#LET'S DISCUSS EDWARD II WHAT THE FUCK WAS UP THERE

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i've never understood why so many people are so obsessed with the tudors when the plantagenets are right there

[suffersinfandom]

A Summary of The OFMD Meta (Part II)

This is part two of an incomplete summary of A Meta-Discussion Of The Subtext by meratrishoslee (Mera) on AO3 (linked to, as the author requests). I’m trying to stay impartial and keep all of the important bits in.

This chunk includes chapters nine through fourteen, which is mostly an analysis of the entire show (stopping at the end of S2E7 because the chapters on the finale are massive, lol). The overarching thesis of this bit is this: “Ed’s the face, head/mind and body of Blackbeard, Izzy is Blackbeard’s heart/soul -- as well as the heart of the show itself.”

Other posts Part I

Chapter 9: Either Madness or Brilliance

This chapter is a screenshot-heavy analysis of OFMD season one “as seen through the lens of ‘Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl,’ with specific emphasis on what this means for Izzy Hands and his character arc.”

Izzy is compared most directly to Captain Jack Sparrow. “He often tells the truth but no one listens or believes him, because at first he seems more than a bit ridiculous. [...] But he still saves people anyway, even people he doesn’t know; that’s part of how we know he’s a good guy deep down even when he seems like a bad guy at times.” He is “the Betrayed Pirate, because, as we find out later, his crew betrayed him because they wanted something gold and shiny more than they wanted him.”

Ed is primarily compared to both Will Turner “the Tragic Young Man”)  and Captain Barbossa (“the Bearded Pirate”). Stede is, of course, Elizabeth Swan (“the fancy protagonist”). 

“...While our Tragic Young Man does have some (considers, then shrugs) chemistry with our fancy protagonist… the drift compatibility he has with the Betrayed Pirate is just off the charts. Sometimes they act like two parts of the same body... and the Tragic Young Man does have a habit on several occasions of throwing himself between a physical threat and a person he cares about.” 

Chapter 10: The Hidden Heart

“Ed’s the face, head/mind and body of Blackbeard, Izzy is Blackbeard’s heart/soul. How do we know? Because when Izzy moves, the plot moves. When Izzy leaves, the plot stagnates or outright stalls dead. And Edward makes a fair amount of effort to keep track of Izzy, both to keep him safe and under Edward’s control.”

The chapter is an episode-by-episode walkthrough of season one with proof of Izzy-as-the-heart. Basically: everything is horny, Izzy is emotion-driven (although he hides it well, as one must when living a life filled with so much violence and abuse), and OFMD is Izzy (the heart) becoming more emotionally intelligent. 

At the end of S1E4: “Ed’s just proven he doesn’t need Izzy – either to participate in his plans, or to love him. He could have let him go, right? He had Stede now. The mind has lied to its heart, convinced it to stay and keep loving and giving all this while – because it’s required to pump the blood of the myth called Blackbeard, and move the plot of the show called Our Flag Means Death.”

Ed opens his jacket for Stede (in a way he never does around Izzy) and tells him to stab him. Izzy thinks that Ed is betraying him by having sex with Stede (or by having subtextual sex with Stede). He’s wounded and angry, and that kickstarts the rest of the season. 

“Why can’t/don’t Izzy and Edward fuck, textually or subtextually? Why is all the tension and longing so one sided – and if Edward’s so bothered/disgusted by Izzy’s longing for him (as some other meta writers out there on the internet have attempted to suggest with varying degrees of success), why does he permit the relationship to continue at all -- and even work to keep Izzy near him despite his attempts to leave? Well, that’s coming up in a later meta. (Hint: it's HIV/AIDS related bed death.) But it’s certainly part of the unnatural, forceful separation between the head and the heart.”

In S1E6: As Blackbeard’s heart, Izzy can’t actually kill Stede in the duel. “But he’s not admitting that defeat to himself yet so he has to go through the entire pantomime of the fight.”

“On one level, the textual level, Izzy’s trying to drive Stede from the ship and out of Edward’s life. On another subtextual level, however: the heart’s moving through the return advances of the mutual seduction way faster than the head is ready to do.”

Izzy is banished from the boat. “...If Edward had just had the capability to be honest with Izzy from the very start, they might have avoided most of the tragedy. Because really? An overwhelming amount of the things Izzy says aloud to Edward can be subtextually read as: I am trying to get you dicked down how you need to be, even if I’m not the one who can do it for or to you.” 

We don’t move the plot along much in S1E7. Izzy’s gone, and the story can’t progress without him.

In S1E8, Calico Jack “is the thrown dagger that strikes the most true, and goes the farthest toward separating Ed and Stede. Forward momentum, healing, and growth all come to a dead stop here as Calico Jack does emotional manipulation on a level that Izzy could only aspire to at this stage in his evolution.” Izzy sends Jack as “a poisoned love letter” doing what it can to keep Ed safe.

On Ed and Stede’s kiss: “It’s an adolescent kiss, chaste and closed-mouthed and awkward – it’s not an erotic kiss in the slightest. Whereas everything (yearning glances, poses, swordplay, etc) with Izzy is frankly erotic as fuck and I don’t think we can blame that just on Con being Con…”

After his return to the ship, Ed doesn’t want to be Blackbeard anymore. Izzy is terrified, and he “[channels] all the fear into anger to use as a weapon to bring the mind back into compliance for the sake of their shared survival.” Getting Ed back to Blackbeard is a matter of keeping both of them AND the crew alive.

Ed doesn’t have his bare hands on Izzy when he’s choking him, but “Izzy does place his bare left hand onto Edward’s bare right as he’s being choked which, if I’m correct about the HIV/AIDS coding for him (and I’m confident in the evidence I’ll bring in the eventual extended meta conversation about it) is its own understated threat in return: what’s in me could kill you, too.”

“I’ll conclude for the moment with this: after so many rewatchings of the show, Edward flinging himself backward like a scalded cat feels excessive. It’s disgust at the mingled lust and joy and affection on Izzy’s face in the moment – and it’s so much more than that.”

More meta on Ed’s attitude towards Izzy in this scene:

Ed shifts back and forth on his feet, stepping in the tiniest little amount again. [...] why would Edward do that if he's actually afraid of Izzy?  Taika's a good enough actor to have chosen to flinch away instead, to reinforce the dialogue and textual energy of the scene. When the body language doesn't match the dialogue, it's a sign that the subtext is increasingly relevant. But Taika doesn't flinch away at all during the rest of this scene.  None of his body language serves up ‘terror’ to me -- all of it, when viewed with the knowledge of S2 and the lens of Izzy as HIV/AIDS-coded, serves up grief and loss.

Look at Edward's face. Look at the tears rising up in his own eyes. It’s not because precious little meow meow princess sweet as a peach Ed Teach is actually scared of Izzy, his own first mate for who knows how many years. We've seen Izzy angry at Ed in scenes before and if anything, Ed's been perplexed or even amused by it. 

(Total sidenote: there’s a difference between letting Edward get to be soft and gentle and vulnerable and display a range of emotions and enjoy fine things and feel tenderness and love… and completely woobifying/infantilizing a fully adult character capable of making his own choices, who happens to also be a man of color. Because frankly that second option comes across as more than a little gross to me. I hope that my writing always knows the difference and stays on the correct side, because I work to try to make sure that doesn’t happen.)

Continuing on: “We see Izzy as his “gaze travels all over Edward's face in a last caress of longing, back and forth between his lips and eyes at that close distance. Then Izzy leaves the scene immediately, before anything else can happen. Even the things he might want – especially the things he wants. Because he can’t ever let them happen, in order to keep Edward safe.”

The crew begins to chant (“it sounds almost like a heartbeat”). Ed reverting to the Kraken persona “is due to not one but two open romantic griefs and losses in close proximity,” and “the mind of Blackbeard moves on to protect itself, as it always has. Not from some fear of the crew now as I’ve seen in various lukewarm takes online… but from the possibility of ever being vulnerable again.”

Ed throws Lucius overboard. “Next he goes to hobble the dark heart, to maim and lame it, to keep it obedient and subservient again through terror and pain. He can’t kill or discard it entirely, because its emotions and bloodflow powers both Blackbeard himself and the plot of OFMD… but he can make it pay for its transgressions against him. And he certainly does… gloved in leather to protect himself from Izzy’s blood and flesh, in a scene that is overflowing with brutality couched in sexual framing.”

Jim (the killer) and Frenchie (the mender) are both mirrors of Izzy in some way.

Chapter 11: The Sacred Heart (Part 1)

“...In OFMD Season 2, Blackbeard’s heart is undergoing incredible growth and maturity through the application of terror and agonizing adversity – and by the end of it is bared and shining as the Sacred Heart of the show.”

When Izzy is the “hidden heart” in season one, he hides his pain (and a lot of people miss that said pain exists at all). “Only Izzy’s rage and jealousy is in the text; some emotional intelligence and/or sufficient media literacy to permit one to parse the show’s subtext on some level is required to understand the rest of his motivations. The lion’s share of this heart’s love that we can understand is on laser-beam narrow focus: Edward Teach, and the two-part entity of Blackbeard that this pair creates between them.”

In season two, “the Sacred Heart’s pain and fear are centered from nearly the first moment we see him in private; they overflow his previously immaculate control and are expressed almost entirely against his will. But because he’s expressing his emotions and more and more overtly protecting/shielding the crew from Blackbeard’s increasingly unhinged mind as well as all other lesser threats, his love for the crew is more obvious moment by moment also.”

Additionally, “Izzy’s rampant lust from the first season is dampened as well due to his wounds (loss of a foot/leg is often intended as symbolic loss of the genitals) so his expressions of affection to the crew are almost entirely platonic/agape love [...]. The final result is an opening of Blackbeard’s heart to the entire crew, where it accepts them all and is accepted by them in return.”

In Stede’s dream, Stede gives Izzy “a non-consensual stabbing.” He and Ed are reunited, but nothing too amorous can happen because “if the heart of the story is dead, there can be no blood pumping, no erections, and the head/mind itself will eventually die also. The bottom line is there’ll be no sexy stuff happening without it.”

In the wedding party fight, Izzy is shown placing himself between Jim and Frenchie and Ed -- protecting them from Ed. Izzy’s entire purpose without Blackbeard is protecting the crew.

Izzy is upset when Ed threatens to fire Izzy: “Izzy knows that his current position to Edward is one of scapegoat and punching bag. He’s blamed for anything that goes wrong, whether or not it’s truly in his power to prevent or fix it – and the price for every failure is another body part removed and most likely force-fed to him. If he’s not there to take that abuse… someone else will just have to take it instead.” Again, he’s protecting the crew.

Jim tells Izzy that his relationship with Ed is toxic, “and they’re right on a textual level (he’s abusing you) as well as a subtextual level: it’s often not healthy for two people to remain bound so closely into one entity (a two-part creature known as Blackbeard) but especially when one side of it has become entirely toxic and is regularly maiming the other.”

When the crew comfort Izzy, no one touches his bare skin.

Izzy returns to Ed, delivers the crew’s response, and asks Ed what Izzy is to him. “Almost every single line Izzy has in Season 2 is overflowing with subtext and this one is no different.The surface meaning is: what are we? What is our relationship? What do you truly want from me? The subtextual meaning is: have you forgotten I'm Blackbeard's heart? Have you forgotten that to kill me is to kill yourself? Don’t you understand that you do to me what you don’t have the courage to do to yourself: you kill me one inch at a time? You’re trying to make me stop loving you [...] and I can’t, because it’s a heart’s purpose to love.”

Izzy is afflicted with love. He is “quiet and sincere and utterly chaste,” until accidentally invoking Stede. Ed storms above deck and Izzy tries to rein him in.

Before he mentions Stede, Izzy is certain he’s going to die for speaking the truth, “because Blackbeard’s heart has always been the first to admit out loud what Blackbeard is feeling, long before his head will actually be brave enough to speak it.”

With Izzy out of commission, Frenchie is Ed’s next “victim.”

Jim gives Izzy one of his few skin-to-skin touches, and it’s to silence him when he’s screaming at them to kill him. Very tragic. It’s also Jim who tells Archie that Izzy is “their dick” (or their heart, since a functional heart is required for a functional dick). 

Importantly, “Jim’s also an Izzy mirror, may I remind you: Jim initially didn’t want to truly join the crew either, and had something of a minor battle to be accepted for who they were.”

Ed discovers Izzy: “He strolls in slowly, standing over an unconscious and completely vulnerable Izzy Hands – and gazes down at him for a moment before the scene ends. OOooh that had my heart pounding in terror and fury on first watch!” 

When Ed talks to Izzy, he’s looking directly at him (as he so rarely does). He tells Izzy that he dreamed he killed him “(When we talk about death, it’s sex. When we talk about sex, it’s death)”. Ed gives Izzy the gun.

“Parse Izzy’s expression here: that’s longing. That’s a man on his death bed looking at the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen in his life, that he thought he’d never get see again. So much so that, just before the shot cuts away, his eyes light up and he begins to smile sweetly. What is Izzy seeing? [...] Full on direct eye-contact with a fuck-me stare and the muzzle of the pistol hovering at lip level.”

In short, it’s a very horny scene.

“If Izzy’s not willing to let him die by giving a subtextual blowjob… Ed’s going to offer something else. He’s gonna let Izzy take him from behind.” But Izzy ultimately refuses after struggling with the power he has been granted over Ed.

Izzy tells Ed that he’s tired of cleaning up after him. “Side-note: I’ve seen some lukewarm takes in various spots on the internet that mean old Izzy was overstating his labor on Ed’s behalf, and I just want to remind everyone that at this point we have seen precious doe-eyed meow meow princess Edward only make even the most token of efforts to clean up his own mess exactly twice…”

Ed leaves Izzy with the pistol and the understanding that Izzy (the heart) will kill himself. Ed hears the gun fire and, thinking his heart is dead, he can admit the truth: that he loved Izzy the best he could. “Body language on the second half of that statement [best I could] suggests to me he knows he’s lying or minimizing, although I can’t pinpoint enough of the ‘why’ consciously to screencap it. He tosses it off as if it doesn’t matter, and that I can understand – in this moment, he’s only lying to himself.”

On to Ed’s final suicide attempt. Why does he tell Jim and Archie to fight to the death if he plans on killing them all anyway? “I think he is impelled to, by his current personal fixation. I think right now the mind of Blackbeard can’t see love without obsessing about destroying it. He carved off bits of his own loving heart one chunk at a time, because of it. Now that he’s been shown Jim and Archie have developing feelings for each other on his ship of death, he has to take the moment to destroy them first… Even when it gives his heart the chance to drag itself out of the pit of the grave and finish its sacrifice to stop him.”

Izzy returns during the reprise of Run From Me, “specifically the soaring siren vocals and bolero heartbeat pulse of its bridge and outro: the loyal heart is still pounding, still pumping blood to the rest of Blackbeard and the plot.”

The crew take Ed down “and Izzy, knowing what must be done to save the crew, making this final personal sacrifice on their behalf, stands by and lets them kill Blackbeard’s brain.”

Stede finds and boards the Revenge to find the crew eating a dead bird and “better than they had been under Ed’s reign of terror, but not anything close to their best.”

And then soup. “Now on the deck of the Red Flag, Izzy’s crew gets to have their soup. Notably, neither Izzy nor Lucius have any soup – yet everyone else did, even eventually Ed while down in the gravy basket, served up to him by his own former captain. So, subtextually, the bright heart and the dark heart of the show have not allowed themselves to be fed and warmed and comforted.”

When Stede starts to ask questions, Izzy responds with hostility in a bid to get Stede to focus his ire on him, once again protecting the crew. 

Stede asks who stabbed up his portrait and Izzy lies. Why? Because “the tender heart protects the head too, even though it’s currently beyond being hurt. Izzy’s protecting Edward’s legacy and the memories he leaves behind in Stede: this is Izzy as Ed’s scapegoat/Sin Eater, taking Edward’s sins on his own back to leave Ed utterly blameless in Stede’s mind as much as possible.”

Izzy continues to antagonize Stede to keep Stede focused on him. He’s eventually reduced to honesty and tells Stede that Ed tortured the crew (“the pain and suffering of the crew is the highest crime in Izzy’s mind”).

With the “doggy heaven” line, Stede reveals how close he was to Ed, and “that Stede heard every bit of this betrayal and forgave it, and continued on with love for Edward – to the point of dueling Izzy, to the point of fighting to stay with him despite Calico Jack’s manipulations, and everything that arrived afterward.” He realizes Stede might love Ed as much as Izzy does.

Izzy said he could never do that. “Con chooses to shut his eyes during this terribly tender, utterly vulnerable admission. Izzy can’t bring himself look at Stede, even merely the side of Stede’s face that is currently presented most toward him, while he bares so much of his soul.”

Why does he lie? Izzy won’t betray the crew by confessing, and he wants to buy them time to get away from Zheng Yi Sao. “There’s a third possible purpose: that it’s soothing to Stede. It’s a sweet little lie, and it lets him have a little hope for a while. In fact, if Izzy can be clever and discreet while dealing with Edward’s burial, Stede might get to spend the rest of his life chasing the fantasy that Ed’s still out there somewhere… and it’s possible to live your whole life loving a dream you will never touch again.”

When the crew is imprisoned after Ed’s body is discovered, Frenchie sits on Izzy’s left (the side of the hand with no glove). “In a more general way, Izzy’s positioned himself to block the cell door. Anything that tries to come through it will have to come through him first. Additionally, he’s switched the side his crutch is on; it’s not at his left hand to be used to support himself but at his right hand to be a bludgeoning weapon.”

Stede comes down and Izzy immediately speaks, “establishing himself as the target of blame.” Izzy insists that he is the one who’s responsible for Ed’s death, and he’s willing to be Stede’s scapegoat as well.

“And last… on some intrinsic level, Izzy Hands feels like all of this horror and pain is exactly what he deserves, from start to finish – the lack of love and affectionate touch, the physical and pseudosexual abuse, the agony on all levels of existence, even a final ignominious death itself as a traitor: give me your worst.”

Stede leaves. “We get a shot of Izzy shaking his head just the tiniest amount, and tears standing unshed in his eyes. He still doesn’t have Bonnet engaging how Izzy thinks he’s should – or rather, has been primed by months of enduring abuse to expect. Without a focus to Stede’s grief and anger firmly on himself, how can Izzy ensure he can adequately protect the rest of his family?”

“To stare deeply into Izzy’s gloriously beautiful pyrrhic self-sacrifice is to be able to look fully and directly at my own, reflected.”

After the escape attempt, Stede denies Izzy any gratitude for his apology. 

Chapter 12: The Sacred Heart (Part 2)

Izzy as heart continues and the analysis moves on S2E4. He is isolated and drinking, undoubtedly trying to numb the agonizing pain from his recently-amputated leg, ill-fitting prosthetic, and all of the additional bodily pain that would create. Mera suggests that, “if [they’re] right about Izzy being HIV/AIDS coded, [...] there’s every possibility that the extensive stress on his body from everything he’s endured lately (culminating in an amputated limb and a suicide attempt that at least rattled his cranium) has him experiencing an overall nerve pain called neuropathy.”

We can also infer that Izzy has “a lot of complex emotions about Edward’s return, no matter how necessary it is to the shared being of Blackbeard. If love could bring him back from the dead… why didn’t Izzy’s love manage it? Now that he’s returned from the dead… will the horrors resume? Stede and Edward have each other again… and Izzy’s on the outside once more, but now permanently damaged. Who would want him now?”

Stede comes by and does his best to be kind to Izzy, and “Izzy – suffering, isolated, terrified for a number of reasons once more, and drunk as a skunk… is asked to provide the deadlock-breaking vote on whether or not Ed should be banished.”

Izzy remains physically closed off to Stede. He’s vulnerable, and he associates captains with pain. When Stede says, “You’ve already murdered him once, seems like a pretty good payback,” Izzy visibly flinches. He’s glad that the blame is still entirely on him, but he’s still hurt. Izzy says that the rotten leg must come off, because:

Everything for Izzy right now is related to his maiming… and Edward’s toxicity was the rot that was eating the crew before Stede returned. 

If Ed can be removed from the ship, a few of the worst fears in Izzy’s life will be remedied: Stede most likely won’t hurt the crew the way Edward did; Stede most likely won’t hurt Izzy the way Edward did; Edward won’t be there to hurt the crew or Izzy; and, last but not least, Izzy won’t have to watch Stede and Edward fall in love all over again – this time as a changed, maimed, damaged, and (in his own mind, at least) defective man who is now unable to leave under his own power…

Izzy is offscreen for a bit, but it’s important to note that Lucius gets hit in the head with a sandwich, much like Izzy did in season one.

“The very first time we see Izzy after Edward’s banishment… and now it’s HIS vest that’s fully undone, his collar that’s unbuttoned, and his cravat and ring loosened from its usual high, tight position on his throat. Both of these men have been armoring against each other.”

Izzy saws the legs off of the headless unicorn. “Hurting people often hurt other people… and yet, our Sacred Heart has only taken out his pain on the unfeeling, inanimate object of the figurehead.” Truly a selfless hero. “Again, everything right now is reflecting back in Izzy’s mind to his own maiming: a figurehead is supposed to protect the crew. It failed to protect the crew, therefore it didn’t do its job. The price of not doing one’s job is the loss of limbs.”

Izzy’s prosthetic fails and the rest of the crew watch him with “horror and concern,” and “they move as one unit at last, immediately to try to surround Izzy and help him back up,” but he resists and crawls away. “This is disturbing, and it’s meant to be. This is heart-wrenching, and it’s meant to be. It’s the lowest point of the Sacred Heart – to be alone in all it suffers – and the blatant evidence of that pain and sacrifice is what draws the crew together in union again.”

In the next Izzy scene, he’s drinking alone in his bed. “Now that the unicorn figurehead shares his maiming and has been ‘punished’ for not doing its job, there’s only one entity left on board that he can still permit himself to harm, to vent the poison and rot festering inside his soul.” That person? Izzy’s reflection. 

“While Edward took his own pain out on anything that’d hold still long enough (mostly Izzy)… the karmic buck stops with Izzy Hands. He knows he’s wounded and toxic; he’s isolating to keep that toxicity from harming his family. [...] Izzy has seen the process of other people distributing their own damage to innocent new victims, just passing it on down the line; he has experienced it directly. He has decided he will have none of it himself. Izzy is resolved that it ends with him.”

The crew leave their gift at Izzy’s door and the attached note makes him weep. “His sobs are powerful enough that they continue to shake his whole body even as he draws himself upright again.” He calls them “cocksuckers, but “this response is intended to be subtextually read as a positive thing, indicating how touched Izzy truly is by the gesture.”

In Izzy’s next scene, he’s at the foredeck alone with his new leg. He pulls out the note and “the soundtrack sings: this world isn’t big enough to keep me away from you… from you… The song is right on two levels; even now, Blackbeard’s mind is returning to Blackbeard’s heart, courtesy of Stede… and Izzy will not ever be parted from the love of the crew.” Izzy allows himself a smile and a seagull (Buttons) goes by.

Buttons is a mirror to both Ed and Izzy. He’s weird, he has long hair, Ed wears his birdshit-covered jacket, the full moon is important to him, he’s a skilled first mate, “his mouth can be pretty poisonous, and his bites will leave permanent wounds,” and he changes a lot during the show. “Bottom line: if Ed and Izzy are two bodies that comprise one entity (Blackbeard)… Then Buttons is two entities (the Moon and the Sea)... that are united to some extent in one body.”

The Moon and the Sea change in regular and predictable ways; the Moon affects the Sea (tides), but the Sea doesn’t have the same power over the Moon. “The Sea is also the original source of all life here on Earth. The Moon is bright and remote and beautiful and sterile. It has a light side that’s always turned toward Earth due to its rotation and revolution matching up, and a dark side that we don’t often get to see (without some serious effort).” The Sea is barely explored (subtext) and the Moon is known (text). 

Before Buttons turns into a bird, he tells Ed, To love the sea as she must be loved… requires change. “To love Izzy in the way that Izzy must be loved… Edward will also have to change. He’s been given his directive. We don’t see it completed during Season 2, nor will I speculate how this will manifest in Season 3. What I will say is that this show has been and remains fantastic about showing the many different and equally valid forms that love can take, and I am excited for anything that results in Izzy Hands being truly loved.”

The next episode opens on Ed’s apology. His victims are there, and Izzy? “He is off to the side and not having to deal with Edward face-on. His bare and deadly left hand is toward the captains, with its threat that continues subtextually but has never yet textually been explained.” He’s ready to defend the crew from Ed if needed. 

Ed delivers his “weasel-word non-apology.” It’s no good, but “the queer writers room as well as Taika himself with his specific cultural heritage are absolutely aware of how this comes off – superficial, insincere, and absolutely infuriating – and it’s intended to come off that way. It’s fucky on purpose, and not ‘bAd wRiTiNg.’”

Izzy seems calm, but he’s clearly not buying Ed’s apology. The blocking puts Olu in a protective position in front of Izzy, and “Frenchie and Lucius [are] getting to carry a lot of Izzy’s emotions here: Frenchie [by] being entirely unconvinced/checked out and Lucius [by] being overtly acrimonious by giving the finger.”

Lucius asks Izzy if he’s fine with it (the apology); this is the first time anyone has ever asked Izzy how he feels about something. There’s some ridiculous sexual tension and Izzy, “relaxed, open and almost entirely at ease,” graces Lucius with a nickname. “In the universe of OFMD this [the cigarette thing] is definitely an oral exchange. It’s at the very least a kiss by proxy but an argument could even be made that it's even something subtextually as significant as a blowjob…”

In the next Izzy scene, he’s shirtless and training with Stede’s good candles. His breathing is labored. Why? “Previous exertion, dealing with residual pain from his new and improved prosthetic, psyching himself up and/or oxygenating his blood for the strike he’s about to make, possibly a level of arousal from the pseudosexual nature of ‘swordplay’ in this universe – subtextually, he’s half-undressed and dancing with his own ‘saber’ in the dark with some candles around for some nice ambiance…”

A behind-the-scenes still shows Izzy’s back covered in scars. (“A few people elsewhere on the internets have mentioned how Izzy’s back looks like that… and yet Edward’s back is clean enough for a full back-tat and… I’ve got feelings about that also. Gotta wonder how that happened. Gotta wonder why.”) Mera says it’s a subtextual allusion to Jesus -- Jesus who was flogged, as opposed to Judas, who was hanged.

Stede enters and cleverly addresses Ed as “Blackbeard,” in keeping with Izzy’s preferences. Stede tells Izzy that Ed claims Izzy taught him everything he knows, which Mera is “about 75-80% sure” is a lie. Stede is trying to be encouraging and provide positive feedback. 

We move on to the training montage. “Izzy’s sardonic and still a bit brutal while attempting to teach fighting, rope-swinging, and target shooting… but never is he directly insulting or says anything like ‘you’ll never get it.’ He’s letting pain be a teacher to Stede also: don’t stop and ask questions, just hit. When you try to swing on a rope the wrong way, it’ll burn your hands. And when Stede’s missed shot brings a sail down, there’s no screaming insults, no degradation. Izzy’s being remarkably patient here.”

The training turns into discussion, with “Blackbeard’s Sacred Heart really starting to open up to Stede, both textually and subtextually: it’s quite a romantic heart, underneath all the leather and scars. The will to be contrary about this whole weird tangled emotional mess is starting to subside.” 

The crew lines up at the rail to inspect the ship they’ve sighted. The blocking is, as ever, important; Izzy stays “as close as possible to the least experienced member of the raid: Stede Bonnet.” He “also put himself between Frenchie and whatever might be aboard waiting to meet them.”

Lucius approaches Izzy while he’s whittling on the deck. Throughout the conversation, “Izzy’s so gentle in tone and expression, as calm as a bodhisattva; he never looks away from Lucius during any difficult moment. There's no flinch to tell us that he's still in any emotional pain.” 

Izzy claims that a shark took his leg; Ed has a shark tattoo on one arm. He smiles and says, “Served me right, too.” “This is Izzy again as Edward’s Sin Eater: he can put that pain and blame somewhere else, somewhere that it won’t weigh on Ed’s soul, and he does. It’s in the carving. (Its also a silent expression of his pain to match the prophecy referenced during the same relative timing beat/scene in The Last Temptation: ‘He has borne our faults; he was wounded for our transgressions -- yet he opened not his mouth.’)”

Izzy gives Lucius the shark he has been carving. “Izzy put his pain and trauma into the chunk of wood and worked at it for the entire duration of the episode when, for comparison, we don’t see Black Pete in S1 spend any time carving Lucius’s new finger. We’re given the visual textual signs that Izzy’s putting a lot of care and effort into this creation.”

During the red suit fiasco, Izzy is seen hanging out in Stede’s quarters. He’s relaxed and casual; he’s at ease with Stede. 

Stede gathers the crew to put an end to the red suit situation. Izzy is behind, watching; “he feels absolutely no need whatsoever to be close to the front to interpose his body between the captain and the crew protectively. He knows that Stede won’t be violent with them at all.” Izzy is also in Stede’s eyeline so he can offer guidance.

Chapter 13: The Sacred Heart (Part 3)

The next episode is Calypso’s Birthday. “This episode has been called Izzy's swan song, and respectfully I'd like to disagree.  This is when we see the Sacred Heart of OFMD most triumphant, most open, most freed, and most overtly/directly loving and loved in return.”

Ed is seen scanning the horizon and thinking about all of the awful things he’s done, beginning with his father’s death. (“Wow. Izzy shows up in there a lot. Like, disproportionately much.”) Izzy approaches, bottle in hand, immaculately dressed and styled but clearly a little drunk. Ed keeps his back to Izzy. “I think he’s staying turned away partially out of shame but also in an attempt to help Izzy feel safer during this interaction.”

Izzy absolutely didn’t mistake Ed for Roach; he’s not that drunk. He’s holding the bottle in his gloved right hand with his left closer to Ed. This is important because “as much as possible Izzy will keep his right side toward whoever he’s speaking with: it’s safer for them and also lets him access his sword easiest. So [...] right now Izzy’s walked up and chosen where to stand for this interaction: with his death-marked left hand toward Edward, empty of the bottle he’s carrying and still dangerous.” Ed trusts Izzy not to kill him; Izzy is still uneasy.

A new angle. Ed and Izzy, “the estranged partners,” are closer than they’ve been in five episodes. When Izzy calls Ed a “mopey twat,” his tone holds “mild animosity.” This is the closest he’s gotten to provoking Ed since season one.

Ed takes the bottle from Izzy (with his ungloved right hand) and drinks. Izzy is out of frame. “...For me, subtextually, it feels as if that removal of the conversational partner is intended to entirely visually replace Izzy Hands with his proxy. He’s no longer a person, for the duration of these frames: he’s the bottle itself, held in Edward’s bare grip.” It’s significant that Ed’s lips touch a place Izzy’s just were without disgust or hesitation. It’s sensual: “Ed’s taken a kiss for himself from Izzy’s bottle – and Izzy, his eyes shining with tears, fully knows it.”

Ed is yearning. Izzy is yearning, but “then does what he does with all big emotions: covers them up and vents them safely with an expletive. [...] But he carries Edward’s return kiss to his own mouth nonetheless: love you, too.” “Why is Edward willing to do something (trade saliva, even by proxy) with Izzy that Lucius reacted so strongly and negatively about, less than a full episode ago?” There was a point where we didn’t really know how HIV/AIDS spread. “Edward knows the rules about Izzy’s disease/curse. Edward knows how to stay safe; they’ve gone however long this separation has lasted without Ed ever catching it or dying from it.”

We next see Izzy when he approaches Wee John, applying makeup for his Calypso look. Izzy gives the makeup setup a “hungry,” longing look. 

Izzy sings at the party. When it starts he’s not entirely at ease, as evidenced by “the stiff body language and uncomfortable rigor of Izzy’s arms out from his sides, the shy and downcast gaze trying not to look at anyone just in case someone’s laughing at him.” His look included red, gold, and wavy lines, all evoking Sacred Heart imagery. 

“When he finally looks up, Izzy glances over at Edward, who does not look at all surprised to hear Izzy’s marvelous voice – and, if you want to hurt yourself today as some of us sometimes do, you can wonder how many years it's been since Edward heard it last.”

Izzy snuggles up to Wee John at the party. “Izzy’s got his right gloved hand under his left palm; he’s pressing both hands into John’s wrist but the glove’s between the naked left hand and John’s skin, keeping them separate. I think the depth of shadow under his fingers indicates they’re not making contact either.”

At the song’s climax, Izzy is off-centered in frame. Why, Mera asks, “would you put one of your three main characters so fucking off-center?” Look for the subtext. “We see Izzy’s deadly, death-marked ungloved left hand leave the shot early on… and stays out as he holds the rest of the note, as if it doesn’t belong in the same visual realm as the rest of Izzy's entire body and the concept of ‘love’. As of these last few paragraphs, I’m no longer questioning myself on the concept that Izzy's HIV-coding was completely intentional. I know for sure I’m crazy… but now I'm also 100% certain I’m not wrong.”

A cannon goes off. There’s been meta written about how “Ed always jumps in front of Stede during physical threats and Stede always destroys people who hurt Edward emotionally, which reminded me that Izzy has always been the third and quieter option: ‘figure out where the threat's going to be, put my body between it and the people I love, and always be ready to kill it -- no matter who or what the threat is.’”

After Lowe is dealt with, we see the whole crew, with “the Sacred Heart front and center, right hand toward his captains, death-marked left hand toward the threat [Ed], Frenchie and (further back) Lucius tucked safely behind him.” This pose is also very Last Supper. 

Izzy sings a reprise in French. “He’s singing to the people he loves in French, which for cinema’s purposes is the language of love. I know that we have the Doylist reason for two versions of this song because Con was originally concerned he wouldn’t be able to learn the French version well enough to do it justice… but I also think it added something from the Watsonian side: this is a deeper expression of the love he displayed before.”

Elsewhere, “with his heart returned, emotionally reunited with him, and vigorously expressing the love inside it at last… Blackbeard’s head finally finds the rest of its two-part body willing and able to accommodate his new lover.” Stede and Ed kiss directly -- a mirror of Ed’s indirect kiss with Izzy earlier in the episode.

“...It’s Izzy and his singing that takes us through the credits and claims the episode almost entirely for the Sacred Heart – and at the end his family joins in with him, raucous but affectionate and wholly good-natured. Then after they’ve cheered and applauded, midway through the credits [...] the crew chants “One more song! One more song!” Izzy cheerfully answers “I’ve got one more song!” to general acclaim. … But we haven’t yet heard it during Season 2. Food for thought.”

Chapter 14: The Sacred Heart (Part 4)

“In this episode [S2E7], we will get to see Izzy as the show's Sacred Heart evince a personal yet non-sexual love to both of the show's other main characters, answering each of their needs.  We also do get to see one of Izzy's flaws repeatedly reinforced: that he tends to project his emotions, self-expectations, and personal traits on other people, for better or for ill. This serves to try to prepare us for his deepest example of projection in the final episode... that is also his last act of love to Edward.”

Ed sends his Blackbeard getup to the bottom of the sea, weighed down by a cannonball (the second time a cannonball has been used to kill Blackbeard). 

Back in the captain’s cabin, Izzy throws back the curtain to expose Stede and Ed. (Once again, someone says “Jesus” in response to Izzy doing something.) Izzy isn’t bitter, he’s merely reporting to his captain. He acknowledges Ed for the first time with his “well and truly docked” line. Izzy leaves.

“Couple of notes here. While yes, Izzy’s just needled both these men with his observation of their intimacy – it’s also some of the most good-natured jealousy I’ve seen him display [...]. There was no rage in his presentation as we’ve watched him evince before, not even repressed down so tightly that he would otherwise vibrate with it. But also… I think this is another of Edward’s fuckboi moments, being a bit shitty about his ex/estranged partner in an attempt to ingratiate himself more with his new one. (And it puts my hackles up that Ed treats Izzy's inability to have safe intimacy so cavalierly, but what else is new?)”

In his next scene, Izzy approaches Ed as he’s observing the fishermen. “Izzy’s returned to standing with his gloved right hand toward Edward; his bare left hand is angled to be on his sword hilt just below frame. The blocking and his posture says he’s feeling safe once more, and has forgiven Edward as much as he could be expected to.”

Izzy’s expression is somber when Ed says he feels “fucking great” about putting Blackbeard to rest. Ed fully meets Izzy’s eyes, and Izzy smiles. “This is the Sacred Heart giving such an intimate, incredible gift: loving in a way that can also let go. [...] Izzy at this time, his emotional development completed at last, can truly love Edward no matter what they are or become to each other – without requirements or demands.”

Ed pulls away and Izzy’s expression settles into grief. “The union of ‘Blackbeard’ will, Izzy thinks, dissolve and fade away. And they’ll have to find a new, healthier way to relate to each other – or maybe even leave each other completely behind, once and for all.”

Ed and Stede reunite and it quickly turn to fighting. “Astoundingly quickly, for someone who got such good dicking down just last night and was feeling strongly enough about it this morning to throw away his old life in favor of it. Or at least… he appeared to throw it away. Textually, he threw it away. And Blackbeard’s Sacred Heart, in an act of loving sacrifice, told him to listen to his feelings – no matter where they might lead.” But with Ed “disconnected from Blackbeard’s (now) more emotionally intelligent heart [...], he has only his own internal immature heart and its adolescent feelings to guide him – and he’s terrified about it.”

Stede doesn’t listen. “I’ll be 100% that bitch right here: Izzy would be fully listening, fully focused and engaged. Both of these men spin up too far in their own heads; they’ve never had to ignore their first adrenaline-soaked knee-jerk reflexive thoughts in order to coherently receive and respond to what someone else is saying/doing in an emotionally challenging moment.” Ed and Stede unconsciously use all kinds of “underhanded psychological tricks” on each other during the argument. 

Izzy and Stede talk (mirroring Izzy’s talk with Ed earlier), but only after Izzy uses his own formidable (not related to Blackbeard at all) power to order Stede’s companions away. Izzy is compassionate. He tells Stede that he balances Ed out, which may be some projection on Izzy’s part. 

“The sincerity here is killing me in the best possible way. Where Izzy’s previous conversation with Ed was almost sparse – they know each other so well and they’ve thrown so many words at each other across the years, they’re now down to the only ones that still matter – this one is verbose and more actively encouraging. And even here in this noisy bar that he doesn’t particularly like, he’s leaning forward to be sure he’s heard. His expression is open and caring, without a trace of sarcasm or insincerity. He remains kind on every single textual and subtextual level.” A feat, considering how tired and in pain Izzy must be by now.

Izzy tells Stede he was shot for saying he loves Ed, which is, of course, not true. “On one level it reads to me as a conflation of the idea of Stede Bonnet and love, in the mind of Blackbeard's heart. On another level it was a statement of love for Edward in the moment that was even weightier (and therefore unfortunately had more consequences) than his own love confession: you love him and I know it, so let's talk about it; let's find a healthy way to deal with it together and move forward. That's what got him shot -- the fact that Blackbeard's heart was willing (as it always has been) to admit to love far, far sooner than Blackbeard's mind was.”

Izzy puts his bare hand on Stede’s thigh (it’s fine, Stede is protected by leather pants). Izzy is seated between Stede at the direction from which any possible threat might come, right hand free to draw his sword. It’s not a perfectly defensible position.

Izzy tells Stede to get back to the ship. This is one of “many times Izzy’s been right and just… no one fucking bothered to listen to him or take him seriously.”

Stede confronts Zheng Yi Sao before Izzy can position himself to stop him. Izzy must decide to trust Stede in this; he’s smiling by the time he takes his spot at Stede’s back. Izzy realizes that Zheng Yi Sao is winding Stede up, and he’s not convinced that Stede, even with his remarkable luck, can win against her in a fight.

When Yi Sao drops Steak Knife, Izzy knows it’s best to make a run for it, “and if he wasn’t exhausted and in a fair amount of pain, he perhaps could have interceded in time and tried to broker peace. But Stede’s healthy, non-disabled, and full of vigorous venom; on this occasion he beats Izzy to the punch.” 

They’re all kicked outside to brawl. Izzy is positioned between Jim and Lucius, with Frenchie on Lucius’ other side. He’s clearly exhausted and in pain. This is interesting because, “after the end of S1, Con says [Izzy[ is ‘a little bit frightened’ of Jim, and ‘confused as fuck’ about Lucius – and here, in the penultimate episode of S2, he’s being supported and upheld by both of them in an affectionate fashion.”

Zheng Yi Sao’s ships explode. “Then a cannon ball comes arching out of the night, filling the frame headed toward the left -- therefore toward Stede, Zheng, or (less likely) Roach.”

On to the next!

[tinyangryeddie]

What Good Is It? (OFMD PWP series!)

A new series by camerasparring!

Ratings: Explicit

Pairing: Edward Teach | Blackbeard/Stede Bonnet

Additional Tags: PWP, Smut, Fluff, First Time, Premature Ejaculation, Multiple Orgasms, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Marathon Sex, Bottom Stede Bonnet, Power Bottom and click through on each fic for more!

Part I: Talking Won't Do It

“Edward, I—” He tips back, concern deeply laden in his brown eyes. “I’m not sure I— I think we ought to discuss this.” “This?” Ed eyes Stede’s crotch again. Crudely imagines what’s under the dressing gown and all the linens and how quickly he can get his mouth around it. But that’s— Talk. Stede is saying they should talk. “You want to talk about your dick? Cause I can talk about your dick, mate. Good topic of conversation, actually. ” -- Stede thinks he can't get it up. Turns out he can. Ed is more than thrilled.

Part II : Won't Rush It Along

“You’re magic. You’re just bein’ fuckin’ modest.” He lets his eyes slip, knowing that’ll get him a shriek or two. “Ed, really!” Stede fluffs uselessly at a pillow. “Deal with it.” “I will not.” “Alright, then I will. No worries.” Ed snorts. Crosses his arms, since he’s without sleeves. He knows Stede likes that. Thinks back to the other night when Stede started running his hands up and down Ed’s biceps, moaning, “Good god, Ed, your arms, they’re so strong.” Ed had come soon after, the lusty and worshipful tone in Stede’s voice pushing him over. Stede followed him, for the third time on his part, and that’s the point. That’s the fucking point. Or: Ed wants to put Stede's "skills" to the test.

[obaewankenope]

Yesterday, my mother and I were discussing Liz IIs death, who'd take the throne, and blah blah about it all (including me informing her that the 3mil funeral cost is because of Victoria's redesign of state funerals blah blah) and she asked me:

Okay, hotshot (I shit you not, she used that word), if you know so much about all this (waving her hand and indicating... Idk... Monarchy shit I guess??) stuff then why did Edward (VIII) have to abdicate the thrown to marry a divorcee if they're letting Charles be King now with her (meaning Camilla)?

And like, I had to stop a minute and think about this all because wow, memory and Monarchy ugh. So! Buckle in y'all its gonna be a great ride!

In 1936, the King of England (and the Commonwealth) was Edward VIII. He caused something called the "Abdication Crisis" because he wanted to marry a divorcee Wallis Simpson but this was a Big No No for a Royal to do.

Now, the thing is, this is what is generally Known about it all. But what my mother (and probably a lot of other people) didn't know is that Eddie 8:

was a Nazi sympathiser

met Hitler in 1937

got pictured performing the Nazi salute

gave German intelligence info on France's military set up that was used to invade France in 1940

and then ended in Portugal after he fled France being invaded where he and his wife rubbed shoulders with German agents and Nazi sympathisers etc etc.

See, the thing is, the Abdication Crisis was what was Publicly Known at the time and made a great Public Excuse for Eddie 8 to leave the throne to his younger brother Albert (George VI) who wasn't a fan of Hitler, the Nazi's or any of that shit.

There's actually a documentary about this darker history of Eddie 8 aired by Channel 4 (Edward VIII: Britain's Traitor King) and I'd recommend giving it a watch because the evidence used by the historian Andrew Lownie is literally decades old. Its from the Royal Archives!

Winston Churchill actually had Eddie 8 removed from Europe all together by making him the Governor of the Bahamas when he was in Portugal and, honestly, the fact that Eddie 8 was also given a Dukedom after adbicating is just Royal Bribery bs to keep him sweet because, afterall, he was a Royal so couldn't have it be known he was a Traitor To The British Empire And Its People blah blah.

The Abdication Crisis was literally a cover up to prevent the common folk from discovering that a King was a Nazi loving bastard and isn't that just a stark reminder of how revisionist history is.

I have known about this for years but for my mother it was a revelation. She had No Idea Eddie 8 had been a Nazi lover, or any of the rest. She, like most, assumed he had been kicked off the throne because he wanted to marry a divorcee but...

Like... That's literally never been an issue for the Royal fucking Family. Like, sure, it was only in 2002 that the Protestant Church of England allowed people to marry divorcees but literally Henry the Fucking Eighth had how many divorces etc etc? It wasn't an impossibility to happen in the first place. But it made a nice smokescreen to oust a King who favoured an enemy nation at a time of great upheaval.

Especially since, ya know, World War II was happening and all that. Yeah...

So yeah, there's some history on the bullshit British Royal Family and how the Public knowledge is carefully curated hogwash by PR managers and Buckingham Palace™ to protect the "image" of the Royal Family and whatever Ruling Monarch there is at the time.

Cool right?

[sunflowervolvimp3]

you’re someone i just want around: X

I will not ask you where you came from,

I will not ask and neither should you.

Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,

We should just kiss like real people do.

Like Real People Do, Hozier

A/N: okay i know i say this every time but genuinely THIS IS MY FAVOURITE PART SO FAR!!!!! and my lil section of this story has come to an end!!! act one is done!!! and the beginning of act two aka part 11 will be coming on andrea’s blog!!!!! thank u guys so so much for all the love and support you’ve given us!!!! we truly cannot believe you guys have been so receptive and we love you all so so much 🦋 as always any and all feedback is deeply appreciated not just by andrea and I but by all content creators!!! seriously we do all of this for free while going to school and working full time and those little messages make our days so much better!!! so do reblogs!!! you should reblog the content you like!!!! leave a lil message in the tags!!! shoot us a message!! anything is truly madly deeply™️ appreciated 💌 thank you all once again for your support!!!! pls enjoy 🦋

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

word count: 37.9k

content/warnings: harry ignoring “bros before hoes” part 45684957, “FUCK FLORIDA!!! ALL MY HOMIES HATE FLORIDA!!!” - xander, fight scene (rap), jefferson x hamilton (friends to lovers), road head ahead?? uhhh yeah, i sure hope so!!!, MUSI 1113: history of classical music, prof. harry styles, sherlock and watson solve the biggest mystery yet, *edward cullen voice* and so the mosquito fell in love with the butterfly

“Are you going to stare at your phone all day, like a bloody tool, or are you actually going to join the conversation?”

Despite the baited question, Harry keeps his gaze on his device as he flicks through his notifications, opening one app after the other in quick repetition before closing the screen. “That depends.  Are you actually going to say something interesting?”

From the other side of his couch, Niall flicks up his middle finger with ease, his expression sour and unimpressed. “We are saying something interesting, you prick.  I want to get out of town next weekend, but no one—” The Irishman shoots a pointed look to Xander, who’s leaning across the kitchen island with an unbothered expression. “—can agree on where to go.”

“It’s not that I can’t agree, Niall. It’s that your ideas are stupid.” Xander shoots back in an exasperated tone, raising his Bloody Mary (with extra blood, hardly any Mary) to his scowling lips. “No one wants to go to fucking Florida.  It’s Florida.  Why the fuck would we go to Florida?”

“Because I’ve been alive for two hundred years—”

Adam clicks his tongue from the lounge seat by the window. “I’m not sure if ‘alive’ is the best description.”

“—and I’ve never been to Disney World!  I died from a fucking famine.  Am I not entitled— nay, am I not owed—” Niall straightens his posture on the couch as he addresses the whole of the room, a determined look set in his icy blue eyes that contrasts the dulled gaze of those watching him. “A warm churro, cold Dole Whip, and a set of over-priced Mickey ears?  Huh?”

“That still doesn’t answer the question of why we’d have to go to Florida to get that!” Xander exclaims, rounding the corner of the kitchen counter with his drink in hand.  He raises the glass to his lips, pausing halfway to point towards the wall of windows that’s currently letting in the midday Sunday sun. “We could drive a half hour to Disneyland, and get you the exact same thing!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Niall sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth, as if he needs to calm himself down before doing something he regrets. “Xander,” He begins in a controlled voice, tight and tense and on the verge of snapping. “I suffered through starvation, fought in a world war, went through the Great Depression, and then fought in another fucking world war!  After all that, why would I settle for Disneyland, when we could easily make it to Disney World and back in three days?”

“You know…” Mitch says slowly, flopping down on the sofa between Niall and Harry, who’s already turned his attention back to his obsessive ritual of checking his notifications. “You can’t keep playing the ‘fought in a war’ card.  Harry fought in World War One, too, and I fought in the Revolutionary War.  And died in the Revolutionary War.  You do realize the majority of our group are veterans, right?”

Niall sighs in exasperation, clutching his beer in his fist to keep it from spilling as the older vampire beside him shifts on the couch. “I don’t play the ‘fought in a war’ card, Mitchell, I play the ‘fought in two wars’ card. And I think that card earns me the right to choose what we do next weekend.”

“And I think you folded those cards the moment you suggested Florida.” Wrinkling his nose, Xander finally enters the living room, and Harry risks a glance up from his phone to eye the dark-tinted liquid that laps at the edge of Xander’s glass with every step. “Why don’t we just go to Disneyland?  Or, better yet, why don’t we take a few extra days and go somewhere exciting?  I hear Greece is lovely this time of year; I wouldn’t mind trying some Mediterrean food for a week.”

“Florida is just as lovely—”

“That’s a lie, Florida is never lovely.”

“And Adam wants to go to Disney World, too!” Niall finishes triumphantly, taking a large swig of his half-empty beer before wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “So it’s two-to-one!”

“Two-to-two, actually.” Mitch interjects, pursing his lips at the childish grimace that overtakes Niall’s previously cheery expression. “I’m not too fond of alligators, and last time I heard from Sarah, she was in Italy.  It’d be nice to have a week with her in Greece.”

Niall rolls his eyes at the sudden tie, turning his gaze past his disappointing friend to his other almost-as-disappointing friend, tone growing firmer. “Alright, then, Harry, it’s up to you.  You’re our tie-breaking vote.”

Harry, however, had spent the better part of the last two minutes scrolling through the photos he and Y/N had taken on their date the day before, and doesn’t even glance up from his screen upon registering the utterance of his name. “Hm?  The vote on what?”

The frustrated Irishman lobs his bottle of beer at Harry’s head, his pitch powerful enough that it nearly collides with its target a millisecond later.  And would have collided, if Harry’s hand hadn’t shot up on a supernatural reflex to capture it perfectly within his grasp.

Keeping his eyes locked on his phone, Harry sighs at his friend’s antics. “Watch it, Ni, I don’t want to scrub beer stains out of my couch—”

“I wouldn’t have to resort to throwing bottles at your thick head if you could get it out of your girlfriend’s arse long enough to participate in our discussion!” The blue-eyed vampire shoots daggers at him, and the lightness of his irises shifts to a dark crimson as Harry’s gaze barely flickers to him. “Oh for fuck’s sake—” Bracing himself against Mitch’s lap, Niall launches over the couch and snatches Harry’s phone from his hands, scrambling back to his seat and stuffing it down his jeans pocket before Harry can react. “You’ll get this back after we finish talking, alright?  Now, where do you want to go next weekend?  Disney World or Greece?”

Although the urge to tackle Niall and fight for his phone twinges in Harry’s mind, he forces himself to stay seated, settling for just shooting a glare across the couch.  He’s certain that Mitch wouldn’t be appreciative of him and Niall biting at each other on top of him, just as certain he is of the fact that attacking Niall won’t exactly make him look mentally stable.  

Instead, Harry merely sucks in a deep breath, setting the beer bottle on the coffee table and dragging his jeweled hand through his hair before answering evenly. “First of all, she’s not my girlfriend.  And second of all… neither.  Y/N and I have plans next weekend.”

A collective groan runs through the room the moment the phrase falls from his lips, and Harry swallows down a smirk at the reaction he receives from his friends.  Only Mitch’s face remains free of irritation, and instead sits in a neutral expression that, from his years of friendship, Harry can tell is tinged with concern.

“You have plans with her every weekend.” Xander complains, taking a sip of his Bloody Mary as he sits down next to Adam on the lounge seat, pulling Harry’s attention from the eldest immortal. “How can you sit there and say she’s not your girlfriend when you’ve been ditching us for the last, like, three and a half months to spend time with her?”

That, in all honesty, is a fair question.  Harry knows that he’s been spending more and more time with Y/N in the last few weeks at the expense of his friends, and on some level, he does feel bad about it.  Except that when he actually thinks about it, he doesn’t feel that bad in the slightest. He has no reason to, given that he spends almost every weekday with his friends, so what’s the harm in saving his weekends for someone else?  

In fact, he rather enjoys bracketing off those days just to spend them with her, alone with no one else to bother them, where they can just bask in each other’s company. So no, he really doesn’t feel bad at all.

He has the sudden realization that, on top of having the sweetest, most addicting blood he’s ever had the good fortune of tasting in the last two hundred years, Y/N is just generally fun to be around. Due to this, Harry has unintentionally continued to grow closer and closer to the human girl with every second they spend together.  She’s witty, adventurous, and always down to try something new— both in public and in the bedroom.  And in the bedroom— a smile unknowingly creeps onto Harry’s face as he recalls the dinner he’d taken her to last month, and what they’d done after. 

He also recalls the morning that had followed, in which they had eaten breakfast on his couch together in nothing but their underwear, their bodies tangled against the sofa cushions as Y/N had fed him bites of French toast while he showed her the extensive collection of Polaroid pictures he’d taken the previous night before.  He vividly remembers the way she had squirmed at the images of her with her legs spread open for him, of her bare chest heaving and her back arching, and of the wetness dripping down her thighs and staining the sheets. And he especially remembers the way she’d hid her face away in his neck at the snapshot of his hand wrapped around her throat, as well as the picture of her suckling eagerly at his thumb while his array of rings had glinted under the flash of the camera. 

It had been so cute watching her eyes brim over with shyness, especially because she had been more than happy to shed her inherent timidness the night prior. He’d teased her about it, of course. How could he not? He’d laid there as she rested between his legs, pointing out every welt and bruise prominent on the photos, and then skimming his icy fingers over her actual body to find them. It had been a very intimate moment, given that they were reflecting on more than just the physical aspects of what they’d shared. It feels like their entire dynamic had shifted slightly, all due to the fact that the roughness and aftercare that had occurred between them were actions that required immense amounts of trust and communication. Harry felt closer to her in a way he hadn’t before, and if the softness behind Y/N’s eyes was any indication, she felt the exact same way. 

Their connection felt different now— purer, in a way, now that they’d seen one another in such an exposed fashion, but it still managed to stay within the boundaries Harry was intent on upholding. She’d given him a type of relief he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much, considering he hadn’t indulged in anything of that caliber in years due to certain doubts about his self-control. But somehow, he had managed to keep his supernatural strength and impulses at bay the whole way through, and he’d kept her safe and satisfied, as he promised he would. In return, she’d made him feel more in tune with himself than he had in a while. 

With all of those thoughts filtering through the vampire’s mind during their morning cuddle session, he had ducked down and kissed at the tip of her warm nose, sighing blissfully when she had returned the gesture onto the curve of his chin. Then, he’d begun pinching playfully at her sides, not being able to resist the urge to make her smile. He had burst into laughter when she herself had erupted into spontaneous giggles, thrashing against him while squeaking curses between gasps of his name, pleading with him to cut it out or she’d wind up falling off the sofa. It had been a wholesome pastime, up until he’d ended up sucking maple syrup off her fingers with that signature devious twinkle in his half-lidded eyes, and then she herself had ended up licking that same syrup off his abdomen. That had led to him tonguing it off the swell of her breasts, and then she had wound up lapping at something much more interesting than his stomach.

It’s only natural, though, considering that in the bedroom, Y/N is a refreshingly unstoppable force.  She matches his every push, pull, and thrust with ease, as if she knows his body by heart.  Maybe she does, Harry muses, considering that he undisputedly knows hers from every angle, like the stanzas of his favorite poem. And between all those things, is it really his fault he wants to spend as much time with her as he can?  Keeping her happy and content had worked well to sweeten her blood for him thus far, so why should he change his game plan now, when he’s so clearly in the lead?

Last weekend, for example, he and Y/N had driven the scenic route out to Malibu, where they spent the entire day lounging on beach towels and frolicking in the waves.  He’d enjoyed seeing her with saltwater hair, her soft skin encrusted with sand and warmed by the sun, almost as much as he’d enjoyed fiddling with the strings of her bikini and coating her body in sunscreen, because “protection from UV rays is a top priority, love.  Trust me.”  They’d packed a picnic lunch for themselves that consisted of homemade sandwiches, chips and salsa, and fruit skewers, which Y/N had hand-fed to Harry after she’d convinced him to let her bury him in the sand.  It had been irritating to shower the grit out from some unsavoury places, but worth it to see the smile on her face and hear her infectious giggles as she molded a sizable pair of sandcastle breasts onto his chest.  And doubly worth it after he took her home and fed on her sea-tinged blood.

Yesterday, as well, had been an example of how well Harry is doing with this arrangement the two of them have.  He’d picked her up in the early afternoon and taken her to the Museum of Contemporary Art, where they’d spent the rest of the day wandering the exhibits and debating the artistic merits of each piece.  Of course, their discussions were less educated and more humour based, as Harry tended to list every painting as reminding him of sex, while Y/N said that every sculpture she saw was a comment on capitalism, but it had made them laugh nonetheless.  And while the security guards standing by didn’t seem to think their overheard conversations were amusing— nor how they posed with the paintings, trying to mimic the various expressions depicted in the artwork— Harry could tell that Y/N was entertained. It was obvious in how sugary her blood had been after she’d fallen asleep hours later. And if Harry were a better artist, he would’ve created his own sculpture dedicated to the honey and lavender liquid that he’d become so tied to over these last few months, but it appears his position as a collector is what he was suited for— both for literal artwork and the metaphorical pieces he’d paint on Y/N’s body with his lips. 

It’s with all these events in mind that he turns to Xander casually as the man’s question echoes in his head once more. “How can you say she’s not your girlfriend?”

A clear and concise explanation slips from Harry’s tongue without a second thought. “I can say she’s not my girlfriend because it’s true.” Harry slicks a hand through his tousled curls again out of habit, so used to busying his fingers with fiddling on his phone that he has to find some sort of substitute. “Keeping her satisfied keeps her— and her blood— around.  And, yes, she’s a sweet girl, and a nice break from you lot—” He nods towards Niall specifically with a jerking motion and a raised brow. “But there…” He just barely hesitates before spitting the words out. “There aren’t any actual feelings there.”

“Oh really?” Niall challenges, his own brow kinking as he shifts on the couch, turning his body completely to face Harry at the expense of Mitch’s personal space. “So all those times I’ve heard the two of you shagging— all those times you’ve called her ‘a dream’ or ‘perfect’— there were no feelings in that?”

Xander wolf whistles at the comment as Adam barks out a laugh, and even Mitch allows himself a reserved smirk at the mention of Harry’s bedroom talk.  Harry, on the other hand, straightens his shoulders as a flush works up his spine and onto his cheeks, and instead commands his tone to be as cutting as possible when he forms his reply.

“I don’t think Y/N would be very appreciative to know you’re eavesdropping on us fucking like some type of perverted creep, so you might want to invest in a better pair of plugs before I rip your ears off and solve the problem myself.” Harry threatens lowly, eyes flashing bright red for just a moment before reverting back to their natural emerald hue. “And you can take what I say mid-fuck as a ready-made script, mate, since you have no clue how to sweet-talk a bird into making her cum.”

Niall’s hands reach up to cup his ears protectively due to the other monster’s violent warning, his brows furrowing into a pointed scowl. “Eat shit. It’s not like I have a choice but to listen, given that you two nearly bring the building down while—”

“You know,” Xander chimes in from the lounge seat, his voice taking on an accusatory tone as his eyes narrow at Harry. “I thought a constant supply of blood would mellow you out, but if anything, you’ve grown a bit more irritable.  Does this arrangement have an expiration date?”

“Xander…” Mitch begins, caution written into his quiet voice as his eyes flit from Harry to Xander and back again. “That’s not—”

Harry sharpens his voice into a blade as he slashes over Mitch, jaw growing taut as he spits out his retort. “I know a relationship lasting more than one night is a bit of a foreign concept to you, so I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but I really don’t think that’s any of your fucking business.”

“So you fuck the same person for a couple of months, and suddenly you’re a relationship expert?” Xander inquires with a humorless huff, his tone just as bitter as his eyes as he glares at Harry from across the room. “As if you haven’t had commitment issues since the nineteenth century?” Raising his drink to his lips, Xander takes a slow and calculated swig as Adam shifts in discomfort next to him, his eyes meeting Mitch’s with a nervous glance. “At least I can call shit what it is, while you just delude yourself for weeks on end, pretending that anything good can come out of your attachment to an insignificant human—”

“If I were you,” Harry says through gritted teeth, his fingers curling over the edge of his couch to hold himself in place. “I’d choose your next words very carefully, Xanny.”

“Or what?  Are you gonna dig into your Fifty Shades chest and spank me?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  What, are you just upset you never got the full treatment?”

A hot flush crawls up Xander’s neck as his jaw clenches. “I never said I wanted it.”

“The jealousy written all over your face suggests otherwise.” 

“Alright!” Adam’s voice barks, swiftly slicing through the tension in the air, his eyes glowing crimson as he commands everyone’s attention from the two quarrelling vampires back onto himself. “That’s enough.  You’re both being ridiculous. Harry, you can’t be upset with us for trying to understand what you’re doing, mate.  We’re just curious, that’s all.  But Xander—” The youngest vampire’s snickering is cut off when his name is called sternly. “That doesn’t give you the right to ridicule him for it.  Harry knows what he’s doing— he’s a full-grown adult— and he wouldn’t do anything that would put himself, or any of us, into any sort of jeopardy.” With a long sigh, Adam’s gaze slides over the two creatures with a look of parental finality. “Are we good?”

Despite the annoyance still woven around each of Harry’s limbs, he forces himself to nod as he settles back into his couch, inhaling a deep breath through his nose.  Beside him, Mitch nudges the back of his hand against Harry’s arm, as if in encouragement, and the motion reminds him just exactly who it is that he’s talking to.  These are his friends— of course they have concerns about him.  Although they might voice those concerns in unusual ways (like sticking their noses into his intimate life), the meaning behind their words comes from a place of affection.

“Alright.” Adam says again, relief flooding across his face as he turns his attention to the rest of the room. “Now, we still need to decide what we’re doing next weekend.  Personally, I think a three day trip to Disney World would be a lot easier than Greece; I say we save that for next month, so we have more time to plan it and actually make the trip worthwhile.”

Xander, still a little irritated from his confrontation with Harry, huffs in response. “That’s all well and good, Adam, except you forgot that I refuse to step foot in that humid swamp-fest. Makes my face break out and my curls frizz up.”

“Jesus Christ, Xander.” Niall groans from the opposite end of the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose like before, nudging his large squared glasses up as he does so. “Can you just get that stick out of your arse long enough to—”

Whatever Niall is about to suggest Xander do seems to disappear from his mind as the Irishman suddenly cuts off his speech, his ears perking up as Harry’s phone begins to chime from his back pocket.  Although the sound is muffled from both the cushion and Niall’s trousers, the distinguishable opening motive of “Alexander Hamilton” playing can be heard by everyone, and it only takes one loop of Y/N’s signature ringtone for Harry to launch himself over the couch with his arms outstretched.

“Hey!” Mitch exclaims loudly, pressing himself into the cushions as Harry’s body writhes against his lap in his effort to extract the phone from Niall’s pants. “Jesus, watch your fucking feet!  You’re like Gumby!”

Harry, however, is only paying attention to Niall, who is fending off his attempts at snatching the device with one hand while holding the phone over the edge of the couch with the other. “Give it!” He snarls, eyes shading red as he watches an immature simper grow onto Niall’s face, his thumb poising over the answer button. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“Shh!” Niall hisses at him, but his voice is lit with delight as he clicks on the green phone icon and raises the device to his ear, lowering his voice into a relaxed drawl. “Hi there, you’ve reached the Styles residence! Para español, por favor oprima el número uno. This is Niall speaking, what can I help you with today?”

“Oh—” Even through the tiny speaker, Harry’s highly tuned ears have no trouble picking out the gentle cadence of Y/N’s voice. “Hi, Niall!  It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N!” The younger immortal grins at Harry as he dodges his attempt at swiping for the device, setting his palm between Harry’s eyes and shoving him back roughly as he clambers up off the couch. He dashes across the living room to hide behind the lounge seat, sticking out his tongue and wagging it at his very peeved friend. “Lovely to hear your voice, darlin’!  How are you doing on this lovely Sunday afternoon?”

“I’m alright, thanks.” Harry hears her response as he pounces off the sofa, barreling across the room to chase after Niall. The shorter man is stealthy, and manages to duck and weave past Harry without a single issue, escaping under his left arm. He scrambles towards the glass stairs, holding back giggles as his opponent circles around the furniture to go after him, unhinged aggravation written all over his handsome features. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m just delightful.” Niall laughs airily, taking a sharp turn away from the staircase to confuse Harry’s impulses, snatching a throw pillow off the nearest couch and aiming it at the brunette’s head.  Like the beer bottle, Harry catches it easily, throwing it back at Niall’s stomach with a harder hand. Niall avoids it by a hair. “What can I do for you?”

“Uh, I just wanted to talk to Harry— I had a question for him.  But if he’s busy…”

“Yeah, he’s a little indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid.” Niall races into the kitchen, bracing himself against the marble island with that shit-eating grin still on his face, shuffling erratically from side to side to sike out the other creature across from him. “But I’d be happy to take a message from such a gorgeous girl as yourself.”

“Oh, um, that’s very kind of you—”

Harry rounds the corner of the marble island with a growl, snatching his phone from one hand and smacking Niall upside the head with the other. “Bloody prick.” He hisses over the other vampire’s snickers, eyes colder than his touch as he delivers another blow to Niall’s shoulder. “Fucking annoying, is what you are—”

“Niall?  Are you there?”

After heaving an exasperated sigh and sending one more glare to his friend, Harry raises his phone to his ear, doing his best to lighten the irritation in his voice. “Sorry, love. Niall just wants to be a bit of a bother today, it seems.” He sucks in a deep breath through his teeth as he turns away from the Irishman, wrapping his free arm around his middle as he leans his lower back against the island, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. He picks at a loose thread on his copper tartan trousers, voice coming out honeyed and delicate, as it always tends to get when he regards her. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He can hear the smile that spreads across Y/N’s face upon hearing from him, and the tone sends a flood of warmth through Harry’s chest. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, sweetheart, never.  I’m always free to talk to you.” Harry sends a cautious glimpse towards the living room, knowing that the four vampires sitting in his living room (Niall had slinked his way back to the couch now that his ridiculous charade had come to a close) are hanging onto his every word. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m good, just… I had a question, but if you’re busy—”

“No, not busy at all!  I’ve just been lounging around with the boys all morning. S’nothing serious.” Harry replies a bit too excitedly, straightening the hem of his fitted red and black striped t-shirt, which had gotten mussed during his tussle with Niall. “What d’you need?

Over the phone, he can hear Y/N clear her throat delicately, and a picture of her sitting on her couch in her living room plays across the front of his eyes, her thumb wedged between her lips as she chews on her nail, as she always does when she gets nervous. “Uh, well, I was also just relaxing this morning, and I was playing on my phone, and I kinda came upon this cute little bookstore called Verbatim Books. They have a bunch of really cool used books— and records, too, which I think you’d like— and they have this really neat, like, labyrinth layout—” Harry’s lips twitch as Y/N continues to ramble, “—and I’ve been looking for a replacement copy of Wuthering Heights because I dropped mine in the bathtub, remember?  And I wanted to get a new copy of Romeo and Juliet, as well—”

“Alright, slow down, pet.  Can barely understand you when you’re going a mile a minute.” Harry chuckles boyishly, absentmindedly carding a jeweled hand through the soft curls along the nape of his neck.  Just the sound of Y/N’s innocent dialect ringing in his ear manages to somehow soothe his entire body. “You want to go to this bookstore, is that it?  Because we can.” He flicks his eyes back over to his friends, who are already rolling their own in response. “Just give me an hour or two to finish up with the guys, and I’ll come pick you up—”

“Well, the thing is…” He pictures Y/N chewing on her thumb some more, timid uncertainty pouring into her usually clear irises. “Verbatim Books is in San Diego.”

“San Diego.” Harry repeats back to her, his free hand settling against the cold marble of the island behind him as he quirks an eyebrow in mild shock. “As in the San Diego that’s a two hour drive away?  That San Diego?”

Y/N’s anxious laugh tinkles through the receiver. “Yeah, that San Diego.  But if you have plans with your friends, I completely understand.  We can go a different day.”

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth wearingly, Harry glances at the digital clock blinking above his stovetop, reflecting back the time 12:53 P.M. “When do they close?”

“Five, I think?”

The vampire calculates the route to San Diego in his head, his sculpted brows creasing as the time frame appears in his mind. “If we left now, we’d probably get there between three and three-thirty.  Would an hour and a half be enough time for you to explore and find what you need?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you are unbelievable,” Xander mutters from across the condo, but Harry pays him no attention other than raising a blue-lacquered middle finger to flip him off. 

“I mean, yeah, I think so, but—”

“Alright, darling, then just give me a few minutes to grab my things and kick everyone out.” Harry says firmly, pushing himself away from the counter to begin searching for his car keys. 

“No, Harry, it’s not so important that we have to go today, and I don’t want you to kick your friends out.  In fact…” Y/N’s voice becomes thoughtful as a new idea pops into her head, and she hesitates for a moment before suggesting it on the grounds of not wanting to come off as pushy. But in the end, her curiosity bests her. “Why don’t we save Verbatim for another day, and I could just come over and hang out with you and your friends?  I bought all the ingredients for this really yummy guacamole recipe I saw on Tasty the other day— we could do, like, an impromptu movie night or something.  I’ve been craving one of your margaritas all week.”

“Yeah, Harry!” Niall chimes in as Harry re-enters the living room, obviously ignoring his friend’s earlier threat against eavesdropping. “I could go for some guac and a marg— not blended, though. Tastes like shit that way.”

Harry stares at him in disgust as he snatches his keys from the coffee table. “You’re a fucking twat.” 

“What?”

“Oh— not you, babe!” Harry hurries to reassure her as Niall cackles in taunting satisfaction. “Sorry, I was talking to Niall.  No, it’s… it’s alright.  You want to go to this bookstore, and the boys were on their way out anyways—”

“Were you on your way out?” Adam asks Xander sarcastically, and Xander raises his half-full Bloody Mary as a negative response, making a mockingly sour face in return. “Okay, I thought so.  Neither was I.”

“—so it’s all fine.  I’ll leave in a few minutes, yeah?  Probably be at your place within fifteen?” Harry checks the time on his Rolex as he estimates his arrival. “Does that sound good?”

“I— sure.  Yeah, that works.” Y/N says slowly, her voice a little softer than it was a moment before. “I’ll see you when you get here, then.”

“Alright, doll.  See you soon.” Harry hangs up his phone with a tap of his finger, sliding the device into his back pocket as he turns to face his friends. “So that was Y/N—”

“Oh, really? I had no clue!” Xander deadpans, rising from the lounge seat and setting his condensation-covered glass on the coffee table, deliberately avoiding the coaster Harry always insists should be used. “See you later, Harry.”

Adam matches the motion, a smirk jolting across his scruffy cheeks as he stands from his seat and claps Harry over the shoulder as he passes by. “Have a nice drive, man.  We’ll do a movie night with Y/N another time.”

The promise plants a seed of unease inside Harry’s stomach, but he doesn’t allow it to show on his face, choosing to smile easily at Adam’s innocent comment instead. “Yeah.  Another time.”

“Yeah, have a nice drive, H.” Niall mutters as he passes him, his face set in a petty surrendered frown. “A nice, long drive.  Preferably off a very short cliff.”

“I would, Ni, but you’d miss me too much.” Harry grins at him jokingly, bumping the vampire’s shoulder with his own until his irritated expression softens into a slightly less irritated smile. 

It’s Mitch, however, who makes Harry pause the most as he goes to leave. He halts in the doorway of Harry’s flat with a somber look in his eyes, appraising his younger friend with a curious gaze, which settles into trepidation as he sighs reluctantly. “You okay, H?” He prods gently, the question heavy as it falls from his mouth.

While Adam’s words were lighthearted and Mitch’s are anything but, they still leave the same feeling of uncertainty curling through Harry’s belly.  And, like Adam’s words, Harry plasters the same reassuring smile across his features, doing his best to dampen his best friend’s concern. “‘M peachy keen, Mitchell.  Don’t need to worry about me.”

“Are you sure?”

Harry only hesitates for a split second before urging himself to respond. “AB positive.” 

///

If Y/N doesn’t say something to him, Harry is going to go absolutely insane.

It’s not that they haven’t had silence fall between them before, because they have.  They’ve had comfortable silences as they lay in bed at night, Y/N wrapped within Harry’s inked arms as her breaths align with his.  They’ve had quiet lapses in conversation during their usual breakfasts as they watch reruns of Y/N’s favorite crime show, or as they’ve wandered up and down the Santa Monica pier, or walked to and from casual dinners on warmer nights. Despite the lack of words flowing between them, Harry would always know what Y/N was thinking as he slipped his light denim jacket over her bare shoulders, capturing her hand within his own once more as he pulled her to the inside of the sidewalk so he could walk closer to the traffic.  Silence is nothing new to them, and has even been the host of some of Harry’s favourite moments between the two, given that being able to hold a comfortable pause with someone is such a beautifully rare occurrence. Silence has typically been his friend.

But the silences that linger in their past have never felt quite like this.

From the moment Harry pulled out of Y/N’s apartment building parking lot and into the busy traffic of L.A., the mortal girl had grown quiet, and seemingly immune to Harry’s inquiries about how her day had been since he’d dropped her off at her apartment the night before.  Although she first answered him with short snippets— no more than a few words long— by the time he’d peeled them out of the hustle and bustle of the city and onto the highway towards San Diego, even those answers had come to a faltering halt.  Instead, Y/N had propped her chin up on her hand, rested her elbow on the ledge of the car door, and turned her pensive gaze at the scenery whizzing by the window, which she watched with a contemplative crease between her brows.

And the infuriating thing is that he’d asked if something was bothering Y/N the moment she’d begun to clam up, and his question had only received a small jerk of her head and a barely audible, “No, H.  I’m fine.” No gentle caress of Harry’s hand against her leg or soft squeeze of her palm had granted Harry any more clarity on the subject.  

She’s allowed to have secrets, of course. Everyone does.  Harry himself certainly has his own fair share locked away in his chest, free from prying eyes and curious minds.  But the thing is, she hasn’t held any from him.  Any question Harry’s asked, she’s always provided an open and honest answer, even if there’s been a beat of hesitation before the words fall from her pretty lips.  But her answer today, of being fine, is so clearly the opposite of that, and her insistence on hiding it means that she doesn’t want Harry to know that she’s upset.  Which means— Harry’s hands tighten around the steering wheel as he rounds the curve of the road— that Harry’s part of the reason she’s upset.  He’s not sure how, or why, or what he’s done, but he’s done something.  Otherwise, Y/N wouldn’t be refusing to give him even a fraction of the warmth she’s usually so willing to gift him. 

Another sigh heaves from Harry’s chest as he lets one hand fall from the leather wheel onto his thigh, tracing the pattern of his plaid trousers absently.  He wants to ask again, just to see if her stubbornness has dwindled by the slightest degree.  And it easily could dwindle with just a breath of suggestion from Harry, but he refuses to do that, no matter how badly he may want to.  If Y/N is really mad at him for something, how can he convince her that she should forgive him if he’s using supernatural powers to make her admit what’s wrong.  Even more, how can he convince himself that he’s justified in earning her forgiveness?

Harry casts another concerned glance at Y/N before shifting in his seat to extract his phone from his trouser pocket.  With a quick swipe of his thumb, he unlocks it with ease, his eyes flicking from the road to the phone and back again as he opens Spotify. 

“You’re not supposed to text and drive, y’know.”

The sweet cadence of Y/N’s voice, despite its quiet tone, uplifts the corner of Harry’s lips and mills a gentle chuckle in his chest. “I’m not texting.  And I’m an excellent driver, sweetheart.” He glimpses at her from the corner of his eye before returning to his search through his playlists. “Got good reflexes.”

The human girl gives a hum of acknowledgement rather than another retort to his comment, and Harry’s newborn grin quickly melts into a frown as Y/N’s attention returns to the window.  Harry finds comfort in another sigh as he selects an album from his library, clicking the shuffle icon in the corner and tucking his phone back in his pocket. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Music begins to roll out from the speakers that Harry installed in his car the year before, producing a hip-hop beat and the voice of Christopher Jackson as George Washington. “You could’ve been anywhere in the world tonight, but you’re here with us in New York City.  Are you ready for a cabinet meeting?”

Harry taps his fingers to the beat against the steering wheel as he steals a sly peek at Y/N.  Although she hasn’t turned to him again, he can see her eyebrows pricking up with curiosity as to what Harry’s doing. That’s all the encouragement Harry needs.

“The issue on the table: Secretary Hamilton’s plan to assume state debt and establish a national bank.  Secretary Jefferson, you have the floor, sir.”

The vampire bites back a triumphant smirk as he turns his gaze back towards the road, feigning a lack of interest in Y/N’s response as he begins to rap along to the Hamilton score. “‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’.  We fought for these ideals; we shouldn’t settle for less.  These are wise words, enterprising men quote ‘em,” He cocks his head to the side, allowing his grin to fully light up his face as he captures Y/N’s attention within his. “Don’t act surprised, you guys, ‘cause I wrote ‘em. OWWW!”

Although Y/N’s expression stays neutral, he can see a twitch in her cheek at his loud exclamation, and Harry begins to exaggerate his actions even more as he gestures towards her with twinkling emerald eyes. “But Hamilton forgets!  His plan would have the government assume state’s debts.  Now, place your bets as to who that benefits.” Harry taps his chin symbolically, feigning thought, and then points towards Y/N with dramatized realization. “The very seat of government where Hamilton sits.”

Keeping her own eyes locked on the road ahead of them, Y/N gives a quick yet defiant shake of her head, the corner of her lip raised just a fraction more than it was a moment before. “Not true!”

“Ooh, if the shoe fits, wear it.” Harry’s simper continues to grow with the warming attitude Y/N’s beginning to display, and he shakes his head in return and raises his free hand in a questioning manner as he continues to rap along. “If New York’s in debt, why should Virginia bear it?  Uh, our debts are paid, I’m afraid.” He lifts his fingers into his curls, running them through his roots and pretending to fluff the ends poshly for a haughty effect. “Don’t tax the South ‘cause we got it made in the shade.” Tapping a jeweled finger against the dashboard, Harry emphasizes the beats of his next line. “In Virginia, we plant seeds in the ground.  We create; you just wanna move our money around.  This financial plan is an outrageous demand, and it’s too many pages for any man to understand!” He pretends to flip the endless pages of an imaginary novel, and then snaps his wrist dismissively with a cocky smirk, deftly guiding the car around the curve of the road with his other hand. 

“Stand with me in the land of the free, and pray to God we never see Hamilton’s candidacy.  Look, when Britain taxed our tea, we got frisky—” Harry rolls his chest to the rhythm of the song, his dimples deepening in his cheeks as he reaches over towards Y/N and pinches at her side playfully, warmth erupting across his veins when she squeals in surprise. “Imagine what gon’ happen when you try to tax our whiskeyyyy.”

“Thank you, Secretary Jefferson.” Washington says through the speaker as Y/N smacks his hand away and purses her lips, appraising Harry with a raised brow. “Secretary Hamilton, your response.”

For a moment, Harry waits with bated breath, thinking that Y/N won’t rise to his challenge.  She’s too angry with him, for some reason he can’t fathom, and when she opens her mouth, he assumes she’s just going to tell him off for—

“Thomas, that was a real nice declaration.  Welcome to the present, we’re running a real nation.  Would you like to join us?  Or stay mellow doin’ whatever the hell it is you do in Monticello?” Y/N rolls with the music just as Harry had, his rainbow cardigan slipping from her shoulder as she gestures towards him with ridicule. “If we assume the debts the union gets a new line of credit, a financial diuretic.” She lists off each subject on her fingers, making a sour face at Harry. “How do you not get it?  If we’re aggressive and competitive, the union gets a boost—” She slaps her hand down against her thigh passionately, as if his side of the imaginary argument appalls her. “You’d rather give it a sedative?”

Harry barks out a laugh as Y/N’s expression grows more incredulous, mocking him in character as if they were really on a Broadway stage, and not his ‘67 Cadillac driving down a highway in California. 

“A civics lesson from a slaver.” She snorts, reaching across the seat and tapping her knuckles against Harry’s head with a light touch. “Hey neighbour, your debts are paid ‘cause you don’t pay for labour.” She mimics his voice, right down to the slight British tinge that had made it into his Virginian twang, throwing up her hands and shaking them in an overexaggerated motion as she quotes him. “‘We plant seeds in the South.  We create’— Yeah, keep ranting.  We know who’s really doing the planting.” 

One of Harry’s hands shoots up towards his mouth and forms a fist, which he presses against his lips in fake astonishment at her dig, joining the background vocalists in howling. “Ooooh!”

The mortal gestures towards him with renewed fervor in her eyes that barely hides the amusement lingering in her irises. “And that’s another thing, Mr. Age of Enlightenment.  Don’t lecture me about the war; you didn’t fight in it!”

Harry bites back the jesting retort of “No, but Mitch did.” that nearly rolls from his tongue.

The minimal restraint goes unnoticed by Y/N, who continues her scathing attack on Harry’s alter ego as she points over her shoulder with her thumb. “You think I’m frightened of you, man?  We almost died in the trench,” She pinches together her index finger and thumb and brings them to her mouth, and the ease at which the mimicry of a joint comes to her makes Harry wonder if she’s ever actually smoked one. “While you were off getting high with the French!  Thomas Jefferson, always hesitant with the President.  Reticent— there isn’t a plan he doesn’t jettison.  Madison, you’re mad as a hatter, son, take your medicine.  Damn, you’re in worse shape than the national debt is in!” Gesturing theatrically, Y/N lowers her voice, keeping her intensity as she points to Harry. “Sitting there useless as two shits.  Hey, turn around,” she makes a small twirling motion in the air with her forefinger, and then juts two digits upwards as if to stuff them somewhere, “bend over, I’ll show you where my shoe fits!”

Harry bursts into laughter with reckless abandon, wrapping his free hand around his stomach as he bends over the steering wheel.  Reaching towards the stereo dials, he turns down the volume, letting the rest of the track fade to background noise before turning his gaze back to Y/N. 

Just like him, the mortal girl is bent over with fits of  belly laughter, and the sound echoes around the Cadillac in the sweetest way.  Harry would take that over the Grammy-winning soundtrack any day. 

“That was good, love.  You’re a proper Broadway starlette, aren’t you?” Harry says between giggles, rubbing at his dimpled cheeks before settling his hands back on the steering wheel. “Didn’t realize you’d been holding out on me so much.”

“I wouldn’t call that holding out.” The mortal girl counters, fixing the slouching shoulder of Harry’s cardigan as she rests back into the passenger seat with a satisfied air. “You’ve heard me sing all the parts to ‘Non-Stop’ at once.”

“Well, yes, but…” Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, Harry shoots a cheeky grin at Y/N as he drums his fingers against the leather wheel. “This time you were actually good.”

An indignant scoff falls from Y/N’s mouth as she reaches across the car and smacks his arm.  Harry can sense that she puts a lot of her force behind it, but the action feels as forceful as a fly landing on his shoulder, and he fakes a jostling of his body as he pouts. “You can’t hit the driver!”

“Then don’t insult my Broadway-worthy performances!” She remarks, crossing her rainbow-clad arms over her chest with a defiant air. “I think I’m quite talented— ready to take over the role of Hamilton himself, even.”

The creature rubs over his arm in an attempt to feign soreness, but the simper that’s still dimpled across his face gives him away. “I’m not sure if I’d go that far, peach.  I think I’d give you a chorus role, at best.” He snickers as Y/N’s mouth drops down into a disgruntled frown. “If anyone would be playing Alexander Hamilton, it would be me.”

“Uh, I don’t fucking think so.” She shakes her head adamantly, her brows drawing together in petty disbelief. “They wouldn’t cast a fucking Red Coat in an American Revolution play.”

Harry wedges his plump lip between his teeth at the tauntingly insulting nickname as his mind flickers to Mitch once more.  He’d be amused, Harry thinks, at how this girl seems to so easily mimic the attitude of those who have known Harry for decades. 

“I can do a flawless American accent, love.” Harry’s emphasis on the consonants in his response only highlights his native tone of voice. “But that’s not why I’d be picked to be Hamilton over you. It’s because I just fit the role of the main character better.”

Y/N sputters in her seat for a moment, jaw dropping open at the assured statement. “Are you kidding?” She demands, pressing her palms flat on her thighs as she narrows her eyes. “Like, are you actually fucking kidding?”

“Not one bit.” With his voice dropped to a serious tone, Harry keeps his eyes locked on the road as he replies.

“That is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard.  I can’t believe you really—” Y/N sucks in a deep breath through her nose, as if she needs to calm and center herself in order to form a coherent answer, and her playful eyes slowly drift shut. “I grew up in a small town, dated the same guy for five years, was left behind while he went to university, where he then cheated on me, and then I moved from the town I’d never left before all the way across the country to Los Angeles, California.” Opening her eyes once more, Y/N turns her determined gaze back to Harry, collapsing her hands in front of her for emphasis. “I literally followed the ‘smalltown girl moves to big city’ trope.  There are dozens of LifeTime movies that follow the exact same plot.  If that doesn’t say ‘main character,’ I don’t know what does.”

“Mm, I’ll tell you what does.” Harry counters, wagging a ringed finger at the human girl while keeping the rest wrapped securely around the steering wheel. “‘Following the life of a handsome, rich British bachelor with a mysterious past, a great fashion sense, and who happens to be very well endowed.’”

“Oh, please. That says ‘one of two love interests from a Hallmark Christmas movie,’ at best.”

The vampire gasps with faux offense, clutching a hand to his dormant chest as he flickers his eyes to the scoffing girl. “A love interest?  You think that’s all I’m entitled to?” He asks, brow furrowed as he clicks his tongue. “Did you miss the part where I said I had a mysterious past and a huge dick?  Girls would foam at the mouth for me.”

“No, believe me, I know all about those two things.” Y/N snorts, brushing back a loose strand from her eyes before she rolls them. “Unfortunately for you, those are all key characteristics of a protagonist’s love interest.”

A smug smirk overtakes Harry’s face as he flicks on his turn signal, glancing over his shoulder before passing a car that has been going a bit too slow for his liking. “Huh.  Well, I suppose as long as you know that I have those key characteristics— particularly that last one— then I guess I’ll settle. S’the most important of them all, I think.”

He expects his joke to receive a rolling laugh from the human girl, or a noise of acknowledgement at the very least, but all that echoes from her is an empty hum from the back of her throat.  When Harry glimpses her way again, he finds that she’s resumed her previous expression of quiet contemplation, brow creased in thought as she chews on her bottom lip. Concern begins to weigh heavy in Harry’s chest once more.

“Speaking of mysteries, though…” She fiddles with her fingers, twisting one of her rings around a digit the same way Harry does when he’s anxious, and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might take pleasure in the fact that she’s picked up one of his mannerisms. “There is something I’ve been wondering.  About you, I mean.”

From her closed off body language and sudden shift in mood, Harry knows that this has something to do with the guarded and upset expression she’d had when he’d first picked her up.  And, from her lead in, he knows that his assumptions were right: her unsettled demeanor has something to do with him.  Although the possibilities leave a feeling of unease in the pit of his belly, Harry’s curiosity and his need to satiate her wariness wins out, and he forces himself to nod and ask, “What is it, dove?”

Y/N opens her mouth, but no question falls out.  From the corner of his eye, Harry watches as she closes her mouth again, as if she’s decided against asking whatever it is that she wants to. Harry is just about to encourage her to make her inquiry when a surge of confidence suddenly overtakes her body, and she’s spitting it out in a quick and confused voice.

“Why haven’t you introduced me to your friends?”

Out of all the causes for her guarded demeanor, the topic of his friends had been the farthest from his mind.  The question catches Harry so off guard that he, for what feels like the first time, doesn’t have a quick response already formed on the tip of his tongue.  Instead, his own mouth falls open in surprise, and he casts a quick look at the girl from the edge of his emerald eyes before turning back to the road in front of him.

He knows the answer to her question, of course; it’s the same answer that he’s given to his friends every time they’ve asked him to invite Y/N to a bar trivia night, or a weekend barbecue, or a club outing.  And, truthfully, it’s a question that’s been floating more at the forefront of his mind for the last few weeks as he and Y/N have continued to spend time together, gradually becoming a constant in each other’s lives. However, he didn’t expect it to be at the forefront of her own, as well.  

And the answer, really, is quite simple: if Y/N were to spend time with Harry’s gang of friends, there would be a larger possibility of her realizing that there’s something off about all of them.  Like how they all have a specific jeweled accessory that they’re never without, or how none of them seem to ever grow weary, or how they all have the same cold skin and slight shadows around their eyes.  Surely her keen eyes would catch how, despite the copious amount of shots and number of pints they throw back, none of them seem to become inebriated as easily as normal people would, and they can walk out of a club with their heads held high, free of stumbling or exhaustion.  It’s with careful planning and—truthfully— sheer luck that Harry’s managed to present himself with a halfway-human appearance, and he has no doubt that it would be ten times harder to keep up that charade when the chances of her discovering what he is quintuple.

“Uh…” His brow furrows while searching for a valid response to give to the mortal beside him— one that would avoiding hurting her feelings, while still sounding believable. “I-I dunno, really.  I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

The quiet “oh,” that slips from Y/N’s downturned lips alerts Harry that, no matter what response she was expecting, that wasn’t the right one.  She tightens her cardigan-clad arms around her middle as she nods tightly, keeping her gaze fixed pointedly on the passenger window.

Harry rubs his bottom lip with his ringed index finger— another nervous tic of his— as he tries to remedy the tension that’s been brewing between them since she first stepped into the car. “I mean… this whole thing—” He gestures between the two of them, and although the urge to take her hand makes his fingers twitch, he returns his grasp to the steering wheel instead of allowing himself to try and extract her palm from the fabric it’s hidden beneath. “— has been between just the two of us, so I didn’t really think… it mattered.” He finishes lamely, knowing that his justification is just making things worse. “Does it need—?  I mean, did you want—?”

“Well, it’s just…” Y/N lifts and lowers her shoulder in one quick motion, the cardigan once again sliding down to reveal the strap of her tank top underneath and a path of smooth skin that Harry yearns to touch. “It’s kind of like a— I don’t know, a marker?  Like if something is going… well…” She spares him a quick glance before returning her gaze to the passing scenery. “You tell your friends.  I’ve, um, I’ve told mine about you— like, my friends back home, over the phone— and if they weren’t so far away, I know they’d want to meet you, so I guess I—”

“You’ve told your friends about me?” Harry cuts over her, the shock laden in his voice raising it from its usual low drawl. “What did you tell them?  What did they say?”

An anxious flush begins to creep up Y/N’s neck and onto her cheeks, and Harry suspects that it’s not from the warm wool of the cardigan. “I did, yeah.  A couple weeks ago.  They called and asked how I was doing, if I had made any interesting friends yet.  And, well— I’ve pretty much only got you right now, so I kind of had to say something.” She lets out a weak laugh, more air than anything substantial. “I just said that we, um, we were seeing each other, kind of.  Like, mostly we’re friends, and we hang out, and—”

“We do more than hang out.” A grimace tugs at Harry’s own lips at her simplified explanation of their complicated relationship, and he risks an elongated look at the girl beside him, trying desperately to read her expression with no success. 

“I know that, but— like, we’re not dating, right?  It’s not… that was the best explanation I could give.  I don’t think there’s a proper label for what we are— not that we need one.” Although Y/N’s laugh holds more substance this time, Harry can still detect an undercurrent of tension in the sound. “Either way, they said they wished they could meet you, so I was just wondering— your friends know about me, obviously.  We’ve met a few times quickly, but we’ve never, like, had a proper introduction, you know?  I met Xander and Niall in the hallway, and Mitch briefly when we were having a movie night at your place… you talk about Adam a lot, too, and I’ve never even seen him in person.” Turning her head towards Harry with slow hesitation, Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth, her expression so frighteningly open that it makes Harry’s stomach turn. “Do they not… do they not want to meet me?”

Despite the quiet and cautious cadence of Y/N’s voice, and the way it twists around Harry’s unbeating heart like a vice, the question draws a soft laugh from the vampire.  Shaking his head adamantly, Harry rakes a hand through his curls before it goes to tap against the steering wheel decisively. “No, sweetheart, that’s not it.  They’re actually quite eager to meet you. As of late, I haven’t been able get through five minutes without Niall asking about you.  He pries like a gossipy nan and s’been getting on my nerves, honestly.”

Relief spreads through Harry as the admission brings a gentle upturn to the corners of Y/N’s soft lips, but it’s short-lived as another thought pops into her mind, and her cautious tone returns at the realization that—

“So you don’t want to introduce me to them, then.” She states quietly, a clear degree of hurt present in both her tone and her eyes as she twists her body beneath her seatbelt to face him head on.  As certain as she is in her assumption, the cautious shadow that sweeps over Harry’s face serves as confirmation of her statement, and it creates a hollow pit in her belly that grows with each passing moment.

Y/N is aware that their relationship— or whatever it is, because they still haven’t put a title on it, and that’s a whole other complication that she can’t dive into right now— is about as far from normal dating as they can get.  She’d fucked Harry before she knew his last name, he’d told her to take him deeper before he’d even told her where he was from, and he’d asked her on a date two months after they’d met, mostly out of territorial jealousy; everything that they’ve done has been out of the traditional order.  But still, she thinks, picking at her nails as the strain between them becomes palpable in the worst way, there are certain things that you do when you’re interested in someone.  Certain milestones that indicate that a relationship is viable and can be sustained for an extended period of time.  Meeting someone’s friends usually comes around the two month mark, and by Y/N’s calculations, that means they’re nearly two months overdue.

Which is fine, Y/N tells herself, dropping her gaze from Harry’s stormy sea glass eyes as she chastises the self-pity coursing through her veins.  Everything about their relationship has been done out of order; why should meeting Harry’s friends be any different?

Except it is.  As much as she hates it, it just is, because it’s not even that she hasn’t met them.  It’s that Harry, with his guilt-ridden eyes and darkened demeanor, clearly doesn’t want her to.

“Y/N,” His gentle utterance of her name draws her from her thoughts more than his hand crawling across the leather seat does.  It’s not until his cool fingers weave through hers that her fidgeting stops, and she even notices that he’s moved. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet them, I just—”

“It’s fine, Harry.” She insists softly, despite the tightness in her statement making it obvious that it’s very much not fine.  She pastes a thin smile onto her lips as she shakes her head, trying to appease him as best she can. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Harry squirms in the driver’s seat, tightening his hand around the steering wheel as he heaves a sigh through his nose.  Y/N might be saying that, but the look in her eyes tells a different story.  Does she really think that she can look at Harry with such a wide, wounded expression, and he won’t bend over backwards to make things right?  The thought, although scathing, rings true in Harry’s mind as he worries his cheek between his teeth.  Does she not know the lengths he’s willing to go to just to make her feel better?  For fuck’s sake, he’s making a four hour round trip just to take her to a bookstore in San fucking Diego.  Somehow, without Harry noticing it, this human has managed to influence him in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine anyone ever would again.  Is he supposed to believe that she’s unaware of that?

Shaking his head tersely at her previous reply, Harry squeezes her fingers in his own, clearing the newly formed lump from his throat. “Yes, I do.” He says firmly, looking at the girl from the corner of his eye. “I can tell where your mind is going, love, and I promise you, it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Oh, yeah?” Despite the hurt still splashed across her irises, there’s an echo of a challenge in her tone. “So you just hide all of your… hook-ups from your friends, then?”

“You know I don’t have hook-ups, Y/N.  There’s no one else, there’s just— there’s you.  I only have you.” Harry makes his words as plain as can be, without any joke or teasing to downplay the sincerity of what he’s saying— or attempting to say, because his throat feels so tight that he can barely choke out a single syllable. “And that’s why I haven’t introduced you yet.  I… I like what we have.  This—” He raises their clasped hands, bringing the back of her knuckles to his lips so he can plant a chaste kiss over her soft skin. “I like it.  We’ve spent these last few months in a bubble, just you and me, and it’s been…” A smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips, nervous and shy, but tinged with hope. “S’been amazing.  And I’m just… not ready to give that up yet. I…I don’t know how to word it, really.  I’m not good with, um—” With emotions, he thinks to himself. He’s not good with expressing any of this, but he forces himself to try. “It just feels like what we have is something I want to keep private, because it’s special. It’s kind of like when you were a kid and you got a new toy, yeah? And you didn’t want anyone to touch it because you liked it so much, you wanted to keep it all to yourself. It was something so personal, you didn’t want to share it…” 

Harry trails off to look over at Y/N anxiously, and then comes to a sudden realization of the unintentional mistake he’d made by using such a materialistic analogy. His voice comes out rushed and apologetic. “And I’m not saying you’re an object or anything! I just wanted to explain it better and that’s the first thing that popped into my head. Did that...make sense? It probably sounded a bit dense. Or very dense. I’m sorry.” Harry knows he’s babbling aimlessly now, and with a surrendered sigh, he lowers their hands to the seat, still keeping Y/N’s fingers locked tightly with his. “I don’t want to share you, petal.  That’s what it comes down to, really— just me being selfish.  I like having your attention all to myself.”

Y/N listens attentively to Harry’s explanation as a new wave of blood boils to her cheeks, warming every inch of her body.  As much as she still has her doubts— about his reasoning, about their whole arrangement— she wants to believe him.  She wants to believe him more than anything in the world.  

So do it, she tells herself, grazing her lip between her teeth as her gaze remains glued on Harry’s (ridiculously attractive) side profile.  Believe him.  He’s never given you reason not to.

“Okay.” She finds herself saying, and she decides that it’s her turn to raise Harry’s knuckles to her lips for a kiss.  His skin is cool against her mouth, as always, and she lingers against him before lowering their intertwined hands to her lap. “I get it.  I like what we have, too; I don’t want it to change.  Plus,” She can’t resist tacking on a dig, glancing at Harry with a sly look. “From the brief interactions we’ve had, I think Niall and I are pretty compatible, so I don’t blame you for wanting to keep us apart.”

Although Harry barks out a laugh, he barely manages to hide the flash of crimson that streaks through his eyes at the suggestion. “Please,” He shakes his head as he strokes his thumb over the back of Y/N’s knuckles in a possessive manner. “I’m not worried about Niall.  If I was going to be concerned about you leaving me for any of my friends, it would be Adam.” Y/N shoots him a curious look, and his dimples pop out of his cheeks as he elaborates. “Good sense of humour, attractive, and arguably the most sane out of all of us, present company included.  But he can’t perform in bed like I can, so I think that’s a solid deterring factor.  And I doubt he’d drop everything to drive you to a bookstore you found out about through— where did you say you heard about this place again?”

“Uh,” Y/N drops her gaze from Harry, turning her head straight back to the road as she shifts in her seat. “I, um, I saw it on TikTok.”

The vampire snorts obnoxiously, pulling his hand from Y/N’s to rake his fingers through his rouge curls. “Jesus Christ, of course you did.”

Y/N matches his scoffing with ease, crossing her arms over her chest with a defensive air. “Don’t give me that tone!  This is exactly why I didn’t tell you! You know, you can actually find a lot of valuable information on there—”

“Yeah, because filming yourself doing the Renegade is a really great use of your time.”

“I didn’t say— wait—” The mortal girl quirks an eyebrow as she regards him with disbelieving eyes. “How do you know about the Renegade?”

“There’s a reason we blocked the app from Niall’s phone.”

///

Much to Harry’s relief, the drive back to Los Angeles begins a lot smoother than the drive to San Diego had.  

The bookshop had been extremely similar to the antique store they’d been to a while back— it had the same rustic, messy aesthetic that gives a cozy, homey vibe, and it had sprouted a seed of nostalgia in Harry’s chest. They’d wandered around for a bit with their fingers intertwined, rarely breaking away from each other for too long for the sake of maintaining their buddy system. The pair had filtered through the extensive array of titles and knickknacks, walking under archways built out of novels and winding through tall shelves full of vintage collectibles. Y/N had entertained herself with grazing over the spines of all the different books they’d passed, her eyes glazed with a form of childlike wonder he’d grown so fond of seeing. And while Y/N had been losing herself in all the old treasures the shop had to offer, Harry had found himself losing his thoughts to her dreamy smile instead. 

Satisfied with her purchases of Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet, as well as a used copy of Jane Eyre (“Look, Harry, it has little notes in it from the previous owner!  Isn’t that neat?”), Y/N had settled into the passenger seat with ease, a light smile on her face as she buckled her seatbelt.  Harry’s own mood is considerably brighter than it had been on the previous drive, but his shift in energy had only partially been caused by his purchase of a new Simon and Garfunkel album.  Truthfully, Harry thinks, as he watches Y/N thumb through her new second-hand annotated book (the irony of her affinity for literature written from Harry’s original time period is not lost to him), his attitude is merely a mirror of the girl next to him.  It’s much more difficult to be in a good mood when she’s in a sour one, but on the flip side, it’s nearly impossible to be grumpy when she’s showing such a sunny disposition.

Her inquiries from their drive to the bookstore are worrying him, of course.  He knows that he’ll have to introduce her to his friends eventually, especially if he wants to keep this agreement between the two of them up.  He also knows that it’ll be ten times harder to do so with Niall running his mouth, Xander making sly digs, and Mitch and Adam watching him with parental-like concern.  Perhaps it would be easier to just call this all off right now, before things continue to progress.  It would certainly be better for Y/N, he’s sure of it.  Y/N, who gets excited over annotations in her books.  Y/N, who sings along off-key to the radio even when she doesn’t know all the words.  Y/N, who innocently presses tender kisses to his throat in a manner that draws an obsolete warmth from every limb of his undead body, and who smiles at his stupid inappropriate jokes and returns them with her own, and who fits into his arms like she was made for the sole purpose of filling them perfectly.

Y/N, who is reaching between the two of them, intertwining their fingers together with a practiced motion, and—

“Thank you for taking me to the bookstore.” The human girl murmurs, her lips grazing the back of Harry’s knuckles as she speaks. “I really do appreciate it, although I’m sorry I pulled you away from your friends.”

Harry’s woes melt away as she pecks across his icy skin, and a grin begins to jolt his lips as he brings her hand to his own mouth. “Don’t be sorry.” He smears a kiss to the back before dropping their tangled palms to the seat between them, his thumb caressing over her velvety flesh. “You’re much better company than the four of them.  And much prettier.”

“You’re such a flirt.” Y/N rolls her eyes at the comment, but leans further towards Harry in her seat. “And a liar.  We both know that Mitch is prettier.”

“Mitch?” Harry’s emerald eyes widen in appalled surprise, the corner of his lips twitching once more in amusement. “Out of all of my friends, you think Mitch is the prettiest?  What about Xander?  He’s quite the vain one, don’t you think?”

Y/N shrugs one shoulder in a light manner. “I like Mitch’s hair.  The long style works for him.”

“Ah, it’s the hair.  That makes sense; it’s always the hair.” Nodding sagely, Harry allows his lips to pull into a full grin. “So you like it long, hm?  Suppose I should keep growing mine out, then?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sherlock.” Y/N shoots him a smirk that’s much more mischievous than his own. “I said the long hair worked for him, not you.  Who’s the vain one now?”

Despite the jesting tone of her voice, jealousy twinges in the back of Harry’s mind as his eyes darken from emerald to forest green.  He forces his lips to stay upturned as he offers a response that’s only half a joke. “Ouch, Watson.  S’not very nice, especially considering how I’ve driven you to San Diego and back today.  I think I deserve a bit of praise, don’t you?  Instead of you mocking me—”

“I’m not mocking!” Y/N’s protest is muffled around the entertainment in her voice, the rainbow cardigan once again slipping from her shoulder as she shakes with suppressed laughter. “Making one little comment isn’t mocking!  It would be mocking you if I acted like you do when you get in front of a mirror— you make this one specific face, like you’re trying to pull a Blue Steel, and—”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Harry huffs as he yanks his hand away from Y/N’s, swiping it through his loose ringlet before clamping it back around the steering wheel. “Ungrateful little wench, aren’t you?  I have half a mind to pull over right now and—”

“A wench?  I’m a wench?” Y/N’s laughter grows louder, filling the entire Cadillac with the unabashed sound that, despite his act, warms the pit of Harry’s stomach. “Alright then, Merlin. What, are you going to put me to work in a labour house?  Is that what a wench does these days?”

“First of all,” Harry quips, giving her a flat glimpse, “I’d be Arthur, not Merlin. Main character complex, remember?”

Y/N rolls her eyes grandly, proceeding to lower her head in a dramatic bow. “My apologies, sire. How could I forget?” 

“And second of all,” the vampire states slightly louder, talking over her sarcasm, “no, because apparently, all wenches do nowadays is just make fun of the men who volunteer to spend four hours in a car with them without so much as a ‘thank you.’”

The mortal girl’s upturned mouth drops open in amused disbelief. “What—?  I said thank you!  Literally three minutes ago!” 

“Did you?  I don’t recall.” Harry sighs airily as he smoothly guides the car around a bend in the road. “All I remember is you saying you think Mitch is sexier than I am.”

Snorting loudly, Y/N crosses her arms over her middle as she gives a small shake of her head. “Alright, I think that’s a bit of a stretch.  I just said he has nice hair.  And, while we’re on the topic—”

“Watch it.”

“— his mustache is cool, too.  It suits him.”

“You know, I could grow a mustache if I wanted to.” Harry can’t help the pout that plumps his lips, nor can he help the whine that creeps into his voice when Y/N giggles at the sight. “It’s true!  I could!  I just choose not to.  And, really, you should be thanking me for it, because it saves you from getting a carpet burn between your thighs.”

“So I should be thanking you for driving me today, for not growing facial hair…” Y/N ticks off the items on her fingers with a ridiculing gleam dancing through her eyes. “Anything else we need to add to the list?”

Harry tuts as he thinks, pursing his lips in consideration before letting out a sharp exhale as a sly smile carves his dimples into place. “That cardigan you’re wearing.  You could thank me for letting you borrow it— although ‘stealing’ might be a more accurate term.”

A miffed expression rises to Y/N’s face just as a flush does. “I didn’t steal it!  I’ve just been borrowing it, like you said.”

“Mmm.  Alright.” Harry hums in the back of his throat as he glances at the girl beside him, kinking a brow expectantly. “And when can I expect it back?”

“Fairly soon, actually.  It—” Y/N’s cheeks boil with more heat as she drops her attention to her lap, clearing her throat gently before continuing. “It, um, it doesn’t really smell like you anymore, so…”

Silence falls between the two as Y/N’s voice drifts off, leaving behind only the sound of Fleetwood Mac gently drifting through Harry’s speakers to cut through the thickening tension that fills the vehicle.  It’s only the faint sound of Y/N’s own shallow breaths that reminds Harry that he needs to fake his own, and he sucks in a deep gasp of air, his throat burning as her thick honey and lavender scent settles on the back of his tongue.

“Well,” He begins cautiously, gauging her reaction from the corner of his eye while keeping most of his gaze glued to the road. “You can always steal it again after I get it back, yeah?  It’ll be good as new.”

Harry nearly heaves an audible sigh of relief when he sees the edge of Y/N’s mouth twitch. “Not steal.  Borrow.” She corrects, her voice as tentative as his.

The heavy atmosphere in the car begins to dissipate as Harry rolls his eyes with fondness. “Agree to disagree, dove.”

Y/N lets out a sound of dissent as she rubs her palms down her legs, drumming her fingertips against her knees with finality. “Thank you for letting me borrow it, H.  And thank you for not growing a mustache.” She giggles out, throwing a coy smile his way before her expression grows more gentle. “And thank you for driving me today, although I’ve already said it.  I’ll have to think of a way to repay you.”

“Oh, I could think of a few.” Harry says with a suggestive smirk, thrumming his ringed fingers against the steering wheel. “How do you feel about spending the night?  We could order dinner from that Thai place you like, take a nice bath, and I could spend a few hours between your thighs while you make those sweet little noises I like so much.  Sounds relaxing, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” Y/N agrees, keeping her voice as light as she possibly can at the mention of Harry’s skilled tongue working her over. “But that doesn’t seem like much of a thank you on my behalf.  Shouldn’t I be the one giving you something?”

Harry casts a look at the mortal girl with a raised brow. “Shouldn’t I get to choose my own reward?”

The fact that he sees the action of eating her out as a reward makes Y/N’s tummy froth. She really doesn’t know how she got so lucky, truly. “You should, but I can think of something better.”

The creature licks his lips once at the promise of something more enjoyable than her taste on his tongue. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a blowie in the bath.”

“Actually…” Y/N tugs her bottom lip between her teeth as she casts Harry a sideways look through her lashes, twisting her body beneath her seatbelt to angle towards him. “I was thinking of something more immediate.”

The question of what she means by that dies before it can make its way out of Harry’s mouth, stopped in its tracks the moment Y/N’s fingers travel across the leather seat between them.  She rests her palm on his thigh for a moment before beginning to massage the muscle beneath his trousers, her delicate fingertips just brushing over his inseam as her hand works its way higher.

A choked groan is all Harry can manage when her touch travels over his suddenly-growing bulge, and it takes all of his focus not to veer the car off the road. “Y/N,” He says, his accent low and thick with warning. “‘M driving, sweetheart.”

“I know.” Her voice thrums darker than normal as her palm presses flat against him, moving in a slow circle over the plaid fabric with insistence. “I didn’t ask you to stop, did I?  You can keep driving.”

The laugh that rolls from Harry’s lips is breathless and strained. “Yeah, except I can’t when you’re— fuck—” Y/N squeezes along his hardening shaft, and Harry tightens his hands around the steering wheel with nearly enough force to bend it. “‘M gonna crash this bloody car if you keep doing that.”

“No, you won’t.” The mortal girl smiles sweetly at him as her nimble fingers pop the button of his tartan slacks, grasping his zipper and tugging it down so slowly that it’s almost painful. “You can multitask, can’t you?”

“Not like— God—” Clenching his jaw, Harry casts a pained glance at Y/N, only allowing himself a moment of looking before forcing his attention back to the road.  What he sees in that moment, however, is a mischievous glint in her eyes that’s hidden beneath set determination, and the combination would send a shiver down his spine even without her soft hand creeping beneath his trousers. “This doesn’t feel like a reward, pet.  Feels like torture.”

Y/N shrugs lightly, continuing to rock against Harry over his boxers as her free hand reaches for her seat belt and clicks the release button. “Maybe it is.  Maybe I want to see if you can stay just as focused as I did when you made me cum on that ladder. Remember?  Right in the middle of that antique mall?”

Harry watches as her seat belt retracts, a flash of worry striking through his body. Before he can voice his concern for her safety, her hand is dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Y/N,” He strains to get her name past his lips, his abdomen tightening as she grips him snuggly, and her palm feels like agony and salvation all at once. “If you make me cum in my pants with an hour left in our drive, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Or maybe…” Shifting across the seat, Y/N leans into Harry’s ear, her breath hot against his cool skin as she pumps him slowly and ignores the comment he’d moaned. “Maybe I just feel the way you did that day.  Maybe I want to tease you a bit.” She uses the precum that’s begun to steadily leak from his tip as lubricant, twisting her hand around his length to elicit a hiss from Harry’s clenched jaw. She takes the shell of his ear between her teeth, nibbling at it just to feel him writhe in response. “What was it you said to me, H?  When you slid your fingers inside me in that little music room?”

Harry offers no response other than the short puff of air that leaves his nostrils as he clenches the wheel harder beneath his palms.  He keeps his eyes locked on the road, knowing that if he looks down and sees Y/N working him beneath his slacks, he won’t be able to restrain himself from yanking the car to the side of the road and throwing her into the backseat.  And however wonderful that sounds— because it does sound incredibly wonderful, especially when Y/N swipes her thumb teasingly over his bubbling tip— he can’t let himself give into her.

Y/N, however, doesn’t seem to accept defeat so easily, and begins to drift her lips down Harry’s jaw and neck.  While the area had previously been a sensitive spot for Harry in the worst way, he’s repeatedly come to find that the sensitivity he feels when Y/N caresses him there to be an entirely new and pleasant sensation. 

“You said you wanted to have fun, remember?” She licks over the curve of his throat, her own breathing growing heavy when she feels Harry’s Adam’s apple bob beneath her tongue. “Now it’s my turn, don’t you think?”

“Thought—” Harry swallows thickly again, his hips unconsciously thrusting up slightly into Y/N’s hot palm. “Thought this was about thanking me, wasn’t it?  Not getting even.”

Y/N pulls away from his skin with a coquettish look in her wide eyes, her brows raised and lips parted into a small pout. “Are you saying that my mouth isn’t enough of a thank you?”

“Your—?  Oh, fucking hell—” Harry nearly swerves the car into the other lane of traffic when Y/N frees his length from his trousers, the cool temperature of the air-conditioned car sending a shudder down his spine.  The sensation only increases when Y/N dips her head down and extends her tongue to tease his cherry tip with the textured surface. “Y/N.”

“That’s what I thought.” The human girl says smugly, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips even when she wraps her mouth fully around his head and sucks gently, just enough to draw a breathless whimper from the man above her. 

With one hand still grasped tight around the steering wheel, Harry threads his other into Y/N’s hair, roughly tangling his fingers between her silky locks.  He doesn’t guide her head as he usually does, but the idea of being able to move her if he wants allows him to feel a semblance of control. 

Y/N clenches her thighs together as she bobs her head down further, heat pooling inside her belly as she feels Harry tug on her hair with the lightest pressure.  She trails the tip of her tongue down Harry’s expanse, following the prominent vein that pulses underneath her touch. “Do you still want me to stop, baby?” She asks softly, looking up at him through her lashes as she pumps him in a slow motion, batting her lashes sultrily. 

“No.” Harry whines the word as he presses his head back into the seat rest, his neck flexing as he forces his gaze to stay pinned on the road. “No, love, just— fuck, just keep going.” He grits his teeth when he feels her nose smudge along one of his fern tattoos, his next phrase coming out as a barely contained growl. “You’re down there already, so you might as well.”

Tucking her loose hair behind her ears, Y/N takes Harry back into her mouth, pushing herself further and further down his cock at a pace that’s nearly agonizing.  Harry twists his hand within her roots to create a makeshift ponytail, holding the locks out of her face so that she can focus better on the task at hand.  He feels the mortal girl smile around his length, her tender fingertips drawing a little heart along his exposed pelvis as a cheeky thank you. 

As the highway straightens out, Harry risks lifting his hand from the steering wheel for a quick moment, and his deft fingers quickly find the volume button of the stereo to lower it to a quiet lull.  He wants to hear every sound of Y/N’s throat opening up for him, and the muted noises she releases at the taste of him in her mouth.  

Of course, all of that is nearly overpowered by his own sounds of pleasure, and he struggles to keep himself quiet as he grips the wheel with renewed force. “Fuck, doll, look at you...I just…Christ.” The last word comes out as an elongated groan, his eyelids fluttering as her tongue massages down his extent in slow and even strokes. “Just like that, darling. God, you’re so good. Such a pretty mouth with such a filthy fucking tongue, hm?”

Harry throws a haphazard glance over his shoulder as another vehicle passes them, and a flash of territorial protection runs through him at the possibility of someone looking into the car and seeing Y/N touching him like this.  The sight of her acting like such a bold little minx is for his eyes only, and that thought combined with her slow, blissful motions pushes him to inch his foot towards the gas.  Harry wants to put a bit of distance between them and the other traffic on the highway, which will insert some much needed privacy into the situation. 

His acceleration, however, is interrupted by a particularly rough bump in the road, and his body jerks in his seat as they drive over it.  He hears the sound of Y/N gagging before he registers the searing sensation of his cock hitting the back of her throat, and he risks a peek downwards to see Y/N’s watery eyes blinking up at him in disorientation.

“Baby—” He tugs her head up from his lap, concern mingling with the pleasure in his voice as he evaluates her well-being.  Her expression is hazy from her ministrations, and she blinks tears from her irises, keeping one hand wrapped firmly around his length as the other wipes away the wetness at the corner of her eye. “‘M sorry.” Harry gulps thickly as he smooths his thumb over Y/N’s scalp, trying to soothe any discomfort he may have caused. “Are you alright?”

Y/N nods in a jerking motion as her mood darkens lustfully, and she swipes her thumb over the glistening tip of his cock before answering. “I’m fine, H.  Just caught off guard.  Don’t worry.” The rasp in her voice is evidence of her actions, and Harry hates how the sound goes straight to his throbbing length in her hand.  Undeterred by the harsh thrust that had choked her a few moments earlier, Y/N leans down once more to smear more sloppy kisses to the head of his prick, rubbing the slit against her bottom lip to elicit a cracked gasp from Harry’s lungs. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

“You—You are.  God, you fucking are.” The praise falls easily from Harry’s raspberry lips as her mouth returns to its previous distraction, fully suckling on the leaking head as her hand continues to work him in a practiced manner. “Feels like a dream, sweetheart, t-the way you take me down your throat like that.”

The mortal girl keens at the validation, and uses it as fuel to push herself further down his shaft again.  She makes sure that she’s mindful of how deep she’s taking him, keeping her hand wrapped firmly around the base as a buffer in case they hit any more rough patches of road.  With that worry eased, she allows herself to focus on massaging his pulsing prick with her tongue, alternating movements with strong sucks to his sensitive tip. She twists her wrist at a rising pace, matching it to the tempo she’s established with her mouth, working him over messily and swimming in the strangled noises that pour out above her.

Y/N sniffles lightly, talking over Harry’s thick cock to the best of her ability, her voice garbled and raw. “You’re so fucking big, Harry. And so pretty, too.” She moves her hand lower down his expanse, carefully cupping his heavy balls and fondling them between her fingers, preening at the fractured grunt that filters from her lover’s taut throat. “And so full.”

“Please, baby…” The immortal’s quiet plea sends electricity coursing through every cell in her body, his grip on her hair tightening to the point where blots of color speckle her foggy vision. “Don’t stop. Just please don’t fucking stop.” 

“I want it.” She whispers around him, the warm breath of her words puffing down his prickling skin and sending goosebumps across his clammy thighs. “I want you to fill my mouth, Daddy. Want every last drop.”

The creature sucks in a rattling breath through the cracks of his teeth, waves of pleasure erupting along his cheeks and down the knobs of his spine, all because of how erotic her delicate voice sounds as it expresses such explicit confessions. “You’re fucking ruining me, dove.” 

The girl tugs at Harry’s balls gently, rolling them around her palm again as she gives a particularly harsh suck. He can’t stop the loud whine that tumbles down his tongue in response, his hips bucking upwards a tad in unrestrained need. “I want you to give it to me, H. Please? Want you so bad.” 

Harry throws his head further back against the headrest of his seat, his jaw dropping open in a silent moan as his heavy eyelids lull over his rolling irises, tears blearing his vision until he can barely make out the road in front of him. “Gonna—Gonna give it to you, pet. Gonna give you every last bit, all for my sweet girl.” 

Y/N hones her blurred sight above her onto Harry’s face, more warmth flooding the area between her thighs. He looks gorgeous as ever, with his prominent features slack in ecstasy, his clavicle cutting into the sweaty skin visible along the collar of his fitted tee, and with his unusually dark eyes framed by his long lashes. His chest is heaving wildly as he tries to keep his composure, his cross necklace glimmering in the sun with every rapid rise of his defined muscles. His sharp jaw is wound taut, the tendon along the structure ticking as he gazes at her drunkenly from above his sculpted cheekbones. His chestnut curls as matted along his temple and over the nape of his neck due to the heat of the moment, his thick brows are knitted together in pleasurable gripe, and his teeth-swollen lips are parted in aroused wonder at how skillfully she’s taking every last inch of him without any hesitation whatsoever. 

Y/N watches him intensely, drinking up every twitch of his expression and every soft groan he tries to stifle, her tongue lapping at him with more excitement than before. Harry locks eyes with her through his foggy haze, the corners of his flushed lips jolting upwards into a cocky open-mouthed smirk when he sees just how fucked he’s got her, despite the fact that he’s barely lifted a finger through the entire process. He slowly tongues over his chapped lips, glimpsing back up towards the highway for a split second to make sure he’s avoiding any other oncoming cars. He then returns his attention to the human, giving her head a playful tug and feeling the tip of his cock nudge along the roof of his mouth, resulting in a low hiss streaming past his condescending simper. “Why don’t you take a picture, princess? It’ll last you longer.” 

Y/N gives a quick squeeze to his balls, sly satisfaction weaving its way into her chest when she feels him jerk in response, a whined curse of, “Fuck me.” slipping through his defenses. “Maybe you should watch your tone while I’m down here.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at her challengingly, his palm grasping the back of her head with more intent and forcing her down, her nose smearing over his tummy as he hits the back of her throat deeper than before. He holds her there for a second, reveling in the way she constricts around him as soft gagging sounds bounce off the walls of his Cadillac. 

After a few seconds, he pulls her back up his cock to a more reasonable length, humming smugly as she shudders and coughs dryly, her eyes twinkling submissively. His voice comes out strained, but its dark and accented tenor holds its usual unyielding authority, as well as arrogant chiding. “And maybe you should learn not to talk back to me. Guess I’ll have to pull the paddle back out sooner than expected, huh?” 

A shiver coils down Y/N’s spine at the reference to that night. It happened a few weeks ago, but the memory is fresh in her mind as if it’s only been hours. It’s nearly impossible to forget, given everything Harry had put her through, and she often finds herself thinking back on it whenever she needs some relief and doesn’t have his company as help. 

The human murmurs her next sentence shyly, her watery eyes regarding him with a certain type of wistfulness that makes his balls ache. “Maybe you should.”

Harry lets out an airy chuckle at her eagerness, which slowly molds into a gravelly moan when she returns to dipping her head with faster, sloppier strokes. A few strands of hair have escaped the ponytail in his palm, and he takes great care in tucking them back behind her ears with his index finger, which then trails across her cheek affectionately. “Maybe I will. But right now, you just worry about finishing me off. Then, we’ll see if I’m feeling up to it some other time— if I feel like you deserve it.” 

Y/N nods her head obediently. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“‘Course, darling. Anything for my proper little slut. Especially when she’s taking me down her throat like such a good fucking girl.” 

Y/N’s only reply is a broken mewl, and she allows herself to become immersed back into the action of giving Harry the orgasm she so desperately wants to deliver.   

She can taste precum as it dribbles onto her tongue, a precursor to Harry’s impending climax, and the flavour makes her center throb.  She has half a mind to remove him from her mouth and beg him to pull over so that she can properly ride him, but she doesn’t doubt that doing so would add hours onto their travel time.  There’ll be time for all that once they’re back at his place, she reminds herself, pulling off of him just enough to lick her lips before lowering herself again.  Right now, there’s just one thing she wants above all else, and if the sounds Harry is making are any indication, she’s fairly close to getting it.

“So fucking close, angel.” Harry pants, his abdomen contracting over and over again as he struggles to keep the car moving at a steady and consistent pace. “Gonna make me cum, aren’t you?  Want Daddy to pump that pretty mouth full?”

Y/N hums around Harry as he yanks on her hair again, more for the sensation than to actually guide her.  Still, she pulls up from his prick with a pop, looking up at him with doe-like eyes as she replies. “Mhmm.” She hums again, giving him a particularly hard pump and delighting in the groan that rolls from his tongue. “Wanna taste you.”

“You— fuck, darling, that’s fucking it.” Harry’s words echo from his throat in a ragged gasp as he twists his jeweled fingers around her locks once more, straining his head back against the seat to keep himself from looking down again as she retakes him down her throat. “I’m gonna fucking— Oh my God, baby, please—”

Y/N digs the nails of her free hand into Harry’s pelvis, scraping over his plant tattoos as she feels his toned tummy tighten beneath her touch.  It only takes one more squeeze of her hand around his balls and one last determined suckle to draw his orgasm from him, and she lifts herself until just the head of his cock is in her mouth as he spills onto her tongue.  Her own eyes flutter shut as she whines at the salty taste, swallowing it down without a second thought.  She keeps her lips locked around him, wanting to capture every aftershock that spurts into her mouth, feeling ropes of cum splatter across her taste buds as Harry squirms against his seat, whining in encouragement.

She continues to milk him for everything he’s worth, repeatedly prodding the twitching vein protruding along his prick and scraping his sputtering head against the inside of her cheek, wanting to urge every last drop out of him. She only pulls away when the young man whimpers from above, shakily tugging on her hair to alert her that he’s crossing into more sensitive territory.

“Fucking shit…” He murmurs weakly, his breathing erratic as he eases off the gas pedal to reduce the car to a slower pace, rather than keeping the accelerated speed he’d fallen into as he came.  He combs his fingers through Y/N’s mussed locks as a faint, exhausted chuckle rolls from his lips, his thumb ducking down to collect a bit of the mess that had seeped out of the corner of her mouth. He pushes the digit past her swollen, colored lips, his breath catching as he watches her clean it off without a single hitch. “God, minx, I’m gonna need a little warning the next time you decide to do that. Thought I was gonna crash the car a few times.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Y/N reassures him quietly, looking up at him with a fond smile before turning her attention to his softening prick.  She licks up one stray bead of cum from his tip, delighting in the strangled sound the action draws from Harry. She then proceeds to carefully tuck him back inside his trousers, buttoning and zipping them up with ease.  She even takes care to tuck his red and black striped shirt back inside the waistband, but only after she presses a gentle kiss to his still-tensed abdomen, nuzzling her nose across his happy trail and feeling butterflies flutter in her belly when he lets out an appreciative mewl.

Harry inhales deeply as he watches her sit up from the corner of his eye, his hand slipping from her hair to his own to fix the disheveled curls. “No, I suppose not.  I have precious cargo.  Speaking of—” He reaches over Y/N’s body, and with one hand still on the wheel, fumbles to fasten her seatbelt back across her chest and lap. “Y’gotta keep this on if you ever do that again, alright?  S’not safe to have it off for so long.”

A fond smile tugs at Y/N’s lips as Harry sews his fingers over her thigh, squeezing lightly over her jeans before massaging the muscle.  She’s noticed that he’s grown more and more touchy and protective each time they’re intimate with each other, and it would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy it. “Yes, sir.”

Harry’s fingertips stutter over Y/N’s leg for just a moment, and the twitch of his sensitive cock beneath his slacks nearly causes Harry to swerve the car again. “Fuck, don’t say that right now.” He mumbles brokenly, his voice much more raw than he’d like it to be. “Don’t think my poor dick can handle it.”

Laughter bursts from Y/N’s chests, and the contagious sound draws a giggle from Harry’s own body as she settles her fingers over his, twisting them together in an instinctive motion. “Too sensitive?” She teases, lulling her head back against her seat rest while keeping her eyes focused on him, sweetening her voice down into a babying drawl. “You poor thing.”

A bright pink blush sears itself onto Harry’s cheeks as he clears his throat, tightening his hand around the wheel again to ground himself. “Yeah.  I only really like overstimulation when I’m the one administering it, not the one receiving it.  And you—” He squeezes her thigh as punctuation. “—are much too stimulating, especially when you’re looking at me like that.”

Another honeyed giggle falls from Y/N’s strawberry lips, and the corners of her eyes crinkle as her smile continues to grow. “I like seeing you like this.” She says decisively, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she reaches over and affectionately twirls one of his loose ringlets around her finger. “All flustered.  It’s cute.”

“Are you seriously calling me cute after deep-throating me while I drive?” Harry asks incredulously, a snort echoing from his throat as he shifts around in his seat.  He’s already uncomfortable in his trousers again, both from the wetness she’d left on him and the way her words are making him stiffen again. 

“Mm.” Y/N thrums in agreement as her free hand reaches for the stereo, dialing up the volume again so the sounds of The Kinks can be heard without strain. “I think you’re cute— very cute, actually.  Even moreso when you get all blushy. Am I not allowed to say that?”

Another layer of warmth soaks itself across Harry’s small ears and stinging nose, and he tries to play off his childish reaction with a casual scoff. He can’t deny the way the compliment makes him feel, though. It’s different from the praise she usually gives him, which tends to be sexual and in the heat of the moment. But this is much more intimate in such a sweet and tender manner, and he hasn’t received that type of innocent attention from someone in much too long. He likes it, he decides. Especially when it comes from Y/N.

She makes him weak, and though he’d normally seethe at the idea of anyone ever making him weak again, he comes to find that the softness she coaxes from him is something so different from the mainstream definition of that dangerous word. She makes him weak, yes, but not in a destructive sense. This girl— this simple mortal girl with bones made of glass and skin of fine velvet— makes him weak in the knees, and in the pit of his stomach, and in the cement walls he’d built around his phantom heart. She makes him vulnerable in new places that have been entirely foreign to him for the last twenty decades, if the glowing warmth surging through him is any indication. And for the first time in a while, he’s beginning to think that maybe— just maybe— that’s not such a terrible thing.

The vampire comes to the sudden epiphany that being weak for someone is unorthodox to him because it’s a human trait. Allowing yourself to form a deeper connection with someone— with a person completely the opposite of what you are— requires compassion and understanding. It requires willingness and empathy, as well as trust and pure intentions. It requires humanity. And that’s what Y/N is doing, Harry realizes. She’s taking that last wilted shred of humanity he possesses and is urging him to use it. Even though it’s not intentional on her behalf, and even though she has no idea of just how small that fragment of humanity is, it’s somehow miraculously working; just her being the caring soul she’s always been seems to be enough to awaken that part of him. 

Despite the fact that the immortal would normally laugh at such a stupidly cringey and cliche concept, there’s no denying that at this point in their little LifeTime movie crossover, it’s true. That’s why it feels so utterly weird— she’s bringing out a side of himself he hasn’t shown in literal centuries. She makes him feel the one sensation he didn’t think was possible for him to ever experience again: She makes him feel alive. 

Oh.

…Oh. 

Harry snaps himself out of his inner turmoil, sucking in a shaky breath and exhaling slowly, releasing all his consuming thoughts. Relying on his supernatural impulses to focus on any oncoming hazards, the creature allows himself the indulgence of shifting his hunter eyes onto Y/N for a lingering glance.  The sun is just beginning to set outside the car window, ducking over the cityscape and washing the distant buildings in mellow shades of soothing pinks, cozy oranges, and buttery yellows. The colors cast a golden light through the glass of his car, and it settles onto Y/N’s soft features like stardust, highlighting her flyaway hairs, the gentle slope of her plush lips, and the dreamy tinge in her captivating eyes.  

If Harry didn’t know any better, about both what she is and about not believing in such ridiculous tales, he’d think she was an angel.  Not that an angel would ever be seen with the likes of him.

“Y’can say that, petal.” He murmurs after a lengthy pause, reluctantly returning his attention to the long stretch of road in front of him, his palm still secured over Y/N’s denim-covered thigh.  If he focuses enough, he can feel her pulse through the fabric, and the steady thumping sends a strange prickling through his hand and into the rest of his body. “You can say whatever you’d like, and I’d listen.”

“Oh, is that so?” She pokes at him with a cheeky grin, using her nail to absentmindedly trace the blood red daylight crystals embedded into the eyes of his lionhead ring. “So you’re actually offering to listen for once, instead of making your cocky little comments?”

The edges of the vampire’s lips jolt with endearment. “Just this once, yeah.” 

Except it’s not just this once, Harry thinks to himself, adding on the words he will most likely never have the courage to speak aloud. I’d listen to anything and everything you have to say. No matter how small and insignificant it may be, or however random and useless you might think it is. I’d listen. For you, always.

Harry doesn’t express his private thoughts, but he pretends that he has, and he pretends that the smile Y/N is gifting him at the moment is her heartfelt response to his silent confessions. 

He adores it more than he should, and how could he not? It’s so blinding, he thinks it could very well burn him.

///

It’s not that Harry is nervous for tonight, because he’s not.  

Spending his Friday nights with Y/N has become as regular as clockwork, and Harry knows that it’s overdue in their routine for him to cook a dinner for her, given that she’d had the courtesy of doing it for him. He’s already picked up her favourite red wine to accompany the gnocchi recipe he’d sweet-talked Vincenzo into sharing with him (Gnocchi al Vostro Gusto— the one she’d enjoyed on their date at Bella Vita), as well as snagged all the ingredients for the lavender lemonade cocktail he planned to make her when she first arrived.  He’d even gone so far as to freeze a few petals from edible flowers into his cubed trays earlier in the day, just to up the ante on his already stunning presentation.  

He’s already set out shining dinner plates along his kitchen island, tidied and dusted his entire condo, and made each of his friends promise to leave him alone for the night.  He’s prepared everything that’s been within his power into sheer perfection; nothing could possibly go wrong.  So he’s not nervous, because everything is fine and because he never gets nervous. Being nervous is for morons, and he’s far from being one, so he just isn’t. It’s that simple. There’s absolutely no reason to be nervous. 

Except that he can’t manage to get his mahogany belt to lie properly against his waist (he’d searched in vain for his black Gucci belt with the logo buckle, but hadn’t been able to find it), the woven leather tail twisting repeatedly whenever Harry tries to tuck it beneath the rest of the belt.  And while the rational part of his mind knows that this doesn’t matter, and that he can just guide the tail into a loop along his olive trousers, the irrational part of his mind— which, unfortunately, just happens to be in control at this very moment— knows that tucking it in won’t look nearly as chic as folding it just right to lay the excess along the length of his thigh.

He’s already crafted the rest of his outfit so carefully, spending almost an hour deciding on the red and black patterned vest to pair with the trousers, and an additional forty-five minutes choosing which short-sleeved button up to layer beneath it.  He’d ended up picking a yellow top with indigo swatches along the collar, proceeding to tuck the shirt sleeves up along the sleeves of the knitted vest to give the fit a stylish flare. Harry thinks he looks good (although, to be fair, he always does), but he knows that if he turns his attention back to it for too long, he’d end up tearing it off and starting all over again.  However, judging by the clock that’s ticking from his bedside table, Harry knows that isn’t an option.  It’s 5:42 PM, and Y/N had said she’d be here by 6:00, and if Harry isn’t ready by the time her delicate knuckles rap against his front door, then she might just decide to turn on her heel and leave, and Harry won’t ever get the chance to ask her—

The creature stops short in his tracks, his fingers freezing over the leather of his belt that he’d just managed to settle into place.  He’s not asking her that, he reminds himself, loosening his limbs just enough to nervously twist his mother’s ring around his pinky.  He’s already decided that— and undecided it, and decided it again— after his road trip epiphany the previous weekend.  It doesn’t matter just how weak, or warm, or alive, or just plain human Y/N makes him feel.  He knows what this is, and has known since the beginning, and there’s just no way that he can bring himself to ask Y/N to be his—

Harry can’t even force himself to think of the word. 

He makes long strides towards his dresser, picking up the string of pearls lying on top of the varnished wood and fastening them around his icy neck.  What meaning could that word even hold for him, anyways?  He’s a vampire, and though Y/N makes him feel the complete opposite, there’s no way he could ever feel so human as to give into the notion of having a girlfriend.  A girlfriend leads to a fiancée, which leads to a wife, which leads to the expectation of a family, and Harry knows that none of those things are compatible with the immortal afterlife he lives now.  If Mitch, who is— by any accounts— ten times the man Harry could ever be, hasn’t even managed to lock Sarah— another vampire— into a solid relationship after three years, how could Harry delude himself into thinking that he could do that with a human?

And even if he, with all his commitment, abandonment, and trust issues aside, could have a relationship with a mortal— not any mortal, he reminds himself, but the only mortal that’s ever managed to capture a sliver of his genuine attention— that doesn’t mean he actually wants one.  Why would Harry ever want to be tied to one place, or one person?  Why would he ever want to have to phone someone before going somewhere, or have to check in on them when they’re doing the same?  Why would he want to deal with having to manage someone’s emotions, problems, and life?  He’s traveled the circumference of the world and back again, and seen more changes to society than any human could ever comprehend. He loves being reckless, and untethered, and not responsible for anyone other than himself. He enjoys being impulsive and not having to worry about his actions falling back on anyone else’s shoulders other than his own. It’s who he is— it’s who he’s been for a while now— and it’s who he had imagined he’d continue to be for another two centuries. 

It’s like that one country song that tormented his radio in the early 2000s— the one about life being like an endless road and about how people should enjoy it while it lasts. He believes the exact words are, “Life is a highway, I want to ride it all night long” or something of the sort. Horrendous song, but it held a pretty decent message. 

So with all of this taken into precise consideration, why would he, in his right mind, ever chain himself to one geographical location, and one single fleeting soul?

The answer floats to the forefront of Harry’s mind as he casts a glance towards his half-opened dresser drawer, where a pair of Y/N’s pastel blue sweatpants are folded neatly on top of his own pairs.  She’d left them there a few weeks ago, and while Harry had washed and dried them for her with the intention of giving them back, he’d decided it would be a better idea to keep them here in case Y/N ever ended up staying the night without planning to.  Just so she’d have something comfortable of her own to put on before falling asleep in Harry’s bed, on the side that he now keeps made up just for her.  

Why would Harry ever tie himself to one person?  Because that person is Y/N, and she’s not just a person.  She is— in every way except officially— Harry’s girl.

Harry can’t even bring himself to deny that fact as he fixes the collar of his shirt and strides out of his bedroom, dimming down the lights before making his way to the glass staircase.  Every issue he’d brought up, every fact that he’s tried to use to convince himself that he doesn’t want a relationship, can’t even be considered an issue when it comes to Y/N.  He already does all of those things— checking in on her to make sure she’s alright, letting her vent about her stress, listening to her problems with an attentive ear, holding her hand whenever they’re together, kissing her forehead while she lays against his chest, switching her to the inside of the sidewalk to ensure her safety, moving strands of hair out of her face so they don’t become a bother— and he does it all gladly.  He’s come to adore the soothing comfort he receives when he walks Y/N to her door after a date, or double checks the locks after she’s inevitably invited him inside.  He delights in calling her during her lunch breaks to inquire about how her day is going, and to remind her that “iced coffee isn’t a substitute for water, peach.  You’ll feel a lot better on your shift if you drink a glass, alright?”  And even when her voice is strained and laden with anxiety as she curls into his side after a particularly rough day, it still sounds like the most beautiful melody he’s ever heard, and the weight and warmth of her body against his own acts like a relaxant to Harry’s cold limbs.  

He rolls his shoulders now as he skips the last two stairs and lands squarely on his leather Gucci boots (they’re one of his favorites, and though they’re a simple black, they have a rainbow impression along the lip that he thinks is quite chic). He releases a long breath as he absentmindedly studies over his art wall, his eyes landing on the painting of a deconstructed sunflower. The abstract piece reminds him of the night Y/N had come over to his condo for the first time, and he begins to feel that annoying yet familiar knot between his shoulder blades that always seems to form when he’s away from her.  It’s something he hadn’t even noticed until a few days ago; how his body grows rigid and stiff whenever they’re separated, like he can’t allow himself to exhale until she’s beside him again.  He supposes it’s a strange vampire tendency— something carnal and territorial inside of him that thinks it’s his job to protect Y/N, the decadent and intoxicating center of his strange obsession, and when she’s not around, unease threads into his muscles until he can be sure his primary source of blood is alright. 

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s something deeper inside him— some other reason to keep her out of any harm and an arm’s length away. However, he refuses to indulge that unsettling mystery right now. It’s too fucking complicated to dwell on.

Ambling into the kitchen, Harry begins to dig through his lower cupboards for the apron he hadn’t bothered to slip on when he was cooking earlier.  Pushing aside the white cover with the words “World’s Best (pancake) Tosser” stamped onto the front (it had been a gift from Niall, delivered with a sly grin and a cheeky comment about how the apron was too accurate to pass up), Harry selects the butcher’s apron printed with the phrase “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’!” He slips the loop over his head and ties the straps behind his toned back with a quick motion, the edges of his lips quirking at the pompous joke. He knows Y/N will make a comment about it. 

He hadn’t bothered with the apron before when he’d been preparing the gnocchi simply because his loungewear isn’t necessarily that important, but now that he’s changed into something much nicer than the t-shirt and sweatpants he’d previously worn— and after he’d struggled with deciding on the outfit for so long— the last thing he wants to do is splash sauce onto himself as he navigates his kitchen.

Harry’s mind continues to race with nearly incomprehensible thoughts as he gathers the last of the ingredients needed to finish the meal, his nimble fingers easily peeling the skin from a clove of garlic before he begins to mince it with practiced skill.  Maybe that’s the cause of all his confusing feelings, he muses as he tosses a knob of butter into his preheated pan, scooping the garlic onto his knife and adding that to the mix as well.  Maybe that instinctual feeling to protect is the root of all his fantasies of a relationship.  He can’t possibly want— can’t actually believe that he’d...

Except he does.  

Sighing grimly as he snags a wooden spoon from a kitchen drawer, Harry nudges the cabinet shut with his hip before beginning to stir the sizzling concoction in his pan.  Somehow, against all odds— against all reason— he’s become attached to Y/N.  So attached that he’d spent an hour begging Vincenzo for this specific recipe when he could’ve so easily googled a different one and recreated it to near perfection.  So attached that he’d driven to three different liquor stores to find her favourite brand of red wine, which he’d set to chill in his fridge hours ago, because even though a cabernet sauvignon is supposed to be chilled for forty-five minutes at most, Y/N likes it icy cold.  So attached that he’d taken care to freeze individual flower petals into ice cubes, just so he could make her a cocktail flavoured with honey and lavender, the exact same way she is.  So attached that, for the first time in twenty decades, the concept of a relationship doesn’t draw a disgusted gag from his throat and doesn’t send a ghostly spike of pain to his neck.

“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters the words out loud to himself, as if speaking them audibly will reinforce their meaning.  Opening the fridge with a rough tug, Harry nabs the quart of cream he’d purchased earlier that day, bending the mouth of it open and pouring it smoothly into the saucepan and giving it a stir.  It doesn’t matter if he wants a relationship, because there’s no way that Y/N does.

A bitter laugh tears its way through his chest as he reaches for the bowl of gorgonzola cheese he’d shredded earlier, scattering the ingredient into the saucepan and slowly mixing it in.  He’s arrived at the same point he has all week when he’s had this argument with himself. The same fact that’s stopped him in his tracks each time he’s dared to think that— if he should ask— Y/N would say yes to him becoming a more permanent fixture in her life.  She’d say yes, he thinks.  Or he hopes, at least.  She’d say yes, until she wakes up in the middle of the night to Harry caged over her with crimson irises, terrifying shadows below his waterline, black veins webbing out from his eyes, and a blood-soaked mouth bared to reveal his dagger-like fangs. Then, she’d be gone.

Not gone, he amends in his head, the thought somber and acrid in his mind as he reduces the sauce to a simmer.  He’d have to go after her, of course, but not in the way a man usually goes after a woman.  Despite how they’d joked about it casually, Harry most definitely doesn’t belong in a LifeTime movie.  No, he’s from a much darker genre— less leading man, more malicious creature that lurks in the night— and the only thing he could do when he chases Y/N down would be to wipe all traces of himself from her mind entirely.  That’s the ending they’d be destined for if he let himself buy into his romantic delusions.  It’s better not to put a label on anything.  No labels keep a degree of separation between their two lives— at least, that’s what Harry tells himself.  And as much as it pains him, a degree of separation might be exactly what they need.

And yet, when Y/N knocks on his door two minutes later, just as he’s sprinkling various ground herbs into the sauce and setting it onto the back of the stovetop to wait until they’re ready to eat, Harry can’t help the giddy grin that immediately decorates his dimples. He hurries to untie his apron and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs lined against his kitchen island, dragging a ringed hand through his purposefully tousled curls as he nearly super-speeds to the front door of his condo. He trips on his way there, spewing curses as he barely saves himself from face-planting the ground like an imbecile. He straightens himself out with a petty huff, slowing down slightly and being more mindful of every step he takes. His smile has already returned before he even yanks the door open.

Y/N— his Y/N, he allows himself to think affectionately— is dressed from head to toe in his own clothes.  Well, almost head to toe, he corrects, casting a sly glance at the way her black jeans hug the curve of her hips too perfectly to be his own pair.  But he recognizes the black and white speckled short-sleeve button up that’s french-tucked into the high-waisted denim, and shrewdly notes the addition of a Gucci belt looped around her waist— the very one he’d been searching for earlier.  She’s even styled the shirt the same way he does, with half the top buttons undone.  However— Harry licks his lips unconsciously as his eyes hover over her exposed chest— she’s paired the top with a delicate looking black lace bralette that catches his hungry gaze the moment he spots it.  Even the black ankle boots she’s wearing are reminiscent of his own fashion choices.

“Y’know,” Y/N’s amused voice cuts through his stupor, drawing his attention back from the obvious canvas of her body and up to her glittering eyes. “It’s not very gentlemanly of you to check out my tits before even saying hello.”

Harry’s mouth crooks sheepishly in response as he reaches out to her, looping his muscled arms around her waist and pulling her inside the condo and against his body with ease. “Hello.” He murmurs obediently, thumbing at her waist over the silky fabric as a teasing yet fond cadence sews its way into his voice. “So this is where my clothes keep disappearing to, hm?  I searched for that belt for an hour today.”

“Shouldn’t have left it at my apartment, then.” Y/N counters easily, curling her hands against Harry’s chest.  He can already feel her heat beginning to web through his entire being, warming him in a manner nothing has in the last two hundred years. “And you said tonight’s dress code was casual formal— which makes zero fucking sense, by the way— so I figured the best way to conform to that would be would be by wearing your own clothes.” A drop of hesitance begins to colour Y/N’s tone as she casts her gaze towards his own, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she tries to read between his teasing words for any hint of actual annoyance. “Is that… okay?”

“Perfectly okay, angel.” Harry soothes the worry lines that have formed between her eyes by stamping a kiss onto her forehead, allowing himself to linger for a moment to inhale her familiar scent of sugar and flowers.  It seems more powerful today than it usually is, almost bowling him over right there in the foyer, and he takes a step back to regain control of himself under the pretense of closing the door. “Honestly, I’m a little miffed that you look better in my clothes than I do.”

“‘Miffed’?” The mortal girl laughs as she reaches down to retrieve something from the ground, and it’s only then that Harry realizes that she’d had an overnight bag in her hand before he’d tugged her into his grasp and caused her to drop it.  “Who says ‘miffed’?  Are you a sixty-seven year old woman named Betty?” 

Although he allows a chuckle at her incredulous question, Harry’s attention has focused in on the bag inches away from her outstretched hand.  Cursing himself for being too wrapped up in her appearance to notice the item she’d been toting, Harry quickly fetches it from the ground before she can, carrying it further into his apartment before setting it down on one of the island chairs, as if the small distance could make up for the initial lack of manners he’d displayed. 

“No, I’m not.  I’m just British.” He should bring the bag up to his bedroom, he thinks, just so Y/N doesn’t have to wonder where her clothes are when she’s fraught with exhaustion later. But that would mean having to leave her side, and the grip her fragrance has on his senses right now won’t allow him to do so. 

“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot.” Y/N lilts with an exaggerated air, another giggle rising from her petal-like lips as she leans against the marble countertop on her elbow, propping her chin up in one hand and resting the other on top of the stone.  She regards him with all the affection that he doesn’t deserve, and yet always seems to crave, and it takes all of Harry’s willpower to not grasp her chin in his hand and sift their lips together just to taste her laughter. “Along with ‘pip pip’ and ‘cheerio,’ right?”

“Yes, those phrases are definitely at the top of my vocab list.  You’ve heard me say them a million times.” Harry rolls his eyes playfully, shaking himself from his distracted thoughts as he steps back behind the counter to effectively put a little bit of much needed space between him and the mortal girl.  His restless hands are already outstretched to his bar shelves before he even asks, “D’you want a drink, darling?”

Y/N watches with innocent curiosity as Harry sets two lowball glasses down on the counter before reaching into his cupboard for a jar of honey, which he spoons onto an awaiting plate.  He rims the glasses in the syrup before dipping them into sugar, sparking confusion in Y/N as she tries to decipher what cocktail Harry is making her.  Her befuddlement only grows as he extracts a bottle of clear liquid that she assumes is vodka and a purple concoction that she can’t identify. “What are you making?”

“Lavender lemonade.” Harry answers swiftly, reaching into a drawer for the small double-ended measuring cup tool that Y/N still can’t remember the name of, as well as his crystal cocktail shaker.  Y/N observes with wide eyes as he fills the shaker with ice and vodka before picking up the mysterious liquid. “This is lavender syrup.  Not homemade, unfortunately, but I do buy it from a little organic grocer I know at the farmer’s market.  Adds a nice floral note to the drink, and mixes well with the lemonade.” He caps the container and shakes it expertly (the way his muscled arms ripple with effort doesn’t go unnoticed by her, as it never does) before setting it down on the counter and making his way to the fridge freezer. “S’where I get my honey, too.” He chances a look over his shoulder just in time to see Y/N dip her finger into the honey pooled on the plate and pop the digit into her mouth, and Harry has to force himself to tear his eyes away as she sucks lightly on her fingertip, her cheeks just barely hollowing. “Do you like it?”

“Mhmm,” Y/N hums around the digit as she keeps her eyes shamelessly glued to Harry’s ass while he bends down to open the cooled drawer, retrieving a tray of cubed ice and coming back over to add one large block into each lowball glass. “Are there flowers in there?” She asks in wonder after retracting her finger from her mouth with a pop, leaning over the table more to observe the decorative ice that has filled the cups.

“Mm.” Harry matches her hum with a more pleasured undertone, both from her noticing the small detail, and from the unobstructed view of her cleavage that her new position allows him.  He picks up the shaker and strains the light purple lavender and vodka mixture into the glasses, topping off each cocktail with a can of sparkling lemonade that he’d also retrieved from the fridge. “S’pretty, isn’t it?” He asks, stirring the drinks with a spoon before holding up one of the glasses to the light and handing it to Y/N. “My own creation.  You’re the first person to try it.”

Their fingers graze as Y/N accepts the glass from him, sparking electricity up her entire arm, and she can’t help the irreverent moan that thrums in the back of her throat as she brings the glass to her lips, tasting the honey and sugar first before the lavender coats her tongue. “This is so good, H.” She praises, licking a lingering dab of honey from her mouth between her words.  Twisting the glass in her hands as she regards the lilac drink, Y/N eyes him over the rim of the crystal, pupils blown wide. “I didn’t think honey and lavender could ever taste so good.”

“You know, I used to think that, too.” Harry’s mumbles knowingly as his own eyes drift a shade darker. He watches the human girl’s neck strain with her swallow, as if she knows he’s trying to keep his gaze away from there and she’s beckoning him back. “But it’s my favourite flavour combination now.  Can’t ever seem to get enough.”

The comment goes right over the mortal girl’s head, just as Harry knew it would.  His expectations of the cocktail in his hand are also met from his very first sip; although the concoction is delicious, it pales in comparison to the fragrance wafting across the island from Y/N.  He may as well be drinking water, honestly. But he knows he’ll end up repeating the recipe a few more times at the very least, just because Y/N tells him that it’s her favourite drink he’s ever made.

“You say that every time I make you a new drink, dove.” Harry can’t help but quip coyly at the repeated compliment, setting his crystal tumbler against the counter with a quiet thud. “Am I supposed to keep believing it?”

“Obviously. Especially when each drink keeps getting better and better.” Y/N licks a drip of honey from the rim, her tongue delicately capturing the sugar crystals before her lips settle back onto the edge to take another sip. “You would be an amazing bartender, but we’ve already talked about that before.”

“We have, yeah.” Harry smiles softly as he recalls the conversation they’d had weeks ago, where she had said his drinks were better than anything she’d had at a club, and he had responded by saying he doesn’t have the patience to be a bartender. That conversation feels as if it happened a lifetime ago, and considering how much closer they had become since, it quite literally could be. “But refresh my memory, will you? Why is it that I’d make such an amazing bartender?”

Y/N gives Harry a jokingly flat glance as a response to his smug tone, but decides to humor him, nonetheless. “Well, you obviously have the mixology skills, and I don’t doubt that the whole thing you have going—” She nods her head to him over the island with a teasing smirk. “—would get you endless tips.”

“My whole thing?” Harry repeats the phrase with an air of faux confusion. “What do you mean, my whole thing?”

He knows what she means, of course.  But he won’t deny himself an opportunity to hear Y/N feed his ego with sweet-spoken praise.

Y/N doesn’t buy his innocent act for a minute, but still indulges him, yet again.  She likes to see Harry preen under her compliments just as much as he likes to receive them. “You know…” She casts her eyes over his figure slowly, picking out every detail she can comment on as she wedges her bottom lip between her teeth. “Your whole look— the tattoos, the muscles, the dimples, the sparkling green eyes, the shiny curls… all of that would have any drunk customer draped over the bar for you.  And even if you couldn’t get by on looks alone, you’re absolutely charming.  To the point of ridiculousness, honestly, but,” Y/N eyes him suspiciously, and while her words are mostly in jest, she can’t deny that she’s seriously thought them at some point in time. “I’m not entirely convinced it’s genuine.  Although being able to fake that kind of attitude would serve you well in a crowded bar.”

Whatever Harry was expecting to hear among the praise, an accusation of dishonest behaviour wasn’t it.  His brow furrows deeply as his lips turn down into a displeased grimace, and he drums his ringed fingers over the marble countertop as he cocks his head to the side. “What d’you mean?” The question is earnest now, no longer a coquettish teasing remark, and the warmth the mortal girl had provided him with begins to subside as a flash of icy doubt digs shards through his chest. “Not genuine?  Does it seem like I’m faking it or something?”

Y/N teases her lips with her tongue, unable to stop the nervous tic as she hears the displeasure that clearly strains Harry’s tone.  Setting her own glass down on the counter, Y/N lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I just mean, like… I don’t know.  I don’t really think that now, but in the beginning…”

“What?” Harry prompts her with more intensity than he’d meant to, but he’s spent so much of this past week analyzing their every interaction while wrestling with his own thoughts that he’s already on edge; he needs to hear what Y/N had thought of him when they’d first met.  His own recollection of the memories has made him flinch multiple times, particularly the times when he’d thought that Y/N was as boringly ordinary as humans come. He can only imagine what her take on the situation is. “Did I— was I rude, or—?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” She hurriedly assures him, shaking her head hard enough that her loose locks bounce around her shoulders. “You weren’t rude at all— the opposite, actually.  I don’t know, it just seemed… like it was too good to be true, y’know?” Her voice grows impossibly softer as she traces her finger over the rim of her glass, her eyes dropping from Harry’s like it hurts her to hold them. “Like, there was no way that someone could be so attractive, so funny, so good in bed—” Harry can hear blood creep up the nape of her neck against her will, beginning to pour into her cheeks. “—and so charming.  Something had to be an act.”

Despite the urge Harry has to justify his actions, he knows there’s nothing he can say that could prove Y/N’s original perception of him wrong.  And, in all honesty, he has no right to.  As much as he’d like to argue the fact, and as much as he did genuinely come to enjoy being around her, Harry can’t deny that from the first moment he’d approached Y/N in that club, he’d dialed up his charm as he always did without a second thought.  He’d flattered her, flirted with her, done everything he could to convince her that she should take him home so he could indulge in the two things he’s always manipulated people for: sex and blood.  And when that worked, he did it again, and again, and again, until they’d fallen into the pattern they have now.  He’d never lied, of course, and he prides himself on that— every compliment he’d paid her had been rightly deserved.  But even that justification doesn’t stop the shame that’s twisting its way through his limbs and making his head heavy.  

She had thought something had to be an act, and she had been right.  Harry himself was an act, in every aspect of the term— stretching the truth about his past, opening himself up just enough to make her open herself in return, setting her up so that she’d become dependent on their relationship. And all so he could sink his teeth into her neck without a second thought.  

He can’t exactly pinpoint when all that had changed— singing “Non-Stop” in his kitchen?  The jealousy he’d felt when he spotted her on a date with that insipid idiot, Jacob?  Seeing her in that yellow sundress when he picked her up for their first date?— but the fact that it had changed doesn’t erase how it had started. It doesn’t erase the cruelty he’d hidden beneath his calculating words, intricately-placed caresses, and dirty promises.

“Harry.” He’d been so caught in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Y/N had moved until she’s standing right in front of him, one of her velvet hands twisting into his own as the other tucks a loose curl back from his creased forehead. “I don’t think that now.  You know that, right?” Even after securing the ringlet, she keeps her palm pressed against his cheek, and Harry can’t help but lean into the burning heat her touch provides. “I just— I’d never met anyone like you.  There was no one like you where I grew up.  I didn’t think someone could be so…” Y/N worries her lip between her teeth again, and Harry wishes he had enough in him to smooth the bite mark with a touch as soft as her own. “I didn’t know you yet.  But I do now.”

The vampire inhales a shaking breath as if he needs it to live, lifting his own free hand to wrap over the palm Y/N rests against his cheek.  Weaving his fingers through hers, he drags her hand lower until her skin is secured over his lips, and he smudges a gentle kiss against her handprint.  There’s something so tender in her words— no one could ever accuse Y/N of being disingenuous.  But he needed to hear this, he thinks as he presses his mouth repeatedly to her palm, the throbbing of her pulse in her wrist catching against his cheek.  He needed to hear how she thinks she knows him.  It’ll serve as a reminder that he can’t allow himself to succumb to the weak thoughts he’d battled earlier in the day.  As much as Y/N assumes she knows him, there’s things that she’ll never understand— things he would never allow her to understand, because she doesn’t deserve such a terrifying burden— and how could he keep up that pretense while allowing her to call him her boyfriend?

“I know you do, sweetheart.” Harry mutters the words into her fragile skin, inhaling her intoxicating aroma deeply until his throat burns in agony.  It’s a small price to pay for what he’s put her through. “It’s alright.  I don’t blame you for doubting it.” The smirk he forces onto his face is nowhere near believable, but he manages to keep the strain out of his voice enough to sell it. “I’m pretty hard to believe, y’know?  Especially when you grew up with people like Cucumber Dick.”

Successfully diffusing the moment, Harry’s comment tugs an irritated groan from Y/N’s chest, and she takes a step back from him as her hand falls from his face, despite her other fingers still remaining tied with his own. “You can’t just keep calling him Cucumber Dick, alright?  He has a name!”

“Yeah, Bradley.” Harry says in distaste, his nose wrinkling as he shakes his head slowly. “S’honestly worse than Cucumber Dick.  I’m doing him a favour— a bit of charity work.”

Y/N hums in the back of her throat thoughtfully as she steps back around the kitchen island, Harry’s arm extending over the countertop as she tugs his hand along with hers. “Then don’t do me any favours like that, alright?  Can only imagine what you call me when I’m not here.”

A few names pop into Harry’s mind— dream, darling, angel, and countless others that he’s murmured to himself in the privacy of his condo— but they’re tainted by the memory of his friends confessing how they’ve talked about her when he hasn’t been around to hear it.  How they’ve compared her to different foods, used that to reference her, as if that’s all she is to him.  As if she isn’t the only person who has managed to make him feel something in over two lifetimes.

In the rational part of Harry’s mind— which, once again, is sadly not the part of his mind that’s ever in control— he knows that he can’t blame his friends for thinking that.  It’s his own fault for being so insistent on that fact over the last few months.  How many times had they questioned his motives behind his daily phone calls to her, or how often he found himself dropping everything just to spend some time with her?  How many times had he rolled his eyes at their assumptions that he wanted more from the mortal girl than he’d ever admitted?  How many times had he asserted that there was nothing more that she could offer him than her body and her blood?  They’d only listened to what he was saying, despite knowing that Harry’s reassurances were false.  Did any of them suspect that things had changed for him now?  Or did they still think that Harry’s only motivations behind his relationship with Y/N are primal?

Harry pushes the badgering thoughts from his head as best he can as he reaches for his apron that’s still lying over the back of the chair.  He can’t dwell on those thoughts now.  If the turmoil twisting inside of him hasn’t subsided by the end of the night, he’ll call Mitch once Y/N is fast asleep under the extra blanket he keeps on his bed just for her.  Although he doesn’t relish the thought of admitting he was wrong to the likes of Xander or Niall— he knows their teasing and taunting would never end— he can talk to Mitch about it without the worry of judgement.

“Why don’t you put a record on, petal?” Harry asks absentmindedly, nodding his head towards the record player set up in the corner of his living room as he slips his apron back over his head. “I just have to boil the gnocchi, and then—”

“Wait, wait wait,” Y/N cuts over him with an increasingly gleeful expression, rounding the edge of the island again to tug on the strap of Harry’s apron. “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’?” She repeats, unable to bite back the giggles that are rising through her throat. “Please tell me you didn’t buy that for yourself.”

His troubling mindset disappears the moment laughter falls from her lips and echoes around the kitchen. “‘Course I did.  And why wouldn’t I?” Harry simpers as his deft fingers easily secure the ties behind his back in a neat bow. “I’m Mr. Good Lookin’, and I’m cookin’.  S’only the truth.”

“Your vanity is astounding.  Truly.” Y/N trails her finger from the strap of the apron to the pearls around Harry’s neck, stroking the silky stones with the lightest touch. “Like, borderline narcissistic.”

Snaking his arms around her waist, Harry easily pulls the mortal into his body, securing her against his chest just as he had done when she’d first arrived.  It’s comfortable for him to have her pressed against him like this.  The steady rising and falling of her chest and hummingbird beat of her heart against his own unmoving organ keeps him centered, like his own personal lifeline. 

“Is it so wrong to be confident in my appearance?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his dimples pop from his cheeks, and he slides his hands from Y/N’s back to her ass, cupping and squeezing firmly in appreciation.  His smirk only grows as Y/N’s cheeks begin to boil from the suggestive contact. “How can you contradict me when it gets such a reaction from you?”

“I think that has less to do with your looks and more to do with where your hands are.” She quips dryly, and yet her nails dig into Harry’s exposed collar bones with the slightest of pressure, a surefire sign of just how much his touch affects her.

Harry leans forward as the girl’s breathing grows more erratic, and he nuzzles his nose along hers while keeping the smallest of spaces between their lips. “Either way, I’m getting what I want, aren’t I?”

To his immense pleasure, Y/N’s words are breathy and strained when she replies, a side effect of the shallow inhales her body draws against his. “Which is?” 

“You.  More specifically, you melting under my touch like you just can’t get enough of it.” Harry drags his lips across Y/N’s for no more than a second before continuing his path up her jaw, only stopping when he can feel the flushed shell of her ear beneath his mouth. “You should indulge your vanity a little more often, sweetheart.  S’quite fun, honestly.”

Y/N shivers beneath Harry’s touch, her eyelids fluttering as his cool breath rolls over her ear and down her neck.  Turning her head to the side, she locks her half-lidded gaze with his own before slotting their lips together to indulge in the lingering taste of honey and lavender that sits on his tongue. 

Despite his instinct to draw her closer while curving her body into his own, Harry separates their lips with a gentle nudge of his forehead against her own, his breathing growing just as erratic as Y/N’s.  Control, he reminds himself as heat prickles along his icy skin from the tender pads of Y/N’s hands.  This isn’t like their first meetings, when he could invite her over under a pretense and take her against the counter before they’d even finished their drinks.  This is different now.  She’s different now.

“Why don’t you go put a record on?” He says again, his voice noticeably deeper than it was when he first made the request. “And I’ll finish getting dinner ready. Sound alright?”

Y/N manages to nod without removing her forehead from his, but that seems to be the only movement she makes; her palms remain pressed firmly against Harry’s tattooed biceps, even after he reluctantly releases his hold on her body.  She can’t help it— it feels too good to be so close to the young man to allow herself to willingly walk away.  Something in his presence is so calming, so steady to her, even when he’s whispering obscenities in her ear.

But outweighing the need to be next to him is her desire to make him happy, and if he wants her to pick out a record… “Alright.” She nods once more as her hands slip from his skin, trailing down his forearms and grazing his wrists before falling to her sides. “Any record?”

Harry drags a ringed hand through his curls, his lithe fingers tugging on the locks before falling to his side in a loose fist. “Any record.” He confirms as he reaches for a kitchen drawer, tugging it open to extract a long metal spoon. “Anything you want to listen to.”

He watches as a serious expression paints itself over the human girl’s face, as if the task he’s given her is of the utmost importance.  She turns on her heel and marches out of the kitchen as if on a mission, and as Harry turns towards the now-boiling pot of water on his stove, he knows that his own face reflects a look of fondness.  It’s too easy to let his guard down with her, he thinks as he ladles his homemade gnocchi into the rolling water.  When she looks at him, there’s such an openness in her expression that he can’t help but allow himself to be seen.

But being seen doesn’t always feel so sweet, which Harry remembers the moment he hears Y/N’s melodic voice ring from the living room. 

“When did you get a piano?”

Harry’s hand freezes mid-scoop, the few gnocchi that had been dangling on the edge of his spoon falling into the boiling water.  A bit of the liquid splashes out and lands on his arm, but quickly fizzes to room temperature once it meets his freezing skin. 

“Uh—” He clears his throat as he tries to refocus on his task, but his actions are much more frantic than careful as he finishes filling the pot with gnocchi. “I’ve had it for a while, remember?  I mentioned it to you before.  At the antique mall.”

When his explanation receives no response, he gives his own frustrated sigh, and sets down the polished spoon to retrace Y/N’s steps out into the living room.  As he expected her to be the moment he heard her question, he finds her with a reverent hand tracing the edge of the matte black Steinway grand piano that’s occupied a space in nearly every home he’s had since he purchased it in the 1920s.  Seeing her nimble fingers drift over the hand-crafted edge brings back a hazy human memory to Harry’s mind— a flash of sharply manicured fingers and a strangely pale hand, adorned with an opal ring as they danced over the pianoforte in an opulent sitting room. The sound of tinkling laughter that rang like a bell, pitched almost high enough to make his ears ache, and a soft, hypnotizing voice slathered in the most delicate accent he’d ever heard. 

Harry has to blink a few times to bring himself back to the present.

“What was that, darling?” He hopes his voice isn’t nearly as strained as it feels when he refocuses his eyes on Y/N’s waiting gaze. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said that you told me it was in storage.” She glides over the intricately carved music stand, the digit dancing across every twist and curve of the decorative panel. “Why did you bring it out?”

“Uh, I dunno, really.” An uncomfortable itch settles onto Harry’s skin, his stomach turning as Y/N takes a seat on the creaking piano bench set in front of the instrument. “I just, uh, figured it should be displayed somewhere, instead of gathering dust in a storage unit.  It’s a vintage Steinway, y’know?  Those need to be taken care of.”

In truth, the vintage instrument had rung Harry quite a high bill over the last few decades, not only in the price it cost to keep it in permanent storage, but in the services he’d had done to it once a year to keep it in its nearly pristine condition.  Despite keeping it out of sight to keep it out of his mind, he couldn’t seem to allow himself to let the instrument fall into disrepair, just in case he ever decided to display it again.  Or sell it, as he’d been leaning towards doing over the last few years— a genuine Steinway piano in condition as good as his had quite the high price tag.  But he’d never been able to force himself to part with it, as it looked too similar to the one he had originally learned to play on.  Even though those memories were tainted with the usual pain that came with thinking about his human life, it was still his life, and he ached to hold onto some part of it.  It’s why he had his mother’s ring, and his sister’s earring, and his father’s cross and pocket watch.  It’s why had a small wooden box hidden away under his bed with memorabilia from his first life.  As much as it hurt to remember— and it did, in ways he can’t possibly begin to describe— remembering seems better than the alternative.

“Well, if you want to show it off…” Y/N’s fingers are trailing down the fallboard now, inching their way towards the ivory keys with a daydream-like purpose. “You shouldn’t hide it away in the corner of the room.  It would look gorgeous in front of the windows, don’t you think?  A proper centerpiece.”

It would make a beautiful centerpiece, and he originally intended it to be so after the delivery company had dropped it off at his condo a few days before.  After bribing Adam and Niall with the offer to buy out their bar tabs for an entire month, the three of them had spent the afternoon rearranging the furniture in his living room to display the Steinway in the center of the room.  He’d thought that, knowing how excited Y/N had been to hear him play the piano in the antique store, she’d like to hear him play in his own home, on an instrument he knows like the back of his hand.  He’d even begun kicking around the idea of teaching her a few songs, but those musings had quickly turned sour as the instrument brought back more memories of his foggy human life.  In the end, he’d decided to restore his living room back to its original state with the addition of the Steinway thrust into the corner, where the ghosts of his past could plunk the keys quietly without drawing too much of his attention.  He’d done his best to ignore the instrument over the last couple of days, and in his hurricane of thoughts that had centered around Y/N, he’d nearly forgotten about its existence completely.

He can’t be mad that Y/N is asking about it; after all, he’d brought it out of storage with her specifically in mind.  But seeing the newfound object of his affections with her fingers poised over the keys brings back a rush of emotions he’d been repressing for the better part of two hundred years.

“It—” Harry clears his throat once more, trying to rid himself of the lump that is rising up like bile. “It took up too much space in the center of the room.  Wasn’t very cohesive.”

“That’s too bad.” The mortal girl’s words fall from her mouth in a murmur as her gaze remains locked on the keys, almost as if she’s in a trance.  Her finger begins to press down on the ivory with a slow and meticulous motion. “It seems like such a shame to—”

“Let’s— Let’s not get into that now, sweetheart.” Harry says hurriedly, his fingers catching her own before she can trigger the instrument to make a sound. “Dinner’s almost ready, and you—” He forces a grin onto his lips. “—still haven’t picked a record out.” Threading her fingers through his own, Harry gently tugs the human girl up from her seat on the piano bench. “Would you rather I do it instead?”

As he expected, Y/N wrinkles her nose with distaste as she rises to meet his emerald eyes. “No.” She scoffs as a quiet snort rises from her throat. “I don’t need to listen to some weird experimental 60s music while trying to eat dinner.”

While Harry would normally bite back at her dig, he just responds to her with a thin laugh and a smile without dimples. “Exactly.  So why don’t you pick something out,” He jerks his head over his shoulder to where his record player and vinyls sit neatly on a shelf lining the wall, ignoring the ghastly spike of pain that twinges his neck as he does so. “And I’ll plate dinner, yeah?”

“Alright.” She agrees, and Harry nearly breathes a sigh of relief before she finishes her phrase. “But you’ll play for me later tonight, won’t you?”

The phantom pain grows until it extends down Harry’s entire spine, filling every nerve in his body with a sense of anxiety and trepidation.  The last thing Harry wants to do is move his fingers over those weighted keys, and with the burning sensation now shooting through his fingers, making his hand twitch around Y/N’s, he’s not even sure he can.

But he is sure of one thing, and that’s the fact that he can’t ever seem to say no to Y/N.

“Yeah, dove.  Of course.” Keeping his voice even, Harry pulls her away from the extravagant instrument as inconspicuously as he can. “Later tonight.”

///

There are so many things that Harry has done over the last two centuries that have both angered and confused him.  

He’s held grudges against himself over the way he’s acted, the people he’s surrounded himself with, the people he’s allowed himself to trust, and the blatant disregard for human decency he’s allowed himself to succumb to.  In the last twenty decades, Harry has amassed enough vendettas for fifty lifetimes, let alone the one endless life he’s been given.  And yet, even with all of those missteps in mind, the fact that Harry ever looked at Y/N and deigned her an ordinary human might be one of the biggest mistakes he’s ever made. 

It’s so clear to him now— sitting across from her at his kitchen island, the few scented candles flickering between them doing almost nothing to cover her sugar and flower scent, her eyes reflecting back the burning flames and something else that Harry can’t quite put a finger on— that he’s not sure how he ever missed it.  How had he once leaned against the counter in her own kitchen, looked into those very same eyes, and managed to convince himself that it was only her blood that drew him to her?  How had he listened to her sweet and sensual voice murmur delicate phrases about her day and her emotions, and not realize that he was inching closer and closer in order to hang on every word, as if she had the supernatural ability to compel him as he did her?  How had he seen her in the smokiness of the club, with her fragile skin practically luminescent under the pulsing strobe lights, and thought that she was so utterly unmemorable and unnoticeable that he could easily take her home for one night without anyone wondering about her whereabouts?  How had he convinced himself that it would only be one night? 

There are so many things that Harry will always be angry about, will never forgive himself for, and his initial perception of Y/N is one of them. 

If he has any redeeming qualities, he thinks as he watches the mortal girl spear a bite of gnocchi onto her fork over the rim of his wine glass, it’s that he can, at the very least, admit when he’s wrong.  He can admit to himself that this girl— this self-assertive, stubborn, vivacious, kind-hearted mortal girl— is the most interesting and most intriguing human he’s ever met.  And as terrifying as that is, it’s also a little thrilling; it’s been so long since Harry has felt a pull to someone like this.  The sensation, while unfamiliar and something he’s severely out of practice with, is just as electrifying as he remembers, and now that he’s had a taste of it, he can’t stop chasing that high. 

It’s that undeniable pull which drive Harry to murmur an unauthentic apology about not having a dining table (he’d chosen a larger living room over a dining area when he moved in, and his friends just settled for eating at Niall’s when they wanted to sit down somewhere) because he’s secretly pleased that he has an excuse to sit next to Y/N.  It’s that pull that makes him hang on her every word about her day like she’s relaying the plot of a Greek tragedy, his facial expressions perfectly mimicking hers as she describes the customers she dealt with.  It’s that pull that sends his fingers forward of their own accord to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the soft melody of Hozier’s “Like Real People Do” floats between them like a comforting lullaby.  It’s that pull that, when she inquires about the entrée he’d prepared for them, causes him to proudly admit that he’d recreated the recipe from Bella Vita after wrestling it from Vincenzo.  It’s that pull that urges him to scoop up one of his own gnocchi and bring it to Y/N’s lips to feed her the first bite of the meal, his hand cupped delicately under the utensil to catch any sauce that might drip onto her shirt (which is really his shirt, and that fact alone delivers so much more pleasure than he ever would’ve thought possible).  

It’s that pull, that adrenaline rush, that indescribable sensation, but underneath it all, it’s her.  It’s always been her, since the moment they’d first met.  From the moment he first laid eyes on her.  How is it, Harry wonders, that his first sighting, enhanced by his supernatural senses, had managed to make him so blind?  How is it that he’d had this girl in front of him all along, and he’d managed to delude himself into thinking that he’d be able to stop himself from becoming vulnerable for her?  And maybe, he wonders slowly as he clears Y/N’s empty dinner plate from the marble island to the sink, he’s still deluding himself, because for some strange reason, being vulnerable for the mortal girl doesn’t seem to be as terrifying as he thought it would be.

The vampire suddenly recalls a specific day all those weeks back, when Y/N had stayed over and they’d taken their first bath together in his jacuzzi. He thinks about how he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable for just a fraction of a second, when he had admitted to her that she often caught him off guard. She had returned the sentiment, and he remembers the words he'd uttered to her amidst the warm steam and quiet splashing of the water. He had said that he found her influence on him— the influence they had on each other— to be scary, but exhilarating. And now, after spending so much time together and allowing himself to grow closer to her than he ever could’ve imagined, he’s come to find that his attraction to Y/N is no longer incredibly scary. Yes, there’s still a sliver of fear in him at the notion of opening himself up to her, but it’s only natural— there isn’t one person in existence who isn’t scared to strip themselves emotionally bare for someone else. However, his genuine excitement soothes his hesitations, and it startles him in a pleasant manner he can’t quite decipher.

Setting the dirty dishes into the sink to be dealt with later, Harry risks a glance at Y/N over his shoulder.  He watches as she wipes the corner of her mouth on a napkin before raising her stemmed glass to her lips, delicately draining the last of the crimson liquid before placing it back down with a clink.  When he catches her sparkling eyes, Y/N shoots him a smile that, even with only one corner of her lips lifted, manages to dazzle him from across the kitchen.  Harry can hear the fresh flush of blood that overtakes her cheeks, as if the wine itself is settling beneath her fragile skin.

Yes, vulnerability should petrify him.  Vulnerability means danger.  It means giving someone the ability to break you, and Harry knows this from firsthand experience.  Harry might be the only monster in the room, but in this moment, Y/N is the ominous threat. She’s the vague silhouette that hides in the shadows, the mysterious mass circling just beneath the waves, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But now that he’s dipped a toe in, Harry can’t stop himself from diving headfirst into those dangerous depths.

“D’you want another drink, love?” He asks, turning back around and leaning his hip against the marble counter as he cocks his head to the side in a questioning manner. “Some more wine before dessert?  Or another cocktail?”

Y/N glances at her multiple empty glasses in front of her, but shakes her head slowly. “No, I’ve had enough to drink.  But I’d love a cup of tea, H.  If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.  A cup of tea, coming right up.” Harry reaches for the sleek kettle that he keeps set on the backburner of his range, flicking on his tap with his other hand before settling the hollow object under the stream of water. “You know, I think this is the first time I’m actually making tea for you.  S’a real treat, isn’t it?” He flashes a toothy grin at the girl before placing the now-full kettle back onto the burner and twisting the knob to high. “A proper cup of tea made by a proper Brit.  Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N rolls her eyes playfully as she circles her finger around the rim of the empty wine glass, her motions just starting to get heavy with the liquor. “It’s just some dried leaves and water, Harry.  Don’t get too full of yourself.” 

“I think you’re the one who’s usually full of me, aren’t you, pet?” Although his back is turned towards the stove, Harry can hear the effect his words have on the human girl by the small, nearly imperceptible gasp that leaves her lips. “‘M not sure you’re allowed to make that observation.”

Despite the choked feeling that’s welled up in her throat at his comment, Y/N quickly clears it out with a small cough, capturing Harry’s sea glass eyes with her own to stare him down stubbornly. “I’ll make any observations I want.” She says firmly, crossing her arms over her exposed chest in a mockingly angered pose.

A fond laugh rolls from Harry’s stained lips as he opens his cupboards and extracts two tea cups that are painted with vines of wisteria flowers.  He’d found them a few years back at the very same antique mall he’d brought Y/N to, included in a china tea set that he hadn’t been able to resist buying.  The hand painted violet flowers had caught his eye from the moment he’d glanced at the china cabinet they’d been locked inside, and he’d barely been able to tear himself away from the glass case to retrieve the key from an employee.  

He’d always had a soft spot for wisteria; there had been a wisteria tree outside of his childhood home, and he and Gemma used to collect the bunches of blooms and bring them inside for their mother.  That had been a long time ago, of course.  When they were children.  Harry can’t quite remember at what age they’d stopped digging through the garden for flowers— it might have been when Gemma turned eleven, which would’ve made him…. Seven?  Harry frowns at the uncertain memory as his grip tightens around the delicate china cups.  Yes, he reminds himself, he would’ve been seven.  His sister had been four years older than him, and it was around age eleven when she’d declared herself a lady, and said that it wasn’t ladylke to dig through a garden and walk around with dirt under one’s fingernails, and Honestly, Harry, you must wipe your feet before stepping into the house, or else you’ll track mud everywhere—

With trembling hands, Harry sets the wisteria tea cups down on the marble counter, flexing his fingers to get rid of their shakiness before reaching for the respective saucers.  It seems that Y/N’s ability to make him feel more human isn’t just resurfacing the manners and emotions he’d long suppressed, but the memories, too.  How long had it been since he’d heard his sister’s voice ring in his head as clearly as that?  How long had it been since he’d thought of the tiny foyer of his childhood home, which he’d tracked mud into countless times as his mother and, eventually, his sister clicked their tongues at him?  Is the tree still there, he wonders as his thoughts continue to spiral.  Or had it been cut down in the two hundred years since he’d last seen it, long after his family had all… 

Harry places the saucers carefully down against the marble before bracing himself against the edge for just a moment.  Barely thirty seconds have passed since Y/N’s retort, and although his enhanced mind had begun to spiral, it’s not too late for him to give a half-sane response.  

“I know you will, sweetheart.” He finally murmurs, hiding his face as he pulls open his fridge to extract the carton of oat milk he’d purchased last week.  Y/N, he’d come to learn over the last few months, prefers milk over cream in her tea, just like she prefers sugar over artificial sweeteners. 

Harry can feel the burn of her eyes into his back as he extracts a teaspoon from his kitchen drawer and the kettle begins to whistle.  Focusing and relishing in being the object of her attention, Harry removes the kettle from the heat, flicking the stove off before reaching for the canister that stores his tea bags.  In an effort to fully distract himself from the troubling thoughts of his past, he begins to hum the tune to the Hozier song that had been playing earlier, before the record had spun to stop just before they’d finished their entrees.  With the near murmur of the melody reverberating through his throat, he spends a moment debating on whether or not he should use the matching wisteria-adorned teapot that sits on the highest shelf of his cupboard, but quickly decides against it— it’s too formal for the occasion.  But tossing two separate tea bags into the two teacups, he finds as soon as he does it, doesn’t feel right either; after all, he’d told Y/N that he’d be making her a proper cup of tea.  That fact settles the manner in his (moreso than usual) changing mind, and within a few moments, he has the two teabags deposited into the teapot before pouring in the boiling water to steep the satchels of dried leaves.

Halfway through his preparation, his ears had perked up with the distinct sound of Y/N rising from her chair, which had been followed by the muted pattering of her feet against his hardwood floor.  Not bothering to ask where she’d been going, Harry had instead decided to wait for his suspicions to be confirmed.  Sure enough, just as he’s stirring the sugar and oat milk into Y/N’s cup of tea, he hears the quiet press of one of the keys of his piano.  C4, if his aural skills are still as tuned as they used to be.

Setting the two cups of tea onto their respective plates (Y/N’s with milk and sugar, and Harry’s plain), the vampire easily balances both cups of tea in his hands and makes it to the living room without spilling a single drop.

Just like before, Y/N seems entranced by the piano, plunking out different notes and letting them ring into the open air.  Harry can’t help but wince slightly as he approaches— as talented as Y/N seems to be at some things, music theory does not appear to be included.

“Christ, love, a tritone?” He protests, his voice hinging on a whine as he approaches the piano bench. “What, your fingers couldn’t make it a perfect fifth, hm?”

The answer to his teasing question comes in the form of Y/N’s entire body jumping as her fingers stutter over the keys, an audible gasp falling from her mouth while her hand clutches to her chest and her head turns to stare at Harry over her shoulder. “Jesus, you scared me!” She says breathlessly, her palm massaging over her the area where Harry can hear the rapid pulsing of her heart. “Have you always creeped around like that?”

A playful grin tugs at the immortal’s lips as he extends an arm out, handing the china saucer and cup to the human girl. “Only when I’m carrying boiling tea.  Scooch over, will you?” Nudging his way onto the newly unoccupied space of the bench, Harry nods his head towards the keys she had been previously playing. “Was that an original composition?”

“Beethoven, actually.  I’m surprised you didn’t recognize it.” Y/N blows gently over her tea with pursed lips before taking a small sip.  Harry knows that his sister would have condemned the action, along with the following slurp, by calling it unladylike, but the inelegant manner leaves a fond feeling buzzing through his body once more. 

Raising his own teacup to his lips, Harry chuckles quietly over the rim of the cup. “I wouldn’t have pegged it for the classical era, actually.  Sounded more atonal to me.” He takes a small sip of tea, the liquid scorching down his throat in the best way. “You said you took lessons when you were younger, didn’t you?  Do you remember anything?”

“Twinkle twinkle little star, maybe.” Y/N takes another small gulp before setting the cup back down on the saucer. “I was, like, eight.  Nursery rhymes were as far as I got.” Her gaze drops to the caramel coloured tea with a curious gaze; Harry had remembered exactly how she takes it, despite him only having seen her make a cup of tea once a few weeks ago. “But you, on the other hand… Mr. Good Lookin’...” Her lips jolt into a teasing grin as her eyes flicker to the side to capture his own. “You’re quite the musician, from what I remember.  And you promised to play me something.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Harry’s smile grows imperceivably tighter as he takes another drag of the boiling drink, his throat growing thicker with every swallow. “And you still want me to?”

Brow furrowing at his reluctance, Y/N cocks her head to the side in bewilderment. “Of course I do, H.  I loved listening to you play for me at the antique mall.”

Harry thinks back to that day, when he’d stuttered his way through a Chopin piece before his stumbling fingers had given up entirely. “I’m just a little out of practice, love.  It’ll be a bit messy.”

“I didn’t ask for perfection; I asked for you to play.” Her warm fingers find Harry’s upper arm, massaging the tattooed muscles just underneath the tucked sleeve of his shirt as she regards him with wide, curious eyes. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but if you’re nervous because you might mess up… Well, you heard me play.” Her light laugh rings through the cavity of the piano, reverberating off the highest strings in a way that only Harry’s immortal ears can pick up. “I won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Despite his reservations, a half-hearted smile finds its way to Harry’s lips over the rim of his tea cup, which he sets down on the living room side table after taking one last sip.  

Flexing his ringed fingers, he repositions himself on the piano bench, moving more towards the center of the seat as Y/N moves down to the edge to give him full access to the piano.  For a brief moment, his hands hover over the ivory and ebony keys as he evaluates the repertoire he knows he can muddle his way through without too much trouble.  He’s already played a few Chopin pieces for the human girl, so that composer is out.  Liszt doesn’t seem to fit the mood, either, as his pieces are much too ornamented for their quiet living room ambience.  Debussy is out before Harry can even consider him; the last thing he wants to do is invoke any more memories of sitting at a piano with the much too familiar composer.  And Beethoven and Mozart seem too contrived for this setting, as well.

With a frown on his wine-stained lips, Harry spares one glance at Y/N, whose own eyes are glued to his floating fingers.  She reaches out with a tentative touch of her own, gliding them across Harry’s tensed knuckles with a pressure so soft that, if not for the heat of her skin, Harry might not feel it at all.  The cautiousness of the motion is not lost on him— it’s almost as if Y/N is worried that she’ll spook him out of playing, like any sudden movements could break him.  It reminds the creature of the awareness he has whenever he touches her; how he always carefully evaluates the amount of pressure he uses whenever he glides his fingers over her vulnerable skin. 

As if she were a butterfly, he thinks, not for the first time.  His butterfly.

Harry doesn’t remember making the conscious decision to start playing.  He doesn’t even recognize the piece that’s tentatively ringing from the piano until the repetition of the first motive, when Y/N emits a satisfied breath and her warm hand falls back to Harry’s thigh, rubbing gently over his olive trousers with that same delicate touch, almost as if he were a butterfly.

The creature’s fingers continue to glide over the ivory keys, his phrases growing smoother and more confident with every passing moment.  He pays careful attention to the dynamics of the piece, trying his best to recall the sheet music that he hadn’t looked at in decades, but it only takes about thirty seconds for him to realize that it’s easier to just let himself feel the music.  With Y/N’s hand continuing to dance over his thigh in time with the tune, Harry lets himself play around with the score, peppering in crescendos and decrescendos as he sees fit.  He draws out some of the minor phrases, hoping to wrench on his obsolete heartstrings the way he had when he first learned the piece in the early 20th century, and hovers his fingers over the bass notes as he uses the pedal to make them ring out into the living room.  

Halfway through the composition, Harry realizes that he’s breathing with the phrases, timing each inhale and exhale of his lungs with the musical lines.  It only takes him another two measures to realize that Y/N is doing the same, her body leaning into Harry’s as Harry leans into the instrument.  And that, he finds as his jeweled fingers slide over the keys, tugs on his heartstrings more than any melody ever could.

As he approaches the end of the piece, he softens his touch, his fingertips almost ghosting over the keys as he gently presses the final notes.  Harry keeps his foot hovered over the pedal, allowing the quiet cadence to fade to silence in its own time, and as it does, he can feel his body coming back into itself— which is strange, considering he hadn’t noticed the trance-like space he’d slipped into.

Y/N, however, must have noticed, because her voice is hushed and hesitant when she speaks again, waiting until the final notes have completely faded to silence, as if she’s afraid that she’s interrupting something. 

“That was so beautiful, H.” She praises, her hand still rubbing over his clothed thigh.  The motion would normally drive Harry mad, but for some reason, all it does to him in this moment is bring a strange lump to his throat. “What’s it called?”

In his unfamiliar haze, it takes Harry a moment to find his own voice. “Uh, Papillons.” He says through his thick accent, clearing his throat subtly as he lowers his hands to his lap.  He hadn’t even realized they were still lingering over the last notes. “It means—”

“Butterflies.” The mortal girl nods in recognition, a thoughtful look over her face as she taps a finger against his trousers, her tone slightly jesting as she murmurs her next sentence. “I know enough sixth grade French to understand that.  Is it a French piece, then?”

“No.” Harry jerks his head in the negative, only remembering to soften the agitated motion after it’s happened.  He raises his keen eyes to meet Y/N’s, a reminder of where he is.  And a reminder of who he’s with. “It’s the fifth movement in a suite by Robert Schumann— the “Polonaise,” in B-flat major.  S’one of my favourites.”

“I can see why.” Y/N murmurs, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “It was wonderful, really.  ‘Out of practice,’ my ass.”

Even with the residual anxiety still coursing through his veins, Harry manages to force out a chuckle at her teasing. “Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are.  But Schumann has always been a favourite composer of mine—” Harry takes Y/N’s teacup from her, noting how her eyes had flickered to the ground, as if she was looking for a place to set it, and she sends him a thankful grin as he sets the cup next to his own on the end table. “—along with his wife.  They were both incredibly talented musicians.”

“His wife?” Intrigue threads through Y/N’s voice as she props up an elbow on the piano, resting her chin on her loose fist as she turns her body towards Harry. “She was a musician, too?”

Harry hums affirmatively as he cracks his knuckles, flexing his fingers in his lap to loosen them from the buzzing sensation that’s still prickling his skin. “She was, yeah.  They had a pretty passionate love story, y’know.  That’s why his music is so beautiful— he wrote it all for her.”

Y/N doesn’t miss the reminiscent tone that seeps into Harry’s voice, and she threads her fingers through his own as her eyes widen with a gentle plea. “Will you tell me about them?  Schumann and his wife?”

“I—” Hesitating at her request, Harry squeezes her hand tightly, half in affection, half in warning. “It doesn’t have much of a happy ending, darling.  A bit of a tragedy, that one.”

“I want to know.” The human girl nods her head stubbornly as her eyes flash with determination. “Just because it has a sad ending doesn’t mean it’s not worth knowing.” 

Harry pauses for a moment, allowing her words to fully sink into his mind and spark the beacon of hope that’s sat coldy in his head for so long. “I suppose that’s true.” 

He mulls over where to begin, thinking back to all the newspaper articles he’d read about a child prodigy in Germany in the 1820s, who was the daughter of—

“So the story really begins with Friederich Wieck.” Harry’s voice falls into a smooth cadence as he begins, thumbing over Y/N’s warm knuckles absentmindedly as he recalls the information. “He was a music teacher, most known for piano, but what he really wanted to be known for was raising a child prodigy.  He had a few children, but the one who filled that description was Clara, his second oldest.”

As Harry begins to spin the tale, Y/N can’t help but focus on his expression.  Although his eyes are set on their linked hands, she can tell that his gaze is far away, as if he’s seeing the scene play before his eyes as he tells it.  It’s fascinating, she thinks, seeing him focus so intently on something as niche as an old love story between musicians, but more than that, it’s new to her.  This is a new side of him that she hasn’t seen before— not cocky, or charming, or playful.  This side of him is intent, as if he wants to make sure that every word he speaks is the truth.  His expression is almost as interesting as the story itself.

“Clara’s parents, Friederich and Mariane, didn’t really get along very well, and Clara had a lot of trouble when she was young; she didn’t really speak until she was four.  But music always came easily to her, which made sense, considering her parents.” Harry’s free hand drifts back to the ivory keys, just resting over the lacquered surface. “Her mother was a musician, too— an accomplished singer.  But after her parents split when she was five, when Mariane had an affair with a family friend, Clara was left with her father.  And her father wanted to focus on her music career.  He gave her hour-long lessons every day, and made her practice for two hours on top of that.  She made her performance debut when she was just nine years old, in 1828, at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig.”

“Okay, wait.  Pause.” Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she waits for Harry’s faraway eyes to refocus on her confused expression. “What does playing in Leipzig at age nine have to do with a love story?”

An amused laugh slips from Harry’s lips at Y/N’s impatience. “I’m getting there, sweetheart.  A little bit of patience would be beneficial to you, I think.  And a little bit of trust in me, yeah?”

Although she huffs a little bit, Y/N relents, squeezing Harry’s hand in acknowledgement at the phrase he always seems to end up repeating: Trust me. She vaguely wonders why it’s so important to him. “Alright, fine.  Continue.”

“Thank you.” Harry swipes a hand through his tousled curls before settling it back down on the keys, running his fingertips over the smooth surface absentmindedly in the same rhythm he’s swiping over Y/N’s knuckles. “Okay, so… She played in Leipzig a few times that year, and once was at a private music party at someone’s house, where she met Robert Schumann.” At the mention of the name, Harry shoots Y/N an ‘I told you so’ look, which she meets with a roll of her eyes. “He was a gifted pianist, and was so inspired by Clara’s playing that he got permission from his mother to quit his law studies in order to study piano under Clara’s father, Friederich.  So in 1830, Robert moved into the Weick household as one of Friederich’s students, and—”

“Sorry, I— pause again.” Brow furrowed, Y/N’s eyes narrow in suspicion as she mulls over Harry’s words. “So— if Clara was, like, nine—”

“Eleven, actually.  It’s 1830 now, remember?”

“Alright, eleven.  If Clara was eleven… You said Robert quit law school to study music.” Y/N’s narrowed eyes widen as she regards Harry, as if asking him to contradict her suspicions. “How old was Robert?”

“Around twenty, I think.” Harry says casually, lifting his shoulder in a light shrug. “He was born in 1810, so— yeah.  He would’ve been twenty.”

“Twenty?” Y/N yanks her hand from Harry’s as she fully twists her body to face him, as if just hearing the horror in her voice isn’t enough. “He was twenty?  I thought this was a love story?”

“It is!  It’s just���”

“No, it’s not!  It’s gross!” Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Y/N shakes her head harshly, her loose hair spilling over her flushing cheeks. “A twenty year old shouldn’t—”

“He didn’t!  Nothing happened until they were older, love.” Harry captures Y/N’s hand within his own again, smoothing over her knuckles as he hurries to reassure her. “And it was the nineteenth century… a nine year age gap in a relationship wasn’t exactly uncommon.” For a brief moment, Harry wonders what Y/N would think if she knew just how much older he really was than her.  Would she react with the same horrified expression she had now?  Yank her hand from his again as she had just done?

“Yeah, well…” Y/N’s appearance is still bristled as she shoots Harry a condemning look. “There’s a difference between a nine year age gap and a child—”

“Nothing’s happened yet, sweetheart.” Harry bites back the involuntary laugh that bubbles through his chest at the indignant tone of her voice. “Now can I continue?  Or do you want to yell some more?”

Although her response is grumbled, the mortal girl mutters, “Fine.  Continue.” as Harry lifts her knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. 

“Thank you.” He lowers her hand back down to his thigh, smoothing it over his trousers before continuing where he’d left off. “So Robert studies under Clara’s father and stays with them for a year.  And although Clara and Robert were just friends, Friederich could tell that they were becoming close, which he didn’t like.  And before you say anything,” Harry watches as Y/N’s lips twitch into a frown. “It wasn’t because of Robert’s age.  Friederich didn’t want Clara to fall in love with anyone; he just wanted her to focus on her music.  He still wanted his child prodigy, you know?  So he began to take her on tours through Europe.  But by the time Clara was sixteen, it was clear that she and Robert had feelings for each other.  They wrote countless letters to each other, signed them ‘your special friend’... And when Clara turned eighteen, Robert asked Friederich for his permission to marry his daughter.  And Friederich said no, because that would ruin his plans for Clara’s music career.”

Despite her hesitation at the relationship, Y/N still mutters a quiet “Harsh.” at the story.

Harry’s hands return to the keys, but this time, they do more than hover.  He begins to press a few notes slowly, letting one ring out completely before moving to the other, and it takes Y/N a few moments to realize that he’s playing an actual melody, albeit a deconstructed one. 

“Because Clara wasn’t twenty-one yet, they needed her father’s permission to marry, so Robert took the case to court.  And it was…” His fingers stutter over the keys for a moment as his face twists up, remembering how the story had decorated the society pages of newspapers back then. “Messy.  Really messy.  But in the end, Robert won the case, and he and Clara were married.  And they wrote all this beautiful music together…” Harry’s left hand joins his right over the piano, moving with more intention now as he adds a quiet harmony to his slow melody line. “They weren’t good with words, but they were good with music.  That’s how they communicated with each other.  You can hear the love in everything they wrote, the devotion they had for each other.  Listen,” He says in a hushed voice, the melody of the music becoming unbearably sweet. “D’you hear it?”

“I do.” Y/N nods softly, her fingers massaging Harry’s thigh muscle as he continues to play.  It’s not a lie, either; there’s a sincerity in what Harry’s playing that twists within her chest.  

Or maybe, she thinks, her eyes trained in the profile of the man beside her, it’s just Harry. 

“Didn’t you…” Y/N hesitates both in her words and her motions over Harry’s leg as a new thought tugs at her mind. “Didn’t you say the story had a sad ending?  That all seems good, isn’t it?  Clara and Robert got married, wrote music together…”

Harry’s fingers begin to slow down, returning to the reduced melody he’d been playing previously, as if weighed down by the knowledge he’s about to share. “Uh, yeah.  Robert had a lot of problems— mental health issues.  Later in their marriage, he became manic, had episodes where he saw angels and demons… and he was worried he’d hurt Clara.” Harry says quietly, risking a glance at the girl beside him, who’s watching him with such wide and trusting eyes that he almost can’t bear it.  Harry knows what it’s like to fear hurting the ones you care for. “He tried to kill himself, and when he was unsuccessful, he asked to be taken to an insane asylum.  And he never went home again.  He died there, just a few days after Clara was finally allowed to visit.  S’like…” Harry’s fingers pause over the piano once more. “S’like he was waiting for her.  Before going.”

Detecting the emotion in his voice, Y/N raises her hand from his thigh, smoothing back a few loose curls before gently setting her palm over the curve of his neck. “That is a bit of a tragic story, I’ll admit.  To have fought so hard for each other for so long… And then to lose all of it like that…”

“Yeah.” Harry clears the lump from his throat as subtly as he can.  He’s certainly no stranger to loss, to feeling helpless at being unable to save someone you love… He knows that pain all too well. 

As if she can sense the darkness in his mood, Y/N rubs a comforting hand across his shoulder and down his arm, drifting over his inked skin with a warm touch.  Her comment, however, is more lighthearted than her caring caress. 

“I still think the age gap is a little weird.  How do you go from writing letters about being ‘special friends’ to falling in love?”

Harry rises to her baited joke, doing his best to shake himself from his introspective thoughts as his fingers begin to drift over the keys once more.  He focuses on just his right hand now, playing out an absentminded yet tender tune as he speaks. “So if I started to call you my special friend, you wouldn’t like it?”

“God, no— that sounds awful.” Y/N scoffs, her own hand drifting to the ivory keys. “We’re sleeping together, not making mud pies in a kindergarten class.”

Harry’s laugh is more genuine as he begins to slow down his playing, plucking only single notes that Y/N echoes in the lower register of the piano. “Alright, fine.  Not special friends, then.”

“There’s just so many cooler historical ways to say we’re having sex, y’know?  None of that ‘special friend’ bullshit.” Y/N continues to match Harry’s notes as best she can, wincing every so often as she plays a dissonant key. “Like… ‘lover.’  That’s a good one.  Nice and simple.  Or—” Her eyes light up with mirth as the thought pops into her head. “Courtesan to the queen.  Not as simple, but it certainly rolls off the tongue.”

Harry quirks a brow at the suggestion. “And you’ll be the queen in question, I presume?”

“Of course.  Do you have a better idea?”

“‘Paramour’ is a neat little name, don’t you think?” Harry asks, his fingers pressing down a simple perfect fourth on the piano to punctuate his question. “Sounds pretty elegant.  Understated.”

“If you want understated…” Y/N matches the top note of Harry’s interval, already knowing she wouldn’t be able to match the actual notes without hurting both of their ears. “We could do what historians do when talking about ancient queer couples.  Say we’re just good friends.”

The creature hums in acknowledgment at the back of his throat. “We could, yeah.  Or we could be mistresses.   Is there a word for a male mistress?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his lips pull into a quizzical frown. “A master?”

“Jesus Christ, never refer to yourself as a master again.” Y/N groans loudly, her fingers slipping from the keys as she feigns a shudder. “That just sounds creepy.  Even creepier than a special friend. How about…” She tries her best to stifle a wry grin as a more vulgar alternative pops into her head. “The Whore of Babylon?” 

“Fuck’s sake, what did I say about slut-shaming me?”

“I just thought it’d fit! It has a nice ring to it! But if it really irks you that much— Oh, wait—” She quirks her head to the side, a new wave of amusement lighting up her eyes as she thinks of her next step in their game. “What about ‘special advisor’?  You know, like we’re in a historical drama, and I have a kingdom to defend from oncoming war, and you’re my most trusted advisor, and when my husband is away with the army, you and I sneak off into my chambers…”

Although he giggles boyishly at the suggestion, Harry can’t ignore the twinge of jealousy that shoots up his spine at the mention of Y/N’s— albeit imaginary— husband.  He doesn’t like being referred to as her side relationship, even in an imaginary world of queens and wars.  Even then, he wants to be Y/N’s first choice. 

Because she’s his, he realizes, his fingers continuing to pluck out single ivory notes as a way to deal with the impending ball of tension that’s growing inside his abdomen.  Even in a game, in an imaginary world, in any way imaginable— Y/N is his first choice. 

He just— he wants her, in every sense of the word. And he knows all the reasons he shouldn’t— he knows how reckless it is to allow a human to get so close to him, how he’ll never truly be able to be honest with her, how he’ll always be using her for her blood, how he can’t give her the human relationship she deserves.  But he can’t stop from thinking about Robert and Clara, who fought for each other from the very beginning, who persevered through every challenge thrown their way, and who still only got sixteen years together before circumstance tore them apart. 

Harry is here. He is— for all intents and purposes— theoretically alive.  And the girl he wants more than anyone else is right next to him.  There’s no doubt in his mind that it’ll be difficult, but does he not owe it to those who ran out of time to try?  At the very least? Does he not owe it to himself to fight for the happiness he’s spent so long evading, all out of fear? 

He can manage that.  He can manage his cravings around Y/N enough to take only what he needs, and never anything more.  He can manage his double life and keep her from falling victim to the darkest corners of his mind. He can manage his strength enough to treat her as delicately as he’d treat a butterfly.  He can manage the most monstrous parts of himself.  He can do that for Y/N. 

But only if she wants him to. 

It’s that hesitation that brings a tremor to his hands as they pause over the keys, poised over the lacquered surface that he can barely tear his gaze from. “A special advisor sounds fun, yeah.  Or you could…” Harry clears his throat roughly, sweat pooling across his brow as he fiddles with the opal ring on his pinky.  He twists it back and forth around the digits, only managing to spare one look from the corner of his eye at Y/N’s quizzical face before dropping his stare back down to the piano. 

“Or you could, um… you could just… call me your…” Say it, the voice in his head practically yells. It’s just one word. It’s not that hard. “Boyfriend. You could just call me your boyfriend.”

A heavy pause fills the air in the large room, and Harry feels like he’s being suffocated. His voice grows fainter when he detects the sudden hitch in Y/N’s breath, but nothing else. He finds himself wanting to fill the empty space between them with something, or else he might pass out from the nerves. “If you… If you want, that is.  It would just keep it simple. Plain and simple.”

Plain and simple, Y/N thinks as her hands curl together in her lap, slotting between her thighs as if the pressure of her clamped legs can keep her from feeling how they shake.  It would keep it plain and simple.

But when has their relationship ever been simple?

It should’ve been simple, and the mortal girl knows this.  Two consenting adults, calling each other every once in a while for a bit of release— that’s simple.  That kind of relationship doesn’t have any pressure.  There’s no need to try and impress one another, or to meet any expectations.  That kind of relationship is no muss, no fuss, and no strings attached.  That was how they had started, and it had been simple.  It had been easy.  It had been uncomplicated. 

And it also hadn’t been that way for a long time.

Y/N’s known for a while now that the line between two friends having sex and being in a committed relationship has become increasingly blurred; that was all but confirmed when Harry nearly pitched a hissy fit when he saw her coming home from her date with Jacob.  But even with all of the dates, the gifts, the phone calls during her lunch breaks, the homemade dinners and drinks and desserts, even with all of that— Y/N never thought that they’d actually arrive at this moment.  This moment, in Harry’s apartment, their bodies pressed together on the small piano bench, his fingers fidgeting nervously as hers are pressed between her thighs, with the word boyfriend dangling over their heads like a sword.

She can’t pretend she hasn’t thought about it, because she has.  And she can’t pretend that her thinking about it doesn’t usually lead to her daydreaming about it, because it does.  It’s why she spends the majority of her downtime wrapped in Harry’s rainbow cardigan, and why she’d picked out his button down shirt to wear tonight.  It’s why she’s talked about him to her friends, why she’s begun to speak about him casually to her coworkers, instead of hiding in the storage closet when he calls her on her break.  Because even though they aren’t together— even though they’re friends in the least and seeing each other at the most— it had been nice to pretend that either of them were capable of being more.

Y/N is no stranger to heartbreak, and she’s spent long enough studying her own commitment issues to be able to recognize them in someone else.  Harry had pretty much told her in the beginning that relationships weren’t his thing, that he didn’t want to be defined by a label that could so easily be broken.  And Y/N, who hadn’t opened herself up since Bradley, had been inclined to agree.  Relationships are messy, and labels only bring expectations that would eventually not be met.  Seeing each other is easy.  Seeing each other is breezy.  Seeing each other leaves room for interpretation, for allowances, for excuses to be made if one of them suddenly changes their mind.  Seeing each other is plain and simple. 

Boyfriend.

The truth of the matter is that Y/N shouldn’t be so terrified of such a simple word.  In all forms and fashion, Harry practically already is her boyfriend— he literally calls her his girl during sex, for fuck’s sake. They do everything that a normal couple does, and have been doing it for a while now.  She’s fairly certain that calling Harry her boyfriend instead of the guy she’s seeing wouldn’t actually change their relationship that much.  But if she’s honest with herself, Y/N knows that it isn’t their present day situation that’s sending a cold sweat down her back.  Boyfriends, from her limited experience, lead to fiancés, which lead to husbands, which lead to children and a white picket fence in an unassuming suburb.  That was the exact life she’d come to L.A. to escape— how could she willingly fall back into it?

And then she hears Harry exhale shakily, his thumb fumbling with the opal ring on his pinky, and she knows exactly how she could willingly fall back into it.

This is Harry.  Harry, who tells her the stupidest jokes that can somehow still make her laugh.  Harry, who gives her all of his attention every moment that they’re together.  Harry, who listens to every story about rude customers without complaining once, hanging onto her every word as if what she says matters more than life itself.  Harry, who makes her believe that it does.  Harry, with entrancing emerald eyes, shining chestnut curls, intricately inked skin, and the most comforting arms she’s ever been held in.  This is Harry.  Not Bradley.  Bradley wanted the wife, the white picket fence, the house filled with children.  Harry— as far as she can tell— just wants her.  And she just wants him.

Plain and simple.

Y/N extracts one of her hands from between her legs, snaking it over Harry’s, where she captures one of his fiddling hands in her grasp.  Intertwining their fingers, Y/N fixes her gaze onto his opal ring as she hesitantly swipes her thumb over his cool knuckles.

“Yeah,” She whispers the word, as if speaking any louder could break whatever it is that’s brewing between them. “Yeah, that could work.  I’d really like that.”

The human girl watches from the corner of her eye as Harry’s lips, which he’d been gnawing on nervously while waiting for her response, slowly curl into a hesitant grin, as if he’s nervous to show how anxiously he’d been waiting for her to answer.  He keeps his sea glass eyes glued to their tangled hands, his own fingers contracting to test their grasp. 

Harry knows that it’s selfish of him to be so happy that the girl he cares for is entering into a relationship with a monster.  But seeing as how he’s the monster in question, he can’t make himself feel guilty for it.  All he feels is the elation that’s slowly spreading through his entire body, and the determination that’s chasing it.  He can do this.  He’s strong enough.  He can be strong enough for her. 

“Can I…” His voice is just as quiet as hers, nearly cracking at the end when he finally lifts his gaze to her heated cheeks, wide eyes, and stained lips. “Can I kiss you?”

A tender laugh falls from those stained lips as Y/N combs his curls back over his ear, dragging her thumb over the sharp lines of his jaw. “You do that all the time, so the answer is obviously yes, isn’t it?” She thumbs down the muscles in his neck, until her palm settles over the collar of his shirt to fist the fabric between her grip. “You don’t even need to ask anymore.”

“It never hurts to ask.  And this time…” Harry worries his bottom lip back between his teeth before he soothes the bite mark with his tongue. “It’s different.  We’re different.”

“Not too different.” Y/N leans forward until their noses nudge against each other, their mouths kept apart only by an inch.  She cards her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting the locks around her digits in a way that’s so much softer than Harry thought possible. “Still us, yeah?”

The taste of honey and lavender is so thick on the back of Harry’s tongue that he’s almost choking on it, but he’s never felt less thirsty in his life.  He has this under control.  He can tame this.  He can.

“Yeah.” He inhales deeply through his mouth, as if he were relishing the bouquet without tasting the wine, and slots their lips together with ease. 

Although they’ve shared countless kisses over their months together, this might win the record for the gentlest that they’ve ever shared.  There’s no rush, no animalistic need to pull Y/N closer and tighter against his body.  There’s only her burning warmth, her silky skin, and her sugar and flower flavour washing out the black tea that had been lingering on his taste buds.  Harry has never felt closer to being human again than he has in this moment.  Right now, they’re not a predator and his prey; they’re simply two people who, against all odds, have managed to find each other.  And Harry is owed this happiness.  He knows he is. 

The rest of the night passes in a blissful haze of comfortable domesticity.  They eat dessert on Harry’s couch, feeding each other bites of raspberry sorbet in between giggles and banter.  It’s something they’ve done countless times before, but there’s something different about it now; maybe it’s the fact that Harry knows that Y/N isn’t going to push him away now.  She wants him.  She wants him.  She’s leaning into his touch every time he brushes his knuckles over her cheek, laughing at his poorly-timed jokes, gazing at him through her lashes in a way that stirs desire in the very pit of his belly.  They’re comfortable together, and for the first time, Harry is realizing just how wonderful that is.

It’s the only thing on his mind as they stand side by side in front of his double vanity in his en suite, his gaze tilted to the side to watch as Y/N removes her makeup with some wipes she’d packed in her overnight bag (Harry makes a mental note on the brand so that he can pick them up the next time he finds himself near the drug store).  He’s never had such casual comfort and ease with someone like this before; the last time he’d found himself in a relationship, it had been in a time where maids were required to help lace and unlace corsets and valets prepared him for bed.  There was never a chance to watch as someone he cares for ties their hair back in a loose ponytail before rubbing cleanser into their skin.  He never got to observe the quiet, intimate moments of someone’s bedtime routine.  In the early days of their relationship, Y/N had never had a chance to properly take her makeup off before Harry was tugging her into bed, her lipstick smeared across his face as much as hers.  This is his first time really witnessing that transition, and he likes it more than he thought he would.

There are, however, a few things that he knows Y/N likes before bed, and he gives her a moment of privacy to change into her pyjamas while he makes the quick trip to his kitchen to fill a tall glass with cold water.  He doesn’t need to grab an extra blanket this time— he’d already made sure to toss the knit afghan onto his bed before Y/N arrived, and he finds it draped over her body when he returns to his bedroom.

“You look cozy.” He comments with a fond smile, handing the mortal girl the glass of water as he pulls back the other half of the blankets.  He climbs underneath the covers, propping his elbow up on his pillow as he lies on his side to watch as she takes a sip of the drink. “Y’alright, love?  Need anything else?”

Y/N shakes her head as she sets the glass down on the bedside table and settles back into her pillows, stifling a yawn into the back of her hand.  She always gets sleepy after she has a few drinks, something she’d explained to Harry— much to his amusement— a few weeks prior, after a movie night at her house when he’d made his famous margaritas.  They’d been having a Harry Potter marathon, and they’d barely begun the second before her eyes had started to flutter closed. 

“I’m good, I think.” She tugs the blankets up to her chin, tilting her head to the side to find Harry already staring at her with a soft expression. “Actually…” Extending a hand to him, she lifts her covers off her body enough to indicate what she wants. “C’mere.”

A boyish giggle falls from the vampire’s strawberry lips, and he flicks off the lamp before crawling towards Y/N in the enveloping darkness.  He folds himself right into her side, opening his own arms for her to slide into, but is surprised when her hand finds his shoulder and tugs him closer to her.

Harry takes the hint and hesitantly settles himself onto her own body, allowing the mortal girl to rest his head along her collarbones, his ear finding a home just above her beating pulse.  One of her hands knots itself in his hair, delicately detangling his messy curls as the other finds a home on his naked shoulder blade, rubbing over his defined muscles with the hottest touch Harry has ever felt. 

It’s a vulnerable position, one that Harry hasn’t been in for decades.  And yet, instead of feeling the usual mix of fear and trepidation, all Harry can feel is comfort.  The combined sensation of Y/N playing with his hair and massaging his shoulder is more pleasurable than he ever could’ve assumed.  A month ago, that would have confused him.  But now… he exhales softly as Y/N’s nails lightly scratch along his scalp.  He can be vulnerable with her.  He trusts her.  And, to his extreme luck, she seems to trust him.

A few minutes pass with nothing said between the pair, the silence around them punctuated with only the sound of their breathing and Y/N’s lone heartbeat.  If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think that Y/N had fallen asleep, but his sharp senses know that’s not true; her pulse is still a few beats faster than it normally is, and her breathing hasn’t completely evened out yet.

Sure enough, Harry’s suspicions are confirmed when Y/N whispers into the darkness a moment later, as if she could hear him mentally assessing her body language. “Harry?” Her voice is gentle, halfway between a whisper and a murmur, as if she’s afraid to be any louder. “Are you awake?”

Harry bites back the smirk that threatens to overtake his lips. “Mhmm.” He hums, nuzzling his head further into Y/N’s caring touch. “Still awake.”

She matches his hum of acknowledgement, the pads of her fingers pressing deeper into the knots of his back. “I was wondering…” Her voice thickens with hesitation. “Would you, um, would you sing for me?”

Without completely lifting himself from her chest, Harry raises his eyes to meet her own, her fingers pausing their motions through his locks as he does so. “Sing?” He asks, taken off guard by the out-of-the-blue request. “Y’want me to sing?”

Although there’s a shadow of shyness across her face, Y/N nods slowly. “I heard you humming earlier today, while you were cooking, and it sounded nice, so I was just thinking about it…” She clears her throat nervously, and Harry can hear the wave of blood that rises to her cheeks. “But you don’t have to.  I know it’s late—”

“No, petal.” Harry hurries to ease her, a frown settling onto his face as he hears her breathing grow shallower with anxiety. “S’fine.  No need to get shy.” Harry is amazed at how smoothly the reassurance falls from his lips. “Yeah, I’ll sing for you.  Any requests?”

Despite him telling her not to be shy, Y/N just shrugs her shoulders in response to his question, her eyes locked on the ceiling above them as if she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze.  Harry plants a kiss along her clavicle before settling back into her plush chest, mentally running through the catalogue of songs he’d been humming earlier.  He should pick something soft, he thinks.  Something like a lullaby.

Y/N resumes her gentle combing through Harry’s locks, mostly to distract herself from his thoughtful silence.  She shouldn’t have asked him to sing something— he’d made it clear earlier that playing the piano for people was something that made him nervous.  They’d sung together playfully multiple times, and Y/N could tell that Harry has a pretty voice, but half-singing, half-rapping along to the Hamilton soundtrack is so different than singing to her in the darkness of his bedroom.  She shouldn’t have asked.  In fact, she should tell him to just forget it, and—

“I had a thought, dear, however scary, about that night, the bugs and the dirt.” Harry’s low vibrato echoes around the previously silent room, his voice no louder than a murmur.  Y/N can feel the vibrations of his vocal chords against her chest, a quiet hum that soothes her like nothing else ever has. “Why were you digging?  What did you bury, before those hands pulled me from the Earth?”

Harry clears his throat quietly between the stanzas, his own eyes drifting close.  He’s never been one for stage fright— he’s always been eager to show off his vocal skills, and there’d been a time when all he wanted was to sing on stage in a smoky speakeasy.  But this— singing in the quiet of his bedroom for an audience of one— is more intimate than he’s used to, and he knows if he catches Y/N’s observant gaze right now, he’ll lose his nerve.

“I will not ask you where you came from; I will not ask and neither should you.” Harry tunes his ear to the steady pulse of Y/N’s heart, using the rhythm as a makeshift metronome to keep his time.  To keep himself steady. “Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips; we should just kiss like real people do.”

Harry feels a spike of warmth against the top of his head, and it takes him a moment longer than normal to realize that it’s Y/N’s lips pressing against his hair.  As he continues to sing, she times her caresses of his ringlets with the beat of his words, which he keeps timed with the beat of her heart.  They’re in a cycle, he realizes as he quietly sings the second verse into her skin. She’s lined up with him as he lines up with her.  They’re locked together, steadying the other while relying on them to keep them steady in return.  For the first time in two hundred years, Harry feels truly in sync with someone.

“Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,” Y/N’s mouth smudges against his temple once more as he nudges his nose along the base of her throat, allowing himself to press his own lips against the satin skin of her chest, just over her heart. He feels like he could stay in this moment forever, which means something given that he truly does have forever. He’d spend every second of the rest of eternity frozen in this instant, if the world allowed it. He’s content, and relaxed, and cradled in his duvet with the one other soul who has somehow managed to thaw the coldness from his stony heart. For the first time in too long, he feels like an actual person again. He isn’t bogged down by his carnal instincts, or by the fear of losing his composure, or by the fact that he doesn’t have a thumping rhythm behind his ribs. 

He doesn’t need all of that because he has Y/N, and she makes him feel more real than all of those aspects ever could. 

“We could just kiss like real people do.”

[inky-duchess]

Court Archetypes: The Dethroned Royals

So obviously I was inspired by The Crown to write this post. Pre-WWI Royalty has always piqued my interest, my favourites of course being the Romanovs who I've been obsessed with since I was like six. But the tragic ends and fates of royals who have been deposed have always caught my interest. So in this post, also inspired by an ask sent in by @therealcommanderbear , we'll be discussing displaced/dethroned royalty and their fates.

Usually when we see this in fiction we have 3 categories.

The Fighter

This displaced monarch fights for what is theirs. They will attempt to win or win back their thrones and kingdoms that are rightfully theirs.

Edward IV: Edward IV was displaced in 1470. He fled for his life after meeting the combined forces of his brother the Duke of Clarence and the Earl of Warwick. He escaped by boat with his close friends and his younger brother, almost drowning at sea before landing in Burgundy. His family escaped to sanctuary where his son, Edward was born. After a chat with the Duke of Burgundy who was kinsman and ally of the king, he returned to England after six months and smashed his enemies in battle at Barnet and Tewkesbury.

Henry Tudor/VII: Henry went into exile at fourteen after the fall of his house. He lived in Brittany with his uncle, waiting in the wings until there was opportunity to return to England. In 1483, an offer was made to let him come home and take up his Dukedom. But in the chaos after the death of the current king, the offer was forgotten. Henry attempted to invade with help from the Duke of Buckingham but was beaten by the weather. He returned in 1485 and won the throne, installing the House of Tudor and ending the Plantagenet line.

Margaret of Anjou & Edward of Westminster: After Henry V died, the kingdom was left to his young son Henry VI. He was not the best king, most adept at praying and sleeping. During the unrest that would eventually unseat him, his wife Margaret took control of their armies and fought for the throne. She was exiled but returned with a Scottish army. She lost some battles and won a few but was eventually beaten and the crown was lost. But after a shock defection from an enemy, the Earl of Warwick, she and her son aimed to take back the throne. The kingdom was won by Warwick yet the Queen and Prince were trapped in France thanks to bad weather. By the time they landed, Warwick was dead, the York king was back and they were effectively fucked. They made a dash to Wales hoping to find support but thanks to a flooded river they were forced to fight at Tewkesbury where the prince died and the queen was captured.

The Refugee

Some royals escape from the coups and revolutions that displace them. They usually flee to family members in other countries or allies in hope that they will shelter them or help them.

Alice of Battenburg & Prince Philip of Edinburgh (Greece & Denmark): After the Greco-Turkish war, things in Greece were getting though for the royal family. After much consideration, the coup that took over exiled Prince Andrew, Princess Alice and their four daughters and their infant son. Famously little Prince Philip was sleeping in a converted fruit crate while this happened. They went to Germany, France and England hopping about without a home. The princesses married into mainly German families and Philip worked in the Navy. In 1952, he married Princess Elizabeth heir to the English throne and shed his foreign titles in favour of a British one. Alice of Battenburg returned to Greece where she founded a nunnery, often selling her jewels to fund the order. During civil unrest, Alice came to England in order to live out her final years at Buckingham Palace.

Dowager Empress Maria Fyodorovna: The mother of Tsar Nicholas II fled Russia during the Revolution. She made it England on invitation from her sister Queen Alexandra. She lobbied to get asylum for the rest of her family but before it could be agreed, it was too late. She returned to Denmark where she died years later.

Marie-Therèse, Madame Royale and Duchess of Angoulême: The only living daughter of Marie Antoinette and Louis XIV was imprisoned along with her mother and brother during the Revolution. After the death of her parents, she was exchanged for French prisoners and sent to her mother's home country of Austria. During the brief restoration, she returned to France and served as Duchess of Angoulême.

Charles II: After the English Civil War, Charles I acted stupidly and got his head cut off leaving us with that cunt Oliver Cromwell. During the time where Cromwell was invading and insulting my country and being a general warty bollocks, the queen had escaped to France with her children. Her daughter Henrietta was married to the Duc of Orléans and her son Charles got busy with the ladies of the court. But Charles was invited back to be king during the Restoration where he chilled on his throne for a good lot of years where he slept around, partied and generally acted awesome. (*plays a loop of Horrible Histories' Charles II's Rap*)

The Tragic

And yet sometimes the story does not end so happily. Revolutions try to destroy the object of their opposition, mainly taking violent options.

Marie Antoinette, Louis XVI & Louis-Charles (Louis XVII): Probably the most famous revolution, the French Revolution claimed the lives of most the immediate Royal family. Louis XVI died first, guillotined after standing trial. His wife Marie Antoinette followed a few months later. Louis-Charles the Dauphin and the accepted king to loyal monarchists was kept in a dank dark cell, bullied into announcing lies that would further smear the reputations of his parents including a testimony that his mother had molested him. Louis-Charles died in the cell, thanks to the damp cell hampering his already ill heath.

Tsar Nicholas II, Tsarina Alexandra, Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Marie, Anastasia and Tsarevitch Alexei: The Russian Royal family was dethroned during the Russian Revolution and imprisoned by the Bolsheviks. The royal family was sent north to Siberia to live in exile under house arrest. They remained positive thinking that somebody would rescue them be it the White Army or their cousins in England. They believed that they would be banished abroad and sewed their corsets full of jewels. The family was awoken one night to "take a photograph" in the basement of the House of Special Purpose in order to prove they were alive. The family waited along with some close friends, the Tsarina and the crippled Tsarevitch seated. Eleven gunmen entered the chamber and began firing at the family. The men died quickly but thanks to the jewels sewn into their corsets, the women were harder to kill. Once they were dead, the revolutionaries dumped the bodies in a nearby wood separating them so that if anybody found them, they would not think that it was the royal family. During the late half of the 20th century, the bodies were found and identified before being buried.

[callunavulgari]

Year-In-Life | 2020

Or that annual New Year’s meme where I talk about what the year was like to live through. And since this is 2020 the read through below features: a whole lot of depression, frank discussion about losing my cat, and pictures of my face.

1. What did you do in 2020 that you’d never done before? Lost my best friend. I lost a hamster when I was about ten, but other than that, I’ve never lost a pet before. Losing Mal was the worst thing about an already awful year. I have lost family members that I have mourned less than her. I am still fucked up about losing her, and probably will be for a long while yet. 

Things that I haven’t done before - 2020 edition - consists of extreme depression, global pandemics, wearing a mask if I’m not either at home or in my car, having covid, being in the ER twice in one year, cutting all carbs and losing sixty pounds, spending a weekend in Vegas (in January, obvs), gambling (and winning over a thousand dollars), and probably a lot of other things that I’ve blocked out. But it’s always going to be the year that I lost Mal.

2. Did you keep your new years’ resolutions, and will you make more for next year? Apparently, according to 2019 me, my resolutions were to lose weight and quit smoking. Which, strangely enough, I actually did. Who knew that going to the ER for heart issues at the age of 30 would scare me into switching some things up.So, yay! I kept my resolutions.

Resolutions for 2021 - lose the rest of the weight. End goal is only another 50 pounds away. Write something original if you can, but don’t stress if you can’t. Heal. Be happier. Breathe deep. Don’t do something you’ll regret.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth? One of my coworkers had a kid earlier in the year, but nothing since.

4. Did anyone close to you die? Mal. 

5. What countries did you visit? Alternatively, what is your favorite place that you did go this year? No countries this year, because that is illegal. I did go to Las Vegas in January though, before the year turned into an absolute shitstorm. It was actually really wonderful, which I wouldn’t have expected out of Vegas. We watched our friends get married on the High Roller. Ate a lot of very good, but very expensive food. Gambled a bit and actually won money. Saw two Cirque du Soleil shows - the Beatles and water one. Saw the Bellagio fountains and maybe cried a little about it. It was really nice.

6. What would you like to have in 2021 that you lacked in 2020? Well, I didn’t get a ring and we didn’t get a house, but we also made the decision to not do that this year. We did however, get a better president, so that was nice. In 2021, I would like a little more serotonin and a little less anxiety. And I’m not gonna say a damn thing about a ring.

7. What date from 2020 will remain etched upon your memory, and why? September 20th, 2020. Any other dates don’t fucking matter. 8. What was your biggest achievement of the year? I lost a ton of weight and quit smoking, hopefully for the last time. Covid didn’t kill me. I didn’t kill me. I know that sounds bad, but it was a really, really horrible year.

9. What was your biggest failure? I don’t know. Not being able to save her? Not knowing that the heart abnormality had gotten that bad? Not getting her on clot busters the minute we took care of the thyroid problem.  10. Did you suffer illness or injury? I had Covid near the end of October and had regular illnesses a couple times throughout the year. I went to the ER in May for heart-related problems. And I’ve had debilitating headaches every single day since Covid, so. Yes. 11. What was the best thing you bought? We rescued a new kitten approximately four days after we lost Mal. It was too soon, I think, and if I could have done it again, I may have waited longer. But BMO was incredibly depressed after she passed and had basically stopped eating, so we were desperate. But I can’t regret getting her. She’s been the little bit of sunshine we’ve had since October.  12. Whose behavior merited celebration? I don’t know. Everyone and everything sucked this year. 13. Whose behaviour made you appalled and depressed? I don’t know, mine? I’ve come a long way this year in terms of weight loss and smoking and holding it together, but I’ve also sunken into the deepest hole that I’ve possibly ever been in since September. I will always be deeply frustrated by Nick’s mother and my mother, so that’s not really new. Everything sucked. Hopefully 2021 is better.

14. Where did most of your money go? Bullshit medical stuff. Turns out that two ER trips, countless doctor visits, and dental fuckery is really expensive. I did also go slightly crazy and bought Nick too many gifts this year, but in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t bad. Also planning on buying a relatively pricey comforter as soon as I’ve confirmed that I haven’t gotten it for Christmas. 15. What did you get really, really, really excited about? I am going to be completely and totally serious when I say that I don’t think I’ve experienced true excitement since about February. I did get a very intense, brief spike of serotonin when I saw the new Dragon Age and Mass Effect trailers. But like. I don’t know. That��s kind of it. 

Okay, no, that’s a lie. I was happy to lose the weight I did and was super proud of myself and my health was phenomenal, but then Mal happened and covid happened and it’s hard to see the good things that happened this year when I feel this fucking horrible right now.

16. What song will always remind you of 2020? Toss a Coin to Your Witcher (because yeah, that was this year, fuck). Teeth. Don’t Get Me Wrong. The Untamed theme. Well, the entire Untamed soundtrack. Dance Monkey. We Won’t Be Falling. Promare soundtrack. Own Me. Into the Unknown. Monster. Waving Through a Window. Eurovision soundtrack. 17. Compared to this time last year, are you: i. happier or sadder? So much more depressed. Which says a lot, because 2019 was not super great. ii. thinner or fatter? But hey, on the plus side my answer to this question is finally thinner. iii. richer or poorer? Probably around the same. Or maybe poorer? I had a lot in my savings last year that I had to dip into because of medical shit. 18. What do you wish you’d done more of? I wish I’d done... anything. I wish I was allowed to leave my house without worrying about infecting myself or others. I wish that I had gone to the park more. I wish that I’d travelled. I wish that I’d written more. I wish I’d cooked more. I wish I’d worked out. Spent more time with my cat.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of? God, I fucking wish I’d spent less time in my apartment.

20. How will you be spending Christmas? I don’t know. Nick’s family wants to have a big gathering since his grandpa might not be around next year? But the idea of that makes me super flinchey, for obvious reasons. I mean, I’m reasonably sure that the antibodies are still in our system, so we have a smaller chance of infection, but fuck. Also, large gatherings have been giving me anxiety, also for obvious reasons. 21. How will you be spending New Year’s Eve? I hope that we’re staying home. I want to make pirozki and spend the transition into the new year on my couch, maybe playing a video game, maybe napping. 22. Did you fall in love in 2020? Still love him. He got me through this year. I don’t think I could have done it alone. 23. Best month for you this year? January through March was not horrible. I can’t remember a definitive good month of the three, but January was Vegas, which was really good, so lets go with that.

24. What was your favorite TV program? Of just 2020? The Untamed (live action and anime), The Magicians, Guardian, various Watcher Entertainment segments, She-Ra (season 5!!!), The Haunting of Bly Manor, Over the Garden Wall, Leverage, Motherland: Fort Salem...

My favorite being The Untamed, hands down. Obviously.

25. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year? I don’t think I have enough energy for hate at this point. I’m just tired.

26. What was the best book you read? Favorite was probably a tie between Gideon the Ninth and Harrow the Ninth, which works out well since they’re part of the same series. I really, really loved this series and am kind of sad that I have to wait until 2022 to get the third part of the trilogy. Top ten below, because why not.

Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

Harrow the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

Into the Drowning Deep by Mira Grant

The Lost Future of Pepperharrow by Natasha Pulley

Something to Talk About by Meryl Wilsner

The Invisible Life of Addie Larue by V.E. Schwab

Return of the Thief by Megan Whalen Turner

Written in the Stars by Alexandria Bellefleur

The Last Sun (and it’s sequel) by K.D. Edwards

The City We Became by N.K. Jemisin

27. What was your greatest musical discovery? Toss a Coin to Your Witcher has singlehandedly escorted me through 2020. Basically all the songs listed a couple questions up were my favorites of the year, but the Untamed soundtrack was probably my favorite. Promare soundtrack was also bomb af.

28. What did you want and got? Nick’s mom bought us nice bookshelves when we moved into the new place.

29. What did you want but didn’t get? A lot of things. Namely, I wish Mal was still with me.

30. What was your favorite film of this year? Promare, 100% Most of the other movies I watched were all rewatches. I watched My Neighbor Totoro, Onward, Knives Out, Emma, and that Eurovision movie. They were all pretty swell.

31. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you? I wrapped presents on the living room floor and watched Last Christmas, which I thought was just a rom-com Christmas movie but surprised the hell out of me at the reveal that her love interest was dead the whole time? Like? That came out of left field. We then had a very quiet lunch at the Lantern, the Chinese place we go every year, and ducked into Oakland Nursery and Barnes and Noble long enough to grab some plants and books. I also got to see the Easton Christmas tree from across the street. It was snowing and honestly, a really pretty day. Oh, also I had to go to the dentist. That was less fun.

32. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying? If I’d been able to keep Mal. 33. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2020? I wore a lot of comfortable work appropriate clothes and pajamas. My clothes don’t really fit me anymore since I lost all the weight, but I refuse to buy more until I’m actually at my goal weight. 34. What kept you sane? Nick was very helpful every time I had an anxiety attack and/or broke down crying. It could have been a lot worse, probably, but I literally cannot wrap my mind around that right now. 35. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most? Every single actor in the Untamed live action is unfairly gorgeous, especially Wang Yibo and Xiao Zhan. Also, Henry Cavill was a shockingly good casting for Geralt and needs to be grimey all the time because he is a LOT more attractive when it looks like he hasn’t showered in three weeks. 36. What political issue stirred you the most? FUCK DONALD TRUMP IN THE EAR 20156789 2020—– This has literally been my response since 2015. Here’s to hoping that it won’t be my response in 2021. Also, children in concentration camps? Lying to the public about the pandemic? The race riots that happened earlier in the year? Literally everything else? This year has been fucking awful. 37. Who did you miss? Mal. Myself when I’m not feeling like this. 38. Who was the best new person you met? Annie. New coworker, delightful lady. If the pandemic was not a thing I definitely would have already gotten drinks with her after work.

39. Talk about a new friend that you made this year: Uh. Annie is a delightful person and brought me and Nick food when we were wasting away with covid. She also gave us toilet paper when we ran out after all the assholes in the entire country bought all the toilet paper in March/April. 

40. Post a picture from the beginning of the year:

This is me in like... February? I think? In public. Without a mask. I have lots of pictures of me in January, but all of them have someone else with me.

41. Post a picture from the end of the year:

Taken on my birthday, snatched just outside the doors of Barnes & Noble with the Easton tree across the street. Note the mask dangling from my ear.

42. A memorable meal discovered this year? Okay, so like. Two things. One- I had a meal in Vegas, that was fucking amazing. Actually I had a couple of those. Let me see if I can find pictures. Okay, so below are the two best meals I have eaten this year. The top is a butternut squash and pistachio ravioli, which came with this sweet butter sauce and it was so. fucking. good. Like, I have craved this thing since January. The bottom is the beef wellington at Gordon Ramsey’s Hell’s Kitchen. Which was... overpriced, but admittedly still delicious. I could have lived off that damn ravioli though.

43. What was your favorite memory this year? My birthday was actually pretty okay, all things considered. The snow was magical and I felt solidly okay for most of the day. Other than that, all of the nights in Vegas were great.

44. What are you excited for next year? So, the message to me from 2019 me for this question is about how I was really sad on December 26th of 2019 and that I hoped that 2020 would be the year that we “seized life by the horns or whatever” and like. Baby. 2019 me. I realize your depression was valid, but holy fuck, my sweet summer child it got so much worse. Though, I guess technically I did seize life by the horns for a bit. And then September hit like a bag of bricks.

Anyway, I am cautiously optimistic and hopeful that the transition of power to Biden goes smoothly. I’m hoping that things get better and not worse. I’m excited for several books, movies, and games, but mostly, I’m hoping that things are better. 

45. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2020: My message from last year was this:

“I feel like my message from last year is fucking taunting me. Legit though, this is not the worst thing you’ve ever been through. You have a boyfriend who loves you, two wonderful cats that better not fucking die anytime soon, and like, I don’t know, working ovaries. A job. A car. An apartment that has a kind of shitty kitchen and a bath tub that might as well not exist, but is still an apartment! Which is more than some people have!”

Thanks 2019 Heather. It got worse. (Though admittedly, and knock on fucking wood, but 2019 me is right. It could technically still get worse. But I have hope that it won’t.)

My valuable life lesson in the year of 2020: Life sucks. Keep your head on straight. Mourn your dead and love your living like you’ll never see them again. Live life like you could die tomorrow. And don’t take the little things for granted. 46. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year: I am going to make it through this year If it kills me - This Year, The Mountain Goats

(2018 me apparently quoted Singing in the Rain. 2019 quoted something sad and pretentious. 2020 me is just tired and clinging to life by my damn fingernails.)

First Fandom of 2020: January of 2020 seems to have been solidly The Magicians, The Witcher, and The Untamed. Favorite Main Character of 2020: Wei Wuxian, fuck. Favorite Villain of 2020: Wei Wuxian, fuck. Close second if that doesn’t apply - Xue Yang. Favorite M/F Couple of 2020: Does Parker/Elliot/Hardison count? Because them, holy fuck. Also, female!Byleth/Jeritza. Favorite F/F Couple of 2020: Catra and Adora!!!!! Ahhhhh!!!! Er. Also, Harrow/Gideon.  Favorite M/M Couple of 2020: Wei Wuxian/Lan Wangji. Close second is probably Ryan/Shane. Fandom That You Never Expected To Get Into: Honestly, probably the Untamed. I’m not usually crazy about live actions, but fuck, it was good. Fandom That Made An Unexpected Comeback: Buzzfeed Unsolved/Watcher. Also, in the last month I have been all over Mark/Damien(/Sam) from the Bright Sessions because I just listed to Neon Darkness. Fandom That Inspired The Most Crack: Yeah, idk. There’s crack in every fandom. Last Fandom of 2020: Buzzfeed Unsolved. And honestly, I’m still not out of The Untamed.  Favorite Fandom of 2020: Definitely the Untamed. Dipping into the Witcher was also nice.

[vanimeldes]

can you elaborate a bit what made you divorce from asoiaf/got as you say?

Ooof, so, after the G0T finale, I think my reasons should be obvious, but you also mentioned the books and yes, I lost my interest in books too and I will try to not make this answer too long, but in the same time, to convey all my thoughts on this matter.

*Putting it below cut because.... when I`ll explain the problem of Martin`s fans later, you`ll understand why*

It`s amazing that just a year ago, AS0IAF was my second favourite franchise ever, second only to Tolkien legendarium, but even then, I didn`t love it for the fantasy elements in it, but rather for its characters and some twists and how Martin does forshadowing and writes the dualistic nature of the human being, but...as I read other fantasy series that do these four things AND have fantasy elements, I paused a bit and thought that these series would be just as popular, if they had popular adaptations such as G0T. But I got that AS0IAF was the first that had the opportunity to be adapted and I accepted that. Yet the show highlighted (and in some cases, amplified) some of the very big issues of these books and yes, D&D have many things to be blamed of, but it`s not as if they didn`t have a basis for their fuckery in the books. Martin is just as guilty. So here we go.

1. I am not sure if Martin has ever seen a 13 year old girl, but he writes grown-ass men having fixations and being sexually attracted by Daenerys and Sansa, two prepubescent girl. Martin would call it the gritty realism of the medieval times, but last time I checked, he was writing fantasy, not historical fiction. Fantasy means you can do what you want in your world, so even if you are inspired by the medieval times, it`s still YOUR fictional world and no one will question your research or accuracy if you want to have a female character married when she is at least, say, 18, not FUCKING 13. Not to mention that even in our real world, child brides existed but, guess what, in most the cases, both spouses waited until the wife reached a certain age (16 or older) to consummate their marriage. @eyes-painted-with-kohl explained in the notes of one of my posts and even gave an example or two. I can think of Isabella of France and Edward II. They were married when she was 13 (according to some historical evidence)/16 (according to others). Yes, I know he was homosexual, but he still needed heirs, so they still had children...4 years later, when she was 17/20.  

2. In this same vein, the treatment of his female characters (with the exception of Arya and, maybe Catelyn) is egregious. Daenerys and Sansa are sexualized by the male characters (don`t get me started of the bullshit that is S/ansan, because The Hound is still a murderous man who is aroused by a 12 year-old girl, who invaded her personal space and even pointed a knife to her; do not get me started on book!Jorah, who is a creep). Cersei is paraded naked on the streets and needless to say that during the walk of atonement for an adulterous woman in medieval times, she was never stripped naked; she only had her hair shaved and walked BAREFOOT. That`s it. What Martin did to Cersei is just disgusting. We are shown how Arianne uses sex to have Ser Arys help with her plans and it is implied that Margaery uses sex also. I get that sex is Cersei`s mechanism, but you have two more feminine (this is important) women in power and both of them explicitly use, or are implied to use sex as a mean to gain that power. I get Brienne`s point, her treatment bothers me the least, but it`s annoying from time to time how most of the other characters see only her ”ugliness” and nothing else. Of course, this is the result of the heavy patriarchy in Westeros world that I will discuss in the next paragraph.

3. The heavy patriarchy in Westeros world is nowhere similar to the patriarchy in the medieval times, and that was Martin`s choice and his only. A clear example is what was dubbed the Dead Ladies Club, namely a group of dead female characters whose only purpose was to serve as object of desire for one or more men, to give birth AND to die (gruesomely in some cases). Joanna Lannister is meant only to further fuel the enmity between Tywin and Aerys and Tywin`s hatred towards Tyrion. Elia exists solely to die gruesomely and motivate Doran`s desire for vengeance. Lyanna (the most explored dead lady still exists mainly to give birth to Jon and to be one of the reasons behind a war started by men. Rhaella exists solely to be raped by Aerys and give birth and die. Ashara Dayne exists solely to commit suicide. Ned, a POV character, spends chapters thinking about his father and siblings and never to his mother. Martin had the audacity to say that Tolkien himself didn`t left notes about Aragorn`s mother, but Tolkien had an entire story when Aragorn`s mother and her impact of his life is explored (more than his father, for that matter). The heavy patriarchy serves as reason for the utterly disgusting right of the first night (read Fire & Blood for more). I am not so versed into history as @mydaylightruyi who discussed this, but I too know that in our real world, this practice was a MYTH. But GRRM made it very present in his world because of reasons I guess. 

4. The racism is just rampant and disgusting and even I didn`t notice all the racism until I read @polysorscha `s insights. There`s a to be discussed here, mainly about the portrayal of the Dothraki and how they are reduced to barbaric rapists - interestingly, they are supposedly inspired by Huns, but guess what: the Huns formed a very permisive society, where any religion and culture had its places, where women were very respected and, while cruel  in the European people`s POV, were never....like THIS. 

5. The rape cultures. The Ironborn. Similarly to the Dothraki, their culture is reduced to pillaging and rape. That scene when Euron conquers that castle in the Reach ( I forgot its name) and how he had the daughters of that lord stripped naked and serve his men the meal, and how his men started raping them was....honestly, I wish I could have skipped this chapter. I still read fantasy books written by men more than I read fantasy books written by women, but never in my life did it occur to me to read something like this in a novel that is so hailed for fantasy (?) and realism (???????). I`m not saying that things like that didn`t happen in our cruel history but, again, Martin writes a fictional story. He could choose not to include the rampant violence against women, cultures whose practices are reduced to this utterly gross things, racist and orientalist elements, but he chooses not to. Why? I don`t know. I am not sure I want to know. And Victarion`s POV...oh boy. Or Theon, in ACOK, when he literally rapes that Kyra girl after takes Winterfell. Not only that it`s very disturbing, especially coming from a character that is supposed to be redeemed in some way (yes, I know how he`s been through in ADWD and I also know this is meant to be his redemption arc, but I personally still can`t get over this). And in the same time, while we`re still at the redemption discussion, Theon will surely undergo a redemption of some sorts, Cersei (a female character) will most likely be killed by her lover/brother, who will strangle her to death, most likely while he will embrace her, without a second chance of a droplet of redemption. 

6. I love Tyrion and I love Tywin but in the same time, I acknowledge their misogyny, but Martin chose to write them as misogynists, but in the same time, writing them in such ways that they are inherently labelled as „badass”. He also says that Tyrion is his favourite, but his POV is utterly misogynistic. The reason he kills Shae is because she dared to sleep with his father, but let`s unpack the things a bit: she was a former sex worker with no power, who was forced by the most powerful man in Westeros. She had no choice. She couldn`t refuse him. Yet, for Tyrion, she is ”the lying whore” and that`s it. We are given no chance to try to see the things from her POV (I am not implying that she should have been a POV character, but Martin should have written Tyrion considering for a moment what other choices Shae had). 

7. I discovered that Martin straightly ripped-off many plot points and themes from another series who isn`t half as popular, sadly. 

8. Last, but not the least, the snake pit that is THE FANDOM. You know, as much as I tried to stay away from its toxicity because „it`s just an internet thing, it can`t affect me”, it did affect my online experience in ways that I hadn`t imagined. To sum up, if you don`t like a character or hate another, you are  a pariah. You are dumb because you don`t understand that character or you are a misogynist (because, sadly, this discourse is mostly about the female characters). If you dare to voice up your thoughts about a certain event and/or a certain character and tag your post as #asoiaf or #asoiaf meta (you know, because this is it to me: a meta; plus, I want to have an ordering system in my blog so that whenever I want to look for a certain post in a certain topic or fandom, I would only look into the tag) or #my meta (highlighted „MY” because this is also important, as in it`s MY OWN PERSONAL OPINION), and those thoughts happen to not fit into the general consensus of the „great AS0IAF bloggers” (namely those meta writers with many followers who sound like they already read TWOW and ADOS), you are trashed and called an idiot. Granted, I met enough great people, meta writers included, in this fandom, and it was a real pleasure to chat with them, but I also had bad experiences with others and idk, I thought we were all mature people, but the way they reacted can hardly be described as mature. And in the same point, it`s just funny to see the hardcore Martin stans reacting in front of the clear evidence that Martin isn`t half as original as they thought (see 7) and acting like they are personally attacked.

Ok, it took me an hour. There is a lot more to discussed, but I got bored and I honestly want to shut the door to this fandom forever. To answer another question, yes, I will be reading the last two books  if when they will come out. I invested many months in this series not to finish it. I`ll probably block all the ASOIAF-related tags to avoid any interaction with its fandom during those times.

[randomoranges]

All four uni au

4th uni au was updated seperately

dorm roomies

Part 5

“Goodafternoon, sleeping beauty,” Edward greeted Étienne a few hours later when hisfriend finally decided to bless the world with his presence; Edward had longsince grabbed the first book off Étienne’s night table to do some light readingand pass time, since his phone was still in his own bedroom and he had beenrather comfortable with Étienne plastered half on top of him – Étienne gruntedand stretched, before curling back around Edward’s warm body, he mumbledsomething that may or may not have sounded like “good morning,” but Edwardcouldn’t be sure.

“If youdecide to let go of my body and actually use your blankets, I might be kindenough to make breakfast for you,” Edward added as he turned another page ofÉtienne’s Jazz and the Influence ofMontréal – it was an interesting enough read – at the potential promise offood, Étienne rolled over to his side and grabbed the pillow Edward had beenusing the moment he got up; Edward shook his head, amused at his friend’santics and stepped out of the bedroom, before giving one last look at Étienne,sprawled on his bed, face buried in Edward’s pillow.

Edwardmade it to the kitchen and was relieved that it wasn’t as dirty as it couldhave been considering the party last night; he wondered if he had cleaned itafter the last of the guests had left, seeing as there was no one sleeping ontheir couch, or in the bathtub, (that had been disturbing that first year,thank you very much), or if it hadn’t been as messy as previous parties Étiennehad thrown – instead, Edward took out the necessary ingredients and startedmaking the French toast he knew Étienne loved.

étienne student, edward prof

Edward had given him the explicit instructions ofcontacting him if he had any questions regarding the research he wanted helpwith and had given him his personal e-mail and cell phone number – Étienne hadtried his best to act like a mature and professional adult, instead of theteenager that had been yelling “FUCK YES!” inside of him; it had taken him muchof his resolve not to contact Edward the moment he had left his professor’s officebut he had managed a full three weeks, before he finally did.

Étienne had actually taken the time to read thematerial Edward had sent him over and he had annotated every article, had foundways that Edward could expand his research and Étienne had even gone as far aslooking up some other articles that might be of interest to Edward – this hadled to an exchange of e-mails, a few meetings after class to look over this, orthat and quite honestly, Étienne was thriving.

 But this was nothing to how he felt when he openedhis e-mails that day after work and read Edward’s latest message to him; “I’d like to meet with you to discuss thelast batch of articles we’ve been looking at – I don’t think we’ll have enoughtime after class on Tuesday, but if you’re free on Wednesday maybe we could dolunch and look everything over – let me know if it works for you,” and itwas signed “E” and Étienne screamed for real this time – he was actually goingto have lunch with Edward and he didn’t care if it was for the research, he wasgoing to spend some one-on-one time with Edward!

étienne prof. edward student

“I – eum, I, sure – I wouldn’t mind,”Edward managed to say – he wasn’t sure what Étienne meant by this, but hefigured he could be polite and agree and if anything, Étienne was just beingnice and they would both forget about this and move on with their lives.

“Really – that’s great!” And Étienne lookedso happy and hopeful that it pulled on Edward’s heartstrings, “I mean, therearen’t that many young professors in the department so it gets kind of lonelysometimes…” He trailed off, looking pensive, “So, it’s nice to find someonemore or less around my age who could keep up with me and my arguments,” And atthat he winked at Edward and Edward could feel himself blush many differentshades of red, from the root of his hair all the way down to his toes.

It was true that he had always participatedin class discussion, counter-arguing with his peers and challenging Étienne’spoints, only to find out later that Étienne had purposely provoked them withcontroversial clauses to get them thinking; Edward remembered one particularclass where he and Étienne had gotten wrapped up in a rather intense discussionthat had lasted a good twenty minutes, much to the amusement of the rest of thestudents – Étienne always had a counter argument and had challenged every oneof his points to get Edward to think, and, if Edward was being honest withhimself, it had been fun.

 ———

Part I, II, III, IV, V, VI

[renegade-skywalker]

Okay, it’s time for me to rant about The Last Jedi:

Let me start off by saying that I am all for pushing boundaries, exploring the limits and really delving into the philosophy of Star Wars. I loved The Force Awakens, but I was very much ready for The Last Jedi to take the new trilogy in a new direction and catapult us beyond the horizon of everything we thought we knew about the world of Star Wars and its mythos. I was fine with the idea of Luke defying expectations and being disappointed by him, I was ready for grumpy Luke, and hell, I was even anticipating that the Big Twist™  would be that Luke was the antagonist. I was all for Luke going Paul Atreides/Muad’Dib on the galaxy and becoming an antagonist in the sense that Batman does at the end of The Dark Knight. I was ready for the plot twists, I was ready for the Rey and Kylo arc, but I was not ready for this mess.

What’s sad is that this has been done before. I may be biased, but Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords explores Star Wars in ways no other SW-related media ever has, yet it manages to do so within the realms of Star Wars’ “rules”. It feels believable, it draws from the Original Trilogy and the Prequel Trilogy, it discusses the problems with the Force as well as the Jedi and Sith who both feel as if they are entitled to act on behalf of the Force. It deals with redemption, but it also has a message that “ultimately nothing matters” and Kreia’s ploy to destroy both the Jedi and the Sith, but more importantly, The Force Itself and it makes sense. You see her point, you understand her desires and motivations. Not only do you see the Jedi and the Sith fail and bring violence and turmoil to the galaxy within the game regardless of their motives and intentions, even turning Revan into a bit of a villain whether you were Light or Dark in your playthrough, but also makes you think of how you can say the same of the movies, how the Council utterly fails Anakin in the Prequels just as the Council fails the Exile and how redemption is always possible for all of your party members and even Kreia, just as it was for Vader. 

The Last Jedi has elements of this story, but has absolutely no depth. Luke is not only out of character, in fact in many parts I feel like he was in character but he was most of all inconsistent. His comments about the Force and the Jedi are interesting, how the Force is not a “right”, and for the Jedi to think they have a claim on controlling it is pure vanity. I LOVE THAT. But beyond that line... that’s it. We do not see this point explored. In fact, Luke goes back on this idea almost as soon as he says it. For someone who has cut themselves off from the Force (think: The Jedi Exile, which has a lot of potential) he still cares about the Light and the Dark and is biased against the Darkness. After giving a rather nihilistic speech about the Force, Luke still sounds like the Jedi Masters from the Prequel Trilogy, who he also just criticized for being righteous hypocrites. He berates Rey for being drawn to the Darkness, yet decides she’s the Last Jedi? Nowhere do we see Luke come to this conclusion. 

There is no reason for Rey to be a Jedi. She can certainly be an arbiter of justice, or at least someone with the power to confront Kylo in the next act, but there is no argument for her to uphold the Jedi name. Yoda even destroys the old texts, which also feels like a slap in the face because the events of the Prequels are all kind of Yoda’s fault? Not to mention that scene was cheestastic as all hell. Yoda stuck to the code, did not give Anakin the training/guidance he needed, and did not heed the Classic Star Wars Bad Feelings™ of people like Obi Wan (at least in Phantom Menace, by Attack of the Clones he cares for Anakin and has hope in him) and Mace Windu, who never seems to trust Anakin or his future. Again, it is not Anakin’s fault that Darkness surrounds him. He was born into slavery, his mother is still a slave (which, for peacekeepers and do-gooders, shouldn’t Qui Gon and Obi Wan have done something about that??? Isn’t that what Jedi do???) and yet they still blame Anakin for his life’s circumstances, for things completely outside of his control, and for feeling things. The boy needed therapy, he would have been fine. This problem is brought back up in Ben Solo’s origins as Kylo Ren. For Luke to call out the Old Jedi Order (with receipts) and then do THE VERY SAME THING to his nephew makes no sense, especially since Luke was able to reach Vader by believing in him, by seeing the Light in him, and trusting him. What made Luke so cool in Return of the Jedi was the fact that he told Yoda and Obi Wan “No, I will not kill my father” when they kept telling him that Vader must be destroyed. And Luke was ultimately right. Where did that compassion go? Ben was just like Anakin, kind of thrown around like a bomb to go off, and I’m sure that will give any kid anxiety, so when Snoke comes along and tells him he’s powerful and worthy, it makes sense that he would be swayed. This is just like Anakin. Anakin was openly distrusted by the Council, but was welcomed and “understood” by Palpatine. I don’t see why Luke would overlook this.

Speaking of Snoke, the Big Twist that he dies makes no sense. Who was he is a big question, sure, but ultimately why did it matter? It doesn’t. It also makes me realize that the First Order is completely motivationless, and Snoke’s desire to train Ben/Kylo is made completely pointless. And if he was so strong in the Force, enough to reach out and influence Ben across the galaxy without seemingly ever met him and create a Force bond between Rey and Kylo, how the hell did he not even simply hear the lightsaber next to him rattling on the armrest? In Return of the Jedi, the Emperor is taken by surprise by Vader in a seemingly silly way, considering they’re both Force users and Vader just throws him over the railing and into the battery of the Death Star, but it’s more believable. Palpatine is so busy revelling in torturing Luke and the physical act of electrocuting him, in showing him that he’s right, that he does not see Vader turn. He is so vain that he does not see Vader change right beside him. But there’s motivation there. Snoke isn’t doing much when Kylo kills him, he’s too busy giving his Villain Takes the Time to Explain How The Hero Is About to Die speech to notice that his vision is right but ultimately a misinterpreted prophecy. It’s not believable.

Also, Palpatine keeps Vader on a tight leash but he gives him power, he gives him the illusion of agency. Snoke literally calls Kylo a snivelling bitch every three seconds. He’s like the abusive dad who puts down his spouse/kid all day every day and goes on and on and on about how weak they are and how they’ll never fight back or amount to anything only to get decked in the face during the climax. It was the behavior of an abuser, yes, which we know Snoke was from The Force Awakens, but this makes him an unintelligent abuser. Palpatine was a master manipulator. After seeing The Last Jedi, I have no idea why Ben would follow Snoke, nor do understand why Hux would for that matter. He’s not a villain, he’s a bully. How boring...

There is so much more I could talk about, but when concerning the mythos and philosophy behind Star Wars, what makes Vader so interesting and the rest of the movies so good, and everything else that felt wrong with The Last Jedi. I’m convinced Rian Johnson didn’t even see The Force Awakens and maybe watched the other movies a couple times and was somehow convinced he could make a Star Wars movie. Gareth Edwards’ movie felt like a Star Wars movie. It felt like a story that had always been there, from the beginning, we just hadn’t heard it yet. It was new, yet it kept the feel of the Original Trilogy. The sets and designs looked like they came out of the late 70′s production of A New Hope, but the characters were completely different than any other Star Wars characters we’d seen, they showed how even the Rebellion could be bad and how grey morality could work in a Star Wars movie where there is so much emphasis on black and white Good and Evil, and they killed off every single character by the end which was a bold move. The Last Jedi didn’t just introduce new ideas and explore the philosophies of Star Wars, it completely disregarded them and failed to feel like it belonged in the series. Even though the Prequels have a different tone to them than the Original Trilogy, they still have a feel to them that makes it consistent. The story and the mythos are there, even if the sets and the technology did not add up with what we saw in A New Hope. But The Last Jedi has neither, so I’m failing to see how this is a Star Wars movie at all.

There were so many plot holes, the Resistance plot line was essentially just a ship running out of gas, the First Order is magically able to track them through hyperspace, Hux turned from Space Nazi to Gargamel, Phasma is brought back for three whole seconds only for her to get her ass kicked again, Luke decided to give his ass-tral projection a Rogaine makeover and a different lightsaber, Yoda somehow looks worse than both his puppet and CGI counterparts in the Prequels, the guards on Canto Bight look like they just walked off the set of Spaceballs, and why did the movie end with a Star Wars Duracell commercial, y’know the ones we get this time of year about kids imagining they’re in Star Wars and how it makes Christmas special? That Resistance ring looks like it came out of a Cracker Jack box.

Honestly... what the fuck.

[rage-against-the-meyer]

Breaking Dawn (2008)

So, I've reviewed the other Twilight Saga books already, but I promiss you, this is gonna be the worst one yet. I must admit, as a 13-year-old girl this was my favorite book (don't kill me yet). I was growing up in a Dutch small Christian town that had had a big infuence on my views. In my mind, it was perfectly logical that the story ends with a child against all odd. As a grown-up Biomedical scientist, this does not go anymore. As such, I now view Breaking Dawm as the absolute worst one yet and here, I will tell you exactly why.

Breaking Dawn is a big fat book that consists of three different books. I will discuss the books seperately in fear that it might be too much otherwise.

Part I from Bella's point of view

It's no surprise that I actually do like this book. We get 6 chapters of sheer happiness and joy. Very much Edward/Bella intimacy and they finally have sex (woohoo). So what can I bitch about?

Well, actually not too much. I loved the wedding, the secret goodbyes (yes, I cried). I just believe that after the first 6 chapters Bella should have struggled with the decission to change instead of the pregnancy. Yes, Chapter 7 is the cursed chapter for me. It's the onset of all pending misery. Also, it is the first time that menstruations are mentioned and the weak excuse SM gave to explain the never-having-killed-her-due-to-smelling-period-blood on Edwards part is just that, weak. So, all-in-all, I hated this chapter but what comes after is exceedingly worse.

Part II from Jacob's point of view

I hate Jacob. That much hasn't changed. I hated the cold Jacob that is so prominent here very very much. Personal sun my ass. I have always loathed this POV but it offers us some interesting views on the wolves and the Quileute people. It was good to see the communication between the wolves, but it was also nonsense. The big difference between you can't hide what you think and thinking in directed full sentences became a blurry line that never really made sense to me. What was good about it, is that we saw how pure Seth's mind is and how deeply hurt and actually good Leah is. Seth, a mere teenager, is objectively one of the purest characters I have ever read and that's on that. The faint influence of the coming Gen Z was shimmering through in his defiance of made boundaries in communication: Seth saw the good in the Cullens and defied his tribes prejudice. Good for him. Leah, of course, is one of the most denied characters in the series. Such a fierce young woman that has suffered so much is the only character that does not get redemption. It is absolutely outrageous and I agree with many that it shows SMs prejudice against women of colour. She gets literally nothing. She stands on her own in a group of men that mock her for her guard as she has to suffer through knowing her ex's love for his new love. Then, of course, she cannot have children and she gets no love interests. To through all these (in SMs mind) limitations only at one of the few POC is not great. I do like the fact that Leah and Jacob become closer and that Leah cares most for Seth. It's not enough, though. Leah should have gotten the trip to go to college somewhere far away, paid for by the Cullens out of sheer gratitude. She should have everything and all but through Bella's (read: SMs) mind she is still depicted as sad, lonely and bitter. To show a woman's anger like that is straight up misogynistic. Great start.

Jacob's story skips so many valuable parts of Bella's story, which we have been focussing on until now, and it makes so little sense that Jacob would be there for all the important interactions.

In Jacob's part, some shocking facts become clear. As a biomedical scientist, I have been holding back the outrageousness of this one: the chromosomes.

Vampires are frozen in time; after the change, their bodies don't change anymore. They also don't grow new or longer hairs, new teeth, anything. They are frozen in time. Curiously, they still have a need to feed (blood) and their consumption influences four things: their thirst, the colour of their eyes, their strength and their behaviour. I will tell you why this makes absolutely no sense. In humans, we feed for much the same reasons: we don't get hungry, we stay alive, become stronger and we are nicer when we aren'r hungry. This influence is exerted by the distribution of food molecules throughout the body; to the brain, to the muscles, the organs, you name it. Vampires don't have blood, their distribution of food molecules would be so slow that it would take days if not weeks for the molecules to get to the eyes or the brain. We know vampires aren't mushy inside to increase the distribution so how does it work? It eludes me, I'll tell you. Also, every part of the vampire body is supposed to be solid. Where does the liqud from the blood go? A human averagely holds 5 litres of blood. That is a lot. And since the body doesn't change, where does the liquid go? Aside from the distribution, it makes even less sense that any of these factors should be influenced by anything at all. It is likely that vampires still have cells, their bodies still need to create impulses, movements, talk etc. But their bodies don't changes anymore, so after the change the cells stop producing hair molecules? Why don't the hairs drop anymore? It is so dumb that SM suggested a certain balance between the actiond that continue and actions that don't. We still move the muscles but they can't grow anymore but the cells in the muscle stay active?? This brings me to the chromosomes.

So, Carlisle has tested human, vampire and werewolf (without consent) blood. He found that vampires have 25 chromosome pairs, werewolves 24 and humans 23 chromosome pairs. His findings and his tone suggest that he attributes all the vampire qualities to the 2 extra chromosomes. Now, with everything that I have just explained, I see no possiblity behind that. The venom of a vampire just adds two pairs of chromosomes to your cells? One from your mother and one from your dad? And then, these chromosomes are able to pinpoint exactly with genes to silence and which to activate and that is enough to make your skin hard as granite? No way. The body makes strong pieces, but still the strongest is the teeth. Strong but not as strong as SM thinks.

All-in-all this science is straight up the biggest fucking bullshit I have ever seen. There is just no logic behind the logic SM gave. It doesn't stop here, though. No. I am 100% convinced that SM has not had any sex talk ever in her life. She started with Edward's 100-year-old sperm being vital enough to produce a baby. This sperm is saved at approxomately the temperature of a rock/as cold as ice. This is far far far too high a temperature to preserve sperm cells for long, let alone a 100 years. So, No. No, again. Then, Edward's dick is magically able to get hard without any liquids in the body? No. And THEN, his human sperm cells (human but also vampire?) are able to make a zygote with Bella's egg cell??? A zygote with 24 (!!!) chromosome pairs???? So, it's one of each of Bella's, one of each of Edward's and then just one of the two vampire pairs?????? No. Nah-ah.

I haven't been this vocal about any of my other issues, including racism and other forms of discrimination. Somehow, I have accepted that these concepts come from very well-preserved ideas and I can plainly discuss this matter. However, the pain Stephenie Meyer has put me through as a scientist is still very unknown to me and it annoys me to the core.

I suppose, while I'm on the matter, I should address the elephant in the room. Resumé. Renesue is the embodiment of everything Bella didn't need. The book should have ended before the pregnancy. A story of a woman that found a love in a vampire and she needed nothing else in her life but him. This was the story we were promissed. And then, SM takes her turn to make the last non-conservative woman in the book a mother (her being a mother will come later).

In conclusion, this part stretched every nerve in my body and made me cringe so hard I felt sick.

Part III from Bella's point of view

I'm not gonna lie, I have been pretty dark about the last part. But I LOVE Bella as a vampire. The tranquil chapters where she learns everything about being a vampire made me confident I wanted to be one. I loved Bella more confident and comfortable. I loved the new ease between Bella and Edward. Tranquil, as I said.

Of course, these chapters are overshadowed in part by Rususme. I don't mind the child. It seems nice enough - SM made it pure. But Bella is not a very caring mother. She meets her daugther and then, both Edward and her really don't mind her. They have no urge to be with her and have no trouble letting her go. They go have sex the whole night instead of looking at Relsume's dreams. Then, there is the fact that all tense and loaden discussions are held in the presence of the exceptionally perceiving child. Edward can SEE that she understands tensions. It's so fucking dumb. It really bothered me the last time I read it, maybe because I've matured or maybe because I didn't really care the first time.

When it comes to the final battle approaching, I enjoyed that. I loved Alice's plan. I like the Volturi and their grand dramatic scheming and such. I loved the new characters very much. I think they added a whole new demension to the story. I would have been there for Edward and Bella traveling around the world meeting these people with the oncoming thread of genocide for a child as well though. Of course, the racism is back. The Amazonian and Egyptian vampires are so blatantly racistly described. In that aspect, the movie deserves way more credit for giving us the straight up prettiest actors ever to cover this.

Wrongness continues as Jacob imprints (as the second wolf) in an infant. I know some people see no issue with this. SM tried to make it clear that it was just about her happiness by letting Edward see that Jacob wasn't thinking sexually about his equivalent-of-a-three-year-old child. I mean. Looking at this logically, it's disgusting and there is no changing my mind. Personally, I feel Jacob could have imprinted on any other female character (with the exception of Leah). For all I care it was a 35-year-old woman. But, reversed pedophilia (Jacob was still underage) isn't fun for SM so she sticks with what she knows.

I think I have adressed my most important issues. Please inform me if I've missed any. As usual, I urge you to inform yourself on the Quileut Tribe as it is and donate to them for SM has wronged and exploited them.

The Quileute Tribe

Information:

Donation:

TLDR: I curse Stephenie Meyer for creating that incredibly stupid child as a way to project Jacob's love to something of Bella. Please inform yourself on the Quileute Tribe and donate to them via the links above; SM has wronged them.

As a final note, I am a biomedical scientist at heart. I am always interested in a challenging topic, so fire away.

[the-desolated-quill]

Mel Gibson In Talks To Direct Suicide Squad 2: Shoot Me Now! - Quill’s Scribbles

You may recall that I wasn’t too fond of Suicide Squad (a phrase which here means I thought it was the cinematic equivalent of bowel cancer) and that I was reluctant to see a sequel to it (I believe ‘over my dead body’ were the exact words I used). Well not only are we getting a sequel to this pile of garbage (NOOOOOOOOOOO!), but we’re also getting a new director. Oh great! Anyone would be better than David fucking Ayer! Considering that he’s going to be too busy ruining the Gotham City Sirens movie, it would be good to have some fresh blood for Suicide Squad 2. Someone who was talented, competent and totally uncontroversial. So who do Warner Bros and DC have in mind?

No! Stop laughing! i did not use that GIF in order to create some elaborate visual pun. I’m legitimately shocked and outraged by this and that GIF best demonstrates my reaction upon hearing the news. The fact that it came from the movie Signs is purely coincidental... Honest.

Yes. Mel Gibson is in talks to direct Suicide Squad 2. Actor and filmmaker turned professional arsehole. Now before we go into why his potential appointment is wildly inappropriate, let’s remind ourselves of the many hilarious and wacky hijinks he got up to over the years. (Also I’m going to put a link to a YouTube clip that I encourage you to play while reading what’s below. It’s the theme tune to the British TV series ‘ZZZap!’ and it’s a frankly pathetic attempt to give this a sense of knockabout comedy fun and to alleviate the depressing reality you’re about to dive into. A bottle of alcohol might help as well. Unless you’re a recovering alcoholic like me, in which case you might want to breathe into a paper bag and go to your happy place for a while. Okay? Here we go!)

In the Spanish newspaper El Pais in 1991, when asked what he thinks of homosexuals, he said “They take it up the ass. (laughs, stands up, bends over, points to anus) This is only for taking a shit.” He commented further saying "With this look, who's going to think I'm gay? I don't lend myself to that type of confusion. Do I look like a homosexual? Do I talk like them? Do I move like them?" When asked whether he’d issue an apology to the LGBT community by Playboy magazine in 1995, he said “I’ll apologise when hell freezes over. They can fuck off.”

His film Braveheart received controversy for its offensive depiction of Edward II, Prince of Wales as an effeminate homosexual who was both weak and ineffectual. Gibson defended his depiction, saying he was “just trying to respond to history.”

He has made a number of anti-semitic comments over the years. The most infamous being in 2006 when he was arrested on a DUI charge, he went into an angry tirade, uttering the words “Fucking Jews. The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world.”

The controversial The Passion of The Christ has been heavily criticised for its negative depictions of Jews and for its perceived attempts to blame the Hebrew people for the death of Jesus. Reviewer Katha Pollitt wrote in The Nation that Gibson had violated “just about every precept of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops own 1988 'Criteria' for the portrayal of Jews in dramatizations of the Passion (no bloodthirsty Jews, no rabble, no use of Scripture that reinforces negative stereotypes of Jews, etc.) [...] The priests have big noses and gnarly faces, lumpish bodies, yellow teeth; Herod Antipas and his court are a bizarre collection of oily-haired, epicene perverts. The 'good Jews' look like Italian movie stars (Italian sex symbol Monica Bellucci is Mary Magdalene); Mary, who would have been around 50 and appeared 70, could pass for a ripe 35."

An earlier version of The Passion of The Christ script was scrutinised by the Secretariat for Ecumenical and Inter-religious Affairs of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops and the Department of Inter-religious Affairs of the Anti-Defamation League. They released a statement calling it “one of the most troublesome texts, relative to anti-Semitic potential, that any of us had seen in twenty-five years. It must be emphasized that the main storyline presented Jesus as having been relentlessly pursued by an evil cabal of Jews, headed by the high priest Caiaphas, who finally blackmailed a weak-kneed Pilate into putting Jesus to death. This is precisely the storyline that fueled centuries of anti-Semitism within Christian societies. This is also a storyline rejected by the Roman Catholic Church at Vatican II in its document Nostra aetate, and by nearly all mainline Protestant churches in parallel documents. ... Unless this basic storyline has been altered by Mr. Gibson, a fringe Catholic who is building his own church in the Los Angeles area and who apparently accepts neither the teachings of Vatican II nor modern biblical scholarship, The Passion of the Christ retains a real potential for undermining the repudiation of classical Christian anti-Semitism by the churches in the last forty years.” The Anti-Defamation League made a further statement saying that “for filmmakers to do justice to the biblical accounts of the passion, they must complement their artistic vision with sound scholarship, which includes knowledge of how the passion accounts have been used historically to disparage and attack Jews and Judaism. Absent such scholarly and theological understanding, productions such as The Passion could likely falsify history and fuel the animus of those who hate Jews.”

His father’s comments regarding the number of Jews that died in the Holocaust (claiming that it was significantly less than 6 million) was met with fierce criticism by writer Frank Rich in The New York Times. In response to Rich, Gibson said "I want to kill him…I want his intestines on a stick… I want to kill his dog."

In 2010, the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Police Department launched in investigation into Mel Gibson after his romantic partner at the time Oksana Grigorieva claimed that she had been the victim of domestic violence. This was further supported by a recorded phone conversation between Gibson and Grigorieva. When she asked him "what kind of man is that who would hit a woman when she is holding a child in her hands, hitting her twice in the face?", he responded by saying "you know what, you fucking deserved it."  He also said to her "you look like a fucking pig in heat, and if you get raped by a pack of n*****s, it will be your fault." Gibson later pleaded no contest to a misdemeanour battery charge.

LOL! Isn’t that just hilarious?... Oh wait. No it’s not. It’s fucking disgusting. WHAT THE FUCK ARE WB AND DC THINKING?!

Now I must stress at this point that nothing has been confirmed yet. The film itself is still in early development and talks have only just begun. There’s a chance that Mel Gibson might not be chosen and if enough people kick up enough of a stink, maybe that will speed the decision making process up a bit. But the fact that WB and DC would even consider this in the first place speaks volumes. The potential backlash alone should have made some alarm bells ring, surely.

The question arises whether or not it’s possible to separate the controversy from the man. If he does direct Suicide Squad 2 and does a good job, can we overlook his past mistakes. Honestly... no. I don’t think so. There’s a moral principle here. We have to demonstrate that that kind of behaviour will not be tolerated. Some say people are starting to bully and demonise Gibson for his past mistakes, but that’s not really true because the fact of the matter is Gibson has never at any point acknowledged what he’s done is wrong nor made attempts to correct his behaviour. Oh sure he’s ‘apologised’, but they clearly don’t actually mean anything. In fact he seems to show zero remorse for some of the things he’s done and has at time made excuses, such as with regards to his homophobic comments, in 1999 he said "I shouldn't have said it, but I was tickling a bit of vodka during that interview, and the quote came back to bite me on the ass." To me he seems more concerned about the backlash he received for his comments rather than admitting he said something demeaning to homosexuals and vowing to make amends.

And then of course there’s this statement he made in an exclusive interview with Deadline.com regarding the leaked tapes of the abusive phone calls:

“I've never treated anyone badly or in a discriminatory way based on their gender, race, religion or sexuality – period. I don't blame some people for thinking that though, from the garbage they heard on those leaked tapes, which have been edited. You have to put it all in the proper context of being in an irrationally, heated discussion at the height of a breakdown, trying to get out of a really unhealthy relationship. It's one terribly awful moment in time, said to one person, in the span of one day and doesn't represent what I truly believe or how I've treated people my entire life.”

I believe this is known in the trade as a big fat lie. The fact is he has demonstrated time and again to being racist, homophobic, violent and just an all round depraved individual. This has been shown not only through his comments but also through his work. And yes I am aware he has a drink problem and mental health issues, and I can empathise with that to a certain degree, but that does not in any way excuse or justify his behaviour. It’s hard to forgive and forget when Gibson has made precisely zero attempt to change his behaviour. The frequency and ferocity of his comments and outbursts suggests to me that he has a problem beyond alcohol and mental health problems, and therefore should not be indulged. And so I find it a bit offensive when the media suggests we should let bygones be bygones now that Gibson has made an Oscar worthy movie and that we should give him a congratulatory pat on the head every time he shows restraint or common courtesy (something that should come naturally to any decent human being), treating him less like a xenophobic bigot and more like your barmy conservative uncle.

So it’s disheartening that WB and DC, two companies who have been making great strides to make the DC Extended Universe as diverse as possible, would consider hiring a filmmaker who practically stands against that very ideal. (All the things Mel Gibson has said and done over the years sound like the kind of things Richard Spencer probably thinks about while he’s masturbating). Why Mel Gibson? I can think of one reason...

Hawksaw Ridge seems to have partially restored Gibson’s shattered reputation and both Gibson and WB presumably seem to think they could both stand to gain something from this. The DCEU would have an Oscar nominated director under their belt for added ‘prestige’ and Gibson could use a big budget movie, in a genre that’s become immensely popular and lucrative among the mainstream audience, to fully restore public confidence. Confidence that isn’t really deserved bearing mind that in an interview with the Daily Telegraph in 2010 he said "I am one tough motherfucker and you can't bother me anymore. You ask anybody what their number one fear is and it's public humiliation. Multiply that on a global scale and that's what I've been through. It changes you and makes you one tough motherfucker. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." Yeah. Sounds truly remorseful for his past mistakes, doesn’t he?

It both angers and saddens me that WB and DC would consider someone as reprehensible as Mel Gibson for one of their films. But at the same time, I can’t say I’m surprised. Initially I was truly excited for the DCEU, seeing it as an opportunity to build off of the foundations the Marvel Cinematic Universe laid down and to improve upon it. It was to be a diverse, creator controlled franchise that would respect both the source material and the fans. Nowadays it’s hard not to see it as a potential failure in the making. While its diversity is to be commended, its creator controlled vision has been officially thrown out the window with numerous instances of studio interference after the underperformance and negative response to Batman V Superman: Dawn Of Justice. The most notable example being Suicide Squad, which was utterly butchered in an attempt to make it lighter in tone and more palatable to an audience, and now we wait with nervous tension as to whether a similar fate will befall Wonder Woman and the Justice League movies. We also seem to be moving dangerously close to the assembly line production that Marvel Studios run with their shared universe, where they just churn out movie after movie without care or attention to detail. And there’s the casting of big name stars as opposed to people who are actually right for the role in an attempt to get more bums in the seats (Will Smith as Deadshot anyone?). Mel Gibson potentially directing Suicide Squad 2 seems to be the epitome of that. Overlooking his bigotry and cashing in on a potential renewal in public interest and sympathy for him.

The tragic irony is that critics have wanted DC to follow the ‘Marvel Method’ and now they may finally be getting their wish. A bloated, nonsensical franchise whose studio cares more for money than quality. And even if WB do the smart thing and reject Mel Gibson, the fact that they even considered him a worthy candidate will forever colour my view of them.