#that he's healthy enough to *serve* for eight years.

[atopvisenyashill]

What if Jaehaerys died instead of Aemon?

So if Jaehaerys decided “i’ll take care of those pirates on Vermithor” and then took an arrow to the face, Aemon becomes King no problem, no muss, no fuss. There’s like. A lot of moving parts here and unknowns so I’m kinda breaking this up a bit-

Whomst Is All Here

So Jaehaerys dies in 92 AC. Aemon is King. Rhaenys is his heir presumptive, Laena HER heir presumptive. Baelon is alive for about nine more years, Alysanne for eight, though her memory is starting to go and she’s going to stop riding Silverwing within a few years. Gael is still alive. Viserys & Aemma haven’t married yet, nor have Daemon & Rhea. Laenor is two years from being born, Rhaenyra is….three I think idr exactly ajsj. I think Alysanne and Baelon are both gonna die at roughly the same time, given Aly is old & frail and Baelon had appendicitis, but imo, Aemma, Gael, Jocelyn, & Aemon are really up in the air here.

Succession Issues

What does Aemon do for succession? Well, considering Rhaenys’ argument is “you would rob my son of his birthright” I think it’s very likely that Aemon names Laenor Crown Prince/Prince of Dragonstone the moment he’s born, or soon after. Im……a bit unsure on the interim, because Laenor is born in 94, two years after Jaehaerys dies. Not a long time but long enough that people are probably going “well……what happens when you die tho.” Aemon is said to be a man who was quiet and dedicated to law and justice (whatever his definition that means, lmao), so I think he goes for the Aegon I approach after Rhaena is born but before Aegon the Uncrowned is born and goes “*cough cough* anyway look at how cute my granddaughter Laena is, you know she can ALREADY hold her head up, so strong, she’ll be a dragon rider for sure.”

It’s not that he’s actively trying to spurn Baelon & Viserys, it’s that Rhaenys can only have kids so fast, and they are nowhere near the point where she needs to feel rushed yet. She’s like 17, this is her first child, and it was perfectly healthy. With the shock of Jaehaerys dying in such a stupid way (he’s supposed to be like, The Conciliator, The Old Guy, and he goes out in an accident during a minor skirmish when he’d historically been very adept at squashing minor skirmishes), so that approach probably works until Laenor is born.

After that, Laenor is named Crown Prince and given all the education, privilege, and trappings that go with that title. If Aemon outlives Baelon but not by long, I………do think maybe the exact titles are a little messy? Because Alyssa was a queen Already when she’s Queen Regent, same for Cersei later on, but Rhaenys is never a Queen, Jocelyn is. So would Jocelyn maybe want the title Queen Regent? Or would she name Rhaenys…..Princess Regent? Out of respect for the fact that Laenor is Rhaenys’ son and she should have a say in his life? They could just name Lord Corlys Regent and Hand Of The King tbf, but we know nothing about Jocelyn’s personality, and we know Rhaenys is a proud woman, so I do wonder if there’s a lil thing going on here for a minute over who gets to Regent. That goes double if Aemon doesn’t outlive Baelon because I think Baelon would also put his hat in the ring, given it’s likely he serves as his brother’s hand. I mean, there’s not gonna be a war over who gets to be Regent, lol, but I do think there’s some power jockeying if Aemon doesn’t live too much longer, and Laenor doesn’t come of age before his grandfather dies.

Marriage Matches

With Aemon and Baelon being besties, I think it’s pretty natural to expect them to engage little Laenor and Viserys’ daughter - it just might not be Rhaenyra. the aemma marriage happens after Baelon is named Crown Prince, likely to ensure Viserys goes uncontested. With Rhaenys not yet having a daughter, I think there’s a chance Alysanne and/or Jocelyn, Rhaenys, even Aemon himself puts the kibbosh on that match until Laenor is born. THEN they’d be allowed to get married, imo, to ensure they have a Perfect Valyrian Bride option for Laenor. Laena is there, obviously, to be his sister-wife as well, BUT if Laenor doesn’t take an early interest in her (lol) I think Alysanne might push for them to have another Valyrian girl for him to get interested in. I think especially given Alysanne’s reaction to her daughters’ deaths, she might want to watch over their children and for Alysanne, that means match making, and on paper, Viserys is a nice match for Aemma. So maybe the Viserys-Aemma marriage happens, just later, so maybe Rhaenyra is born a little later, or maybe Aemma lives longer because her “purpose” isn’t to have a son, but a daughter, and she does this quickly. 

ANOTHER marriage to take into consideration outside of Laenor is Laena herself. See, if Laenor is Crown Prince, he can’t be Lord or Driftmark. Does Corlys want to wait for Laenor to have more than one son, so he can name his grandchild his heir, risking that Laenor never has more than one son? Is he happy with Laena as eventual Lady of Driftmark? (seems….doubtful given his actions re: passing over Baela AND Rhaena for Addam and Alyn) Do he and Rhaenys try for a third child, and hope it’s a son? Lot of factors here, but if he is waiting for Laenor to have a second son, Laena is heir presumptive literally until adulthood. I think Corlys may be a bit more careful with engaging her to random sea lords willy nilly, if he’s risking going like twenty years without a clear heir. Also, given that Corlys is Velaryon, I do think it’s more likely he wants Laenor married to a born Targaryen woman, and not to Laena, and same for Laena - I don’t think she’s marrying a younger sibling lol. But also - maybe Aemon feels some type of way about this? I mean, he married his aunt, a way of joining the two lines of Alyssa Velaryon, so I do feel he would Also be more inclined to have Laenor marry Rhaenyra, and give Corlys the room to marry Laena off to whomever he wants. If the reason Rhaenys only had two kids is because birth was hard on Rhaenys, I think Aemon might step in to be like “Hey I didn’t force Jocelyn, I waited around for a grandson, so you better not be forcing my daughter, you can wait for Laena’s grandson too.” Like i THINK. And I’m not sure Corlys is the sort of man who would force a pregnancy on Rhaenys either, if only for pragmatism sake (but also, it just doesn’t seem his style). Anyways, as usual, Driftmark succession is messy.

Daemon is still likely bound for the Vale, considering the reason for that match was likely “give Daemon a seat he can fuck off to so he’s not a problem in the capital” and they already have Viserys as the extra dude at king’s landing, they don’t need ANOTHER of these guys hanging around wanting a dragon. and i DO wonder if he’s MORE miserable here - we don’t get a sense of his relationships with Rhaenys, Aemon, Baelon, or Alysanne but I can’t imagine they are any more sympathetic to his hatred of his marriage than Viserys was PLUS Aemon is still alive and therefor still riding Caraxes, so I think it’s not unlikely Daemon hasn’t claimed a dragon because there’s just not one to claim.

Gael, imo, wouldn’t be married off until after Alysanne dies, since Alysanne did not seem like she was in a hurry to do it. I can’t see Rhaenys pushing the point, and I do wonder if Aemon just puts it off bc like, it wasn’t an issue he wanted to push on Alysanne, and after that it’s just instinctual to go “yeah that’s Gael she’s always in the corner talking dragons with Laena, sisters, what can ya do” until there’s like, a good political reason to marry her off. My reasoning here btw is a) he seems to be a bit hands off when it comes to Jocelyn and Rhaenys and b) i think gael being Laena, Laenor, & Rhaenyra’s weird maiden aunt to be really funny, personally.

DRAGONS

So. It’s the year 102 AC. Aemon has been king for a decade, with a clear heir for eight years, though his mother, Alysanne, died a few years ago and his beloved brother Baelon died suddenly a year ago. He is still riding Caraxes! Living dragons that are riderless include Dreamfyre, Vhagar, Vermithor, Silverwing, potentially Seasmoke. Rhaenys has Meleys, Balerion just died. Kind of a dearth of dragon riders right now.

Again, this means either Daemon had to claim a different one - but WHICH ONE, I mean, Balerion, assuming Viserys still claims him just cuz, like, why would you give a dying dragon to your crown prince, but if the man who will eventually be the father of your grandson’s wife wants him, that might be a cool thing to brag about? and I do NAWT thing Aemon is letting Daemon get near Vhagar & I can’t see Daemon and Dreamfyre liking each other lmao - or Daemon still doesn’t have a dragon. Caraxes/Daemon aside, if you’re king, how do you plan this all out? I imagine Jaehaerys OR Alysanne had some sort of discussion with Aemon about controlling who gets to claim dragons?

Anyways, Laenor, growing up crown prince, is likely given a dragon egg in the cradle. There’s not a lot of young dragons to claim, I think Aemon would feel safe hatching another one for his heir. I don’t think it’s likely Rhaenyra has Syrax though - Viserys would need to ask Aemon for permission, and neither Aemon, nor Baelon nor Alyssa nor Rhaenys had cradle eggs. That said, I think he’d allow Rhaenyra to claim a dragon for her wedding to Laenor. The question is which one because as we know, Rhaenyra is a Visenya fangirl but-

ENTER LAENA VELARYON. All we know for sure from f&b is that Laena had claimed Vhagar by 105 AC and that Laenor claimed Seasmoke when they were both young. In the show - and tbc, idk if this was a thing George wanted in there, or just something they threw in - that Laena (and Aemond) heard Vhagar’s call and followed it to claim Vhagar, who was living wild still. So the question becomes….yeah sure it’s possible that Rhaenyra would want to claim Vhagar but does Laena hear the call and chase Vhagar anyway? Does Laenor’s cradle egg perhaps not hatch, and Laenor hears Seasmoke and claims him? IDK, it’s kinda weird but interesting.

If we’re going with what EYE think is most fun here - I like the idea that Laena hears Vhagar and claims her and I think Aemon would be delighted by his oldest grandchild being gutsy enough to seek out Vhagar. I think Aemon might hope for Rhaenyra to claim Silverwing, but tbh I keep picturing Gael, Laena, and Rhaenyra going dragon hunting after not totally jiving with Dreamfyre, and Laena nags Vhaegar and Gael nabs Silverwing mostly by accident, so Rhaenyra claims Vermithor. But that’s just like, me loving my girls aksjd. Rhaenyra could go for Dreamfyre tbh, and maybe even Syrax hatches because Aemon gives Rhaenyra permission to choose an egg. Idk. There’s a lot of ways to handle this, and I would think Aemon is very aware of how many dragons he’s letting get claimed & hatched, more so than Viserys was, because Aemon was trained to rule for far longer, and by a father who wasn’t already aging and forgetting shit.

But what is Daemon doing……..I kinda want HIM to claim Seasmoke, like, just angry and following the call of some wild dragon that’s been traveling up and down the coast of Westeros, and claiming a dragon historically claimed by two (2) gay men. Lol, lmao. And similar with Laenor/Laena in canon, Aemon can’t like, say no once Daemon has claimed him - he just needs to keep an eye on the wild dragons and people getting too near them. Which is also why I lean towards “the girls go dragon hunting with Rhaenys” because Aemon wants the dragons claimed if they don’t want to nest in the dragon pit.

WEIRD DYNAMICS

Laenor, growing up crown prince, may feel much more confident in himself, more sure of his role at court. Rhaenyra still grows up at court, but potentially with the influence of her mother, Aemma, and her cousin and future good mother Rhaenys as mentors, AND Gael - even discounting my theory there, Alysanne hasn’t been traveling back and forth between Dragonstone and the capital so Gael is slightly more active and at court. Personally, I like the idea of her and Laena both sneaking off one night, tired of waiting for Laena’s marriage where she can claim a dragon, and just claiming Vhagar and Silverwing for funsies.

I do think on the whole, the Laenor and Rhaenyra probably have both a better dynamic, and a healthier outlook on life because there’s not such a hubbub about the succession, their private lives, or their own status. It’s also possible that Daemon & Rhaenyra have been so cut off from each other for so long, Rhaenyra never develops a real attachment to him, and with some better mentors around her and like, someone who actually cares about her well-being around, Rhaenyra has a more socially acceptable outlet for her brothel escapades lmao. On the other hand, of course, it’s possible that being so secure in her position for so long makes Rhaenyra feel she can get away with being a little wild, and Aemon/Rhaenys have her and Laenor married quickly and packed off to Dragonstone to go grow up.

I do think the court is probably like, more or less pretty chill until Rhaenyra & Laenor & Laena get old enough to start like, fucking around. You would think with some stability theyd all be slightly more serious the way Rhaenys is, but like, you can’t be truly sure lol. And that’s not even factoring in Daemon feeling abandoned in the Vale.

#asks #anons #again the problem is aemon is such an unknown. #canon divergent au

[alicenttully]

A Good and Obedient Daughter

Alicent’s babe first quickens one night, and the king dies the next.

Candlelight bathes the men summoned to the small council chambers. Princess Rhaenyra would often serve these men as her father’s cupbearer. Not far from here, the girl lies asleep, unaware that the generous father who has doted on her will never wake again.

 

Unaware she might yet be a queen.

 

Might.

 

Viserys named Rhaenyra Princess of Dragonstone only because his first wife had borne no sons.  There was the possibility of his younger brother, but Alicent shared the same mind as her father concerning that notion.

 

Alicent sits in the chair that was once Viserys’, and her father, Ser Otto Hightower stands beside her.  She is grateful to have him in Kingslanding, for she is a good and obedient daughter, and such daughters are rightfully glad to have the counsel and support of a father who loves them well.

 

But she needs more than just her father to stand beside her, not when she faces a red dragon.  Alicent’s hand brushes against her stomach.   She needs these other men as well.  She needs the realm.

 

“The gods were cruel to take His Grace while he was so young,” Father says.   Young, Alicent thinks.  Not the young she was when she wed him before the sights of gods and men.

 

“But he has left us a gift.”  Father continues, in the silence.

 

Lyonel Strong and Tyland Lannister exchange looks, but it is Lyman Beesbury who voices the question.  “And what gift is that my lord?”

 

Alicent answers for her father.   She raises her chin.  “The gift of his son in my womb.”

 

Of those in the room, only Grand Maester Runciter and Father already know of her pregnancy.  

 

“You delight us with such tidings, Your Grace.”  For a large man, Lyonel’s voice is soft.   His face cannot hide his surprise at her announcement, although there really should be nothing surprising about it.  Viserys and Alicent had made Alyssa on their wedding night, and if a woman is healthy like she is, another child will quickly follow.   Two years is a good gap between children, she thinks. 

 

Tyland Lannister smiles in agreement.  He has a nice smile, Alicent finds, even at this time.   Her husband’s body is barely cold, and she is already noticing the smiles of other men as she is a giggling maiden newly brought to court.  It is unseemly.

 

While Tyland Lannister smiles, the Master of Coin does not.

 

“You may have another daughter, my queen.”  That is true enough, Alicent cannot deny it.  Of course, she had prayed for a son as she had grown great with child, but she would not trade Alyssa for said boy.    Alyssa who declares war on her porridge and exhausts her wetnurse and once pulled her older half-sister’s hair so hard that Rhaenyra forgot Alyssa was not yet two and hit her.

 

“I may.”  She inclines her head.  “But I could just as easily have a son.”  She smiles.  “I knew Alyssa was going to be a girl.”   That is a lie.   “A woman knows these things.”

 

“Indeed.  My dear lady mother knew she was going to have twins before the maester himself!”  Tyland beams.

 

Grand Maester Runciter nods.  “If Her Grace is correct about carrying a son, we must do everything to ensure a successful pregnancy and birth.”  The old man’s words irk Alicent as the image of curly-haired Alyssa flashes in her mind, but she pushes it aside. 

 

“What… you mean to make a king of this boy?”  Lyman splutters.   He finally caught on.  “To crown him?”

 

“Perhaps not the actual act itself.”  Tyland smirks.  “It’s not recommended for babes to go near sharp things, I would think.  They’re quite fragile.”

 

“Indeed they are!” Lyman counters.  “We would also be entering a 16-year regency, lest we forget my lords.”    There is a pause, as he allows them to digest his words.  “On the other hand, Princess Rhaenyra is only four years from her majority. At sixteen, she can rule in her name.”

“She will have to wait until she is eight and ten, Lord Beesbury,” Father tells him.   Or reminds him.  Alicent has Father to thank for that condition.    He managed to convince Viserys that Rhaenyra would be better off waiting until she was past sixteen to rule, should he die while she was still a child.   The realm will already have a hard time accepting her, for her sex.  They might rest easier if she is allowed more time to grow, to mature.

 

“Yes, it was my lord husband’s wish.”  In the end, Viserys acted like it had been his notion all along.  Rhaenyra had not been happy when she heard, but despite her pleadings, the king would not change his mind.  Alicent dried the girl’s tears and told her not to fret, for her father would most likely live a long time anyway to make no matter.

 

For the first time since she had met the little girl, Rhaenyra looked at her with eyes full of hate.

 

“It was also the King’s wish that his eldest inherit,” Lyman insists.

 

“His eldest, or only child?”  Lord Strong asks.

 

“Indeed.  When His Grace suffered the sudden loss of Queen Aemma, in his wisdom he saw the need to name an heir should another tragedy soon arrive at the Red Keep.”    Father cleared his throat.  “The Princess Rhaenyra was trueborn, and then the only surviving child of King Viserys.   But if his queen begets a son,  there is no question about the succession.”

“But His Grace…..”  Lyman will not let it go.

 

“What do you think the purpose of our marriage was, my good lord?” Alicent asks sharply.  “Why did he remarry so quickly, if he was content to leave Princess Rhaenyra as his sole heir?”

 

Lyman Beesbury looks hard at her.  “Perhaps His Grace was thinking of other things.”  Runciter gasps, and disgust shadows both Tyland and Lyonel’s faces at such insolence.  

 

"How dare you insult my husband with such vile insinuations?"  Alicent hisses.  "How dare you insult me? "

 

"I would gladly cut out his tongue for that, my sweet queen."  Tyland's fingers lovingly brush the dagger at his belt.  

 

"Yes.  You forget yourself, Beesbury."  Lyonel admonishes him. 

 

"And you forget that we all swore oaths to Rhaenyra Targaryen!"  Lyman shouts.  "She is the true heir to the Iron Throne."   He points a finger at Alicent.  "She-"

 

"She is carrying the true heir to the throne, if the gods favor such an outcome," the Lord of Harrenhall sharply interrupts.  

 

Alicent nods.  "You have made your feelings quite clear, Lord Beesebury."   She waves a hand, and Ser Harrold Westerling steps forward.  "I will not abide such traitors in our presence.  Escort the master of coin to the black cells."   Beesbury pales, and Alicent's stomach churns.   She does not relish this, but it is a necessity. 

 

 

When they are gone, Alicent turns to the remaining men.  "Now.  Until- if- His Grace's son is born, Princess Rhaenyra must be kept safe."  Of course, Alicent will continue to ensure her protection afterward.   Not for Viserys' sake.   But for Rhaenyra's.  She is only a little girl, and now she is an orphan.   The crown is a cruel burden,  Viserys had told Alicent once.  

 

Yes, it is a burden.  Rhaenyra Targaryen has only been Princess of Dragonstone for four years.   She was not born expecting to rule the seven kingdoms.   She might understand death, but does she understand duty?  That is not enough time. But her brother, Alicent's son... There are drawbacks to such a long regency, of course.   There always are.  But they can use that time to their advantage.  To shape, to guide, to prepare. 

 

"Yes. The girl is queen for the meantime."   Runciter rubs his chin.  "Do we crown Princess Rhaenyra, or...."  He trails off.

 

"Such a thing would be unwise," Father replies.  "It would only legitimize her in the eyes of those fool enough to push for her claim, like our dear Beesbury."

 

"In any case, King Viserys did not celebrate his coronation for at least six months after he was crowned.   These things take time, money."

 

 Alicent smiles.  "If I am blessed with another sweet girl, then we shall have a splendid event to look forward to."    She sniffs.  "However, my biggest concern is not the cost of a coronation.  It is the cost of what Prince Daemon might do this realm, should he try to steal what does not belong to him."

 

"The Velayron's are another danger,"   Lyonel states.

 

"A dangerous enemy, or a powerful friend. " Alicent tilts her head.  "How old is Princess Rhaenys's twins, again?"

 

"Lianna and Lucerys are two."   

 

Alicent frowns, as though she needs time to think.  "A betrothal, if it comes to it."  A princess for a good-daughter or a queen for a daughter.   She will not let them have both.   A part of her hopes it will not fall on Alyssa.  

 

They continue to plan into the night, while Alicent receives updates on the princess, who continues to sleep peacefully.

 

Alicent thinks of the girl's father, her dead husband.  

 

Perhaps Beesbury was right. 

 

Well. 

 

Good and obedient daughters don't always make such wives.

#alicent hightower #pro alicent hightower #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #team green

[mutable-manifestation]

The Ghost King (of Miscommunication) Ch. 19

Part 1-12,Part 13,Part 14,Part 15, Part 16, Part 17, Part 18

Part 19!

***

If you ignored the skeleton-people (Jason sure was) and the floating furniture, the castle almost reminded Jason of Wayne Manor. In a vague sort of way. Lots of rooms, lots of hallways, a garden, a library, a giant dining room, etc.

It is much bigger than the manor, though. The building itself turns out to be thirteen stories tall, same as the library.

It needs it.

“It was already big when it was just the last king’s castle, but then there were three and eventually eight - now nine - permanent residents - not to mention the frequent guests and the standard visitors - which has grown it to what it is today,” Danny tells him, filling the silence as they fly.

Their first destination is the garden biome.

Rather than carved from the garden, the stone path he’d seen floats in the air just above the low-growing plants beneath, keeping stomping feet from causing damage while also providing shade.

The seating areas aren't floating. Instead, the picnic area and the benches here and there are all formed from still-growing trees, apparently shaped over their lives to serve their purpose while remaining healthy and alive.

The picnic table itself appears to be made from a single tree which rises from the ground and curls left to form a table and benches before reuniting in a single trunk to curl up and over as an awning to the whole thing.

“This area is Sam’s” Danny continues, drifting slower to admire a trio of what appeared to be potted bouquets. “My wife-”

“Wife? Aren’t you, what, 15?” Jason risked interrupting - for all the needle-threats and implied expectation of obedience (and the underlying sense of strength that radiated at all times, a memory of the title ‘Great One’ echoing always in the back of his mind) Danny had been… nice.

He hadn’t been bothered by Jason dunking him in snow, hadn’t gotten angry when he’d hesitated at the edge of the Far Frozen or held them up to stare at the island’s sky. He figured small talk was safe enough.

Danny merely snorted, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m actually 114. Appearances here don’t mean a lot since the only ones that age are neverborns and naturalborns. And shapeshifters, I suppose.”

‘Chalk another one up for the fae theory’ Jason thinks, remembering tales of humans spirited away to unending parties and returning to find hundreds of years had passed without them.

Aloud, he asks, “...Neverborns?”

“Kind of what it says on the tin, really. Neverborns are never born, instead rising into existence from the ambient ectoplasm of the zone. They can vary immensely, though - from a tiny little blob with eyes to the concept of time given form.”

“Let me guess: a small green clock?” Jason jokes in lieu of the dozen new questions he wants to ask.

He’s glad Danny is so forthcoming with answers, and now he knows can ask more later, better not to distract the guy and risk missing something important on the tour - or hitting up against an unknown time constraint because he delays them too much.

Danny snorts a laugh, grin nearly cheek-splitting. “Not wholly incorrect. Anyway, you’ll get to meet Sam tonight at dinner, since she managed to finish up that recovery project a day early.”

“Recovery?” Jason asks - though he’s pretty sure he can guess. Being prompted to talk about oneself endears the target to the askee - that’s being a Wayne 101. More endearment equals more trust, which will make his eventual escape easier to manage. Yay for false senses of security.

(Just like the one Jason has been struggling with)

“Yeah! She does plant cataloging, conservation, and restoration. She also started dabbling in medicines a decade ago in conjunction with Jazz and Frostbite. She’s gotten really far with it considering everything else on her plate!”

Danny’s smile stays proud and content as he leads them inside to weave through the layers of the tree-tower. Jason can’t help relaxing the more they talk, the more answers he is freely given.

(He has to relax less, stop letting himself slip into trusting Danny. Danny shouldn’t feel like safety.)

(A part of him misses the Pit - it never would have let him fall prey to this kind of self-sabotaging emotional positivity - but isn’t that it’s own kind of Stockholm Syndrome?)

Despite the lush paradise just outside, the castle itself contains even more plantlife.

The tower is reminiscent of the library in that he can’t see the actual walls beyond the plants that cover them, a sheet of green - and other intense colors he wouldn’t normally associate with plants - cascading from ceiling to floor. The entire first floor is practically overflowing with the amount and variety, enough to put the garden outside to shame. The next seven levels are more of the same.

Then they come to what looks like labs - where Danny tells him medicine and ‘the opposite of medicine’ is dabbled in.

Wulf beelines straight through the ceiling to minimize his time in that room, and Danny doesn’t let him linger, suggesting that this one is better to avoid or “at least don’t touch anything.”

Danny practically races through the next two rooms - a large study and a conference room - grumbling out a simple ‘paperwork.’

Jason leaves it at that. He ran a gang; he gets the idea.

“And this is the sitting room!” Danny stops in the next room, arms spread to gesture at everything as he floats in the center.

It’s smaller than the lower floors, perhaps half the size, and is positively littered with beanbags, hammocks, armchairs, and one cushion-filled pit in the floor.

Instead of the plants from the lower floors or the ink-black bark of the labs, the walls here appear to be made of glass, glowing the same soft lavender as the leaves that can be seen curling around the room from all sides - save for a ladder in one corner of the room that disappears into the ceiling.

“The ones in the towers are private, though - just for friends, family, etc,” he explains. “The castle ‘s pretty empty now, but it can get really busy. If you need a place to escape to, you're welcome in any of them.”

Jason just nods.

It had already been clear that Danny was socially important, what with all the ‘Great One’s and the ‘meetings’ and the ‘my home is a literal castle.’

The three towers would be key locations; he and his spouse could be combatants in charge of this wing - or all three, given the implication of ‘any of them.’

Though nothing about the tree tower really screamed ‘military defense location.'

‘Some kind of royal relative?, Jason ponders, ‘Maybe a prince?

Maybe.

He’ll ask later.

Danny offers his hand again and phases them straight across the empty space between towers and into the private sitting room in the pyramid.

It’s a near mirror of the other one, save for the artificial scenery of a day on the beach projected over every surface - illusory water just barely reaching the cushion-pit before retreating back to the far wall.

“This is Tucker’s area - my husband. You’ll also meet him at dinner tonight. He’s already here, but he’s locked away in pyramid-lab 1 - the closest one of the three outside - updating his PDA.”

Jason nods as he scans the ceiling - the roof is flat instead of pointy, and once again the only break is a ladder into the ceiling.

“What’s up there?”

“Hm? Oh, the top floor of each tower is a bedroom.”

The rest of the pyramid-tower’s floors are similarly thematic, 16 levels full of tech that Jason couldn’t place and Tim would likely be salivating over - 18 depending on how the illusion projector worked and if the bedroom had something similar.

Unlike the garden, they skip visiting the pyramids outside - apparently two of them are mostly for paperwork and meetings, and pyramid 1 is closed up for now ‘for the obvious reason.’

‘It’s not obvious. Literally what part of a system update requires complete isolation???’

The next part of the tour brings them to an entire separate building inside of an empty room the size of the library.

“This is my parents’ area - they’re off on a hunt with Skulker right now, so it’ll be a few days before they’re back.”

It was a normal building, aside from the fact that it was inside of a castle and had a metal monstrosity on top of it with “SPECTER” written in bright green letters.

As it happened, the rooftop monstrosity could turn into a blimp. Or a jet.

The first and second floors were almost jarringly normal - bedrooms and closets set atop an open kitchen-dining-den setup that looked like something out of a Metropolis apartment advert.

Then it was rooms of giant open space - a shooting range, a training room, a training room with a simulator.

And then labs reminiscent of the ones in the tech-tower. Except instead of tasteful, high-tech builds there were labfuls of half-built devices that looked like a sci-fi novel threw up (so like the ones in the dining area and on his wrist).

The top three floors were armories full of similar devices, of which the top one was off-limits for being too dangerous. A few of the things in the second armory looked a bit sleeker, however.

One thing looked familiar.

“Is that a 9mm?”

It had the same hideous silver paint-job as the sci-fi weapons, but the only green was around the muzzle and trigger - no ‘Specter’ splashed across the side.

Danny’s eyes lit up alongside a shit-eating grin the moment they hit the weapon, and he practically teleported to it.

“Oh man,” he enthused as he uncaringly removed the weapon from its place on the wall, “I completely forgot about this thing; this is the Foley Bazooka.”

“Bazooka!?”

“I know right! Tucker figured out how to miniaturize the tech - my parents design, the big gun from Armory 1 - into a fold-out system. He and Sam used to mainly use lipstick blasters and wrist rays, and as you can see my parents' tech tends to be ‘bigger = stronger,’ which set some expectations…the look on Walker’s face when it folded open to blast him…”

Danny visibly tried and quickly failed to stifle his laughter, doubling over cackling while Jason took in the whole ‘blasting people in the face with Bazookas’ thing.

Thankfully for Jason’s Gothamite sensibilities, Danny’s laughter didn’t last too long.

And then.

“Wanna test it out?”

“...test it out?” Jason hastily shoved down the paranoid thought that Danny might be about to shoot him in the face.

(Not that it took much shoving when he felt so utterly safe.)

‘He wouldn’t keep me this long just to kill me now, he probably just meant the shooting range.'

“Yeah! Jazz said you seemed pretty enthusiastic about the Wrist Ray, so I thought you might want to try this out down at the range. It’s an older model, but it’s small enough to carry without needing some kind of sling-suit. Plus I figured you might like a higher-power option on hand - assuming you decide to keep it.��

Then, despite his better judgment, Jason asked: “...aren’t you worried I might shoot Wulf or something?”

‘Or you.’

“Of course not! Jazz already told me you have great aim,” he said, completely missing the point. “Unless, of course, you want to?”

His friendly expression didn’t change beyond a slight head tilt. Wulf merely snorted and bared his teeth in what might’ve been a smile.

“N-no!” Jason hastened to deny, “No, of course not, it’s just, y’know, a bazooka.”

Danny merely placed the gun back on its platform and floated forward to lightly grasp Jason’s shoulder and look him in the eye, expression softening in complete disregard for what his response really should have been.

“Jason, I know it might be a bit of an adjustment given how humans abhor violence - especially given the…brand of it... Gotham tends towards - but here? Fighting is just. Socializing. Not that there aren’t still serious fights, but the difference is almost always obvious given the whole ‘tendency towards unrestrained emotions and monologuing’ thing.

The risk of anyone getting seriously injured in a social fight is incredibly close to zero. It’s normal to want to fight; it’s like the human equivalent of saying ‘hello nice to meet you let’s get to know each other better’ combined with sibling roughhousing. Even most of the fights that do contain genuine animosity or disagreement would mostly just be the equivalent of a heated debate in the human realm. It’s okay if you’re feeling fighty - a good sign, even!”

Wulf nods along as if that makes perfect sense.

Jason uses the silence that ensues to try to think of a way to say ‘Actually no I just want to know why you would let me have something I could use as leverage to threaten you into letting me go home, which is a thing that I want to do because I like not being kidnapped’ without making it obvious that he’s a flight risk.

Before he can, Danny’s understanding and patient expression turns into an unholy grin. Jason has all of 2 seconds to process it before the hand on his shoulder disappears in favor of a tackle-grab.

He doesn’t know how fast the guy can go, but he barely has time to blink before he’s being dropped into a snow pile.

When he sits up, he is promptly greeted by a snowball to the face.

So marks the beginning of Snowball Fight 2: Battle Royale.

Danny’s second move is to wave a snow mound into existence for protection.

Wulf is opportunistic, siding with Danny initially, only to switch sides when Jason manages to lure them into the trees - where he can make use of their surroundings as protection in lieu of being able to make snow appear on a whim like a cheating cheater who cheats - and beans Danny in the face - vengeance enacted and vision obscured.

Eventually Danny and Jason end up teaming up against Wulf, which is when a new player arrives.

Jason can’t see her right away, given that their opening move is to empty a tree’s worth of snow onto their heads.

And when Danny frees them they both immediately get snowballs to the face - it’s becoming a bit of a pattern for Jason.

“Woo! Weeb Team versus Newb Team let’s gooo!”

The girl looks like she could be Danny’s fraternal twin if not for the fact that she was clearly a year or two younger.

Then again Danny was over a hundred years old, so what does Jason know?

“Newb!? I’m literally older than you!” Danny shouts, floating a little higher in offense.

“Then fight like it, old man!”

The girl fades from sight just in time for Danny to get knocked forward by a snowball to the back of the head.

Jason barely manages to dodge Wulf’s snowball, distracted as he was from the surprise attack.

With that, Snowball Fight 2 descends into a team battle.

***

@kyrianclawraith, @do3y, @someonebored0100 @omegasmileyface

#dp x dc #Danny Phantom #Jason Todd #Red Hood #Wulf #Danielle Phantom

[drbased]

Slavery - From Against Our Will: Men, Women and Rape by Susan Brownmiller

[tw for rape, violent dehumanisation, anti-black racism, misogynoir]

The American experience of the slave South, which spanned two centuries, is a perfect study of rape in all its complexities, for the black woman's sexual integrity was deliberately crushed in order that slavery might profitably endure.

In contrast to rape during the Indian wars, which was largely casual and retaliatory—men getting even with men through the convenient vehicle of a woman's body—rape under the Patriarchal Institution, as it was named by the patriarchs, was built into the system. The white man wanted the Indian's land, but the coin he extracted from blacks was forced labor. This difference in purpose affected the white man's relations with, and use of, the black woman. Rape in slavery was more than a chance tool of violence. It was an institutional crime, part and parcel of the white man's subjugation of a people for economic and psychological gain.

The Patriarchal Institution took the form of white over black but it also took the form of male over female, or more specifically, of white male over black female. Unlike the Indian woman who was peripheral to the conquest of land, the black woman was critical to slavery. She was forced into dual exploitation as both laborer and reproducer. Her body, in all of its parts, belonged outright to her white master. She had no legal right of refusal, and if the mere recognition of her physical bondage was not enough, the knife, the whip and the gun were always there to be used against her. Forced sexual exploitation of the black woman under slavery was no offhand enterprise. Total control over her reproductive system meant a steady supply of slave babies, and slave children, when they reached the age of six or eight, were put to work; it did not matter whether they were full-blooded or mulatto.

An important psychologic advantage, which should not be underestimated, went hand in glove with the economic. Easy access to numerous, submissive female bodies—and individual resistance was doomed—afforded swaggering proof of masculinity to slaveholding males, while it conversely reduced and twisted the black man's concept of his role.

"Sexually as well as in every other way, Negroes were utterly subordinated," writes historian Winthrop D. Jordan of the slave South. "White men extended their dominion over the Negroes to the bed, where the sex act itself served as a ritualistic re-enactment of the daily pattern of social dominance." Jordan's words are too temperate. "Bed" is as much a euphemism as not, and "ritualistic re-enactment" implies a stately minuet of manners—a vastly in-adequate description of the brutal white takeover and occupation of the black woman's body.

"Lawdy, lawdy, them was tribbolashuns!" an eighty-seven-year- old ex-slave by the name of Martha Jackson told a recorder for the Federal Works Project in Alabama (who wrote down her words in an approximation of her dialect). "Wunner dese here womans was my Antie en she say dad she skacely call to min' he e'r whoppin' her, 'case she was er breeder woman en' brought in chillum ev'y twelve mont's jes lak a cow bringin' in a calf."

Martha Jackson's choice of imagery was grounded in the realities of slavery. Female slaves were expected to "breed"; some were retained expressly for that purpose. In the lexicon of slavery, "breeder woman," "childbearing woman," "too old to breed" and "not a breeding woman" were common descriptive terms. In-country breeding was crucial to the planter economy after the African slave trade was banned in 1807, and the slave woman's value increased in accordance with her ability to produce healthy offspring. Domestic production of slave babies for sale to other slave states became a small industry in the fertile upper South. In

fact, it was observed to be the only reliably profitable slave-related enterprise. Quite an opposite state of affairs had existed in the North before abolition, where slavery had never been profitable. In colonial Massachusetts, one observer has written, slave babies when weaned "were given away like puppies." But the state of Virginia annually exported between six thousand and twenty-thousand homegrown slaves to the deeper South, where the land, the climate and a harsher work load took precedence over fecundity. The Virginia-reared slave, like Virginia leaf tobacco, was always in great demand.

A member of the Virginia legislature used revealing language when he addressed that patrician body in 1831:

It has always (perhaps erroneously) been considered by steady and old-fashioned people, that the owner of land had a reasonable right to its annual profits; the owner of orchards, to their annual fruits; the owner of brood-mares, to their product; and the owner of female slaves to their increase . . . and I do not hesitate to say, that in its increase consists much of our wealth.

The fellow from Virginia, Mr. Gholson, was attempting to make the point that a slaveholder would not mistreat a female slave as he would not mistreat his broodmare, since the "increase" of each needed a period of nurture in order to show a profit. In return for the production of slave babies, the female knowingly bartered for more food and a reduced work load in the weeks before and after birth. But despite Mr. Gholson's protestations, a lightened work load was not an automatic quid pro quo.

Nehemiah Caulkins, a white carpenter who worked for a time on a North Carolina rice plantation, presented this picture of breeder women in an antislavery pamphlet of 1839:

One day the owner ordered the women into the barn, he then went in among them, whip in hand, and told them he meant to flog them all to death; they immediately began to cry out, "What have I done Massa? What have I done Massa?" He replied, "D—n you, I will let you know what you have done, you don't breed, I haven't had a young one from one of you for several months." They told him they could not breed while they had to work in the rice ditches. (The rice grounds are low and marshy, and have to be drained, and while digging or clearing the ditches, the women had to work in mud and water from one to two feet in depth; they were obliged to draw up and secure their frocks about their waist, to keep them out of water, in this manner they frequently had to work from daylight in the morning till it was so dark they could see no longer.) After swearing and threatening for some time, he told them to tell the overseer's wife, when they got in that way, and he would put them upon the land to work.

The Georgia journal of Fanny Kemble, whose husband owned a pair of cotton and rice plantations, records this entry:

The women who visited me yesterday evening were all in the family way, and came to entreat of me to have the sentence (what else can I call it?) modified which condemns them to assume their labor of hoeing in the field three weeks after their confinement. They knew, of course, that I cannot interfere with their appointed labor, and therefore their sole entreaty was that I would use my influence with Mr. [Butler, her husband] to obtain for them a month's respite from labor in the field after childbearing.

Fanny Kemble was unsuccessful in her intercessionary mission. Breeder women were sometimes blatantly advertised as such, for if they were "proven," they could command a higher price. The following advertisement from the Charleston, South Carolina,

Mercury became an abolitionist classic:

NEGROES FOR SALE—A Girl about twenty years of age (raised in Virginia) and her two female children, one four and the other two years old—is remarkably strong and healthy—never having had a day's sickness, with the exception of the small pox, in her life. The children are fine and healthy. She is very prolific in her generating qualities, and affords a rare opportunity to any person who wishes to raise a family of strong and healthy servants for their own use. Any person wishing to purchase will please leave their address at the Mercury office.

It mattered little to the slaveholder who did the actual impregnating, since the "increase" belonged to him by law. Paternity was seldom entered in the slaveholder's record book, and when it did appear, it was strictly for purposes of identification. The female was often arbitrarily assigned a sexual partner or "husband" and ordered to mate. Her own preferences in this most intimate of matters may or may not have been taken into account, depending on the paternalistic inclinations of her master. "I wish the three girls you purchest had been all grown," an overseer wrote to an absent master. "They wold then bin a wife a pese for Harise & King & Nathan. Harris has Jane for a wife and Nathan has Edy. But King & Nathan had sum difuculty hoo wold have Edy. I promist King that I wold in dever to git you to bey a nother woman sow he might have a wife at home."

Sexual activity for the male slave after the day's work was done was considered by the slave and master to be in the nature of a reward, but it is difficult to make such a generalization for the female. The accepted modern authority on slavery, Kenneth M. Stampp, writes, "Having to submit to the superior power of their masters, many slaves were extremely aggressive toward each other." It is consistent with the nature of oppression that within an oppressed group, men abuse women. "We don't care what they do when their tasks are over—we lose sight of them till next day," one planter wrote. "Their morals and manners are in their own keeping. The men may have, for instance, as many wives as they please, so long as they do not quarrel about such matters."

Another slave owner kept marital law and order in the following fashion, as recorded in his diary: "Flogged Joe Goodwyn and ordered him to go back to his wife. Dito Gabriel and Molly and ordered them to come together again. Separate Moses and Anny finally. And flogged Tom Kollock [for] interfering with Maggy Cambell, Sullivan's wife." The narrative of Charles Ball, Fifty Years in Chains, tells of a slave woman who was forced to live with a fellow slave whom she thoroughly detested and feared—and who never stopped reminding her that in Africa he had ten wives! That warm, sustained relationships did develop between male and female slaves in bondage is a most profound testament to what can only be called humanity, which everything in slave life conspired to destroy.

Field laborer, house servant and breeder woman were the principal economic roles of the female slave, but she was also used by her white owner for his own sexual-recreational pleasure, a hierarchical privilege that spilled over to his neighbors ("I believe it is the custom among the Patriarchs to make an interchange of civilities of this kind," wrote a correspondent in Missouri to a New York newspaper in 1859), and to his young sons eager for initiation into the mysteries of sex. The privilege, apparently, was also expected by visitors. "Will you believe it, I have not humped a single mulatto since I am here," an aide of Steuben's wrote to a friend in condemnation of the lack of hospitality at George Washington's Mount Vernon.

The sexual privilege also filtered down to lower-class white males in the planter's employ (overseers with the power of the whip and craft workers with access to the plantation) and to certain black male slaves ("drivers") who were also handed the whip and directed to play an enforcer role within the system. At the top of the hierarchy, setting the style, was the white master.

Nehemiah Caulkins testified:

This same planter had a female slave who was a member of the Methodist Church; for a slave she was intelligent and conscientious. He proposed a criminal intercourse with her. She would not comply. He left her and sent for the overseer, and told him to have her flogged. It was done. Not long after, he renewed his proposal. She again refused. She was again whipped. He then told her why she had been twice flogged, and told her he intended to whip her till she should yield. The girl, seeing that her case was hopeless, her back smarting with the scourging she had received and dreading a repetition, gave herself up to be the victim of his brutal lusts.

Solomon Northup, a shanghaied New York freedman who was forced to spend twelve years on a Louisiana plantation and later published his narrative of bondage, wrote a sympathetic description of a field slave, Patsey, who had to endure her master's "attentions."

Patsey was slim and straight. She stood erect as the human form is capable of standing. There was an air of loftiness in her movement that neither labor, nor weariness, nor punishment could destroy. Truly, Patsey was a splendid animal, and were it not that bondage had enshrouded her intellect in utter and everlasting darkness, would have been chief among ten thousand of her people. She could leap the highest fences, and a fleet hound it was indeed that could outstrip her in a race. No horse could fling her from his back. She was a skillful teamster. She turned as true a furrow as the best, and at splitting rails there was none who could excel her. . . . Such lightning-like motion was in her fingers as no other fingers ever possessed, and therefore it was that in cotton picking time, Patsey was queen of the field.

Yet Patsey wept oftener, and suffered more, than any of her companions. She had literally been excoriated. Her back bore the scars of a thousand stripes; not because she was of an unmindful and rebellious spirit, but because it had fallen to her lot to be the slave of a licentious master and a jealous mistress. She shrank before the lustful eye of one, and was in danger even of her life at the hands of the other, and between the two, she was indeed accursed. . . . but not like Joseph, dared she escape from Master Epps, leaving her garment in his hand. Patsey walked under a cloud. If she uttered a word in opposition to her master's will, the lash was resorted to at once, to bring her to subjection; if she was not watchful when about her cabin, or when walking in the yard, a billet of wood, or a broken bottle perhaps, hurled from her mistress's hand, would smite her unexpectedly in the face. The enslaved victim of lust and hate, Patsey had no comfort of her life.

Northup described one incident in the field when he and Patsey were hoeing side by side. Patsey suddenly exclaimed in a low voice, "D'ye see old Hog Jaw beckoning me to come to him?"

Glancing sideways, I discovered him in the edge of the field, motioning and grimacing, as was his habit when half-intoxicated. Aware of his lewd intentions, Patsey began to cry. I whispered her not to look up, and to continue her work as if she had not observed him. Suspecting the truth of the matter, however, he soon staggered up to me in a great rage.

"What did you say to Pats?" he demanded with an oath. I made him some evasive answer which only had the effect of increasing his violence.

"How long have you owned this plantation, say, you d—d n****r?"

Master Epps chased Northup across the field and then re- turned to Patsey. "He remained about the field an hour or more. . . . Finally Epps came toward the house, by this time nearly sober, walking demurely with his hands behind his back, and attempting to look as innocent as a child."

Patsey's story had a terrible ending. The jealous Epps became convinced that his slave had had relations with a white neighbor. He ordered her stripped, staked and beaten into listlessness. "In- deed, from that time forward she was not what she had been. . . . She no longer moved with that buoyant and elastic step—there was not that mirthful sparkle in her eyes that formerly distinguished her. The bounding vigor—the sprightly, laughter-loving spirit of her youth, was gone."

Narratives such as Northup's, published by the Northern abolitionist press in the nineteenth century, and oral histories of former slaves that the Federal Works Projects Administration collected in the nineteen thirties cast cold light on the life-style of slavery. W h e n the female ex-slave was asked to tell of her experiences, not surprisingly she did not dwell on sex. "Them was tribbolashuns," and a combination of propriety, modesty and acute shame on the part of narrator and recorder must have conspired to close the door on any specific revelations. (Male ex-slaves, because of a freer convention among men, were permitted to discuss the sexual abuse of females.)

But horror at the sexual abuse of enslaved black women was a recurring theme among white female abolitionists. The Grimké sisters of South Carolina and Margaret Douglass and Lydia Maria Child, among others, did not let it rest. They spoke and pamphleteered relentlessly (but alas, delicately—so dictated the times) out of a strong sense of identification with their black sisters in bondage. Margaret Douglass, a Southern white woman who was convicted and jailed in Virginia for teaching black children to read, wrote from prison in 1853:

The female slave, however fair she may have become by various comminglings of her progenitors, or whatever her mental and moral acquirements may be, knows that she is a slave, and, as such, powerless beneath the whims and fancies of her master. If he casts upon her a desiring eye, she knows that she must submit; and her only thought is, that the more gracefully she yields, the stronger and longer hold she may perchance retain upon the brutal appetite of her master. Still, she feels her degradation, and so do others with whom she is connected. She has parents, brothers, sisters, a lover, perhaps, who all suffer through her and with her.

The politically keen Mrs. Douglass, writing to a white audience, then added these lines:

White mothers and daughters of the South have suffered under this custom for years; they have seen their dearest affections trampled upon, their hopes of domestic happiness destroyed. I cannot use too strong language on this subject, for I know it will meet a heartfelt response from every Southern woman. They know the facts, and their hearts bleed under its knowledge, however they may have attempted to conceal their discoveries.*

(*Kenneth Stampp unfairly uses this portion of Mrs. Douglass' letter to buttress his contention that "Southern white women apparently believed that they suffered most from the effects of miscegenation.")

Mrs. Douglass' analysis went further:

Will not the natural impulses rebel against what becomes with them a matter of force? For the female slave knows that she must submit to the caprices of her master; that there is no way of escape. And when a man, black though he may be, knows that he may be compelled, at any moment, to hand over his wife, his sister, or his daughter, to the loathed embraces of the man whose chains he wears, how can it be expected he will submit without feelings of hatred and revenge taking possession of his heart?

The slave's revenge took many forms—although white retribution was swift and certain. A traveler through the South wrote in 1856:

A Negress was hung this year in Alabama, for the murder of her child. At her trial, she confessed her guilt. She said her owner was the father of the child, and that her mistress knew it, and treated her so cruelly in consequence, that she had killed it to save it from further suffering, and also to remove a provocation to her own ill-treatment.

A visitor to Mississippi in 1836 sent a letter to a Northern friend:

The day I arrived at this place there was a man by the name of G----- murdered by a Negro man that belonged to him. [The black man was publicly lynched.] G------ owned the Negro's wife and was in the habit of sleeping with her! The Negro said he had killed him and he believed he should be rewarded in heaven for it.

The narrative of Charles Ball tells of a mulatto slave woman, Lucy, who rebelled against her forced sexual servitude to her white owner and successfully plotted with her slave lover, Frank, to kill him. Charles Ball himself played a role in their apprehension and confession. Lucy and Frank "were tried before some gentlemen of the neighborhood, who held a court for that purpose," and were hanged at a public gallows. "It was estimated by my master," Ball records, "that there were at least fifteen thousand people present at this scene, more than half of whom were blacks; all the masters, for a great distance round the country, having permitted, or compelled their people to come to this hanging."

The case of Peggy and Patrick received considerable notoriety in New Kent County, Virginia, in 1830. This pair of slaves, who were lovers, were condemned to be hanged for murdering their master. Extenuating circumstances caused the local white citizens of New Kent to submit a petition to the governor asking that punishment for the pair be reduced to "transportation."

One black witness whose testimony was solicited declared that

the deceased to whom Peggy belonged had had a disagreement with Peggy, and generally kept her confined by keeping her chained to a block and locked up in his meat house; that he [the witness] believed the reason why the deceased had treated Peggy in this way was because Peggy would not consent to intercourse with him, and that he had heard the deceased say that if Peggy did not agree to his request in that way, he would beat her almost to death, that he would barely leave the life in her, and would send her to New Orleans. The witness said that Peggy said the reason she would not yield to his request was because the deceased was her father, and she could not do a thing of that sort with her father. The witness heard the deceased say to Peggy that if she did not consent, he would make him, the witness, and Patrick hold her, to enable him to effect his object.

Since it was the slaveholdirig class that created the language and wrote the laws pertaining to slavery, it is not surprising that legally the concept of raping a slave simply did not exist. One cannot rape one's own property. The rape of one man's slave by another white man was considered a mere "trespass" in the eyes of plantation law. The rape of one man's slave by another slave had no official recognition in law at all.*

(* Some evidence exists that masters attempted to police, in their own fashion, the more blatant abuses that male slaves committed against females. An 1828 advertisement in the Elkton, Maryland, Press for runaway "Negro George Anderson, about 21 or 22 years of age," declared informatively, "A few days before he absconded he attempted to commit a rape upon a young female of his own color, the punishment for which has caused his running off.")

Moral objections to the "liberties" that the slaveholder and his overseer took as a matter of course were voiced within the oddly angled framework of miscegenation, amalgamation, mixture of the races, licentiousness, degradation and lust. Typically for the power class, the slave's coerced participation in the act was turned on her. Her passive submission—the rule of survival in slavery—was styled as concubinage, prostitution or promiscuity when it was alluded to at all. Even the Northern abolitionists shied away from defining coercive sexual abuse under slavery as criminal rape, preferring to speak emotionally, but guardedly, of illicit passion and lust. Modern historians tend to operate under the same set of blinders.

The patriarchal institution of marriage dovetailed with the patriarchal institution of slavery to prevent perception, by even the most enlightened observers, of a concept of sexual rights and bodily integrity for the female slave. In the nineteenth century, a married woman was considered by law to be the property of her husband, and any abuse to her person was considered, by law, to be an abuse to his property. If the woman was not married, the abuse was to her father's property. But slaves were not permitted to marry legally, and criminal sexual abuse of a female slave (a rape) could not be considered by law an affront to her slave "husband" or slave father, who had no rights of their own. The examples we find in abolitionist literature that express concern over the sexual abuse of female slaves are frequently couched in terms of sympathy for the abused women's husbands! As a Maryland lawyer observed at the time, "Slaves are bound by our criminal laws generally, yet we do not consider them as the objects of such laws as relate to the commerce between the sexes. A slave has never maintained an action against the violator of his bed." Of his bed.

Statutory prohibitions against interracial sex, or more accurately, against the act of sex between slaveholder and slave, were on the books of all the slave states from the time they were colonies of the king. Even in South Carolina, where the slave-trading city of Charleston earned a dubious reputation as the libertine capital of North America (a reputation later claimed by New Orleans), and where "interracial liaisons were less carefully concealed than else- where on the continent/' a grand jury in 1743 took notice of "the too common practice of criminal conversation with Negro and other slave wenches in this province," and scored this conversation—or intercourse—as "an Enormity and Evil of general Ill-Consequence."

But it was "pollution of the white race" and not concern for the rights of slaves that lay behind such pronunciamentos. The laws against "admixture" that white men wrote were not applied to white men. They were applied by white men against white women —as several divorce suits and bastardy charges of the time showed—and they were applied with a special vengeance against those black men who entered into liaisons with white women. (The implications and consequences of this sex-race quadruple standard are still with us. See Chapter 7, "A Question of Race.")

A Louisiana Supreme Court decision of 1851 after some backing and filling proceeded to define concubinage as a "mutual" liaison, although one participant was a slaveholder and the other a female slave bound to him by law and force.

The slave is undoubtedly subject to the power of his master; but that means a lawful power, such as is consistent with good morals. The laws do not subject the female slave to an involuntary and illicit connexion with her master, but would protect her against that misfortune. It is true, that the female slave is peculiarly exposed . . . to the seductions of an unprincipled master. That is a misfortune; but it is so rare in the case of concubinage that the seduction and temptation are not mutual, that exceptions to the general rule cannot be founded upon it.

It is difficult to gain a clear understanding of concubinage as it was practiced in the slave South. I do not mean to argue the point that all sexual liaisons between white masters and black slaves fall within my extended definition of rape, although such an argument is tempting. For many black women, concubinage was the best bargain that could be struck, a more or less graceful accommodation given the hopeless condition of bondage; certainly for some it was as close to emancipation as possible, short of a run for freedom with Harriet Tubman. But first, last and always, concubinage was a male-imposed condition: a bargain struck on male values exclusively, resting on a foundation of total ownership and control. Accommodation in lieu of forcible seizure could bring a variety of amenities into one's life: relative status, pretty dresses, gold earrings, and the hope—always the hope—of manumission for one's self and children. This last must have been held out to the black concubine like a carrot on a stick. Several slaveholder wills survive in which freedom for a favored slave and her children is provided, along with bequests of money and real property. Sadly, but not surprisingly, the terms of these wills were often successfully challenged in the courts by the slaveholder's lawful heirs.

Sexual exploitation of black women by white men was understood as one of the evils of slavery by the abolitionist movement, even though abolitionists were unable to bring themselves to call it rape. Specific cases of concubinage and "amalgamation" reported by travelers through the South were incorporated, with appropriate moral outrage, into American Slavery As It Is: Testimony of a Thousand Witnesses, compiled and collated by the Grimké sisters and Theodore Weld, Angelina Grimké's husband, in 1839. The Grimké testimony, and that of Margaret Douglass, formed the backbone of an i860 antislavery pamphlet edited by Lydia Maria Child. The abolitionist women, in dealing with the sexual behavior of men, were treading on dangerous ground, bound by conventions that decreed that a man's private life was beyond the pale of political scrutiny. "We forbear to lift the veil of private life any higher," wrote Angelina Grimké, whose brother had sired mulatto slave children. "Let these few hints suffice to give you some idea of what is daily passing behind that curtain which has been so carefully drawn before the scenes of domestic life in slaveholding America."

The "few hints" of which Angelina Grimké wrote and spoke were scandalous enough for the times. "The character of the white ladies of the South, as well as the ladies of color, seems to have been discussed, and the editor of the Courier was of the opinion that the reputation of his paper, and the morals of its readers, might be injuriously affected by publishing the debate," a Northern newspaper reported after a Grimké speech—neatly turning the crime of men into a matter of the "character" of women, in the age-old tradition.

In the winter of 1838-1839, while Weld and the Grimkés were compiling their documentary record of slavery in New York, the English actress Fanny Kemble was in residence on a Georgia island plantation, recording her shocked observations in a journal that remained suppressed for twenty-five years. The celebrated and strong-minded Miss Kemble had inadvisedly married a young Philadelphian, Pierce Butler, who inherited a pair of cotton and rice plantations employing more than one thousand slaves. The marriage went badly, but it proved invaluable to history, for Fanny Kemble traveled with her husband to Georgia and wrote down what she saw in the form of letters to a friend.

As Fanny Kemble made the acquaintance of slaves on her husband's plantation, it dawned on her that the complexion of some of them was decidedly light, and for a very specific reason— the plantation's overseer, John King. She described the slave woman Betty:

Of this woman's life on the plantation I subsequently learned the following circumstances. She was the wife of head man Frank . . . the head driver—second in command to the overseer. His wife [Betty]—a tidy, trim intelligent woman with a pretty figure . . . was taken from him by the overseer . . . and she had a son by him whose straight features and diluted color . . . bear witness to his Yankee descent. I do not know how long Mr. King's occupation of Frank's wife continued, or how the latter endured the wrong done to him [italics mine]. This outrage upon this man's rights [italics mine] was perfectly notorious among all the slaves; and his hopeful offspring, Renty, alludfed] to his superior birth on one occasion.

Betty was not the only slave on the Butler plantation whom the white overseer, King, forced into sexual service, Fanny Kemble discovered.

Before reaching the house I was stopped by one of our multitudinous Jennies with a request for some meat, and that I would help her with some clothes for Ben and Daphne, of whom she had the sole charge; these are two extremely pretty and interesting looking mulatto children, whose resemblance to Mr. King had induced me to ask Mr. Butler, when I first saw them, if he did not think they must be his children. He said they were certainly like him, but Mr. King did not acknowledge the relationship. I asked Jenny who their mother was. "Minda." "Who their father?" "Mr. King." . . . "Who told you so?" "Minda, who ought to know." "Mr. King denies it." "That's because he never has looked upon them, nor done a thing for them." "Well, but he acknowledged Renty as his son, why should he deny these?" "Because old master was here then when Renty was born, and he made Betty tell all about it, and Mr. King had to own it; but nobody knows anything about this, and so he denies it."

The Butler plantation operated under absentee ownership for most of the year and the white overseer, King, was left in charge as a virtual dictator. The power of his station, and its sexual privi- leges, extended to those directly below him in the chain of command, the black drivers, who themselves were slaves. Owners, overseers, drivers, neighboring white men—all could force the black woman against her will, and she was held morally responsible for the injury done to her. Fanny Kemble herself started from this premise, but rejected it in time.

Quizzing more of her husband's slaves about the paternity of their offspring and hearing the names King and Walker (a white mill hand) and Morris (a black driver) repeated by many of them, she recorded:

Almost beyond my patience with this string of detestable details, I exclaimed—foolishly enough, heaven knows— "Ah! but don't you know—did nobody ever tell or teach any of you that it is a sin to live with men who are not your husbands?" Alas, Elizabeth, what could the poor creature answer but what she did, seizing me at the same time vehemently by the wrist: "Oh yes, missis, we know—we know all about dat well enough; but we do anything to get our poor flesh some rest from de whip; when he made me follow him into de bush, what use me tell him no? He have strength to make me." I have written down the woman's words; I wish I could write down the voice and look of abject misery with which they were spoken. Now you will observe that the story was not told to me as a complaint; it was a thing long past and over, of which she only spoke in the natural course of accounting for her children to me. I makeno comment; what need, or can I add, to such stories? But how is such a state of things to endure? and again, how is it to end?

Kemble privately circulated a handwritten copy of her journal among her friends and it quickly gained an underground reputation as the most explosive insider's antislavery testament. Lydia Maria Child urged her to publish portions of it, at least, as ammunition for the abolitionist cause but Pierce Butler flatly refused permission. As a slaveholder he thought the journal was unseemly, which it was. As a husband he could withhold consent, by law, to any publication of his wife's, which he did. The journal, Kemble's antislavery views, and her equally daring belief in equality in marriage, figured prominently in Butler's eventual suit for divorce. Butler won custody of their two children and the visitation-rights agreement stipulated that Kemble must do nothing to embarrass him. In 1863, earning her own living again on the English stage,

Fanny Kemble finally published her Georgia journal. By that time the War Between the States was well under way and Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel, based in part on the Weld-Grimke pamphlet, had stolen much of her thunder.

The appointed roles of concubine and breeder woman forcibly progressed to outright prostitution in the last decades of slavery. Traders dispensed with pretense and openly sold their prettiest and "near-white" female chattel for sexual use on the New Orleans market. The cavalier term was "fancy girl." The place was the French Exchange in the grand rotunda of the St. Louis Hotel, and the favored hour was noon. This gaudy fillip to the slave trade was no more than a logical extension of institutional rape, the final indignity.

"Every slaveholder is the legalized keeper of a house of ill-fame," the ex-slave and orator Frederick Douglass thundered to an abolitionist meeting in Rochester, New York, in 1850. Douglass' understanding of the dynamics of slavery far surpassed that of any other single person. That night in Rochester he instructed his audience in the dynamics of sexual oppression.

I hold myself ready to prove that more than a million of women, in the Southern States of this Union, are, by laws of the land, and through no fault of their own, consigned to a life of revolting prostitution; that, by those laws, in many of the States, if a woman, in defence of her own innocence, shall lift her hand against the brutal aggressor, she may be lawfully put to death. I hold myself ready to prove, by the laws of slave states, that three million of the people of those States are utterly incapacitated to form marriage contracts. I am also prepared to prove that slave breeding is relied upon by Virginia as one of her chief sources of wealth. It has long been known that the best blood of Virginia may now be found in the slave markets of New Orleans. It is also known that slave women, who are nearly white, are sold in those markets, at prices which proclaim, trumpet-tongued, the accursed purposes to which they are to be devoted. Youth and elegance, beauty and innocence, are exposed for sale upon the auction block; while villainous monsters stand around, with pockets lined with gold, gazing with lustful eyes upon their prospective victims.

New Orleans was "fully tenfold the largest market for 'fancy girls,'" Frederic Bancroft wrote in his unmatched study, Slave Trading in the Old South. " The prospect of great profit induced their conspicuous display." Beautiful New Orleans! Ambitious slavers chained their prettiest catches to the coffle and headed for the balmy Gulf port. Racing season and Mardi Gras were especially remunerative times. The Hotel St. Louis on Chartres Street was a beehive of activity. Bilingual auctioneers tickled the libido of the sporting men in simultaneous French and English, for a 2 percent

commission. The slave women stood near the auctioneer's hammer and smiled, bedecked in bonnets and ribbons. Sales of two thousand dollars and up were not unusual. Private rooms off the main rotunda of the Exchange were always available for the gentleman who wished to inspect his prospective purchase. Inspection at the French Exchange was a serious matter. "To gamblers, traders, saloonkeepers, turfmen and debauchees, owning a 'fancy girl' was a luxurious ideal."

The master-slave relationship is the most popular fantasy perversion in the literature of pornography. The image of a scantily clothed slave girl, always nubile, always beautiful, always docile, who sinks to her knees gracefully and dutifully before her master, who stands with or without boots, with or without whip, is commonly accepted as a scene of titillating sexuality. From the slave harems of the Oriental potentate, celebrated in poetry and dance, to the breathless descriptions of light-skinned fancy women, de rigueur in a particular genre of pulp historical fiction, the glorification of forced sex under slavery, institutional rape, has been a part of our cultural heritage, feeding the egos of men while subverting the egos of women—and doing irreparable damage to healthy sexuality in the process. The very words "slave girl" impart to many a vision of voluptuous sensuality redolent of perfumed gardens and soft music strummed on a lyre. Such is the legacy of male-controlled sexuality, under which we struggle.

ADDENDUM: THE CLIOMETRICIANS

By running two sets of statistics into a computer and by making a few unsupported, outlandish statements, "cliometricians" Robert Fogel and Stanley Engerman argue in Time on the Cross, their statistical view of slave history, that the sexual abuse of black women by white men was not a common occurrence. Dismissing all known reports collected by the abolitionists, they write:

Even if all these reports were true, they constituted at most a few hundred cases. By themselves, such a small number of observations out of a population of millions could just as easily be used as proof of the infrequency of the sexual exploitation of black women as of its frequency. The real question is whether such cases were common events that were rarely reported, or whether they were rare events that were frequently reported.

This is a "real question" only for someone who does not want to accept how infrequently cases of sexual assault are reported even in this day and age, let alone in the time when Angelina Grimke wrote, "We forbear to lift the veil of private life any higher."

Fogel and Engerman heap scorn on Fanny Kemble for having a distorted vision of slavery based on her "upper-class English" bias. In fact, Kemble's origins were not upper class. She was the daughter of a family of celebrated but impecunious actors who relied on her income—hence her gamble on a marriage to Pierce Butler. Ignoring the reasons why her Journal remained suppressed for twenty-five years, they try to slough it off as "a polemic aimed at rallying British support to the northern cause." It is not a polemic, as the dictionary defines the word, nor was it aimed at the British at the time of its inception. These errors of fact and interpretation could have been cleared up if Fogel and Engerman had read the Journal in its entirety, had read the Butler divorce papers, or had read one of the several biographies of Kemble.

Claiming they deal in facts, not conjecture, the authors, by presenting the results of two tangential computer runs, argue that white men did not as a rule molest black women, coyly adding that in their opinion interracial exploitation "would undermine the air of mystery and distinction on which so much of the authority of large planters rested." The first standard they employ is an analysis of the number of mulattoes reported in the i860 census. Thirty-nine percent of the freedmen in Southern cities were reported as mulatto that year. Among urban slaves the proportion was 20 percent and among rural slaves, who constituted 95 percent of the slave population, the percentage of reported mulattoes was 9.9. Since the overwhelming majority of slaves lived in rural areas, the authors required no sleight of hand to arrive at a figure of 10.4 percent for the census proportion of mulattoes in the entire Southern slave population. From this they conclude, "Far from proving that the exploitation of black women was ubiquitous, the available data on mulattoes strongly militates against that contention."

Several things are wrong here. The progeny of an interracial union can "come up dark" or "come up light," so in itself the color of the offspring is no sure-fire test. Secondly, how were these i860 census reports obtained? In their supplemental methodology volume Fogel and Engerman tell us that the census was taken by "thousands of enumerators" who were "drawn from the category of literate middle- and upper-class whites," and who used the criterion of skin color. We may assume that the freedmen reported their heritage to the enumerators in person, but do the authors suggest that the slaves did the same, or that the industrious enumerators entered the grounds of each and every plantation and counted heads and judged color from shack to shack?

It is reasonable to assume that the owners did all the reporting for their slaves, particularly in the rural areas, and it is reasonable to assume that plantation owners would be most reluctant to admit to the government that they were siring mulatto children, especially since miscegenation was technically against the law. Plantation owners, I am certain, saw what they wanted to see, and reported what they wanted to report to their class allies, those middle- and upper-class white enumerators. Any census statistic on the proportion of mulattoes on a plantation would be a most unreliable figure. In addition, why do Fogel and Engerman assume that a rape, even in a "non-contraceptive society," as they put it, is necessarily going to result in pregnancy and birth? Periods of fertility being what they are, a rapist plays Russian roulette with more than twenty chambers, yet the authors would have us believe he impregnates every time.

This fallacy in thinking also affects the import of their second set of computed facts. From a limited number of plantation records, the authors of Time on the Cross draw up a distribution chart indicating the age of slave mothers at the time they gave birth to their first child. (Unfortunately the cliometricians do not tell us how large a sample was available to them.) Thirty-six percent of all first births took place between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, and an additional 4 percent took place among girls below the age of fifteen. "Some readers might be inclined to stress that 40 percent of all first births took place before the mothers were 20," the authors generously admit—in the fine print of their methodology volume. In their major volume they write only that "the average age at first birth was 22.5, the median age was 20.8."

The median age is the more significant of these two figures, since it shows that there were as many first births below the age of 20.8 as there were above. The average age in the Fogel-Engerman computation is beefed up by each first birth that planter records claim occurred at age thirty-five and over; it does not mean that "most" slave women gave birth to their first child at twenty-two.

From this limited presentation Fogel and Engerman extrapolate, "Only abstinence would explain the relative shortage of births in the late-teen ages," and "the high fertility rate of slave women was not the consequence of the wanton impregnation of very young unmarried women by either white or black men." They hopefully conclude, "The high average age of mothers at first birth also suggests that slave parents closely guarded their daughters from sexual contact with men."

Leaving aside the entire question of the accuracy of slave ages, which does not seem to bother the authors, or the incidence of spontaneous miscarriage and folk-remedy abortions for the very young (information certainly not available), what is most troubling about these first-birth statistics is that nowhere are they matched up against the average age of menarche, the time of the first menstrual period. As it happens, the age at which menstruation begins has been perceptibly declining. In 1960 it fell between twelve and thirteen; however, in 1860 first menstruation usually occurred between the ages of sixteen and seventeen. Not only that, there is evidence in modern medicine and anthropology that fertility in the first few years after the onset of menstruation is comparatively low.

Fogel and Engerman's statistics tell us nothing about the sexual exploitation of black women in slavery. Statistical analysis is a valuable tool when it deals with reported crime. Unreported crime, however, remains beyond the magic of computers.

#radical feminism #radical feminists interact #radical feminists please interact

[unhclywater]

— BASICS

Name: Mikala Alijah Seabrooke, A.K.A. Michael or Mik. Age / D.O.B.: 58 / April 17th, 1965. Gender, Pronouns & Sexuality: Male in the same way you might view Cthulhu as a masculine figure, he / him / his, demisexual & aromantic. Hometown: Brooklyn, New York. Affiliation: The Syndicate. Job position: Organ trafficker (and other extracurricular activities), retired funeral director as of 2021. Education: Completed all 12 grades, acquired a health sciences degree at Kingsborough Community College at age 27 and a mortuary science degree at Hudson Valley Community College at age 32.  Has undergone continuing education throughout his time working for funeral homes. Relationship status: Some secret third thing (weird marriage is the secret third thing). Children: None that he wishes to be aware of (two probably). Positive traits: + Articulate, confident, hardworking, methodical, persuasive. Negative traits: - Amoral, antagonistic, cruel, morbid, pedantic.

— BIOGRAPHY (CONTENT WARNING: military involvement, death, cruelty, murder, war crimes, torture, animal/human experimentation, gore, organ trafficking - it's just bad news bears under here, heed the warnings.  Please refer to the abridged version w/o heavy mentions of these triggers if the content below is not for you.)

It’s spring of 1965 in Brooklyn, New York.  A boy enters the world, healthy and screaming.  He is the last born of three boys, and the only one to survive the following years, evading the Grim Reaper’s forceful grip.  With a single mother and three boys with their own unique challenges, their family is unorthodox.

Mikala, or Michael as he’s known in social circles, is even more unorthodox.  Childhood is simple enough, frustrating because he could never relate to his peers, not even his own brothers.  An odd child, it starts the same as it always does—a general malaise towards the living, a penchant for experimenting with the dead.  No one needs to know about the roadkill he conducts experiments on, so they don't.

He graduates high school in 1983, top of his class, then promptly enlists in the United States Army.  It matters not to him that he lost both of his brothers, five and eight years his senior respectively, to war.  Serving your country is merely what you did to make the men in your life proud and the women dote over you.  Above all, he wants to feel—to kill.

Cut to 1985.  He's twenty years old and feels so alive after witnessing so much death and depravity in a mere two years.  He has a hostage.  He should tell someone, he really should.  But this is his capture, and so he doesn't.  The torture lasts a handful of days, though it might as well have lasted a lifetime to his innocent victim.  Interrogation leads to physical harm, lighting the match to a fiery path of torture, experimentation and, finally, death.  Information acquired from his hostage is offered up to those positioned above him on a bloodied silver platter.  Questions aren't asked, not for now.

Jump a few more years to 1989. He has completed his time in the military, not by choice.  It's alleged that Michael committed multiple war crimes during his time serving, but only by a singular witness.  The trial drones on for nearly a year, no evidence is found, and he walks as a free man amongst the innocents.  His ability to lie and twist stories saves him multiple times throughout his life.  Immediately after this, he enrolls into community college.

The next few years are uneventful, though he's intoxicated by power after winning his hefty case.  He lives on the downlow by choice, having tasted plenty of murder in his time in the military.  This changes at age 29 in 1994.  In ice cold blood, he murders the woman he's dating.  With attention to detail, he dissects and learns to preserve the human body, the organs within it.

He enters 1995 by enrolling into yet another community college, this time in mortuary science.  Ten lovely years go by as he pursues his one and lonely passion, until he is noticed by The Syndicate.  Wrong place, right time, or perhaps the other way around.  In either case, Michael offers himself—his services—up.  It takes a village to be this criminal and ruthless, and so he accepts the inherent shelter this organization provides.  He trades his access to cadavers, more specifically organs, in return with the time-to-time involvement in assassinations, murders, and body disposal as well.

Throughout this time, starting in the mid-1990s, Michael discovers an inmate named Malachi Howahkan and does research on his case. Naturally, he likes what he finds, so he begins sending letters, money, et cetera to him. The two become romantically involved, going so far to propose to each other in their letters. Funnily, Malachi is the exact reason Michael enters The Syndicate in the first place, his soon-to-be husband in prison noticed and recruited first. When Malachi is released from prison in 2003, he shows up on Michael's doorstep. Just as naturally, he accepts his long-term penpal and partner, albeit with some surprise. Within the year, they're married.

From 2005 to 2021, life continues on as normal as it can for the abnormal.  Summer of 2021 brings his retirement as a funeral director, a slightly controversial move, yet he's not lost access to what matters most in his position with The Syndicate.  He finds alternative means, he always does.

As of 2023, he dedicates himself wholly to the gang, the only commitment that's ever mattered to him.

ABRIDGED VERSION: Born to a single mother, loses his brothers to war, enlists in the Army himself, commits multiple war crimes, is taken to court based on those war crimes, no evidence is found, he wins the case, acquires a degree in health sciences, murders woman he's in a relationship with shortly after graduating, acquires another degree in mortuary science, spends several years working in funeral services and participating in extracurricular activities on the side, discovers Malachi Howahkan while he's in prison and becomes his penpal, the two start a romantic relationship of sorts, they marry almost immediately after Malachi is released from prison, joins The Syndicate in 2005 due to his access to bodies, cements himself as an organ trafficker with occasional involvement in assassinations/murders, retires as a funeral director in 2021, continues his unscrupulous work for the organization.

— WANTED CONNECTIONS / PLOTS

Dalliances: It's rare for him to get intimately involved with someone, given his marriage, however it's not impossible.  It's turbulent, it's hardly romantic, and it's all about gain—for him. He's using the person for one reason or another. Again, deets are worked out as we plot/write. (0 / 2) Ex-lovers: The dalliances that are no longer dallying.  Again, quite rare for him to accumulate past lovers, but he's nearly sixty for God's sake and has been around the block once or twice.  (0 / 2) Friends: Or whatever is the next best thing.  These are people he doesn't mind, actively seeks out for company, etc.  This is most often going to be other Syndicate members.  Formal apology for the pet names said friends have garnered over time—think of them as his way of saying "I don't loathe you." Foes: He keeps his friends close and his foes closer.  There are a million and one ways he could've wronged your muse and created this hostile attitude towards each other, so let's chat it out! Coworkers: A.K.A. beloved Syndicate members.  He is particularly fond of those who get their hands bloody, and likely enlists their assistance in acquiring cadavers for organ trafficking purposes, delighted to take care of and dispose of the body for them.  While he'll do the "acquiring" part himself, even after his retirement from the funeral home, he likes it more when he can get someone else to.  Ex-coworkers could include other funeral service workers, hospital staff, etc. Military mates: Essentially, people who served at the same time he did (1983-1989).  Doesn't have to be Army branch but it does help. Perhaps the one person to witness his war crimes and snitch? Children of Dracula: Alright, this is a little dramatic, but. Michael's kids that he doesn't have a connection with and never has, however perhaps they've reached out? Want to get to know estranged papa? They would be in their late 20s to early/mid 30s. (0 / 2) Cop who arrested him: Self explanatory. This is the police officer that took him into custody when he was accused for war crimes, maybe even believes he's guilty despite the verdict. Bad blood all around. (0 / 1) Lawyer who defended him: Again, self explanatory. Legal representation was his lifeline during his trial, and he likely feels as if he owes this person to this day. (0 / 1)

#wb.intro #〈 🩸 — ; isms. 〉

[p-artsypants]

“Your Imperial Majesty, the search crew has returned from Cinderghast Hall.” 

“Very good, are the rooms prepared for the survivors?”

“Survivor, sire.” 

The Tsar’s heart broke. “One survivor? Only one?” 

“It seems like the barbarians in the mountains took the name of the hall as a challenge and burned it to the ground.” 

“Awful. That’s another royal family gone. Poor Axel, he was a dear friend to me. And now his entire family is gone.” Stalwart shed a tear for the family, as he had been grieving ever since the news of the flames had reached him. 

“Not entirely, Sire. The survivor is a daughter of the Prince.”

“I want to see her. Is she awake and healthy enough?” 

“Right this way, My Lord.” 

The two rushed through the grandiose halls of the capital palace, the home of the Tsar. The only home to royals left in this grisly landscape. 

They arrived at the Gold Hall, a once richly decorated room that had been converted to a medical wing in the wake of these horrible attacks. 

A little girl laid on her side on a bed. A blanket covered her, mostly, but he could see she was bandaged over her back. 

“His Imperial Majesty, Tsar Stalwart of Halov, now enters.” 

The attendants snapped to attention, while the little girl just looked up at him. She had thick blonde hair, which was now matted and dirty. Her eyes were wide and full of fear and sorrow. No child’s eyes should look like that.

“As you were,” the Tsar stated, before standing beside the bed. An attendant brought a chair so the mountainous man could sit and be closer to eye level. “Hello, little one. What is your name?” 

She raised her chin, putting on an air of regality, though she was so hurt and dirty. “I am Princess Apollinaryia Cinderghast, daughter of Prince Axel Cinderghast. It is a pleasure, your Imperial Majesty.” 

“The pleasure is mine, Princess. But there is no need to be formal right now. How are you feeling?” 

She stared at him a long while, keeping her dignified mask on. Though her voice did not match it. “I’m scared,” she said. 

“I understand. I doubt there is anyone in this kingdom that doesn’t.” He touched her head very gently. “Apollinariya, as of tonight, you and I are the last of royal blood in these mountains.” 

“I know.”

“How old are you?”

“Eight.” 

“Gods above. You know, the people that took your family, they also took my wife and unborn child from me, about eight years ago. He or she would have been your age, if they had survived.” 

Apollinariya glanced away from him, not knowing what to say. 

“You may stay here with me, if you’d like.” 

“I have nowhere else to go. So I humbly accept your hospitality.” 

He gazed at this child with amazement. “Look at you. Just after your life’s worst tragedy, you speak and act with so much dignity and composure.”

“Mother always said I wasn’t much of a crier.”  

“Still, these are qualities not found in many people, especially these days. If you would…our Kingdom is dying. I need an heir. Would you adopt that role?” 

She looked up at him in surprise, eyes wide. “You wish for me to be the heir to the throne? I am not even the oldest of my father’s children. I wouldn’t know what to do.” 

“Don’t worry about that, my dear. You’re young. We can teach you. What say you?”

“Your Imperial Majesty, I would be honored to serve my country this way.” 

The Tsar sighed in relief. The issue of his heir had been called into question many times before, with distant relatives with no education or qualifications being dredged up.  

Granted, he never would have wanted to solve his problem this way, but it was for the best. 

“You may call me ‘father’ if you’d like.” 

She frowned. “With the greatest respect, Your Imperial Majesty, you are not my father, and you will never be.”

#boy toy #illustration #prologue #original fiction #digital painting #partsing

[tiredanvilandmace]

BASIC INFO

full name — Nicolo "Nico" Tagglieri age — thirty-eight (february 5) gender — cis male, (he/ him/ his pronouns) orientation — bisexual occupation — blacksmith deity connection — hephaestus  donkey name — aj (apple jack) significant other — daniel coleman (deceased), kit garrow, lev rojas weapon — custom-made maul + chainshirt clothing style/ armor — casual, fitting (illegally well)

PHYSICAL INFO

face claim — DJ Cotrona hair — dark brown / eyes — scotch height — five foot & ten inches build — broad furry chest, strong arms, generally fit scars — deep, big scar on the side of his right thigh, some battle scars tattoos — (magical) roman camp + time served like so piercings — no special characteristics — will work in the forge/workshop all day to fiddle with armor or weapon improvements, flirt up a storm if given the chance, loves to geek out over history sexual preference — top switch

PERSONALITY

alignment — chaotic good positive traits — focused, charming, protective, resourceful negative traits — reckless, unsocial (unless put in the position not to be), annoying hobbies — training, blacksmith-ing, being a hermit

MEDICAL INFO

mental — mommy issues physical — deep, big scar on the side of his right thigh, some battle scars, otherwise healthy phobias — fear of being abandoned by loved ones eyesight — 20/20 dominant hand — left hand drug use — nop alcohol use — sometimes diet — nothing special, the world rejoices when he eats because he tends to forget, will enjoy home-made food

BACKGROUND

birthplace — long island, NY parents — alessandro & oriana tagglieri siblings — half siblings due to hephaestus being his father, micah reid (younger sibling; oriana & lochlan reid (affair)) pets — aj, his donkey education — high school graduate notable skills — v talented blacksmith and trap builder, history/lore memory

BIO

Hephaestus didn’t keep him waiting long. His twelfth birthday was marked with the revelation that he was not his father’s son, but actually the child of the God of the Forges. He couldn’t say that the news of who his siring father truly was did any good for the relationship he had with his father.

Nicolo couldn’t say that his father was a bad father. If at all, he was a role model. Treated his mother with kindness, provided to their house, and still made time to play with him. However… After he found that out and a few weeks before his school year was over, there was an incident that, to this day he still doesn’t know how to explain but cost him his return the following year. His father, although resistant at first, finally changed his opinion and urged his mother to send Nico to the camp for the summer. It would be best for him and he would be safe there.

The trip to Long Island was unexpectedly uneventful. His father still wasn’t happy with him but he knew it would be for the best and it would only be for the summer. Come the school year, he’d be back with his family and everything would be alright again.

Or so he told himself. Time and time again.

And although it was only for three months, it was… Interesting to learn about his divine inheritage. And about the forge. Sure, three months would not be enough to get him in any decent shape. But as the following years rolled around, he found himself learning how to balance the both halves of his life. It wasn’t an easy path but he would make his father proud. And would try and not become a disappointment to Hephaestus.

For the next 5 years he would find himself in a very comfortable cycle. Going to and from camp in summer, working the forge and during his senior year at high school the main talk with his father was about where he’d be going to college the next year. He was excited to follow in his dad’s footsteps but there was one variable that his mother would not let either of them forget. Nico’s blood father. His powers. And everything else that came with that side of his life. Including the weird and unexpected visitors that would show up in the middle of the night. Asking for shelter… Or reinforcement. And the weapons Nico carried with him. Bade by himself. How was he supposed to attend college across the country so far away from them? From help in case he got into trouble?

Unfortunately… The decision was taken away from him. As his father drove him to camp for that summer they were also chased by monsters. Well, Nico’s father was intent on making sure his son would reach safety whereas Nico could not let his mortal father stand in harm’s way. That wouldn’t do. So… After some arguing and some yelling, Nico’s father finally agreed to let him go and turned the car around to leave as Nico made a run for the hill that would lead him into the camp, hoping that he’d be able to distract the monster for long enough so his father would be able to put a safe distance from the monster. But the mission that he was assigned that summer only served to prove that he was a growing source of danger to his mortal family and he’d spend the next three years with his focus only on training and forging. And maybe a certain distraction, to make things less dull.

And said distraction took the shape of a boyfriend. A son of Apollo, Daniel, who seemed to spend every waking moment trying to get into Nico’s nerves and when he finally caved, he came to realize that he was not as annoying as he once thought. And Nico had honestly thought that it would be a good idea to take Daniel along with him to spend Christmas with his family. Especially since it would also be his father’s 50th birthday. Not to mention that he was scared out of his mind, afraid that Daniel and his father wouldn’t get long… Little did he know that their celebration would be overrun by monsters, following the scent of two delicious demigods. Sure, they had been trained to deal with monsters, but in a suburban neighborhood and surrounded by mortals that they should also protect, they were quickly outnumbered.

Nico, resourceful as he liked to think he was, created a diversion so he could escape with his mother while yelling to Daniel to help his father and run. What he did not expect… Was that there would be cyclops waiting for them and he’d have to stand there, helpless, as he watched the two most important men of his life be taken away from him in a single motion. All he could do was get his mother out of there and not succumb to despair. An herculean task in and of itself.

And as a result… He lost connection with his mother… And with himself. Without his Father and Daniel he felt like there was not much he could live for and that made him quite reckless in battle, charging forward without a plan or strategy, only wanting to put down as many monsters as possible. Until a nearly fatal wound brought a new perspective to his life.

He was not a leader. And he was no longer a fighter. Hell, he had failed as a protector. What else was there for him? Well… The answer would be in his forge.

Creation. 

Traps. Weapons. Armos. Shields. Gadgets. He’d create and develop the deadliest toys he could think of. And then his fellow demigods hopefully would make it safely back to camp. Hopefully, he’d prevent the ones that never left camp from losing their own Daniels as they went on missions.

Hopefully.

#Nico || Intro. #Nico || Pinned.

[anthonybialy]

A Healthy Respect for Returning Buffalo Bills Defenders

Buffalo’s most notable defenders look to be playing this season, which reflects how valuable health is.  Careers that last a blink are even shorter on account of anatomical afflictions.  Notable players who didn’t get to compete every game last year can get back to making everyone better while being pretty good on their own, as well.

We have to wait until the fifth game to see the best defensive draft pick, namely a healthy Von Miller.  I wish the gap weren't long enough that it seems like he's new again. A 2011 first-rounder will ideally finally be available to substitute in by October.  Getting back to his usual self would mean overflowing charm on top of neutralized top opposing options.

Looking at the bright side of the PUP list is like feeling glad about the flu so one can liberate DVR space.  It’s not like we schedule absences so there’ll be a sudden upgrade upon their conclusion.  But we can only hope under challenging circumstances that pass rushers are able to persevere until they can experience a sudden improvement upon his return. 

He’s already served as a surreal addition.  A player known beyond football signified Buffalo’s celebrity football status with his choice of third team.  Miller’s so notable that it’s easy to forget how astounding his play is.  Knowing he won’t be ready for the opener is the wrong way to remove stress.

Miller is fantastic at spreading misery.  A specialist who was brought in to preserve leads is renowned for smiling as much as Bills fans were at the prospect of him seeking quarterbacks on obvious passing downs.  His eight sacks in 11 games showed he also remains proficient at shoving aside offensive linemen.  Indirectly working with his own quarterback helps them combine to top adversaries.  Miller and Josh Allen play together in their way.

Tre White’s soft opening hopefully straightened out some concerns.  This season will feature welcoming him really back.  Sure, he returned to the field last November.  But he was more in the lineup technically.  Buffalo’s best cornerback in awhile appeared to be struggling with either corporal or mental limitations.  Testing a treated joint provokes trepidation that can best be alleviated with repetition.

White has thankfully had another offseason to convalesce, and not just his knee.  Moving past trauma is a necessity for everyone and particularly individuals associated with a franchise known for proving fate has it in for some more than others.  Trying to prevent all-world receivers from gaining a couple extra inches is easier once accustomed to a personal repair.

Having both members of a safety duo improves everything else, too.  Jordan Poyer wasn’t a solo act without Micah Hyde, but it’s not the same any more than Phillip’s replacement shared the same energy with Terrance.  Better protection takes the form of both starters being available.

Aches that are unable to be assuaged with ibuprofen are present even if they don’t show up on the injury report.  The psychological effects of hurting are particularly acute for workers in an industry based on physicality.  Cornerbacks can’t get up from a desk and stretch.

Difficulty coping is part of being human.  Dealing with woe easily isn’t our way.  The fact we still do it constitutes countless daily triumphs.  Damar Hamlin is the most extreme amazing example.

Everyone’s dealing with personal issues on account of living on this stupid heartless world.  Concerns about how to move past what sucks apply to any job.  Going out and performing despite it all is the only choice for those who exist without consent.  Customers don’t want to hear a Burger King cashier detail woe about relationship drama and late buses that happened before the shift: they just want chicken fries.  It takes professionalism to not gripe about preferring to lounge on a couch.  Simultaneously knowing how difficult it is should motivate all our interactions.

Defending against wide receivers who are as big as they are fast is tricky, according to anyone who’s ever watched football.  The procedure is tricky enough on two knees.  The inherent advantage the NFL extends to anyone on the side tasked with moving the ball makes it tough for secondary members no matter how many of their knees presently function to the utmost.

Nobody’s robust forever.  That was supposed to be reassuring.  In particular, athletic organizations must fret about injuries to the same recovering spots, different areas, or other players.  Worrying about what ghastly outcome lurks just out of frame is part of life in general and football in particular, I regret to notice.  Awareness and acceptance of how everything could change in an unpleasant way in a moment remains the best option.

The league doesn’t allow postponement until everyone’s ligaments are at their strongest.  Clubs can’t use failing to have access to their services as an excuse.  It’s not like withstanding pain is unique.  They can commiserate over blues music.  The next football team to go through a season without losing the services of important contributors will be the first.  Short of zero games lost, sides must improvise with whoever’s available for a dose of jazz.

Seeing giants back to their versions of normal would be great news personally for people we’ve come to admire for more than their play.  Thank the sport that introduced us to them.  Big personalities are naturally found in professional locker rooms, as those blessed with remarkable talents who display the drive to utilize them see life in a big way.

Recuperating from suffering works like a sort-of draft.  The defense improves just by possessing their full complement of talent.  A chance to heal is the one time to be thankful for a seemingly ceaseless offseason.  Worrying if those overcoming inflictions will enjoy the benefits of rehabilitation is one of a million downsides.

Fearing some of our favorite greats will become injury-prone is something we can’t confirm right now.  If it offers comfort, we could also soon learn who’s able to play like nothing happened.

#Buffalo Bills #Von Miller #football #NFL #Micah Hyde #Tre'Davious White

[shesboundtobruise]

Can you tell us a little bit about Lou's dad?

What's the best way to deal with generational trauma? By perpetuating it, of course.

Stanley Wolfe was born to a hard ass of a father and a fairly cold mother, neither of whom were exactly ready for their bundle of joy to arrive when he did. They made due though, meaning that they provided for him and raised him as they'd been raised. He was born in Goose Creek, South Carolina near where his father Louis, a Navy officer, was stationed. He grew up disciplined, fairly quiet, and always striving to impress Louis in every way he could, despite rarely being able to achieve that. This attitude led him to enlist in the Navy when he was of age, where he did not achieve a rank higher than Petty Officer, which did nothing to please Louis Wolfe.

Once he served and was discharged, Stanley went on to become an officer of the law, moving to Greenville to do so. There he met Ida Snyder, a local beauty queen who was a bit of trouble for the young man. He was drawn in by her beauty, of course, but what really attracted him to her was her sweetness, her carefree attitude, and how she seemingly did whatever it was she wanted. Despite the fact that she was very close to a few people Stanley would later keep tabs on as a police officer, he and Ida married after a short courtship. Louis didn't exactly approve of this relationship and didn't hide it, but he also made no real moves to end it, figuring, at least, it would end up providing him with a grandchildson he could dote on and who could be the future of their family since Stanley and his brother Daniel were fuck-ups, as far as he was concerned. And for years, Stanley and Ida tried to grow their family, with no luck and then the heartbreak of multiple miscarriages, until finally, a baby girl was born. Stanley and Ida were overwhelmed with joy when little Louise entered the world, but Louis, again, wasn't so keen on having a granddaughter, especially as the eldest grandchild. He never minced words about that, lording having two boys over Stanley's one girl, a girl, being stuck in some disgusting and idiotic, backwards world where having a male heir meant everything. While Stanley didn't necessary agree, his father's words and attitude beat him down enough to make him begin to feel bitter toward his wife and his daughter.

That's when the drinking began. Didn't matter that his wife was happier than she'd ever been. Didn't matter that his daughter, the little miracle Ida called her, was healthy and beautiful and everything a parent could ask for. Didn't matter he'd moved up at work and made it all the way to Sheriff of the county. Louis' disparaging and disappointed words did more damage than he'd ever admit and he drank to drown it all out.

A few years passed like this, and Ida tried to give Stanley everything he wanted, especially the son she sensed would bring a little more happiness to his life, but due to the complications of Lou's birth, she was unable to carry any more children to term. This crushed her and when Stanley found out, he wasn't exactly sensitive to this. He blamed himself at first, but then, later on, in a drunken stupor, he blamed Ida. That wasn't the end of his emotional abuse, unfortunately; simply the beginning, and she was also simply the beginning. Soon that bitterness turned on his daughter as well.

Lou was eight when Stanley first struck her. It was so sudden that not even he realized what had happened until Ida's screams pierced his eardrums. The girl had only been defending her mother, angry with him for making Ida upset. She'd only been defending her mother from him, the one person that shouldn't have harmed her, who shouldn't have harmed either of them.

This was a cycle that continued for years. Ida began to become a shell of the vibrant woman he'd fallen for all those years ago. Lou, trying to avoid any possible interaction with either of them, was merely a specter who rarely made an appearance and who floated in on the edges of his vision, until she was a gnat, an annoyance he'd stamp out. Ida tried to keep her family together, tried to bring peace, but when she realized she couldn't, she became a ghost, leaving this plane of existence physically only to continue to haunt the rooms of their home.

The pain of losing the love of his life was unbearable. Stanley blamed himself, how could he not, but all that guilt only added flames to the rage within him. Rather than taking his daughter into his arms and trying to comfort her or shield her from any other hurt in the world, he lashed out even more at her, harmed her more than he'd ever done now that there was no buffer between them to stop him. The physical abuse continued for a couple of more years before Lou put an end to it herself by leaving entirely, no note, no phone number, no address. She just ran into the night and never returned.

Completely alone for the first time in a long time, Stanley didn't know what to do. He traveled to London to see his parents, to beg for help, to find comfort with them, to no avail. Louis, even in his advanced age, looked upon his son in disgust and put the blame for everything in his miserable life squarely on his own shoulders. Stanley returned to the States a husk of man. Alone and empty.

It's been nearly twenty years since Ida passed and over a decade since Lou left him. He's still in Greenville, still in that home, allowing those ghosts to haunt him as his penance. He's tried to find Lou several times with little luck. He apologized the last time he saw her, but now? If he got a 'fuck off' in return, he'd die happy.

#rando calrissian ( anonymous ) #( ic. / && headcanon. ) #( you look back at your wasted life and you don't see me. / && lou and stanley wolfe. ) #( oooooooooooooof ) #( okay now the triggers ) #( death tw ) #( abuse tw ) #( suicide tw ) #( suicidal ideation tw ) #( suicide mention ) #( substance abuse disorder tw ) #( substance abuse tw ) #( ask to tag ) #( this was stream of consciousness stuff and i'm sorry if it's awful lmao )

[audsjournal]

Seeing the Goode: Maddie's Journey

            Maddie Goode was well liked by everyone. A star student in high school who was expected to graduate with her AA. She was close with her parents, had many friends, and was eager to start her college journey. Goode struggled with her mental health from a young age, but still excelled in all aspects of her life despite it. Her parents had always been open and honest when it came to getting the help Goode needed. Even with her mental health struggles, Maddie Goode always considered herself healthy and never had any complications. She worked just like any other student her age, serving tables at the local restaurant “Long Doggers” in Satellite Beach.

            One night, around September of 2018, Goode was nearing the end of her shift. The restaurant was almost empty as customers were clearing out, but something felt off to Maddie. Goode slipped into a booth and fainted. When she came to, she brushed it off, assuming she hadn’t eaten enough that day. This would happen several times before Maddie and her family would understand the extent what was happening inside Goode’s body.

            Two weeks later, Oct. 18th, Goode woke up with an alarming fever. Attempts to bring it down with Tylenol were futile, and the fever climbed to 104 degrees. Goode and her mom, Paige, visited urgent care where Maddie was tested for flu and strep. Negative. More tests the next day. Nothing. On the third day, Maddie visited her primary doctor for more tests. Day 4 and the doctors decide to test Goode for mono, a test that requires a routine blood draw. This blood sample would change the course of Maddie’s life.

            That afternoon, Goode’s father received a call. It was doctors requesting he immediately bring Maddie to the cancer center in Melbourne. “We think she may have Leukemia,” the doctors said.

            Maddie’s dad immediately called Paige Goode, who was at work. She was in the middle of a parent-teacher conference when she found out. The words devastated her.

            “All I know is that my fellow teachers say they will never forget the noise I cried out,” She said.

Goode and her family immediately met at their house and drove to the hospital together. Two days later, not even a week after waking up with a fever, a bone-marrow biopsy confirmed the severity of the situation. Maddie Goode was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.

            “I was almost relieved,” Goode said, “I felt so sick, and they at least knew what it was and how to help me.”

            The doctors told Goode’s parents first, however, Maddie didn’t even remember hearing her official diagnosis. She felt so sick that her memory was foggy.  

            Goode was transferred from Melbourne to Moffitt Cancer Center in an ambulance; she didn’t remember the ride either.

            After arriving at Moffitt, the first step of business was to treat Goode’s secondary infections that resulted in the fever.

            By Halloween, she would start her first session of chemotherapy.

Her doctor, Dr. Shah, had experience with pediatrics, which was helpful to Goode who was only 18 at the time. He developed a treatment plan with a mixture of pediatric and adult medication, to be administered in five separate phases. Some phases would last eight weeks, while the longest one would last 24 months.

Maddie remained under inpatient care for about six weeks.

            During her stay, on Nov. 11, Goode woke up to use the bathroom. She swung her legs onto the side of the bed and stood up, but immediately fell to the floor.

            She woke up her mom, who slept in a cot to the right of her bed every night.

            “Mom, I can’t feel the right side of my body,” Goode said.

Maddie started to have seizures and was taken in for an MRI. A large blood clot was found on the left side of her brain. She was having a stroke. Doctors try to prep 18-year-old Goode for her treatment options, one being an invasive surgery to remove the clot. She was still shaking violently.

            “Whatever you need to do to save my child, I’ll agree to it,” Paige Goode said.

Maddie was transferred over to Tampa General Hospital for surgery. She had no idea where she was when she arrived.

The surgery was a success, but Goode had to relearn most of her motor skills. Her mom remembered Maddie using emojis to text friends when she didn’t have her speech back yet.

“I was a shell,” Goode said, “I could never get through a therapy session without crying because it was so frustrating.”

Goode would finish the rest of her inpatient treatment at Tampa General as she learned to talk and walk again. On Dec. 5th, she was released from impatient care to continue treatment from home.

That Christmas, there was no tree. Things like that didn’t matter as much. Goode was at Moffitt on Christmas and New Year’s Eve, traveling back and forth for weekly infusions while also on a strict regimen of pills. On Valentine’s Day, her date met her at the hospital.

Goode would be admitted, sometimes a week at a time, for higher dosages of chemo. Within a month after her diagnosis, Goode was in remediation. The continued treatment made sure it remained that way. She would chug water in the hospital in hopes of speeding up her metabolism for treatment. As Goode adjusted to this phase, parts of her life started to come alive again. That May, she won prom queen.

A few days later, Maddie woke up in horrible pain. Her foot was throbbing, and her gums were bleeding. She was taken to the hospital where doctors found an open wound from her prom pedicure.

“They told me I was almost septic,” she said. More treatments, more drugs, and the infection got under control. Her nurses set up a mock graduation at the hospital for her, a moment Goode and her PA, Chris, shared through tears.

That summer, plans were in place for Goode to start her freshman year at the University of Central Florida.

A week before she was set for move in, a fever placed Maddie in the emergency room. Maddie and her parents ultimately made the hard decision for Maddie to stay home that year. In August, her friends moved away while she remained at home.

She was still sick. She still had no hair, and now her support system was dwindling. This year was even harder for her than the year of her diagnosis.

“I wanted a job, anything, to make me feel normal,” She said, “I couldn’t even go outside to tan.”

In the spring, she took Chemistry at the local community college.

When summer of 2020 came around, Maddie could not have been more excited to finally go to UCF after waiting a year. She craved a sense of independence that she lost with her diagnosis. Maddie’s mom felt more comfortable sending her to Orlando this time around, because Goode was moving in with two close friends. She would still be going back and forth to Tampa for infusions, but they were less frequent at this point in her treatment.

In August, Maddie registered for sorority recruitment and joined a Greek organization on campus. Her support system was coming back.

April of 2021 brought Maddie to her final chemo infusion. She woke up excited, but still knew she would have oral chemo pills to take for a few weeks. She sat in a chair at Moffitt, the nurse pulled down Maddie’s shirt slightly, and the IV meds entered the port directly below her collar bone for the last time. Both of Maddie’s parents watched as she rang the bell in the lobby to signify her triumph.

Maddie drove back to Orlando the next day where the celebrations continued. Her friend, Samantha Bean, asked her over for some dinner. When Maddie arrived, she was greeted by Sam and other friends with a large cake and printed photo of Maddie. Now more than ever, Maddie held her friends tight. She knew now more than anyone the importance of appreciating your friends, because there was a time she thought she could lose them.

A month later, Maddie was sitting in her bed staring at her last oral chemo pill. She was by herself, with just her music and a decorative gold banner she bought. She placed the pill on her tongue and swallowed before dancing around her room with joy. She had won the fight.

She looked over at the gold banner on her wall that read, “Fuck Cancer.”

Maddie agreed.

[britneyshakespeare]

you ppl talkin shit about kamala harris by saying “she’s just as bad as trump” or “she’ll lose and we’ll deserve it”

look where that got us last time.

like i get there are substantive critiques to be made towards the senator about her record and her policy proposals,

but at the same time, if you’re acting like anything about her is comparable to the current administration, i’m not entitled to take your own political talking points very seriously. you can talk a big game about laissez-faire capitalism and the problems with our voting system, but if you can’t see how even the most moderate democrat is infinitely more acceptable than any republican (but especially trump), i don’t believe that. for a second. 

put these things in context. you can get lost in the weeds of the plans that you, at least in principle, marginally agree with, and lose sight of the bigger picture. i know it’s discouraging how much closer to the center the dems have gotten in recent decades, but when republicans consolidate more and more power, they’re only going to keep moving to the right. do you think bill clinton would’ve happened without ronald reagan’s popularity? do you think the obama administration stopped being at all productive after dems lost the house in 2010, for just no reason? 

vote for someone. take what you get. fuck your “lesser of two evils” platitude; there are real, material differences at stake every minute that donald trump and his cohorts are in office.

#this isn't really a post about kamala harris i just see her getting the most of it currently #probably bc she's... seemingly been the front runner? is she still now that bernie's in the race? #i have no idea. there's so little actual polling at this point and the *actual* primary voting process doesn't start for 11 goddamn months #and then we have to pretend to care what a buncha fucks in iowa and new hampshire think and prioritize that #i don't have anyone i want. i don't want harris only bc other leftists seem to have an aversion to her and that makes me nervous #but then again those ppl might not vote anyway i guess #and i don't want sanders bc he's just got too much baggage and the cult of personality behind him creeps me out #it's downright worrisome #that and... he's almost 80. guys. that's really important. even if he's healthy enough to *live* eight years that doesnt mean #that he's healthy enough to *serve* for eight years. #you can't just dismiss that out-of-hand #just let someone else run on your platform bro #maybe you could say that's what warren and gillibrand are doing #idk. idc. just wake me up in july 2020 when the democratic national convention is on television. #text post #politics #rant

[ao719]

Curiosity Killed The King

Characters belong to Pixelberry.

This is for @wackydrabbles​. This week’s prompt is, “I’ll be happy to forget this conversation ever even happened.” It will appear in bold.

A/N: This is a collab written with my favorite asshole, @cocomaxley​. We had some requests from our Christmas fic to see Liam’s conversation with Eleanor regarding her line of questioning of a certain term, lol. Thank you to @burnsoslow for looking this over. Please excuse any errors.

Warnings: Charlotte, some language.

Word count: 1522

*You can catch up on more Charlotte shenanigans here*

Liam stared blankly at his daughter; he blinked his eyes slowly, and his mouth was hanging open, his words failing him.

“Daddy?” Eleanor questioned.

Liam cleared his throat. “Ahem … hold on one second, Princess.” He reached into his interior jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He found his wife’s name in the phone book, then began to type his message.

****

Charlotte and Drake entered the royal quarters and put their packages down onto the counter. Charlotte wiped her forehead and huffed. “I swear we didn’t buy that much stuff!”

Drake chuckled. “It doesn’t feel that way to you because you didn’t have to lug any of it around,” Drake scoffed.

Charlotte and Drake had spent the day in downtown Valtoria Christmas shopping with Eleanor; she wanted to choose her own gifts to give this year. She picked out something for Liam, Drake, Maxwell, and Olivia; she had gone with Liam the previous week to pick something out for Charlotte, Leo, and Regina.

As Drake sat on the stool at the counter, Charlotte’s phone pinged. She pulled it from her pocket and glanced down at the screen; a curious chuckle escaped her as she read the message from Liam and then replied. A moment later, her phone chimed again; her brows knitted at the new message before she typed another response. A few moments later, her phone went off again. When she read the last message, Charlotte’s eyes widened as she gasped before her mouth fell open with a loud laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Drake questioned.

“Look!” Charlotte shrieked with laughter.

In between giggles, Charlotte looked at Drake. “Do you think he’s trying to explain it to her now? We should go down there and listen.”

Without waiting for Drake to respond, Charlotte hurried towards the door and pulled it open; Drake followed her without an argument. Based on Liam’s texts alone, they knew Eleanor asking him that question made him nervous.

The pair rushed down the corridor and approached Liam’s study. “I can already feel him sweating,” Charlotte laughed.

“Nothing ever makes him nervous. Who knew all it would take was an eight-year-old asking about prostitutes to bring a King to his breaking point?” Drake chuckled.

Charlotte pressed her ear carefully to the door. “I can’t really hear anything,” she whispered.

“Watch out …”

Charlotte stepped back, and Drake stepped forward; he discreetly grabbed the door handle and quietly turned it, opening it just a crack. It was just enough to allow them to get a better listen and to peek inside. In the reflection of the mirror above the study’s fireplace, they could see Liam sitting at his desk with Eleanor standing in front of him.

**

Liam stood from his chair and walked towards his bar cart, pouring himself a healthy serving of scotch. He took a long sip, trying to buy himself some time to develop a suitable explanation as to what a prostitute was and in a way that a child would understand.

“Daddy, are you alright?” Eleanor asked quietly.

“Yes, Princess … I am … I’m quite alright.”

“So, can you tell me what a prostitute is?” Eleanor enunciated the word clearly to ensure Liam didn’t misunderstand.

How the hell did she learn this word? Liam glanced at his phone still clutched in his hand to see if Charlotte had responded to his last message yet, but she hadn’t. He took a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves. “Eleanor, how did you learn about this word?”

“Well … I met this man … I’ve never met anyone like him before. His clothes were funny, and he had an eye patch and a parrot.”

Liam knitted his brows in confusion. “You met a pirate?”

“Maybe?” Eleanor replied, unsure if that’s what the man was. “He was talking to mommy and Uncle Drake. They were laughing at a sign he was holding … and it said the word prostitute. What is so funny about that word, daddy?”

**

Outside the door, Charlotte and Drake shared a look before they both began to laugh. “Sshhh,” Charlotte said, putting her finger over her mouth as she continued to laugh. “We can’t let him know we’re out here.”

**

Liam loosened his tie; the air in the office felt thick and unbearable. I’m going to kill them. His hand trembled as he brought his glass up for another sip of his drink.

“Well, Princess, you see the word pros … prostitute--” Liam’s voice went up an octave “--is actually from the 16th century. It comes from the Latin word prostitutus, past participle of prostituere meaning “place before or in front” or “expose publicly” … so you see …” he trailed off.

Eleanor had a blank expression on her face. “I don’t see, daddy. I don’t know what any of that means …”

**

Drake leaned against the doorframe and shook his head as he dropped it. “He’s like a walking fucking encyclopedia,” he whispered through a laugh. “What a fucking nerd.”

“Stop,” Charlotte snorted before covering her mouth to quiet herself.

**

“What I’m trying to say, Eleanor, is that a prostitute is what is also called a … fille de joie … or sometimes a scarlet lady--”

“Scarlet? Like Auntie Olivia, the Scarlet Duchess? She’s a prostitute?”

“No! Good God, no! Auntie Olivia is not a prostitute! Her scarlett is with two T’s. The other is just one.”

**

Hearing Eleanor’s assumption about Olivia, Drake fell to the floor outside the study door. He covered his mouth and held his stomach as Charlotte doubled forward, both trying to contain their laughter.

**

Liam wiped the bead of sweat that dripped down his forehead. “Let me start over …” He let out a breath. “It is someone that sells their bod -- nope … they, ummm … so, what they do is they sell their time. Yes, that’s it!” he nodded. “They sell their time to others. And then they spend an evening together … talking. Just talking.”

**

At his explanation, Charlotte shrieked, “JUST TALKING!”

Drake rolled to his side on the floor, unable to contain his laughter any longer as a loud guffaw escaped him.

**

Liam narrowed his eyes when he heard the muffled laughter of his wife and best friend coming from the doorway. He stood from his chair and walked towards the door; without warning, he turned his back towards it and swiftly swung his leg back, aggressively kicking it closed. The wooden door made contact with someone on the other side.

**

“Ouch!” Charlotte yelped through her laughter, rubbing the back of her head as she fell forward onto Drake.

“Ow!” Drake cried out when she made contact with his shoulder.

**

Liam grinned in satisfaction as he walked back towards his desk to resume his conversation. Eleanor was deep in thought for a moment before looking back at her father. “So, what do they talk about?”

Liam was mid-sip and choked on his drink. “Talk? They, uh … they talk about … you know … perhaps the weather? If it’s two women, they might talk about fashion …” He groaned when he registered the words coming out of his mouth. Why is this so hard? Oh, she’s eight, that’s why.

At that point, the laughter from Charlotte and Drake in the hallway could be heard clearly through the door.

“Daddy, I’m still confused.”

“Me too,” Liam grumbled.

“If I spend time with my friends, should I pay them for spending time with me?”

A sound between a groan and high-pitched squeak escaped the King as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, Eleanor … no.” Liam looked up and met her gaze. “Princess, a prostitute is someone that spends time with certain people that aren’t like a regular friend. People pay these … prostitutes to hang out with them. That’s it.”

“So, like Lord Neville then, daddy?”

“Exactly, sweetheart,” Liam nodded. Please don’t ask any more questions … and don’t tell anyone I said Neville was a prostitute.

Satisfied with his answer, Eleanor walked towards the study door. “Thanks, daddy. I don’t know why you didn’t just say that to begin with. It seems pretty simple to me.”

Liam walked Eleanor to the door and opened it; they both saw Charlotte and Drake still in a heap on the floor outside of his study. “Hi,” Charlotte squealed as she met their gaze.

“Hi, mommy. Hi, Uncle Drake,” Eleanor smiled before stepping over them and skipping down the hallway towards their quarters.

Liam’s eyes narrowed as Charlotte and Drake finally managed to pull themselves up to stand. Drake looked at Liam with tears in his eyes. “Li,” he snorted with a nod as Charlotte leaned into him and began to laugh again.

“Why the hell did I just have to have that talk with her?” Liam growled.

“She was curious after seeing a sign,” Charlotte giggled. “But she didn’t even mention it to us! She asked zero questions. Right, Drake?”

“It’s true,” Drake nodded. “And don’t sound so mad,” he chuckled as he clapped Liam’s shoulder. “You did so well.”

“I’ll be happy to forget this conversation ever even happened.” Without another word, he slammed the door shut on the pair and walked back to his waiting glass of scotch; he shook his head, still hearing them laugh out in the hall.

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

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#trr #choices trr #the royal romance #choices the royal romance #charlotte and drake: platonic love/hate relationship #liam rys #king liam rys #king liam #trr liam #trr mc #liam x mc #trr liam x mc #choices liam x mc #king liam x mc #trr fanfic #trr fan fic #trr fanfiction #choices trr fanfic

[sjw-publishings]

A Le’Silver Lining

Based on a story from Midas Touch, by @dumb-and-jocked

“Finish up pronto, or you’re fired.”

Aden sighed, he really wanted to get that promotion, the next step up the corporate ladder, but because of some desperate plea of a ‘millennial-life crisis’, he ended up revealing to his incredibly hot Boss...hoping he had been closeted this entire time.

He was wrong.

Recalling the many words and verbal insults from the strict CEO, it was far from a ‘privilege’ throughout these past few years.

And to be paid a similar wage while handling this douchebag’s laundry is just the icing on the cake.

All he wanted to do was to head towards the top with a faithful partner, but instead his arrogant boss reduced him to some laundry ‘boy’. He was in his mid 20s and treated like some joke.

“This is humiliating!”

Stuffing in the last few piles of clothes, he grumbled, but not too loud just in case his boss spied on him. Turning on the laundry machine as it whirled, done for the day...though not for long knowing how unreasonable that homophobe was.

Folding his arms, pocketing the white gloves he had to wear. As the douche puts it, ‘so he won’t catch the gay’. He rubbed his palms all over his youthful face, trying to contain himself from tearing over his demotion a couple of hours ago, hoping there will be a way to get some power back.

*Shone*

From the corner of his eye came a glint of something shiny, alone at the corner of the clothes basket was a singular watch, which was without a doubt very costly.

Not like his boss’s that shone gold, but rather one of silver. ‘A promising shine...yet dull’. One of the many insults that alpha would arrogantly scoff at him.

“Better polish this before he starts complaining about it.”

As he said that, he grabbed a cloth that appeared to his side and began polishing the accessory. Not realising how the watch voluntarily attached itself to his wrist as his eyes were laser focused on polishing the silver lining.

Le Silver Lining.

His fingernails began trimming themselves short, hands were bigger and more worn...yet eloquent. The changes trailed down his arms, tightening his biceps with lean muscle of a servant who had been tasked with numerous duties beyond laundry.

The boss eventually demanded more from him after all, as the shirt he wore had split into two, the lower layer ironing itself to his chest, sculpting his abdominals to six stones as two modest arches formed the front side of his chest, tightening as the solid foundation gets filled with pectoral muscle.

Starch blue Sleeves rolling down to his wrists, regaining the familiarity of a buttoned down as the upper layer rested over him like a navy suit jacket. He had to look presentable always, even if he was Mr. Conrad’s servant, especially when he had visitors.

Of course, his snobbish boss was always in control, living under his roof meant a rigid schedule with tons of tasks always needing to be done. Buttocks tightening...ensuring there will be no time for any poking from behind.

“He did give me some leeway though.”

Connecting his legs, as the stress pitched a tent beneath his trousers, which shifted to a more expensive quality that he missed, tightening on those knees in dark blue like his suit jacket, as he stood tall over 6ft, slightly shorter than his boss...but definitely the height of a man who was in charge of many things.

The man in the older twenties nodded, as with every swipe, the new reality of his situation became clearer and clearer.

His pouch rested comfortably in those briefs, which came with the uniform ‘to set ‘boys’ straight’ as so he proclaims. Being dedicated to his boss meant he had no time for a long term relationship, seeing men less and being forced to chat with women.

Though with the amount of ladies chatting with him....

“He has been exceptionally generous.”

Huffing out an arrogant flair, starting to appreciate his employer. Yes, he was bi-curious, nothing too serious though, at least with the men.

Plus the watch was, after all, a symbol of gratitude and position from the older male. Despite the consistent banter during his first few years, he really grew on him despite the excessive homophobia.

Because, it was as his boss said, working under him was a privilege.

Both things, he too had inherited from his long time boss. He did serve under him over 16 years, and while Conrad was demanding, he was absolutely generous, as long as one fits into his mould.

Which its something he slid on in perfectly.

“Still, not really my type, no?”

The age gap was less than a decade, but he was not interested in such acts with the man. Putting his foot down, shoes being polished into a prim and proper wing-tip, strictly professional like their relationship.

The strictness was something he did admire in a superior, alongside the pompous arrogance, he probably wouldn’t date the man even if he were gay! Despite it being so arou-

“Non non...what am I thinking?!”

His voice deepened, darkened. His nose wrinkled in disgust, disapproval to his more...’immature’ ways. Aging out to a matured thirty eight, as his skin took on a more elegant and healthy glow. Raised in the life of the wealthy, but with the humility of a servant.

They were simply, Sir and b...Monsieur. A Boss and his trusted butler, a respectable relationship between gentlemen.

Standing up straight, a posture he maintained throughout his years at the CEO’s house, shoulders filling up nicely on his uniform, buttocks being disciplined shut as though he vehemently made a decision to stay far from those kind of acts.

And of course, this choice was made solely on his own.

“Unacceptable, no?”

Smirking to himself, recalling the many rants from Sir Conrad about ‘faguettes’ and how disrespectful youths nowadays were, and the many nights they had fine women over as a result.

Giving a few combs to his hair, tight and thorough hairspray glued his slicked back cut to his scalp, maintaining it since he started as one of the servants in the mansion, the prim and proper look for someone who belonged underneath his employer, yet dashing enough to stand out for the ladies.

And of course, he had a level of authority unlike the supervisors of his boss’s company. Bringing his palm to his face, brushing against the dark brown bristles, stubbles, beard on his chin down to a more concentrated ‘chin strap’ as the locals call it.

Jaw sharpening itself to a cleft, moustache dressing above his upper lip, trimmed and twirled to the ideas from the CEO, with a modest patch of fuzz below his lower lip, mirroring his superior’s well groomed moustache.

Like a shadow, he would do as his employer says, and behave like him...with a Parisian twist.

The experienced servant giving a few final swipes to the watch with ease as the polished beam shone into his eyes, lenses. A pair of rectangular spectacles framed his new perspective, with utmost appreciation to his employer.

Brows arching downward, trimming away any resistance to the loyal affluence of the frenchman’s dark brown eyes. Pocketing away his hankerchief, he turned on the washing machine and made his way to the living room with a pre-prepared cart of treats.

Knowing, according to his watch, its tea time.

“As expected as always, Monsieur.”

Antoine bowed down to his waist, proud of his accomplishment of being second in command to the CEO of C.O.N. Corporations. And while he may not have a title like the fine gentlemen sitting at the boardroom, the Butler had more say in who stays than any of them ever could.

That enough was of satisfaction to the eloquent Parisian.

“Now if you would excuse us, we would like to have the rest of the afternoon undisturbed until a quarter past nine...”

As his boss said that, a fancy looking Madame climbed on top of him, and initiated an intense make out session like every other evening after a special occasion.

“Understood sir, enjoy your session.”

The french butler walked on auto pilot out of the room, leaving them to their heterosexual pursuits. Of course, while he was a fellow ladies man, he wasn’t going to steal the spotlight from his boss. He wasn’t a ‘boy’, but a ‘Monsieur’, and besides...

“Heehee~”

There was someone far more interesting on the staircase...

A french maid, dressed loosely in that typical frilly attire, winked at him. That cheeky vixen...she was literally asking to be painted, pulling his attention from his multitude of assignments to be done, and onto her.

Alas, the ladies do come first, his boss always encouraged his many trysts with women across the mansion, as long as he did a clean job.

And this blonde was no exception, most definitely another generous reward from Sir Conrad, something his eyes savoured by examining those pillows on her mattress.

Removing his glasses, he gave a dashing look at the lady, and daringly spoke.

“Bonjour Mademoiselle, Coffee, Tea, or me?”

#gay to straight #g2s #mental change #personality change #lib to cons #racial change #frenchification #gay #to #straight #butler tf #french tf #a le’silver lining #gay to straight tf #gay to straight tfs

[pennylanewrites]

I got seven different asks about the College AU so here are some headcanons I have about them! (imagine aiura is in the picture I couldn’t find a good one with all of them)

I definitely didn’t mean to make this so long but I can’t help it I love them all so much<3

~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~

Saiki Kusuo

→ marine!!!biology!!!major!!!!!!!!

→ doesn’t need to study but he still does bc he finds marine life so fascinating

→ read all of his textbooks on the first day bc he was so excited eeeek

→ always wears his germanium ring in class so he can stay hashtag focused

→ him and aiura have to bail toritsuka(didn’t go to college) out of jail once a month

→ speaking of aiura, she somehow has convinced him to go on a date on five different occasions

→ i think after high-school he realised he didn’t mind a kind of casual not-relationship with her

→ lets her hug him to greet him and sometimes he hugs back bc college boys stare a lot and he is just worried for her okay?

→ maybe I’m just projecting bc I kin aiura

→ does not go to parties unless he absolutely has to

→ if he does go to a party he’ll drink something quietly in a corner, just watching the crowd

→ a perv laced Teruhashi’s drink and almost lured her up the stairs so of fucking course Kusuo sprinted to help her, holding her on the way home bc men are drawn to her like bees to honey

→ she didn’t let him live it down ever

→ he rented a studio apartment and keeps it super clean, minimum clutter but enough to look lived in

→ cooks amazing food that Nendo smells from upstairs and next thing you know, they’re all bringing chairs to Kusuo’s apartment and have dinner

→ nothing excuses the fact he makes at least eight servings every time–

→ such a dad to everyone honestly

→ usually studies at a library or teleports back home if there’s a big test

→ mrs. saiki was banned from visiting every two days but she still ends up there somehow

→ not that he minds bc he’s the biggest mama’s boy ever

→ probably graduates a year early

→ doesn’t move away even though he got a job at the aquarium at the other side of the city help–

Kaidou Shun

→ fine arts major you can NOT change my mind

→ doesn’t do good in theoretical subjects but mans can draw some good bowls of fruit

→ wears those stained from the paints t-shirts all the time bc ‘no they’re not dirty it’s art!’

→ him and aren have small designated spaces in their apartment so they can focus on their hobbies/studying

→ his corner at the living room has newspapers on the floor to protect it from the splattering paint, some canvases propped up on the wall and a lot of unfinished projects

→ hides all of them when Nendou comes over

→ can not cook or clean to save his life

→ so he calls his mum to help clean up when Aren is at work

→ got over his 8th grader syndrome at some point

→ still wears red bandages bc he’s edgy

→ volunteers at the neighborhood exhibit centre

→ got asked to showcase his own works for a night and hasn’t shut up about it since

→ goes to yumehara for relationship advice and braids her hair as a thank you

→ couples sleepovers with Yumehara and Teruhashi (yes they’re dating shut up)

→ always makes something for Aren at special occasions (birthdays, anniversaries etc)

→ at first he went back home every saturday bc he missed his family :(

→ Aren helps him get over it though!!!!

Nendou Riki

→ got in on a sports scholarship

→ we already know he couldn’t be accepted in a college otherwise

→ in the chiropractic major bc he wants to be one of those athlete doctors

→ has failed way too many exams and classes

→ Hairo helps him so much though!!!

→ the last one in the group to graduate but somehow gets a job first (excluding Saiki)

→ him and hairo get up at 5 am for jogging or to hit the gym

→ and then he goes and gets noodles bc ‘if noodles aren’t for breakfast why do shops open at 6 am?’

→ hasn’t stepped foot in class in months

→ he gets decent grades after failing the first semester and it’s totally not Saiki’s doing

→ he ends up signing up for way too many clubs

→ attends all of the meetings and has so many friends through them

→ I would be his friend too in college honestly

→ a fraternity wanted to get him bc he’s so good at sports

→ he declined bc he does not understand how fraternities even work

→ is the life of EVERY SINGLE PARTY change my mind you can’t

→ whatever you do don’t imagine nendo surprising his boyfriend with flowers after every practice

→ *dies cutely*

Kuboyasu Aren

→ SOCIOLOGY MAJOR

→ idk I just think he would enjoy Marx’s Capital

→ debate club? hell yeah

→ gets in philosophical conversations at the school yard for HOURS

→ kaidou has to drag him away

→ only shops at thrift stores and makes coffee at home bc “capitalism is not accepted in this household”

→ rides his motorcycle to college even though he lives five minutes away

→ grew his hair out in a mullet again and he looks *chef’s kiss*

→ thought he would be moving too fast if he asked Kaidou to rent an apartment together

→ aiura convinced him it was fine

→ cooks kaidou’s favorite foods every day

→ participates in student rallies, human rights protests etc etc

→ comes home with bruises and kaidou thinks he looks so hot but still yells at him

→ Aren’s favorite place to study is his balcony or at a coffee shop

→ always with kaidou! cute boyfriends who do everything together!!

→ gets so drunk when they go out

→ drunk karaoke with kokomi yes yes yes

Hairo Kineshi

→ did someone say Athletic Training?

→ does every single sport and is amazing at it

→ will cheer for his bf if they have a game at the same time though

→ it was his idea to move in together bc ‘hey we’ve been dating for three years now might as well’

→ volunteers at a nearby elementary as a coach for the kids

→ SO GOOD WITH KIDS

→ wants to be a P.E. Teacher and he’s going to be great at it

→ does everything he can at campus

→ helping random clubs, making posters, cleaning up the hallways, helping the cheer squad with their new routine

→ dances ballet as a hobby even though he’s so good at it that he could be a professional

→ makes everything a competition with Nendo so they never get bored

→ once made everyone get up to jog with them and they ended up sleeping on random benches while Hairo and Nendo were halfway across town

→ will punch someone if he sees them catcalling a girl

→ doesn’t drink at all and eats super healthy

→ designated driver for the group’s outings downtown

Aiura Mikoto

→ THEATER MAJOR

→ is so good at stage acting it’s unreal

→ lands the lead role almost every time

→ is also an amazing singer so she gets great roles in musicals as well

→ doesn’t have to get a job bc she gets all her money from doing readings on campus

→ gets coffees and pastries from all the coffee shops around campus and sits Kusuo down so he can taste them

→ they have a little taste-testing date in his apartment until they decide none of them are as good as the ones at Cafe Mami

→ she totally doesn’t make him teleport there every morning and he totally doesn’t listen to her

→ moved in with chiyo bc they wanted a nice place that they couldn’t afford on their own

→ teruhashi told them to move in with her but they already loved their little place

→ aiura’s bedroom is the most comfortable and cozy room ever

→ their apartment is also the hang out spot for the group bc it’s just so homey

→ hangs out with her theatre group a lot, especially after class

→ they can’t compare to her friends though:(

→ everyone goes to her when they’re worried and she loves it bc she’s the mummy of the group

→ she makes everyone coffee and their comfort food before big exams:)

Yumehara Chiyo

→ psychology major one thousand percent

→ you know how they say that people choose psychology bc they don’t know what major they want?

→ that’s exactly what happened except she fell in love with it immediately

→ such a good student!!!

→ always does her assignments on time and still manages to have a social life

→ teruhashi asked her out at the end of their first semester and that’s the first time chiyo missed a deadline

→ practically lives with teruhashi, insisting it’s just to leave aiura alone

→ she’s just IN LOVE OKAY?????

→ would want to be a sorority girl at first

→ changed her mind when she realized how much shit they all talked

→ her and kaidou drink wine and talk about their relationships and studies

→ she’s so sleep deprived it’s unreal

→ she doesn’t need sleep anymore though

→ coffee is her best friend

→ makes asks Aiura for readings twice a week

→ brings all her psychology friends home and they analyze their textbooks

→ once she got the hang of it, she decided to examine Kusuo

→ she told him he needs actual medical evaluation

→ he almost threw her out the window when she offered some Xanax for his nerves

→ chiyo is a neat freak one hundred percent

→ hates when Aiura throws everything on the floor, but she loves cleaning

→ opens her own office after school

Teruhashi Kokomi

→ PRE-MED

→ lesbian doctor :)

→ just wanted to get away from her perv brother at first

→ she always wanted to be a doctor though, preferably a neurosurgeon

→ she’s super duper smart and hates when she gets good grades bc of her good looks:(

→ makes it her goal to show her professors that she’s more than a beautiful girl

→ hasn’t failed a single exam

→ helps everyone with their studies even though she’s drowning in work

→ drops the perfect girl image at college and decides she should try and aim for something normal

→ gets invited to every single party

→ in a knitting club bc it would get disbanded without one more member

→ knits!!!matching!!!sweaters!!!for all of her friends!!!

→ asked Chiyopipi out while drunk

→ never regretted it though

→ her and aren get so drunk when they go out with the group

→ it’s honestly unreal how much they can drink before passing out

→ has to get carried home

→ wakes up after getting drunk and runs to her class before remembering it’s Sunday

→ her penthouse has the perfect view of the sunset and sunrise and is all she could ask for in life

→ does get lonely so she’s practically living with Chiyo and Aiura

→ once she realized she didn’t like boys she made it her goal to get Saiki and Aiura together

→ people wonder how she has so much time to play matchmaker and volunteer while she’s in premed

→ does her internship at a hospital

→ ends up working there as a neurosurgeon after her Doctorate degree

~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~

#saiki kusuo no ψ nan #tdlosk #saiki k no psi nan #saiki kusuo #nendou saiki k #nendou riki #kaidou headcanons #kaidou shun #kaidou x aren #saiki k headcanons #teruhashi #teruhashi kokomi #aiura mikoto #yumehara chiyo #nendou x hairo #hairo kineshi #aren x shun #aren kuboyasu #saiki k #Kusuo #college au #anime headcanons #anime fluff #the disastrous life of saiki k. #tdlosk headcanons

[sunflowervolvimp3]

you’re someone i just want around: VI

“I think I’m catching feelings

And I don’t know if this is empathy I feel

Just hold on

Remember when you said this was the last time?”

Sex, Eden

A/N: okay this chapter has probably been my favourite to write so far because we are finally. finally!!!!!! getting to a lil smidgen of softness!!!!! and the softness will only continue like originally I had a different lyric in mind for this chapter (a hozier lyric to stay on brand) and decided that it was too soft so I stocked it away to use in the future when things get even sweeter and harry gets even dumber 😌 we really hope you guys enjoy this chapter!!! and please remember that feedback is truly, madly, deeply™ appreciated!!!! not just by us but by all content creators!!!!! and if you enjoy it, please reblog it!!!! spreading content keeps creators motivated!!!!! and so do messages about what you liked!!!! it lets us know what sort of vibe to add in later!!!! okay now that that’s out of the way!!!! let’s dive in 😼  

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

word count: 29.1k

content/warnings: a good healthy dose of denial and justification to deny feelings, the defamation of gherkin pickles, pet names (literally), a strong independent woman who don’t need no man, a (not quite) man who definitely needs a strong independent woman, brunch served with a side of emotional trauma, breaking promises, nsfw social distancing, and Harry once again ignoring the phrase “bros before hoes”

///

Harry knows he’s good at a lot of things.

He’s good at picking up on fashion trends and turning them into timeless styles, molding each piece to fit his own persona with ease.  He’s good at identifying the locational origins of wines within five seconds of the sweet liquid crossing over his tongue.  He’s good at mixing his own drinks as well, always managing to craft the perfect concoction that suits each drinker’s needs.  He’s good at creating gallery walls in his apartment, at charming anyone into giving him what he wants with a slip of his mouth, and at pissing off his friends until they’re threatening to stake him just to get a little peace and quiet.  Harry is good at chess, at reciting poetry from memory, and at painting his non-dominant hand’s fingernails without smudging any nail polish onto his icy skin.  Harry is fucking excellent at coaxing orgasms out from his lovers.  He knows that he’s good at a lot of things.

The issue, he realizes the day after he asks Y/N out on a real date, is that planning a real date is not one of those things.

This, Harry rationalizes to himself, is not his fault.  After all, the last time he’d been on a real date was during the Victorian era, and Harry is fairly certain that taking a chaperoned stroll around his beloved’s estate garden isn’t in fashion anymore.  And when the way all of those dates ended is taken into account, Harry doesn’t think his past experiences should be the marker for a good date, anyways.  

It’s this frustrating lack of knowledge that leads Harry to do what he always does when he doesn’t know the answer to something: he Googles it.

With the top of the line Macbook Harry had purchased a few months back with the money from a CEO of some candle company perched on his lap, Harry relaxes back onto his leather couch, kicking his brown boots up onto the matching footrest as he does so.  Once the search engine is open and the cursor is blinking in front of his face, however, the vampire pauses, his manicured fingernails perched over the keys.  What question could he possibly Google for his situation?

Harry twists his lion head ring around his cool finger as he thinks, his tongue tucked between his lips in concentration while potential queries run through his head.  Ideas for a first date with a girl you’ve been fucking for a month.  Things to do in L.A. with a mortal when you’re a two hundred year old vampire.  Places to take someone after drinking their blood.  A snort echoes from Harry’s throat as the last idea pops into his head.  Somehow, Harry isn’t confident in what results those questions will show him.

Tapping his black lacquered nails against the keys, Harry purses his lips as he loses himself in thought.  How had he even gotten himself into this position?  The reason he hasn’t planned a date in centuries is because he doesn’t date, and for good reason.  What use does a soulless vampire have for dating?  Mortals use romantic outings to open their hearts to one another, and Harry, in contrast, can’t open what he doesn’t have. 

Despite his wondering, however, he knows exactly how he got himself into this situation: he let himself get jealous of a fake-tanned, shaggy-haired idiot named Jacob, a name that Harry despises on principle alone.  It had been a perfectly fine name until that awful Meyer woman decided to make it one of the banes of Harry’s existence.  And while Harry doesn’t have a particularly forgiving nature, he had just finally begun to get over the association, but thanks to that hallway confrontation at the end of Y/N’s date with the obtusely orange fool, Harry is now reminded that he will forever hate the name with a burning passion.  And shaggy hair.  And fake tans. And while the irony of him, a vampire—with a middle name of Edward, for Christ’s sake—hating an insignificant mortal named Jacob, simply because he dared to make a pass at the object of Harry’s fascination, is not lost on him, all of that was pushed aside the moment Harry smelled the perfume his fascination wore for the mortal boy. 

Y/N never wears perfume for him. And though she had assured him that her dressing up had been for him, he can’t shake the fact that Jacob had gotten to experience it first. 

It’s not that Y/N needs to wear perfume for him.  In fact, if Harry’s being honest with himself, he likes that she doesn’t spritz artificial scents all over her body before letting him into her home and between her legs.  She has one of the sweetest natural scents Harry’s ever had the pleasure of inhaling, all lavender and honey and utterly intoxicating.  Of course, as all mortals are, Y/N is unaware of the mouth watering fragrance that drips from her skin, while Harry is all too aware of it at all times, but her obliviousness to her natural scent doesn’t change the fact that Harry would bathe in it if he could.  If it were possible, Harry would pump an entire room full of her personal cloud of lavender and honey, lay back on the floor, turn down the lights, spark a joint, and let himself get lost in the very thought of her.  That would be Harry’s personal definition of Nirvana.

But Y/N isn’t aware of her natural, skin sweetening aroma like Harry is, which means two things.  Firstly, that Y/N doesn’t feel the need to smear anything unnatural on her body to attract Harry; she knows she doesn’t need to go through all that trouble.  And that was fine with Harry, until he realized the second thing, which is that there potentially could be someone that Y/N would go to all that trouble for if he doesn’t keep her entertained and occupied.  She had told him her date with Jacob hadn’t been on her terms, and that she’d done it just to be courteous towards a co-worker, but that doesn’t sedate the truth: There will always be a maddening possibility that occasions could come into play in which Y/N will spray a choking cloud of gardenia and freesia over herself, all in the hopes of appealing a suitor.  The issue is that in those hypothetical cases, the suitor Y/N would be trying to impress wouldn’t be Harry.

Actually, that’s only the first issue. The second issue is that it could be another fraternity moron with an equally stupid name. 

After the vampire had come upon Y/N ending her date in front of her door, just minutes before their own rendezvous was scheduled, Harry had felt an initial burst of blind rage, and everything after is a blur.  He vaguely remembers trying to make Jacob uncomfortable and delighting in how he succeeded, until he saw the anger on Y/N’s sweet face.  He remembers a brief discussion about limits and honesty, and about how she was only interested in him, and that he shouldn’t waste his time stressing about her supposedly dormant dating life.  And, most importantly, he remembers asking Y/N to accompany him on a real date, one that would blow her date with the VeggieTales carrot out of the water.

Now, of course, he’s beginning to regret his impulsive decision, purely for the fact that he now has to figure out how to woo a mortal girl just enough to keep her away from creeps with horribly coiffed hair.

And yet, despite this regret…there’s something new curling inside his belly as he types the phrase date ideas for L.A. into the search bar, the blinking cursor reflecting in his eyes before he presses the enter key and millions of results pop up.  Ah, the joys of the internet, he thinks as he scours the results with inhuman speed.  It’ll take Harry a few different clicks to find the perfect activity for himself and Y/N, and his hyperfocus on the topic will stop him from over analyzing that new feeling twisting inside him.

It’s a win-win situation, if he can say so himself.

Harry’s halfway through the first disappointing article (somehow, he doesn’t think taking Y/N on a hike is very romantic) when the door to his condo opens and reveals Mitch in the frame, dressed in his usual casual attire, this time of blue jeans and a plaid shirt.  Harry has spent the last century trying to refine the older vampire’s taste in clothing, even going so far as to once donate the entirety of Mitch’s closet to a homeless shelter, but all his efforts have been in vain, as his friend still insists on wearing the standard (and boring) style for every decade they’ve lived through together.

“Hey,” Mitch greets from the end of the corridor with a nonchalant nod, shutting the door behind himself before sauntering further into the living room. “Thought we were meeting at the bar at eight?”

It takes Harry a moment to remember the agreement Mitch refers to, his brow creasing as his eyes flicker to the corner of his computer screen.  By the time he registers the numbers 8:41 shining back at him, the memory of agreeing to get drinks with Mitch after his evening gig has resurfaced. “Fuck, I’m sorry.  I lost track of time.”

“I thought so.” Mitch moves the decorative pillow next to Harry on the couch, taking a seat in his usual spot. His voice is slightly sarcastic as he gives Harry a knowing look. “That’s been happening a lot lately.  Lapses in your memory and such.”

“It's old age, I suppose.” Harry’s lips quirk up in amusement, although he knows that Mitch’s comment is pointed towards a subject they’re both acquainted with, courtesy of Harry’s absence on their annual Vegas trip about a week prior. “It’s finally getting to me.”

The long-haired immortal makes a vague sound of humorous acknowledgement, but offers no other response as he turns his gaze to the younger vampire. 

Harry watches as his friend’s expert eyes appraise his appearance, examining how the older vampire takes note of the messy state of Harry’s hair that indicates he’s been tugging on it in frustration, the redness of his lips, the way he’s curled over his open laptop.  Although he makes no further comment on Harry’s newfound tendencies, his brows furrow in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“I, uh—” The amusement is replaced by an unfamiliar feeling of nervousness that sweeps through Harry’s entire body. “I’m doing research.”

When he’s given no other explanation, Mitch prompts his younger friend. “On?”

“I...asked that girl from the club out on a date— Y/N. Like, I invited her on a proper one.” Harry elaborates, twisting his lionhead ring around his finger as he speaks. “But I don’t really know, like, what to do with her.  I’m a little out of touch with what a typical twenty-something woman wants to do on a real date.”

And this is another thing Harry is usually good at— being confident and sure of himself.  Normally, he speaks with ease and a nonchalant cadence to his words, lacking any worry about how he’ll be perceived.  Harry knows what he wants, and knows how to articulate it.  Right now, however, he feels the complete opposite.  There’s a tension aching its way through his muscles and settling into the pit of his stomach, curling around those organs that haven’t been truly needed in years, and the utterly bemused expression weaving its way onto Mitch’s face doesn’t help.

The quiet vampire cocks his head to the side upon receiving this news, propping one foot up onto Harry’s coffee table and addressing him with a mocking air. “Why are you taking her on an actual date? From what you’ve told me— which isn’t much, and that strains our best friend reputation, if I’m being honest— I thought you two had an...understanding?”

“We did.  We do.” Harry stumbles over his words as he half shuts the laptop, setting it down on the coffee table and giving Mitch’s foot a quick playful shove off the lacquered surface as he repositions himself. “But she went on a date with someone else, so I have to—”

“Are you jealous?” His friend cuts over him with an incredulous tone, and the disbelief sends a flare of something akin to shame through Harry’s body. “Because she had a date?”

“I’m not jealous.” With a firm voice, Harry manages to scoff at the very notion. “I may be a monster, but my eyes are red, not green. It’s just—”

“Well, technically, they are.”

The immortal ignores the shit-eating correction. “—occurred to me that our arrangement will end if Y/N starts seeing some mortal bloke. So, if she wants a relationship, then I can fabricate one for her.”

Although the excuse slips off his tongue easily enough, Harry refuses to meet Mitch’s eyes as he picks up his laptop and opens it again, clicking his way onto another article in the search results.  The older vampire’s stare feels as if it’s scorching his icy skin, and Harry can’t exactly say he enjoys the sensation, but it’s better than the alternative of admitting to Mitch—and to himself—that he may harbour the smallest trace of feelings for the human girl.

However, Mitch seems to buy the rushed explanation. “Fabricate a relationship?” He repeats, scratching the base of his chin slowly. “Doesn’t that seem a little...cruel?”

“It’s not.  It’s only for a bit, and once I’m done with her, I’ll probably just…” The words lodge in his throat for some unknown reason, but he forces them out. “I’ll probably just wipe myself from her mind, and she…” Harry’s sharp teeth tug on his plump bottom lip. “She won’t remember me.  It’ll be fine.”

Yes, Harry repeats to himself as he scrolls through all the results Google has to offer.  It’ll be fine.  It has to be fine, really, because what’s the alternative?  Harry’s kind aren’t exactly built for a long term commitment to anyone that’s less than immortal.  The kindest thing for him to do would be to let Y/N go now, without having to use compulsion at all.  It would be so simple, he thinks.  One small text, a few words along the lines of “it’s not working out, and we probably shouldn’t see each other again, I’m sorry. H.” would probably suffice.  And surely she’d be a little upset, but she’s mortal, and a mortal’s feelings never stay the same for long.  It would take her a few weeks, or maybe a month at most to get over the creature she’d begun a casual sexual relationship with.  Within a year, Harry and their short-lived friendship would be nothing but a small blip in her memory, and she’d be moved on to someone else.

Harry can see her future so clearly that he almost believes it’s shining through his laptop screen like an old film.  Y/N, going back out for the first time after Harry breaks things off.  Y/N, bumping into a handsome stranger with a bright smile and dull eyes.  Y/N, slumped over her kitchen table and fighting a hangover as the stranger hands her a cup of coffee.  Y/N and the stranger going for dinner.  Walking hand in hand.  Kissing goodnight at the door.  

Harry’s mind spins through scenarios faster and faster, racing through every possible future for Y/N before he can even take another breath.  Although some scenarios have different paths, different breakups, different faces, they always end at the very same place: Y/N in a white dress, walking down a flower strewn aisle, and taking the warm hand of someone who is not Harry.

If Harry needed to breathe, the wind would’ve been knocked out of him the moment he pictured those warm hands with blood pulsing beneath the skin lifting Y/N’s veil, cupping her flushed cheek, and sealing their lips to hers.  It’s a perfectly normal image.  A human pledging themselves to another human.  It’s natural, by human standards, as they seem to value monogamy over everything else.  The path Harry is seeing is the path Y/N was always meant to take.  So why does it make his icy blood curdle?

Mitch, who seems to be completely unaware of the wild road map his friend’s mind has just drawn, speaks out his concerns in a quiet but careful voice. “Are you sure you’re not getting too attached?” He asks, gauging Harry’s reaction to his question as if it’s a catastrophic statement. “You’ve been spending more and more time with her, you blew off the Vegas trip for the first time…” The older vampire gives a soft shrug of his shoulders. “If it were just for sex and blood, that would be one thing, but it’s almost like you’re getting…addicted to her.” 

Although the statement first brings a laugh to Harry's strawberry lips, the initial chuckle quickly fades away as the gravity of Mitch’s statement hits its recipient.  Certainly, he feels an indescribable draw to Y/N, but he knows, deep down, that any addiction he has to her is more so to her blood than anything else.  After all, what else could he possibly indulge?  The last time Harry let himself be addicted to a person, he ended up with a broken neck and newfound bloodlust.  He’s learned since then.  He’s not so naïve, or so foolish, as to let his emotions wander like that again. He knows better.

“There’s no addiction—I just like her blood more than others, that’s all.” Harry assures his friend, tapping his thumb against the band of his mother’s opal ring. “I know I’ve been a bit of a flake lately, but it’s just while I have her around.  I’ll get tired of her eventually; I always do.” He deliberately flashes his crimson eyes at his friend with a knowing smirk. “And then all it’ll take is a few choice words to take care of whatever lingering marks—metaphorical or otherwise— I’ve left on her, and it’ll all be done, and in the past. You know me, mate. Sometimes I like playing with my food.”

That last sentence makes his mouth go sour, almost as if his body is punishing him for uttering something so indifferently ruthless. Especially because deep down, there’s the smallest seed of doubt in his speech— the tiniest hint of uncertainty, telling him that the detachment he is playing up is not true. 

Harry forces it to be true. It has to be. Both for his sake, and Y/N’s. 

Mitch spends a long few minutes gazing into the blood red irises marching his stare, determined to find a crack in their façade. However, Harry’s good at hiding his feelings, given that he’s had decades of practice on how to keep a thick curtain draped over his innermost thoughts. He won’t let anyone see his weaknesses anymore, no matter how microscopic they might be. 

When the older monster’s search turns up empty, he repents with a long sigh, waving his hands free of the whole affair. “Whatever, Harry.  You seem to know what you’re doing.  Just be careful, alright?”

“I do know what I’m doing, thank you.” Harry elects to ignore the last statement Mitch tacked on, and instead flips his laptop around to show his friend his findings with a triumphant—albeit, forced—grin. “I’m doing brunch.  Google says girls Y/N’s age like brunch, and that the Persimmon Pantry in downtown L.A. has authentic crepes that are to die for.”

“Too bad you’re already dead.” The older vampire deadpans, pushing the laptop closed and raising himself from the couch into a standing position, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. “If you’re going to be dating a mortal, do we get to meet her?  Because I think Niall may need a bit of a heads up after the accidental run in that happened last time—”

“Do you usually meet my meals?” Harry counters easily as he sets his laptop aside, standing to escort Mitch to the door. “Don’t be sentimental, Mitch.  I’m certainly not.”

When Mitch’s eyes meet his own once again, there’s a degree of clarity running through them that nearly stops Harry in his tracks. “Aren’t you?” Mitch asks, voice neutral by careful control. 

Harry sucks in a quick breath out of habit, pasting a bright expression over his face in lieu of actually revealing his swirling insides. “Not since I learned my lesson.” He says easily, tapping two fingers over his dormant carotid artery with a sly smile. 

The casual act does the trick, and Mitch’s eyes roll in a familiar jesting fashion as he steps towards the door. “Right.  You’ve got it under control, then.”

“All under control.” The words slip off Harry’s dry tongue like honey, his sweet cadence filling the space between them. “Not to worry.”

///

Y/N thinks this may be the most out of control she’s ever felt her entire life.

A few weeks ago, she would’ve said that taking Harry home from the club was the most out of control she’s ever been.  And three months ago, dropping her whole life and moving to L.A. might have been the answer to that question.  And another three months from now, Y/N might get herself into the middle of a new entirely stupid act— which is completely probable, given her track record— and that’ll become the new marker for the most out of control thing she’s done.  But right now, at this moment, the most out of control thing she’s done is say yes to Harry asking her out to brunch.

When compared to everything else she’s done with Harry—and let Harry do to her—brunch may seem entirely harmless, but it’s the connotation behind it that scares her.  Harry is taking her on a date.  A real date.  A date to a brunch restaurant, at 11 A.M. on a Sunday, when it’ll be completely bright outside, and people will see them together.  A date with both of them in presentable situations, rather than being coated in sweat and completely dressed.  A date where Harry refrains from whispering the filthiest fucking shit Y/N has ever heard into her ear, although she wouldn’t put it past him trying to do that over a plate of avocado toast.

Harry is taking her on a date.  And last time Y/N checked, she wasn’t exactly good at those.

Her ex hadn’t really been the romantic type, to say the least.  Their dates typically revolved around their high school’s dance and athletic schedules.  Bradley took her to homecoming and to prom, and football games on Friday nights, where all her friends would meet them at a diner after their school— more often than not— lost.  He would take her on long drives where they got nowhere fast, with the two of them sitting in silence, and his music playing through the speakers.  She went over to his house once a week for dinner.  He’d take her to a movie every second Saturday.  And while it was all fine, none of it was very romantic. ‘Robotic’ is a more appropriate term.

And even with the fear of actual romance aside, Y/N has no idea what to discuss on a first date with someone.  She had already known a lot about her ex when they began going out, so there wasn’t a period of “getting to know you” that needed to happen.  The few first dates she’d had after him hadn’t been stellar, or even noteworthy.  If anything, they had been guides for what not to do on a first date.  And the funniest thing is that, while she’s fairly sure her last first date had been the catalyst for Harry asking her out, the actual date itself had been awful.  But if she’s right, and that was the factor that set Harry off, then maybe she should be grateful for all those awful dates from her past, because Harry, in contrast to all those horrible dates, is different in every conceivable way.

Harry is just different.  When she speaks, he listens.  When he looks at her, he really looks at her, and he sees her in a way she’s not sure she’s ever been seen before.  And, honestly, he has seen her in ways she’s never been seen before, and that’s exactly what Y/N is worried about.  How do you sip a mimosa with someone at the Persimmon Pantry after they’ve throat fucked you on your couch, or bent you over the kitchen counter, or handcuffed you to their bed?  How do you ask someone about their favourite movie when they’ve coaxed multiple orgasms from you over the phone as Sinister played from the TV screen?  How do you listen as someone tells you about their childhood dog when the last dog you were concerned about was the position they bent you into as they spread your—

Y/N clears her throat and shakes her head of the thought, reevaluating her heated complexion in the mirror that hangs on the back of her bedroom door. “Stop it.” She mutters to herself, attempting to give her reflection a stern look. “You’re not going to be able to make it through this if you’ve thrown the towel in before Harry’s even picked you up.”

And that’s another thing, Y/N thinks, as she opens her bedroom closet and begins searching through it for something acceptable to wear.  Harry insisted on picking her up, even though the restaurant he chose was a fifteen minute walk from her apartment.  She’d brought this up to him when he asked her to brunch over the phone (which is a whole other thing in and of itself— he only called her when he had his hand wrapped around his cock and needed her voice to finish himself off; wouldn’t a text have been sufficient?), but Harry had blown off her concern without a second thought.

“Part of taking you on a date is picking you up, Y/N.”

“Yeah, but the Persimmon Pantry is between our apartments.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to meet there?  Then you wouldn’t waste your time driving past it to get me.”

“I don’t consider anything involving you to be a waste of time.” Harry had answered immediately, his voice stern, but still allowing a vein of tenderness to run underneath it. “Is that your only concern, then?  Me picking you up?”

No, Y/N had thought.  It’s not my only concern, but how the fuck do I explain everything else?

“Yeah.” Y/N had answered tightly, her voice weak. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, it’s not a concern of mine, so don’t worry.  I’ll pick you up at 10:45 Sunday morning.” And then there had been a pause, full of baited breath and nerves, before Harry’s thick accent rang through her phone again. “I can’t wait to see you.”

Those parting words had sat in her stomach since, warm and cozy and inviting, keeping a soft, constant glow filtering in her veins until the end of the week came. 

Y/N glances at the blinking clock beside her bed.  It’s 10:17 now, a couple days after that conversation, which means she has less than half an hour to pick something to wear, style her hair that’s currently dripping wet from her shower, and throw on enough makeup to cover up the bags under her eyes that have been developing over the last few nights.  After becoming so used to sleeping with Harry next to her every weekend, Y/N is now finding that not having him in her bed, smoothing her hair and rubbing her cheek as she cuddles into his cool chest is prohibiting her from getting a good night’s sleep.

Another concern, certainly, but not one she can deal with at this moment.  The best she can do is smear on some concealer and hope for the best, and with that in mind, Y/N turns her full attention to her evaluation of her closet.

“Brunch,” She murmurs to herself, slowly pushing her clothing apart to examine each article. “We’re going to brunch.  What do you wear to brunch?”

Brunch, she decides after a moment of consideration, is casual, but not sloppy casual, so jeans and a t-shirt are off the table.  It’s Sunday casual, like the outfits her mother would pick out for her to wear to Sunday afternoon teas with the other church women once she turned 15 and had to “start acting like a lady.”  Sunday casual, Y/N thinks, but maybe not those outfits.  The raised necklines and starched collars had made her neck itch the entire time, and she had picked at the hemlines of her dresses under tables until the seams began to unravel.  Sunday casual, but more of her actual style.  Sunday casual, but sluttier, maybe?  Could one describe Sunday casual as slutty?

Y/N groans as she takes a step back from her closet, clutching her towel to her chest with a tense hand.  Maybe she’s going about this the wrong way.  Maybe she should try to match Harry…? 

A sharp snort falls from Y/N’s mouth.  Yeah, like she could ever match Harry.  Harry, who is so obsessed with labels that even his handcuffs are embossed with the Gucci logo.  Harry, who is so attractive that it’s almost otherworldly.  Harry, who can make her tiny apartment look like a New York Fashion Week runway by simply walking down the corridor of her entrance.  Matching Harry is almost impossible.  She could show up in a full length gown, and Harry would still outshine her in a graphic t-shirt and flared jeans.

“Hey.” Y/N chastises herself lightly, catching her judgemental eye in her mirror once again. “Stop it.  Don’t be mean to yourself, just...just pick something to wear.  It shouldn’t be this hard.”

After returning to her closet search and trying on a few different combinations, Y/N finally settles on an outfit consisting of a pale yellow sundress with a sweetheart neckline and tea length skirt, but dresses it down with a denim jacket and a pair of cotton candy coloured vans.  It’s bright and fun, but still casual enough that it looks like she just threw it on.  

“Oh, this old thing?”  Y/N raises her eyebrows in mock surprise as she moves to her bathroom to begin to tackle her hair.  She keeps practicing the imaginary conversation in the mirror with herself, and while she knows she sounds insane, it oddly keeps her nerves in check. “Oh, I just pulled it out of my closet a few minutes before you got here.  Haven’t worn it in years.  Do you like it?” The mortal pauses as she reaches for her makeup, deciding to keep herself to a more natural look for the day. “Thank you, Harry, that’s so sweet.  You look nice, as well.”

She lightly fills her brows before sweeping some neutral eyeshadow over her lids, pausing her muttering to herself to concentrate on drawing her eyeliner as neatly as she likes.  Once she’s satisfied with that, she moves to mascara, adding a thin coat to her lashes and blotting off the makeup she smudges underneath her eye by mistake.  When that’s finished, the young woman takes a step back from the mirror, appraising her appearance.

It’s not awful, honestly.  She could do worse.  In fact, if it weren’t for the ball of anxiety currently twisting its way through Y/N’s stomach, she might even praise herself for the cute and casual look she’s managed to pull off.

“You look good.” She murmurs to her reflection as she reaches for her small silver hoops, slipping them through her lobes with a quick and practiced motion. “Good job.” With her eyes locked on her reflection, Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Today is going to be fine.  Better than fine, actually.  And it would probably go better if you stopped talking to yourself, so maybe let’s get that in check before Harry gets here—?”

As if on cue, a now familiar knock on her front door causes the mortal’s mouth to snap shut, clamping off the rest of her third person monologue.  When she makes a quick pause to straighten her jacket and fetch her over-the-shoulder woven bag, Y/N impulsively decides to grab her favourite perfume bottle, giving her body a quick spritz before making her way to the door and opening it with breathless anticipation.

Harry, of course, looks fucking incredible.  Although his casual outfit consists of a black short sleeved button up shirt tucked into white slacks, Harry manages to work the whole number like a model.  His usual cross necklace, unique rings, and stately single cross earring adorn his body, drawing Y/N’s eyes to the glint of the metals as a pair of black sunglasses sit atop the man’s defined nose.  He meets Y/N’s eyes behind them, a grin beginning to paint itself over his cherry lips as his jeweled hand pushes the sunglasses from his face and into his chestnut locks, revealing his bright jade gaze full of genuine kindness. 

“Well, look at you. Proper model now, aren’t you, Miss Urban Outfitters?” Harry’s voice takes on a casual tone, but the flirty phrase sends a shiver of pleasure down Y/N’s spine. “You look so fucking good in yellow, love.  Why have I never seen you in yellow before?”

The shiver of pleasure reverberates throughout Y/N’s entire body. “Maybe because I’m usually naked when I’m around you?” She retorts quickly, reaching to the little hook next to her door to grab her keys. 

“Hm.  That’s true.” The pleased cadence in Harry’s voice catches Y/N’s ear over the click of the door lock. “Guess you go for the Victoria’s Secret look more often, hm? Though I’m not complaining. You look just as good in lace.” 

“Thanks. But not today, I guess.” Y/N says quietly as she pushes down the heat boiling her face, unable to bite her tongue before the words slip out. “We’re on a real date today.”

“Right you are, Watson.” Harry grins cheekily as he motions for the girl to walk past him, following closely with a guiding hand on the small of her back. “We’re on a real date.  It’s probably a little overdue, but you know what they say...better late than never, right?”

The moment she takes a step past him, it hits Harry.  Although her delectable signature scent of lavender and honey is still there, it’s faintly hidden behind the nearly overpowering scent of gardenia and freesia he smelled last time he was in her hallway, when that oafish buffoon had the audacity to try and seduce her.  And despite the fact that Harry prefers Y/N’s natural fragrance to any other scent on the planet, knowing that she took the time to spritz herself with perfume before greeting him brings a dimpled smile to his face.  Harry considers making a comment about it, but bites it back at the last moment.  The last thing he needs is to have to explain why he pays such particular attention to Y/N’s scent.

When the pair exit the apartment building, Harry takes the lead in front of Y/N, unlocking his flashy car with a click of the remote and opening the passenger door with ease.  He extends a hand, grasping the mortal girl’s hand in his own with care as he helps her into the car.  The click of the car door shutting comes a moment later than expected as Harry pauses to fix the hem of Y/N’s dress, making sure it’s free of the doorway before closing the door without clamping the light fabric.

Harry doesn’t even think twice before readjusting Y/N’s skirt, with the move coming as naturally to him as breathing once did, and merely notes the stuttering of Y/N’s heartbeat with a half hidden smug smile.  It’s not until he’s in the driver’s seat and stopped at a red light that he realizes what that stuttering rhythm is indicating.

Y/N is tense.  Even without his supernatural abilities that allow him to hear her heart, register her strained breathing, and feel the energy radiating from her body, Harry would be able to tell that some part of her feels...uncomfortable.  Nervous, even.  But for what?  What about Harry—aside from the obvious that the human is unaware of—could make her nervous?  After the countless hours in bed together, the lazy Saturday afternoons, the kitchen singalongs, Harry would think that Y/N would be as comfortable with him as he is with her.  After all she’d shown him when they have sex—

Huh.  Maybe that’s it, Harry thinks, giving the mortal a quick look from the corner of his eye.  The light ahead of them turns green, and Harry continues to ponder his realization as he presses on the gas.  If sex has become the norm for them, then maybe a date is outside of her comfort zone.  Or maybe, now that her brain isn’t fogged by the endorphins that roll through her veins whenever Harry coaxes an orgasm from her trembling body, Y/N is realizing how unnatural it feels to be around Harry.  

As much as Harry likes to pretend otherwise, humans aren’t dumb.  If they get too close to someone of Harry’s kind, some sharp-sighted mortals begin to sense that there’s something different about them.  Aside from the easy targets and quick decisions, part of the reason that picking up meals in clubs works so well for Harry and his friends is that a mortal’s senses are dulled in the flashing lights and inebriated atmosphere of a club.  If Y/N is beginning to sense that there’s something different about Harry, or if she’s beginning to feel uneasy about being around him, then she must be wondering why.  In Harry’s experience, mortals will relate their uncomfortable feelings about the supernatural into something they have more experience with to make sense of it all, and if that’s what Y/N is doing, then she’s probably attributing her newfound discomfort towards Harry trying to take advantage of her.  If he could read her mind, he might see a horrific scene playing out like an old movie: Harry buying her a meal, soaking her rational thinking in mimosas and other drinks spiked with God knows what, and then helping her back to his car, where he drives her back to his apartment, practically carrying her inebriated body through the door towards his bedroom…

The car takes a sharp right turn into the restaurant parking lot, and Harry guides it to a spot with his hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel.  The idea of Y/N thinking him capable of that, capable of hurting her like that...it takes Harry a moment to extract his clenched hands from the wheel.  If that was really what Y/N was thinking, then he could fix it.  All it would take to set her at ease would be a quick request, a repeated statement, and the girl’s breathing would even out, and everything could continue like he had planned.

“Y/N?” He begins, keeping his voice as smooth as silk as he sets the car into park and turns it off. “Look at me, please.”

And then she does.  And Harry forgets his plan within a moment.

There’s nervousness apparent in her eyes, yes, but no fear.  Although her lips are chewed red, they don’t tremble when she answers him with a quiet “yes?” Despite their close proximity, she keeps leaning closer to him, and whether she’s aware of the action or not, the constant inch of her hand closer to Harry’s softens the immortal more than he thought possible.  He can’t compel her to let down her guard when she already trusts him.

“I know that this is different for us.  Doing something like this.” Harry begins, keeping his eyes as sincere as possible without compelling the young woman in front of him, who is keeping her eyes on his emerald irises with steadfast attention. “But I want this to be a proper date, like...like what I should’ve probably taken you on a month ago.”

Warmth rises to Y/N’s cheeks at the confession. “So do I.  I like being around you, Harry.  A lot.  I’m just a little...nervous, I guess.”

Harry bites back a smile at how she sounds like she’s confessing something, as if her body language hasn’t been telling him that from the moment she got into his car. “I know.  So I think it would be best, just to prove that this is a real date, if we don’t have sex after we finish brunch.”

A choked sound falls from Y/N’s mouth, and Harry delights in watching her scramble for words before she manages to form a half indignant reply. “I didn’t say I was going to sleep with you!”

“You don’t have to say it, pet, because we both know you can’t keep your hands off me.  Exhibit A,” Harry nods at her hand, which is mere millimeters away from his thigh. “Being how you kept trying to grab onto me through the entire drive.”

Another gasp of indignation fills the car, and the emphasized outrage sets Harry at ease.  He’d rather Y/N be equal parts annoyed and—if the soft look hidden behind her eyes is any clue—endeared than have her equal parts nervous and anxious.  He’d take any anger directed at his expense if it meant she was at ease. 

“I wasn’t trying to grab you.” The mortal mutters under her breath, her eyes falling from his as the increase of her heart pricks Harry’s ears. “That’s just where my hand fell naturally.”

“Right.” Harry answers in a disbelieving voice, his smirk growing as Y/N rolls her eyes in response. “Well, either way…” He extends a jeweled hand and grips her chin between his thumb and forefinger, enjoying how her breath stutters as he turns her head to look at him. “What do you say?  No sex after our date?  Think we can behave ourselves?”

“I can.” Y/N answers, irritation laced through her voice to hide the desire settling between her words. “You, on the other hand...I doubt you’ll be able to keep it in your pants.”

A wry smile works it’s way over Harry’s lips, and the vampire wets them with his tongue as he uses his gentle grip on Y/N’s jaw to tilt her head forward. “I have wonderful self-control, darling.” He breathes the words, letting the scent of mint roll over Y/N’s face, and delights in the way it intoxicates her with every syllable.  Harry ghosts his lips over the curve of her jaw, smudging his kisses down her neck until he can feel her pulse thumping unevenly beneath his lips.  His mouth opens just slightly as he leaves a lingering kiss on the area, his tongue gliding carefully over her sweet-scented skin. 

Despite every instinct in his body telling him to sink his teeth into the beating pulse he feels and quench the thirst that burns in the back of his throat like a roaring fire, Harry manages to pull away. “See?” He murmurs softly, his cool breath still clouding Y/N’s every inhale. “Self control.”

While Harry is a master at withholding his desires, the effect his actions have on Y/N is apparent in her reply. “Good.” The mortal swallows thickly, her pulse fluttering again as Harry releases her chin and drags his fingers down her neck. “That’s good to know.  So no sex, then.”

“Right.” Harry grins triumphantly as Y/N attempts to collect herself.  The smug expression on Harry’s face lets her know that he’s completely aware of the impact he has on her, and it drives her insane to no end.  Although her conscience is urging her to play his game, and do her best to fluster him as he flusters her, the more rational part of her stops that thought in its tracks.  This is what she wanted, wasn’t it?  To open herself up again, to open herself up to Harry in a way she hasn’t before?  To prove that she can let someone know her without burrowing themselves between her thighs?

The latch of her car door brings her from her thoughts, and her head jerks to the right to see Harry with one hand on the door handle as he extends the other to her to help her from the car.  Y/N, still fumbling with her seatbelt, takes a moment to grasp his hand in return, too swept up in the fact that Harry remembers to open her door to ponder how he always reaches her side of the car so quickly. 

However, there are some new developments that don’t slip from her attention, like how Harry keeps her hand grasped firmly in his icy grip even after she’s out of the car, pausing only to click the lock on his keyring before walking with her towards the door.  Or how, despite his long legs, he never falls out of step with Y/N, making sure to keep his strides measured and even so as not to yank on her hand.  Or how, even though her hand is already half extended out of habit, Harry reaches the door of the restaurant first, opening it smoothly and stepping back, gently laying his hand on the small of Y/N’s back to guide her inside the restaurant.

“Uh, thanks.” The young woman murmurs to him, a tone of perplexity running beneath her words.  She’s not quite sure why all of this surprises her; hadn’t Harry already proved that, despite his harsh and suggestive exterior, there’s an undercurrent of manners instilled into him?  

Maybe, she thinks as she watches Harry step forward to the restaurant host, the surprise and confusion is due to the lack of manners she received from her ex.  Despite the “small town charm,” as her mother had called it, Bradley had lacked the ability to successfully perform any gallantry, and any attempts he made to do so had only annoyed Y/N.  Whenever he tried to do something that may fall into that category, like insisting on driving everywhere they went, or choosing where they’d go for dinner, Y/N never felt that the actions came from a place of protection or chivalry; on the contrary, Y/N felt like each action was taken on the basis that she herself was incapable of doing the same things Bradley did.  On the one occasion she’d brought it up to him, he had scoffed, and argued that he was just trying to be a nice guy, and why would she have a problem with him trying to help her, and if she was going to complain, then he wouldn’t—

An icy touch to the dip of her back jerks Y/N from her thoughts, both metaphorically and literally as her body spasms away from the touch.  Upon hearing the alarmed gasp that falls from her lips, Harry turns his head to the side, a look of concern painted over his face.

“Everything alright, darling?” He asks in a quiet voice, his hand retracting from her back with uncertainty. 

“Yeah, sorry, just—caught up in thought, I guess.” Y/N covers quickly, giving him an apologetic smile. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

If the way the mortal shivers is any suggestion, Harry can guess what exactly about his touch took her by surprise. “I’m sorry.” He says sincerely, his fingers hovering a few millimeters above the fabric of her dress. “The, uh, the table I reserved is just on the patio around the corner.” Although he lays his hand on Y/N once again to guide her, Harry is careful to place his palm further up her spine, where the sensitive skin of her back is covered by her jean jacket in addition to the thin yellow sundress.  As much as he usually adores making her shiver, there’s something different about the action when he knows it’s because of his inhumanly cold touch, instead of his inhuman ability to pleasure her. 

The pair move in a line, following the hostess in a beeline through the busy restaurant and out onto the sunlit patio, where there are fewer occupied tables.  Stopping in front of a table partly shaded under an umbrella that’s away from the other diners, the hostess turns to the two of them, her eyes flickering over Harry once again.

“Is this table to your liking, Mr. Styles?” She asks, her voice sweet as sugar.  The stickiness of it grates against Y/N’s skin, but Harry gives no indication of finding it irritating.  In fact, he seems to give hardly any notice to the hostess at all, only half glancing at her before nodding his head. 

“Yes, it is, thank you.” He steps out to the side, grasping the back of the chair facing away from the sun and pulling it out.  It takes Y/N a moment and a half step already taken towards the opposite chair for her to realize that he’s pulling it out for her.

“Oh—” Face flushing with realization, Y/N steps back around Harry, settling down into the offered seat as he carefully pushes it in. “Uh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry replies, pausing to be sure she’s comfortable before taking his own seat across from her.  The hostess, who had been watching his actions with a keen eye, gives another smile to the vampire.

“Alright, Paige will be your server today, but before I leave,” The hostess spares a short glimpse at Y/N before turning her full attention back to Harry. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

The creature is aware of the effect he has on mortals, and has been since he was first turned.  While he normally plays that to his advantage (and while that was, to be frank, part of the reason he was able to take Y/N home from the club the night he met her), the attention is beginning to grind against his nerves.  It’s easy enough for him to ignore a human, especially one he has no interest in whatsoever, but he can see the way Y/N notices the hostess’ preference for addressing Harry.  More specifically, Harry can see the way it bothers her, and it would be amusing if his jealousy over Y/N going on a date with someone else hadn’t been the catalyst to their date today.

“No, that’s alright.” Harry finally responds to the waitress, glancing at her just enough so as not to be rude. “Thank you.”

The hostess smiles at him again before nodding to Y/N and turning on her heel, marching back towards the kitchen, and it takes just a soft snort falling from Y/N’s lips to pull Harry’s attention completely back to her.

“What?” He quirks an eyebrow up at the noise, reaching for the menu in front of him and flipping it open slowly. “Something funny?”

Y/N gives a small shake of her head as she mimics Harry’s action, casting her eyes downwards towards the now revealed menu. “No, not at all.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” The vampire reaches across the table to touch his date’s hand, flipping her arm carefully so he can lay two ringed fingers against the thin skin of her wrist, the fragile hummingbird flutter of her heart thumping beneath it. “And I’m too excellent at reading people to let it go.”

“Too stubborn, you mean?” Y/N corrects him as she raises her own brow, but much to Harry’s delight, she doesn’t pull back from his icy touch as she did earlier. 

Harry shrugs lightly, an unconcerned air tinting his attitude. “If that’s what you’d like to call it.  Either way, I’d like to know why you’re laughing at me.”

The mortal chews on the inside of her cheek, the action of her weighing her next words clearly written all over her face. “You seriously can’t tell me you don’t notice it.”

Cocking his head to the side, Harry gently yet consistently continues to stroke two fingers over Y/N’s velvety skin, the heat of her veins burning beneath his touch. “Notice what?”

Although she opens her mouth, Y/N’s reply is cut off by the clicking of high heels approaching their secluded corner, and it’s only a moment before a waitress (whom she assumes is Paige) is standing in front of their table.  Like her coworker before her, Paige gives a brief hello to Y/N before turning all of her attention to Harry, smiling brightly at him as she gives her opening spiel.

“Hi!  My name is Paige, and I’ll be your server today.  Can I get some drinks started for you?” She asks, her hands clasped tightly in front of her (Y/N always hates when servers don’t write down orders; she knows it looks impressive, but the attention it takes to remember exact specifications gives her secondhand anxiety) as she addresses Harry.  

The order is right at the tip of Harry’s tongue. “We’ll have two mimosas, please.  And two ice waters, as well.” He replies, smiling briefly at her as his fingers continue to glide over Y/N’s wrist.  The girl catches the way Paige’s eyes flicker to the movement, her (just barely) professional smile shifting for a fraction of a second before fixing itself, and while Y/N knows that it’s irrational, a small part of her can’t help but be pleased.

“Sounds good.  I’ll be right back with those.” She chimes giddily, her heels clicking against the ground once more as she walks away.

The moment she’s left, Harry has his full attention turned back to Y/N. “You didn’t answer my question.” He murmurs, his emerald eyes alight with curiosity. “Notice what?”

An exasperated sigh sounds from Y/N as she makes a face. “The way they stare at you.” She answers, jerking her head over her shoulder towards the restaurant door. “The hostess, the server—they were both practically undressing you with their eyes.  Are you telling me you didn’t notice that?”

Harry’s curious expression drops as he begins to shift in his seat, the stroking of his fingers over her wrist pausing for just one moment.  Ah, Y/N thinks.  Here it is.  A confession that, yes, Harry did notice it, and Harry (and his ego) loved the attention, and he—

“I noticed it, yeah.” He begins, a reluctant look painting itself onto his statuesque features as a finger on his free hand rubs over his lion head ring.

A glum feeling of satisfaction settles into Y/N’s stomach, and she pulls her hand back a few inches, completely removing it from Harry’s grasp. “I thought so—”

“But I didn’t see the point in mentioning it.” Harry continues, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m here with you.  Why would a spare look from a hostess or a server be anything but inconsequential to me?”

Huh.

“I…” For once, Y/N is stunned into silence. “Well, I just thought—”

“Y/N.” Her name sounds like a melody when it falls from Harry’s mouth, and the sincerity layered in his voice makes her snap her eyes to his. “Do you truly think I would flirt with a waitress on a date I asked you on?  Does that sound like me?”

“Well, honestly…” Harry’s stare bores into hers, prickling Y/N’s skin with the new and nearly uncomfortable sensation of being seen. “I don’t want to think so, but considering how we met…”

“Ah.” Harry’s lips turn down into a small grimace, but quickly right themselves as he once again grasps her hand in his two large palms. “I won’t pretend that I’m not a bit of a—”

“Whore?”

Harry’s lip twitches in amusement again at the blatant tone of the girl’s voice. “Didn’t we just have a conversation about you slut-shaming me?”

The flush that overtakes Y/N’s face indicates that she remembers. “Yes, we did.  But I seem to recall you agreeing.  After you teased me for it, of course.”

“Of course.  We both know how much you love teasing.” Harry digs his nails ever so slightly into her wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to pull a small gasp from her mouth as his grip begins to mimic the handcuffs that she had begged him to use on her. “But all that aside...I couldn’t give less of a fuck about what they think of me.  I’m here with you.  Despite most of my flaws, my mother raised me right.  I wouldn’t do that to you.”

The thunderous thumping of Y/N’s heart rings through Harry’s ears, a constant reminder of why he’s here.  Beneath her soft skin, beneath every telltale mark and scar, beneath her glittering eyes and silky lips, there’s the thing that keeps Harry alive.  Rushing through this girl’s arteries is the sustenance that Harry needs to survive, the sweetest liquid he’s ever consumed, and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it at his beck and call.  If being the gentleman of Y/N’s dreams is what will keep her available for him, then that’s what he’ll do.  The pounding of her heart is the beat that keeps him in time with the tune of his life.  It’s nothing more and nothing less. 

Still, Harry chooses his next words attentively, to bring back a joking manner to the conversation. “Someone must have done a number on you, huh?  Was everything not so charming in Smalltown, USA?  Did your parents split when you were a kid?”

And although Harry asks the questions with a smirk on his face, laughter in his voice, and mirth in his eyes, he doesn’t miss the way Y/N’s breath hitches in her chest, how her hand tenses beneath his, and how her eyes drop for a fraction of a second.  He’s touched a nerve, one that is obviously frayed and hurting, and the regret that instantly washes over him is tinged with the confusion of how he’s capable of feeling such an emotion so intensely. 

“Um—” While Y/N knew that she had to tell Harry about her disastrous dating history sooner or later, she had really hoped it would be later rather than sooner.  Is a discussion about one’s scumbag ex appropriate first date talk?  Can she bring it up now, or should she wait until they’ve finished their appetizers? 

“Alright, so I have two mimosas and two waters for you…” Paige’s return distracts Y/N from her dilemma for just a moment as the server sets down the four glasses in front of the respective recipients.  With her attention turned back to Harry, she takes a step back from the table. “Are you ready to order?”

Y/N’s eyes snap to the open menu in front of her, which had become the least of her concerns over the last few minutes. “Oh, I haven’t—”

“We’ll get two orders of the chorizo and goat cheese crepes, please.” Harry closes his menu before reaching for Y/N’s and repeating the motion, handing them back to Paige with a charming yet neutral smile. “And a side of hashbrowns, please, to share.”

Brow furrowing as the server scurries away without giving her a second glance, Y/N gapes at Harry, her voice wrought with confusion. “Why did you order for me?”

Harry raises his mimosa to his lips and takes a long sip, setting the condensation-covered glass back down on the table before replying. “You didn’t know what you wanted, and the crepes are delicious.  Did you want something else?” With a lick of his red lips, he glances over his shoulder. “I can call her back if—”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Y/N wraps her hand around the alcoholic drink, swirling her finger over the cold glass. “I can order for myself.  I’m a grown woman.  Do you think I’m not capable or something?”

Harry cocks his head to the side, appraising how the mortal’s expression is closing off with every passing moment.  This bothers her, he realizes.  The idea of him not thinking she’s capable of something bothers her, enough that she’s clenching her glass, and her normally clear eyes are swirling with anger more and more with every passing moment.

“I know you’re capable, Y/N.  I just thought that…” Shifting in his seat, Harry clears his throat as he gathers his words in his mind.  Wasn’t he supposed to be the one asking the questions? “It’s supposed to be polite.”

“In what century?” She replies, her mouth falling agape in surprise as her eyes widen. “Men used to order for women because women weren’t allowed to, right?  Because men made the decisions?  Holding open a door is one thing, but choosing for me—”

“Okay, maybe choosing for you was impolite.  I thought you were unsure on what to order, but I should’ve asked first.  I’m sorry.” Harry half mumbles the apology as an uncomfortable feeling of shame begins to buzz in his stomach. “But the ordering thing, that— men did that as a sign of respect, so women wouldn’t have to talk to someone they didn’t know.  I really didn’t mean anything by it, I swear.  My mum just taught me that it was polite, so I...it’s a habit.  I’m sorry.  I won’t do it again.”

He watches as Y/N chews her bottom lip, seemingly contemplating the authenticness of his apology.  Everything he had said was true, of course.  His mother did teach him that it was polite to order something for a date so she wouldn’t have to speak to someone she doesn’t know.  Of course, it was also true that the practice had died out a century ago, and most women now preferred to speak for themselves.  Harry can’t begrudge Y/N if she dislikes what he did; she’s proved time and time again that she can be rather independent.  However, Harry’s surprised at the disappointment he feels about her reaction.  If this is going to be a proper date, he’d like to hold it up to his standards of proper.

“Alright.” The mortal says after a moment, releasing her lip from her teeth and finally raising her mimosa to her mouth. “You’re forgiven.  But I think I’ve earned the right to compensation for your assumptions.”

“Compensation could be arranged, I suppose.” Harry leans forward with a sly grin, his fingers finding the delicate skin of Y/N’s wrist once more. “I feel like I’ve been fairly firm on the no sex thing, but I could pencil you in for some compensation tomorrow evening, if that works for you.”

Y/N swirls the liquid in her glass as she bites back a smirk. “I was thinking of something a little different than an orgasm, actually.”

“What could possibly be better than an orgasm given by me?” Harry questions, his free hand fingering the cross around his neck. “Didn’t you once compare them to a gift from God?”

“I don’t recall ever saying that, actually.” The mortal girl replies in a dry voice, setting her glass down with a decisive thunk. “I don’t want an orgasm—”

“Oh, that’s a bloody lie—”

“I want information.” Tapping her fingers against the table, Y/N stares Harry down with firm eyes. “Like where did you grow up that your mother taught you it was appropriate to speak for a woman?  Or why have you avoided any personal questions I’ve tried to ask over the last month?”

Harry retracts his hand from Y/N’s wrist as she voices her inquisition, settling his fingers on the rim of his mimosa to begin tracing the smooth glass. “To be fair, pet, you haven’t asked many personal questions.  You’ve been too busy bouncing on my cock, haven’t you?”

“Maybe, but I won’t be today, as per our agreement.” Y/N steeps her fingers together as she leans towards him, the comical sight of her posture forcing Harry to repress a snort. “And you brought up personal questions first, Holmes.  So you kind of screwed yourself, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did.  I’ve gotten so used to you doing the screwing, Watson.  Guess I’m getting sloppy— although you seem to like that.” Harry can’t help but get in one last dig before conceding, taking a long gulp of his beverage before smacking his lips. “I’ll tell you what.” He says, pointing a jeweled finger at his date with his glass still wrapped tightly in his hand. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Pursing her lips, Y/N quirks up an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Let’s play a little question game.” Harry sets down his glass as he elaborates, his signature smirk growing over his cherry lips. “We alternate questions back and forth, asking whatever we’ve wanted to know.  And the other person has to answer it honestly.”

Or as honestly as possible, Harry amends in his head.  For obvious reasons, he’ll have to fabricate the majority of his answers, but that’s nothing new to him.  Over the years, he’s had to create multiple spiels about his childhood, taking tiny pieces of truths and weaving them together with updated lies.  Spitting out a few standard stories about where he grew up and why he left London is small change compared to his burning desire to know more about Y/N’s past.  

The mortal chews on the inside of her cheek again, weighing her options in her head as she holds Harry’s questioning stare.  As much as she hates to discuss her life story, and as much as she’d been hoping to hide it from Harry, she knows that she has to be honest with him if she wants him to be honest with her.  As awkward as it may be, she’ll have to tell the stories sometime.

“Alright.” She relents after a moment, blowing out a harsh breath and lifting her mimosa to her lips. “But I get to ask the first question.  Ladies first, and all that.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Harry flashes a cheeky grin at her, his left eye dropping into a quick wink. “Start your inquisition, Watson.”

Harry’s been in this position millions of times, so he knows the types of questions that are about to tumble from Y/N’s pretty lips.  She’ll start off by asking where he grew up, and where he went to school, and how many siblings he has, before moving to things like why he moved to L.A., and how he made friends, and—

“What else did your mother teach you, besides manners?” Y/N asks suddenly, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth to catch a stray drop of liquid on her bottom lip as she lowers her glass. “And what was the most important thing?” 

The nature of the question catches Harry so off guard that he doesn’t remember to quell the throb in his chest where his heart used to beat at the mention of his mother, and the old half healed wound flares with pain.  What had his mother taught him?  Harry ponders the question as Y/N’s curious eyes ponder him.  What hadn’t she taught him? 

“My mother taught me…many things.  Many good things.  She was a wonderful woman.” Harry begins honestly, albeit carefully, speaking in a measured voice as his eyes fall to her opal ring that sits upon his pinky. “She taught me how to read as a child, before I began school.  She taught me...she taught me how to cook a bit.  I’m not nearly as good as she was, but I’m passable.  And yes, she did teach me how to behave around women, how to be respectful.  But the most important thing…”

Y/N watches as Harry’s eyes bore into the ring on his finger, as if he’s staring into a crystal ball of the past to search for an answer.  Perhaps, in a way, he is. 

“The most important thing,” Harry repeats again, his eyes finally snapping away from the entrapment of the ring. “Was how to let someone know you appreciate them.  It’s easy, I think, to go about your day without telling someone you care for them.” Stroking his thumb over the band of the ring, Harry thinks back to the countless ways his mother had wordlessly shown Harry and his sister how much she adored them. “Little touches, or little favours, things like that— those go a long way.  They help someone feel less alone.  They can be the difference between a good day and a bad day.  She used to, um,” A lump suddenly develops in his throat, and Harry struggles to swallow it down as he voices a memory he hasn’t spoken aloud in over a century. “She used to comb her fingers through my hair when I was a little boy, whenever I was upset.  I’d come home from—“ Harry cuts himself off before he mentions his father’s blacksmith forge, where he was an apprentice. “—from school, and she would take one look at me and be able to see I was frustrated.  She always sat in this big chair in front of the fireplace, and she’d pat her lap, and I’d sit in front of her knees and lay my head on her leg, and she’d card her fingers through my hair as I told her every bad thing that happened that day.” Unconsciously, Harry raises his own hand to his chestnut curls, raking his fingers through them.  The motion doesn’t bring nearly as much comfort as it once did. “She always listened.  She never made me feel like my problems were silly.  She just listened.  It made me feel better.  Made me feel…” The vampire’s hand drifts from his hair to his lips, rubbing over them pensively. “Loved.”

The mortal girl’s eyes soften as she listens to the memories of the man in front of her, who begins to look younger and younger with every word that falls from his lips.  Although she’s surprised by the candor of his answer, it pleases her; she thought pulling truths from Harry would be like pulling teeth.  One note of his story, however, catches her attention with an ache. 

“You said...you said she was a wonderful woman.” Y/N murmurs, carefully gauging Harry’s reaction to the question. “Is she...not anymore?”

“I’m sure she would be, but she passed away a…a while ago.” Harry’s eyes shift to the ring again, the dainty band with its opal stone standing out from the rest of his chunky jewelry.  Y/N wonders if that’s because it once belonged to someone else. “She got sick, and couldn’t get better.”

With a careful but tender motion, Y/N slides her hand across the table and settles it on top of Harry’s, cupping his larger hand in her smaller grasp. “I’m so sorry.” The sincerity in her voice snags Harry’s attention, and the vampire looks up to find the mortal staring at him with understanding eyes. “I can’t imagine how awful that must have been for you.  You must miss her very much.”

It takes Harry a moment to clear the lump from his throat enough that he can choke out a response. “I-I do, yeah.  Every day.” He’s not sure if it’s his icy skin or the burn of Y/N’s touch, but he slowly pulls his hand from beneath her grasp, reaching for his glass of ice water instead.  He gulps down half the liquid, setting the cup down with a decisive thunk before pasting a strained smile onto his face. “But that’s enough of my sob story, don’t you think?  It’s my turn to ask a question.”

A small frown works its way over Y/N’s face as Harry pulls away, and she clasps her now empty hands together around the stem of her mimosa glass. “Fine.  What do you want to know?”

“The answer to my previous inquiry.” Harry’s emerald irises sweep over her figure, his tongue poking between his teeth as his simper becomes more genuine. “Someone must’ve really done a number on you if opening a door for you is a shock.  What’s the story there?”

Although she knew that this would be Harry’s first question, Y/N still bides her time by knocking back the rest of her mimosa in one swift gulp, wrinkling her nose at the lingering taste that catches in the back of her throat. “His name was Bradley.” She begins, tapping a fingernail against the delicate glass. “And he—”

“So sorry to cut you off, darling, but,” Harry raises a finger to pause her speech, his rings glinting in the L.A. sun. “Bradley?  You fucked someone named Bradley?”

“It was a small town!  It’s not like I had many options!” Y/N argues hotly, her eyes rolling harder than they ever have before. “Now are you going to be quiet and listen politely, or are you going to keep interrupting me before I can even begin?”

Harry laughs once, shaking his head with an amused air. “Sorry.  Continue.” Despite the teasing smirk still tugging at his lips, Harry raises a hand to the corner of his mouth, pretending to lock it shut with an imaginary key.  He even takes care to slide the invisible key into his shirt pocket, patting it with satisfaction once the deed is done. 

Y/N takes one more moment to glare at him, but Harry’s newfound silence continues, and so she does, as well. “His name was Bradley.  I met him through a mutual friend in our freshman year of high school.  I’d seen him around before, but we’d never talked, really.  And after he asked me to Homecoming, he just kind of…stuck.” The girl shrugs in a way of explanation. “Like, he started coming around more to my house, taking me out to movies.  And it was nice.  The attention, I mean.  There was no one else I was really interested in at school, and Bradley was cute, and he was friendly, and our families really liked each other.  It made sense.”

As she speaks, a crease works its way between Harry’s perfectly sculpted brows.  Most mortal romances, he’s come to find, are rather dull, but this one seems more boring than others, and he can’t stop himself from raising his jeweled hand in the air as if he were in one of the classes Y/N mentioned, waiting for the teacher to call on him for an answer. 

When Y/N notices the hand, an exasperated sigh falls from her mouth, but she leans across the table and retrieves the imaginary key from Harry’s shirt pocket, her warm fingers leaving pinpricks of fire across his chest.  A small smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips as those warm fingers touch the lifted spot, mimicking an unlocking motion before she sits back in her seat. “Yes?”

Harry rests a bent elbow on the table, propping his chin up on his fist as he leans forward. “I have a question.” He begins innocently, watching as Y/N narrows her eyes at his sudden polite intrigue.

“Yes?” She repeats again, wariness written into her tone as she evaluated the suspicious air of Harry’s behaviour. 

“I was just wondering how big Bradley’s dick is.” Harry’s grin grows to wicked proportions as Y/N’s mouth falls open in shock. “Because, honestly, he doesn’t seem to have that much going for him, and I’ve been wracking my brain to figure out why you dated him, and the only answer I can come up with is—“

“That his dick must be huge?”

“That he’s well endowed, yes.” Harry finishes smugly, tapping a finger against his chin. “I’m curious.  Are we talking about a carrot?  A cucumber?  A zucchini?” Lip twitching again, Harry stifles a laugh as Y/N’s face hardens with exasperation. “A stalk of celery?  I suppose the length could be a selling point, but if there’s not enough girth to fill you—”

“His dick wasn’t the reason I dated him.” Y/N replies flatly, a deadpan stare meeting Harry’s mirth filled eyes. “Although, since you’re curious…it was the size of a cucumber, but not an English cucumber.  More of a garden variety.  Not incredibly girthy, but good for a beginner.”

“A beginner?” Intrigue sparks at the pit of Harry’s belly (along with what he thinks is jealousy, but he’ll wait to dissect that at a later date) as the vampire leans forward more. “This bloke was your first?”

“We were together for years, so—” Y/N cuts herself off with a shake of her head, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger nervously. “No, wait, that’s another question!  You don’t get another question if I didn’t!”

“But you haven’t finished answering my first question—”

“I would if you’d stop interrupting!” Silencing Harry with a stern look, Y/N holds up her left hand, pinching two of her fingers together. “Do I need to pretend to lock your mouth again like I would a seven year old, or can you sit and listen like an adult for five minutes?  What happened to that old fashioned chivalry from earlier?”

Harry lets out a defeated sigh, sitting back in his chair with proper posture.  He takes a moment to adjust himself, straightening his back, fixing the fall of his shirt, adjusting his cross, planting his feet on the ground of the patio, and finishing off the show by rolling out his shoulders before squaring them. “Alright, I’m sorry.  I’m ready to listen.  Please continue.”

The young woman inhales deeply, testing Harry’s rapt attention as she takes her time sipping her ice water.  When she sets the glass down and finds that Harry has stayed perfectly still, his irises glued to her, she continues. 

“So Bradley and I got together our freshman year, and stayed together for the rest of high school.  It was comfortable.  His mom liked me, and my parents liked him.  He came to church with us—” Y/N notes that Harry’s eyebrow lifts a quarter of an inch, but only for a moment before dropping back down into its neutral state. “—and he and I went out once or twice a week.  He was…nice.  But he didn’t do the stuff that you do, the…etiquette stuff.” She taps an index finger against the table, thinking back to all the movie and diner dates that have blurred together in her mind. “Well, he’d try, I suppose, but not in the way you do.  Whenever he did something that was supposed to be chivalrous or gallant, it felt like he was doing it because he thought I was incapable.  And when I brought it up, he got mad.” Y/N lifts one shoulder in a shy shrug as she smiles apologetically at Harry. “That’s why I didn’t understand you ordering for me.  I know you didn’t mean it in the way he did, I can tell that, but it just kind of…reminded me of him.  It left a bad taste in my mouth; he left a bad taste in my mouth, I guess.”

A beat of silence falls between them, and the intense way that Harry is looking at her is prickling the hair on the back of Y/N’s neck. 

“I get that.” The brunette speaks after a moment, voice low and accent thick. “Being haunted by someone.  Even after they’re gone, even after time passes…something can remind you of them, and it can be enough to bring you to your knees.”

Although Harry’s eyes are locked on hers, Y/N has the distinct feeling that he’s seeing someone else in her place.  Before she can ask what he means, however, he’s blinked himself out of the self-imposed trance. 

“So what was the final straw?” Harry clears his throat quietly as his mind comes back to the present. “Between you and Cucumber Dick?”

A tiny giggle escapes Y/N’s mouth despite her far from humorous answer. “Well—”

The telltale clicking of heels interrupts the unspoken thought, and within a moment, Paige is standing next to their table once again, a tray balanced on her hand with precision as she offers another one of her smiles to Harry. “Here you go—two orders of the chorizo and goat cheese crepes, and a side of hash browns.” The server sets the first plate down in front of Harry, but he quickly lifts it again and sets it down carefully in front of Y/N before accepting the second dish.  He repeats the motions with the hash browns, sliding them to the middle of the table and within Y/N’s reach. 

“Thank you.” Harry speaks with a kind tone, but offers no other comment to the girl, who’s allowed her eyes to slide to the dark ink that decorates Harry’s arms. 

“Of course.” Paige stutters, giving no pretense of paying attention to Y/N. “Could I get you anything else?”

Harry glances at Y/N’s empty mimosa glass, raising an eyebrow in question. “Would you like another drink?” He asks her slowly, his voice unsure.  Normally, he’d just order a second one for her without a thought, but now that he knows how she feels about him ordering for her, he’ll have to work on beating back that particular bit of Victorian etiquette. 

“I would, yes.” Y/N replies with a smile as she touches the stem of her empty glass. “Thank you.”

A strained smile flickers over Paige’s lips. “No problem.  I’ll be right back.”

Harry nods in satisfaction as he watches the server retreat. “There.  We have a few more minutes.  Keep talking.”

“Ah ah ah.” Y/N picks up her fork and sticks it into the hash browns, pulling away a crispy bite for herself. “I think I get to ask a question now, especially since you’ve crammed a few different inquiries into your last turn.”

“And here I was, thinking you loved when I crammed things into—”

“Harry.”

A teasing smile breaks across the vampire’s face, more genuine than Harry thought possible. “Fine.” He relents, cutting the corner off his crepes and popping the savory bite into his mouth. “What else would you like to know?”

Where to begin?  Y/N considers his question pensively as she takes a bite of her own crepe, her expression raising in surprise when she finds that she enjoys Harry’s entrée choice.  The smokiness and spice of the chorizo is undercut by the tangy saltiness of the cheese, all wrapped together with a few garnishes in the perfectly cooked crepe.  Savoring the bite as she chews, Y/N begins to run through the list of questions in her head. 

She could ask more about his family, but if the aching sadness that had radiated off of him at the mention of his mother was any hint, any answers Harry could give on that topic may be off tone for a first date.  And while inquiring about what he said before, about being haunted by someone seems promising, it may also be a bit too much.  As much as she dislikes talking about her personal life, she gets the feeling that Harry absolutely abhors it, and while she was surprised about him asking her on a date, she’s been even more surprised to find herself enjoying it.  The last thing she needs is to fuck that all up by interrogating him about an ex. 

With those two possibilities pushed aside, only one burning question is left on the tip of Y/N’s tongue, and she hurriedly swallows her mouthful of crepe before letting it fall. “Alright, I’ve got it.” Cocking her head to the side, Y/N points her fork at the man in an accusatory manner. “Did you ask me out on this date just because you were jealous I was out with Jacob?  Was that the only reason?  Because you saw me with him, and you didn’t like it?”

Harry wraps his ringed hand around his water glass, the metal of his jewelry clinking against the surface as he pulls a face.  Even if he wanted to be honest with Y/N about this, Harry isn’t quite sure what the honest answer would be.

“I’ll admit, I was a little…bothered by it.” Reluctance is threaded through every word that Harry manages to spit out. “Moreso by your taste in men than anything else— Jacob wasn’t exactly up to par.”

“It wasn’t like I chose him myself.” Y/N retorts, pulling a grape from the bunch of side fruit on her plate and popping it into her mouth. “Was that really all that bothered you?  That he wasn’t up to par?”

Tapping his fingers against the wooden table, Harry takes a moment to ponder the question. “No.” He says finally, deciding to continue his honesty streak. “No, that wasn’t all that bothered me.  You’re right, I didn’t like seeing you with him, but it wasn’t because of him.  Not entirely, anyways.  I can’t imagine I would’ve liked seeing you with anyone.”

A light flush works its way over the mortal’s cheeks, and Harry can hear the stuttered thumping of her heart. “Why?” She asks in a half whisper, her teeth worrying her bottom lip unconsciously. “Why is that?”

Harry muses the various answers he could give as Paige brings them refills on their mimosas.  It’s not like he can tell her that he wants to keep her available for snacking whenever he gets a little thirsty.  Well, he could, but then he’d have to wipe her mind, and he’s not particularly inclined to do that at the moment.  And, if he’s being honest with himself…he’s not entirely sure that’s the truth anymore.  Is sheer convenience the reason behind his terrible reaction to Y/N seeing someone else?  Or is that reaction linked to the way he felt when she opened her door to him that morning, and the sight of her all dolled up for him hit him like a truck?

Either way, none of those answers are suitable to confess in the moment, so Harry merely gives a dimpled grin. “That’s another question, darling.  We’re not very good at limiting ourselves, are we?”

“I suppose not, no.” Y/N smiles sheepishly as she takes a sip of her fresh mimosa, her eyes watching Harry over the rim of the glass. “Your turn, then.  What else do you want to know?”

What else would he like to know?  Harry thinks, taking another bite of chorizo as he mulls over the question.  Now that the floodgates have opened, now that he has the opportunity, now that he has the ability to ask, Harry wants to know everything.  He wants to know what makes Y/N tick, what her pet peeves are, and if she prefers mornings or nights.  He wants to know what her favourite school subject was, if she was ever in her school’s plays, or on any of the sports teams.  He wants to know her favourite flavour of ice cream, what TV shows she binge watches when she wants to distract herself, and if she’s really read all those books that line the floor to ceiling shelf in her room.  He wants to know her, he realizes.  She’s more fascinating than he ever thought possible, and her blood is more addicting than he knew.  He wants to know every aspect that molded her into the person sitting before him.  And one of those aspects is—

“Why did things end between you and Bradley?” He finally asks, his voice low and cautious. “Was it mutual, or...?”

Despite the time Harry took to think of his question, Y/N knew exactly what it was going to be, and she has her answer ready to go the moment the words roll from Harry’s pillowy lips. “He was cheating on me.” She admits with a sigh, her eyes glued to her mimosa glass as she swirls the orange liquid within it. “He went away for university, and I stayed home.  I guess he met someone at school.” Allowing her eyes to flick up to Harry for a moment, Y/N finds the man staring at her blankly with a harsh crease between his brows. “I kind of thought it was going to end, honestly.  He began to get more and more distant...we’d talk less over Skype or the phone...but I didn’t think he’d…” She trails off for a moment, thinking back to the day she found out. “Well.  He did.  I found out from his roommate, and the next day, he and I were through.  And almost five years of memories, time together, shared moments...all of that was just gone.”

Although it’s been years since things ended, and Y/N has moved on in tenfold, she can’t help the way her voice aches at the end of her explanation, which acts as proof of how the raw wound had healed in a way that wasn’t quite right.  No matter how much time passes, no matter how many people she’s been with, no matter how little she cares for Bradley now...nothing will change the fact that he hurt her.  Nothing will mend the jagged scar he created.  Sure, it may fade with time, but it’ll never disappear completely.  And as much as Y/N hates that Bradley still has an effect on her after all this time, she can’t change it.  She’s tried.

“That…” Harry’s cool hand wrapping around her own drags her back to the present, and she lifts her eyes to find the man staring at her with the most tender expression she’s ever seen his sculpted face wear. “That’s awful, Y/N.  I’m so sorry you went through that.”

“It’s—it’s fine.  Really.” Y/N half mumbles the words, distracted by the small circles Harry’s thumb is rubbing against the bone of her wrist.

Chestnut curls swaying, Harry adamantly shakes his head, the crease between his brows deepening with each passing moment. “Don’t.  It’s not fine.  You don’t have to make excuses for someone who hurt you.”

“I’m not making an excuse, I just—”

“Did he hurt you?” Harry’s jade irises fixate on her own with determination. “Yes or no?”

Once Y/N locks her eyes with Harry, she can’t look away.  His gaze nears hypnotic the more she looks. “Yes.  He hurt me.”

“Then he doesn’t deserve you making excuses for him.” The vampire squeezes her hand to emphasize his answer.  Although he’s not compelling her to understand him, Harry looks at her with an unfamiliar sincerity that he hopes makes the depth of his words resonate within her. “You may be fine now, or you may not be, but the situation itself wasn’t fine.  Don’t use your healing as an excuse for his behaviour.  You shouldn’t have had to heal yourself in the first place.”

The gravity of his words rings in Y/N’s ears, and the girl gapes at him for a moment, her mouth half open in shock, before the realization of what he’s saying hits her.  The way he’s staring at her…it’s nearly uncomfortable, the way he sees her.  She almost can’t bear it.  How does he know to say exactly what she needs to hear, even if she doesn’t know she needs to hear it?  Since the first night they slept together, when he reassured her that she could relax and let loose, Harry has been honest and reassuring.  And although Y/N has greatly appreciated that trait in the bedroom, when she’s been at her most vulnerable in a physical aspect…her eyes lock with Harry’s once more, finding them still as steadfast as ever.  This may be the most vulnerable she’s been emotionally in a long time.  And the idea of that, for once, doesn’t completely terrify her. 

The questions get more and more personal from there.  Although there’s a few lighthearted inquiries sprinkled in to ease the tension (“What was the name of your first pet?” “It was a cat named Mr. Snuffleupagus.  I named him after the Sesame Street character.  What’s your earliest childhood memory?” “My sister nearly drowning me in a lake.  She thought I would float.”), the majority of questions asked are things that neither person ever thought they would admit to someone else.  

Those questions range from vaguely prying (“How old were you when you lost your virginity?” “Seventeen.  It was with—” “Bradley and his beginner penis, right.” “Alright, smart ass, who did you lose yours to?” “My first girlfriend.”) to diving deep into memories, stories, and opinions that neither have so much as breathed to themselves in the dark of the night, let alone someone else.

Despite the plan having been to leave after brunch, the pair find themselves engrossed in their conversation, drinking mimosa after mimosa as the late morning bleeds into early afternoon, and they continue to discover each other. 

As Y/N takes a sip of her fourth beverage, Harry regards her with curious eyes, which are focused on picking apart every moment of her body to dissect and devour in his head when he’s alone that night. “So you said pretty much everyone from your hometown marries their high school sweetheart.” He asks slowly, rubbing a jeweled finger over his ice-swollen lips. “But you didn’t, obviously.”

“No, I did not.” Y/N says in agreement, a tipsy snort sounding from the back of her throat as she raises her fluted glass in a toast. “Thank fuck, honestly.  Could you imagine me as a wife right now?  And a mother?  With children?”

Finger tapping against his lip, a cheeky grin tugs at the very corner of his mouth. “No, I couldn’t, frankly.” Harry’s dimples wink at her as he answers. “But what I’d like to know is…do you believe in it?  Marriage, I mean?  Because you said your parents had rough patches, and you thought they mostly stayed together just to stay together, and you and Gherkin Pickle didn’t last—”

“I’m sorry, Gherkin Pickle—?”

“So what I want to know is…” With his thumb and knuckle still grazing his chin, Harry points his finger at the girl across the table. “Marriage.  Do you think there’s value in it?  Do you think someone can be monogamous for their entire life?  Do you want to get married someday?”

The alcohol is beginning to soak into Y/N’s brain, making her bolder with every thump of her heart in her chest.  She leans across the table to ghost her fingers over Harry’s knuckles, continuing to glide them over his cool skin until she reaches his statement rings. “Why?” She asks, a smirk twinkling its way onto her face. “Are you asking?”

“Not quite yet, no.” Harry can feel the alcohol beginning to buzz through his stagnant veins, and he’ll later blame his flirtatious response on the pleasant feeling. “Although you in that dress has me half considering it.”

“Only half considering it?” Y/N clicks her tongue in feigned disappointment, swirling the tip of her index finger over the opal ring that sits upon Harry’s pinkie. “That’s a bit disheartening.  I’ll have to up my game, huh?”

The sight of Y/N’s lithe finger tracing his mother’s ring sends a shock through Harry’s buzzing body.  He can’t quite tell if it’s the witty banter that she matches perfectly and with ease, the lighthearted smile that lifts her soft lips, the gentle pulse he can feel reverberating through her fingertip, or the cleavage that’s just barely slipping out of her dress as she leans over, but Harry can’t tear his eyes away from the mortal girl, not for one second.  He doesn’t want to miss a single moment of her like this.  How it’s all for him. 

“You know, I’m starting to regret my earlier proposal.” He murmurs quietly, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue as he watches the mortal take a long sip of her mimosa. “How much begging would it take to convince you to follow me to the bathroom right now for a little fun?”

Despite the warmth pooling between her thighs at the offer, Y/N shakes her head. “Too much begging.” She replies, setting her glass back down on the table with a soft clink.  She can already tell there’s a good chance that she’ll go back on the agreement they made, but she wants to make him sweat first.  As much as it tortures her, she knows it tortures him more.  And he’s certainly done his fair share of torturing.  Now it’s her turn. “But speaking of proposals…”

To his credit, Harry doesn’t push the subject of bathroom quickies again. “Right.” He pauses with his glass half raised to his lips. “Marriage.  Thoughts?”

Harry’s attention is rapt as his eyes drift to the mortal’s lips, which pucker slightly as her lightly inebriated mind thinks through the question.  Not for the first time, he wishes he had the ability to take a look inside her head and see how her thoughts form before she voices them. 

“I think…” She fixes her fork against her plate with a clink, her voice light but thoughtful as she forms her response. “I do think there’s value in marriage, but not inherently.  It’s not valuable just because it exists; I think it becomes valuable based on the work you put into it.  My parents, for example…” Her finger begins to circle Harry’s icy knuckle absentmindedly. “My parents didn’t put much work in, so I don’t think their marriage has that much value in comparison to what it could have if they tried.  But if two people put effort in, and strive to be the best partner they can be…I think there’s tremendous value in that.”

Harry responds with a low hum in the back of his throat. “That stands to reason.” He wishes he could take her hand in his own, but the sensation of her warm fingers tracing his skin is too wonderful to pull away. “What about monogamy?  Do you think it’s realistic?”

“I suppose my answer is the same.” Y/N shrugs lightly as her soft skin catches on the corner of Harry’s H ring. “It’s different for everyone, but I do think it can be realistic.  What’s not realistic is the idea that it’s easy.  People change over time, right?  Sometimes someone can change into someone completely different.  You have to expect that, and be flexible with it.”

For the first time since the beginning of their date, an uncomfortably negative feeling buzzes in the pit of Harry’s belly.  Of course Y/N thinks people change—she’s mortal.  But Harry, on the other hand… Harry is forever frozen at twenty-six.  Harry is static.  Harry is stagnant.  However Y/N will change, Harry cannot match it.  Ever. 

That realization helps him identify the uncomfortable feeling as his eyes fall on the girl’s finger tracing his rings.  It’s longing, he discovers, unable to look away from the way her fingernail scratches his immortal skin without so much as leaving a pinkening mark.  Harry will never change again, while Y/N has a whole life of it ahead of her.  Millions of possibilities that lead to millions of more possibilities, always shifting, never staying the same from one moment to the next. 

“As for your last question…” Y/N’s familiar cadence pulls Harry from his thoughts. “I’m not sure.  I wouldn’t completely rule out marriage, but it’s not an active goal of mine.  It all depends on finding someone I think I could grow with and still love at the end of every day.  And despite how simple that sounds,” The short laugh that leaves her mouth is wistful, but hides a tinge of bitterness. “It’s surprisingly hard to find.”

“It is, yeah.” Harry agrees, finishing the remnants of his mimosa with one fell swoop. “Incredibly hard.” His gaze sweeps to Y/N’s glass, which has about one more gulp of liquid left in it.  With the hand not within her grasp, he reaches across the table, picking up the glass and lifting it to her lips. “May I, pet?”

He can hear the way her heartbeat stutters in her chest, and feel the heat radiating off her cheeks as she nods slowly.  Harry places the glass between her lips, carefully tilting it back until the drink runs out of the crystal and into her awaiting mouth.  A small droplet streaks from the corner of Y/N’s mouth, and Harry is sure to catch it on his finger after setting the glass down. 

Y/N knows that Harry is doing his best to fluster her, and while it’s working, she knows that she can play the game just as well as he can.  Keeping her eyes on his like a challenge, she grasps the hand touching the corner of her mouth, guiding his finger beyond her lips with a firm grip.  The sweetness of the orange juice and champagne concoction swells across her tongue, but that’s nothing compared to the sweetness of watching Harry’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly. 

Pulling his finger from her mouth with a quiet pop, Y/N sets his hand back down on the table, squeezing it once before releasing both of his hands and resting her elbows on the table.  She steeples her fingers together, setting her chin on the makeshift rest as she regards Harry’s darkening eyes. 

“Thanks.” She murmurs, tilting her head to the side lazily as Harry shifts in his chair. “Didn’t realize I missed a drop.  That was a sharp catch, Holmes.”

Harry can’t help but flex his finger as his gaze drops to the digit, catching how a light sheen of saliva covers his skin.  Heat floods between his thighs, making him regret his choice of fashionable linen pants over standard jeans.  “Thank you, Watson.” He matches her banter, albeit with a slightly strained voice. “Shall we order another drink, now that we’ve both finished?”

The question hangs in the air between them like an invitation, open ended and carefully calculated.  Y/N leans forward again, unlocking one of her hands to run a finger over the dark ink staining Harry’s exposed forearm. “I think we should grab the check, actually.” She wets her lips with a swipe of her tongue as she feels Harry’s muscle tense under her touch. “I think I’ve had enough to drink.  Have you?”

All the moisture in Harry’s mouth disappears, his throat burning as the mortal girl’s scent envelops him with every move.  His eyes flicker to her neck, where the thumping of her heart is practically visible underneath her fragile skin.  With his inhuman eyes, he can just make out the ghost of a bruise he sucked into her neck a few nights before.  

Has he had enough to drink?  No.  He’ll never get enough.  But that’s not what Y/N means by the innocuous question. 

“I’ve had my fill, yeah.” Jerking his head in agreement, Harry motions towards the window, where he knows Paige has been analyzing every move between them.  Her displeasure at the close interactions between Harry and Y/N is nearly palpable as she makes her way back to their table, and Harry wonders if Y/N can also sense it, as she seems to be more perceptive than the average human.  When he turns his attention back to her, however, his brow creases in confusion. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, watching as Y/N shifts through her woven bag and extracts her wallet. 

“Grabbing my wallet?” Her expression is just as confused as his own when she replies. “To pay?”

“To—?  No.  Put that away.” Harry says sternly, using the same dominant tone he adopts in the bedroom (only half on purpose). “This is a date.  I’m paying.”

“This isn’t the 18th century, H.  We can split the bill.” Y/N begins to roll her eyes as she opens her wallet, reaching for the debit card stamped neatly with her name.

“I’m well aware it’s not the 18th century, love.” Lip twitching from the wry irony, Harry gently places his hand on her own and closes her wallet. “But it’s a date— our first one, at that— and I’d like to pay for you.  It’s just manners.” 

Although he can feel the grip on her wallet loosening, there’s still a degree of hesitancy apparent in Y/N’s eyes. “Harry—”

“And I don’t mean that in a chauvinistic way, and I don’t mean to imply that you’re incapable of paying.” He swipes his thumb over her knuckle once, letting his physical touch reinforce his words. “I asked you out, yeah?  So I think it’s only fair that I pay.”

Harry’s eyes flicker to Y/N’s pillowy lips as she worries them between her teeth, her resolve getting weaker and weaker with every passing moment.  It only takes three more beats of her heart for her to give a small nod, and Harry, satisfied that she’s agreed, reaches for his wallet to pay the bill.

Despite the temptation to short change Paige on the tip for her disregard for his date, Harry still leaves a sizable tip, saying goodbye to the server with a polite— and only polite— smile.  Once she has her back turned, however, Harry flashes his most genuine grin at Y/N as he scoots his chair away from the table to stand.

Y/N’s hands grip the sides of her chair to match Harry’s motion, but she freezes once she sees the man step towards her.  Within a moment, his jeweled hands are wrapped around the back of her chair, carefully pulling it out before offering her a hand to help her stand.

“Is this going to be a thing now?” Y/N asks, nodding to their clasped hands as she pulls her bag over her shoulder. “Pulling out chairs, opening doors—”

Placing his hand on the small of her back once again, Harry scoffs. “It’s always been a thing,” He argues, guiding her to the patio door and through the restaurant. “You’ve just been dating pricks, apparently.”

Despite his answer, however, even Harry can’t deny that the urge to resurrect his Victorian etiquette is as strange as it is sudden.  And, truth be told, there is something deeply pleasing in the light flush of blood he can hear work its way over Y/N’s cheeks when he opens the door of the restaurant for her, opens the car door, takes her hand to help her in, and shuts the door carefully before making his way to the driver’s side.  

It’s easy to spend the short drive back to her building with his hand entwined with hers, their fingers woven together as Harry’s thumb moves over her knuckles.  Y/N’s skin, like usual, is so warm, almost as if she’s made from sunshine herself.  At this point, Harry wouldn’t be surprised to learn that; her blood could certainly pass for being made from stardust. 

It’s all too soon that Harry is pulling into a parking spot in front of Y/N’s building and turning the key in the ignition, his favourite car smoothly powering down in one fell swoop.  Once the sound of the engine dies down, his eyes refocus on the girl next to him. 

Y/N, in comparison, is just as focused on Harry as Harry is on her.  She knows that it’s time to let go of his hand, time to climb out of the car, time to return to her apartment alone.  Time to fall out of the fantasy that has been this afternoon.  Despite knowing all of this, however, she stays glued to the seat, her eyes locked with Harry’s emerald irises in a soft battle. 

Harry is well aware of the predicament he’s found himself in.  While he was the one to establish the no sex rule in an attempt to keep Y/N comfortable, it’s becoming harder and harder to stick to it with every passing moment.  If he was smart, he’d bid the girl goodbye here, allow her to walk herself into her building, thereby erasing any possibility of him charming her into allowing him inside her apartment.  Then, once he was safely back home, he could draw himself a hot bath, scent it with lavender epsom salts, close his eyes to picture the way Y/N looks with laughter in her eyes, the sun spilling across her cheeks, her dress’ neckline falling dangerously low, and tug himself to a tension-relieving climax. 

However, Harry has never been known for his intelligence. Not as much as he’s been known for his recklessness.

Before he can second guess his most likely terrible decisions, Harry is out of the car and opening Y/N’s door.  He’s helping her out.  He’s guiding her into her building, and climbing up the stairs of her fifth floor walk up with her hand locked in his.  And now he’s standing in front of her apartment door, with Y/N shyly looking at him as she bites her fucking lip, completely unaware of the rampage raging inside the vampire before her. 

And the most infuriating, frustrating thing about the entire situation is the way Y/N is looking at him, like she can barely hold his gaze, but can’t force herself to look away.  Harry can feel the waves of need and uncertainty radiating from her, hear the thumping of her heart in her chest.  The last time she looked at him like this, like she’s unsure of where they stand, was the first night they met.  Harry remembers how she fumbled with her keys, nervously invited him in, and then let him use her in a way that literally drove him to his most primal state.  He remembers the euphoria of sinking his teeth into her neck, tasting her ridiculously sweet blood for the first time as his orgasm rolled over him, wave after wave of intense pleasure blurring together as his eyes burned crimson, the lewd sounds of their bodies moving together, the desperate whines that echoed from her throat...

“Thank you for lunch.” Y/N’s sweet voice interrupts his walk down memory lane, and with good timing— five more seconds, and Harry would have been pushing her against her front door to rut her dress up and slip inside her. “And the drinks.  I had a really nice time.”

Clearing his throat, Harry pushes the indecent thoughts from his head as best he can.  He can take care of this later, he tells himself.  He just has to be a gentleman for a few more minutes, and then he can go home, and be as depraved as he needs to be. “I did, as well.” The vampire squeezes her hand in preparation of letting go of it. “A really lovely time, actually.  I’d like to do it again.”

The way Y/N’s eyes widen ever so slightly as her breath just barely hitches, both of which would be imperceivable to human senses, makes Harry bite back a laugh. “I would too.” A more reassured smile rolls over her face as she leads his hand to her waist, setting it just over her hip and squeezing his fingers around her love handles. 

Even after everything Harry has done to her, all the ways he’s seen her, felt her, made her feel— even after all that— his hand on her hip over her dress still sends a shiver down her spine. “I don’t want you to go…” She confesses in a quiet voice, rubbing her thumb over his icy knuckles. “It feels strange, not having you come inside…”

“I know.” A sigh escapes Harry’s lips as he leans down, brushing his forehead over hers as he murmurs his response, his voice dangerously low. “But if I come inside, I know what I’ll do.  And I promised that I would behave myself today.”

“I don’t mind breaking promises.” Y/N wisps, closing her eyes as Harry’s breath, tinged with orange from the mimosa and mint from the candy the restaurant gave them with the bill, rolls over her in a delicious wave. 

Nudging his nose against her own, Harry shakes his head with the smallest of motions, his fingertips digging further into Y/N’s love handles. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” His lips ghost over hers, barely even brushing before he pulls away again. “One of us needs to have some self control.”

Y/N wedges her free hand between their bodies, resting it over Harry’s chest with her fingers curled along the unbuttoned edge of his shirt. “If you insist.” Her fingernails dig just the slightest bit into Harry’s sturdy chest, savouring the way she feels his body tense beneath her. “If you want to be boring, then that’s fine.”

Harry laughs quietly at the small attempt to tease his ego, and although his instinct tells him to prove her wrong, he just nods his head. “Am I too boring to receive a goodbye kiss?” He brushes a loose hair back from her forehead before cradling her warm cheek, guiding his thumb over her cheekbone in a repeated action. “Haven’t kissed you in hours.  Feels wrong.”

Butterflies burst into flight in Y/N’s stomach at the innocent request coupled with the sweet explanation.  They’ve done everything in the wrong order, she thinks, as she allows Harry to smudge small pecks along her chin and cheeks.  The very first night they met, she allowed him to use her in any way he wanted, and he allowed her the same luxury.  They’ve spent the last month exploring each other’s bodies, getting to know every nook and cranny, every preference.  They’ve grown accustomed to how the other moves in their sleep, how they wake up in the morning, if they shower at sunrise or sunset.  And now, after all that, they’ve finally had what has probably been the best first date in the history of first dates, and this man, who has already coaxed countless orgasms from her shivering body, who has learned all of her likes and dislikes, is asking for a goodbye kiss like a nervous teenager walking his crush home from biology class.

How could she refuse him?

The answer is simple: she can’t.  In fact, she’s not sure she could refuse Harry anything he asked of her.  And maybe that would be worrisome— it probably should be worrisome— if the idea of giving Harry whatever he wanted didn’t bring a wave of warmth to Y/N’s belly that travels from her center to the very tips of her fingers.

“No,” She wraps the loose fabric of his shirt around her fingers, clutching him as close as she possibly can. “You’re not too boring, H.  You’re never boring.” Y/N sucks in a breath as she feels Harry’s teeth graze over her jaw, marking her ever so slightly as her lover makes his way back to her lips fervently. 

He smudges a kiss at the corner of her lips, pulling a strained whimper from her as she waits for him to kiss her properly. 

“Ask me.” He whispers, grazing his fingers over her cheekbone again and again. “Ask me to kiss you.  I want to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

The request is so innocent compared to everything else Harry has ever asked her to do, and his voice lacks the dominant command it usually carries over her, but Y/N feels just as weak as she would if he ordered her to get on her knees. “Harry…” Her voice floats through the miniscule space between them, so quiet that it’s barely audible over their laboured breathing, but Harry still thinks it sounds like a song. “Please kiss me.  Kiss me goodbye.”

A groan reverberates in the back of Harry’s throat, and the tiny molecule of composure that he has left in him slips away as he glides his lips over her own silky pair, his fingers threading into her hair on instinct.  Although he does his best to restrain himself, it becomes more difficult with every passing moment, and becomes damn near impossible when he hears the way Y/N whines at the sensation of their lips brushing together with more and more force.

Despite his best efforts, Harry soon finds his hands moving of their own accord as his palm travels from Y/N’s hip towards her ass, ruffling her dress as he grips her and thrusts a leg between her own.  He backs the mortal up into her door, her back hitting the wood with a delicate thud, and the groan she releases worries him for a split second before he feels her grind against his thigh situated between her legs.

Harry knows that the pretense of this just being a goodbye kiss went out the window the moment he touched her, and although she’s responding in kind, he has to live up to his word.  He has to.  He swore that he wouldn’t fuck her today, and as much as he wants to, as much as it seems that she wants to— and if the red hot heat burning his thigh is any hint, she very much wants to— he has to regain some self control.  Despite all his shortcomings, or how his thirst for her blood outweighs any other desire he has for her, he has to remain a gentleman.  Even if it means peeling himself away from the beautiful girl who is scratching at his chest, moaning into his mouth, grinding against his thigh, and speaking between ragged gasps—

“Fuck the promise.” She groans into his ear, her teeth grazing over his lobe with more pressure than Harry thought her capable. “Please, H.  I know what we said, but I need you.” 

Harry curses under his breath at the sensation, his eyes rolling back into his head for a split second, and he knows that if he doesn’t distance himself, he’ll succumb to her begging. “I can’t, darling.  I can’t.” He chokes out the words between pants, bumping his forehead against Y/N’s as he struggles to catch a breath that he’s forgotten he doesn’t need.  It’s funny, he manages to think, how he teased Y/N for not keeping her hands off him earlier, when he’s the one who can’t bear to be away from her touch now. “I want to— Christ, I want to— but I’m trying to behave.”

“Behaving is stupid.” Y/N mutters, smudging her lips across Harry’s stubbled jaw and down his neck, leaving small marks in her wake. “What happened to giving into desires?”

Good fucking question.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut tightly, a choked laugh escaping his heaving chest. “That was when we were just fucking.  Now we’re…”

Y/N regards the man with hooded eyes, a flutter of hope shining through the desire that’s settled in her chest.  What exactly are they?  They’re not dating, she knows that for certain.  But they’re not exactly just fuck buddies anymore. “We’re what?” She prompts after Harry trails off. 

“We’re…” Harry struggles to form a coherent thought, too entranced by the feeling of Y/N in his arms to think straight.  Sucking in a deep breath, the fragrant scent of the girl’s arousal burning his throat, Harry forces himself to take the smallest step back from her, although his hands stay locked around her hip and her cheek. “We’re saying goodbye.”

A defeated sigh falls from Y/N’s swollen lips, but she nods gently at the man before her, brushing her thumb over his exposed collar bones with great care. “Alright.” She mumbles, disappointment laced through her voice. “Goodbye.”

The glum tone brings a small smile to Harry’s cherry lips. “It’s just for a little while, love.  Not forever.” Harry teases her as he swipes his thumb over her flushed cheek. “Couldn’t stay away from you that long.” 

The breathless flush turns into a pleased warmth as Y/N struggles to hide the smile threatening to break across her expression.  Taking the change in mood as a hint, Harry ducks his head, pressing his lips against hers with an earnest softness for just a moment before stepping back and releasing the mortal girl from his grasp.

“Goodbye.” He murmurs again, his belly aching at the thought of leaving Y/N alone for the rest of the day.  It really does feel unnatural, he’s surprised to find.  Has he really gotten that used to being around her?

It’s a strange process, leaving Harry at the door.  After she finally says goodbye again, shuts the door, locks it tightly, and slips on the chain, Y/N finds herself touching the wood, her palm pressed flat against the surface as if she can feel Harry on the other side.  It takes her a moment to walk away from it, the buzz of the mimosas and their first date streaming through her veins.

Checking her phone for the first time, Y/N is surprised to find that it’s nearly 4pm— had they really been in the restaurant for almost five hours?  No wonder the server had been giving her a dirty look; they’d spent so long just talking and sipping drinks, ordering no other food, and not giving up their table.  She’d probably be glaring too.

Admittedly, there is a slight rumble in Y/N’s stomach, as they ate over four hours ago, but she ignores it as she takes a seat on the couch to untie her pink vans, tossing them into the corner before slipping off her jean jacket.  She tosses that over the couch too, running her hands through her mussed hair.  She’s not quite sure what she’ll do with the rest of her day now that she’s alone.  She could indulge some reading, or answer some messages from relatives, or maybe even—

A pounding on the door disrupts her thoughts, jerking her eyes from the book on her coffee table to her front door.  With her brow furrowed in confusion, Y/N rises from the couch and walks to the door, gliding the chain free and turning the lock before swinging the door open.

Braced in the doorway with shining eyes, ruddy cheeks, and a heaving chest as if he’s run all the way back up to her apartment, is Harry.  He takes a moment to compose himself, swiping his tongue over his lips as she takes in her more relaxed appearance.

“I couldn’t go.” He confesses, answering the question on the tip of Y/N’s tongue before she even has the chance to speak it. “I made it down to my car, and then—”

Y/N grabs him by the front of his shirt and yanks him into her apartment, slamming the door behind them before reaching for Harry again.  His hands are already outstretched to receive her, having grown used to their intimacy routine, and she’s pleased when he automatically rests his palms on her lower back and her neck as she wedges her lips between his once again.

“I don’t want you to go.” Y/N gasps the words against his mouth, barely peeling herself back from him to utter the sentence. “I need you so fucking bad, H, please—”

With great difficulty, Harry attempts to think straight, but it gets harder when Y/N bucks her hips and— well, it gets harder. “I meant what I said, Y/N.  I did, I—I made a promise, and I have to—”

“What do I have to do?” Y/N demands, tangling her fingers in Harry’s chestnut curls and forcing him to look her in the eye. “I fucking need something, Harry, and you’re the only one who can fix it.”

Christ.  Harry’s had his suspicions, but now he’s convinced that this girl has some direct line to all his weaknesses, because she knows exactly how to stroke his ego like no one else has before.  She presses every one of his buttons every time.  She’s allowed him to handcuff her, take her in every position, manhandle her, slap her around, and she still begs him for more.  Is there anything that she hasn’t done better than anyone else?

And that’s when it hits him.  The perfect loophole.

Harry is so excited at the possibility of relief that he nearly whimpers, just barely managing to bite back the sound at the last second as he smooths his fingers over his lover’s wild hair. “What about when I’m not here, pet?” He goads her softly, a glint shining in the corner of his darkening eyes. “What do you do then?”

“I…” Although confusion is present in Y/N’s voice, she answers him promptly— she’s gotten used to obeying his sexual requests over the course of the month. “I call you.  And you...you tell me what to do, usually.”

“Tell you what?” Harry hungrily prompts her again, tugging on her hair with the lightest of touches.  Like before, he wants to hear her say it. “What do I tell you to do?”

“You tell me how to—how to touch myself.” The mortal girl stammers, shyness creeping into her tone despite having begged for Harry mere moments earlier. “And then I do.”

“You do.  You behave so well for me.” Keeping his voice as smooth and sensual as possible— which isn’t hard for him, if he’s honest— Harry twirls a lock of Y/N’s hair around his finger, wrapping it around the length as his fingertip brushes over her lip. “I tell you what to do, and you do it.  And you moan for me, and send me the prettiest pictures.” He presses harder against her lip, dragging her mouth open as a whimper escapes. “And I always think: what would it be like to see that in person?”

Although the effect of the mimosas has faded by now, Y/N’s head is swimming in a cloud of Harry’s cologne and her own lust, and she struggles to understand the double meaning in his words. “What—what do you mean?  You’ve seen me in bed—”

The innocent confusion in her voice tantalizes Harry in the best way. “When I’m touching you.  But that’s not what I want.” He murmurs, grinding his hips back into her own. “I know how to get around my promise.”

He watches as the realization dawns on Y/N’s face, her heart stuttering as warmth floods through her body. “Y-you mean—?  You want to see me…?”

“I want to see you touch yourself.” Harry finishes her thought as his eyes darken, and he licks his lips at the image of Y/N laid out on her bed, legs spread wide, showing off just for him.  Only for him. “Will you let me?”

And there it is.  That wave of warmth and desire spreads through Y/N’s tummy, begging her to say yes to any request that falls from Harry’s mouth.  The urge is so strong that she nearly begins to strip, her fingers edging to the hem of her dress, before she manages to form a clear thought of pause. “Are you sure you want to see me…?” She dances around the word for a second time. “Like, I—I don’t know if it’s very sexy, or—”

“Is that a fucking joke?” Harry laughs incredulously, his thumb swiping over the edge of Y/N’s jaw.  He could leave so many pretty marks… “Of course it’ll be sexy.  Christ, love, it’s fucking you.”

The statement that Harry makes is so sure, so confident, that it nearly sends Y/N reeling.  The human’s eyelids flutter as he begins to pepper kisses along her cheekbones and down her jaw, his tongue swiping over her sensitive skin every few moments. 

“Anything you do is sexy.” He whispers the words against her skin, his voice low and accent thick enough that it seems to fill the entire hallway. “Literally anything… How you lick your lips after taking a drink, how you get in and out of my car so delicately… It’s all so fucking erotic.” Y/N shivers when a breath of cool air hits the damp skin of her neck as Harry laughs lightly. “I’ve got a bloody hard-on nearly every moment of the day.”

Hearing the confession that tumbled from Harry’s cool lips, Y/N thinks, is the verbal equivalent of doing three shots of tequila and chasing with a vodka soda.  The words wash over her as easily as Harry’s cologne does whenever she gets close to him, and her fingers tug on his brunette locks with need. “Really?  Even today?”

“Are you kidding?  Especially today.  Look at what you’re wearing…” His icy fingers skim down her neck before tracing over the cleavage that the neckline of her yellow dress leaves exposed. “Every time you leaned over to take a bite of food, I nearly came in my trousers.”

Despite the desire curling itself around Y/N’s core, she can’t help but giggle at the mental image. “That would’ve been a sight.” She scratches her nails lightly against Harry’s scalp, the motion surprisingly tender for their topic of conversation. “Would’ve had to ask Paige for another napkin.”

“It would’ve been properly humiliating, yeah.” Harry agrees easily, unconcerned with the thought as his lips follow the path led by his fingers. “But it would’ve been worth it.”

While the pair’s position is rather incriminating— Y/N’s hands in Harry’s hair, Harry clutching her as close as possible, his lips travelling over any exposed skin he can find— there’s an air of careful consideration floating around them.  As much as Harry wants to see the girl in his arms pleasure herself, he wants it to be her decision.  Anything less wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying. 

“Y’don’t have to do it just for me, Y/N.” The vampire takes the slightest step back to give her some room to breathe without his close proximity to cloud her judgement. “But if it’s my reaction you’re worried about…” Harry untangles one of her hands from his hair, ghosting it down his body before cautiously laying it over his white linen trousers, where his bulge is growing more prominent by the second. “You have nothing to be worried about.”

A desperate whine nearly escapes Y/N’s mouth, but she manages to bite it back at the last moment.  She wants him.  As nervous as she is to have him watch her touch herself, she’s more turned on than anything.  When she sends Harry explicit texts and photos that are most certainly not safe for work, part of the thrill is the reaction she gets from him.  A dirty photo is only as sexy as the other person’s reception of it.  To see Harry’s reactions in person… it would be a lie to say she’s not into the idea. 

But it would also be a lie to say that she doesn’t want something in return. 

“Alright.  You can watch me.” Y/N relents with a sigh, and she takes a moment to enjoy the triumphant look in Harry’s eyes before tacking on her addendum. “On one condition.”

“Anything.” 

Y/N squeezes her hand over his bulge, making the slightest stroking motion upwards towards his belly as a low groan rolls from Harry’s mouth. “I get to watch you touch yourself, too.”

There’s not even a moment of hesitation. “Done.” Harry seals his lips over hers firmly the moment the word exits his mouth, grinding against her hand as he backs her into the wall.  Her back hits the panel with a quiet thud, but Y/N is too busy twisting her fingers around the button of Harry’s pants to notice. 

“Ah ah ah.” Harry tuts as his jeweled hand grabs her wrist, pulling it away from his hardening cock while making sure not to use too much strength on her fragile joint. “You don’t get to do that, pet.  You’ll only be undressing yourself tonight.  It’s only fair.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to talk about fair.” Y/N huffs her reply, but doesn’t pull her wrist from her lover’s grip. “You’re the one who made the stupid rule in the first place!”

Clicking his tongue, Harry takes another step back from the young woman while keeping his other hand floating over her hip. “And you agreed.” He reminds her as the corner of his lip tugs up. “So I think it’s best you behave, don’t you?”

Although the statement turns her legs to jelly, Y/N doesn’t let it show, and instead steels her resolve as best she can. “I’m behaving.” She mutters, crossing her free hand underneath the arm in Harry’s grip. 

“That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” Harry swipes his thumb over the delicate bones of her wrist, feeling her pulse stutter beneath his touch.  The vampire swallows the venom that spills into his mouth at the thumping rhythm.  He’ll have time for that later. 

Chest heaving, Y/N wets her dry lips as best she can despite the lack of moisture in her mouth. “So where are we…?” She trails off as she glances down the hallway of her apartment. “The living room is probably best, position wise…one of us can be on the couch, and the other on a chair.”

“That’s true…” Harry nods his head, but a frown settles over his pillowy lips. “But it’s not very comfortable for you.  You usually lie down when you get off, don’t you?” Like every other technically intimate question Harry has ever asked her, it’s spoken with a tone of efficiency and casual observance, simply to find the best approach for any situation. 

And, like every other technically intimate question Harry has ever asked her, it sends a shock of warmth into her panties. 

“I-I do, yeah.” Y/N stutters her response, clearing her throat before adding onto the short statement. “I’m usually in bed.”

Harry nods expectantly, like her reply is just a confirmation for him. “We’ll go to your bedroom, then.” He says decisively, his grip on her wrist loosening. “You can lie down, get comfortable.  I’ll stand.”

Leading the mortal to her bedroom, Harry slides open the door, guiding her inside before shutting it with a firm click.  When he turns back around to look at her, she’s looking at him expectantly, her fingers twisting around each other as she stares at him with wide eyes.  She trusts him, he realizes, not for the first time.  She really does trust him. 

Although the anticipation is written clearly across her pretty features, Harry knows she needs a small prompt to begin. “How are you usually dressed when you do this alone?” He asks quietly, his own fingers working over the buttons on his shirt smoothly. “Completely bare?  Fully clothed?  Underwear only?” One of his dimples makes an appearance as he smiles with half his mouth. “Wearing only that sweater of mine that you’ve pretty much stolen?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that sweater’s too warm.” Y/N replies with an eye roll, tugging off the jean jacket covering her smooth shoulders. “I, um…it depends.  If it’s just quick, then usually I’m clothed, but if I’m taking my time, then I’ll just, um, I’ll be in my underwear.  Sometimes just my bra.”

Harry’s fingers finish with his last button, and he leaves his open shirt draped over his tall frame. “We’ll be taking our time, angel.  So just get as comfortable as you usually would.”

Y/N nods her head in a jerking manner, sucking in a deep breath through her parted lips in an attempt to calm the heave that threatens her chest.  The erotic tension in the air could be cut with a knife as she tosses her jacket to the side and works her fingers over the zipper of her dress, which catches for a moment and puts up a struggle as she fights to undo it.  Once she wins the battle, she tugs the yellow dress down her shoulders, letting it pool around her ankles before stepping out of it and tossing it to the side.  Her bra and panties aren’t matching, with the former being a delicate baby pink lace, while the latter are lavender cotton, but she doesn’t let herself focus on that detail.  Instead, her fingers hover for a moment at the waist of her panties, hooking in the elastic before she changes her mind at the last minute and decides to keep them on.  For now, at least. 

Harry watches the entire ritual with starved eyes.  He wants Y/N to start before he does, so she can get into a natural rhythm herself, but he can’t resist palming himself over his trousers like she did a moment ago, despite his icy touch not being nearly as satisfying as hers. 

Y/N, however, has different plans, regarding him with heavy lashes as she takes a step back towards her bed. “Your turn.” She murmurs, sitting on the edge of the bed and curling her fingers around her ruffled comforter. 

“All in due time.” Harry assures her with a wry smile, ghosting his fingers along his inked abdomen. “Get comfortable, baby.  Pretend I’m not here.”

“Like that’s possible.” The mortal girl mutters under her breath, unaware that Harry’s supernatural hearing can pick it up as if she were shouting in his ear.  Nevertheless, she does as he says, scooting back on the bed until her shoulders reach her pillows.  She lays back on the soft cushions, shifting around until the padding feels comfortable beneath her back.  She lays there for a moment, her arms folded neatly over her bare stomach as she licks her lips expectantly. “Now?”

“Now…” Harry flicks open the button of his trousers. “Do whatever you like to do.  Whatever feels good.”

It takes Y/N another moment to work up the courage to actually do something.  The trick, she realizes, is closing her eyes.  If she so much as catches a glimpse of Harry watching her, her entire body tenses, and she can’t even manage to move a finger over her stomach.  With her eyes closed, however, she can imagine that Harry isn’t there, and she’s just in her room, with his only influence being in her mind as she touches herself.  It may not make much sense, when she could just use the real image of him to fuel her thoughts, but Harry’s presence is so dominating that pretending he’s not there seems to be the only solution.

And so, when her eyes are shut tightly enough that she can’t see the man, but loose enough that she’s comfortable, Y/N begins to touch herself lightly, her fingers tracing over the dips of her stomach with the smallest amount of contact she can manage.

Her touch moves over her skin like a flutter, its only purpose to warm herself up and ease herself into being watched, and while the small brushes against her own skin would normally have no effect on her, in this moment, with Harry standing by her bed, the action feels more erotic than she ever would’ve thought possible.  She slowly glides her hands up to the pink lace of her bra, tracing her finger along the edge of the cup before sliding over the lace to the hardening peaks of her nipples.  She’s more sensitive than she thought, and Y/N’s breath hitches for a moment as she brushes against one nub, tweaking it once more with her finger before repeating the motion on her other breast.  When a quiet but harsh exhale sounds from Harry’s direction, the human girl amuses the idea of removing her bra to give more visual stimulus, but quickly decides against it.  Harry said he wanted to see what she does to herself, she thinks, keeping her eyes closed as she massages her breasts once more.  He didn’t ask her to perform a strip tease for him.

And, in truth, a strip tease is the farthest thing that Harry wants in this moment.  Any girl can take off her clothes and touch herself to put on a show for a voyeur.  If Harry really wanted to watch that, he could easily find countless porn videos depicting the real thing.  But the sight of Y/N gliding her fingers over the soft lace of her bra, tracing unseen roadmaps over the mountains and valleys of her chest and abdomen, parting her lips just slightly as she twists her nipple once more… that’s what Harry wants.  Despite the countless erotic activities Harry has engaged with Y/N, this may be the most intimate, even without touching her.  Maybe that’s why, he muses, only half in the thought as he slowly tugs down the zipper on his trousers, doing his best to make no noise so as not to startle the girl in front of him.  She’s letting him see what she does to herself when no one is around, when she just wants to make herself feel good.  It’s a selfish act, in the best way.  And it’s making Harry’s cock throb like never before.

Y/N’s hands have reached the edge of her panties now, and with her legs spread wide open, Harry can see the dampened spot staining the lavender cotton a shade darker.  Her scent wafts over him as she moves, slipping her hand beneath the fabric, and Harry’s own eyelids flutter as she fills every one of his senses.  There’s a small part of his more instinctual mind cursing him for thinking of this— for establishing an activity where he can see her, smell her, but not touch her.  However, there’s a larger part of his mind thanking him for this.  For the opportunity to bask in Y/N’s own sensuality and pleasure.

The dampness that greets Y/N’s fingers as she slides into her panties isn’t a surprise, but still provides relief.  For a brief moment, the girl had been worried that she’d be too nervous about the situation to let herself enjoy it, but as she teasingly circles her index finger around her clit, she knows that enjoying it won’t be a problem.  Although she misses Harry’s cool touch, the feeling of his rings sliding over her clammy skin, and although it may seem untrue when Harry is in bed with her, no one knows Y/N’s body like she does.  No one can instantly know what feels good and what doesn’t, what needs to be touched with more force, what needs to be gently caressed with a feather light pressure.  Y/N alone is the keeper of those secrets, and although she’s begun to whisper those unspoken tokens to Harry in the dead of the night as he lays between her thighs, she alone knows the real truths.

She continues to circle her clit for a few moments, gradually applying more and more pressure as her free hand clutches her bare thigh, her fingertips digging into her squishy flesh.  It doesn’t take long, however, for Y/N to need more, and she allows her fingers to run over her entrance a few times before dipping her index finger into her hot core. 

While the sound that leaves her mouth is quiet and could potentially go unnoticed, it’s the loud groan from Harry that snaps the human’s eyes open, and the sight in front of her that stops her movements in their tracks.  With her index finger still half inside her, and her grip on her thigh tightening, Y/N gapes at him unabashedly, because Harry looks like a fucking god. 

Her eyes sweep over him methodically, committing every inch of his appearance to memory so as not to ever forget what he looks like when pleasuring himself.  His chestnut curls are tinged with sweat, just beginning to plaster to his damp forehead and neck.  His jade eyes are darkening by the second, while his strawberry lips are parted and dry, despite him swiping his tongue over them every minute or so.  His toned chest is bare, displaying his dark ink for Y/N’s viewing, heaving with every movement of his tattooed arm.  And lower… Y/N moans again as she clutches her leg tighter, nearly enough to bruise.  Harry hasn’t completely removed his pants, but he’s pushed them down low enough that he’s freed his cock, which stands tall and proud and angrily red at the tip that pokes through the tight fist he has wrapped around the length.  Despite the tension in his body, however, Harry flicks his wrist lazily, teasing himself as much as Y/N did earlier, and she wonders if he does it for the same reason she did.  To give their lover something to look at. 

With her eyes locked with Harry’s, Y/N pushed her middle finger inside herself, whimpering at how the extra digit stretches her out.  She curves her fingers as they move in and out of her at a leisurely pace, focused more on reaching deeper than reaching a quick speed.  While her hand busies itself inside her panties, she slides the other from her thigh back up to her breast, gripping and massaging it as her lashes flicker. 

“Look at you.” Harry utters with a groan, breaking the silence between them as he thumbs over the leaking head of his cock. “Christ, you look so fucking filthy.” His eyes shift from hers for just a moment, glueing themselves to the shadows of motion he can see beneath her underwear. “Does that feel good, angel?”

A high pitched whine falls from Y/N’s mouth as she presses the pads of her fingers against the spongy spot inside her, setting off a wave of bliss inside her belly. “Yeah.  Feels—feels really good, Harry.” His name leaves her lips in a breathy mewl as she tweaks her nipple over her bra, throwing her head back against her pillow. 

The newly exposed skin of her neck beckons Harry.  It’s completely covered with a thin veil of sweat, with the heat radiating from her throbbing pulse seemingly reaching towards him at the end of the bed.  He takes a half step forward without realizing it, only catching his action when his knees bump the edge of the mattress. “Fuck—” He closes his reddening eyes to collect himself as his hand quickens its pace around his prick, only opening them again when he’s sure he’s under control. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I think I have a bit of an idea.” She mutters in reply, stroking small circles over her clit with her thumb. “It’s not like you can hide it.”

“But you’re hiding.” The vampire replies in a strained voice, tightening his fist around his cock as he nods to the girl’s covered core. “Take those off for me, pet.  Please.”

Y/N withdraws her fingers from her dripping center, her skin shining in the light of her bedroom as she hooks her fingers into the waistband of the panties. “Wait—” she says suddenly, pausing her obedient motion. “Wait, I—”

The moment his foggy mind registers the word, Harry’s palm stills over his length, and although he doesn’t let go completely, he forces his body to calm down as he appraises the human. “What?” He questions, concern laced into his thick accent. “What’s wrong?”

Sitting up on her elbows, Y/N raises her head from her pillow as she scoots closer to her bedroom wall, stopping once her heated skin grazes the tapestry. “I want you next to me.” Her eyes are pleading as the words fall from her mouth, quiet and desperate. “I promise I’ll stick to the rule— I won’t touch you. I just want you to be comfortable, too, and… and I like it when you’re close.  Please?”

The idea of refusing her doesn’t even enter Harry’s mind.  Within seconds, faster than a mortal ever would, Harry has stripped off his trousers, leaving himself in just his dark blue boxers that are still half rugged down.  He crawls onto the bed quickly, only letting his knee brush against Y/N’s leg before situating himself six inches away from her.  Even with the distance between them, he can still feel an electric energy radiating off of her as her fragrance becomes thicker and all encompassing, making his head swim in the intoxicating honey and lavender perfume. 

“M’here.” Harry murmurs the assurance softly, his fingers aching to reach out and touch her.  Surely that’s not against the rules?  After all, caressing someone’s cheek, and only for a moment, isn’t necessarily sexual.  With that rationalization in his mind, his jeweled fingers brush against the young woman’s flushed cheek, grazing upwards to push a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Y/N whispers back to him, her hands now resting on her tummy as she stares longingly at the figure next to her in bed.  She wonders if the comforting touch is allowed, but decides not to question it.  Questioning it may make it stop, and that’s the last thing she wants.  Instead, Y/N simply places her hand over Harry’s, interlocking their fingers together and bringing his hand to her mouth to smudge a soft kiss over the back of his icy knuckles. 

Harry can feel the pulsing of her heart through her lips, and it takes all of his inhuman strength to pull his hand from hers as carefully as he can. “I think you made me a deal, didn’t you?” He asks, disguising the want in his voice behind a teasing tone. “You said that if I got up here next to you, you’d…” Harry clicks his tongue as he nods at her cotton panties. “Hm?”

Despite the small laugh that escapes her, Y/N rolls her eyes. “You’ve got a one track mind, I swear.” She hooks her fingers into the edge of her panties, lifting her bum off the bed to tug them down her legs and toss to the side. “Happy?”

Harry licks his lips as he watches the girl’s hands drift back to her bare thighs, gliding over the silky skin with small strokes. “Very much so, yeah.” He replies, pushing his own hair back from his face before trailing his fingers back down his stomach.  He wraps his right hand back around his leaking cock, stroking it once as he glances at Y/N again. “Keep going, dove.  Don’t stop on my account.”

It’s like they’re back at the beginning,Y/N thinks, as she dips her index and middle fingers back into her wetness before she circles them around her clit.  With Harry next to her, his presence so very there, Y/N has to close her eyes again to compel herself to relax.  It takes a few moments of massaging her clit and focusing on keeping her breathing steady before she can open her eyes again and allow her gaze to slide back onto Harry. 

The vampire, as expected, looks like an erotic renaissance painting.  His hand is moving faster over his cock now, which is bubbling precum with every few strokes.  His hips buck into his hand every so often, searching for more and more friction as he chases his high.  Like herself, Harry has his eyes closed for much of his movements, but when he does open them, they’re pinned to her form and how she touches herself, like she’s his own personal show.  And, in a way, she is.  And she likes that.

It’s not long before Y/N needs more stimulation, and she thrusts her two fingers back inside herself as her other hand begins to rub over her clit.  The dual sensation sends a hoarse moan falling from her lips, her tummy contracting with the wave of ecstasy that she knows is getting closer, but it’s the feeling of Harry’s lips on her temple that has her breath stuttering. 

His slightly chapped lips move over her skin in slow and sensual movements, opening and closing as he speaks against her. “That’s it, darling.  You’re so close, I can tell.” He sucks in a long breath while bucking his hips into his fist, a whining moan echoing from his throat and into her ear. “Fuck, you’ve got me wrecked…”

Curling her fingers inside, Y/N prods against her G-spot with fervent desire, leaning her head closer and closer to Harry’s mouth as she does so. “I’m gonna cum, Harry, I—” Her words cut off with a broken whine as her spongy walls clench around her fingers. 

“Wish I could touch you.” Harry mutters the dirty confession in her ear, his lips still meeting every inch of skin they can find. “Wish I could make my pretty girl cum…” His brow furrows at the whimper that escapes Y/N at those words. “But at least I know you can—Christ—” He swipes his thumb over his tip again as his other hand moves to his balls, massaging over them with a gentle touch. “—can take care of yourself when I’m not here.”

When Harry’s lips find her neck, suckling at the sensitive spot where it meets her jaw, Y/N moans again, louder than before as she bucks her hips into her hand. “Fuck, Harry—” The way she sobs his name is music to his ears. “Can—can I cum?  Please?” The question rolls off her tongue without prompt, sounding as natural as breathing to the girl. Harry’s not even sure she registers that she’s asked, but the question for permission goes straight to his throbbing cock. 

“Yeah, baby. Cum for me.” He drags his teeth over her fragile skin, aching to bite down but restraining himself from giving in.  Instead, he redirects his reaction to his hand, speeding up his strokes until he feels his balls tighten. “Cum for Daddy.” The way he feels her heart stutter at his words feeds his ego like nothing else, and he brings one hand up from his abdomen to rest on her throat, stretching his fingers to grip her chin and direct her face towards his. “Show Daddy how good you’re making yourself feel.” He demands, his lips ghosting over her own as they both work themselves towards the edge.  His voice sounds less himself and more like a growl with every passing moment. “Cum.”

It’s the final harsh demand that pushes Y/N to thrust her fingers into herself faster, matching her motions over her clit to the new speed.  It only takes a few more moments for the tight ball of pleasure inside her belly to burst, the waves of her orgasm washing over her repeatedly as her walls pulse around her fingers. “Daddy—” The name falls from her mouth and into Harry’s freely.  Her only thoughts are of him as her climax consumes her; only his emerald eyes and cherry lips, only his brunette curls and inked skin, only his calloused hands and thick cock.  He’s all she can think about.  Has there ever been anyone else? “Please, Daddy…”

Harry watches with hungry eyes as the human’s body spasms through her release, the movements of her hands shuddering as the pleasure becomes too great to move. “That’s it, sweetheart.  Good girl.” He grunts the praise through clenched teeth as his own orgasm nears, his hand twisting around his cock more and more. “Prettiest little slut in the world, y’know that?”

Y/N releases a whine of acknowledgement, her chest heaving as she comes down from her high and withdraws her fingers from her core.  Resting her hands on her clenching belly, she turns her heavy lidded gaze towards Harry, watching him eagerly as he works himself. “Your turn.” She murmurs, her lips finding the edge of his sharp jaw and giving it a teasing bit. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you?  All over your stomach?”

“If—fuck—if that’s where you want it, baby.” Harry groans loudly as his stomach clenches, the butterfly flexing beneath his strained movements. “You want to watch me cum?  Hm?”

“Mhmm.” Y/N hums the agreement against his skin, clasping her hands together to stop herself from reaching for Harry’s cock. “You’re usually inside me when you cum, so I’ve never seen it.  I want to see it.”

“God, I—” Harry reaches over with his free hand and grasps Y/N’s warm palm, dragging it up to his hair and tangling her fingers in his dark locks.  It’s a poor substitute for the craving he has to feel her touch over his cock, but the sensation of her tugging on his hair and scratching her nails against his scalp manages to provide the contact relief he desires. “Fuck, right there—” Harry’s abdomen contracts once more as he works himself over the edge and begins to shoot thick ropes of cum all over his tattooed tummy. 

Y/N continues to work her lips over his jaw, whispering anything and everything into his ear to continue to stimulate him through his orgasm. “Looks so pretty, H.” She utters once his cock has finally stopped spurting and he releases it from his grip. “You’re so pretty…”

A breathless laugh leaves Harry’s mouth as he shifts in the bed, wiping his damp hand against his indigo boxers before pulling them back over his shaking hips and exposed cock. “You’re one to talk.” He murmurs, twisting his head to the side to press a kiss to Y/N’s sweaty forehead. “You don’t happen to have a wash cloth handy, do you?”

“I have tissues in my bedside table.” Y/N points to the object in question, and Harry reaches over and tugs open the drawer to retrieve the box of Kleenex.  Pulling a few squares from the box, he makes quick work of the cleanup, doing just enough to save him from the trouble of a sticky stomach. 

“I could’ve done that, you know.  Cleaned you up.” Y/N watches as the vampire stands to dispose of the used tissues, and reaches for her discarded panties to tug them back over her still shaky legs. “You know I like it.”

“I know, but if you did, then I would’ve broken the no sex rule right then and there.” Harry chuckles lightly as he climbs back onto the bed, wanting to reclaim his close proximity to Y/N as soon as possible. “And we’d already come so far.” 

When he opens his arms, Y/N doesn’t hesitate to nuzzle into his cool chest, resting her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder with a sigh. “I suppose that’s true.”

Harry lets his jeweled fingers trace down her back, drawing random shapes on the damp skin as her breathing begins to even out. “Did you like it?” He asks curiously, a seed of worry planted within the words. “Having someone watch you?”

“I liked having you watch me.” Y/N clarifies her answer as if it were the most natural and easily explainable thing in the world. “Did you like watching?”

Harry giggles again, almost incredulous as he nods his head at the damp spot on his boxers, a symptom of the copious amounts of precum that had leaked from him. “I think the answer to that is pretty obvious, Watson.  I’m surprised someone as distinguished as yourself has to ask.” 

“Asking questions is never a bad thing, Holmes.  I’m surprised someone as distinguished as yourself doesn’t know that.” The girl counters, delighting in the small laugh that shakes Harry’s shoulders.  A laugh falls from her lips as well, followed quickly by a yawn that she unsuccessfully tries to stifle. 

“Tired?” Harry murmurs, his fingers still keeping a steady pace against her back. “It’s only the late afternoon— not exactly late enough for bedtime, is it?”

Y/N sighs into his musky skin, relaxing completely against Harry’s body. “Not exactly, no.  But I think a little post-orgasm nap may be in order.” She raises her head from the crook of Harry’s neck, looking at him with soft eyes. “Will you stay?”

If Harry’s heart could beat, the tender question would make his rhythm irregular, and the knowledge of that fact dries out the venom that had been flowing freely through Harry’s mouth. “Wow.” He tries to disguise the reaction with a laugh. “Our first date, and you’re already asking me to sleep over?  What kind of man do you think I am?”

“Shut up.” The mortal nudges her forehead against his shoulder in a playful manner. “I’m serious.  Will you?  I sleep a lot better when you’re here.” 

The confession falls from her lips as easily as a sigh, but her words lock Harry’s chest in a tight chain, restricting his every breath.  And yet… the pressure is comforting, like a hug from someone you haven’t seen in years and you’ve sorely missed. 

“Alright, yeah.” He whispers gently, caressing Y/N’s mussed hair without tugging on any tangles. “I’ll stay.  We can order some dinner later, if you want.”

Y/N’s voice is already far away when she replies. “That sounds nice.” She whispers, her eyes fluttering closed as her full weight falls against Harry.  Within a few minutes, her breathing has leveled completely in time with her steady heart beat, which thunders against Harry’s own silent chest. 

The vampire sighs as he shifts on the bed, keeping Y/N locked in place against his body as he does so.  How did he end up here, in her bed, staring at that fucking tapestry again?  How did he end up agreeing to stay over, to grab dinner with her after she sleeps?  How does he know that, if she asks again, he’ll stay over tonight as well, even if it means lying still in bed and counting her heart beats until the sun rises through her curtains? 

And why does that sound so appealing?

Carefully, so as not to wake her, Harry shifts Y/N onto her own pillow, removing her from his chest with gentle movements.  Once he’s arranged her in a comfortable position and made sure that she’s still asleep, he cages himself over her, brushing her hair back from her face and inhaling deeply.  This is why, he thinks.  This is why he’s agreed to all of these dates, to holding her as she sleeps, to spending night after night in this tiny human apartment.  Her blood. 

Harry nudges his nose along the length of her throat, breathing in her fragrance as if it were the bouquet of a fine wine.  Her signature honey and lavender scent is as prominent as ever, only amplified by the orgasm-triggered endorphins that are still swimming through her veins.  Letting his lips drag over her fragile skin, Harry smudges kisses along the base of her throat with a light touch, searching for the most tender part that he’s come to adore.  When he reaches the mark just above her carotid artery, he presses a firmer kiss to the skin, admiring how the mortal’s breath floats from her lips in her sleep.  Still, he pauses for a moment to make sure that the sound is just that, a symptom of sleep, and once his suspicions are confirmed, Harry sinks his teeth into Y/N’s satin skin. 

As usual, the relief is instantaneous.  The warm blood that flows into his mouth quells the dry, burning ache in the back of his throat like nothing else, and Harry clutches the girl closer to him as he drinks more and more.  She’s just as sweet as she smells, and there’s that familiar depth of flavour to her that Harry can never quite place a finger on.  Perhaps he could if he spent more time analyzing it, but it’s never too long before he loses himself in her taste, and all rational thought goes out the window completely.  In the reflection of her mirror, Harry can see that his eyes are blood red and black-veined, and that he looks every bit the monster that he actually is.  If Y/N were to wake up right now and see him like this—pale skin, black veins, mouth stained red with her blood—she’d probably scream in horror, and do her best to shove the supernatural creature away.  She would be thoroughly repulsed, Harry is sure.  And, honestly, he couldn’t blame her.  He remembers the first time he saw the red of a vampire’s eyes, and the terror that had seized his entire body like an icy dip in the English Channel.  It would only be a natural response. 

Harry had come to terms with what he is a very long time ago, and though it took a lot of trial and error, a lot of sleepless nights doused with self-loathing and denial, and a plethora of blurry memories full of strangers’ veins bulging under soft skin and glassy eyes dulled by compulsion, he is in a place in his eternal life where his identity doesn’t phase his peace of mind anymore. He hadn’t become a monster willingly, and he certainly doesn’t enjoy having to do the unspeakable acts required for his survival— not consciously, anyways. 

From an instinct-driven perspective, he does enjoy the taste of blood, but it’s only because his supernatural carnal impulses demand it. Ethically, he isn’t proud of his affinity, but it’s not like he has any say in the matter. This isn’t his fault— he was forced to become what he is— and that moral claim is what has kept him tethered to his last few shreds of humanity for the past twenty decades. He’s not doing this to Y/N out of malicious intent, he’s doing it because he has no other choice. Therefore, he assures himself that the traces of guilt tightening his chest at the moment are completely misled and invalid. He hasn’t felt guilt much before— not for years— and he refuses to let it plague him once again. This is just the way things are. This is just the way things have to be. 

So why does he feel so fucking shitty right now?

Pushing the discomforting dwellings to the back of his mind, Harry continues to drink from Y/N, using his final remaining strains of functioning thought to monitor the human’s heart beat and breaths.  When his thirst is satiated enough, and before either one of those human traits begins to falter, Harry releases his bite on Y/N’s neck, licking over the wound with relish to temporarily seal it.  He turns to check his reflection in the mirror again, and finds that, yes, his suspicions are confirmed.  Although he’s managed to keep himself halfway presentable, there’s still a trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth, and his lips are stained a dark merlot colour from the sweet substance.  Harry swipes his tongue along his mouth, cleaning up any evidence of his late afternoon snack, before bringing his index finger to his mouth and pricking the tip on one of his fangs.  Then, while carefully holding the girl’s jaw open with his other hand, Harry slips his finger into her mouth. It’s practically a ritual by now. 

It takes only a few seconds for the bite mark on her neck to heal completely, leaving behind only a faint purple bruise in its place.  If Y/N were to see it tomorrow, she’d assume it was a half-healed hickey, and wouldn’t bat an eye at it.  She’d have no idea that the real cause of it was—

“Harry…” His name falls from her lips with a quiet stutter, her brow furrowing as if troubled by something the vampire can’t see. “Harry…”

“Y/N?” He whispers in reply, his limbs sealing over with ice as he freezes in place as if he were a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Everything alright, love?”

“Harry…” The human utters his name once more as a frown begins to tug at her pillowy lips, and it takes another moment of her shifting in the bed for Harry to realize that she’s still asleep, and the murmuring of his name is merely a symptom of her dreaming of him. 

Oh.  She’s dreaming of him. 

There’s a spark of something in his chest—happiness?  Excitement?— but it’s quickly extinguished by the realization that, if Y/N is dreaming of him, her body language is making it clear that the dream isn’t a pleasant one. 

Harry releases a frustrated sigh as he sinks back down into the sheets.  That’s to be expected, really.  After all, he did just feed from her; if she’s having a bad dream about him, it would only be logical. 

Still, the sight of her shifting in bed with a distressed look on her face pulls an equally distressed look from the immortal, and he only hesitates for a moment before carefully maneuvering the girl back onto his chest, positioning her so that he can easily rub her warm back with his cool hands.  

“You’re alright.” He murmurs softly into her ear, his voice low and melodic despite no one being around to hear it. “You’re fine, sweetheart. I’m here, hm? Go back to sleep.”

It takes a few more minutes of back rubbing, whispering, and a handful of strategically placed forehead kisses, but Y/N’s face finally relaxes as she falls back into a deep, untroubled slumber against Harry’s chest.  As her breathing evens out again, Harry breathes a gentle exhale of relief.  That was a close call.  The next time he feeds, he’ll have to make sure she’s truly unconscious, and has been so for a while.  Her bad dream, whatever it was, had probably been caused by him digging into her prematurely.  Next time, he’ll wait until the dead of night, when she’s deep in REM sleep.  She’ll be more comfortable then. 

Which reminds him— he has plans he has to cancel tonight, and the sleeping girl on his chest mixed with his phone being in his trouser pocket on the floor make a difficult combo to surpass. 

Despite the testing task, Harry manages to retrieve his phone from his discarded linen pants after a few minutes of awkward stretching, some light grunting, and a few curse words, but he manages to do it without waking Y/N up (she moves a couple of times, but a few soft words and tender hushing Harry’s behalf sends her right back into her dreams).  With one hand still wrapped around her back, Harry manages to type out a quick message to Niall. 

Won’t be able to make it tonight— something came up with Y/N.  Have fun at the bar. 

Harry references her by name, knowing that Mitch had probably already blabbed to their entire friend group about the date he’d had, and about how a human girl had recently become the target of his fascination. Juicy gossip is indisputably one of the aspects that keeps eternity from growing stale, and the vampire’s crew believe that to be so more than anyone. There’s not a single doubt in his mind they’d eaten every word up, and that he’d probably get drilled on it later.

He keeps his phone clutched in his hand, waiting for a (sure to be ridiculing) reply from Niall that comes a few minutes later. 

The girl from last time? Jesus, again?  Weren’t you meeting her for brunch?

A small smirk tugs at the corner of Harry’s lip. I did meet her for brunch.  And then I met her back at her apartment, and I’ll probably be meeting her again later after we get some dinner.  Don’t wait up.

After that text, Harry drops his phone on the bedside table, expecting Niall to just leave him on read in a fit of annoyance.  He’s surprised, however, to hear the quiet vibration of his phone a moment later, and picks it up to skim the message with pressing curiosity. 

You’re a fucking incubus, you know that?

The smirk on Harry’s swollen lips suddenly drops.  

While it’s not the first time he’s been called an incubus, it is the first time the label has ever bothered him. Why is that?  It’s not like it’s untrue; he frequently seduces various people, many of them being women, in order to sleep with them and drink their blood. That’s what an incubus does.  The label shouldn’t pester him.  In fact, it should boost his ego. 

But the title being applied to his relationship with Y/N… that gives him pause. It reminds him of a certain person— a certain disgrace, if he’s being pettily honest— who he had sworn never to think about again, out of respect for his sanity and emotional stability. It reminds him of how when he himself was mortal, he was under similar circumstances to what Y/N is under right now— he was a human blood bag to a vampire who took pleasure in his body. 

This is different, Harry tells himself.  I’m not going to ruin her life. She’s not going to end up like me. And we have an understanding, which I never got to have. This isn’t the same. I’m...I’m not the same.

In his steadfast opinion, the immortal isn’t an incubus when it comes to Y/N and it’s that simple, point blank. Saying he is… that sets the implication that he could be doing this with anyone, and that’s just not true.  Even though he’s keeping Y/N around as a convenient fuck with delicious blood, he wouldn’t go to this much trouble for anyone else; no one else is worth it.  No one else has her honey and lavender scent, or contagious laugh, or can match him so easily in banter without flinching or blinking an eye.  And though he’s too attached to his own pride— to the inherent coldness and indifference he’d worked so hard to build over the last two centuries— to let her know, he’ll admit that there’s no one else like her. There’s no one who’s company he enjoys quite the same. 

Harry doesn’t indulge Niall with a response, simply closing his phone and setting it back on the bedside table.  His friend can think what he wants, Harry decides, returning his attention to tracing figures on Y/N’s back.  Harry knows what this really is.  He knows, and it’s not some evil plan to permanently damage her. It’s just a simple loose relationship between two people who float an inch above the friendzone. That’s all. 

Friends, just slightly more. 

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[roach-works]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

#long post #writing #fic #autism #changelings #fairies