#also I just enjoy drinking coffee. it's nice and it has been a morning ritual for me for years now

[effemimaniac]

I've found I'm quite sensitive to most stimulants which is cool and cost-efficient for some things like mdma and so on but caffeine in normal amounts just sucks. I've felt much better since I switched to drinking decaf (which for those who don't know still has a small amount of caffeine in it, about ~1-10% compared to regular coffee), which I only did because I was trialing ritalin since the combination fucked me up, but I decided not to switch back after and it has been nice. I don't get that caffeine energy crash in the afternoon and the anxiety and other adverse effects is not nearly as much, but it's still just enough to wake me up a bit and get me moving a bit better. and I don't feel dependent on it at all anymore. I can go over somewhere and not have any coffee in the morning and feel fine it's whatever. would feel sooo tired and find myself craving a cuppa joe if I had to do that before.

[silversword7000]

☕️Bridge Crew Coffee Headcanons☕️

Author’s Note: I indicated TOS and AOS for Kirk because each version gives me wildly different vibes about coffee but the rest of them can be read as either TOS or AOS🥰

Kirk:

TOS Kirk would have coffee occasionally and only put a splash of cream in it.

He would absolutely have a special cup for coffee so it is more of a treat though!

AOS Kirk would put 20000000 sugars and creamers in his coffee and also he should NOT be allowed to have coffee ever because he will have 50 cups in a day if no one (Bones) stops him.

He would absolutely love coffee though and like TOS Kirk he would have a special cup but AOS Kirk would have a blinged out reusable to go cup✨

Spock:

Spock would NOT drink coffee. He hates the bitter taste of it and even if it was doctored up, he still wouldn’t like it.

Caffeine would not agree with his Vulcan half…

McCoy:

He has a caffeine addiction.

With all the bullcrap he has to deal with on a daily basis I do not blame him.

He also doesn’t have time to sleep often so…yeah.

He drinks his coffee black. The bitterness reminds him of how he feels when people (Jim) are constantly getting themselves hurt in idiotic ways.

The only time he ever drinks it any other way is when Uhura makes him latte art. Even though he prefers it black, he enjoys seeing how excited she gets about doing it.

If anyone tries interacting with him before he has his coffee, he will kill them. All of the other medical officers stay far away from him until he has his first cup.

Scotty:

You already know my man is not bothering with coffee unless it has alcohol in it.

Scotty is able to wake himself up pretty quickly. He just gets up and he’s ready to go! So, he’s never had the need to drink any coffee.

Frankly, he just doesn’t enjoy the taste of it.

Uhura:

Uhura would love to start her day by having a nice cup of coffee! It is part of her morning ritual. ☀️

She has a few mugs that she swaps out to have some variety, but her favorite is her pink Hello Kitty mug that her mother gifted to her. (Hello Kitty would stand the test of time, I make the rules and you know I’m right.)

She puts some half and half as well as a little sugar in her coffee most days, but sometimes she switches it up for funzies to varied results.

One day on shore leave, a friend of hers taught her how to do latte art and she has been OBSESSED with it since.

She has her own coffee machine and she brings it to the rec area some mornings to make latte art for other crew members! She loves making hearts and leaves the most!

Her favorite part is seeing others smile when she gives them their special coffee <3

Because she knows how much he needs it, sometimes she lets Bones use her coffee machine to get a fresh cup.

She likes to make him special latte art when she is on breaks because she loves seeing how it cheers him up!

Sulu:

Sulu only ever has coffee on special occasions.

It’s not something he needs every day so he only ever has one when he is on shore leave or vacation and it strikes his fancy.

He loves to try specialty coffees from different places to taste the regional differences.

Chekov:

Chekov LOVES coffee.

However, he is not allowed to have it after…the incident.

Scotty installed a special sensor on the replicators so that if he tries to make a coffee, it doesn’t work.

If Chekov does have coffee…oh boy, strap in. He is like a little kid with a sugar rush! Pavel will NOT be able to sit still to the point where it impedes his work and annoys everyone around him.

He is bouncing off the walls like nobody’s business!

The last time Pavel got his hands on some coffee while he was on duty, Sulu was assigned to wrangle him. It ended with Pavel tied to a chair and gagged.

So yeah the entire bridge crew knows NEVER to let him have any coffee anymore.

💫Thank you so much for reading!! Reblogs and comments are adored <3💫

[rhondafromhr]

First little snippet of the ‘Grace is in the church of the starry children’ AU

It’s mostly Brenda pining for her tbh, we’ll get more into the plot in the next installment, hope y’all enjoy! Also, thanks again to @aroace-elgyem for the idea <3

Summary: In one timeline, Grace and her family are still highly devoted to their religion, but they worship entirely different Gods (or, rather, Lords) and have to be a little more hush-hush about it. Her old family friend, Uncle Wiley, brings her two special gifts for her eighteenth birthday: a cool, authentic vintage denim jacket from the eighties and her very own copy of the black book. She promises to use it sparingly until she’s older and she’s had more practice, but when Brenda, the pretty cheerleader at school with an obvious crush on her, confides in her that she’d do anything to get back her sister who disappeared, Grace decides to make an exception for her.

Grace eagerly springs out of bed the second her alarm goes off. Most days, she’d be a little more reluctant to leave her warm, cozy sheets and fight the temptation to hit the snooze button a few times, but today’s not just any day. She’s turning eighteen and her parents promised her that this is the year she can finally help Mr. Murray out with the Honey queen pageant. They reluctantly agreed to let her last year, but she didn’t get to do anything cool or important. Under strict orders from her parents not to let her do anything too intense, Mr. Murray pawned Grace off on Mrs. Monroe, who pawned a bunch of busywork off on her. This year’s going to be different, though. She’s eighteen now. She’s an adult and that means she finally gets to help with the actual pageant and witness the super important ritual that happens afterwards.

She takes a scalding hot shower and does her usual morning routine, getting dressed and putting on one of the two pairs of pants she owns with a texture she can tolerate, a faded black pair of jeans. She decides she wants to look nice today, it being her birthday and her very first day as a proper adult and all, and layers a white collared shirt underneath a black cable-knit sweater. By the time she gets downstairs for breakfast, her parents are waiting there for her with the biggest smiles on their faces and a fresh cup of coffee with her name on it.

“Morning, Gracie,” says her mother “happy birthday! Oh, our little girl’s all grown up, can you believe it, Mark?”

“I can’t, mother,” he replies, beaming with pride as he looks upon his daughter “seems like just yesterday, she was saying her first word! Oh, have we ever told you that story, Grace?”

She rolls her eyes, but she does so with a smile.

“Yeah, dad, only, like, a million times!”

She knows it by heart now. The two had a running bet. Her mother was certain that her first word would be some variation of “mama”, while her father was convinced it would be “dada”. Neither of them ended up winning. Her first word was, in fact, “Wiggog Y’wrath” and they were both shocked and delighted at how clever their baby girl was to learn and pronounce such a difficult, but important word. She sits down at the table and takes her first sip of the piping hot, perfectly brewed beverage. Her mother slides a plate in front of her. She even gets funfetti pancakes today! So far, this birthday is off to a great start.

“Make sure you drink your water, too,” her mother gently reminds her “all that coffee is going to dehydrate you!”

“I will, Mama,” she says. She always makes sure to bring a small water bottle with her in her backpack.

“Oh, Wilbur, called,” Mark says.

“Uncle Wiley?” Grace says excitedly “what did he say?” He’s been a beloved family friend as long as Grace can remember. He really is like an uncle to her. He doesn’t get to stop by very often, but when he does, he always tells Grace that she has a lot of potential and she’s going to go on to do important things when she’s older. He also always brings her apples for whatever reason. She doesn’t get why he likes them so much and she herself has never been partial to them, but she gratefully accepts them, just happy that he thought of her even when he’s busy with such important work. Sometimes, she and her mother bake them into apple pies.

“Well, he has an important meeting today, but if he can get out soon enough, he wants to stop by to see you tonight.”

Grace hopes he can make it. If her parents still put up a fight about the Honey Queen thing, he can surely help convince them.

She checks her phone and realizes that if she doesn’t hurry, she’s going to be late for school. She collects her daily hug from her father and kiss from her mother and heads out the door.

She parks her beaten up, but beloved two-door sedan that’s a few years older than her and heads inside. She doesn’t have much time to waste getting to class, but stops when sees Brenda standing by the front entrance, waving to her and smiling eagerly. Brenda’s one of the few people at school who actually willingly talks to her. Most of her fellow students side-eye Grace and avoid her as much as possible, others whisper about her behind her back and barely conceal their judgmental looks and laughter. It doesn’t bother her. She doesn’t need the approval of ignorant people who don’t know what’s good for them or the town or the world, anyway. Still, she can’t deny that it’s sweet that Brenda goes out of her way to be genuinely nice to her. She supposes she can spare a minute to chat with her. She doesn’t want to be rude.

“Hi, Grace,” she says with a nervous laugh “so weird running into you here! I was just waiting for, um, Stacy. Yeah! Hey, it’s your birthday, right? Happy Birthday! I actually have a little something for you. Nothing special, but, uh yeah.”

She hands over one of those bottled coffee drinks and a small box. Grace opens it to find a navy blue scrunchie with tiny birds printed all over it.

“They’re Nighthawks,” Brenda explains with a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Oh, thank you, Brenda,” Grace says, studying the object and fiddling with it in her hands. “That’s really sweet.” She’s not sure what to do with it. Her hair’s on the shorter side and she rarely styles it, but Brenda did go to all the trouble of getting it for her. She settles on pulling half of her hair into a ponytail and using the scrunchie to secure it in place.

“Oh, cute,” Brenda says “I’m glad you like it! Oh, I should get to class, I’ll see you later, okay? Happy birthday!” She blurts out the words a little too quickly and promptly turns and speedwalks away. Grace guesses she changed her mind about meeting up with Stacy.

Brenda tries to regulate the pounding in her heart as she walks to class, in disbelief that she actually managed it. She overcame her nerves long enough to talk to Grace and give her the gift. She seemed to like it, too! It took forever to settle on what to get her. She didn’t want it to be too nothing, but she also didn’t want to go overboard and scare Grace off. She might be super down bad for Grace if she’s being totally honest with herself, but Grace doesn’t need to know that. At least not yet. They’ve only really talked a handful of times when Brenda’s worked up the courage to chat with her in the hallway or ask to borrow a pencil in one of their shared classes. It’d be weird to get her a super extravagant gift, as much as Brenda wanted to. She annoyed Stacy to no end, forcing her to pore over endless options and help her decide. Eventually, Stacy sent her the link to the scrunchie and messaged her, girl I love you but its 3am, just fucking get this and let me go to bed, we have school in the morning!!

By the time she joins her friends at the lunch table, she’s still buzzing.

“Hey, Brenda,” Kyle says “heard you talked to Chasity today. Didn’t know you were into serial killers.” He’s trying to act all tough and macho, but a genuine sort of hurt underlies it. Brenda almost feels bad, but she really can’t help if she doesn’t like him back.

“Shut up, Kyle,” she says “she is not a serial killer. Just because she’s quiet and aloof and mysterious and probably has dark secrets doesn’t make her a serial killer.” Brenda feels her face heating up. It might not make her a serial killer, but it does make her really, really cool and intriguing and hot. “And it’s not like we were making out!” If only. “I’m not into her like that!” Lies. “I just wanted to give her a birthday present.”

“Yeah, shut up, Kyle,” Max says, shooting a threatening look his way “how many fuckin’ times do I have to tell you, Grace Chasity is off limits. Do you want her to overhear?” He shudders, apprehensively eyeing the table across the cafeteria where she’s seated with the sweaty anime geek and a few other egregiously uncool people.

Most people at school are a little weary of Grace, but Max is downright terrified of her. However hard he tries to hide it, it’s pretty obvious. It didn’t take long for some of the nerds he torments on the regular to figure this out and start clamoring to sit with her at lunch. Even they seem to find her a little weird and off-putting, but they know he won’t approach if she’s there and they’ll get to enjoy their food in peace. Grace doesn’t really talk to them much. Whenever Brenda totally coincidentally walks by their table, Grace is brooding and silent, either with her face buried in a book or scribbling furiously in a notebook, seemingly engrossed in her own world and totally unaware of them rambling about their favorite Pokémon or whatever. Brenda sighs dreamily. She’s so cool.

Stacy turns to Brenda with a skeptically raised eyebrow and saying, “So, you’re not into her, but you somehow knew today’s her birthday even though you guys, like, barely talk? And made certain friends spend hours picking out that gift?”

“Hey,” says Brenda “I make it a point to know everybody’s birthday.”

“Really? When’s mine,” says Kyle. She scrunches her face up, struggling to remember.

“I wanna say…sometime in June?” Kyle shakes his head, looking slightly crestfallen.

Brenda cringes, feeling a twinge of genuine guilt for getting it wrong. Max snickers, delighted as always at seeing Kyle get shot down.

“March twelfth, right, buddy?” Jason says and Kyle’s lips curl into a faint smile. Brenda makes a mental note of that date so she doesn’t end up in this situation again. She really should start tracking everyone’s birthdays.

[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.”

[ladykissingfish]

drunk Akatsuki hc? 🥺

Ask and ye shall receive! ((Sorry it took so long to get to/finish this. Also get the nagging feeling I did a post very similar to this before but 🤷🏽‍♀️ piss poor memory so))

Drinking with the Akatsuki

Kakuzu

Takes a lot to get him drunk; his alcohol tolerance is pretty damn high. And when he does reach that point, he becomes … very unlike himself. Friendly, smiling, and extremely loose with his precious money. Kakuzu being drunk is the best time to ask him for an advance on your pay, or a personal loan. Another bonus: drunk Kakuzu is storytime Kakuzu. When he’s sober, the others don’t really like listening to his stories because they’re all boring as hell, and are usually centered around some point that he’s trying to nag everyone on. But drunk Kakuzu, well, he’ll tell you about brawls, dangerous stunts he pulled when he was a kid, sometimes even old lovers. He can keep the rest of the Akatsuki enraptured for hours with his intoxicated tales. The morning after a night of drinking is a different tale, though. He’ll remember loaning money to people and hunt them down to make sure that know they have to pay him back, and he’ll deny like crazy any story tidbits that the others bring up to him. Will also go through several pots of pure black coffee in an effort to de-hangover himself more quickly.

Pein

The Pein bodies don’t drink, but Nagato will, very rarely. Beer is his drink of choice, and he’ll opt for foreign rather than domestic. He’s not really the type to get full-on drunk (no matter what he’s the Leader and he carries himself as such), rather he’ll just get slightly tipsy. If he gets tipsy enough he’ll rant a bit to whoever’s closest about pain, and the unfairness of life, and anything else that would put a downer on happy drinkers’ moods. He always hopes that the alcohol will help him to sleep (he’s a horrible insomniac) but most times it just gives him a slight headache while leaving him wide-wake and dry-mouthed.

Hidan

Nobody wants to be around this guy when he’s had too much to drink, because the normally violent Hidan becomes even more so after hitting the booze. He’ll be willing to take on any and everyone, from teenagers to old men. And being immortal doesn’t help matters any; he could literally get torn limb from limb and his mouth would still be taunting his opponents with “Is that the best ya got, bastard??” Drinking also brings out his creative side when it comes to his human sacrifices and Jashin rituals; he’ll think up new (and horrible) ways to torment and kill his victims. Is the type to finally, FINALLY just completely pass out after reaching his final tolerance point, and the others will (reluctantly) drag him to his room and put him in his bed. Not many are willing to do this, however, as most times before he passes out he’ll have stripped himself completely naked.

Tobi

An emotional drunk. Gets sad and cries over practically anything. And it doesn’t take much to get him tanked, either; his tolerance level is embarrassingly low and he’ll be ready to sob after just a couple of glasses of wine. Tobi tries to avoid drinking when he can because he knows there’s a good chance of him dropping his persona and letting the others see Obito Uchiha. In fact this HAS happened a few times, where he’a taken off his mask and everything; fortunately for him the others were so gone that the next day they either didn’t remember, or believed that had just imagined the whole thing. Likes to soothe himself by slurring sad love songs at the top of lungs, joined most frequently by Deidara and Hidan. Will also drunkenly stuff his face with meats, which is a complete opposite from his sweet-loving sober self. He can throw down a dozen burgers when boozed up, the results of which will likely be in puddles all over the floor the next day. Will go to his bed and turn around in circles a bunch of times, like a dog, before finally going to sleep. “Tobi” will be the quietest he’s ever been the next day, as he fights a massive headachy hangover.

Konan

For being such a thin, delicate girl, Konan can hold her liquor right up there with the likes of Kakuzu and Kisame. One might never even know that she’s drunk to begin with; she walks perfectly straight, doesn’t slur her words, has almost perfect reflexes and normal mannerisms. One thing always gives her away, however; drunk Konan is hungry Konan. Under normal circumstances the little lady sticks to a healthy diet and isn’t one for over-indulging in anything. One shot or beer too many, and suddenly the gloves are off. Konan will make pizza, hotdogs, gigantic sundaes, cakes and pies … and devour almost all of it. She’ll share with the others if asked … but most times she’s eaten so much that there’s not much left to share. When she’s finally had her fill, she’ll go to bed … and wake up feeling sick as a dog the next morning. After the nausea passes, she’ll force herself to go for a long run or walk, no matter how much her head may be aching, in order to work off her excessive calorie intake.

Zetsu

Zetsu doesn’t drink, because alcohol interferes with his plant genetics, acting as literal poison to his system. But he enjoys being around the others when they’re drunk, to see the different types of personalities that emerge. Likes to hang around Hidan in particular, as the man’s sacrifices pick up significantly when he’s drunk, meaning Zetsu has more of a smorgasbord of leftovers to pick from

Sasori

As a puppet, Sasori doesn’t drink. But when he was a human, it was a different story. He turned himself into a non-human at a very young age, much younger, of course, than would have been the legal drinking age. But his grandmother kept a variety of wines in their home, and when she was away, he liked to pour himself a glass. Always only a single glass; he was intelligent enough both to know that his grandmother would notice if any larger of a quantity was missing, and, already dabbling in making poisons at this point, he understood the concept of “tolerance” better than most. But the single glass was enough; it seemed to comfort him during those nights when he was missing his mother and father. The wine also served as a brain-opener for him, of sorts: it was over wine that he first got the idea of turning himself into a puppet.

Deidara

Being young and so slender, and not having much experience with alcohol before joining the Akatsuki, the blonde is a bit of a light-weight when it comes to the hooch. He doesn’t really care for beers or ales (he compares the taste to “cat-piss”) and instead goes for the fruity mixed drinks that don’t SEEM that strong … until you’ve had about three or four, and they put you on your ass. Deidara becomes very lovey-dovey when drunk, and not just in a romantic sense. Alcohol makes everyone in the world his friend, and he’s suddenly interested in what others have to say about life and art. He’s even nice to Itachi, going so far as to hug him and tell him that he smells good, something that he will vehemently deny the next day. He’ll go to Sasori and cling to him and gush about how he appreciates his friendship and his guidance, until Sasori gets tired of him and tells him to go to sleep. Deidara can get to his room on his own, but once the door closes, he’s more likely to pass out on the floor than in his own bed. Also, if he didn’t think to tie up his long hair beforehand, he’ll be in for a nasty, messy surprise when he inevitably wakes up to vomit at some point.

Itachi

Itachi isn’t one to ever let himself lose control of his senses, no matter the situation. Therefore, if he’s drinking with the others, he’ll stick to one or two beers or a single shot before cutting himself off for the evening. He plays much of a “mom” role in the group, making sure the others are okay, lending a shoulder to cry on for the emotional drunks, and, if they’re out somewhere, making sure everyone gets home safe and sound. On the rare, RARE occasions he drinks by himself, and lets go of his hesitation, he’s just as emotional a drinker as Tobi (which is quite possibly an Uchiha trait). He’ll cry into his pillow, he’ll sit and lament over the choices he’s made in life. Sometimes he’ll find and put on the saddest song or movie he can think of, just so he has something to get emotional over. Although this sounds bad, this is actually a helpful bit of therapy for him, as it allows him to release emotions that he normally keeps bottled up. He’ll end a night of solo drinking with a cup of tea, then go quietly to bed, sleeping like a rock until the sun comes up and things go back to normal.

Kisame

Right up there with Kakuzu as being a guy that can hold his liquor like a champ. In fact his ability to do so has won him many drinking challenges at bars, as well as a formidable reputation as “one bad ass son of a bitch”. It also helps him confidence-wise; normally the half-shark is very reserved and keeps to himself, as he feels that his appearance is off-putting and scary to “normal” people. But alcohol loosens him up and gets him talking, and being bold, and many people find this switch in personality to be highly attractive. Ladies especially take notice of his smile, his eyes … and his muscles. He even scores several phone numbers from interested parties … but by the time he’s sober again, he never follows through with calling anyone. Also helps Itachi in that he keeps an eye on the others when they drink, to make sure that they’re safe.

[ask-the-clergy-bc]

What's it like preparing for Halloween with era 3 ghouls and papa? 🎃

SPOOKY MONTH IS COMING!!

I know this wasn't asked for but I made some other cute Halloween posts; if you'd like to check those out, too! I'm going to be using them as my guide for this one so I hope you enjoy them as well!

Papas Celebrating Halloween --> [Link]

Era IV Ghouls Celebrating --> [Link]

I assume you also mean Papa III, so we will go with him!!

Papa III and his Ghouls Preparing for Halloween

Halloween is celebrated by Papa and his ghouls in different ways depending on which part of his era you are looking at. Before and after, he mostly participates in the parties and fun- enjoying the holiday and merriment it provides. During his full reign he had a lot more responsibility for the day. Papa despised having the be the one in charge as it meant getting to do all of the BORING things that come with being a Papa. But he always took his job very seriously, even if it meant being literally late to the Halloween party.

The Church follows it's own version of Samhain, and with it comes with it's practices and needs. Think of it like a mixture of Samhain, a harvest festival, a stereotypical Satanic sacrifice, and Halloween. It's an incredibly important day for the Congregation!

The day is meant to be a festivity on glutting on the bounties of the Ministry's harvest- literally and figuratively. To celebrate the food and wealth their conquests has brought them. It also honors the previous leaders, Papas, and siblings of the churches who visit in the night. It's about to turn to winter and everyone thanks Lucifer for keeping them warm and fed during it.

As Papa, III gets to be the one to lead the prayers and ceremony. It involves a morning sermon, leading the other high ministry in a more private blood sacrifice, and then ends with an annual sermon conducted right before festivities are started for the night. So Papa is a very busy guy! Not to mention he also plans his OWN fun! He's tired by the end of all of it!

As for the ghouls? They have to help their Papa after all! It's their job! This means they have to help him get paperwork sent in, help him wrangle all of the clergy members he needs, and just listen to him bitch about wanting to have fun while getting him coffee. Though the ghouls DO have their own special tasks and then free time after the fact. After all, this is the one night of the year they are allowed to shed glamour and run around in their true forms!

Omega: Being the head aether ghoul means he HAS to take part in all of the important ceremony duties. He's basically the ghoul representative in this ritual, after Special. Omega is the one keeping everything in line and keeping Papa from ripping his hair out with stress. He does his part perfectly every year. Typically, he's partying with Papa once dismissed. Omega is most interested in the food as he has a huge apatite. And getting to stretch his limbs out of glamour.

Alpha: Bonfires are a huge part of the festivities every Halloween. Fire ghouls are the best at keeping hot, ever burning fires but they need a lot of supervision. Alpha is that ghoul. He also has to be the one to keep the working ghouls going and over seeing it. Hates to be in the office with the paper work, so Papa let's him over see the construction of party and ritual spaces. He's also expected to be part of the rituals themselves, like Omega. Once he's free from duty he goes nuts and parties with the rest of the congregation.

Water: Hates having to do prep work, but isn't as vocal about it as Alpha. He will happily get things done so long as it means he doesn't have to hear Papa bitch all day. Luckily, while as Papa's ghoul he DOES have to be in the ceremony, his responsibility isn't as great as it is for the head ghouls. He does his part and plays nice. But once he's allowed off he sheds glamour immediately and jumps into the partying. Water loves to drink himself silly and impress all of the siblings with his true form. Is the one with the biggest hang over.

Earth: The one ghoul of Papa's who is a little too cheerful to be doing all of the preparation work. As an Earth ghoul, the harvest aspect has always been very important in Hell culture. It reminds him of home, and he's happy to make sure everything is in order! Earth is the one that puts all the extra effort for this. Like asking Papa if they can double the budget for pumpkins and apples for the siblings, and helping Papa pick out table runner colors and decorations. Also the one who will eat so much candy and be grateful he can't get sick.

Air: As a former head ghoul, he no longer has as much responsibility. However, he's still asked to help lead the ghouls in the coming ceremonies. No one ever finds him after being dismissed. Air relishes being in his true form and wants every moment he can to himself. That's why every year siblings talk about a rumor of an actual gargoyle that lives in the highest spire of the cathedral. Every year you can hear it and see it flying in the moonlight with it's giant wings!

[wtf-yoongi]

Softie. / MYG

pairing | yoongi x reader

summary | just a morning with min yoongi 🥺

prompts | “i love you more than coffee.” *distant gasps* + “every morning you kiss my forehead before i leave for work, why was it my lips today?” from this prompt list.

genre/warnings | disgustingly fluffy + very domestic

words | 1,990

note | i wanted to write something like this and then it fitted the prompt someone requested two ages ago and it became way too long for a timestamp and here we are

Very rarely does something beat the smell of black tea in the morning. Not any black tea, but this one in particular.

Forget it, nothing beats it.

The earthy tones coming from the leaves are enough to get you excited about your day and you’re careful not to scoop too much from the fancy, squared, tin box. It is, after all, precious and expensive — it seems like it gets pricier and pricier every time you restock it, almost to the point you’re begging the clerk for a discount.

You know it’s too much and you should stop spending money with that, the same money that could buy you enough tea for a whole year, but this is exactly the way luxury items go. Just above average, pretty packaging, minimalistic logo and a warm feeling in your heart from doing something special for yourself.

Like a ritual, you twirl the spoon and breathe in the steam coming from the pot before closing the lid. The instructions say you should brew it for three minutes and you’re proud to say you haven’t got that wrong once — not even on the day of your sister’s wedding, when she called saying she burned her ring finger, accidentally saw her fiancée and there was a real possibility of them not moving forward with the ceremony that day.

Even though she married with the ring on her middle finger, since the other one was bandaged, everything worked out. A little bit like a sitcom from the 90’s, but it did — in the end, it always did. That’s why you spend way too much money on that tea, because something about it makes things just work somehow. It’s unexplainable, quite magical and, to be honest, a little childish, but you love it.

Naturally, your hands start moving while the three minutes pass, refilling the kettle with water when you hear the shower stop running like you do every single day. In between the tea being served on a mug and his lazy morning footsteps, there’s only enough time for you to eat your peach yogurt.

“Hmm,” he hums and you can hear him getting closer as he speaks. “Treating yourself today, huh?”

You guess Yoongi can smell the black tea as well.

As you’re focused on adding the perfect amount of honey to your mug, there’s no time to turn or even look up at him coming into the kitchen with a sleepy and sweet look on his face. In such a small room, it only takes a heartbeat for him to stand next to you, leaving a quick kiss on your temple and short squeeze on the curve of your hips.

“Any special occasion I should know of?”

“Not really.” You shrug and, for a moment, Yoongi’s aftershave replaces the smell of tea completely. It’s fresh, clean and light, like most things he enjoys without noticing. “I just wanted something different.”

“I’m jealous, I want something fancy too,” he says without any weight to his voice, reaching for the coffee beans placed at the farthest corner of the pantry — the ones he also saves for very few mornings. “Did you sleep well?”

You nod quickly and excitedly, turning ninety degrees to open the refrigerator in search of milk. “I had to. There’s this big presentation today I’ve been preparing for five…”

“So there is something special going on.”

You stop in your tracks to look at Yoongi’s knowing smile, coffee grinder in front of him rumbling and doing its job while he waits.

“You’re a creature of habit, you know that, right? You wouldn’t drink this specific tea if something wasn’t going on.”

You smile at him, finally moving again to add a dash of milk to the mug and mixing it to check if it was enough. “If you weren’t so emotionless, I’d say that’s romantic.”

“Oh, you want romantic?” Yoongi’s tone goes up an octave, mocking you a little. “Fine. How about I love you more than coffee. In fact, I love you more than the smell of freshly ground beans in the morning and you know I love that very much. How about that, huh?”

It’s your turn to mock his words. “Oh, wow,” you gasp, raising a hand to the center of your chest. “How am I going to move on from this? I better email them saying I won’t be able to make it today. After this? Woof! No way I’ll be presenting anything but fifty slides of my favorite Yoongi pick-up lines.”

“That would be a satisfied client, don’t you think?” He plays along, adding the coffee to a French press and topping it with the water you just boiled. “Oh, do you want some toast? I feel like eating toast for some reason.”

And just like that, with Yoongi reaching for the toaster above your head, you’re both interested in something else. He pinches your side with his free hand and you take a step to your left, giving him enough space to place the appliance on top of the marble counter.

“You do have time for toast, right?” Yoongi asks as he turns it on and starts looking for bread. “I don’t want to make you late, the first two can be yours.”

“The tea is still a little too hot, I have time.”

“Good.” He nods shortly. “Sit down. These will be done in no time.”

You watch as Yoongi reaches for plates, knives, butter, strawberry jam and places all of them on the small kitchen table. Meanwhile, you sip the tea slowly, quietly enjoying it and, deep down, wishing for it to work its magic once again.

“Are you nervous about the presentation?” Yoongi asks just as he places two perfectly toasted slices of bread in front of you. He soon moves back to set two more on the toaster and turns to you again, waiting for an answer.

“I’m okay. It’s been worse.” You shrug, focusing on the butter as it melts when it meets the warm toast. “This client is nice. Even if they don’t agree with something, it’s not like…”

“Don’t bring Mr. Moon up again,” Yoongi warns you, slightly uncomfortable and somewhat ready to politely offend Mr. Moon if he ever showed up in front of him. “I’m still not over that. Who does he think he is to mistreat everyone because of a grammar mistake?”

You laugh at the way he seems so bothered by that. “It was a good thing, though, don’t you think? We kicked him out because we didn’t need his business if it meant we had to deal with that.”

“Serves him right,” he huffs. “He was being an ass for a long time, the grammar incident was just the tipping point.”

“And you don’t even know about the emails he sent to the junior analysts. He would literally…”

“Please,” Yoongi interrupts with a tight smile and warm eyes, nothing but light humor in his words. “Don’t make me hate him more. This is bad for myself, I have to be the better person.”

“You’re right,” you agree with a smile, taking a bite and adding a few words in a muffled voice. “He’s a problem of the past. And a solved one, thank God.”

You swallow just as Yoongi sits in front of you with perfectly done toasts for himself. He adds butter and strawberry jam to both of them before speaking again. “I’m glad you’re not nervous about this stuff anymore.”

“I’m glad too,” you admit and take a sip of the magical tea before continuing. “Shaky hands are also a problem of the past.”

“I want you to know I’m very proud of you. This sort of thing is not easy to overcome.” 

You giggle. “Yoon, you’re getting soft again.”

“When am I not?” He takes a bite and soon covers his mouth, not being able to stop a smile from forming. “I am a softie, this is who I am.”

“No, but you’re particularly soft today, I think. It all started when you were whining about me leaving the bed,” you say while getting up to place your plate in the sink. When you turn around, Yoongi is looking at you with what you can only describe as adoring eyes. “See? This is what I mean. Do you have a mirror? Look at yourself, there’s nothing not soft about you today.”

He’s the one giggling now, motioning for you to move with the hand that’s not busy with a toast. “Go finish getting ready, you’re going to be late!”

You hurry out of the kitchen with a smile, soon entering the bathroom to brush your teeth. It’s still kind of foggy, nothing but the perfume of Yoongi’s shower gel everywhere, and you have to wipe the mirror with a towel to see yourself properly.

The nervousness could be worse, yes, but it’s still there a little — well, today is the day you’ve been preparing for the last five weeks and there’s a lot at stake. You inhale and exhale deeply, concentrating on the goal rather than the challenge. What happens, happens, but you’re pretty sure you’ve done everything you could and that’s enough to leave you satisfied no matter the outcome.

“Yoongi, I’m leaving!” You call out, fixing a strap on your shoulder and immediately feeling the weight of the laptop and the heavy (but pretty) leather notebook you bought last fall — another one of the luxury items you treated yourself with. When you look up, the man is standing with another one of his knowing smiles and a thermos in hand.

“Were you really not going to drink every single drop of the tea you spend way too much money on?” He raises an eyebrow, extending his arm so you can take the travel mug from him. “I know you’re good and don’t need the magic from the tea, but…”

“Shut up,” you say jokingly, slapping his hand in the process. “And thank you.”

“Come here.”

Yoongi slowly takes a step to meet you halfway, hug awkward given the weight on your shoulder, but you couldn’t care less. He’s warm, inviting and has a comforting hand on your back while the other moves to cradle your jaw.

“I told you you’re particularly soft today,” you say just as he creates enough space to look into your eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Yoongi mumbles before pressing a kiss on your lips. You barely have time to register what is going on or close your eyes and it’s already over.

“Are you sure? Because every morning you kiss my forehead before I leave for work,” you point out, one eyebrow raised in doubt, but eyes as soft as his. “Why was it my lips today?”

“You may not notice, but the taste of black tea and honey on your lips…” He hums, closing his eyes to show just how much he likes it. “So good.”

“But I brushed my teeth.”

He leans in again and, this time, stays for a while longer — not barely enough for you, but you’d take anything with a smile.

Yoongi shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Still there.” He turns both your bodies, getting them closer and closer to the door. “Do you think this happens because the tea is that good and strong? Or maybe it’s because you don’t really do a good job brushing your teeth…”

“Ah, Yoongi!"

Before you know it, Yoongi is simultaneously opening the door, leaving another kiss on the corner of your mouth and pushing your body out. It seems like only a second has passed, but you find yourself right in front of the door when Yoongi is inside with only his head peeking through. 

“Don’t just stand there, you’re going to be late! Call me when the presentation is over and you have a yes, okay?”

He closes the door, but you can still hear him giggle on the inside.

Read more ›› masterlist

[zahneundklauen-retired]

Dawn of the Final Day || Kaden and Alcher

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @chasseurdeloup and @zahneundklauen SUMMARY: Hunter and wolf find each other on the last day of the moon. Surely fate has brought them together. CONTENT: Blood, Gore mention, death mention, bad coffee

Everything had seemed to change recently. Too much. But one thing stayed the same, Kaden’s morning ritual of stopping by Coffee Plus to grab a good espresso. Alright, good might be pushing it, it wasn’t amazing or anything but it was better than he could manage with any small machine at home. So he would take what he could get. As early as he rose in the morning, he was still groggy and grumpy in the mornings. Grumpier than usual, that was. Queuing was truly the worst part and it was only ever compounded by people who didn’t know what they wanted even though they’d stood there and waited forever and a day and had more than enough time to figure shit out before the moment they stepped to the counter. It didn’t help that in this town he was constantly surrounded by shifters and the dull tingle down his spine never quit in the morning. He didn’t have it in him to give a shit long enough to pay attention to where it was coming from or even properly ignore it. He sighed. It was the same every day. Small comfort, there. The lady in front was taking so long, he started to doze off where was standing. So much so that he tripped a bit and caught himself as he ran into the person behind him a little. “Putain, sorry,” he tried to offer her. Somehow they still hadn’t moved. Shit, he gripped his side a moment, stinging a little from the pain from the other night. “You have to wonder what people do this whole time in line,” he grumbled, mostly to himself, partially to the person he’d just run into. He hated small talk but he sort of felt obligated. 

 Human rituals were still wholly strange to Alcher, but lately she’d been finding herself more and more fascinated with them. Her newest endeavor was the ritual of coffee in the morning, despite the ache in her bones. She’d need something to help get her through this last moon. Though Alcher vastly preferred tea, she figured she ought to try coffee. Everyone seemed to swear by it, after all. And so, she found herself in line at Coffee Plus, the other coffee shop Regan had told her about when they’d talked last. It couldn’t be too bad, right? She’d waited for a while outside before heading in, letting the queue to the counter fill up before heading in behind a rather grumpy looking man. She was examining the menu board-- with very little success; it was so far away and her eyes were failing her in two ways-- when the man in front of her stumbled back into her. She put her hands out quickly to right him, feeling the pain throb again from when her arm had been torn to shreds, letting him fix himself. She gave a pleasant smile, despite the automatic action of wiping her hands as if she’d touched dirt on her shirt. There’d last been blood there, after all. “No problem,” she said, tilting her head, “happens to us all.” She raised a brow. “I’m not sure,” she answered, “I’m still just trying to decide what to order. What’s your favorite? I haven’t quite got the hang of American style coffee. Have you?”

 “You mean you don’t already know?” Kaden sighed. She did have a good point though about American coffee. It was… what it was. “I had a feeling you weren’t from around here by the accent but that all but confirms it,” he said with a small laugh. “I suppose you caught me, too,” he said, realizing she’d put the pieces together a bit sooner than he had. It was early. “Where are you from? And how many people ask if you’re from Germany?” he said. Admittedly, he couldn’t quite place her accent, either. It was nearly German, but he knew damn well it wasn’t after growing up around Oscar and living in the country a few years. “Anyway, it’s nothing like home, that’s for sure. Or really most of Europe if you ask me. This is the best place I’ve found in town, though.” He gave a small shrug. “It’s passable and it’s good enough. Beggars, choosers, what not.” He wasn’t entirely sure what to suggest to her but his favorite, that much he could manage. “Most days I just get an espresso or a doppio but occasionally I get a, uh, well it’s not a café crème really, but I can pretend.” He didn’t expect any coffee shop in a small town in Maine to compare to a Parisian cafe, not really, but it was hard not to think about them on occasion, miss home a little bit. Even if he wasn’t always sure how much of home France really was more and more. “I take it you’re not part of the usual crowd, then.” 

 “No, I don’t usually drink coffee, actually,” Alcher admitted, watching him closely for a moment. He looked quite tired, but she supposed that was rude to point out. Perhaps that was why he was in line for coffee. It was the drink with the most caffeine in it, aside from those nasty energy drinks. “I suppose I did. French is a very easy accent to place,” she agreed. “It’s Polish,” she said smoothly, not even flinching as he mentioned Germany and how she didn’t sound quite German. It stung on the inside, but decades worth of pretending and hiding had taught her how to keep it there. “I’m originally from Poland, though I haven’t been back in quite some time.” She nodded, as if she understood why he thought this coffee was worse than any other coffee. “I understand that.” She looked back at the menu, as if to examine the board once more, despite still not being able to see it well enough. For a moment, she remembered the sting of saltwater in her wounds. “I think the doppio sounds like a good choice,” she decided, finally, “thanks for the suggestions.” This place certainly was strange, and the people, stranger. This man, though grumpy and tired, didn’t seem so strange. He also didn’t smell strange, rather like coconut and peppermint shampoo, and dogs. If it weren’t for the overwhelming smell of bitter coffee, she was sure she could pick out something else, but it was proving a little too difficult. “No, I’m not. I’d heard this place had good coffee from a friend, and thought I might try it out. Are you, then?”

 “Strangely enough, that’s the second time I’ve heard that in this shop recently.” Kaden almost hated how easily the small talk came to him just then. He chalked it up to the fact he was speaking with another expat. There was always some strange tenus solidarity there. “Polish, of course. I hear it now. My uncle’s German so I figured it wasn’t, you know, uh…” So much for being decent at small talk. “It’s been a few years since I’ve been across the Atlantic.” Kaden wasn’t certain the next time he’d be back. Even though, strangely enough, he was finally in a spot where he might be able to afford the plane ticket without scrimping and saving. He wasn’t even sure it was duty anymore that was keeping him stateside. For as many time as he thought about going home, leaving this cursed town, he almost found himself thinking of White Crest as home. What a fucking awful thought that was. “Sorry what was that?” He almost missed what she said. It felt like he had cotton in his ears a moment. And everything seemed a little duller. Maybe he really was just that exhausted. But it almost seemed like something else. Putain, it better not be something magical. He didn’t want to deal with magic just let. Not until after 10AM, please. Still, it was easy enough to piece together what she said as he focused a little harder. “Right, yeah I’m here almost every morning. I should give up the habit but…” He gave a shrug. “It’s better than my habit for smoking I suppose.”

 “Easy mistake,” Alcher said despite the sour taste of the words in her mouth and their untruthfulness, “a few of the people I grew up with were German, so I picked up some of their accent as well, it seems.” Grinned past the taste of copper in her throat. “Is he? What part of Germany is he from?” It’d been a while since she’d met anyone from Germany, she wondered how nice it might be to be able to speak her native tongue to another. “It’s been awhile for me, as well. Nearly a decade, by now,” she said, though she’d lost track of the years a while ago. Time didn’t matter to a wolf in the forest. She opened her mouth to repeat her words, when he gathered them up himself and spoke again. Interesting. Humans were so fascinating sometimes. She wished she could place what that other smell was, that sort of metallic-y earthen scent. Perhaps it was another person’s perfume or shampoo. But her senses had been messed up since that fae child had torn into her, had ripped bits of her flesh, left her half dead and nearly drowned. She glanced around momentarily, before looking back to the man. “Well, as far as bad habits go, I doubt coffee is the worst one you could have,” she answered, knowing all the other vile habits humans developed for themselves. Pitiful creatures, that was for sure. “Like that one. Then again, smoking seems to be a big thing in France. From the time I remember when I was there, it seemed as if almost everyone I met smoked.”

 “Not too far from Stuttgart. Bad Wimpfen to be specific.” Kaden had so many mixed feelings about the country given his circumstances. He shouldn’t blame the place for it, the fact that it was where his whole life had ended in a way and began differently. Still, there were so many unpleasant memories some of those places stirred up for him to ever be excited to visit. Other than to see Oscar. “A decade, huh? Long time to be away from home. Guess that definition changes a bit, though, depending.” He wasn’t sure if that was introspective or stupid. Possibly both. “My wallet tends to disagree when it’s practically every morning. Oh well. What’s life if you can’t enjoy it a little?” Couldn’t take it with you and he was sure he wasn’t likely to have to worry about saving up for retirement or shit like that. He would be lucky to make it another decade. “Yeah, my parents would on occasion, even though they tried to hide it. I don’t know, picked it up as a teen, never stopped. Hasn’t slowed me down much. But I have cut back considerably.” They inched forward in line. “I guess she finally read the whole menu after all.” 

 “Stuttgart, ah,” Alcher said, forgetting for a moment that she could not give her true birthplace away, “I lived North of-- well,” paused, “--northwest of Czaplenik, erm...near the border. Stuttgart is far from that, though I have been through there once.” To track down her family’s killers. They ended up being in a different part, but they’d gone through the city, for what reason, Alcher did not know. She straightened herself out and smiled. “I suppose it does. What is that cheesy American saying? Heart is the home? Or...something.” The line inched forward and the person at the counter now, was having a hard time deciding between a Cafe Late and a Cafe Mocha. The wearied barista just sighed. The man behind her, dressed in a suit, tapped his foot anxiously. “Seems so, but now we’ve another stall.” The smell of chocolate filled her nose as someone behind the counter warmed up some cocoa. “The small things really do make life worth it, though. From what I’ve experienced, at least.”

 “Ah, yeah, other side of the country more or less. Makes sense. I’ve been out towards Berlin and traveled a bit through Poland but mostly kept towards Munic, Frankfurt, Cologne, all that.” Kaden had mostly lived in the South Western parts of Germany when he was there. The only times he’d seen the rest and any of Poland was on hunting trips. Not that he was about to advertise that. “Something like that, yeah,” he said with a half smile. “Home is where the heart is. Very cheesy but I suppose they have a point.” Though it did make him wonder if that meant that White Crest was currently his home. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that thought. He shook his head a bit to himself and inhaled a deep breath, pain shooting through his side as he did. Weird. It was almost like the coffee was less pungent today, the scents duller. What was going on? He pinched the bridge of his nose, tried to help open up the airflow or something. Didn’t really help much, though. “Yeah you need something to keep you going and all. Sometimes it’s coffee I guess. C'est la vie.” The line eventually moved again and he found himself up at the front. Kaden placed his order and turned back to the woman behind him. “Order what you want, I’ve got it,” he told her. “Least I can do for subjecting you to small talk after running into you.” 

 “Ah,” was all Alcher said to that. She shuffled up in line with him and gave another glance at the menu. It was finally coming into view, and she squinted to see the price by the drink she planned to order. But then the man offered to buy it for her, and she was genuinely surprised. Humans weren’t usually so generous. Rarely, in fact. Perhaps he wasn’t altogether human, then. If only she could get his scent, but the musk of smoke and coffee beans and chocolate clouded her nose. That, and she hadn’t fully healed from her moon yet, despite Zinnia’s help. A smile came to her face at the thought. “C’est la vie,” she said, then winced, “sorry, I probably butchered French for you. It’s a much softer language than I’m used to.” She gave the woman her order once they shuffled up in line. “Thank you, this is very kind of you. At least give me your name so I can repay you sometime soon? I’m Ada,” she smiled, and held out her hand, “It was real nice to meet you, small talk and all.”

 “Ada?” he said, giving her hand a shake. “Kaden. Maybe I’ll see you again. Enjoy the coffee.”

[themangoyogurt]

Between 29th and Astoria: The Appetizer

Chapter 5

It was always the same story after a night of hard drinking - waking up with regret, plotting your own death, and revisiting misdemeanors committed under the influence of alcohol. To make matters worse, you had fallen asleep on the commute resulting in missing your stop. By the time you went above ground, back down on the other side, and hopped on the right train - you were hopelessly late.

Not only that, but you had been drunk enough to make stupid life decisions such as feel up your freaking boss, but not blitzed enough to have forgotten what had happened. You stepped off the executive elevator and onto the forty-fifth floor completely ready to die of embarrassment.

Only, you didn’t.

Ren’s door was closed, but you heard gentle murmuring behind the glass. His morning conference call must have begun earlier than scheduled. At least that took care of any awkward A.M. confrontations. If you had any doubts that your job was on the line though, they were immediately cleared as you stepped up to your little glass fortress.

Sitting neatly in the center right between your monitor and keyboard was a cup of coffee. A sticky note was stuck to the sleeve with two sentences scrawled in surprisingly beautiful penmanship.

“May I suggest a different addictive substance? Perhaps one that won’t kill you?”

The smell of hazelnut and spice wafted up from the lid, enveloping the area with a warm scent. The caramel liquid inside was still hot, and burned deliciously as it was consumed. Seeing that he bought you coffee, perhaps Kylo’s hypocrisy regarding smoking could be ignored. For now at least. You reclined into the leather seat underneath and began your typical morning rituals.

The computer fired on with a half-hearted beep. Next, physical memos were sorted as the screen slowly loaded. Some papers were shuffled into the trash. Others were filed away for later use, and a select few were organized into a folder to hand off to Mr. Ren. As soon as the monitor pinged to life, e-mails were next on the list. Similar to the memos, you organized and sorted the digital mail. Once in a while, you’d be interrupted by a phone call.

Most of the time it was a frantic Mitaka in search of one thing or another for Hux. The poor man was clearly stretched far too thin, and you always spent the latter half of your conversations giving the assistant a pep talk. By the time everything was catalogued and dealt with, it was usually lunch. That was almost always taken alone at your desk. First Order certainly didn’t encourage friendships, that much was for sure. If you were lucky and Mr. Ren had an outside appointment during the hour, you were able to eat elsewhere. Even then it wasn’t very exciting. You’d usually just grab a sorry excuse for a salad from Hale & Hearty, and eat it in the break room.

Today was different though. Twelve o’ clock struck, and Mr. Ren emerged from his office. Dark hair coiffed backwards, he slowly ambled towards your desk. Your name slid from his lips like oil and you looked up in surprise.

“Mr. Ren! I thought you had a lunch appointment today.”

He tapped his fingers along the smooth surface of your desk and nodded. Reaching over, he plucked your purse hanging from the back of the chair. Smiling, the man responded, “Yes, I do. You’re my appointment.”

You mouth slackened in surprise, and Kylo smirked at your reaction, filing away the image along with others he had collected over time. Twirling the leather strap of your bag in one hand, he turned on his heel and marched over to the elevator. You immediately jumped up from your chair and hurried a step behind the man.

He brought you to a swanky restaurant somewhere uptown. Just like at the club last night, you felt incredibly out of place. It was the type of establishment you’d only read about in magazines alongside the words “so-and-so celebrity spotted at”. It certainly wasn’t the kind of venue a failed photographer turned personal assistant ate at. And it definitely wasn’t the kind of place a boss should be taking his assistant just for kicks.

Regardless, Kylo still placed a warm palm on your lower back and ushered you through the large doors and into a marble waiting area. The hostess immediately recognized the raven-haired CEO and lead the way to a private dining area secluded in the back.

The lithe blonde’s eyes darted between the two of you and then to Kylo’s hands before asking, “Mr. Ren, would you like me to check your - uh - friend’s bag?”

Oh my God. Kylo Ren was still holding your purse.

Your face colored in embarrassment as you thought about how this woman probably checked Birkins worth six figures. Your little flea market find of cracked leather definitely had no business being checked anywhere. Panicking, you snatched the purse away from your boss and awkwardly tittered that you’d be fine holding onto the handbag.

Did the woman just give you a look of sympathy?

If she kept up that attitude, you’d give her something to be sympathetic about. Your eyes squinted ever so slightly, and Ren let out a snort. He waved the hostess away and pulled out your chair before settling in across the table.

“If you’re ashamed of your purse, you could always buy a new one.”

“Excuse me?! Just because I don’t enjoy being judged, doesn’t mean I’m ashamed of my purse! And what do you expect me to do? Go out and buy a Chanel with the zero dollars in my savings account?”

Kylo’s head tilted backwards as he chuckled, “You looked ready to choke the hostess with your mind.”

“My purse has character. Something she wouldn’t understand,” you pouted.

“Yes. I’m just finding out about how much character you possess.”

Heat spread across your cheeks and your face bloomed pink at your boss’s teasing. Fiddling with the hem of the tablecloth you whispered, “I’m so sorry about last night, Mr. Ren.” He dismissed your apology with a wave of his hand and chortled, “I’ve seen Phasma do worse on a better night. Don’t worry about it.” He slowly drank in the sight of your flushed skin and the way your lashes shyly fluttered at his words. Yes, he could definitely get used to this.

Thankfully the waiter arrived, and provided some relief as he went over the tasting menu. Who on earth ate five courses at twelve thirty in the afternoon?

Apparently, Kylo Ren did. The man didn’t even flinch as the waiter rattled off various dishes and accompaniments. You blushed again as Mr. Ren ordered a whiskey neat for himself and a gin and tonic for yourself. He ignored your protests that it was too early to drink, and opted to lean back and watch your fruitless objections with mirth.

“Are you done?”

Your ears turned red, and Kylo grinned with his full set of teeth. He was beginning to discover a new hobby - making his assistant blush. Once again, the waiter came to the rescue as he set down a white oval porcelain dish with two oysters perched atop a hill of ice with caviar scattered about. Ren expertly fed himself the appetizer and watched you struggle in amusement. Compared to Ren’s effortless elegance, you looked like a pelican choking down sardines.

He quietly placed a palm on the table and asked, “So, tell me about yourself. What do you do after work?”

An eyebrow raised on its own as you studied Mr. Ren with some suspicion. Just a few days ago, this man was one missed memo away from flipping over your desk and booting you out the door. Now he wanted to know what you did for fun? As if sensing your apprehension, Kylo teased, “Isn’t this what friends do? Get to know each other?”

The memory of Kylo’s massive hands gripping your slight wrists was enough to make you gag on your drink. Were gin and tonics always this difficult to stomach?

Clearing your throat and wiping the edges of your lips, you replied, “Well. Honestly, I go to work so early and stay so late...there isn’t really much time for me to do anything. My friends are pretty understanding though, so we spend most of our time at my apartment or theirs. We - uh - you know, talk. Sometimes we play board games or just watch Netflix. We do other things together, too.”

Kylo arched a brow and joked, “You do ‘other things’ with your friends? How conveniently vague.”

Coughing again, you sputtered, “No! No. I mean, we’re all single, but we don’t - you know - do weird things. Uhm, Rose is a mechanic and she works on these crazy fancy private planes that come in and out of the city. Sometimes her clients invite her to cool things, and I’ll get to tag along. Poe has a really sweet job, and he’ll hook us up with tickets to events, too. And, uhm, Finn also works at Poe’s company, but only part time. But he’s trying really hard to be an actor and he just wrapped up a really great show. We’ll go see him in different performances, and it’s really fun!”

Kylo ran his bottom lip along the edge of his glass as he took in your response. The name “Poe” sounded oddly familiar to him. It was a rather archaic sounding name that not many in your age group had. He’d have to look into that later, rather preferring to settle on one key fact he was surprisingly happy to learn - you were single.

“What about you, Mr. Ren? Do you have any hobbies? Or - uhm - date?”

You were going to be the death of him. If he could die via cuteness, he would choose you every time. He watched your throat bob as you swallowed, almost as if you wished you could push the words back down. He thought for a moment: no, what he did with the fairer sex certainly wouldn’t be considered dating. As for hobbies?

“Sure. I enjoy calligraphy. It’s a nice marriage of art and the written form. I also like taking my cars out to the speedway from time-to-time. As for dating? No. I wouldn’t say I have the time to date...per se.”

You nodded along, thinking the entire time that Mr. Ren sounded lightyears above you. Of course someone like him wouldn’t play fucking Cranium in his free time. You continued to eat and chat until the meal wrapped up. Kylo was even suave enough to take care of the check while he got up to use the restroom, saving you the embarrassment of having to act like you could even afford to split the $700 bill.

Walking out the door, you stopped to turn to the man. Rocking a bit on your heels, you meekly murmured, “Thank you, Mr. Ren...”

“What was that, little mouse? I didn’t quite catch that.” A quirk of his lip indicated that he was teasing you again.

Clearing your throat, you spoke up, “Thank you, Mr. Ren. For the meal. And the conversation. I - uh - quite enjoyed spending time with you.”

He gave you a warm smile. The most genuine one you have yet to witness. He carefully patted your back - high enough to be professional, but low enough to leave you confused.

Looking up into the sky, he replied, “I’m glad. Perhaps we could making spending time together a habit.”

[marjansmarwani]

For a prompt, how about an alternate version of a meet cute? Like maybe TK keeps on stealing Carlos’ coffee order without knowing it until one day he finally does? Feel free not to use this, just thought it would be adorable ❤️

I obviously did not get to this in time for Lone Star week, but I still wanted to do it, so here you go.

It’s also the first entry into my new drabble collection on ao3, which is pretty cool. And yes, it is adorable - if I do say so myself. 

standing on the ocean (until I start sinking) 

[Ao3 Link]

Characters: TK Strand, Carlos Reyes

Pairings: TK Strand/Carlos Reyes

Length: 1,527

Summary: A collection of drabbles from tumblr prompts

1. A coffee mix up and an alternate meet-cute for our boys

———————————————————————

TK thought he was settling into Austin pretty well. He had been keeping busy with the renovations at the stations and the interviews for the crew, but in his downtime he had been doing his best to explore the city. So far he had found a good jogging route, a great organic market, even a decent boba place. The only struggle had been a coffee shop.

There was one right around the corner from the station that he had been hopeful about. The decor was kind of a cozy modern style and they had a great tea selection. He had ordered a matcha latte and leaned back to wait. The vibe of this place was pretty great; it was somehow simultaneously energetic and laid back. His name was called and he stepped forward, grabbing the cup nearest to him on the edge of the counter, flashing a smile to the barista. He took a sip as he turned around and almost spit it out. It was definitely not the green tea he had ordered, but he opened the lid to confirm.

The lid lifted to reveal the warm brown of coffee rather than the vivid green matcha he had been expecting. He turned around to say something, but one look at the barista drove any thoughts of complaining from his mind. She was a young girl, no more than 19, and she was working by herself. She already looked frazzled - TK couldn’t bring himself to put anything else on her. With a sigh he replaced the lid and exited the shop. As he took another sip he gave thanks that she had at least managed to put some hazelnut in when she screwed up his order; it actually wasn’t half bad.

-----

The first time the coffee shop screwed up his order he knew it was an accident. It had been busy and the poor barista had been overwhelmed.

But the second time? He was starting to wonder if this was personal.

Of course it was the one day he was running late so by the time his order arrived on the counter he grabbed it and was out the door and halfway down the block before he even took a sip. He faltered in his steps as he peered down at the cup. Not only was it not his order, but it was the same exact mix up as last time. He ran through the process of ordering in his head and wondered if maybe it was something about his inflection that made “matcha latte with oat milk” sound like “hazelnut coffee.” He glanced back at the shop and considered going back and asking for a replacement, but a quick glance at his watch told him that was not happening today. He sighed and took another sip of the hazelnut coffee as he continued his walk to the station.

He hoped whoever had his matcha was enjoying it.

------

The third, fourth, and fifth time it happened TK simply accepted his hazelnut coffee without question.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like coffee; it was just that he preferred to not drink it before a shift because they certainly drank more than enough of it during shift. Though if it was going to keep showing up with hazelnut, he supposed he couldn’t complain too much. It could be worse; it could be caramel, or something fruity.

He had mentioned the predicament to the others once in passing and Mateo had asked him why he didn’t just go to a different coffee shop. TK really didn’t have a good answer to that. There was just something about that place that he liked. It had a good feeling and the employees - despite the fact that they apparently had a mental block when it came to his order - seemed really nice. He had gotten chatting with some of them during slow mornings and had found that they were genuinely kind and interesting people. The proximity to the station didn’t hurt either.

Paul suggested that maybe they just thought that hazelnut coffee should be his drink, and TK didn’t know how he felt about being essentially set up on a blind date with his drink order. Judd simply wondered why he was even going to a coffee shop anyways when that had a “monstrosity of a coffee maker or something” (his words) there at the station. TK waved him off with a roll of his eyes, but the truth was that it was kind of a ritual. Something he always did and had always done before his shift. It helped to ground him; to calm him before the start of another inevitably crazy and stressful day.  

So it continued; each day before his shift TK would enter the coffee shop, greet the baristas, order his matcha latte, and leave with his hazelnut coffee. It became a routine; just another aspect of his life here in Austin.

On one such morning, TK relayed his order to the usual barista - Shannon - manning the register. This morning there were two people on shift so she relayed the order to the other barista, who picked up a cup and labeled it with a sharpie from her apron pocket. TK furrowed his brows, “Have you always labeled the cups?” he asked, “I don’t remember ever noticing that before.”

Shannon shook her head, “Jayla’s new. She just moved to town and apparently that’s what they used to do at her last job, so when she asked if we did I figured we may as well try it.”

TK nodded as he stepped out of line and let the person behind him step up to place their order. As much as he liked this place experience had shown him that accuracy was not their strongest suit, so this labeling practice could be interesting.

He leaned on his usual spot against the wall before the counter, idly fiddling with his phone as he waited. When his name was called he stepped forward and grabbed the cup. He was about to take a sip when the inscription caught his eye. He turned the cup to see it better.

“Carlos?” he read aloud, puzzled. He heard a chuckle from behind him.

“So you must be the coffee bandit,” a smooth voice said. TK spun around to find a (very attractive) police officer smiling at him. TK gaped at him for a moment before his brain managed to put together the pieces. “Carlos?” he asked.

The officer grinned and stuck out his hand, “Carlos Reyes, nice to meet you. Should I just call you Mr. Green Tea, or do I get to know the name of the man who has been stealing my coffee for the past month?”

Oh. Oh.

“TK Strand,” he said weakly, reaching out to shake the offered hand, “and I am so sorry. I had no idea; I just thought it was a mistake.”

Carlos raised his eyebrows, “For an entire month?”

TK shrugged, “Stranger things have happened. Besides, it seemed like something silly to get worked up over. What about you? You clearly were not looking to be drinking matcha every day, why didn’t you say anything?”

Now it was Carlos’s turn to look a little sheepish, “Same as you I guess. It didn’t seem like enough of an issue to make a fuss and I was honestly curious to see how long it would take before you figured it out.”

TK looked at him incredulously, “You knew I was taking your coffee? For how long?”

“It is kind of my job to figure things out,” Carlos said dryly, gesturing towards his uniform (which TK could not help but notice fit him very well), “I was pretty sure after the second time, and certain after the third. I have to say that the matcha kind of grew on me though.”

It was TK’s turn to laugh, “The hazelnut coffee’s not too bad either.”

The stood in silence for a few moments before TK spoke again, “I suppose I owe you some coffee, at the very least.”

Carlos hummed consideringly, “I supposed that’s fair. Besides, if we order together I think I stand a much better chance of actually seeing my coffee.”

“So, is it a date?”

Carlos reached around him to the counter and grabbed the cup waiting behind them. He grabbed a pen from the jar next to the register and scribbled something on it. He replaced the pen and handed the cup to TK with a sly grin.

“Count on it,” he said before taking his coffee from TK’s other hand and exiting the coffee shop.

TK remained rooted to his spot by the counter, stunned by this latest turn of events. He couldn’t believe that had just happened. There is no way any of this was real. But a glance down at the cup in his hand proved him wrong. His name was scrawled underneath the rim in sharpie, and below that; in blue pen and neat handwriting, was a phone number.

TK felt a grin spread across his face even as his heart fluttered. He knew there was a reason he liked this coffee shop.

Got a moment? Leave a comment!

[semperintrepida]

The Sellout

one: the meet cruel

Kyra had just started pulling a double shot when trouble swaggered through the door in the shape of a woman: tall, dark-haired trouble, broad-shouldered trouble, trouble wearing a business suit so perfectly tailored that Kyra could smell the money on her all the way from the other end of the bar.

The woman ambled up to the counter without so much as a glance at the menu board, instead letting her gaze sweep over the shop, from the regulars camped at the couches by the windows, to the empty tables in the center of the space, until her eyes finally came to rest upon Kyra herself.

Kyra put on a smile that was at least eighty percent fake and said, "I'll be right with you."

That made the woman nod, a measured movement not at all like the distracted nods most customers gave when told they'd have to wait, and something about it made prickles race across the back of Kyra's neck.

The shot was finished brewing, and Kyra cut the pull and returned her attention to the pitcher of steamed milk resting on the counter. She picked it up and gave it a gentle swirl, then took the cup with the shot from the drip tray and started pouring the milk into it. When the cup was nearly full, she began layering the foam so the ripples of white formed the body and upswept wings of a swan, finishing with a flourish that left a curving neck and the suggestion of a head and beak. There. A Leda in memory of love won and lost.

Kyra brought the cup to the register end of the bar, where she placed it on the pick-up counter and said in a loud voice, "Barney. Get your damn drink." It was three in the afternoon on a Tuesday, and the shop was empty except for the usual suspects — and the woman standing on the other side of the counter, who didn't seem the type to wilt before a curse word or two. A raised eyebrow and a quirk at the corner of her lips proved Kyra right.

Barney popped up from the couch with a grin. He liked it when Kyra played grumpy, and he practically danced up to the counter to claim his prize while the woman stepped aside to make room for him.

His eyes took in Kyra's creation, swan and all, and he placed his hand over his heart and said, "Kyra, you honor me," as he always did during his three o'clock moment of happiness. Their little ritual.

The woman watched their exchange with interest. Her stance was wide-legged and relaxed as she waited for Barney to shuffle away with his drink cradled in his hands. Then Kyra turned to her, and when their eyes finally met, another prickle swept across Kyra's neck and down her spine.

Hot. The woman was hot — and not just that but gorgeous, as trouble for Kyra always was. Her hair was tied up in a braid, and the muscled lines of her neck emerged from the crisp collar of her shirt to meet a strong jawline. Full lips. High cheekbones. And light brown eyes flecked with gold, piercing as a raptor's, studying Kyra in a very deliberate display of attention.

She was the kind of gorgeous that made Kyra do stupid things, and an irritated heat rose from Kyra's belly up through her chest, some of it slipping out her voice as she said, "What can I get started for you?"

"I'd love a latte as beautiful as that one," the woman said, her eyes flicking over to the couches, "but unfortunately I need mine to go."

A safe and timid choice, incongruent for someone who radiated confidence and power, but if Kyra had a dollar for every time she'd seen people make odd choices while standing under the hot, track-lit glare of her coffee shop's menu, she'd have enough money to stop worrying about making the rent. "What size?"

"Grande," the woman answered automatically, but then she seemed to catch herself and said, "No, wait. Make it a twelve ounce, please."

Kyra could have unpacked a lot from that collection of answers, but she didn't want trouble to linger in her thoughts any longer than necessary. At least the woman had said please. "That'll be three fifty."

The woman reached inside her jacket and pulled out her wallet, but it was less a wallet than a thin stack of credit cards sandwiched between two similarly-sized plates of metal, with a wad of cash clipped to it. She peeled off a bill and pushed it across the counter. Her nails were short and well-shaped. No wedding ring, but the crown of a watch, large and masculine, peeked out from the cuff of her suit jacket.

Kyra punched the order into the register and made change for the twenty, sliding the coins and bills back across the counter. "I'll have it ready shortly," she said, and she walked back up the bar, picking up a paper cup from the stacks along the way.

Kyra's beloved La Marzocco awaited, its polished stainless steel shining in the light, a marvel of coffee engineering. Three group heads, two steam wands, and enough room that she and Pete could work the morning rush without bumping elbows. The machine had cost her as much as a nice car. It also fed her and put a roof over her head. It was her baby, and working with it brought her joy with every pull.

She felt herself smiling as she twisted the portafilter from the head and knocked the spent coffee grounds into a bin. Then she measured out the beans and started the grinder, wiping the basket in the filter with the cloth that hung from her belt while the grinder whirred.

The woman was watching her, and the weight of that gaze bore down on her and made her shiver despite the warmth thrown off by the machine. She focused on the dose. On the tamp. Not too much force, not too light, the grounds smooth and even, waiting for the heat and moisture and pressure that would combine separate parts into one, delicious moment.

While the espresso shot was pulling, she poured milk into a clean pitcher, then purged the wand and dunked it inside the milk to steam, the pitcher's cold steel warming against her skin as the liquid swirled and foamed. And when it was too hot to touch, she set it on the counter so the foam could rest while she wiped down the wand and lost herself in the familiar motions of crafting a latte.

A minute later, Kyra set the cup in front of the woman, next to the pile of change that sat untouched where Kyra had left it. "Enjoy," she said.

The woman took a sip, and her eyes widened. Then she sipped again, and a slow smile spread across her lips. But instead of taking her drink and leaving, she looked at Kyra and asked, "How long has this place been here?"

"Ten years."

It was interesting, the way the woman's face told Kyra two different stories: her features were open and friendly, but her eyes held calculated intent. "And how's business these days?"

Wariness uncoiled itself from its slumber around Kyra's belly and lifted its head. "Better than it looks at the moment."

"You're a bit far from MLK."

"MLK" was Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, and like every MLK in a big city in the US, the name had been bestowed on a street in what had once been an industrial wasteland fifty years ago but was now a busy thoroughfare today. When Kyra first signed the lease for this shop, there was only one brewpub in the neighborhood, and her neighbors were a vacuum wholesaler and a logging equipment distributor. Ten years later, there were seven brewpubs within walking distance and nearly as many distilleries. "This isn't a Starbucks drive-through. Distillery Row brings in a lot of folks on tasting tours. So do all the brewpubs, and there's a streetcar line just up the way. But what would a barista know about foot traffic metrics or exposure value, right? Your eyebrows are already sky-high."

The woman smiled and matched her gaze. "All right. Let's talk about exposure value. What's the premium in cost per square foot for a high visibility retail space in this neighborhood?"

Kyra lifted her chin. "Does that work on everyone?"

"What?"

"The eye contact. The smile."

The smile in question widened a fraction. "And just what do you think I'm trying to do?"

"You're bullshitting me. And I don't know why."

"I'm new in town and I'm curious about this area. And who better to ask than the person who delivers the daily caffeine fix to everyone in the neighborhood. I didn't expect to get my head bitten off." Oh, she was good, how her voice had slipped into a hurt pout at the end. But her eyes gave her away, the hard glint within them almost predatory.

"Are you going to ask to see my manager?"

"Should I?"

"It won't get you very far."

Realization dawned. "You are the manager."

"Think bigger, lamb. I know I don't look like much." With her flannel shirt and black skinny jeans cuffed above a pair of Docs, Kyra knew she looked like every barista in Portland.

The woman took a breath as if she were tasting it, then she grinned and said, "You own this shop."

"Now you're catching on."

"Is this how you treat all your customers?"

"No, just the ones who come in under false pretenses." The words hung in the air between them, and Kyra crossed her arms. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"You haven't helped me at all, but the drink was delicious."

"If you're still sore about it after you get back to your Mercedes, you can put that down as your one star review on Yelp."

The woman laughed and raised her cup in a mock toast. "Well, this has certainly been exciting," she said, heading for the door. "I can't wait to see what happens the next time I come in."

"Next time? I'll be surprised if I see you again," Kyra said, but as she eyed the pile of change sitting untouched on the counter, her gut told her she'd better start preparing for trouble to return.

"Is that wishful thinking I hear?" The woman looked back with a smirk as she reached for the door. "Oh, you'll be seeing a lot more of me, I promise," she said. Then she winked at Kyra and left the shop.

Kyra rolled her eyes and tossed the money into the tip jar.

A whistle pierced the air, then Ellen's voice piped up from the couches. "Who the fuck was that?"

"Someone who just paid twenty bucks for a latte."

"Ooh, Kyra's lucky day. And even after you were such a bitch to her."

"That woman is bad news."

"You say that about every beautiful woman who walks in here."

"This time I'm worried about business, not pleasure." She'd never be able to explain the wariness she'd felt the moment the woman had started asking questions. Kyra had learned long ago to listen to that feeling whenever it stirred.

"That wasn't just a business transaction. She was into you."

"No she wasn't. She came in here looking for something, and that something wasn't me or a drink."

"You're so fucking paranoid sometimes."

One person's paranoia was another person's survival skill. Kyra had spent a childhood predicting the liquor-fueled winds of her father's rage, and that had made a home for wariness to live within her gut, along with host of other tools she used to discern a person's intent, to read the signals they gave off before they acted.

Her father was long dead, but his legacy lived on. These days, she used it to give customers what they wanted when they had no idea what that was. But it also helped her read certain situations, like whenever someone tried to pitch her a new business opportunity, or whenever a man entered the shop in the empty minutes just before closing.

"Ellen, leave her be," Harold said gently. He was the third of Kyra's trio of regulars, a retired history professor who fancied himself a sage. "Kyra has much to do, and I doubt she wants to spend it worrying about the unknowns on the horizon."

He was right, though. Kyra didn't want to think about trouble or her questions, or the fact that her hand-tailored suit probably cost more than the shop's rent each month.

Kyra reached down for the rag she used to clean the countertops, and shivered.

Continued in chapter two...

[holdthosebees]

Never Quite Free

Author’s Note: Part 2 of my series, WKELTAOTTMGATMASFAB. Part 1 and explanation here. In this installment: Jon and Martin, in (web-induced) retirement.

Pairing: Jon/Martin, kind of

Quote: Just the whole damned song.

It shouldn’t be possible, the level of domesticity they fall into. They move out into the countryside, away from London and the Institute, and into a tiny little house with a blue door and a neat little garden plot. Fewer people means fewer temptations on Jon’s part, although sometimes he passes someone in the produce aisle or in line to buy coffee and just knows, in that terrible visceral way, and he wants. If Martin is with him, and he usually is, he’ll put a hand on Jon’s shoulder or back and steer him away, the touch gentle but firm. If Martin isn’t with him, Jon will ball his own hands into fists in his pockets and bite down on his tongue until the urge vanishes or the person leaves. Some days, it’s all he can do not to chase after them. Martin gives him a worry stone with a depression like a thumbprint in the center, and its weight in his pocket is both promise and constraint. Another anchor.

    Martin gets a job as an assistant at a bookshop. It doesn’t pay much, but they have the funds they took from the Institute when they left, which they know no one will come looking for. Basira promised them as much, when she took over as head. It was enough to buy the house, and it’s enough that Jon doesn’t have to work, not yet. Instead he spends his days cleaning and gardening and cooking and trawling the internet for supernatural forums, tracking any sign of the lightless flame, or the web. It isn’t enough. Basira sends him statements every month, wrapped up neatly in a cardboard box. These also aren’t enough. 

When he gets the package Jon spends the next three days holed up in his room, reading, devouring. He is no longer the Archivist, but once you are marked you can never return to what you were. Martin leaves food on a tray outside of the door and knocks every night to remind him to sleep. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. When he emerges finally after those three days Martin takes the rest of the statements up to the attic for later, then manhandles him into the shower. Their life together is full of many petty intimacies, some of them uncomfortable; Martin’s hands against his scalp while he washes out his hair is one of Jon’s favorites, although he would never admit it out loud. He can tip his head back under the hot water, sated and safe, and allow himself a short period of rest. 

It doesn’t come easy. The nightmares haven’t stopped, although the new ones come less frequently. One morning he remarks to Martin over breakfast that perhaps he is outliving the statement givers. He makes a joke about hunting them down and killing them for a good night’s sleep, and Martin purses his lips and unfolds his morning paper a little too roughly in response. Later, Jon insists on doing the dishes even though he cooked, and Martin insists on helping even though he’s wearing a decent button up because he has a shift soon, and they even sing a long a little to the radio as they clean. 

This is something Jon has discovered about Martin since they moved in together: he likes to sing, is good at it if he thinks no one is listening, but will try to hit the high notes even if they’re way out of his range. It was annoying, until it wasn’t. And then eventually it was annoying again, but a different, softer kind of annoying, and Jon felt comfortable in the fact that even if he complained Martin would not stop singing, not entirely. 

There’s a cat in the bookstore where Martin works, and Jon starts bringing him lunch as an excuse to see the cat, and then just to get out of the house. This is how he meets Martin’s coworkers: Allen, the owner, who is slowly going deaf. His granddaughter, Kelly, who smells like bubblegum and has never left this tiny town. Amina, who keeps lizards and asks Jon leading questions about how he and Martin met and how long they’ve been roommates, and how nice it is that they’ve found each other. Jon doesn’t bother correcting her. There aren’t words to describe the ways in which he and Martin are connected to one other, not in English, but the closest one is probably husband. 

The world goes on. Jon gets occasional emails from Daisy with rambling updates, most of the information personal. Mixed into the snippets of office gossip and meditation on new tattoos are bits of important information: the Lonely was going to attempt another ritual, the Vast made an attack on the archive, Basira came in one morning and found her entire office covered in cobwebs. Always long after the fact, too long for him to be of any use. He tries not to miss it.

Whenever he thinks about returning to the Archive he remembers the door in his mind, and it is only the thrumming of the thread that binds him to Martin that prevents him from trying to go back. Even for a moment. Just to see a sliver of that endless ocean of knowledge, pure and beautiful. It makes his head ache just imagining it, and he can feel the press of Martin’s concerned disapproval. 

They are tethered to each other, and eventually to the house as well, and Jon does his best to make peace with that. He mostly succeeds, although not without incident. It is five years after they moved in together, five and a half since what Jon has privately and sardonically started to refer to their ‘wedding night,’ when Jude Perry finds them. Martin is at work. Jon is busy in the garden, weeding out the basil. The summer sun is hot on his back, and he stops to wipe sweat off his forehead and grab a drink of water when he sees her. 

She’s leaning on the fence, her arms crossed, watching him. When they make eye contact, she waves, a sarcastic little flip of the hand. Jon stands slowly--his legs aren’t what they used to be, are aging as fast as his mostly-grey hair--and walks down the garden path towards her. He stops three feet away, his burned hand tucked out of sight in his pocket. 

“What do you want?” he says. Once, it would have stopped Jude Perry cold, holding her in place until he’d drained her of information and fear. Now, she only laughs. 

“Don’t even try it, Archivist,” she says. “Except, you’re not the archivist anymore, are you? Pathetic. I was just in the area, thought I’d drop by. See where the Mother of Puppets stashed you away.” 

“Don’t try anything,” Jon says. He puts a little force behind it, voice dropping into a growl. 

“Or what?” Jude is clearly enjoying herself. The wooden fence post has started to smoke where it meets her skin. “You’ll throw a trowel at me? Ooo, scary.”

“I might, if you don’t go away.” 

“Tell me,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “does it hurt, being put out to pasture like a lame mare? Knowing that your little friends in the institute are harnessing the power that should have been yours? Does it rankle, being shackled at the leg to that useless man--”

“That’s enough,” Jon says, with more confidence than he feels. He hefts the trowel menacingly. “Tell me what you’re doing here, or get out.” 

“Don’t fuck with me, Archivist,” Jude Perry says. Her fingers tighten on the rail, and the smell of woodsmoke fills the air. “I could burn this all down around your ears. Maybe you’d even thank me, eventually, for freeing you. If I don’t kill you first.”

“No,” Jon says. “I don’t think you can.”

Jude Perry says nothing. Her upper lip peels back, revealing teeth. 

“If you could,” Jon continues, emboldened, “you’d have done it already. I don’t think the web will let you. For whatever reason, it wants me alive. And you’re not powerful enough to fight the web, not yet. Not on your own.” 

“You’re pathetic,” Jude Perry says. “There’s nothing here worth burning.” She turns away, gives him a jaunty salute as she leaves. Over her shoulder, she calls, “You can’t pretend forever, you know!” 

Jon watches her go. He has clenched his burnt hand too hard; it throbs where his fingernails dug into the skin. Martin will be home in three hours, at which point they will make dinner in companionable silence. If it’s a nice night, they’ll take chairs out to the back deck, and eat while watching the stars. Jon will ask Martin about work, and Martin will ask Jon about the garden. They’ll ignore the strands that bind them together so tightly that sometimes Jon takes in a breath and feels Martin let it out, and they’ll ignore the fact that Jon barely picks at his food and Martin flinches and goes still whenever he sees a house centipede or an ordinary earthworm, and later on in bed they will cling to one another and whisper where only the night can hear them of the dead, of Tim and Sasha and Martin’s mother and everything else they’ve lost, or else they’ll lie in silence and wait for the tide of distant and unforgiving dreams to break. “I know,” Jon says. Then he turns, and walks back to the garden. There is still work to be done before nightfall, and the basil isn’t going to weed itself.

[adorkemis]

My farm has some unusual occurrences...

With Halloween coming up I thought I'd post some stories that happened here at my little co-op farm. Its a small farm I bought with my best friend and her husband that we run and take in unwanted animals, that is when we aren't working our day jobs, charity-volunteer, or Search and Rescue cases.

So in the spirit of the season I'll start with the unusual events leading up to our first Halloween. On the night of the Autumn Equinox we built a bonfire and poured ourselves a few drinks- some family recipe Appalachian home brew.

Now, I take bonfires very seriously and had been preparing for weeks, carefully selecting the best branches and tinder, even going so far as to collect and dry out large bundles of late summer flowers and herbs to add to the top of the fire. In my family, we have a long standing tradition of welcoming in each new season with a bonfire and an important component of those seasonal bonfires are the flowers and herbs. So for weeks I had been going out to cut the necessary plants and dry them in the barn.

Now they were blazing brightly with the cut grass, weeds, and branches from our months of hard work setting up and renovating our new home and the surrounding acers.

I don't normally dance, but when I do, it is not pretty I am very, very intoxicated. So I flail happily around my fire, taking turns dancing with my friends under the bright stars and just enjoying myself free from big cities and a nice break from all our hard work.

As the night progressed the fire finally began to die down and after a few drinks I felt myself beginning to tire.

Ty, the husband of my friends asked me question that I wasn't quite able hear over the music. I thought he asked if I wanted more to drink, so I said yes. Being deaf in one ear I often mishear people.

A few moments later, I hear Ty holler out "Move!" as a large pile of debris we had stripped from the house was hurled onto the dieing flames. Krystal (my friend and wife of the pair) and I jumped back just in time to avoid the cloud of ash and embers. As I stagger backwards trying to comprehend what I had just witnessed when he again yells out for us to move just in time for me to watch him throw a bucket onto the smoldering embers. In the next instant the embers have erupted into bright yellow flames roaring skyward. The blast of heat sends all three of us onto our asses and I watch in shock as my bonfire turns into a flaming trash heap.

Black smoke rolls off the inferno, choking my lungs and making my eyes water. I crawl away when I hear Ty laughing drunkenly as the collection of boards, plaster, vinyl and trash blacken and burn. "Whoooo!" He lets out hill billy hollar. "Look at it burn!"

Krystal is now screaming at him for nearly killing us all and I just and watch quietly (and inebriated) as all my weeks of planning go up in smoke.

For you see, when my ancestors started the first Farm centuries ago, at the birth of our bonfire traditions, it was not a way to simply celebrate the changing of the seasons. No, it was a way to show respect to the things that we do not see, the beings that dwell within the woods just outside our view. It was a way of making peace with the Good Nieghbors, or local spirits. The old stories say the tradition started with my earliest ancestors inviting the beings to celebrate with them, to thank them for their protection, and that the plants we used were a sign of respect toward that treaty. Of course as the generations go by that origin has become more of a legend, few of my extended family actually believes this ritual is anything more than a leftover from our pagan, superstitious roots. But me and my grandfather know the truth. We've seen the things that lurk at the edge of the forests, seen what they can do to livestock, livelihoods, or of course people.

So imagine, if you will, you are invited to a party. A party filled with wonderful cakes, treats, and beautiful decorations. Now imagine someone literally dumps a pile of garbage on top of it.

That essentially is what has happened.

So I sit there, unsure how to tell my arguing friends what has just happened, and finally decide to just go to bed.

The next morning I wake up in the predawn hours, hungover from our libations, I look out my window see the fire pit is still smoldering. The black smoke is now grey and I can see old wires birnt black and twisted with pits of melted plastic sticking to the stones I dug up and carried from the creek.

I sigh, put on a pair of pants and go to rhe kitchen to make the moring coffee.

As the smell of the black brew wafts through the house, my cohabints emerge from their room looking as good as I feel.

My throat feels tight and scratchy so I simply raise my mug to them in greeting and am met with simular responses.

"Sorry Ty tried the burn the house down," Krystal offers when she has her coffee prepared.

"Hey, I said move!" Ty tries to protest his actions were justified.

I sign to Krystal, who translates for Ty, that its all good. Even though it may not be.

Back at my family's old Farm we hold to our traditions very seriously, like an old woman to her purse. I don't expect my friends to understand the importance of these traditions just yet, and believe me, I know how it sounds to explain these.

But instead I finish my coffee and try to tell them I'm off to start the morning chores, but my vioce comes out in a raspy gravel, so again I sign to Krystal.

Morning chores are typically the bane of my existence, but as I have the day off from my day job so it's not as bad, and it gives me time to think. I obviously can't just write an apology letter or throw another bonfire, the next time to hold one won't be until Halloween- and thats just for fun, normally. No instead I'll just have to my Buck Moon ritual will be enough to protect us from any malevolent spirits we may have offended.

I will note the Buck Moon ritual is NOT one of family's ancient traditions (well, on the Farm its called the Hay Moon and we did use to do something for that) but one I deviced myself as a way protecting myself when away from the Farm and the protection of the Hay Moon rites.

Nothing exactly happened that day, though none of the chickens had laid any eggs (which wasn't too far out the norm) however as the weeks progressed I noticed a few things that hinted something might be wrong.

The milk turned sour, the bread molded, and the grass began to die while the weeds began to overtake the pasture and garden. The grain barrels (thick plastic and metal that were advertised as critter proof) in the barn were chewed through and no matter what type of traps or bait I used the elusive culprits were still at large.

The chickens continued to not lay eggs and we soon went from an overwhelming plethora of tradable goods to a tiny stock barely able to feed ourselves. Not to mention that my voice had still yet to return making my job at the animal hospital very difficult to perform properly. My manager had to pull me aside and ask when I would be seeing a doctor about. If I could have laughed I would have but instead I was sent home early.

When the third week started of me being continuously mute and down to my last 6 eggs I new something had to be done. But the final motivation was when one of the horses, Cowboy, got sick. Immediately I called one of my vets and began to put my plan into action.

Thankfully the horse that was sick wasn't my horse, Prince. My family use to breed and sell horses for generations and Prince was one of the last horses born there. Prince is also very important to the Buck Moon ritual. As an avid hunter I normally follow all the hunting laws to a T, however for the Buck Moon I can only hunt in the middle of the night on horseback. Prince is the only horse we have trained for hunting so he's my only hope.

The day of the hunt I set everything up. My saddlebags, bow and arrows, along with a few less than normal trinkets. And in the express interest of keeping this long story short, I'm just going to skip ahead to the part where Prince and I return just before dawn with yearling buck being dragged behind us. Maybe I'll get a chance to explain more about it. How finding the deer took all night and the other beasts we saw in those woods, Gas Mask Gary, and how when we finally made it back with an hour to complete the ritual I was covered in blood and exhausted but still I got it done.

Work was not fun that day but luckily my sore throat was better and I had fresh eggs for breakfast. Along with some venison steaks.

I believed that the ritual had worked and soon our fall vegetables would be ready to harvest and everything wouldnbe back to normal.

To my relief, it was. Our vegetables and eggs were taken to market and our horse, Cowboy, was better almost overnight. I could finally talk again and had almost forgotten everything until October 30, the night before Halloween.

Like I said earlier we are renovating the house and one of the last rooms is the Krystal and Ty's bathroom- the master bath. We had ripped out the old vinyl and redoing some of the plumbing which left a small hole in the floor. We had all pretty much gotten ready for bed and Ty and I were outside with our last cigarettes for the day when we heard Krystal scream from the bathroom. We tossed our cigs and both ran toward the bathroom, Ty rapping on the door. "Babe, you alright?" He called thrpugh the door. Inside we could hear quiet the cacophony of noise, like bull in a China shop type deal. When Krystal started yelling again Ty and I burst through the door.

Krystal was armed with broom like a lance 8n one hand and towel like a whip in the other. And emerging out the whole in the floor was a black eyed, foam spitting raccoon. Its little claws dug into the vinyl leaving deep grooves and a horrific coughing, gagging noice emitted from its throat.

"Its rabid!" She yelled and jabbed the broom at it.

I've seen a rabid raccoon before, and so has Krystal, we've both worked those kinds of cases but this raccoon was different. Yes they will try to run up and attack, but it looked different. Like its skin wasn't on right and the sounds it made weren't what I had heard from raccoons- rabid or not.

Finally the little beast pulled itself free from the whole and ran, on its hind legs toward. All three of screamed but Krystal armed with her trusty broom hit it with everything she had and smashed its head into the cabinet.

For a moment the raccoon wobbled a few steps before it fell over, the mishape of its body more pronounced but even more damning was the blood running out its eyes and nose. Thick, black, tar like blood oozed from its head and the smell of rot and shit filled the bathroom.

Ty and Krystal nearly gagged as the smell hit us.

"What the fuck is that?" I head Ty ask as he pulled his shirt over his noes.

"It tried to kill me!" Krstal yelled. "I was trying take a shit and it climped up with its little paws!" She made a hand motion mimicking the raccoon reaching threw the whole. "We patching that whole tonight."

"Why does it smell so bad" Ty asked. "I ain't touching it."

I was oy half listening (well, less so than I normally can) and took the broom from Krystal to poke the thing.

As soon as the bristles touched the body the raccoon jumped back up, making even more gagging noises. I slammed the broom immediately on top of it, screaming again.

I grabbed a glass sitting on the counter and threw it onto the writhing beast. As soon as the water splashed onto its patchy fur a hissing could bebheard and steam rose from its now thrashing body.

"Holy fuck!" They screamed while I simply responded "Thats where I put the Holy water!"

The demonic raccoon was screaming and convulsing on the floor infront of us as the water burned it.

Krystal turned to me. "Why was there holy water in my bathroom?!"

I shrugged. "Divine intervention? But now we know its a raccoon corpse possessed by a demon."

Krystal threw her hands up. "Oh that is wonderful! Demon coon in the house!"

I looked back at Ty. "Can you help me grab my things?"

He just nodded, somewhat dumbfounded. I guess this was his first possessed raccoon.

It only took a few minutes to gather the stuff I would use. However there was one last thing I needed.

"So, I can't really banish it without its name and raccoons don't have vocal cords so I need to put it something that can talk." I looked Krystal in the eyes with a pleading look.

She shook her head. "Oh hell no. We are not doing that. Can't we use my in-laws?"

"Hey!" Ty was not amused. "Why can't we use your family?"

"We're not using anyones family!" I was tired and the circle I had made for the demon wasn't going to hold forever. "Krys, please."

In defeat she sighed and left the room for few minutes. While she was gone I prepped Ty on what was about to occur. I handed him a blessed knife I had and told him "If it leaves the circle, no matter the vessel, stab it hard enough to pin it to the floor." He looked at the long blade and just nodded.

Krystal camd back in with her son's Tickle Me Elmo doll. That thing gave us all the creeps but now it would be put to some good use.

I made second circle with very specific symbols, not dissimilar to the first one that held the Satanic flailing beast and drew a kind of infinity like symbol touching each circle. Krystal placed the Elmo doll in the new circle and I began the ritual.

If you have only seen exorcisms in movies or tv you will think there has to a Bible, screaming, and lots of flailing along with green pea soup.

It's possible all of those things could happen if you are dealing with humans, especially eccentric ones. A raccoon corpse on the other hand, not so much. The only difficult part I have is not knowing the demons name and the time crunch I have on the circles. Once the water dries, I probably won't be able to hold it back. And yes, like I told Krystal I can banish it but it could just pop up right back. And then we could be in a loop trying to constantly send him back and forth back and forth. Instead, I can trap him in a body that doesn't have claws or teeth or rabies. Which is what I did.

The words don't matter so long as you believe them, so long as you give them power. Now that doesn't mean I can just say whatever I want. I have a long monologue I use that took me years to perfect. It's written in few languages most ancient Hebrew and Hellenistic Greek with a bit of Gaelic thrown in for that extra punch. These are the languages that are strongest to me.

Except I have to read them slowly, if I mess up a single syllable I have to start all over. And I have a mild speech impediment. And worse sometimes.

Carefully I pronounce each syllable, its still a race against time and if mispronounce anything I will have to start over.

The smell of rot and shit is getting worse and the demon-raccoon starts convulsing madly. The black blood is still flowing from its head but as it slamns it head and claws at its body the black tar leaves smoldering smudges in the bare floor.

I'm nearing the mid point of the ritual and motion to my roommates to leave the room. Krystal tries to get my attention, to tell me no she is staying there but I pour all my focus into the words I'm spewing. If anything goes wrong, and the demon doesn't go into the proper vessel it could easy posses my friends. And while a simple wooden door won't keep a demon from possessing a host, if there is only one visible option they typically take it.

I hear the soft click of the door behind me. I raise my voice and the raccoon is now actively ripping fur and flesh off itself. The most ear peircing scream emits from its maw of broken teeth, I can see black blood gurgling in the back of ots throat. My stomach almost feels sick but I push on.

I hold up my left hand and draw a second knife along my open palm. I didn't want my roommates to see the self mutilation that is part of this exorcism. I hold my bloody hand above the irate demon. I let the blood drip a new circle around the demon.

The smell of apple blossums, cedarwood, and salt water mixes with the demonic stench from the raccoon. Its enough to be overwhelming and for a brief moment I almost stumble over the final phrase but it comes out well articulated.

The sound of bones snapping fill the room as I watvh the raccoon literally brake in half, part of its spinal column protruding from the stomach. Black blood spew from its mouth, filling the circle.

In the neighboring circle I hear the little voice box of the doll come to life. "Elmo loves you!"

Stupid fucking demons.

I scoop up the now animate doll and hand it to Krystal. "I had one rule!" I yell as I stumble to my room. "No goddamn demons!"

The next day, Halloween, was like any other day. I went to work, did my chores, rode my horse. The new addition of locking Helmo wasn't too offsetting. He still gets out of his case and walks around, rather poorly, but so far he can't do much. Aside annoy us with his flailing and constant prerecorded chatter. "Hehehe. That tickles!"

"No shit, Helmo!"

"Fuck off, Helmo!"

Sometimes, when he is too much, we put him in shoebox. Other times we might even take a stab at him. He doesn't like that.

But the arrival of our wayward demon isn't what upset me. No, what upset the most was what happened Halloween night and the next morning.

As we sat around the bonfire Halloween night in our costumes with our drinks and smokes I glanced up. Through the flames, at the edge of the woods I could see a tall, lean figure in a hoody. The flames reflected off the lenses of the gasmask that covered his face and I felt a cold shutter run down my spine. Gas Mask Gary is the biggest enigma in the town, but his presence always means something strange and possibly dangerous is going to happen.

The next morning when I rose up to care the animals before getting ready for work, I saw something unusual in the extinguished firepit. In the predawn light I walked over closer to inspect it.

A door made of hard carved wood with a plain handle lay unmarked as if raising out the soot and ashes.

Fuck. A Door to Nowhere.

[kaleidoscopic-writing]

In the Shadow of Your Heart

PROLOGUE

a/n: Let me know your thoughts! I know I said Saturday but my weekend ended up being a bit crazier than expected!!

“Nina, if you don’t hurry up, I am leaving without you,” Charlotte yelled down the narrow hallway. 

Charlotte had approximately one minute to leave the apartment to make the 7:42 four train, which would place her at Wall Street exactly fourteen minutes later. This gives Charlotte three minutes to get to her building and ride the elevator up to the 67th floor, leaving her a minute to collect herself before her day starts. This is a sacred ritual that Charlotte had developed three weeks since she started at S&FP. 

Then, at exactly eight o’clock, Charlotte would ask Alice, her boss, and whoever Alice was having morning meetings with what they would like to drink or for breakfast. Alice was very particular and followed a meticulous routine, so in the mere two weeks that Charlotte had been working for Alice, she already knew her morning order like the back of her hand. 

Presently though, Charlotte had about 30 seconds to get out of her building, and her whimsical roommate was still no where in sight. Nina usually did not have to leave until an hour usually after Charlotte did, so when Nina said last night that she had to be up earlier for a doctor’s appointment and that they could take the train down together, Charlotte was already skeptical that Nina would be timely.

“Hey ninny,” Charlotte called out the mocking name, a nickname she had called Nina since they first became friends a few years ago. “I am leaving now. I’m serious. I’ll see you tonight at Alberto’s, okay?”

Without waiting for a confirmation, Charlotte sprinted out the door. Walking down three floors and out the door, Charlotte was ready to take on the day. With her (cheap) coffee in hand that she made herself, Charlotte strutted down her street towards the subway entrance. The city was slowly starting to wake. Dogs and owners pass by Charlotte as they take their morning walk, kids walk out of their buildings going on their way to school, and mostly, everyone starts on their  way to work, just like Charlotte. So, on the subway, Charlotte stood to one side of the subway car. Rubbing shoulders with people on all sides of her, her small hand holds onto the subway as she waits four stops until she can get off.

Without deviation, Charlotte’s subway ride comes to a stop fourteen minutes later. Getting off the subway, she noted the warming weather from nice spring weather to rising summer heat as she made her way to the building. Everything else was just as any other day. A sea of suits brush past her at every turn.

And of course, Charlotte wasn’t surprised when Alice gave her an order of four coffees from the Farm Irving down the road.

With a tray of coffees in her right hand and Alice’s coffee in her left, Charlotte’s tray began to shake. With twenty more floors to climb in the elevator, her arm was burning so bad, but she should have been used to it by now. Charlotte gets coffee for her boss and her morning meetings every day. Alice gets the same thing everyday: a large iced coffee with soy milk and sugar. The variable was just whomever she was meeting with that morning. Today must be a bigger meeting because she had four coffees in her other hand, whereas, it usually has only been one or two. Judging from the coffee, Charlotte guessed that this was a bigger meeting.

When Charlotte got out of the elevator, the clock above the receptionists desk said that it was 8:26 which means Alice’s meeting started in four minutes and most likely was already getting started in the conference room down the hall. That stupid long line at the coffee shop made her take a feel minutes longer getting the coffee. It’s okay, though, because she was almost done with her daily morning task, and once she dropped the coffee off in the meeting, she got to retreat to her own office, which was more like a cubicle in the back corner of the office that it felt  a office since it was a bit secluded. There, Charlotte got to relax in her chair and just go over spreadsheet, while sipping on her coffee she brings from home everyday.

Taking a few deep breaths to try and distract her from the burn in her arm holding up the coffee tray, Charlotte makes a note that she should probably go to the gym because her arm should not be this week. 

Turning the corner, Charlotte took in the people in the room. Alice sat on one side of the oval table, her back to the windows that look down Broadway. Alice usually sat at the head of the table, however, so Charlotte knew this was a different kind of meeting than she had seen before. Next to Alice sat a man in his 60s, Charlotte guess. His white hair on his head had disappeared in a ring on the top of his head, and his tanned skin looked wrinkled with years of tasking work, most likely. Across from them sat two women — Charlotte was inspired by the female presence in the room. Both women looked middle age and held a beautiful aurora of successful business women. 

“Ah, Charlotte, always perfect in getting the coffees in time!” Alice said kindly, extending out her hand as Charlotte stepped forward with her coffee. Noticing Charlotte hesitation in handing out the coffees to the people whom she did not know. “Oh, excuse me, Charlotte this is Alexander Smith, executive VP of mortgage equities acquisitions. Alexander, this is my newest intern, Charlotte King, and he ordered the small black coffee.”

Charlotte extended her empty hand out to Alexander, shaking his hand, as he gave her a courteous smile. “It is so nice to meet you, Mr. Smith.” Then handing him the coffee, Charlotte turned her attention to the two women on the other side of the table. 

“This is Harriet Wilson, one of the longest working employees here and COO of S&FP. She ordered the large iced caramel latte.” Again, Charlotte shook hands with the nice woman, and handed her her coffee. “And, this Elizabeth Woodside. Elizabeth is the executive secretary to Harry, and the small coffee with cream and sugar is hers!”  Elizabeth shook her hand and took her coffee, but Charlotte was still confused why there was still one coffee left in her hand, and who Harry was. “You can just place the last coffee right on the table. Harry will walk in this door right at 9:30.”

Charlotte placing the large black coffee on the head of the table in front of her. Moving the tray behind her back, Charlotte was about to say a kind goodbye when Ms. Wilson spoke. “Where do you come from Charlotte? Are you getting your masters?”

“Yes, I am getting my masters,” Charlotte spoke with a smile, feeling all eyes on her. “I just finished my first semester at Columbia,, but originally I’m from a small town upstate.”

“Very impressive, Ms. King,” Ms. Wilson spoke. Her smile was kind and welcoming, which was not something she has come across often in her first few weeks here. Sometimes it felt like she had the words intern plastered on her forehead, and all the employees she walked past each day knew it. But, Charlotte also knew she was being irrational; everyone is just busy with their own work. This isn’t social hour, and Charlotte was here to work too. Charlotte, then, resorted her days to working in her office, playing music in her headphones, because she was afraid she would bother someone with her music if the possibly heard it. It was a little hole but Charlotte enjoyed it.

“Thank you, Ms. Wilson.” Charlotte beamed. 

“Please, call me Harriet. I know every woman says the same thing about this, but Mrs. Wilson is my mother-in-law.” Everyone laughed at Harriet’s comment. “Do you know Margaret Prince at Columbia? I believe she is the dean of the economics program.”

“I do, yes. I worked with her last year, as a part of her program that was looking into and evaluating the program’s strengths and weaknesses. Since then, we have actually kept up a bit of a correspondence.”

My answer brought about a big smile from Harriet. “Dean Prince is one of my very close friends. We have worked very closely over the years for placement for her students, when I was under different positions for this company. That responsibility isn’t mine anymore, but Prince and I remained very good friends. She is a great woman to know, and I would recommend keeping up a relationship with her.”

Charlotte nodded, taking in the advice. “Thank you so much, Harriet. I will definitely keep that in mind.”

“What part of upstate are you from?” Alexander questioned.

“Saratoga. Really more so, I am from a town about a half an hour from there, but it falls under the umbrella of Saratoga, so all my schooling was through Saratoga.”

“I love Saratoga. It is such a beautiful town.”

Charlotte loved her small town, and in the past few years she has been in the city, few have ever been to Saratoga when she had mentioned it. Hearing that Alexander understood the beauty of Saratoga made Charlotte proud. “It is so beautiful. I miss it everyday.”

“The race track is so historic. My family used to go up for a weekend of the races.”

“Yes, it’s so —“

“Good morning everyone,” a voice spoke behind Charlotte.

Immediately, Charlotte stepped aside further to the side of the room, making way for the voice that seemed commanding with so few words. When she turned, Charlotte wasn’t expecting anyone in particular, since that voice was unfamiliar to her — deep with a slow foreign draw. However, she most certainly not expecting Harold Styles to enter. She had seen his pictures around the office, and even the internet. This was his family business, and he was definitely an integral part in it. Right now, he held the title of President of derivatives and equities, one of a few members under his father’s immediate team. Though it would have to be approved by the board, it is long assumed that he will one day take over his father’s job. Alice held a high title within the company as executive VP of derivatives and futures, so Harold was one of the few she reported to, but Charlotte thought that Harold was more of her bosses boss, than hers.

Moving to the side though, Charlotte took in his appearances in person. His hair was a bit longer than the short cut that she had seen in pictures before, maybe it had been a while since he had gotten his haircut. It was still short, but now, it was long enough to show curls atop his head. His face was clean shaven; with a prominent jawline on display. His expression seemed neutral enough, not angry but definitely not happy. Maybe a bit of annoyance, Charlotte really couldn’t tell.

For Harold, his eyes took in the room in front of him, eyes immediately drawn to the person in the room who he did not know. She was tall and slim, but not too skinny. He noticed her hair, curly with bangs that framed her face nicely. She stood to the side of the room, moving out of his way when she heard his voice. She seemed startled at his entrance, which kind of annoyed him. This was a meeting, and everyone know he was coming in at 8:30. She was still standing there, when they made eye contact. A small hesitant smile spread on her lips, but Harry did not reciprocate.

He moved his gaze away from Charlotte to the his employees, but Charlotte let out no sigh of relief. She was embarrassed. Why did she smile at him? Well actually that seemed like the normal thing to do. Why didn’t he smile back? 

She didn’t know if she should go or not. She was in conversation with the other people in the room before Harry came in, but she had a feeling that it was back to business when he entered the room.

“Good morning, Harry, and thank you so much, Charlotte, we are good from here.” Alice spoke, her words friendly to her superior and kind enough to Charlotte to inform her that she should leave. With a small nod and smile to those at the table, Charlotte turned around. Not before catching Harold’s eye one last time, his stern eyes on her. She darted her eyes away immediately not willing to

Walking out of the room, Charlotte thought more about whom she just met. Well, she didn’t even really meet him. ‘Harry’ was intimidating but also fascinating. His work ethic from what she has read is amazing. His education at Harvard and continual rise through the company was inspiring, but Charlotte didn’t know if she could handle the pressure of it all. He just seemed to breathe success and Charlotte got out of breathe climbing three flights of stairs to her apartment. Charlotte realized she had been in thought about it all the way back and about five minutes into her sitting in her office space, so she pushed the sighting out of his head. Meanwhile, back in the conference room, Harry listened as Alexander read off some spreadsheets on the latest quarter’s reports. His mind wandered back to the girl from the beginning of the meeting, “Charlotte,” as Alice called her. As soon as she left the room, Alice apologized admitting she was her new intern and was a little too friendly. 

“She’s too nice, too young,” Alice said with a sigh. “Follows orders well, but I don’t know if she has the backbone for this field.”

“Give her a chance, Alice,” Harriet said. “She hasn’t had to face any challenges yet.”

“Exactly,” Alice replied. “She hasn’t.”

“If she can’t handle pressure, she can’t handle this job.” Harry interjected curtly. “Now, can we begin. I have brunch with a potential client at ten o’clock?”

Everyone replied with a nod, as Alexander began.

Now, sitting here fifteen minutes later, Harry thought of the intern. She was nice, but Harry didn’t have time for nice. Her presence earlier was unnecessary, as is her job as intern probably. Sitting somewhere reading reports Alice gave her, probably thinking she is doing important work. The thought almost made Harry laugh. Almost. If she is as Alice believes, though, she probably won’t be around much longer, Harry thought. The weak ones always quit or are fired. 

[consulting-celiac-in-the-tardis]

21 Easy (and Cozy) Self Care Ideas to Practice this Winter

New blog post! Now that winter is making days shorter, colder and darker, it's more important than ever to make self care part of your regular routine. And I'm not talking about the Instagram #selfcare that requires fancy bath bombs or expensive lotions. I'm talking about 21 easy ways that you can get cozy and relaxed this winter, whether you're a college student like me, a busy mother of two or a full-time worker with a demanding job schedule.

Some of these self care ideas may seem obvious, but others may surprise you - and many of them are scientifically-backed ways to tackle stress. So regardless of how busy you may be this holiday season, check out these 21 ways you can add more self care into your holly, jolly life.

1. Make yourself a warm, welcoming drink.

On cold winter days, it probably feels natural to reach for something cozy to warm you up. If you're really looking for help relaxing, though, fill your mug with tea. Research has found that drinking tea can help lower people's stress levels. Plus, it can be pretty dang delicious! (If you have celiac disease, just make sure it's gluten free).

2. Watch a sappy holiday-inspired show or movie.

Sometimes, we don't need an award-winning movie or TV show to enjoy ourselves. At least a few times this winter, embrace your silly or sentimental side by watching a bad Hallmark movie or bingeing your favorite holiday baking show. (And if you eat chocolate while doing it, that's obviously worth bonus points).

3. Go thrifting for cute and comfy winter clothes.

Updating your wardrobe for winter doesn't have to hurt your wallet. Instead, make looking for comfy hats, mittens or scarfs a fun adventure by hitting up your local second-hand store.

4. Be your own masseuse.

Massage has been shown to reduce people's physical tension and mental stress - and if you have a chronic illness or chronic pain like me, a good massage is always a good idea! You don't need to hire a high-end masseuse to reap some of these benefits, either. Give yourself a massage instead by rubbing your own muscles while lotioning up after your shower or using a tennis ball or foam roller to break up any knots and tension. Pair this massage with a relaxing bubble bath and you have the makings of a perfect self-date night.

5. Set aside extra time to read a book, just for fun.

I know that winter can be a busy time with friends and family, but don't forget to set aside some alone time in your schedule. Add a good book into the equation, and your quiet night in will be extra enjoyable.

6. Bake yourself something festive!

Besides getting to eat a delicious pumpkin or apple inspired treat, you'll feel nice and cozy when your kitchen is warm from the oven and smelling like the holidays. (And if you need some ideas for gluten free pumpkin desserts or baked goods, try out this recent round up of mine!).

7. Walk it out (outdoors or at a local gym).

Depending on the weather where you live, going for a walk outside might not be an option. Even if you have to go for a walk inside, though, your brain will still thank you. Research has found that exercise can drastically improve people's mental health, and even just walking will lower how often people have "bad days."

8. Take up a new, indoor hobby.

And if being outdoors is realllly not an option, starting a new hobby that takes place indoors is ideal. Start putting together puzzles, learning how to cross-stitch...or even practicing rock-climbing, like I did last year! Who knows - you may end up finding a hobby that you love doing year-round.

9. Try out hot yoga.

Because there's no better escape for winter weather than a relaxing, mantra-and-stretch filled session of hot yoga.

10. Light one of your favorite candles.

More research still needs to be done on the benefits of aromatherapy, but science seems to suggest that certain scents can help us chilllll out. Find a scent that you enjoy, like lavender or peppermint, and experiment with burning different candles and seeing which smells work best for you!

11. Purge your social media feeds.

You've heard of spring cleaning, but winter is another great time to set yourself up for a fresh start in the New Year. If you find yourself spending more time than ever on social media since it's too cold or dreary to go outside, pay attention to how each account makes you feel and ditch the ones that aren't doing you any favors.

12. Get crafty and let out your inner child.

Create a wreath to hang on your door, use colorful pens and papers to create homemade cards or just doodle in a notebook. These kinds of creative activities have been linked to improved mood and creativity the next day...plus, you might end up with some very cute gifts to give this Christmas. Win-win!

13. Pamper yourself with a face mask.

I've only started using face masks this last year, and the hype is worth it. My favorite is a simple mix of honey with cinnamon that I apply on "problem areas" for around 10-15 minutes before washing it off, but there are tons of safe (and even delicious!) face mask recipes you can find online. No fancy or expensive ingredients or products required. Plus, dry winter skin will definitely thank you for the extra TLC.

14. Dust off your crockpot and experiment with a new yummy recipe.

I know I've certainly been lax in using my crockpot lately, and it can be hard to feel motivated to start cooking dinner first thing in the morning. But your future self will definitely thank you for the little bit of prep you do earlier, and winter is the perfect time to whip up something warm and gooey. May I suggest my crockpot stacked enchiladas or vegan mac and cheese?

15. Throw a pajama party.

Whether you have a solo party or invite friends, spend a whole, blissful day hanging out in your PJs.

16. Do something nice for someone else. 

Acts of kindness have actually been scientifically shown to improve people's physical and mental health, so passing it forward this winter is actually a win-win. Donate to a local toy-drive, send a care package to a solider or pay for the next person's coffee in Starbucks. Little acts can have a big impact.

17. Start a gratitude practice.

If you're the journaling type, you can start writing what you're grateful for every day in a notebook. Otherwise, sticky notes or just thinking about two things you're grateful for each morning or night will still give you a positivity boost!

18. Set aside time to play your favorite "pointless" game.

Whether it's Sudoku, Words With Friends or a video game that you used to play for hours every day in high school, give yourself permission to just sit back and play for a little while. I know that during most of the year, I'm a major multi-tasker and anytime I do get to play a game, it's because I'm traveling or waiting to start another chore. So chillin' (pun intended) with my gamer self during winter is one of my favorite ways to relax.

19. Declutter at least one part of your house.

Along with purging your social media feeds, on days when cold weather keeps you in the house, you might try purging cluttered corners as well. Decluttering can not only improve concentration, but it can also improve your mood, lower your stress levels and give you a better night's sleep. And if you play your latest Netflix binge, favorite podcast or an epic holiday playlist in the background, you can make decluttering feel a lot more fun too.

20. Stretch yo' body.

At least for me, finding the motivation for a hard workout feels a lot harder when it's cold, dark and dreary outside. So on days when you feel like you're in a funk but don't feel up for a full workout, do some gentle stretches (even in the comfort of your own bed!) instead. It will loosen up your muscles, slash your stress and might even help you be more productive at work.

21. Choose a mantra for the upcoming year.

Obviously, you shouldn't spend all winter pining for spring...but it can't hurt to spend a little time reflecting on what you want from the upcoming months. In 2018, my word or mantra of the year was "discomfort." In 2019, it was "open." And while I haven't decided exactly what word I want to keep in mind during the start of a new decade, I think something similar to "change" will end up winning. What do you want to get out of this Spring? You still have some cold weeks to help you figure out your answer!

The Bottom Line of Self Care During Winter

As the days get colder and our social schedules get busier, it's easy to let self care fall to the bottom of our to-do list. I know from personal experience, though, that you can't run on empty...and when you better yourself through self care, you're also empowering yourself to be a better friend, family member, and personal overall! So this winter, give yourself the gift of self care rituals...and if you need even more ideas, feel free to check out my previous roundups: How to Create Your Own Self Care Retreat in 5 Easy Steps; 15 Self Care Activities You Can Do Without Leaving Bed; and 21 Self Care Activities You Can Do in 15 Minutes or Less! How are you taking care of yourself this winter? Give me more of your own self care ideas in the comments below! via Blogger https://ift.tt/2OKlqR3

[ganglylimbs]

Deliver Us In These Trying Times

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Relationships: queer-platonic Bakugou & Midoriya, Bakugou & Class 1-A, Midoriya & Class 1-A, Bakusquad, Dekusquad

Summary: Bakugou and Midoriya co-own a coffee shop near a college campus. They (one more reluctantly than the other) make friends with the students there. 

Or alternatively: A bunch of humans accidentally pack bond with a grumpy angel and a happy demon. 

Warnings: A fuck ton of swearing. The story is third person from Bakugou’s view, so there’s a lot of just referring to people by their hair styles. I tried to make it distinguishable enough that people would know who is who. Also, there is some violence, some light mention of child abuse, and light mentions of an abusive relationship. 

Notes: Written for Writer’s month. Day 3- Prompt: Coffee shop. A coffee shop with a supernatural twist! As a non-coffee drinker and someone who doesn’t visit coffee shops, I tried my best. I hope you enjoy! It took me like a month to write this. 

Words: 12,518

"I need a small Americano," Deku yells out, only half way turning from where he manages the register.

Bakugou scowls, but he gets to work. The kitchen is filled with the scent of coffee and cream. Machines whirl and whine as they work and Bakugou focuses on that instead of the small talk he can hear outside. 

When Bakugou finishes, he stomps out and slams the drink down, not caring as it spills out of the cup. 

"Hey," the customer, a short girl with cropped black hair and large headphones hanging from her neck, says. She scowls at Bakugou and Bakugou scowls back. 

"Pay the fucking man and drink your fucking drink. Or don't. I don't give a shit." Then Bakugou turns on his heel, heading back to the kitchen. 

He doesn't make it back fast. He still hears her huff. "What a jerk off."

Deku laughs. "Ignore Kachaan. He's always like that."

"And he's still allowed to work here?"

"Well...he is one of the owners."

"Seriously? Whose the poor sap that has to run a business with him?" 

Deku laughs again, and the awkwardness of it is palpable to Bakugou. "Oh, well. That would be me." 

"Oh."

"But please, do enjoy your drink. It's amazing, I swear." 

There's a moment's pause. Then a small. "Huh."

Bakugou smirks. Damn right.

                                                          ~

The coffee shop is a small, hidden in the wall kind of thing. Brick walls that are covered in pictures and old movie posters. Jazz music plays over the radio. Bakugo thinks it's supposed to be peaceful but it only pisses him off.

But Deku had nixed heavy metal. Said it scares people off. What the fuck ever. 

                                                          ~

Much to Bakugou's chagrin, Headphones girl comes back. Shame. 

She orders another small Americano. Her friend, a guy with spiky bright dyed hair (and who has a fucking black zigzag on his bangs, what the fuck is that shit?) orders a cafe macchiato. 

Bakugou sniffs. He gives them their orders, flips them off, and stomps back. "Wow. You weren't kidding," the guy says. 

"But try your drink." 

"Huh. He's still an asshole though." 

"Oh totally." 

                                                          ~

People are not Bakugou's forte. That's fucking Deku's job. That's why he mans the front end and Bakugou is in the back. 

That's why Deku smiles wide as their little shop gets more and more customers every day and why Bakugou absolutely hates it. 

The problem is that they live in a college town. Which means most of their customers are snot nosed little brats. 

They come in with their stupidly simple orders and their goddamn complicated orders and they expect Bakugou to be fucking nice and polite to them. 

Deku is fucking living as he talks and interacts and makes fucking friends. Bakugou fucking hates him for it

                                                       ~

There's a guy, with red neon hair fucking spiked up (like an asshole) who orders a cafe mocha every time. And every time Bakugou brings it out, he gives a wide smile and shouts "Thank you."

For some reason this asshole has taken to trying to make Bakugou learn some fucking manners. 

Who the fuck is he? 

Bakugou slams the cup down. The guy frowns. "That's not very manly, Bakugou." 

"I don't care, Shitty Hair."

The guy touches his hair. "Ah, don't say that. My hair is awesome."

"Awesomely bad." 

"Rude." 

"Good. Get out of my shop." 

The guy has the gale to laugh at him. Bakugou scowls and walks away. He comes to a sudden stop though. 

Crawling on the ground is the little rat fucker. A freshman with dark purple hair pulled into multiple buns (what is up with all these stupid hairdos) who has the unfortunate habit of perving on the woman that frequent here. 

Deku usually keeps him in check or has one of the perv's friends keep an eye on him. But Deku is in the back baking treats and the perv has come alone today. 

The little fucker has a camera out and is creeping up to a woman who always wears a high ponytail and her friend with hot pink hair (seriously, he knows this is college, but what the fuck is up with their hair styles???). Both women are standing up, drinking their coffee. Both are wearing skirts.

Bakugou rolls up his sleeve. 

The prick gives a shout, drawing everyone's attention, as Bakugou picks him up and throws him out of the shop.

"Hey," the asshole yells, picking himself up from the ground. "You can't do that."

"I can and I will." Bakugou points at him. "Learn some fucking manners, learn how to be a decent human being, and learn how to not be a fucking creep. Until then, you're banned. 

The little rat opens his mouth, as if he is going to fucking argue with Bakugo. And Bakugou? Well, he has no time for this. 

So he drops his human form. Not a lot. Not enough to get caught by the others. But enough that the creep sees Bakugou's smile become a little more jagged, a little more unnatural, a little more terrifying.

The prick turns around and walks away. Bakugou snorts and then he turns around to stomp back to his kitchen. No one says a word.

Shitty hair gives him a grin. "That was very manly dude." 

"Shut up and drink your goddamn coffee."

                                                             ~

The supernatural isn't exactly unknown. They are just.. forgotten. It's not against their laws for humans to find out, it's just most of the time humans don't pay attention long enough to see. Too busy staring at creaking old houses to notice the old man who died a hundred years ago watering his flowers next door. 

Bakugou is perfectly ok with that. He just wants to run his little shop peacefully and quietly. 

It's about the only thing Deku and he agree on. 

                                                     ~

Deku walks in one morning and his untidy mop of hair is dyed seaweed green. “Uraraka said I would look good with this color,” he says by way of explanation, a blush on his cheeks. 

Bakugou nearly throws him out the window.

                                                      ~

"He wants a fucking what?" Bakugou asks.

"A cappuccino for himself. And a cafe latte for this girl he likes," Deku says. Then he fucking smiles. "And if you could make a heart out of the foam, that would be amazing."

"No. Not only no, but fuck no," Bakugou says. "If he wants to do his little weird human courting ritual, tell him to do it away from my shop. I don't want that lovey dovey shit here." 

"Well, it's also my shop and I think it's cute," Deku says. "Besides, I know you can. Don't be stubborn about this."

Bakugou raises an eyebrow. "Me? Not be stubborn?"

At least Deku has the fucking sense to be ashamed at that. "Ok, poor choice of words. But come on, Kachaan-"

"No."

Deku tilts his head. "Well, I guess if you won't, I can do it." His fingertips crackle with green lightning. 

Bakugou stops in front of his machine, a hand curling possessively over it. "Fuck no. You'll fucking break it. Again." Bakugou glowers as Deku grins back, unashamed in his inability to uses a fucking coffee machine correctly.

Deku's grin widens. "Well, if you won't do it and you won't allow me to do it, I guess they'll have to go somewhere else, where someone more experienced can do it." 

Bakugou tenses. He knows what the nerd is doing, but dammit, is it working. Bakugou shows his teeth. "One time. I make it one time, just to show them I can and then no more." 

Deku gives him a soft smile, to fucking rub it in. "Sure, Kachaan."

                                                          ~

Bakugou makes the best damn foam heart there ever was. He walks out and sees a plain nervous looking man at the counter, twittering his thumbs.

Bakugou does NOT slam the cup down. Instead, he looks nervous boy in the eyes and hisses, "You make sure this gets to her. And fucking confess. I don't want my fucking hard work to go to waste." 

The boy nods, gulping as he carefully takes his drink. Bakugou watches as he walks to an empty table-wow, ok. Not empty. But there is the plainest looking girl that Bakugou has ever seen sitting there. If he hadn't been watching nervous boy, his eyes would have passed over her. 

Well. A plain boy for a plain girl. Perfect. 

She squeals and Bakugou immediately turns tail and heads back into his kitchen. He isn't paid enough to deal with this shit. 

                                                          ~

The boy does not ask for a drawing in a drink again.

The girl has no problem demanding them though. 

Bakugou refuses.

She resorts to bribing, leaving spicy snacks out for him.

Bakugou relents.

He purposefully ignores the way she thanks Deku for the tip.

                                                            ~

Later, he leaves chill pepper in Deku's drink. He shamelessly laughs when Deku spits it out. 

                                                           ~

"Oh man, this math test is going to kill me," Shitty Hair complains. It might be to Bakugou, it might just be in Bakugou's  general direction, it might be to the guy with a wide smile and big elbows sitting next to them who nods along in sympathy. 

Bakugou doesn't actually care enough to form a reply. So he grunts.

"I mean, look at this," Shitty Hair continues, thrusting a packet of papers on the table. "It's bs." 

Bakugou looks at the paper closest to him and snorts.

Shitty Hair points a finger at him. "Don't start." 

"What?" Elbows asks, looking in between them. 

Shitty Hair rolls his eyes. "Apparently, the dude is good at, like, everything." 

"It's because I have this amazing thing called a brain," Bakugou drawls. 

"Oh, shut up," Shitty Hair says. "I have a brain."

"The score on your history midterm proves otherwise." 

"Look, we can't all be crazy smart like you."

Bakugou rolls his eyes, pushing off the counter. "The real difference, Shitty Hair, is that I work hard for my smarts. Quit fucking coasting." 

He goes to refill Elbows' frappuccino. When he gets back, Shitty Hair is frowning down at his papers. 

Elbows gladly accepts the refill. "Do you go to college here?" 

"No."

"Oh. It's just, you look like a college student. And you said you worked hard to learn all the stuff. Did you go to another college?"

Bakugou has to think about it for a second. Then he shrugs. 

Elbows gives him a look. "Come on, dude. You have to give us something." 

"First, I don't have to say shit," Bakugou says. "And second, sure. I guess I went to college." 

"You guess?"

"Yeah." Every so often, Bakugou gets bored enough to sign up for a few classes. The thing is, it's usually years apart. And there have been many colleges. 

Shitty Hair and Elbows look at each other. "Ok, fine. Be cryptid." 

Bakugou scowls. "Just get to work on your reviews." 

"Oh, is that for Mr. Horton's class?" A girl with chubby round cheeks and short brown asks as she passes by. 

"Yeah," Shitty Hair says. 

"I'm studying for that too, actually. Actually, we have a group going on." The girl points to the back, where a man with glasses sits with a girl who has long hair tied in a bow. "And Deku is helping us. He's like, really smart. I’m surprised he’s working at a coffee shop." 

Bakugou is already retreating at the name of the nerd, going back to the kitchen. He messes around, tweaking his recipe for spicy hot chocolate. It burns on his tongue and Bakugou takes deep gulps of it. 

Perfect. 

When he goes out again, he’s surprised to find Shitty Hair still sitting on the counter, silently working on his review. Bakugou side-eyes the nerd table, where Deku is laughing at something Round cheeks says. Bakugou grabs one of the finished papers, looking it over. He ignores the way the Shitty Hair keeps glancing at him. 

Bakugou sits it down. “Number 6 is wrong.” 

Shitty Hair grabs it, eyebrows furrowing. Bakugou points it out. “See. You carried the wrong number.” 

Shitty Hair’s face lights up. “Ah. Thanks.” 

“Tch.” Bakugou looks away. “It’s not hard. Like I said, I at least have a fucking brain.” 

Shitty Hair grins at him. “Yeah you do.” 

                                                           ~

Bakugou steps out on the roof. It's night, the moon is hidden by clouds. A soft breeze ruffles his hair. He lets the door close behind him.

Once he is sure he is completely alone, he takes a deep breath and rolls out his shoulders. His skin shudders, splitting, and then wings rip themselves out of his back. They flutter for a second, trying to right themselves after being kept away for so long.

He takes the time to stretch them, working out all the kinks and smoothing feathers down. He massages the muscles there, flaring his wings as high as he can, touching the sky. Touching heaven.

Then he sits on the edge of the roof, kicking his feet, flapping his wings, and just breathes.

When he walks back inside his apartment, the front door opens. He makes eye contact with Deku. They pass each other, not saying a word.

                                                          ~

“I’m not a big coffee drinker,” The girl who wears the high ponytail, who Bakugou has appropriately dubbed as Ponytail, says. "I actually prefer tea." 

Headphones hums. "Yeah, I can see that. It really fits you." 

Pink Hair perks up. "Oh, maybe we can get them to sell tea here." 

The three turn to Bakugou, who is leaning against the counter. He raises an eyebrow at them. "Hai?" 

Pink Hair immediately bounces over. "Bakugou! We were just talking-"

"I heard. You were being fucking loud about it." 

"Good. Then you know what we want to ask." 

Bakugou tilts his head. "I don't give a shit. It's Deku you have to convince."

Ponytail frowns. "Midoriya?" 

"Yeah. He does all the supplies ordering." Bakugou smirks. "Good luck convincing him though. The nerd hates tea." 

"I wouldn't have expected that." 

Bakugou shrugs. "Deku has poor fucking taste. Does it really surprise you?"

"Wait," Ponytail says. "You like tea?"

"Yeah?"

"I always thought you'd like coffee more."

"Fuck no. I hate fucking coffee." 

The three girls look at each other. It's Pink Hair who speaks up. "But...you own a coffee shop."

"Yeah? So?"

"And you make excellent coffee," Ponytail adds.

Bakugou makes a go on motion. 

Headphones sighs. "Why do you own a coffee shop if you hate coffee?"

"Am I supposed to let my tastes dictate what I do and do not do?" 

"It just seems like a pain in the ass for you," Pink Hair smirks. "Unless...did Midoriya ask you to open a shop?"

Bakugou slams his hands on the counter. "That fucking nerd has nothing to do with what I do." 

Now Headphones is smirking too. "Uh huh. So the two of you opening up a coffee shop, despite you hating both coffee and people, is just because you had an urge one day?" 

"No, it's because I know you stupid college kids are addicted to the fucking stuff and I fucking love money," Bakugou says.

Pink Hair giggles. "You know, Blasty, it's OK to admit you are friends." 

"We are no such things. Dare to utter that shit again and I'm throwing you out." 

                                                          ~

A new customer comes in. His hair is dyed half white, half red.

Now Bakugou knows these fuckwits are doing this shit on purpose. 

He looks around, face impassive before walking towards Bakugou. "Is Midoriya here? I need to return his book." 

"No," Bakugou says.

They stare at each other. Red-White shifts. "Uh, do you know when he will be back?"

"No." 

"Ok. Do you know where he went?"

"No." 

The continue to stare at each other. Neither blinks. "Are you going to order something or just stand there like a dead fish?" Bakugou asks. 

"No," the man says. 

They continue to stare at each other. 

The bell on the door rings. It's Deku, who lights up at seeing them. "Oh, Todoroki! There you are. I was looking for you." 

Red-White turns his back to Bakugou. Bakugou's lips curl at that. "Uraraka told me you work here." 

Bakugou rolls his eyes at them as they continue to talk. Dunce and Elbows walk in next and Bakugou heads to the back to make their usual. While he's back there, Deku pokes his head back. "We need a breve too." 

Bakugou grumbles, but he does his job. 

When he brings out the drinks, he's annoyed to find that the breve is for Red-White. Fuck. And he had actually liked making that drink. 

Red-White's face doesn't change as he drinks. He just continues talking to Deku. Bakugou's fingers twitch, but he turns to Dunce and Elbows instead.

The two are laughing about some party they went to. "I can't believe Mina fucking decimated that keg stand." 

"Dude, she killed it," Dunce says.

"You know who else killed it," Elbows wiggles his eyebrows. "I heard you made out with Jirou." 

Dunce yelps, face going red. "Who told you that?" 

“Mina and Hakugaru saw you two. Said you were too busy sucking face to notice when they entered the room.” 

Dunce groans. “I thought she had locked the door.” 

“Like that would stop Mina. She would have just gotten Shoji or Toyokomi to open it.” 

Dunce runs his fingers down his face, stretching the skin. He notices Bakugou and grins, sensing a new target. “Oh, Bakugou. Where were you, man? You missed out on one heck of a party. Even Deku had come.” 

Bakugou tilts his head. “Hai?” 

“Oh come on, man. I know Kirishima invited you.” 

Bakugou narrows his eyes. He...supposes Kirishima had mentioned something. It doesn’t really matter though. “Parties are not my thing.” 

“What?” The two of them gasp. 

“But,” Elbows’ eyes look Bakugou up and down. “You look like-like-” 

“Like such a partier,” Dunce finishes. He grimaces, holding his hands up as Bakugou turns to glare at him. “No, wait. That sounds wrong. I just mean, you have such a fuck off attitude that I can see you being a rebel. You know, teen drinking and going to all the parties to piss off your parents.” 

Bakugou snorts. “Yes. That sounds like me. A place filled with people, who are out of control, and drinking. Sounds like a fucking good time.” 

“You don’t like drinking?” Elbows asks. 

“Fuck no. It’s horrible tasting.” 

“Yeah, but you don’t drink for the taste. You drink to get wasted,” Dunce says it like that’s supposed to be a fucking argument. 

“And why would I want to do that? I don’t like being out of my senses.” 

Elbows nods. “Yeah, you do have control issues.” 

“Excuse me,” Bakugou turns to him. 

Elbows just fucking smiles at him. “Nothing,” he sings. 

Bakugou flips him off. 

“Well, this means you really do have to go to the next party,” Dunce says. 

“How the fuck does that make sense?” Bakugou asks. 

“Come on, man. All I see you do is work. You need to relax a little.” 

“I relax.” 

“You really don’t, Kachaan,” Deku pipes up as he passes by with a tray of cookies. 

“Fuck off, Deku.” 

Dunce points at Deku. “Come on, man. Midoriya goes all the time.”

“Deku actually fucking likes you people. I couldn’t give two shits.” 

Elbows and Dunce look at each other and nod. “Time to call in the secret weapon.”

“What the fuck-” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dunce says. Elbows has his phone out and is texting away. 

Bakugou narrows his eyes at them but before he yell some more, he feels someone poke him. He turns around, snarling. It’s Red-White, face still impassive. “I would like another please.” 

Bakugou lips curl far back enough to show off his gums and he stomps to the back. He makes sure to slam utensils around to let them know how pissed he is. 

When he comes back, he shoves it at Red-White. Red-White, the fucking bastard, manages to catch it gracefully. “Thank you,” he says, taking a sip while maintaining eye contact. Bakugou can feel his hackles rising. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Red-White continues to sip his drink. 

Bakugou can feel his palms heating up. Behind Red-White, Bakugou catches Deku’s eyes, who shakes his head. Bakugou takes a deep breath and turns on his heel. He stalks into the kitchen, pushes out the back door, and into the alleyway. He takes a deep breath, looks up, and his eyes glow red as he silently screams into the sky. 

His palms go yellow, burst of energy popping along the skin. In the distance, he can hear dogs howl and birds screech as they fly away, startled. 

In a few seconds, it all goes away. He takes another deep breath, and walks back inside. He makes a few more drinks for the few customers who had walked inside before daring to go back out. He makes eye contact with Deku again and nods. 

Kirishmia and Pink Hair are part of the group that has shown up. They sit with Elbows and Dunce, talking quietly. They all go silent when Bakugou shows back up. He ignores them for a bit, but, like always, the dumbshits pull him back in. 

“So,” Kirishima begins and Bakugou’s danger sense start tingingling. “There is this excellent cafe that’s around the corner. They make the best burgers-” 

“And holy shit, their milkshakes are amazballs, too,” Pink Hair cuts in. 

“Yeah,” Kirishima eagerly nods. “And the fries?”

“Like heaven,” Elbows says. 

“And you’re telling me all thisssss….because?” Bakugou asks.

“Because we want you to come with us,” Pink Hair says.

“No,” Bakugou immediately says. 

None of them look surprised by this. 

 “Come on, Bakubro,” Kirishima says. 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“It’ll be fun. I promise it’ll be fun.” 

“I don’t care about fun,” Bakugou spits. 

“That is, like, the saddest thing I have ever heard you say,” Mina says. 

Bakugou flips her off. "Look, I don't care what you guys say, I'm not going."

                                                          ~

The cafe is fucking stupid. And fucking small. Bakugou is squashed in the seats, between Kirishima and Pink Hair. They jostle him, elbows digging into his side as they lean all over him. Elbows' fucking long legs keep kicking him, brusing his knees. Dunce's hand movements are all over the place that it's a goddamn miracle he hasn't knocked over any drinks.

Bakugou is in fucking hell. And he should know. He's been there. 

The burgers are greasy, dripping all over his fingers as he tears into it.

"You're delusional, man," Elbows says. 

"No, really. They were absolutely UFO lights," Dunce says, eyes wide. He has ketchup smeared on the right side of his face and his hair seems to almost be standing on end. "They were there for like, five seconds. And they disappeared." 

Kirishima is leaning over the table, eyes glued to Dunce's as he chows down on his own burger. 

Mina grins, leaning back and spreading her arms. Bakugou growls as she bumps his head. "My people, come to take me home."

Elbows shakes his head. "It was 3 in the morning. And you had just gotten done writing that English essay. And you had just had your fourth energy drink."

"You don't know that."

"You had literally just texted me about it." 

Dunce waves him off. "That doesn't matter. Back to the topic. I saw a UFO."

"It wasn't a UFO," Bakugou grumbles. 

Dunce rolls his eyes. "Of course you would think that, fun-killer-"

"It was a fairy," Bakugou continues, munching on his food. 

The table goes quiet. Then…Elbows burst out laughing, followed by Dunce and Pink Hair. Kirishima bumps against him. "Did you make a fucking joke?" There sounds like fucking awe in his voice.

Bakugou just shrugs. Humans always see what they want to see. If the table makes jokes for the rest of the night, mocking the possibility of it being a fairy, then that's on them.

Although...Bakugou does hide a smile into his burger.

                                                     ~

Red-White turns out to be a constant pain in his ass. The fuck is an early riser, one of the first to arrive at the shop. He always stays at least an hour, talking to Deku, and ignoring Bakugou. Unless it’s to demand a coffee. 

Bakugou is going to lose his fucking mind. 

The fuck is there one day, listening silently as Deku yammers away. It’s a Sunday, so the only other customers is a guy with super jacked up arms who, for some goddamn reason, wears a mask over his face. He gives Bakugou a nod when he gets his drink. At least he’s blessedly silent. The other is Headphone girl, nodding along to her music, ignoring everyone else.  

Deku tenses a moment before the door opens. It’s a large, muscular man with a scarred face and a beard. “Shouto,” he says, voice deep. 

Red-White doesn’t turn. Just continues drinking his coffee. Loudly. 

Bakugou leans on the counter, crossing his arms and hips cocked. He raises an eyebrow at Deku. He lifts a hand, pinky raised. Deku gives a minuscule shake of his head and Bakugou nods. 

“Shouto,” the man repeats. “You were supposed to come home today.” 

Red-White still doesn’t respond. 

The man sighs. “I thought we had gotten over this rebellious phase of yours.”

“It’s not a phase,” Red-White finally says. He slowly turns his head. “I truly do hate you.” 

The man snorts. “I don’t give a shit about that. Hate me all you want. But you are still in law school. You are still using my money to pay for college. That means you still have to follow my rules.” 

“I may be in law school, but that has nothing to do with you. I will never be like you.” 

The man smiles widely. “We’ll see. Now come, we are going home to visit your siblings.” He turns, like the conversation is done. 

“No,” Red-White says. He tilts his chin up. “I’m staying at college this week.”

“Ah, studying are you. Well, I suppose I can allow-”

“No,” Red-White cuts in. “I am visiting friends.” He tilts his head towards Deku. Deku does his best to not flinch under the glare the man is giving him. 

The man’s lips curl. “You are wasting valuable time-” 

Deku raises his hand, fingers twisting and turning. Bakugou keeps one eye on the argument still going on and the other on Deku’s hands. When he finishes, Bakugou carefully responds, slightly shaking his head. 

“I spend every day studying,” Red-White spits. “You can’t keep me isolated. I made friends.” 

Deku purses his lips. His fingers start working again. 

“You don’t need friends. Friends hold you back.” 

Green lightning crackles. Deku’s eyes glow. Bakugou cuts his hand across his throat, narrowing his eyes at him. 

“You can’t control me,” Red-White says, deadly serious. “I’m 19. I’m a legal adult. I have my own ideas and make my own decisions.” 

Deku turns to the two and Bakugou growls. His muscles tense, ready to tackle Deku at the first sign of trouble. Deku places a hand down, palm facing Bakugou. Bakugou pauses. 

Red-White is still facing his dad, a rare snarl on his face. His dad is snarling back. Deku steps forward, between the two, smiling. Red-White puts a hand on Deku’s arm, squeezing. Bakugou steps behind them, glaring at the man over their shoulders. 

He sees Deku’s fingers move, green lightning crackling some what. The air sizzles. Bakugou can taste it. It’s smokey on his tongue. “I’m sorry, sir. Is there a problem?” 

The man blinks, shaking his head. He rubs at his eyes, puts his fingers to his head, and huffs. “What? No. No problem.” He looks at Red-White again. “Fucking...fine. Fine. I don’t have time for this. I’m meeting with an important client. If you want to waste your time here, do it.” He turns to leave but looks over his shoulders one last time. “But don’t think for a second that this is over with.” 

With that he leaves. 

Red-White sighs. His hands are shaking, breath coming fast. 

Deku looks at him. Bakugou wrinkles his nose. Deku crosses his fingers and makes a jab down. Bakugou lets out a long sigh. 

Then he moves his fingers. Tiny, tiny explosions pop. 

Red-White takes one last shaky breath. His hands stop trembling. He takes a moment to compose himself before turning to them. “I apologize for that. He wasn’t meant to come here.” 

Deku gives the bastard a wide smile. “No need to say sorry. This is a safe place for you. If you want, we can ban him from the premise.” 

Red-White looks down at his hands. “I will think about it.” 

“Hey.” Deku steps forward, putting a hand on his shoulder. “How about another drink and some food?” 

He leads Red-White to a stool to sit down before heading to the back. Bakugou follows. 

They’re silent as they work. Bakugou finishes the drink and sits it on the counter, turning to lean against the counter as he watches Deku. Deku doesn’t look at him till he gets his muffins in the oven. 

Finally, Deku meets his eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Did you?” 

“Yes. I couldn’t stand by while that happened in my shop.” Deku’s eyes are dark green as he stares down Bakugou. 

Bakugou’s lips curl. “Do you think that was hidden at all? What you did? You fucking stood in front of them. We have fucking witnesses.” 

“None of them are going to remember it. I made sure of it,” Deku says. 

Bakugou slams his hands down on the counter. “That’s not the fucking point.” He turns around, picking up the drink. “If you’re going to do fucking stupid shit, don’t do it in front of me.” 

He walks out, sliding the drink towards Red-White. The dude still looks to be in shock. “Fucking buckle up, you dipshit.” 

Red-White glares at him. “I didn’t ask for your input.” 

“Look, you and your sad excuse for hair need to pull it together. You said you weren’t becoming a lawyer for your dad’s sake, right? Then that means you have a fucking goal in mind. Keep that goal in the forefront and keep your sad shit out of here.” 

With that, Bakugou walks away. 

He avoids the front after that. But he does know that Deku keeps Red-White company for the rest of the day. 

                                                         ~

“You know sign language?” Headphones asks. 

Bakugou tilts his head for a second before he remembers. Fucking Deku might have made their minds fuzzy when it came to what he did to Red-White’s dad, but he wouldn’t have done the same to the minutes leading up to that. He hadn’t realized that they were being watched. 

Bakugou shrugs. “It’s a useful language to know.” 

Headphones nods. She stirs her drink a little. “Pretty useful when you want to talk without someone knowing what you’re saying.” 

Bakugou narrows his eyes at her. “Quit being coy, you fucking suck at it. If you have something to say, then say it. 

Headphones smiles at her. “It’s just good to know that you two have our back if something happens here.” 

                                                     ~

“Dude, I’ve always wanted to learn sign language,” Elbows says. Dunce, Pink Hair, and Kirishima nod, eyes wide and sparkly. “Teach us.” 

“Fuck no,” Bakugou growls. Fuck Headphones for spreading this shit around. 

The boys make whining noises but Pink Hair just tilts her head. She smiles wide, showing off her teeth, and Bakugou instinctively bristles. “You know Midoriya is teaching his friends sign language.” Her eyes slide to the side. 

Bakugou follows, seeing that, in fact that moron is. He breathes hard through his nose. Then he makes a series of hand motions. 

The others follow his motions. Kirishima hesitates. “What did that say?” 

“That you all can fuck off.” Bakugou smirks. “Now, pay fucking attention.” 

                                                       ~

Ponytail is talking to the girl who ties her hair into a bow, both of them staring down at a piece of paper. “I really would love to go,” she says, running a finger down the paper. “They’re my favorite band.” 

Bow Girl shrugs, face blank as always. “Then go.” 

Ponytail sighs. “I can’t. I have an exam the next day. I should stay in my dorm, study and rest.” 

“Exams are important and concerts can always wait. It would completely be your fault if you happened to fail because you didn’t study.” 

Ponytail sighs, slumping. “I know.” 

Deku appears, offering her their drinks (hot tea for Ponytail, Greek frappe for Bow Girl). He looks down at the flyer Ponytail is holding. “Oh, Crimson Sails? I heard they were in town. Are you going to go see them?” 

Ponytail bites her bottom. “...no. I shouldn’t.” 

Deku tilts his head. “Well, why not. They don’t come around very often. This might be your only chance to see them.” 

Bakugou scrunches his nose, mouth full of lightening and skin tingling. He glares at Deku but the bastard ignores him. 

Ponytail blinks, fingers tightening on the poster. “That is true. And I have never been to a concert that wasn’t an orchestra before.” 

Deku’s grin widdens. “Everyone deserves a chance to relax and have fun, you know.” 

Ponytail stares at him. Then she returns his grin. “You’re right. I should go.” 

Deku walks by and Bakugou grumbles. “Really? Here?” 

“Come on, Kaachan,” Deku says. “She’s stressed and she rarely does anything for herself. Besides, it was just a little temptation.” 

                                                         ~

Pink Hair sighs for the fucking millionth time. Bakugou is three seconds away from throwing her out. Instead, he grits out through his teeth “What the fuck is up with you?” 

“You know that presentation I had? The one that’s worth half my grade?” 

Bakugou nods. 

“Well, my computer got a virus and I lost everything. The presentation is due tomorrow and my professor is refusing to allow me an extension.” She stares mournfully down at her drink. “I’m totally going to fail this close.” 

Bakugou grunts. “That fucking sucks.” 

“I know,” she wails. “And I worked so hard on it.” 

She’s silent for a second before mournfully adding, “I was really proud of it, too.” 

Bakugou purses his lips. He grinds his teeth. She continues to stare down at her drink, a cloud over her head. 

Fucking hell, he’s getting soft. 

As casually as he can, he wiggles his fingers, small bursts of light popping along his skin. Then he clears his throat. “It’ll be fine or whatever.”

Pink Hair rolls her eyes. “Jeez, thanks. That’s really comforting to hear.” 

“Comforting words are useless,” Bakugou says. “Only actions get anything done. If you work hard, I’m sure everything will come out ok.”

“I don’t know how hard work is going to fix losing weeks worth of work, but ok.” 

Bakugou leaves her to her mopping. Deku gives him a smile. “What was that about not using powers in the shop?” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

                                                           ~

Pink Hair is chattering excitedly to Headphones when she comes in. “I still can’t believe that all the files got uncorrupted.” 

Headphones shakes her head. “I can’t believe it either. I took a look at that thing. I thought it was unsavable.” 

“It’s a damn miracle. And I got to shove it in my bitch professor’s face.”  

Bakugou can feel Deku smiling at him. He flips him off without looking.

                                                         ~

There’s this french bastard that comes in every once in a while who thinks he’s a real fucking charmer. Bakugou always rolls his eyes as he flirts with the other customers. It’s sad and Bakugou tells him so. 

Kirishima always gives him a frown and a “Leave him alone, dude.” 

Right now, Smooth Talker is drinking his cafe au lait, looking around as he talks to Deku. 

“I know I’m magnificent but he just makes me feel...unmagnificent,” Smooth Talker says. “Weak. I don’t know how I can talk to him when my tongue starts to trip over itself.” 

“Wow, he must be really special,” Deku says. “You usually have a lot more confidence than this.” 

Smooth Talker sniffs. “I know. It’s so unbecoming of me. But I don’t know how to get over it.” 

Deku hums. “You know what I do when I get nervous?”

“Sweat a lot and start to mumble to yourself?”

“No-well, yes. But I also pause, take a deep breath, and then slap my leg twice. It calms me down enough that I get the courage to ask what I wanted to ask.” 

Smooth Talker looks unconvinced. Deku gives him a wink. “Trust me, it helps. Try it next time,” he suggests, eyes glowing. 

                                                       ~

Bakugou narrows his eyes at the kid at the counter. He’s an early riser kind of dick, which confuses Bakugou because the guy is always dressed head-to-toe in black. 

He also is always wearing some article of clothing that is bird themed. Bakugou calls him Bird Boy. 

Because it’s early and a Monday, Bird Boy is the only one in the shop. Which is a good thing because he’s taking for-fucking-ever to decide what he wants. 

Finally, he decides on a cafe melango. Bird Boy takes a deep inhale of it when he gets it. “A drink made specially to heal the hole in my heart.” 

Bakugou rolls his eyes. “Despite your numerous attempts to change it, we are not one of those lame coffee shops that do fucking poetry. Just take your coffee and go.” 

“Not even your brash attitude can pierce the dark cloud that follows me.” 

“Oh my fuck,” Bakugou says, hands dragging down his face. “Who knew you getting dumped would make you even more of an annoying bastard.” 

“My heart wallows in misery and it sings loud to let others know.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Bakugou huffs. “Look, you fucker. The girl made you miserable, right?” 

“Correct.” 

“And she made fun of you going to therapy, right?” 

“I was not as fun when I was on my meds, according to her.” 

“You were worse off with her. Fucking look at you. You took a fucking shower. You don’t look like a fucking disaster anymore. You’re even getting fat off of Deku’s fucking cookies.”

Bird Boy looks down at his shirt, touching his stomach. “I suppose I have finally gained back all that weight I lost.” 

“Then why the fuck are you moping? Fuck her.” 

“Alas, my friend. Logic holds no sway over emotions.” 

“Bullshit. Emotions are wild beasts but that doesn’t mean they can’t be tamed or at least managed. Let me guess, you’ve been sitting in the dark, listening to sad fucking songs right?” 

“There is solace in the dark.” 

“Which is fucking great for like a fucking day. And then you need to kick that shit to the curb. Stop fucking wallowing.”

Bird Boy seems to think about this before nodding. “Sound advice. I am surprised, Bakugou. I didn’t expect you to be so intune with your emotions.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Bakugou sneers. “Emotions are my bitch.”  

                                                            ~

“We need a eiskaffee, stat,” Deku says. 

Bakugou, because he knows who the fuck this is for, slams his way through the drink and then makes sure to slam it on the counter. “Here’s your shitty drink,” he says, scrunching his nose to show his distaste. 

“Kachaan,” Deku warns him. 

“Oh it’s fine, Midoriya,” Round Face says, sticking her tongue out at Bakugou. Bakugou flips her off. 

It looks like the whole gang's here, despite Bakugou’s best efforts to run them off. Bakugou blames fucking Deku and his stupid dumb personality. 

Round Face and her gang of nerds sit in the back. They wave at Deku as Bakugou scowls at them. Deku nudges him and Bakugou goes back to the fucking kitchen. There are more orders coming. 

Bakugou brews as he always does, with the same fierceness as he always does. 

“Amazing as always, Blasty,” Pink Hair squeals. Her and the idiots lean on the counter, ignoring the way Bakugou tries to shoo them off. Deku is no fucking help as he’s with the Nerd Squad. Bakugou suspects he wouldn’t be much help either, as the sick fuck gets a kick out of seeing Bakugou suffer. 

“Of fucking course it is,” Bakugou huffs. He tries to swipe the counter down, again, ignoring the way Elbows and Dunce lean on it to jeer at him. 

Kirishima laughs, taking a sip of his cafe mocha. He catches Bakugou’s look of disgust and rolls his eyes. “I don’t get it man. If you hate coffee so much, how are you so good at making it?”  

“I am a man of many talents,” Bakugou tells him, solemnly. The idiots laugh. Like he’s joking. Bakugou shakes his head and hides his smile. 

The bell above the door rings and Bakugou stiffens. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Deku tense too. They make eye contact. Bakugou jerks his head to the kitchen and Deku nods. 

The man who had walked in follows them. 

Bakugou turns sharply on his heel, leaning his hip against one of the counters, and crosses his arms over his chest. Deku twists his hands and bites his lips. 

The man is taller than them, long black hair hanging down around his shoulders. Dead eyes stare at them, huge bags under them making him look tired. The man stands there, hands in his pockets and takes them in. 

“Spit it out already,” Bakugou says. Because the man is Aizawa and if Aizawa is showing up here, something bad is going to happen. 

Aizawa sighs, a long deep suffering sigh, as if they were fucking inconveniencing him. He pushes his hair out and his face, making sure to catch their eyes. “The League is in town.” 

Both Deku and Bakugou still. The League...fuck. 

“What brought them here?” Deku asks. 

“Does it matter?” Bakugou growls. “As if the League ever needs a reason to go somewhere and fuck shit up.” Bakugou’s fingers twitch against his arms. He can already feel the upcoming fight burning through his veins. 

Aizawa sighs again. “Bakugou is right. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that they are here. Which means the two of you need to be on your best behavior until they leave.” He throws a look in Bakugou’s direction. 

Bakugou huffs, looking away. He can feel Deku’s eyes on him as he promises Aizawa that they’ll be good. 

“I already know this is going to end poorly,” Aizawa says running a hand through his hair. “But we just have to make it till they get bored and leave. Now, I need to warn the rest of the community. But first,” he purses his lips. “Coffee? The special kind?”

Bakugou flips him off. Then, using his middle fingers, summons a fire so it dances on the tip. He gets to roasting beans as with it, adding a little spice and cream. Deku floats some cups and utensils towards him, allowing Bakugou to snatch them out of the air.  

Bakugou finishes, handing the cup to Aizawa, who takes a deep inhale. “Nice.” 

Bakugou smirks. “I call it a Cup of Hell.” Because he has a fucking sense of humor. 

Aizawa smirks back. And then he disappears. 

                                                      ~

For the most part, the supernatural community has done pretty well with integrating themselves into the human world. No longer are they the monsters in the woods. Instead, they are accountants and CEOs and daycare workers and coffee shop owners. 

But there are accidents and not so accidents when the supernatural world and the human world collide. Violently. 

Which is where Hunters come in. Special licensed humans (and some non-humans) that have the ability to turn in non-humans to the Council if they cross the line. Very few have the ability to actually kill criminal non-humans on sight. 

The League is not one of those that have the license to do so. But that does not stop them. Any non-human that has the unfortunate luck of catching their eye will at least end up severely bruised with a good chance of ending up found face down on the street three days later. 

The Council has tried to put a stop to them, but the humans have claimed that they can’t do anything, that they took away their license but that does not stop them. 

To have the League turn up in their neighborhood...well. 

They’re fucked. 

                                                       ~

It’s a rainy morning. Bakugou can hear thunder. Lightning strikes. The shop is near empty. The only customers are Round Face, Kirishima, and a woman with blonde hair tied up into two buns, who sips on her coffee in the corner. Round Face leans on one end of the counter, waiting for Deku, who is taking his sweet fucking time in the back, making his special bagels or muffins or what the fuck ever, Bakugou hadn’t been paying attention. 

Kirshima is also leaning on the counter across from Bakugou, yamming away. Bakugou nods along, resting his head on his hands.  It’s slow and he’s bored and at least what Kirishima is saying is entertaining. 

The blonde woman stands up and walks over. She pushes past Kirishima, slips a folded note to Bakugou, winks, and leaves. 

Bakugou doesn’t look at her, just takes the note and puts it in his pocket. 

Kirishima stutters, eyes darting from where the paper used to be before looking back up at Bakugou. Bakugou raises an eyebrow, motioning for Kirishima to continue. After a few seconds, Kirishima does. 

Five minutes later, Deku reamurges, fresh brownies (ah, that was what that sickening sweet smell was then) on a plate. As he passes by, Bakugou takes out the note and wordlessly hands it to Deku. Deku takes it just a wordlessly and pockets it. 

Round Face and Kirishima share looks. 

But they don’t ask. 

                                                         ~

The League isn’t just made up of hateful humans looking to abuse their power. There are a handful of non-humans as well. What their motives are for joining the hate group is unknown for the most part. 

There’s a half-zombie, desperate to destroy anyone who reminds him of his master. A vampire who hates the Blood Pact she’s forced under. A wizard too, though no one knows why he hangs around the freaks. 

But the leader is most definitely a human, a stringy, pastly, wimpy young thing. And he’s not shy about his detest for the supernatural. Bakugou bets it has to do with daddy issues. 

Most non-humans who meet the League don’t make it out of the meeting alive. 

Bakugou has always prided himself on not being like most people. 

                                                       ~

“What if they try it again?” Deku hisses as Bakugou passes him, sliding the cup down. 

“Then they have made a huge mistake,” Bakugou hisses back. Deku gives him a look and Bakugou rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fucking fine. Nothing to worry about.” 

“Worry about what?” Its Elbows who asks, who happened to be passing at the time. 

Bakugou snarls at him. Deku grins. 

“Nothing,” they say. 

                                                         ~

A second warning appears, during the breakfast rush. This time Deku gives it to Bakugou, a hissed “Be careful” slipping through his teeth. 

Bakugou glares at him, pulling Deku in the back. “Don’t tell me what to fucking do.” 

“I just want you to be safe, Kachaan.” 

“I’ll be fine! It’s you who needs to worry.” 

Because as much as it fucking pains Bakugou to admit it, Deku isn’t like most people either. 

                                                       ~

The Idiot begrade is back in full force. And they brought the whole squad. 

Fucking great. 

Bakugou gnashes his teeth, palms going hot. He needs to burn something but hell if he’s going to do that. Especially with everyone fucking looking at him. 

“What?” He finally snaps. 

Dunce and Elbows exchange looks with Pink Hair. Kirishima gives him a grin, though Bakugou can see how frayed around the edges it is. “Nothing. Nothing.” 

Bakugou breathes through his nose, a heavy sound. His only consolation is that Deku is getting the same treatment from the nerds. 

“And you’re sure you are alright?” He hears Four Eyes say. 

“Of course I am guys. Really.” Deku sounds just as frustrated as Bakugou feels. Bakugou grins at that. 

Ponytail clears her throat. “I apologize. I know we appear to be bothering you,” Bakugou knew there was a reason he tolerated her. At least she’s smart. “But we’ve all noticed that you’ve been on edge lately.” 

Just not smart enough. 

“We’re fucking dandy,” Bakugou says. 

Then, because fuck the universe, he tenses. Deku does the same. 

The blonde chick is back. She strolls in the shop, a sharp wide grin in place. “One hot chocolate,” she says, grin growing as Bakugou growls at her. 

Deku tries to step in but Bakugou doesn’t let him. They end up side by side. Staring the girl down. “No hot chocolate.” 

The girl pouts, bottom lip jutting out. “Oh?” 

Deku tries for a grin, though it wobbles. “Sorry, it’s just not the season for it and we don’t have any in the store right now.” 

“Ahh, that’s too bad,” she leans on the counter, eyes twinkling. “I was really looking forward to some.” 

The whole coffee shop has gone silent. 

“Too bad,” Bakugou says, crossing his arms. His heated palms burn against his biceps. He can feel Deku quivering besides him, keeping a grip on his own powers. “Piss off.” 

She chuckles and it’s high pitched and grating to Bakugou’s ears. “Well, that’s not nice.” 

“I’m not a nice person.” 

“That you aren’t.” She slips them two pieces of paper. One to Bakugou, one to Deku. Deku pockets his. Bakugou tears his to pieces. 

The girl frowns. “No, not nice at all.” 

Pink Hair clears her throat. Bakugou frowns at her even as blonde chick turns to look. He makes a gesture, trying to tell her to shut the fuck up but either she doesn’t see him or she ignores him. Which, by the way, what the fuck? 

“What,” Blonde chick sneers and Pink Hair, ever the stupid one, sneers back. 

“I think you should leave.” 

Blonde chick blinks. “What was that?” 

“Uh, I think I was pretty clear. You should go. It’s clear that they don’t want you here.” 

Blonde chick looks her up and down. She licks her lips. “We have a fighter, don’t we. Excellent. But as much as I love this, I don’t believe it’s any of your fucking business.” 

Round Face stands next to Pink Hair, with Ponytail stepping behind them. The others are standing now too, all nervous and sweaty. But still standing.  Round Face crosses her arms. “I don’t think that matters.” 

Blond girl tilts her head. Then she looks over her shoulder. “Interesting round of humans you have here.” 

Deku steps forward. “Toga, leave them out of this.” 

“Why? They don’t seem to want to be left out.” Toga licks her lips. “In fact, they look like they want to play? Huh? Do you?” 

“Toga,” Deku says again. Bakugou raises a hand, eyes glowing. 

Toga looks between them before sniffing. “Fine. If you want to be jerks, be that way. Not like it matters anyway. He’s going to come, whether you like it or not.” Toga starts to walk out the door. Before she leaves, she looks over her shoulder and winks. “I’ll be seeing the rest of you soon. I’m so glad to find new playmates.” 

No one says anything as the door shuts behind her. 

“What the fuck is her problem?” Round Face says. 

“Uraraka,” Deku says, voice quiet. He stands tense, arms down by his side. “You shouldn’t have done that.” 

Round Face stares at him. “Midoriya, what are you saying?”

Deku continues to stare at his feet, voice quiet. “You had no right to butt in.” 

Round Face looks taken aback. “We’re we supposed to just stand aside and watch that?” 

“Izuku is right,” Bakugou says, voice just as quiet. “All of you should have stayed out of it.” 

Everyone seems to suck in a breath. They look at each other. 

Kirishima looks around. “We were just trying to help.” 

“Well you didn’t,” Bakugou says. He...he leans against the counter, suddenly tired. “Izukua, we need to call Aizawa.” 

“I know.” Deku sounds as tired as he does. He doesn’t look at anyone. “Everyone, we’re closing early. I’m sorry but please leave.” 

They’re slow to do so, hesitant as they take their cups and make for the door. 

The Nerd Group and his own brand of idiots are the last to leave. The idiots pull him aside. 

“What’s going on, Blasty?” Pink Hair hisses. “Who was that lady? Who is Aizawa?” 

“Are you in trouble?” Kirishima asks, hands holding tight to his shoulders. His eyes search Bakugou. “Do we need to get the authorities?” 

Dunce and Elbows start talking over each other, each trying to offer a solution. 

And Bakugou...Bakugou just stays silent, taking them all in. 

His eyes meet Deku’s, who is surrounded too. Neither say anything, just keep looking at each other.

                                                         ~

Aizawa is leaning against the counter, staring them down. 

They had finally managed to kick the idiots out. Now, the shop is empty. Dark. Barren. 

Bakugou takes a deep breath.

Deku is staring into space, his body crumpled. 

“You know what you have to do,” Aizawa says. 

Neither reply. 

“The League haven’t been sending messages to anyone else. They’re here for you. Both of you. If you leave, they are sure to follow.” 

Bakugou’s fingers twitch. Deku keeps opening his mouth as if he has something to say and then closes it. 

It’s Bakugou who finally speaks. “What about the humans?” 

Aizawa tilts his head. 

Bakugou looks away. His fingers twitch again. “The ones that always hang out here. The morons pissed off Toga. She’s not going to let that go.” 

“Yes, so we’ve heard,” Aizawa says. He purses his lips. “Don’t worry about that. We have people watching them and will keep them safe, at least until she gets bored.” 

“Do you really have to leave?” Deku asks, voice small. “We just...this territory is ours. Shouldn’t we protect it?” 

Aizawa glares at him. “You can’t protect this territory. You’ll only cause more problems. Leaving is the only option.” 

Deku looks at Bakugou. Bakugou does not look back. Instead, Bakugou looks down, eyebrows furrowing. “And the humans…” he tests out the words in his mouth. “They will be fine? You’re sure of it?” 

“Katsuki-” Deku starts to say. 

“Of course,” Aizawa cuts him off.

Bakugou takes a deep breath. There is a fight in his veins, fire and the need to destroy those that oppose him, who oppose the greater good, clawing at his chest, beating a war path in his heart. 

He thinks about the cafe, that stupid fucking cafe, and the first night he had been forced there. 

Bakugou takes another breath. Then he looks at Deku. Deku deflates, shoulders slumping. Bakugou turns to Aizawa. “Help us pack up?” 

                                                         ~

The coffee shop is no more. Where once there was a hole in the wall, where once the smell of coffee and sweets almost overpowered everything else, where once music and the sound of people talking and screaming could be heard from outside, all of it gone. 

The bricks are closed over the shop’s front. 

Everything is gone. 

                                                       ~

Bakugou has been alone for a long time. Ever since he had been created, born into this world, Bakugou has been different from the other angels. 

He was created to be righteous, to be God’s fury, to strike down evil. He was created to be the best, to expect the best from everyone else. 

Bakugou was created to be alone. 

                                                     ~

Izukua Midoriya was the son of a sheep farmer. His father had died in a war. His mother had been a devout Christian and had passed that along to her son. 

Bakugou, who had been stationed near the city, had heard the boy pray. Every day. Every night. Praying to God to help their family, to give them a plentiful harvest, to allow Midoriya to not be so sick anymore. The boy had never appeared angry when he prayed or desperate. 

To Bakugou, it had all been background noise. Another human doing another prayer. 

Until. One day. Bakugou had bumped into Midoriya as he was making a patrol. 

Midoriya, who was no longer human. 

Midoriya, who had decided to sell his soul to the Demon Lord All Might.  

Bakugou had never been angier in his life. To have someone turn their back on God, someone who had devoted their life to God, now stinking of those demon scum had thrown him into such a fury that Bakugou had acted on his first instinct. 

He attacked. 

Of course, not his best moment. Midoriya might have just received his powers but they were the powers of All Might and fucking Deku is a determined bastard. 

The battle had ended in a draw and Bakugou had left to lick his wounds. 

Somehow, someway, Bakugou and Deku’s fates had been intertwined. 

They continue to meet, they continue to battle. Neither wins. Neither loses. 

Bakugou is still alone. He still fights alone. He still lives alone. 

He is never lonely. 

                                                     ~

Years later, hundreds and thousands of years later, Bakugou runs into Deku and Deku refuses to fight him. 

Oh, Bakugou tries. He tries very hard to fight him. But the nerd just refuses. 

Bakugou keeps running into him and Deku keeps refusing to fight. Sometimes, Deku even shows up just to talk to Bakugou. 

It confuses the fuck out of him. 

Bakugou never talks back. He’ll scream and yell, but like fuck he’ll talk to a loser demon. 

                                                          ~

Years and years and years later, Bakugou stops trying to fight it. 

(He does not fucking accept it, no matter what anyone says, but he does stop fighting it.)

                                                          ~

Deku likes to talk. It’s another fucking annoying trait of his. He’ll talk Bakugou’s fucking ear off. Random fucking stuff too. 

“Did you see what these humans had built?”

“Did you taste this new food? It’s delicious.”

“Come on, you have to come outside with me. Come see this.” 

Bakugou tries his best to ignore him but…

“Do you think the humans know that the stars dream of them?” 

Deku is so fucking annoying…

“Hey, Bakugou, do ever wish you weren’t immortal?” 

And never fucking shuts up…

“Kachaan, do you ever get lonely?” 

Ever. 

                                                         ~

The new town they settle in is isolated, cut off by the forest surrounding them. 

They settle in an apartment, both not sure where to go from here. 

Bakugou feels like his skin is crawling, like he wants to reach under it and scratch that itch. He has paced in every room, across every furniture, has even walked on the ceiling. 

Deku hasn’t moved from his spot on his mattress in 3 days and 12 hours. It’s a good thing they don’t have to eat or Bakugou would have had to shove food down the little shit’s throat. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, what is wrong with them? 

                                                       ~

Eventually, Bakugou kicks Deku’s door down. 

“Come on, nerd. We can’t fucking sit around here all day.” 

Deku doesn’t answer him. 

Bakugou isn’t going to fucking stand for that. 

He picks Deku up, throwing him over his shoulder. Deku gives a shout, fists pounding against Bakugou’s back. Bakugou ignores him. 

He practically throws him outside. The guy who had been walking by at the wrong time startles, turning sideways to look at them with wide eyes. Bakugou ignores him. 

Deku picks himself up from the ground, frowning at Bakugou. 

Bakugou points at him. “We aren’t doing this. I refuse. I am not going to go fucking crazy over some fucking humans. We are getting this out of our system.” 

Deku squares his shoulders. Bakugou can feel the air around them tingle, crackling and spitting. His eyes seem to darken, staring deep into Bakugou. Bakugou can feel his own power rising to meet him, bits of explosions popping along his skin. He growls, mouth opening wide to show all his teeth. 

Deku’s fists clench and Bakugou shifts his stance. 

The two clash, a loud boom echoing around them. Bakugou is thrown into the air, with Deku chasing after him. He snarls, twisting his body around. He throws his hand out, the tip of his fingertips lightening up. 

With a strong push, he throws his power back at Deku. Deku’s body jerks, his arm snapping back in a weird angle. Still, he continues to fly at Bakugou, skin turning black and scaly as he moves. 

Bakugou sticks his other hand out, to the side, and uses his powers to throw himself to the side. His wings itch to come out but Bakugou doesn’t release them. 

He dodges Deku’s punch, lifting his leg up to knee Deku in the side. Deku coughs, but he doesn’t hesitate as he turns, his own leg kicking Bakugou in the face. Bakugou’s head snaps to the side and he growls. 

Grabbing onto Deku’s arm, he flips them, throwing Deku back towards the ground. Deku grabs Bakugou’s shirt and drags him down with him. The wind rushing past them forces tears to well up in Bakugou’s eyes, his skin pulled back as they are pulled down by gravity. 

At the last second, Deku flips them and Bakugou grunts as he smacks into the ground. Around him, the earth crumbles. 

Deku stands above him, panting. Tears are streaming down his face. His arms are partially black and green, scales decorating his skin. His fingers end in claws. He snarls, large canines shining in the light. 

“Stop pretending,” Deku growls, voice gravelly. If the humans had been able to see them, if Bakugou hadn’t put up that veil, they wouldn’t have understood any words. The language was ancient and beyond their understanding. 

“I’m not pretending,” Bakugou says. He stays down, limbs tired. He...he doesn’t want to fight. 

It’s a weird feeling for him. 

“You are,” Deku continues. “You’re trying to move past it and pretending like you don’t care. But you do.” 

Bakugou closes his eyes. “There was nothing we can do.” 

“It was our territory. They were ours to protect. We should have.” 

“The only way to protect them was to leave,” Bakugou says. 

“That’s not true,” Deku screams. His eyes glow green, staring Bakugou down. “We could have fought. We should have fought.” 

Bakugou closes his eyes. “We couldn’t.” 

“Bull. Shit.” Deku falls to his knees, punching Bakugou in the face. 

Bakugou tilts his head to the side, spitting out blood. “We couldn’t.” 

“We should have tried.” Deku is sobbing now, big fat tears falling down his face. Some splashes onto Bakugou’s face. 

Bakugou takes a deep breath. He looks up to the heavens. “I know.” 

                                                     ~

It does not get easier for the two of them. 

They stay in their apartment. 

They can’t decide what business they should open now. 

They wait for the League to catch up to them again. 

                                                    ~

Bakugou steps out of the apartment. He buries his nose in his scarf. The air has a chill to it, enough to make his human cheeks start to redden. Bakugou isn’t that bothered by the cold weather, but he knows that it would look weird to the humans if he wasn’t as bundled as they were. 

That, and Bakugou kind of likes the warmer clothes. 

He just needs to get out of the apartment, away from Deku and the cloud that hangs over them. There’s a pizza place down the street that doesn’t completely suck and so he heads there. 

The town is small. Most of the people he passes just nod at him. They still give him odd looks and a few cross the street to get away from him. Bakugou doesn’t mind. 

He doesn’t want to interact with humans all that much right now. 

Bakugou frowns down at the sidewalk. 

His neck prickles. Casually, he looks behind him. 

A young woman and her boyfriend walk hand in hand, the boyfriend looking into the shops as the girl stares down at her phone. Another man is walking his dog. Two girls are giggling as they drink milkshakes. A group of boys laugh at one’s misfortune. 

Bakugou’s frown deepens, instincts tingling. He turns back around and continues walking. The feeling like he’s being watched does not go away. 

The shitty pizza place is just as shitty as when he last when here. He orders a greasy slice of pepperoni and a water and sits in the corner. Staring down at it. He doesn’t know if he can eat, if he can force himself to eat. 

But he’s not a wimp and so he picks up the slice and takes a bite. 

The door opens and a group of what looks like students enter the shop. Bakugou ignores them, focused more on eating. 

Well. He tries to ignore them. Kind of hard when they huddle around his table, dropping into any nearby chairs. 

Bakugou lifts his head, mouth open, ready to tell them to fuck off. 

It closes when he sees that those motherfucking idiots stare back at him. 

“Hey, Bakubro,” Kirishima says, grin bright and unafraid, like Bakugou wasn’t two seconds away from jumping across the table and strangling him to death. His hair lays flat against his skull, a deep black. He’s wearing more clothes than Bakugou has ever seen him wear, meaning he’s wearing at least a shirt with a jacket over it. 

“What,” Bakugou says, deadly quiet. “The fuck. Are you doing here?” 

“We came to help you,dude.” Ashido says. It’s weird to not see her hair pink. Instead it’s bleach blonde and pulled into a ponytail. She’s wearing all black, with dark, dark eyeliner and black lipstick. 

Sero, who somehow managed to fit his big fucking elebows into a form fitting jacket, smiles widely at him. Kaminari, still looking as stupid as ever, also has black hair, no zigzag in sight. He gives Bakugou a thumbs up. “It totally wasn’t cool of you to just leave us like that, bro. But we forgive you.” 

Bakugou sputters. “You forgive me?You forgive me? You shouldn’t even be here. I-what-how-”

“I got to admit, you pulled a fast one on us,” Kirishima says. “That disappearing act really fucked with my head. I mean, there’s a coffee shop we were going to for like a year and then, bam. There is nothing.” 

“Yeah, seriously. I thought I was losing my god damn mind,” Kaminari says. He gives Bakugou a frown. “Dude, you know I have problems with misremembering stuff like that. That was seriously uncool.” 

“And then we kept seeing these weird people around us.” Bakugou has to hold in his snort. Aizawa might be amazing at stealth but if he brought Hizashi, then there is no way even humans wouldn’t notice that disaster. 

“And that girl, what’d you call her? Toga? Yeah, she attacked Uraraka.” 

Bakugou straightens at that, stomach tightening. “What?” 

“Dude, it’s ok,” Sero reassures him. “She’s fine. This dude with weird long hair and his friend came just in time. They, uh, they explained what was going on.” 

“Kind of had to,” Ashido says. She shivers a little. “The blood thing Toga did was, uh, a little creepy.” 

Bakugou can agree with that. 

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, and looking at them. “Ok. So you know everything. That doesn’t explain why you are here.” 

“Oh that’s easy,” Ashido says, smiling wide. “Mr. Aizawa said that the League was after you and you needed help.” 

Bakugou blinks at her. Then he bursts out laughing. “Fucking, are you serious? You think I need help?”

They all look at him. “Yep!” 

Bakugou stares at them. “You fucking think you can help me?” 

“We know we can,” Kirishima says. He leans across the table and grabs Bakugou’s hand. His smile softens. “Look, bro. You don’t have to do this alone.” 

Bakugou stares down at their connected hands. He makes an effort to not set off any explosions. “What do you think a couple of humans are going to do?” 

“Well, there’s always strength in numbers right? Plus, we’ve been reading up on all the ways we can defend ourselves,” Sero says. 

Bakugou scowls, taking back his hand. “Whatever you’ve looked at is bullshit. Go back home, forget all about the damn coffeeshop, live normally.” He stands up, grabbing his things to throw them away. 

The idiots look at each other. Then back at him. “Nope,” they say. 

“What?” Bakugou says. 

“Guess what, Blasty. You’re stuck with us. You’re just going to have to get used to it.” 

Bakugou just looks at them. What. The. Fuck. “You can’t make me hang out with you.” 

“Ok,” Ashido says, the tone in her voice implying that she thought otherwise. “Then we’ll just hang around here till you get over yourself and go back to your shop.” 

Bakugou growls, before turning and stomping out of the shop. Whatever. They’re just being stupid. Humans always get bored and they will leave eventually. He just has to wait. 

The idiots follow him out into the streets and all the way home, talking and laughing with each other. Bakugou does his best to ignore them. 

They follow him to his apartment complex, all the way up the stairs and to his door. Bakugou grits his teeth as he inserts his key, muscles tense as he gets ready to shove them out of the door before they can invade his space.

What he didn’t expect was to have the door open and come face to face with Red-White. 

Bakugou takes a startled step back. Behind him, he can see Round Face, and Four-Eyes, and Bow Hair Girl, all sitting around Deku. Past them, he can see others. Ponytail, Earphones, the Plain Couple, the Masked Dude, and others. 

Bakugou stares back at Kirishima in horror. Kirshimari’s grin is the tiniest bit smug. 

Fuck. No.

                                                        ~

Bakugou has a vow to never kill a human. He attacks evil and demons and will snuff them out of existence. Humans, he leaves to other archangels. He is bound by his very being to not bring any harm to them. 

The next several weeks, he is very, very, very tempted to break that promise. Even the threat of Falling doesn’t deter his desire to slaughter these goddamn idiots. 

They stay. In his goddamn apartment. They brought fucking sleepig bags. 

If Bakugou leaves, the idiot squad follows him. There’s no room left in his apartment and it’s loud. They always demand Bakugou cook for them. He now has to wait to take showers. In his own apartment. 

Deku is living. He’s bouncing around now, cooking sweets with Big Lips, or demonstrating his power to the nerd group. He smiles brightly. Bakugou can hear him late at night, talking to the others. 

Deku is going to be the first to die in the slaughter. Bakugou doesn’t think heaven will mind too much. 

                                                      ~

Kirishima follows him to the store. He bounces, like a puppy, nipping at Bakugou’s heels. 

Bakugou is despeartely trying to ignore him but fucking Shitty Hair doesn’t care. He yammers away. 

Bakugou stands in the back as Kirishima talks about how he passed that one math exam that he had been dreading and how he is looking forward to next semester. Bakugou narrows his eyes every time Kirishima mentions how he’s excited to get some more Bakugou coffee to get him through school. 

Bakugou finally settles on making some caramelized pork for the night when Kirishima falls silent. Then he bumps his shoulder against Bakugou’s. 

“Hey, I’m really happy to see you again.” 

“Tch,” Bakugou grunts, turning away. 

Kirishima sighs. “Midoriya talks to us you know. Tells us about how you two lived.” 

“Deku talks too much,” Bakugou grumbles. 

Kirishima snickers at that. “Maybe. Or maybe you don’t talk enough.” He tilts his head. “You know we won’t leave you alone, right?” 

Bakugou tenses. “You’re a dumbass if you think I care about any of you at all.” 

“Uh huh,” Kirishima says. “So that whole thing where you’ve apparently been pouting about having to leave was a lie?” 

“I had to leave my territory, of fucking course I was mad about it.” 

“Territory? You know, Midoriya said something like that before. So you guys go by territories? Do you mark them?” 

Bakugou turns to look at him, nose scrunching up. “...did you just ask me if I piss on things?” 

Kirishima laughs and it sounds loud in the store. 

                                                       ~

It takes two more weeks for Bakugou to break. 

They are so fucking annoying and Bakugou is pretty sure he’s going bald from all the pulling he’s doing to his poor hair. 

He pulls Deku to the side, into Bakugou’s empty room, and slams him against a wall. “Tell them to leave,” he demands. 

Deku looks back at Bakugou, smile small. “You know, I don’t think they would listen to me if I told them anyway.” 

Bakugou growls before pushing off. “I’m losing my fucking mind.” 

Deku brushes himself off, looking up at Bakugou under his eyelashes. “You know what would get them to stop.” 

Bakugou scowls. “Fuck no.” 

“Why not, Kachaan? They’re here anyways. If the League follows us, they will be in just as much trouble as if we went back home. There’s no point in just uselessly torturing yourself.” 

“I’m not usually torturing myself. I’m being fucking logical. They won’t be in trouble if they just fucking leave.” 

“Or,” Deku says, the little shit sounding smug. “We go home. We prepare. We defeat the League when they come again.” 

“You’ve finally fucking lost your mind,” Bakugou says. 

“I know you’re scared, Kachaan-” 

“What the fuck did you say? I’m not scared of anything. Especially not those fucking losers. You forget, Deku,” Bakugou sneers. “I escaped them once.” 

“And so did I.” Deku’s wide smirk tells Bakugou that he fell right into this one. “We’re the only beings to have escaped them. So why don’t you believe we can take them on?” 

“I’m not fucking discussing this with you anymore,” Bakugou says. He stomps away, slamming open the door. He pauses, taking in the scene. 

Red-White stares back at him, face blank as he films Kaminari and Plain Girl trying to drown hot sauce (Bakugou’s special hot sauce too). They are failing miserably. Ashido, Sero, and Kirishima are losing their minds in the back, while Four Eyes, Ponytail, and Plain Boy desperately try to stop the two. 

Bakugo slowly closes the door and turns to look at Deku. 

Deku shrugs. “Plus, if we go home, they won’t be staying with us anymore.” 

Bakugou packs his bags later that night. 

                                                       ~

Being home isn’t a fucking relief, no matter what Deku says. Bakugou constantly feels like he’s on watch, skin itching. He’ll need to find something to hunt soon or he really will lose it. 

But the coffee shop is back up. Bakugou touches the walls and the old movie posters and pointedly ignores Deku smiling at him. 

Then he scrunches up his sleeves and goes to the kitchen. He needs to make coffee.