them was a tame beast, stirring but not waking.

They draw a long shaky breath as a telling sign of unease. “I shouldn’t have gone behind your back like that.”

Every possible choice he had was a wrong one, Dazai knew. What should he say in this situation? Claim that it didn’t bother him would only make them more suspicious of his truthfulness. A too easy forgiveness would seem dismissive. There was no umbrage to admit to either. But he doubted that would be taken at face value. Their sudden presence inside his apartment was a greater grievance, but he would only come across as ungrateful and reticent.

“I just thought,” they tried to continue, voicing failing and fading out. “I just thought I could get—”

“Information,” Dazai finished the sentence passively. It didn’t really bother him. There was no surprise to this, no disappointment, no resentment. He would have done the same. It was just… lacking. Perhaps, something in him knew that this would happen and soon. But he felt nothing, feels nothing regarding the matter as if it was something awfully routine.

“To know you,” they corrected him sternly. So sternly, in fact, it sounded comedic. He barely contained his laugh. But despite the steadiness of their voice, Dazai didn’t buy into that false confidence. He heard their breathing moments before, the hesitation, the care put into their words. It didn’t flatter him the least.

He sighed. What a kind yet empty attempt to appease on both sides. “To know about me. To know me, that’s—”

“I meant what I said. To know you.” Gentle hands dropped from his forehead and on their knees as if in defeat. “You left, Dazai. You left Port Mafia. People don’t just leave those sorts of places on a whim. Especially, someone like you… You were something there, Dazai. Someone.”

“I was just one of the Executives,” he brushed it off. As if that sort of chip on one’s shoulder could be so easily snubbed. “You want to know what I’ve done.”

Their uneasy laugh surprised Dazai. “No, I am not devoid of imagination,” they said with a touch of humour in their voice. It wasn’t funny, both knew. One hand was placed on his shoulder, the other gently wiped the wound on his forehead. There were many minor cuts and bruises, but they only touched those visible and easily accessible. Gentle, non-invasive, almost respectful.

“You can’t hold it against me,” they continued to talk never ceasing to take care of him. Dazai could hear the smile in their voice but couldn’t see it, wouldn’t dare. For such close proximity and physical contact, they had yet to meet eye to eye. “Wanting to know why you came there and why you left later. But I admit that I went about it the wrong way.”

They never asked him why he came to Port Mafia or why he left. And, truthfully, he couldn’t blame them for not asking. He wouldn’t be able to meet an expectations of a full and honest answer. Dazai didn’t have such answer himself yet, and what words he could offer would never touch another person’s heart. The answer he could give right now was anything but guileless or cordial. To meet expectations he’d have to look inside himself and he hated doing that. Wasn’t it enough that he did?

“No,” they answered. “You have to say something.”

What could he say? Every option would turn out to be wrong in the end. There was no desired way out of this situation. It could only be buried as an unspoken thing between them. Then it would sprout into something else — something dichotomous — and eventually grow bigger than them. What could he say to kill the seed before it sprouted? “You like them, don’t you? You like them.” As bitter as it was, Dazai had to admit one thing Chūya was better at was being simply human.

“I better go—”

“I accept your apology,” Dazai stated neutrally. He couldn’t take a moment longer to pitifully ponder his answer and try to predict less messy outcome. He knew that if he simply let them leave it would be the end of it. His own undoing delivered in a single precise blow.

“And I don’t blame you for wanting to know,” he placed his hand on top of theirs, taking it away from his forehead. For the first time their eyes meet. And he lost confidence in his plan. A simple lie to meet their expectations melted in his mouth leaving a sweet aftertaste.

#yokelishtorturesenglish #bsd fanfic #bsd scenarios #bsd imagines #bsd dazai #bsd chuuya #dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #nakahara chuuya x reader #chuuya x reader

[spacetimewraithwrites-archive]

OC Kiss Week Day 4: Proposal

WIP: Partners Pairing: I’d like it to be Reagan x Ben, but it’s technically Reagan x Carolyn sigh Timeline: pre-Partners (I think, like, 1942 or something, probably around the time of this piece and I’ve definitely gotten something wrong in the timeline oops I can probably fix this) CW: Adult conversations? “Adult” conversations? Adult conversations between two absolute children lmao oh also Ben pines big time Rating: T Words: 1,104

***

Ben crashed through Reagan’s bedroom door with so much unchecked and baffling strength that it bounced off the wall and whapped him in the face. He didn’t feel it in the slightest, lungs full of air he used to put into a projected roar, hand slamming the door back open.

“What THE FUCK did you DO?!”

Reagan, in bed and already halfway deep into a heart attack at this outburst, peered wide-eyed over his shoulder at Ben. “Are you completely stupid, boy,” he said thickly. “It is six in the mornin’.”

Ben marched over to Reagan’s bed, planted a foot between his knees, and launched himself up to jump around like a madman. “‘Benny, Benny, she said yes! She said yes!’” Ben grabbed a pillow and shoved it onto Reagan’s face, collapsing onto him and fighting his struggles. “‘I asked her to marry me and she said yes, Benny! I didn’t get any input from you but I proposed to her in the middle of fucking her and she said yes!’”

Instead of the usual reaction to being smothered, Reagan started to laugh. A hearty, boisterous laugh that almost displaced Ben entirely.

Ben yanked the pillow away.

“First,” Reagan said when he could get air, “I knew you weren’t fully awake when I told you that as it’s been a full three hours now. Second....” He started giggling again and rubbed his eyes of sleep. “How’d you know that’s what happened?”

Crossing his arms, Ben straddled Reagan’s thighs over the thin sheet. “He says this like I haven’t known him for thirteen years!”

“Yeah,” Reagan sighed, pushing himself into a sitting position via his elbows. “Thirteen incredibly long years.”

“You’re avoiding my wrath,” Ben said, jabbing the pillow at Reagan’s chest. “You went and got engaged without talkin’ to me about it first, shit-for-brains.”

Yawning, Reagan nodded. “Uh-huh. Shall you flog me now or later?”

Ben paused as Reagan’s face split into a sly grin and he angled it up to him. “This...this is a big step, Reggie. I wanted to know.”

“I told you I was gonna do it. I told you last month that Carolyn and I were talkin’ about getting married someday, and we didn’t know when exactly, but....” Reagan bit his lip and arched a brow. “Also take into account the fact that I was kinda in the heat of the moment.”

Ben slid off his legs and slumped beside him. “I ain’t ever had sex that good.”

“You ain’t ever had sex with me.”

“I ain’t ever wanted to!” Ben squeezed the back of his own neck to force away the heat rising in his face. Things between them still hadn’t gone back to normal after Reagan’s most recent birthday. “...You get her a ring yet?”

“No. I was thinkin’ you could help me with that.”

In the shadows of the dark room, the highlights of the hallway lamp streaming in through the open door, Ben caught something crossing Reagan’s face that he didn’t expect. Something haggard, something broken and tired.

What Ben didn’t realize was that he was practically looking into a mirror.

“You want me to?”

“Yeah.” Reagan swallowed. “Wouldn’t be fair to leave you out of every important part of this. You’re gonna be my best man, after all.”

“Your best man.” Ben remembered he still held the pillow and looked down at it. “Sounds good.”

“C’mon,” Reagan said, throwing the sheet aside. “Sleep here. We got a few hours left yet.”

Ben could feel Reagan stretched out alongside of him. This was par for the course, natural for them, always had been, but now it held a different weight. Ben became too aware of the slowing breath behind him, the arm curled under the pillow he’d used several moments before as a weapon of potential death that now nursed his own head. He scrutinized Reagan’s hand peeking out by his face. Stared at the ring finger. He wouldn’t know until later that it wasn’t the correct hand, but he pictured a thick metal band around that finger, pictured his best friend standing at an overly Christian altar in an overly Christian church and exchanging vows with Carolyn.

The first time Reagan told Ben he loved him was in a situation much like this. In 1935, the night before Reagan started high school, snuggled up next to each other, Ben half asleep as Reagan’s fading Irish accent murmured three words that always meant something different every subsequent time they said it to each other.

And now, Ben wanted Reagan to turn over, wanted him to wrap his arms around him, to say it again into his ear. He wanted to be the only one who got to hear him say it. He wanted to hear him say it the way he said it to Carolyn. He wanted him to ask him to marry him the same way he asked her.

The hand on his hair was not a dream. Stroking it away from his forehead, singing softly to the back of his neck. He opened his eyes a little and only a hint of sunrise took a peek from outside. And he toed the line of sleep again; the Reagan that Ben wished he’d be kissed the skin under his ear, bunching the front of his pajama shirt in a fist. 

“I love you,” he said, and this time he meant it in a way he’d never meant it before. Painted his body in a blush. Manipulated him with his palms, molded him out before him, hovered over him, lips parted against his, against him, the same breath that can conjure an inhuman melody at will warming his flesh.

Why was he so afraid of this? The images in his subconscious were the most beautiful images he’d ever seen. He’d never witnessed Reagan flush with passion but he could very easily picture it. Face, chest, more, warming pink under his touch, and he was afraid of this?

Ben awoke once more and it took a moment for him to notice the aggressive sunlight. It took another moment for him to comprehend that he was facing Reagan, who wasn’t at all aware of anything. Brows bunched in consternation. Face soft with sleep. Absolutely nothing at peace in his mind, whatever was going on.

“I love you,” Ben said.

Reagan nodded, groggy. “Mm. Love you too, Benny.”

And he turned over. Asleep.

Reality crashed hard. Ben slipped out of Reagan’s bed, padded down the hall, and crawled into his own without making a sound, forcing himself—like he always did—to just be happy with things the way they were.

#ockiss21 #Partners #it's always Ben innit #probably cuz Reagan's not nearly as confused about his feelings lmao #idk maybe this won't be canon #god damn the man haunts him like he haunts me dslkajkdjfh

[benhardypout-archive]

Eternity

I couldn’t remember death, I only remember how I breath into life, seeing the world with new eyes. 

I couldn’t remember how dark the night was, all I saw was its brightness.

Then he appeared. A man with blond hair and his skin was pale. He almost looked inhuman. But I felt familiarity towards him like I’ve met him before. He kneeled by my side and he carefully wrapped me in his arms, cradling me. 

With thriving movements, I took hold of him, holding his arms firmly as if my life depended on it.

I struggled for air as a sudden wave of heat coursed through my veins. Everything was burning. My body was burning. My throat was raging. It’s killing me but death seemed so far away. So far within my reach as I feel strong. Incredibly strong, I feel like I could throw a tree only using my bare hands. 

My fingers dug through the man’s surprisingly cold skin or maybe it was my hands that were cold. I wasn’t sure anymore. I dragged him down to me as I continued gasping for air, but it wasn’t air I was seeking. Something more. My tongue ran dry.

My eyes met those greens. And I never saw any green that were as green - as striking and blazing like fire.

I stared at them but my urge to get out of this flame was stronger. 

I leaned onto his ear; my mouth breathing against them.

“I’m… thirs—ty” I whispered. And I leaned off and stared into those eyes again which seemed to know me.

“Joseph.”

He knew my name. How?

But I know this wasn’t the first time I saw someone who had eyes as green and striking as his. 

And then I remembered...

I was nine when I first saw them. I was playing with my kite when it got stuck in the branches of the trees. It was one cloudy and windy afternoon, perfect to fly kites.

“Stupid trees.” I heard myself saying. I wasn’t allowed to utter such words but I’m in liberty of myself, so I could say what I wanted.

I pulled and dragged the string of my kite to free it when he appeared.

“Is something the matter?” A voice so elegant. I didn’t know if that’s the right way to describe one’s voice but that’s how he sounded to me. It was beautiful. 

“It’s stuck.” I said as I continued dragging my kite off.

“I’m afraid the string would break if you do it like that.”

I stopped and gave my kite another look as to analyze what or how I should do it. Then he stepped forward, and with one swift movement, his fingers laced to the string and untangled the kite off the branches. It was too fast, I didn’t catch how he had done it.

“There you go.” He held the string towards me.

“Thank you…” I looked up to him. “...mis… ter”

His eyes… All I remembered were those eyes. Like emeralds gleaming under the sun.

Then that’s where I started hanging out with him. He called himself Ben. Benjamin. But he liked Ben better. Simpler. And I have to agree. It was easier to say.

I’ve learned a lot of things with Ben. Or should I say, I’ve learned almost everything there was to learn because of Ben. Things my father or my mother had failed to teach me.

He taught me how to paint, how to play piano. He read me stories, poems and poetry. He taught me each name of the birds that flew by: pigeons, doves, hummingbirds, sparrows and his favorite, ravens. I didn’t know why he liked them, they looked scary to me. I personally liked doves, I told him.

“Yeah, doves are good,” he said. 

“Doves are good.” I concluded.

I noticed something as I grew older, though I said nothing.

I was fifteen when I had the courage to say it out loud. Was I afraid? I didn’t know.

“Look at me.” I stood from the huge log we were sitting on in the forest; then I faced him. His eyes bore into me.

“I changed. I grew taller. Yet, look at you.” I started pacing around him. “You hadn’t changed a bit since the first time I saw you.”

He only glanced down. Was that a smile? My jaw clenched as I balled my hands into fists.

“I’m seriously talking here, Ben.” I paced again and stopped right in front of him. “Tell me, how old are you? You always say you’re old enough. Older than I can imagine. At first, I thought it was because you’re obviously older than me. But now...” I weighed him with my eyes, staring at him from head to toe.  My brows knitted in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ben took a deep breath as he slowly stood and glanced up at the sky that were covered in trees — the sunlight leaked through its leaves, sending warm glowing spots over his pale skin, making him all the more beautiful. 

“Joseph.” 

I drew in a breath. I think I would never get used to hearing my name be spoken by his and yet I would love for him to say it often. 

“There are some things you don’t have to know. Not yet.” Ben added; his words were careful. I scoffed.

“Yet? And one of them is your age? I am fifteen, and I think that’s something… something that one shouldn’t hide.” 

“I’m not hiding anything from you, Joe. I’m standing right here and you can see me. You can talk to me. I think you’ve seen enough.”

“I just want to know how old you are. I don’t even know the day you were born.” He never told me, he only said he doesn’t have one and I think that’s impossible. So I decided to give him one, on the day we first met. And we celebrated it every year, his birthday that I only made up.

Ben took a step forward and I took a step back. 

“You’re not going to stop, are you?” He said and I noticed a change in him which sent a sudden chill to my bones. Though he’s Ben: pale skin, blond locks, green eyes. Was it the way he stared? How he spoke? Yet what’s this? Why was I feeling afraid? Why did he feel like a stranger to me? This was the man who taught me many things. The man I looked up to. The first man I cared about and would always be. I cared about him more than I cared about mine. My life was his. 

I tried my best to stop my legs from shaking. I held my head high. “No, I won’t. Until you tell me everything I need to know.”

Ben stopped in his tracks. There was a shift in his eyes. A slight waver and it was enough for me to know that this man was indeed the man I had always known. I took a step forward.

“I’m sorry.” I said. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you’re not yet ready.”

“You are the one who is not ready, Joseph.”

I didn’t expect to hear that. I blinked.

He took a few more steps until his cold hands — I couldn’t remember them warm, they always had been cold, like death— onto my shoulders. But those were the same hands that brought comfort in me.

“I hope you understand.” He looked at me with tenderness and I could feel my body melting. “I don’t want to lose you, Joe.”

I gently smiled. “You will not lose me. Never.”

* * *

I was seventeen when I started thinking of Ben differently.

I thought of him instead of girls — the women the boys at school wanted to get their hands with. While my hands searched in between my legs and worked with it as I thought of Ben.

But despite this growing desire I was having, why did it feel wrong? Like we were living in two different worlds. 

Then I found myself afraid; afraid to meet him and of myself, and of this yearning. So I stopped seeing him, rather, I avoided him. I started making excuses I could think of. But it wasn’t helping. It only made me yearn for him more. Hence, I got desperate to look for distractions. Then there was this girl which reminded me of him, his green eyes and his beautiful blond locks. And her name brought melody in one’s tongue but not in mine. Lucy.

I was almost tempted to do it, to pursue her. But there was an unsettling feeling within me and I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. To lie about my feelings.

To who I truly wanted.

We were seated by a river under the shade of an old oak tree, throwing stones to the gleaming waters beneath the afternoon sun.

“I’m curious about something.” I said with hesitancy and I couldn’t entirely look at him. But I know I’ve got his attention on me. I licked my lips.

“This may sound stupid. So please don’t laugh.” My fingers fiddled on the grass. He just listened. However, I wanted him to say something but at the same time I didn’t.

“H-have you kissed…someone?” I glanced at him and my eyes stopped on those lips. His lips. I almost pursed mine but I looked away. My heart was beating erratically in my chest. 

“Yes, I have. My mother.” 

I could feel the heat raging on my cheeks. “That’s not—You know what I meant about when I say kiss.”

I waited. But he didn’t answer. 

I wondered if my question was something that was hard for him to. It’s just a simple yes and no.

“F-forget that I said anyth—”

“Yes.”

My jaw turned rigid. I felt my lungs thriving for air. “O-oh.” I struggled to say. Of course, what did I expect?

Is yes hard for you to say? I wanted to ask. But I stopped myself.

“Is there somebody you like?” Ben asked.

His voice was silent. I didn’t know how that was possible, especially I heard him as clear. I turned to him and he wasn’t looking at me. I took the liberty to stare at him. I loved the moments when he wasn’t looking.

I heard my thoughts said ‘Yes, I think I like you.’

“No.” I shook my head and focused on my bent knees. “No.” I said again. “I was just curious.” I wondered if I’m a  bad liar.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

I wished I am. So I didn’t have to lie anymore.

I looked back at him. “Teach me.” I said. I tried to be adamant despite the hard knocking inside my chest. 

He looked at me and there was a smile so soft forming in the corner of his lips. “No. You don’t want that.”

There he goes again. I’m so done hearing him saying things for me. As if he truly knew what was good for me. What if I didn’t want what’s good for me? What if I wanted to do things that would make me happy? Things I know would make me happy. I thought he was any wiser. 

This time I stood my ground.

“I want to. You can’t just go telling me whether I want it or not. Maybe you don’t want to.”

“Joseph.”

“Ben.”

He looked at me. But I couldn’t read his eyes. Another humiliation. I shouldn’t have dared.

“I’m sorry.” I looked away. I wanted the ground to eat me whole.

What the hell was I thinking? He surely doesn’t see me the way I see him. 

Cold. 

I felt his fingers on my hand.

“It’s hard for me, Joseph. Forgive me.”

God, please stop.

“I know. I know.  But it’s easy for me, Ben.”

I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to stop talking but my tongue wouldn’t. “I like you.” I shut my mouth. 

Did I really say the words out loud? 

I started rocking my body; my eyes stared intently at the grass, my hands wanted to pull them. My feet wanted to ran into the water and drown myself.

“I like you too, Joe.”

My eyes flickered and something snapped inside me. I pulled my hand off his gentle hold. “No, Ben.” How could he just utter those words which took me months to say. “I like you, Ben. As in I really like you.” Even I could hear the desperation in my voice. 

“I like you, Joe.” 

“Stop! Stop saying things you don’t mean—” I stopped. He was in front of me, like, his face was so close to mine. And his fingers. Those cold fingertips were on my lips. My mouth parted in surprise but I didn’t move. I stared into his eyes, they looked like they were in pain staring at my lips. I didn’t understand but I couldn’t feel the beating of my heart.

My hands crumpled the grass underneath. He traced his finger against my lips as he leaned closer. And closer. Closer until I could feel his sweet breath into mine. And I was ready, and not. I didn’t know. I couldn’t move.

“It’s hard for me, Joseph.” He leaned off and he sat back beside me. We didn’t look at each other.

“Why?”

There was a significant silence.

“Remember two years ago when you asked me why I didn’t change?”

Yes I did but I didn’t say anything.

“What do you think?” He asked.

I shuffled uncomfortably. 

“I think…” I frowned my brows hard as I thought about it. I took a breath. “I think— I don’t even know if it’s possible. But it’s like, like you’re from a different world.” This time I turned to him, confusion was on my face. “Like you’re not from here.” I sighed as I turned away, to my feet. “I don’t even know if that makes sense.”

“What if I am?” 

“What? From another world?” I looked back to him at once. And he was staring at me. I didn’t know what to feel, because I’ve been thinking about it and it kind of scared me.

“Yes.” A pause. “What if I am?”

I blinked and parted my lips. “H-how?”

“What if I say I am different?”

I studied him. He looked a lot like me, same features, but yes, he looked different.

“I don’t know.” I shook my head turning from him.

“I am different, Joseph. Are you afraid?”

“No.” I said faster than I expected. I stared right back at him. I’m not afraid of him. If possible I wanted to be like him so I could be with him. “I’m not afraid of you, Ben.”

“You should be.”

And in just a blink, he was gone. I didn’t know how that happened. But I remembered seeing him standing while I just sat there, quite at a loss as his last words sank in my mind. 

It almost felt like I was dreaming. That he didn’t exist. That he’s just a figment of my imagination. 

And that’s what terrified me most.

I should’ve said, I’m scared of losing you. 

* * *

I received a letter the next morning of Ben’s goodbye. 

I could only recall some parts of it.

He wrote: You’re still merely a child, Joe. And I couldn’t deny that I had taught you many things, and nothing could ever express my delight how much you’ve learned. How much you’ve grown. But you should know that there are still things you don’t have to know all at once. 

The truth is, I can’t be able to teach you everything as there are some that you will and must learn on your own. Something the world itself will do. 

I promise you, in time — maybe in another life— you will know all there is to know about me that you desire. And I hope when that day comes, you will not leave me. 

I care about you, Joseph, more than I can possibly express. I hope you understand. And this goodbye is a part of it. Always know that I have loved you the time I laid my eyes on you. And nothing could ever change that. Even death.

I couldn’t understand. He said he loved me but why did he leave? Why did he say goodbye?

I remembered crumpling his letter and tore it to pieces. I thought it was complete bullshit. 

I thought.

I enlisted in the Marines after a month since his goodbye without looking back. Ben was gone. I might as well be gone. I am mad at him. But all I wanted was him. I always looked forward to the day that I’d see him again. And he would welcome me in his life. 

I had learned to use mortar and guns and I became pretty good at handling them, firing every enemy we encountered — the Japs.

I only got this desire to kill. To kill every single one of them. I could feel the rage inside me. But all I saw when I looked at them was my anger in myself. And I learned that in all those months and years of fighting, all I sought was death. 

* * *

It was strangely peaceful one morning. I could’ve only dreamed it. The sun poured golden light to the world. And everyone was idly chatting, it was almost deceiving. I couldn’t bring myself to trust it. But I didn’t have anything to do as we waited for orders. So, I decided to write. Though, I didn’t know what.

I took the Bible I used as a makeshift journal and a little calendar as I counted the days since the time I was sent out to war. I got it from one of my co-marines who would lend the books he had looted to others, but he gave me this one as he wasn’t much of a believer he told me. I pulled out the pencil I stuck in it.

I randomly flipped the Bible and it turned to Revelations — the book which foretold of the Final Judgment. I tried reading it once and used to wonder if this war was a part of it: the sign of the world’s end. Or maybe the ending was just starting.

My hands wrote: Maybe the world is ending.

I suddenly thought of Ben. I didn’t want to, but my thoughts would always go to him. My grip on the pencil tightened, and a strange sadness surged through me. I wanted to talk to him about things. Stuff like the end of the world. I wanted to know his thoughts. What he thought of the world ending. And the war. And anything there was to talk about. I just wanted to talk to him.

I missed him.

Then I wondered if it was my fault, that I was the one who drove him away. Maybe I became too much for him.  But I chose to believe what he told me, that he loved me.

I made a mental promise to myself that I would do anything to survive this war just so I could see him again. 

And if that time ever comes, I would do better. Only if he would give me the chance. 

I hoped he would.

“JAPS! GET DOWN!” Somebody suddenly came running as he shouted. Then there was an explosion. I was shoved to the ground, my ears stung from the impact. I had securely held the Bible in my hands and then… darkness.

I remembered seeing his face before I closed my eyes into oblivion, and I spoke his name. Ben.

And I never felt anything as peaceful.

Maybe in another life, I heard his voice. 

In another life, I whispered almost like a promise.

I dreamt of Ben. We were in the meadow like we used to. My head on his lap. His fingertips played with my hair but they were not cold. They were warm against my skin. I closed my eyes. I smiled.

But I couldn’t remember dying. 

* * *

Dedicating this to: @watercolouredreams (for she inspired me with this “Vampire concept” and lowkey requested/suggested for me to try and write one. :D And I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope you like it.)

Tagging (of course these lovely people): @oniriquex ; @heybuddy-drabbles (Hope you guys would enjoy reading this as well as how I enjoyed writing this.)

*if you wanna be tagged on my hardzello stories; concepts, and such, just hit me up on my askbox.

#ben hardy #joe mazzello #bhardyedit #jmazzelloedit #hardzello #benhardyedit #joemazzelloedit #*concept #*writings #*hardzello #otp:ohbabyandiknowyou #*2019 #brotp #ship #ben hardy x joe mazzello #*gfx #*edits #*aes #i tried

[alexandriteobscuraarchive]

Violet Ascension

@ethcrealprince

The figure standing at the foot of her bed---Shadowy? Monstrous? Humanoid?---remained perfectly still. She couldn’t discern eyes or any other type of remarkable features, just a shape and nothing else, but somehow she knew its eyes were closed. She also knew without a doubt that something horrible, something LIFE CHANGING would happen once they did.

And because all humans are braver in their dreams than in the waking world Mari’s face peeks out from under her bed covers.

“Hello...?”

As soon as the word left her lips a faint humming noise seemed to settle over the top of her head; not unlike the snowfall happening outside, and said hum spread alarmingly fast. Was it trying to talk to her? Was it trying to make her go back to sleep? The wrongness of the thought frightened Mari for a reason she couldn’t quite explain so she forced her eyes to open wider. She forced her heavy, static tongue to poke out and wet numbed lips. She tried to strain her ears and will them to hear past the pools of static pushing against her eardrums.

Nothing worked. That humming was still there; still pushing everything else out until all that was left---all that COULD be left---was that soft, hypnotic sound. And when that shadow finally moved the hum seemed to respond to it, seemed to scale upwards in pitch and push harder. Now it hurt. Now it hurt tremendously. Now it would draw near. Now it would look at her. Now its voice would ring out in response, molded into that humming static, and her head would split open like an overripe fruit. Now. Now. Now. Now now now now n---

Mari woke up.

She awoke to the usual silence found within her bedroom. She awoke to the same emptiness. Everything was normal.

And although everything was normal she still got out of bed. Her feet were numb cold on the wooden floor of their family’s cottage as she bent to check underneath her bed as if she were a child of five rather than a young woman of seventeen.

Nothing.

Frowning slightly and getting number colder by the second Mari tiptoes to the foot of her bed and finds herself standing where the person? creature? alien? thing had stood with her eyes sliding closed as her head turned to the side and angled downwards. Her now sightless eyes trying to see the form she must’ve made huddled underneath her quilted blanket and against her smooth pillow behind closed eyelids.

Still nothing.

Mari stood like that for a long, long time. She stood very still, trying to see, trying to listen, trying to figure out where the static had gone. She was trying to figure out of the silence in her room was real or not.

Hello...?

“Hello...?”

Mari stands there whispering the question and answering herself in a different voice immediately after hears static static static nothing.

After this dream things began to slip away from her.

Her limbs lost the sensation of touch. Her flesh became empty and wooden, like a marionette with its strings cut that she had to forcibly drag around and position into a farce of normalcy.

Her tongue lost the ability to form words. Her flowing sentences became disjointed, her fluency mangled until all she could spit out was chunks of single syllables, single words.

Her ears, always straining to hear the static visited upon her in that dream, became useless. It became nigh unbearable for her to hear anything else save for that hidden, invasive static.

Her eyes lost the ability to perceive faces---with her own being the first. It had vanished in an instant: numb puppet fingers had been pressing a towel to it (appearances needed to be kept and Mari washed her face every morning) and when the cloth was pulled away it was just...GONE. The only thing reflected in the mirror back at her was a shifting, black thing---like a child’s crayon scribble on an otherwise empty sheet of paper. It was unsettling. Impenetrable.

Puppet fingers methodically touched the blackness and came away both empty and dry. She felt along the space where her mouth had been, touched her now nonexistent slender nose. She plunged two fingers directly into where her eyes what color had they been before...? had been only to come back unsullied by blood and harming nothing. When she tipped her head down her dark black hair spilled across her void of a forehead like nothing was amiss. When she spoke her words seemed to emanate from her as if she were a dysfunctional microphone, her already broken words now coated in a static that no one else could hear. So that’s where the static had been hiding.

But while her world---not to mention her very body and soul---crumpled inward around her and slowly became a senseless mass one thing remained constant: her BROTHER. Her brother---Orifiel---became her unknowing anchor.

His touch always registered on her strings and dead, inhuman limbs.

His voice---bright and ever curious---always seemed to break through the static gifted to enveloping her.

His face was the only one she could still see, his smile and eyes remaining pure HOLY unmarred by the scratches and charcoal scribbles that now made up everyone else.

Orifiel became Mari’s anchor.

Orifiel became the only human left in Mariel’s blessed eroding and corrupted world.

His soft nightclothes pricked her dead fingers like needles as she shook him awake in his bed, the scent of his lavender shampoo stinging her absent nose. Rich black locks cascaded across his forehead as she shakes him a bit harder, the soft motion drawing her blind eyes momentarily.

“Wake up. Wake up, Ori.”

And when he didn’t wake up she pulled at him with both hands, hauling him out of his bed with an enormous effort, guided by memories that ought to mean nothing to her at all. She was beyond everything now and yet she clung to her ‘anchor’. Mari clung to her brother.

“Wake up. We’re going to  thheeeee...eee..” Slow words slowed even further; syllables first dipping and then elongating until they were a melodious hum, and then they break apart, forming words holding meaning to a person rotting inside of her. The corpse she was supposed to be. The corpse she'd been all along.

The FOREST.

The forest of STORIES.

THEIR forest.

If they could go into the forest then maybe---

“...Ori. Wake up.” Please. Please wake up. Take me there.

#;;rp thread: violet ascension #;;content warning: body horror #body horror tw #ethcrealprince #long post

[tardis-sapphics]

Thought I'd take a chance and throw out a Thasmin prompt. an accident involving a teleport and the TARDIS freaky fridayish but they have access to each other feelings and memories 😁

okay i know you wanted something funny but i’m really i’ve gone full throttle angst. i hope that’s alright lol. thank you for the prompt, i’ve had a lot of fun playing around with this!

this is going to be a four-parter, and this is the first bit. i’ll post the second bit when i get home from travelling, and the other two parts should be ready by tomorrow or saturday. as always, they’ll be up on ao3 soon, too, but in that case they’ll be a two-parter. keep a look-out for updates on here and on ao3!

i’d also recommend listening to this song during it. i know it’s for broadchurch but it’s the right mood ok

as always, below the cut.

Every step is a beckoning. It doesn’t help them.

Lately, Yaz has found herself wondering about how deadinside the action heroes are on the films back home. Eyebrows furrowed, deadthin lines for mouths, every limb fluid only to run, to jump, to pull a trigger.

How do they not cry? How do they not bluster and fluster andfall? Why don’t they grip onto each other when the going gets tough – reallytough?

Ryan and Graham have each cried three times in the lasthour. They’re the bravest men Yaz knows.

(Films are a lie.)

Explosions and gunshots are a constant shock to the systemfor a trio not brought up in war. Their deafening nearer, louder. Yaz hassqueezed the Doctor’s hand more times she can count. Even after all they’vewitnessed together, after seeing all the bodies that have littered theirjourney through this planet, Yaz finds refuge in the Doctor. Every time. Shehas held on tightly that she is at risk of melding their bones together; butthen, at least, there would be less flesh to locate, to target, to shoot.

Sight, not sound, betrays them. Every step is a beckoning,so they do their best to float. Silent breaths flee in bewildered spirals: everythingpained to be anything but reluctant.

Yaz can see goosebumps on her forearm, the sleeve of herhoodie only pushed back to prevent any more bloodstains. She will not groan forfear of discovery. Winces are all impassion. She has too much passion.

At least the Doctor’s hand is warm in hers. Hood up,grey-white and spoiled red against the rust red rock, she leads the way; theymust follow the ripped coattails, so sure on this trembling planet.

‘She’s got to be around here somewhere,’ she mutters, almostmerely mouths. More to herself or to her friends, there is no indication.

Time is the first victim that war’s first bullet claims. Wardevours history – arrogant, starved – and feasts on futures for dessert. Thisplace lost time long ago; it is up to them to find it.

Madness.

A shot, then a snarl. Must be a foot soldier, prowling. ‘Sniffout the fear and find the traitors,’ they’d heard all around them. Yaz isterrified that fear will fail them, but it wafts off them in waves. Every stepinto the unknown is a beckoning. Every step is a step into ending.

The Doctor dives behind the nearest free-standing rock and slamsherself into it; they obediently press themselves against its jaggedness andpray to gods they do or don’t believe in.

They do not breathe.

There is no point in breathing.

‘Breathing is death; all is death,’ so the saying goes here.If they are to achieve the impossible – to defy all – then something as obviousas breathing would be a fool’s mistake.

Unfortunately, breathing is generally essential forsurvival, and Yaz can feel her lungs bursting with the effort to contain thecarbon dioxide building up.

Graham is going red as the rock that might save him.

A vein has started bulging in Ryan’s neck.

The Doctor is fine.

The soldier marches on, the two-beat rhythm quieting. Untilthe only rhythms they hear are their own accelerated heartbeats.

Exhalation has never been sweeter. Or more silent. Yaz feelsfuzzy and everything looks the same sort of red. The Doctor is fine. She helpsYaz to her feet and her gentle grip, slender fingers on the hook of Yaz’selbow, is central to everything.

‘You’re doing amazing,’ the Doctor whispers, hazel-greenpiercing into Yaz amongst the burnt blaze.

The words are so close that Yaz almost inhales them. Shestutters in her breath. Doesn’t want to let go, even though it doesn’t help herworldly disorientation. She nods, somehow.

The Doctor switches her attention to the two men, andgestures to them manically. ‘Come on, we’ve got to keep going,’ she adds, andthis, too, is more a shape than a sentence.

They move on.

Steps beckon.

The Doctor’s hand trails from Yaz’s elbow, via the undersideof the woman’s arm, to her hand, and squeezes. Yaz is shaking off herunworldliness but that touch still feels the most important thing.

One squeeze against countless. The inside pounding seems tobe in harmony with the relentless outside world. How Yaz wishes all therelentless stayed only inside their adrenaline.

A shot blasts off, a shot at someone, which lands inpainstaking acknowledgement. The world does not shudder. There is no one elseto perform the civilian’s ‘Last Post’ except themselves; no melody but the cry,no trumpet but the voice.

Yaz can hear Ryan’s reaction – something halfway between agrunt and a whimper. Graham whispers to his grandson, a wheeze of a sound, buteven then he cannot hide the tremble in his voice.

Yaz reaches out for Ryan, finds the teeth of the zip on hisjacket, and bunches the material in her hand. Ryan’s hand makes easy the uneasyjob to hold on – human warmth is preferable to cold material – and Graham completesthe line.

She turns her torso to face her friends. ‘You okay?’

They both nod. ‘You?’ Ryan asks.

‘No,’ is her reply, but there is nothing to say to it, sothey don’t try.

Still they trudge on, shielded by cliff edge and rockstructures. Shapes of stone and earth make this a labyrinth; they are yet to discoverwhether the promise of escape is just an illusion.

The Doctor didn’t flinch. Wars have gorged on time.

Yaz wonders – after the death in their movements on thebattlefields, where do the heroes go to cry?

Yaz wonders – where does the Doctor go?

They turn a corner as another shot rings out. The laser hitsthe rock next to Graham and he jumps, yelps.

‘Run, Doc, faster!’ The ground melts beneath Graham’sfootprints as he shouts and scatters. Quiet has failed them, so all, onceagain, is death. Graham is still defiant.

The Doctor gasps. ‘We found it! In there, go!’ She pointsher hand to her north-east, and ducks her body as they scamper in thatdirection.

Yaz yanks Ryan forward – his stumble, loud, is enough toyank Graham closer, closer to an opening inside the cliff they had not spottedbefore.

Disappearance is not death; they have defied it.

There are no lights for the disappeared, the unconsidered,so the Doctor procures her sonic screwdriver and keeps a steady finger on itsside. Its glow unearths an ice-cold cave: there is frost forming, stalagmitesand icicles spreading over each other. Red in colour; blazed by the orange ofthe alien light, they look aflame. Burning ice wouldn’t be the strangest thingon this planet.

The lack of the fire’s grumble banishes the illusion tofolly. Instead, the buzzing bounces off of walls to greet them louder than ever before, and Yaz’s wince evolves into irritation.

She hears Ryan groan at the sudden sound, and he lets go ofher.

‘Hello?’ the Doctor calls out.

‘Doc!’ Graham immediately hisses, and the Doctor turnsaround to blink at him in bewilderment. He’s standing to the side of the caveentrance, shaded from the light of the outside world. He and Ryan have releasedthemselves of held hands to favour recovery from the sprint. ‘What’re youdoing?’

‘You’re gonna get us killed!’ Ryan adds.

‘No, no, I promise, we’re quite safe now,’ the Doctor shakesher head, ‘as long that soldier hasn’t followed us.’ She stares at all three ofthem. ‘We’ll be leaving here soon, I promise.’

Her gaze lingers on the wound on Yaz’s arm, a scratchagainst enemy metal refusing to let up, and finally determination dissolvesinto remorse.

She takes off the hood with one arm and guides them deeperinside. Ryan and Graham follow, light treading.

Breath clouds in front of them all. The Doctor marches into herown mist. ‘Hello? It’s the Doctor. We came for a favour.’

They hear the sound of scuttling bouncing off the cave wallsbefore the sonic illuminates the source. A Viba in hiding, her four insect legsstruggling to find much purchase on the slippery rock ground. One leg slips,but she hurriedly rights herself. The clothes sewn around her humanoid torsoare ripped with giant holes, but there are no injuries underneath. Perhapsthey’ve healed, Yaz thinks. The planet has hidden her from certain death, fornow.

The two parties take a moment to study the other. Yaz cansee the details of the Viba’s sharp, jutting face. The bridge of her buttonnose flows into a wide brow; underneath, purple irises take up the entirety ofthe four eyes on show, and their pupils have receded in the sonic’s brilliantlight. Her eyes narrow as she regards the four of them: inhuman blinking on ahumanoid head – Yaz is reminded of cogs, working inside brains; a loadingscreen.

‘Plor,’ the Doctor addresses her. ‘It is Plor, yeah? CountessPlor. 3rd Andrun Battalion when you were 13.’

The Viba sniffs. Behind them, the soldier passes by theentrance of the cave, satisfied.

‘Doctor,’ Plor sighs. ‘You shouldn’t have come. Especiallywith them.’ Her head jerks towards the humans, visibly wounded and shaken,their lives dependent on the two aliens in front of them. Plor’s gaze drifts onthe Doctor and Yaz, and the little space between them.

‘I thought that I – we – could help,’ the Doctor admits. Hershoulders slouch but the sonic is still pointed forward, a sagging angle at herelbow.

‘You thought wrong,’ Plor cuts her off.

‘Clearly,’ but the Doctor’s words have no bite, unlikePlor’s.

‘We did help, though, Doc,’ Graham protests, ‘we helped abit.’

Plor’s four eyes pin him to the spot. ‘Yet the war stillrages.’

Yaz’s gaze gravitates to a stalactite near the Doctor’shead, copper alight, and the film rolls before her eyes. Crystal palaces.Honour and family. A helping hand, running, jumping, shelter and laughter.

(Films lie. The silence was terrible.)

‘So now you’re running?’

The Doctor nods. ‘This isn’t their war to fight,’ and Plorblinks. The Doctor continues, ‘Have you got the teleporter still? Give me acouple of minutes to work on it, and we’ll be out of your hair before you knowit.’ A drop of water echoes as Doctor considers the sight of her entirelyhairless alien friend. ‘Or, you know. Cave.’

Another shout from outside reaches their ears.

Plor blinks.

‘Come.’

Steps beckon freedom. Yaz treads tentatively, careful not toruin this blessing. The Doctor squeezes her hand again, a tense anticipationpassing from Time Lord to human, and although their threat of death has beenreduced since entering the cave, Yaz’s pulse is unrelenting.

It seems so loud in the silence.

They are rushed to another alcove deeper into the cave,where the sonic’s light becomes crowded by fire and alien technology. TheDoctor detaches herself and is immediately magnetised towards the lengthy blackbox and the pedestal at the centre of the room, caressing her sonic over itsedges. Both of the Viba mechanisms appear to be battered and aged, but still inworking condition. Working enough for the Doctor’s eyes to light up again. Thethree humans stand in the corner, useless but alive.

They can breathe now. Yaz tries it.

She swears she’ll never be silent again.

‘Well?’ Plor, sliding over to the pedestal, crooks aneyebrow at the trio. ‘Stand on it.’

They comply. Yaz strangely feels like she is stood on ahangman’s box. She taps it with her left foot, ungainly in her sturdy boots,and it clangs resoundingly. Yaz remembers the wound in her right arm andwinces.

The sound is met with a disgruntled hiss from Plor – it wasa disturbance enough for the outside world to listen in on, Yaz realises; acall to forget defiance. She might as well have walked out of the cave alone.But it’s sight, not sound, that defeats them, so Yaz is repentant butunworried.

She looks up to Plor, to apologise, and spots her scratchingincessantly, with long, unkempt nails, at a hairy patch on her left arm. A hairappears to be growing, in real time.

The Doctor looks over to Yaz with an apology in her eyes,but keeps her head down.

She takes only a minute more. Her persistent buzzing and afew keying in of commands on the pedestal’s interface has notified the TARDISof their location, she explains. The TARDIS will take care of them.

The Doctor plants her feet next to Yaz once her commentaryhas finished. A low humming immediately starts; their feet are forced intoimmobility on the box. The Doctor’s boots have knocked against Yaz’s.

‘There’s room on the box for you, Plor,’ she says as theViba types in more commands on the interface. It is a whole paragraph oftyping; the Doctor looking on with her brow furrowed.

To the untrained ear there would be no sound but hope in theDoctor’s voice. Yaz can hear the remorse that threatens the Doctor’sdetermination, the thin line of a mouth that speaks of future death. And sheknows Plor’s answer before she opens her mouth.

Plor nods her head, too busy typing to look up. It robs hervoice of intonation. ‘My place is here, with the unconsidered. I am to themwhat you were to me, all those years ago. But thank you.’ She presses a buttonon the pedestal, and the process begins.

For a second Plor’s face contorts. To the untrained eye itwould be sadness, but Yaz has seen enough war now to read the signs.

The box starts vibrating, the thrumming louder and louder. Plorlooks at the Doctor’s friends. ‘This is old technology, long before the war. Icannot guarantee it won’t hurt. Brace yourselves, it won’t be long.’

‘Doctor, I don’t think—’

Yaz forgets how to breathe again. The thrumming becomes awhirring, and the sides of the box are suddenly aflush with white light –bright white light. She doesn’t want it to hurt. In the last moment before thetransfer, they hear the whoosh of the TARDIS – and, on instinct, Yazgrabs the Doctor’s arm.

#doctor who #doctor who fanfiction #doctor who series 11 #thasmin #thasmin prompts #thirteenth doctor #yasmin khan #ryan sinclair #graham o'brien #team tardis #my writing #my fanfiction #more of the universe

[iamdeadlocked]

When I arrived at Aunt May’s funeral it was a regular, normal arrangement.

Some people chatted quietly with one another, others sat quietly in the seats provided, and a few people went up to the body for one final goodbye.

Some people I recognized as her friends would come up to me and give me the usual spew about how sorry they were and how they were going to miss her, how they haven’t seen each other in X amount of years, how much he’s grown, how she’d be so proud of him, and other things that he didn’t want to hear at that moment.

I guess they all forgot about the falling out Aunt May and I had.

I didn’t.

Neither did she. It’s the reason why we haven’t spoken in almost a decade. It’s the reason she died alone.

It was nice gesture for them to invite me to the funeral and to try to include me in the conversations but I honestly just wanted to be left alone. I wanted to say good bye to the “dearly” departed and be on my way. I had a nice fast food made burger and fries sitting at home in my refrigerator calling my name.

I suppose I should feel some type of empathy and be a little bit upset that my aunt is no longer alive. We weren’t as close as we used to be mostly because of Uncle Ben’s death but I just can’t find it in me to feel more than a spoonful of bitter sadness. I suppose when the one person you thought you could trust and love tells you that “you are nothing to me and that a robbery gone wrong is your fault and that you should have been the one to die, not my Ben.” You lose all sorts of kinship and respect for them, who knew?

Anyway... everything was fine, the last of the guests arrived and the pastor begin a slideshow of Aunt May while retelling her life beginning to end. I settled in and got comfy because the bitch -oops! I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead- the lovely lady lived a good 79 years.

As her life unfolded on the screen and through the words, a few people would laugh here and there and and an occasional person would wipe away tears every few minutes. One person blew their nose loudly into a napkin causing me to wrinkle my nose in disgust.

About halfway through the pastor’s talk, he went quiet. I didn’t notice at first to caught up in daydreaming about the food at home.

When I noticed I looked around the room to see if anyone else had notice the weird behavior.

Apparently not seeing as they all were completely still much like the pastor.

It was like they all were frozen.

Everyone but me.

I looked around trying to see what the problem was but as far as I could tell nothing in the room was causing this strange occurrence. The video on the screen goes from Aunt Mays tenth birthday party to a black screen with a man in a red and black mask sitting in a spotlight right in front of a piano. His hands carcasses the keys as if they were his lover. He softly patted the lid of the piano as if it was his pet. Even stranger than that he leaned down and kissed the piano. When he sits back up he cracks his knuckles breaking the silence with the loud painful cracks startling me a bit. I look round the room and the people are still frozen. The only difference is their eyes are on the screen with the man in the mask.

The man rolls his shoulders first the left one, then the right.

Once,

Twice,

Three times.

He sets his fingers which I just noticed are covered with black gloves on the keys and begins to play.

I wish I could name the song but I’m not one for classical music. Even if I was something inside of me says that this man created this piece.

The song is beautiful.

It’s hauntingly beautiful.

I know this doesn’t make sense but I think this type of song is something you would hear only in your nightmares.

As of in a trance the people in the room all stand up simultaneously. That honestly would have been fine and I would have just accepted that everyone was a robot in this moment but there were at least three men and two ladies who were wheelchair bound that stood up and walked with the rest of them. I would call it a miracle but I’m pretty sure whatever is happening here is not a god given miracle.

The women work together to move the chairs out of the way while the men work to push the old, dull, hasn’t worked in thirty years piano to the center of the room in front of the screen.

Sweat began to form at the top of my forehead.

This is weird. I know this is weird. I should go but something keeps me rooted to my own seat in the corner.

After they finish getting everything situated the people pair up and begin to dance to the dramatic, powerful and eery melody. As they dance Pretty a strange fog started pouring in from the cracks of the windows and under the doors. It moved as if it had a mind of its own, swirling this way and that in attempts to cover the whole floor. Slowly it works it’s way to the middle of the room, covering the feet of the elders dancing around the piano.

The piano begins to play the same creepy music from the screen.

https://youtu.be/VagES3pxttQ

There was absolutely no one sitting on the bench, so once again that shouldn’t be possible but what do I know?

The smoke lifts up and over the seat of the piano bench and settles on top of it. A spotlight appears on the piano. (Funeral home doesn’t have a spot light but whatever.) The man from the screen slowly fades out as the fog takes shape of a man. His fingers gliding over the keys matching the same song as on the screen perfectly until the spotlight on the screen goes out and the video player shuts off. Now it’s just the man giving a live performance.

He sways with the music.

I finally find some sense and decide now would be a good time to just nope the fuck out of here and take the what the hell train to fuckthatville.

I slowly stand as to avoid any attention. I quietly and slowly make my way to the end of the aisle. I take care to look where I am going. I don’t want to be that person in the movies that trips and falls causing a loud disturbance and getting killed because of their stupidity.

The best thing I can hope for is that’s there’s nothing on the ground because this stupid fog is thick and covering everything up to my ankles.

As quiet as a mouse sneaking around a sleeping cat I tip toe my way to the end of the aisle.

Success!

I quietly walk to the back of the room praying to a god I don’t believe in that I make it to the door. I kept one on the mysterious figure and the dancing old people surrounded and the other eye on the fog. It was able to make a man appear out of thin air so I wasn’t above thinking it could make a man disappear as well. I walk backwards as I eye up the supernatural one man concert playing before me.

Not one person turned to look at me. No one even noticed I was the only one not in a trances. I guess I need to send a thank you note to Flash for helping me perfect my silent walk and being the perfect invisible man.

I only stop walking when I harshly bump into the door causing a soft thud to resonate loudly though the room.

The beautiful notes the man is hitting quickly goes sour as he slams his hands down onto the keys.

The air goes several degrees cooler causing a deep shiver to race through my body.

My blood freezes and my fear spikes.

My mind says to just quickly open the door and run. Bolt out of here and into the dying night. Everything will be fine if you run. You’ll be fine when you run.

My body will not listen to the sound advice of my brain. Instead it takes a step forward and away from the door.

I tried to fight what ever was controlling my body, since I need to blame something I blame the fog.

I fight with all my might pleading, begging, demanding and bribing my body to stop moving all in vain.

I take another step forward,

And another

And another

And another

And another.

I get closer and closer to a place I really would not like to be. Closer and closer to the man I don’t know. Closer and closer to the no longer dancing old folks.

My nose begins to bleed as I fight the otherworldly pull on my body. I bring my hand up wipe away the blood.... ain’t that a bitch. I have free lotion over my hands by not my legs. This definitely means the fog is controlling me. I should have played the floor is lava. That might have saved my life.

I lose the fight with my legs mostly because I’m not even strong physically let alone mentally.

I close my eyes as my body finally comes to a stop directly next to the piano man.

I hear shuffles as if people are moving to surround me. I hear a loud freak in the silent room as the masked man stands or at least I assume he stands. I refuse to let my curiosity get me killed.

I flinch hard to my left as I feel breathing into my right ear and a warm body standing directly behind me. A gentle hand steadies me by grabbing ahold of my hips.

The man whispers into my ear.

“Open your eyes little one.”

The voice sounded like sandpaper feels. Rough and dry as if the person hadn’t spoken in a very long time or as if they hadn’t had any water in months and their throat was dry. Yet somehow the voice sounded seductive and sweet. It was like he wanted to scare you but only a little. I don’t know how to explain it.

All I can say for sure was that it was a dark voice.

It was scary.

It was dangerous.

It was inhuman.

I didn’t hate it. Kind of want more of it.

Ignoring all red flags, flashing lights, and loud abort mission sounds my eyes open one at a time. Dirt the right one then the left.

My eyes opened and the first thing I saw was that I was in fact surrounded by my aunts friends.

The funeral guests all were standing in a half circle around me and the piano. Their eyes were black. I blinked a few times and wiped my eyes just to make sure I was actually seeing what I thought I was seeing.

I was.

There are were straight up black. I’ll admit I was extremely scared and damn near close to wetting myself from fear but nothing was worse than looking into the small crowd of wrinkled skin and liver spots to see her. By her I mean my aunt.

The same aunt who was and should be as dead as a door knob (that metaphor literally makes no sense... focus!) was standing there behind owner of the funeral home Mr. Stan Lee. She was standing and staring directly into my pure-ish soul.

How is she standing there? She’s been dead for two weeks. (No one knew she died in her home for a week and a half. How messed up is that...Peter focus!)

Was she alive again? I can’t see her chest moving but also no one else’s but mine is sooo is everyone dead like her?

Why do they all look so angry? Well I’d be angry to if my dancing music was shut off.

Despair and hopelessness take ahold of my body, pulsing through it with each beat of my heart.

I slowly decide to turn my head and look behind me at the man.

The first thing I notice is that his mask is gone. The second thing I noticed was that he wasn’t going to win any beauty contests... and omg this man is horrible to look at. I’ll be honest he’s lucky I was raised previously with live and had manners because otherwise the chances of me throwing up on this mans shirt and feet would have been a lot higher. Be that as it may I was so I swallow the bile in my throat and gulp.

Words couldn’t describe the horror of how horrific the man looked. He face was riddled with scars. The only places that didn’t have acres were completely missing. Chunks of flesh look rotted in some places, missing in others, and scarred on the rest. His eyes were pretty to look at and he smelled nice which sent me into a very conflicting state of fear and arousal.

His hands are still on my hips soothing me causing my fear to lesson just a bit. Maybe his wouldn’t be so bad? Perhaps I was just judging a book by its cover and this may not be as scary as it seems. He smiles at me as if he can hear my thoughts. It’s a gruesome and terrible sight but I find myself hesitantly smiling back. He brings up his hand, which is in the same terrible mangled mess as his face, from my hips to my face and strokes it with just a hint of pressure. It felt as if a feather was being running over my face. I place my hand on top of his and just feel his skin. Despite it being a horror fest it wasn’t that bad when you got used to it.

Suddenly he stops smiling and his eyes somewhat pretty eyes flash red. His grip on my jaw turns harsh and bruising. I can feel it begin to break as he allies more and more pressure. The hand on my hip pulls me hard into the front of his body and wraps around my mid section tightly as I begin to struggle. He pulls me tighter and tighter into him causing my bones to feel like they were point two seconds away from snapping as well.

His strength is out of this world although I already knew that. I look from him to the people in front of us. I plead with my eyes for help hoping that one of them comes to their senses and tries something.

I hear the demon laugh as if once again he can hear my thoughts... who knows maybe he does here them.

Everyone smiles at me. Ms. Al smiled so wide her dentures fell out.

The man leans down as he is quite literally breaking my bones and whispers into my ear,

”There’s a price to pay for breaking the sound of silence.”

Next thing I know my hip bones and my jaw are both shattered.

I scream the best I can with a broken jaw as the man releases me. My body drops to the ground like a broken doll. I see him place his mask back over his head and places his gloves back on his hands. He sits back down at the seat, hiding his upper body from my sight. I can see his feet and legs and I hear him begin his chilling song again.

The people around my broken body get closer and closer stooping down as the reach for my body.

I close my eyes as they draw nearer.

#spideypool #fanfiction #prompts #writing prompts #spiderman #deadpool

[itspileofgoodthings]

22

[ a hundred days of Taylor, day 2]

everything will be alright if you keep me next to you

This is dedicated to @themysciranprincessthings who turned 22 today! (hey, psst, listen to 22 before midnight or I will make you.)

22 is not considered a Taylor masterpiece. Her fans do not usually list it as one of their favorite songs, and in many ways it is not nearly as iconic as her other pop singles. We Are Never Ever is far more distinct, I Knew You Were Trouble is full of depth and feeling, You Belong With Me is iconic. 22 by comparison is just a fun song about turning a certain age. 

And yet it’s still as special to me in its own way as any of her songs. There’s three reasons for that. The first is that the song still has a distinct shape and melody. You could strip it down and it would still work. Why you would is another question because it’s so much fun exactly as it but it still has a musical form apart from its production and beat. The second is the layers of wistfulness, sadness, sincerity, and dare I say profound truth she somehow manages to infuse into something that sounds on the surface like nothing more than a birthday jam. I mean- don’t get me wrong. There’s lots of fluff and tossed off barbs and ridiculousness- make fun of our exessss, dress up like hipsters etc. But happy, free, confused, and lonely is as succinctly sharp a representation of the restless, discontentedness of being in your twenties as you’re going to find in a song that is not explicitly about that topic. Miserable and magical just about sums it up. And the dearest line to me- everything will be alright if you keep me next to you- is a beautiful (and literal! she means it literally!) demonstration of the pointlessness of social gatherings where you are unloved and unwanted. Keep me next to you. It’s a callback and an echo to an idea Taylor talks about a lot, in The Story of Us, in Dress, in The Moment I Knew and it is the idea that people, noise, fun, companionship in the loosest sense of the word cannot satisfy you in any deep way. They can even sometimes break your heart.

Now I’m standing alone in a crowded room (The Story of Us)

our secret moments in a crowded room (Dress)

And they’re all laughing as I’m looking around the room but there was one thing missing (The Moment I Knew)

In each of them she’s still looking for her person, she’s still looking to belong. She still wants, fundamentally, what she should want which is more than adrenaline or instant gratification or a distracting buzz. Each of the examples above are from love songs and are about a romantic relationship while 22 is not But it’s the same basic instinct. Don’t leave me in the glitter, don’t forget about me in the noise, don’t desert me in the waves and beats of having a good time. Keep me next to you, and if you do that, if we stay close, then the fun can stay fun and not become tragic. Parties that forget this, that don’t put human connection or friendship or community/communion as the reason to have a party, are abysses of loneliness- scarring, inhuman experiences, unfulfilling in every way.

And the third reason is just the way that Taylor, all on her own, has romanticized something which was not romanticized at all. She singlehandedly made being 22, turning 22, fun and distinct in a way it wasn’t before. And it’s not a swiftie thing like the number 13 or more niche Taylor traditions/secrets. It’s a cultural thing that we all just accept. It’s widespread. Being 22 is the year of being the same age as a Taylor song; even if you hate Taylor, you still feel the effects of it. And Taylor, as much as the song itself, gets the credit for that. It’s her determination to romanticize things, to enjoy them, to make something special out of something fairly common that marks this song. And I like to think that the ubiquity of 22 is a testament to how infectious that attitude can be.

#taylor swift #22 #a hundred days of taylor: day 2 #100 days of taylor

[kitsoa]

Chikai Detailed Review

I was expecting the full version of Chikai to drop sometime today or tomorrow considering her album’s on its way. Finally....finally, this haunting song is here and it’s making me weep. I’m gonna dig into observations with time stamps from the linked video. I am under the impression that the English version is gonna be vastly different, but I hope not, this is.... ethereal, it feels like destiny. 

If you have listened to this song enough that you’d be willing to follow me on this listening journey, then there is more under the cut:

0:00- Right at the beginning starts the divisive syncopated piano rhythm. I understand why people might be jarred by it because its not terribly common in modern pop but it is just so incredibly unique and  compelling for a number of reasons. 

It’s in three. Like that’s just a giggle inducing move. Threes are so important to the series as the various trios are the lifeblood of the themes. And of course, its the long awaited third game and third Utada song. Very cute.

The syncopation is a very obvious heart beat. ‘baa--- ba-dum baa-- ba-dum’ The song is a goddamn heart. (I’m SCREAMING) and the fact that its in the piano is interesting and potentially symbolic. I mean, the piano is being turned into a primary rhythm instrument is weird to us Yoko Shimomura lovers because she layers her work with flourishing piano melodies. But ultimately that instrument is the lifeblood of the music of KH and Utada could be making a nod to that by making it serve itself as the heartbeat of her song. 

0:13- To go along with this ‘Utada is clearly text painting Kingdom Hearts into the fabric of her song’ thing, the violin line here has a distinctly Royal feel to it. Like (Oh god, proper nouns are escaping me but im thinking of something specific) in those baroque marches where the continuo is keeping this steady, rhythmic pulse underneath a violin’s elongated phrase as someone of importance (a king?) makes way through a scene. The fact that it’s orchestrated at all makes this feel like a melancholy/nostalgic coronation.

0:30- I will abstain from judging the english version but this is like... one of my favorite aspects of the main verse line. The Japanese corresponding text to our ‘thieves’ here slides into a resolution from its suspension in a ridiculously awesome way. It’s almost weepy. I’m gonna say the word a lot but thats probably cause I’m crying. It’s also very chill and jazzy. Ultimately the resolution (which is the main theme of KH3--Utadaaaaaa) here feels heavy and incomplete. Bitter sweet?

0:40- I like this vocal line. It’s very Utada because it’s actually super hard to pull off. Switch registers like that and keeping the line intense... dayum. I like that it repeats cause that like the musical equivalent to the moral of ‘keep on trying till you get it right’. It’s distinctly ‘determined’

0:47-- That drum pattern kicks in and its very clear this song is just gonna gradually build. It’s working toward something. It’s also super groovy. 

1:07- Chorus kicks in. This melodic line is just the pure definition of the word ‘yearning’. It begins with a chromatic climb to top of the melody’s standard range and hangs there for a second as though it wants to go higher but can’t and then it repeats. (try and try again?) 

1:30- Dude this is it. The part our virgin ears have yet to consume. 

2nd verse! I love the syllabification here. It makes me wonder what the English is gonna try to convey. 

1:43-- Funny enough it is in this verse the underlying ‘ah’ accent from the English version is placed. I like it here because you can sense that this standard ballad is gradually growing into something more ethereal (like KH2′s Passion).

1:46-- oh OH BOY. Lots of things are happening. First of all, that syllabic rhythm is electric (it also foreshadows the next part). It’s mesmerizing and varies from the established verse in a way that tumbles us into the next onslaught of concepts. 

Namely. The violin’s tremor-like half step noodling that builds and builds (1:49) up to a striking imagining of the 0:40 line. The vocals turn into a tightly packed, chord that is entirely inhuman sounding-- but it’s also a staple of Utada’s that I’ve heard in some of her other works. Needless to say this was the part where I actually gasped while listening. It sounded like Passion for a split second. 

1:59-- The change in chords right at this moment gave me chills cause I didn’t expected it and it opened up the floodgates of surprise, tumbling into 2:00′s fast triplet ornamentation like a vortex. This created a magnetic little spiral to me, like I was being sucked down a rabbit hole. I can only imagine what imagery could be sparked from this micro-passage alone. 

2:04-- right here we get the main chorus with a mighty fine and ethereal ‘ah’ broken chord in the build up. This makes the chorus insanely beautiful and interesting and mesmerizing. I love following that counter melody gahh.

2:27-- The vocal line builds nicely with a very new theme, the words are starting to have a very pronounced rhythm that 1:46 was alluding to. The words alone are pulling the music into this entirely new idea with a dramatic decay in the orchestration.

2:38-- This part is crazy. It’s using that triplet figure and drives the vocal line with it. Meanwhile the underlying symphony is echoing that heartbeat like opening line. The vocals are frantic and pleading and grow more layered and ethereal yet again. It sounds inhuman-- or angelic. Ultimately it feels completely unfathomable.  I am utterly captivated by this moment. 

3:00-- Chorus comes back! And now its the part from the extended preview that I heard before. The beat underneath this packs a punch like no other as the backing vocals and strings just flourish in the chorus. 

3:22-- The famous ‘kiss me once’ moment. The vocal lines alone act like crashing waves with the set driving in the back ground. The the melody just cries out.

3:45-- then it repeats with that triplet figure driving underneath and you become distinctly overwhelmed with emotion.

4:08 Until this close out happens and it feels like a different song. The melodic line moves a lot and I get a sort of resigned impression. But it surprises in the last minute by building towards...

Nothing. It ends in a major key in the middle of a resolving phrase, an empty rhythm clap filling the following beat like Utada is speechless. It leaves you speechless as it returns to the opening heart beat. You could argue that the ending is incomplete... and that the return to the opening figure indicates that the song could just... start all over again on loop, never ending. I get the strange feeling that I’ll only be able to interpret the meaning of that very unresolved resolution when I finish the game.

Overall:

This song is a religious experience for me. Utada truly delivered and you can tell that she is weaving every message into the fabric of this work. I haven’t looked through lyric translations, and to be honest I don’t think I will because its the melody alone that I feel tells the greater story. 

I have a lot of questions after listening to this. A lot of it pertains to the English version, knowing that there will definitely be big changes to the text heavy sections. There’s worry in that, but I’m excited about it all the same. I also wonder about the opening cinematic. Listening to this here tells me that we are not getting a remixed version (imo). And I am pleased with this potential fate. This song builds perfectly, we don’t need a hype song, we need Chikai. 

I am curious if they are going to cut the song. It’s long. For an opening especially. This is a worry because good lord it builds perfect we can’t cut a thing-- plus all the more reasons to have a longer cinematic I live for those. Finally I have to wonder the direction of those visuals. I’m not sure many of the dream imagery from openings past will work but I could very well be proved wrong. 

I’m cry guys. Favorite KH song hands down.

#kingdom hearts #kh3 #chikai review #im a music major but i can remember none of the specific lingo #shame of me #now i can just sit back and listen to this song

[ourancs]

Title: Siren Call Prompt, Day 2: Fantasy AU For: @gladnoctweek Rating: Romance, T Word count: 2475 Summary: Noctis’ siren call draws the human he has been admiring for far too long.  Note: this is a universe created by myself, and @shieldheir between our roleplay blogs for noctis and gladio respectively. tentative continuation may happen.

                  he moves through a porthole, shoulders shifting inhumanely to accommodate his size, torso twisting as he glides through with little effort, lazy kicks propelling him forward. sunlight slants through the water and he turns on his back, hands spread wide, watching cerulean shift along the surface, winking back at him. he drifts amid the ocean water, lids dropping with the sudden desire to nap beneath the sunlit waters, tired from his exploration. body arches, drawing breath, and maw gapes in a silent yawn. yet, he could not stay here beneath the surface, sleeping as he would. it was his night to sing --- his night to call forth the humans. a chore in his eyes, taking time from that which he might actually want to do ( sleeping being a primary one ). but with the shift of color across the water, signaling the end of the day he kicks off with a sigh, chest expanding and gills fluttering. if he didn’t go, he’d never hear the end of it from his father. he’d already left ignis behind in the city, and ditching the nightly serenade would only draw more ire.

           it takes little time to get to the rocks. the world passes beneath him, restless and alive, endless in its darkness. though he does not make any true effort to attend, it is still required of him as prince. a siren prince. he was one of very few males given a voice to match the gods of death; sweet in its melody, deadly in its delivery. and like all sirens, he was beautiful. no one could deny his song, or his looks --- no one. some women, and men could withstand the serenade of others. yet, no one had managed to escape, or deny him. in truth, they didn’t practice the ways of their ancestors. they no longer had to kill the souls that were caught in their song, or devour their flesh to live. they had evolved as his advisor had informed him of years ago, when they were still but children. it was a life he was grateful he didn’t have to live. taking the lives of humans seemed like more trouble than it was worth ( he would deny the slight fascination with their species ). now, instead of taking their life entirely, they fed from their soul --- a single kiss to draw forth the force necessary to live. some took more than others ( though never killing ), but he felt no compulsion to drain more than was needed. he had always been small, lithe figure far more delicate than most. his strength lie in his magic, passed on through his bloodline. he would rule one day, and his magic would require more of him then. but that was not now, and he was drifting toward the surface, and breaking beyond to watch as the sun fell beyond the horizon in a splash of color so vivid as to burn across his eyes.

           others have already scattered about the shore, taking up their place within distance of the humans. he can hear the songs of some already, single notes that seem to stretch on for days, the long, low notes drawing them forth from their homes. some were far more susceptible than others, making their way toward the water within minutes of hearing their song, but in the end, enough of them always came. he finds his place further down the shore, closer to the docks where sailors and fisherman left their boats for the night. the waters were quieter here, and he’s drawn to the shore where a few homes have been built on sand, and into stone, some even along the dock. while his kind carried no real law for the sex of their prey, some carried preferences. some preferred beauty, others strength, and some simply called and whoever appeared they would take. he carried no true preference ( would deny that he had chosen this place for the human who lived at shore’s edge, built into the wall ) for who he called; whoever heard his voice and came would give him what he needed and that would be the end of it. he never called the same person twice, and he left them feeling as if they’d experienced a night of pleasure only held in dreams.

           he swims closer to the shore than he ever does, gills still safely beneath the water as he pulls his torso out as far as it could go. the light shifts, and the world is caught beneath dark and the fading color, as if it was being leached of all life. their sight is unaffected by light though, and he watches as the humans drift back toward their homes, or walk aimlessly through the city or along the shore. he seeks out something he desires, but does not dwell upon --- something he could not have, despite the clarity of which he can see said desire. thoughts further pushed away, lips part and he sings.

           it begins slow, soft and low as he finds the tune his lungs have memorized from birth. while speech is possible, it is nothing like the melodies that flow beyond pale pink lips, drawing forth even the most hardened of men. he can hear the few others who have chosen tonight to sing, rising in pitch, battling another for sway over the humans. but he finds no pleasure in fighting, thoughts distracted by a human he has seen many times over, a human he has visited before, enough times that he might recognize the freckles hidden by the dark color of his skin, or the calloused hands that work tirelessly, or amber eyes that shine brighter than any jewel he has crossed beneath the sea. he doesn’t let himself entertain such thoughts, or else linger on an idea, a thought that could not be.

           he sings, waiting for a human to show up, always someone specific caught in his snare on any given night. last week had been a woman, silver hair like moonlight, and words sharp enough to cut deep. he knows not who will answer, but he does not expect to see the familiar silhouette of the human he has come to know far more intimately than was appropriate. he’s never called him before, never seen him walk along the shores, beckoned by any other. noctis had always assumed he was strong-willed, resilient to others, and perhaps he was the one human who could resist his song. but not tonight. his steps assured, he steps into the water, splashing around legs, and noctis watches, stunned, notes still echoing low over the water as he draws ever near.

           gladiolus. gladio has his companions have affectionately called him. his name sits upon his tongue, aching to be said, tasted, and he’s caught in the light reflecting off russet strands drawn back and tied up, skin kissed by the sun again and again, and the slope of his shoulders painted in lines he had come to know as a tattoo. voice falters with his wandering thoughts, caught up in the sight of rugged beauty closing the distance, and he’s lost. he’s beautiful, a solitary thought. broad-shouldered, tall, angles of his features sharp enough to cut. the slope of amber eyes tapered by fine brows. he’s stopped singing, but the echoes remain, and still he approaches. noctis waits until he’s waist deep in water, bigger now that he was up close, darker, features more defined now that he could reach out to touch. a face he suddenly aches to memorize by touch alone, and so he reaches out, blue-veined, webbed fingers closing the distance between them. he didn’t know he’d stopped breathing until gills break the surface and seal, cutting off the ability to inhale. yet, lungs burn as he waits until the heavy weight of a palm settles over his, and he fights the urge to inhale sharply. fingers wrap firmly about his outstretched hand, and he tugs him into the water, enough that he could wade and noctis could breath and swim at the same time. he treads water, while gladiolus wades, and despite what he must do, what he had wanted to be over so quickly, he finds he’s in no rush. he would stay here and gaze upon a creature so divine it would make their gods jealous.

           “ beautiful. “  single word to break the silence, and a warm hand suddenly caresses his wet cheek, sending a chill down his spine in surprise, scales flaring slightly. whispered in the small space between them, he briefly wondered if he had said it aloud. but he did not, and he watches as gladio’s mouth forms the words so clearly once more. and even though he knows he is, as all of his kind did, it brought a flush to his cheeks, and left his heart tapping a wild beat beneath caged bone. he’s enraptured by the pull of amber, caught in the warmth of his body so close he could press against him, and the realization that he could do just that is overwhelming. he had come out here for that very purpose, had he not?

           nothing more need happen but the gentle brush of lips, mouth drawing open to invite him in and he would pull the life force he had come here for, inhaling into his lungs. but tonight was not like the others, and he is foolish enough to let emotion and curiosity cloud his mind. he draws him closer, even now his beauty having an effect on gladio and luring him close, until he was chest deep in the water. he can feel large, rough hands fall upon his waist, fingers dancing at the edge, hesitant, where scales meet pale flesh, blending seamlessly, blue-black shifting along his skin like spilled ink running across the surface and staining. it’s a test of patience and trust when he wraps his tail gently around his leg, letting him hold him steady, deceivingly soft scales that if ruffled the wrong way, could scratch mortal flesh bloody. head cants as cobalt gaze flicks about his face, studying features he has only dreamed of. hands lift, water cascading down arms stained in the same blue-black, and he cups his cheek, the hair across his jaw scratching sensitive flesh. another shiver runs along his arms; it is not entirely unfamiliar, similar to the scratch of scales, and he enjoys it far more than he should ( he was enjoying all of this far more than he should ). a part of his mind, the rational side that sounded like iggy, told him he should back off and leave this one be. he was too close to it, too close to him, and nothing good could from this.  “ humans, noctis, are not for us to befriend. they are not of our kind, no matter how fascinating they might seem to you. “  but he wasn’t ignis, and he wasn’t rational, and he wanted nothing more than to taste his lips.

           he draws him closer slowly, gaze flicking between his, looking for a flash of warning, or the sign of a man confused and angry, ready to fight him off. it didn’t happen, but he had heard it could if one was strong enough to resist. but instead of a warning, he sees something akin to desire, a longing to act upon, and hands that hold his waist tug him ever closer until they are flush with each other, and noctis is aware of nothing but the warmth of his body, the way he nearly wraps about his lithe frame, chests pressed together, tail against his legs, and the tilt of his head as eyes slightly close as if in anticipation. he breathes, gills fluttering, heart skipping and he closes the distance between them. sigh rushes forth, expelling air when lips touch. gladiolus meets his kiss, and noctis is left wondering just how this is happening. there was no reason for a human to come to him so willingly, as if no siren call had summoned him forth. breath ghosts across his cheeks, and he feels gladio’s lungs expand as he draws breath, mouth opening against his slightly. this is where he should take his opening, and draw forth his energy --- but when has noctis ever done anything the right way? 

           instead, his lips part of their own, tentative and gentle as he draws gladiolus in once more. its a hesitant dance of lips, tongues flicking out as if teasing, testing the waters of which they so dangerously tread. it doesn’t cross his mind any further about what he had initially come out here for. here, beneath the rising moon, and wrapped in strong, warm arms, he’s lost to a kiss that instead of him stealing, gladio has stolen from him. tongue flicks against his lip, wanting to taste him, and he’s granted access in the way gladiolus presses firmly, lips parting and tongue meeting his, tangling in a heated rush. it’s dangerous mess of his heart beating furiously beneath his chest, and he’s caught up in the taste of him, unfamiliar but something he craves to know intimately. hands card through russet strands, and he tugs, drawing himself up slightly, tongue delving into his mouth and he shivers at the groan that’s caught in his throat as noctis shifts ever closer. he bends with him, arms fully looped around his back, and he’s suddenly aware of how tangled he’s become with this human. all in a rush he’s pulling away, gills fluttering nervously as he gasps for oxygen, eyes lidded with an insatiable desire to close the distance once more. yet, there’s a ringing tone that warns him this is as dangerous for him, as it was for gladio. their species had not been made for such longing, and he’s struck by the hollow ache it leaves behind, his chest suddenly heavy. he pushes against his chest, tail untwisting and flicking, trying to break their hold. gladio seems to let him go reluctantly, gaze just as lost in the kiss ( or at least, he hopes so ) and noctis wars with the desire to pull him in for another kiss or swim away before he put him in danger.

           protecting him from the dangers of both their kind, a flick of his tail puts distance between them. he cannot look away, longing to return to him so great it takes more energy than necessary to turn, and dive beneath the surface where he was safe from glittering amber, and a look he felt all too similar to his own. protect him a sudden urge that spurs him forward, propelling himself faster, water little resistance as it glides over his sleek body, resistance cut by the fins that adorn his back along his arms. no one could know of this or they might both face consequences that would be far worse than never being in his arms again.

#gladnoct #gladnoctweek #gladnoct week #noctis lucis caelum #gladiolus amicitia #ffxv #gladnoct fic #mine* #myfic

[snicketsleuth]

Who runs Black Cat Coffee?

Black Cat Coffee, corner of Caravan and Parfait, counts amongst the most emblematic places of “All the Wrong Questions”, showing up in 3 of the 4 books. Yet by the end of the series several questions have yet to be answered:

Why would a café moonlight as a post office?

Why is Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s post delivery so fast?

Why have we never met the postman/waiter who runs the café?

Stay with us after the cut to unravel these mysteries... and others.

On a purely cultural level, Black Cat Coffe’s piano and automatic delivery service might be loosely inspired by the pianocktail, a semi-fictional musical instrument from Boris Vian’s surrealist novel “Froth on the daydream”. The pianocktail mixes a custom cocktail depending on the melodies which are played on it (usually jazz). Daniel Handler is a cocktail enthusiast and allusions to Vian show up in “Why We Broke Up”. Fittingly, the café is also named after 3 Duke Ellington songs: ”Caravan”, “Parfait (A Little Max)” and “Black Cat Blues”, which might also be an allusion to Edgar Allan Poe’s famous story. It’s no wonder Ellington Feint loves the place so much.

Well, it seems like the cultural allusion won’t help us here. Our only hope is to examine the café’s logistics. When did Ellington discover the place? It clearly seems like she’s already used the post office before the start of “All The Wrong Questions”. When Lemony brings her the Bombinating Beast, she knows exactly what to do.

“Is the mail delivery reliable here?” I asked. “Yes,” she said. “You should have it by tomorrow morning. Surprisingly, delivery around here is very fast.” [Who Could That Be At This Hour?, Chapter Seven]

Then again, she has a lot of time on her hand and could just have discovered the secret attic by snooping around. Cleo Knight is also a customer but isn’t aware of the secret attic as far as we know. A violent butcher named Mack and his abused son Drumstick, who show up in “File Under: 13 Suspicious Incidents”, know of the attic’s existence. Dashiell Qwerty is also a customer and tries to set up a meeting with Ellington in “Shouldn’t You Be In School”. All in all, not a whole lot of people seem to frequent Black Cat Coffee: Hungry’s restaurant, which essentially functions as a soup kitchen, is the preferred meeting place of Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s residents. This would explain why so many mysteries remain about the place.

A question deserves to be asked: does Hangfire know Black Cat Coffee’s intended purpose? Our money’s on “no”. Ellington uses the attic to hide the Bombinating Beast in “Who Could That Be At This Hour?”, and Inhumane Society doesn’t seize the chance to get it. This is especially embarrassing as samples of Doctor Flammarion’s laudanum also show up in the attic in “Who Could That Be At This Hour?”. So we see that the post office tends to deliver stuff from anyone to anyone, as fast as possible. Whoever runs it has a decently neutral position in the conflict and the place is not monitored by Hangfire.

“Attic,” I said. It was a good place to keep packages. The music from the piano told me there was nothing to worry about, but I climbed the staircase with my belly full of bread and butterflies. I was tired of surprises in strange rooms. But the attic of Black Cat Coffee was just another big room with nobody in it. Along the wall were a few cupboards, and shelves with bags of coffee on them. There was a long table with envelopes and packages stacked in separate piles, as if quite a few people collected their mail at Black Cat Coffee instead of at home. I wondered why. There were not that many packages. There was a small box marked MEDICAL SUPPLIES addressed to a Dr. Flammarion. There was a long tube marked ELECTRICAL EQUIPMENT addressed to nothing more than a pair of initials that were unfamiliar. And then there was a package about the size of a bottle of milk, wrapped in newspaper with a handwriting I recognized immediately. I unwrapped it carefully. It was the Bombinating Beast. [Who Could That Be At This Hour?, Chapter Ten]

So it’s unlikely that the person who runs the post office is in league with Hangfire. That strikes out people like Nurse Dander, Doctor Flammarion, Sally Murphy, Sharon Haines, etc. So far so good, but who else could it be? No one in Stain’d-by-the-Sea looks like a satisfying candidate.

If this account can be called a mystery, then Black Cat Coffee is a mystery inside a mystery. There were certainly mysterious things in the establishment. The shiny machinery in the center of the room—which produced bread or coffee, depending on which button you pressed—always worked perfectly, but I never saw anyone attending to it. The attic was a place where you could retrieve packages, but I never saw anyone delivering them. The player piano played tunes I couldn’t identify. But these aren’t what I mean. I don’t care who oiled the machinery of Black Cat Coffee and made sure the bins were full of flour and roasted beans, or who delivered the boxes of books filled with blank pages or gears used in botanical extraction. The music doesn’t matter to me. [When Did You See Her Last?, Chapter Nine]

Sometimes the only way to solve a mystery is to link it to another unsolved mystery. And when one looks at the numerous plot threads left hanging at the end of “All The Wrong Questions”, it becomes tempting to suspect the Bellerophon brothers.

Hangfire seems to hold a grudge against their family, as his final diatribe attests:

“You fold together a flimsy decoy,” Hangfire said scornfully, “and try to play me like a clarinet, but you’ll collapse when you stand against me. All of you Stain’d citizens are the same. Your mother, Mallahan, was a journalist searching for the truth, but she didn’t have the courage to face what she found. Your parents, Hix, are too scared to come back to town, even to fetch their son. The Knight family drained the sea, and then went down the drain themselves. I could go on and on. The Losts. The Bellerophons. Doctors and actors, nurses and naturalists. Everyone was utterly worthless, and then along came a little girl who could perform all the trickery I needed.” [Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights?, Chapter Twelve]

This is a long list of people Hangfire names as his enemies:

The Knights engineered the economic and ecological disaster that motivated the creation of Inhumane Society.

Ornette Lost’s mother tried to revert this disaster through tourism and, as such, threatened the lawless no man’s land Hangfire wanted to create. She’s also theorized to have been a member of V.F.D., Hangfire’s archenemy. So it’s possible that the fire that killed her was actually started by Hangfire.

Moxie’s mother is a journalist sworn to expose the truth, so she’d have to be removed from the town to enable Hangfire’s conspiracy.

However we are missing a motive for the Hix and Bellerophon families:

We have no information on what Jake’s parents did before they left the town, but as they fled they can’t possibly be involved in the shenanigans going on at Black Cat Café.

Pip’s and Squeak’s father is a trickier case because he’s still in town. He’s also an elusive taxi driver who’s always sick for some reason.

But the Bellerophon brothers’ story clashes with another passage:

“I’ve got to get that formula finished,” she said. “It’s a puzzle, but I’ve got to solve it. Invisible ink that actually works could make Ink Inc. a successful company again. We could save this town from all the people who want to destroy us. I’ve got to do it myself. I told my mother and father that, in my note. I love them, but my parents have given up on making things better.” “So have mine,” Jake said, and the Bellerophon brothers nodded too. Even Moxie nodded in agreement. [When Did You See Her Last?, Chapter Twelve]

They imply that he “gave up” on trying to make the town better, yet also insist he’s in town. Jake’s parents left, Moxie’s mother left and her father is clearly depressive… But the Bellerophon father is just “sick”. That’s not the same as “giving up”. They’re judging him pretty harshly for something he has no control over. Why do they put him on the same level as other cowardly parents?

We never see Pip’s and Squeak’s father throughout the entire series, which is an enormous red flag. Some readers believe he was actually murdered by Hangfire and that his children are covering up his death. Maybe they don’t want to be put up for adoption, but that’s still pretty drastic. Is it really in their best interest to lie to the authorities? They have no guardians and are forced to work at a very early age. Why not just admit the truth and leave the town?

There’s probably something more complicated going on here. As Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s last taxi driver, he was essentially in charge of its public transport. That’s an interesting position to be in for the survival of the town, but not an essential one in Hangfire’s masterplan. Because he needs to protect his civil identity (Armstrong Feint), he wouldn’t be able to take the taxi very often. For the most part, Hangfire seems content to travel by foot.

Controlling information, on the other hand, is extremely important. A taxi driver would pick up on a lot of stuff throughout his errands. We also know that Hangfire depends on the postman because he needs massive amounts of laudanum to subdue the Knight parents, the patients of the Colophon Clinic and the students of Wade Academy. Lemony even finds one of Flammarion’s shipments of laudanum in the attic of Black Cat Café. Had he destroyed this shipment, Hangfire’s entire masterplan would have had to be delayed. So it would be critical for Hangfire to control the mail delivery of Stain’d-by-the-Sea.

So what if Stain’d-by-the-sea’s taxi driver were actually the elusive postman from Black Cat Café?

There’s a reason no one’s caught the postman yet: he’s been hiding in plain sight. It’s only natural for a taxi to drive through the town, day and night. If the car was actually used to deliver mail, no one would notice. The two professions are actually very similar: one delivers information, the other people.

The theory goes like this: the Bellerophon’s father realized the danger Hanfire represented and decided to minimize his involvement with the mail delivery service. He started simulating a sickness to get out of Inhumane Society’s radar. He didn’t want Hangfire to realize he was the postman. His sons Pip and Squeak eventually found out his secret and took it upon themselves to ensure the mail delivery, as a desperate bid to keep the town alive. They are torn between their sense of civic duty and their loyalty to their father, who prefers to keep a low profile. So they pretend he’s sick as a way to protect him.

Are Pip and Squeak even aware Black Cat Coffee moonlights as a post office? Why, yes they are. Consider this passage:

I lay on the statue and thought, and the world went on without me. Moxie Mallahan was tucked into her bed, and Cleo Knight let herself into Handkerchief Heights, where her scientific equipment waited for her. Jake Hix started cooking up breakfast at Hungry’s, and the Bellerophon brothers put an old-fashioned record player and a huge stack of papers in the attic of Black Cat Coffee. [When Did They See Her Last?, Chapter Thirteen]

Granted, it’s possible that Lemony just told them about the attic. But this conversation, if it ever happened, is never mentioned in the narration. And this passage describes events that Lemony couldn’t have witnessed by himself anyway (he’s, not unlike ourselves, making hypotheses)

ADDENDUM, 3rd of August 2017:

Hermes from the 667 Dark Avenue message board (Link) pointed out how wrong I was about this. We do hear the conversation:

“In the back of the building is a spiral staircase,” I said. “At the top is a room with a broken window, and somewhere in that room is an old-fashioned record player. It was on a bed stand, but Hangfire hid it right before I came in. Please take it, along with all those papers on the desk, to Black Cat Coffee and put it in the attic. There’s a cupboard there that’s larger than it looks.” Squeak frowned. “Who wants all that stuff? Another associate of yours?” [When Did You See Her Last?, Chapter Twelve]

Then again Squeak doesn’t ask Lemony how to get to the attic, which suggests he is at the very least familiar with it. It doesn’t contradict the theory but does make it less likely.

END OF ADDENDUM

So the postman and current manager of Black Cat Coffee would be, for all intents and purposes, Pip and Squeak. Which would at least explain how they manage to get food and shelter, what with their father being so “sick” he can’t work. Running the café would hardly be a hassle. It’s all automated anyway. Going to the attic at night to store and pick up the mail would not take much time, and if they ever got caught, they would pretend being normal customers exploring the attic.

#0514 #theory #Lemony Snicket #atwq #all the wrong questions #Bouvard Bellerophon #pecuchet bellerophon #armstrong feint #hangfire #ellington feint #moxie mallahan #cleo knight #dashiell qwerty #ornette lost #prosper lost #vfd #sally murphy #sharon haines