#because yeah the first time I read that last line my initial sense of irony absolutely sent me hahaha

[scarletspider2the2ndpower]

Chasm: Curse of Kaine (Vol. 1/2024), #1.

Writer: Steve Foxe; Penciler and Inker: Andrea Broccardo; Colorist: Brian Reber; Letterer: Joe Caramagna

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

///

Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

[kaorei-endgame]

hmmm.... if you didn’t know.... the only thing i do now is write about catboys :)

“The restaurant still had cds, dozens and dozens of them in this dusty pile by the register. No aux cable as far as the eye could see.” Nico flinched. “Can you not, with your bare feet?”

Anzu kicked defiantly, digging in against the couch cushions with their back to continue their chilly assault. “So it was cool?” They asked, from around their gameboy screen. “You’re telling me she took you to a cool place.”

Nico's ears drooped. “Mostly it was a bunch of weird zither tunes. And the food was like…”

“Bad?”

“Challenging.” Nico slumped deeper into the couch. “Don’t get me wrong I appreciate when she takes initiative… it’s just… kind of disappointing for our…y’know…”

Anzu’s ears crossed, they perked up. “Go on, say it.”

“Familiar Anniver—”

“Familiarversary!” Anzu chorused, hands waving, arms high.

A throw pillow careened past Anzu’s head. “No.”

Anzu giggled back. “If she’s so bad at feeling your vibe or whatever you can break up you know. It’s not 50 years ago you don’t have to be”—shuffling the gameboy to one hand for scare quotes—“bonded,” or whatever, Grandma.”

“Dude I’m nine months older than you.”

“That’s besides the point.” Anzu wafted the gameboy emphatically with both hands. “I asked Oers’s friend, who is a medium. And she said breaking that stuff up—poof—” Nico winced, tracking the precarious wobble of the gameboy as Anzu’s arms went wide in elaboration. “Simple as…” The gameboy shot up into the air and Anzu threw out a lightning quick pair of finger-guns at the now-paralyzed-by-oncoming-electronic-grief Nico. “Pah-pah! ….Goin’ to the courthouse.“—The gameboy fell!

…with a whumpf, onto the couch cushions between Anzu’s legs.

Anzu grinned. “Anyway, it’s like thirty bucks. You don’t have thirty bucks?”

“I got thirty.” Nico slumped back onto the couch, tabbed around with the remote to try and find the Spacecraft tournament they’d originally intended to watch, though Anzu kept calling it the Spacewars tournament without a hint of irony, which did cause Nico to suspect Anzu’s commitment to the sport. “It’s the lingering twelve hundred from my EOOL violation that’s gonna kill me.”

“Oooh, ghost stuff!”

Nico squinted. “What the hell do you know about Exorcism law?”

“Enough to know somebody’s been”—Anzu’s eyebrows waggled— “Exorcising. Out. Of. License.”

Nico huffed. “Which of those cop shows you like did an episode about ghosts?”

“Oers’s internet has been pretty”—Anzu wiggled a hand in the air and clicked their tongue a few times—“since that flood a while back? So that friend of hers has a whole office with a bunch of law books, that kind of thing, and since I’m always hanging around with nothing to do while they’re—”

Nico’s Anzu-sense pinged. “Anzu….. are you sure this friend…. Isn’t her wife?”

“Huh?” Anzu went blank faced, ears tilting from left to right and back again. Then they burst into a wild chortle, reaching for the half-killed sake bottle beside them on the floor. “Ahaha, nothing like that. Oh!” FWUNK! The plastic cork popped free and skittered across the floor. “They’re co-workers! Like you and Marigold!” Trailing off, Anzu took a long chug. There was so much left because Anzu bought the sweet stuff—i.e.: the cheap stuff—which is what will happen, if you let Anzu buy alcohol. Which gave Nico, comparatively sober, plenty of time to puzzle out….

“If she’s a medium, and you’re calling them co-workers…” Nico assessed the corners of the room for 3rd party observers. “Cripes. You’re dating a demon?”

Anzu’s nose wrinkled up, their eyes went to slits. A dribble of sake spilled over their chin. “Ehe! Cool, yeah?”

Nico paused for a good long time. Words had left them. Biting their lip, they raised their hands.

“Is she��.”

Outlining a box in the air.

No…. A larger one.

M-maybe a bit larger.

“…big?”

“Nico!” Anzu, aghast. Eyes gigantic beneath that shaggy fringe of hair. Just long enough to make Nico squirm. Then, they put both hands in front of them in quiet praise, bowed, and began to jitter. “Ffffffucking extremely!!” They cackled.

Nico paused for a sec, to let the mental image really firm up. They slouched on the couch, and smiled. “Damn, a demon. That’s like a super LDR.”

“Not really.” Anzu chugged the last of the sake. “She’s on the same subway line.”

“Yea, but she’s gotta traverse three planes before she can walk to the station…” Nico blinked. “Hey…”

Before Nico could respond, Anzu burst into a sudden motion, ice-cold feet kicked out, seeking vulnerable spots in the Nico-couch symbiote to burrow between for precious warmth.

Nico yelped, instinctually flinching away, but no matter how Nico contorted, the freezing arches of Anzu’s feet were never far behind.

“Give in!” Anzu squealed. “It’s freezing! I’m drunk!”

“Will you be quiet? You’ll wake up Marigold.” With a hand against Anzu’s face for leverage, Nico managed to wrestle them, laughing, to the couch. “I’ll get you a blanket!”

Anzu relented in an instant, slumping dead-limbed across the couch.

The streams of “Thank you, cousin!” and “Love you, miss you!” and various other obnoxiously affectionate bon-mots trailed Nico all the way down the hallway to the office.

A frizzy sensation rifled through Nico’s neck hair as they creaked the office door open, which probably narrowly saved them a (meta?)physical encounter with Marigold’s astral projection, hovering like a glittering blue constellation of her shape, somewhere between the door and the little linen closet in the side wall.

Marigold, the physical one, was slumped over the desk, steepled hat slumped over her face and… maybe (no, definitely) drooling a little, but it didn’t look like over anything important. Just those parody tarot cards Nico had gotten her one year in an unfortunately passive-aggressive plea to tune The Readings down a notch…

Nico skirted around the little celestial nymphs that flitted back and forth to outline Marigold’s form as she chatted emphatically gesturing with her hands towards unseen partners in muted conversations.

It was probably work. Nico hoped it was work. Astral bandwidth was really expensive this time of year and—

The nymphs twisted and flurried around one another as Marigold swayed with laughter.

It was probably work…. Related?

A little “snurrgurrgle” of a snort escaped Marigold, the physical one, as Nico tucked a blanket around her and said goodnight.  

When Nico got back, Anzu was fully asleep fully sprawled out with fully one of the couch cushions on top of them for insulation. So Nico just chucked the blanket on top of the whole thing and hit un-mute on the TV.

Nico watched the TV for a while, til Anzu had to come up for air. Sneaking their head out from under the blanket, red-faced from booze and trapped body heat, and smiling cozily. “So what year is this, for y’all two?”

“A lot.”

“Did she get you a gift?”

A startle-tremor ran through Nico. They scruffed their nails through the back of their hair. “Yeah.”

Anzu’s smeared wingliner accentuated to stiletto points. “Was it a good one?”

Nico reddened. Scratched at her collar bone like worrying up an old secret. “She’s… done worse.”

A satisfied little giggle, from the other side of the couch. “Bet she has.”

The little cartoon space man living and dying in 15 second intervals on the TV screen became very interesting, for a while. Long enough that all the thoughts in Nico’s head began to parse themselves out… one by one…

“So.” Anzu’s spine arched, sliding up the arm of the couch, their hands rooted blindly behind them, coming back with a fistful of red vines, morst of which ended up in their mouth on the first go. “How’s your mom?”

[terramythos]

uhhhh liveblog reactions of the newest october daye book, #14, a killing frost. don’t look @ me. don’t @ me. 

monumental spoilers for this book & the entire series 

-aw tybalt is taking toby's last name

-SUS AF looks at Patrick and Dianda. 👀 I knew there was a reason we established that Patrick very close to Simon before he went crazy and evil. I feel like that was in Once Broken Faith (#10)?

-LMAO I straight up forgot Rayseline exists.

-great to see sylvester's still a dick.

-still endlessly funny to me that Sylvester's Literal Evil Twin Simon replaced him as Toby's father figure and now sylvester's just like, some asshole who randomly shows up sometimes

-great to see Luna's still a bitch.

-great family

-well it's interesting from a purely academic perspective to see what happens to May when she's literally missing organs. Usually it's Toby!

-hi Simon

-Simon: *is evil*

Toby: you know what? This dude is way more trustworthy than Sylvester!

(She's... not wrong)

-Simon: *is evil*

Toby: come oooon simon you're a good guy cmoooon this is getting boring

-oh cool we're going on a road trip with evil!Simon, that cant possibly go wrong

-*shit goes super wrong like right away* ok

-toby calling may her sister constantly in this book awww

-walther shows up :D I love him

-yaaay the Luidaeg finally my absolute fave absolute queen

-toby: so I went on this big quest on my own and now Quentin is kidnapped and May got elf-shot. It seemed like a good idea at the time so me and/or simon wouldnt get caught in some weird magic contract with you

The Luidaeg: wow, you're a fucking idiot

Toby's narration: this hurt on a personal level because she can't lie so i knew she like REALLY meant it

-ok so theres this weird bit where we learn Stacy is ultra protective of her kids dating. There is some discussion about how that is super weird and doesn't make any sense to toby. Then some more discussion about how a lot of Stacy's past doesn't add up. Specifically, stacy's grandparents were purebloods (who hated her), which actually makes zero sense biologically considering how little fae blood Stacy has. Also worth considering, though not mentioned, TWO of stacy's children are powerful seers which makes no sense from what we know about thin blood in canon.

I think this *might* connect to my ongoing suspicions of Marcia as a character, who is a thinblooded changeling who consistently keeps showing up. Including in this book when she really didn't need to. At this point she has met multiple Firstborn and they initially seem alarmed/disturbed when they see her for no apparent reason. 14 books since her intro and we know nothing about her past or even her heritage, which is unheard of in this series. When that kind of info is obscured its always because there's a big twist associated with it. There is something going on there.

-speaking of. Um. Simon and Sylvester's bio mom was a human? Excuse me? What? Hello?

-sylvester refused to claim her as their legal mother so simon (angry about it) had to reject her too. A whole new layer to the "fuck Sylvester" cake and brings some interesting perspective to him stepping in as a paternal figure for toby, a homeless changeling? What the fuck, Sylvester?

-this is also one reason why not evil!Simon isn't a total asshole to Toby.

-anyway. Toby being turned into an otter and biting The Luidaeg was fucking funny

-wow, evening REALLY sucks.

-dang the tree thing is pretty creepy :( big fuckin yikes

-OK so toby's sacrificing her way home to keep Simon from doing more damage? I guess is the plan? Fuck?

-toby seems to know names of some Roane she's never met and I'm not sure if that's a mistake or not

-oh Quentin is big mad at Simon. Even if this all goes well a lot of people are gonna hate him. Also, he hurt Dean which is gonna piss Patrick and Dianda off

-though it was basically mind control so. SHRUG????

-god, fuck evening

-WAIT. Something was just implied that. wait... if that's where this is going I'm MAD.

- Toby: *takes on the curse*

Simon: *is suddenly not evil*

Simon: toby what the fuck no why did you do that :(((

-i like Simon 😬

-"apparently, the thought of Patrick being angry with him was even more distressing than I'd expected it to be. Interesting." UM. UMMMM. 👀👀👀👀👀

-seeing Toby briefly turn into her book 1 version was funny. Immediately pointing at tybalt, the literal love of her life, and screaming "you FUCKER". Ah, memories.

-ok. Ok yeah that's where this was going. Fuck me. Fuck.

-i am SO MAD. a fucking THROWAWAY LINE ...

-ok so officer Thornton is Oberon. That's cool. Ok.

I immediately went and skimmed the two books he was in and caught two instances of foreshadowing.

In Ashes of Honor (#6) when toby meets him she describes him as familiar in a generic way. Like, she recognizes his voice and face immediately but can't place it.. This is never brought up again. In the final chapter of this book he is described the same way, as generic yet strangely familiar. So. A closer reading might be in order to see how other fae behave around him. It's possible Toby has a stronger reaction since he's her grandfather (and is the perspective character.)

And yeah, the fucking THROWAWAY "lady, let alone" line from The Brightest Fell (#11). At the time that just seemed awkward, or I guess a gratuitous Tam Lin reference. Fuck me. Also explains how he didnt implode or die from being trapped in Annwn.

-and it makes sense there isnt much more than that because it seems "officer thornton" doesnt know he's oberon. Like it's basically the situation Simon was in??? There's a throwaway "why in the world was Oberon disguised as a human and couldn't remember anything?" line but it isn't explored, so I assume its addressed in a future book.

-(oh my god Riordan kept him as like. Some sick pet. For a YEAR. she didn't know he was the literal King of Faerie. Fucking hell.)

-his fucking name. Thornton. THORNton. Perfectly human character here hahahaha fuck off.

-and this makes the whole fucking series setup of "toby will be the one to find oberon" way more funny because. Man, mission fucking accomplished. 8 books ago.

-thematically makes sense that he returns in The Brightest Fell, too. Fuck me. fuck me! Bitter irony that Simon is given the impossible task/curse to find Oberon in that book and he was literally like, zonked out two rooms away

-list of "minor/background" characters in this series who later reveal themselves to be Huge Lore Gamechangers: Evening, The Luidaeg, May, August, Janet, and now FUCKING Oberon.

-an entire chapter of Simon apologizing to everyone

- holy fuck? Canon ot3???? Simon/Patrick/Dianda??? OT3? HELLO?????

-the October daye series has a fucking canon ot3 and they're getting married. Alright. Ok. Thanks seanan for my life

-"simon, amandine is just the worst and doesn't deserve you. Come marry me and my wife" is not where I was expecting this to go but like okay I am on board

-so the divorce happens and toby unsurprisingly picks Simon as her legal parent. But August does too. Amandine is pissed... I'm sure that'll be a whole Thing.

-THIS BOOK LITERALLY ENDS WITH SIMON AND PATRICK AND DIANDA GETTING MARRIED I'M

-"I now declare you husbands and wife" asdfhdkskxj

-well that book was a fucking ride. Holy christ. Toby accidentally found Oberon. That was sort of the big overarching thing. Not sure where the story goes from here. Theres some loose ends I already discussed and Evening is still a threat but yeah!

-ok we still have the novella "Shine In Pearl" which seems to be about Simon and Patrick and Dianda pre-series

-this is mostly VERY angsty (but well written) but 👀 at this novella mentioning Dawn as a character who exists outside of like, an offhand mention in the first book. Also referring to Riordan like she's not a minor background character

-calling tybalt an asshole too lol

-christ. Poor simon. Even more context of literally everyone screwing him over. :(( I'm glad it's better now.

[the-ice-sculpture]

Thoughts on Sanrion

Sanrion isn’t as inevitable a thing as Braime or Gendra is/has been but there’s still potential evidence that it’s been the works for a long time coming. None of what I’m saying is new, I’m just using this as an excuse to vent my thoughts.

From the beginning both the show and books made a point of emphasising how Ned and Catelyn built their love stone by stone, despite not being each other’s first choice (or even choice at all). Thematically, it’d make sense if this comes full circle by being repeated for the ending. Sansa is the Stark who most resembles her mother, who most mirrors her mother - only Sansa has the potential to be even more fierce and (is already more) politically savvy. If Sansa was to end up marrying anyone else, it’d make the most structural sense as a story if her marriage mirrored that of her mother and father’s - if she married somebody she did not initially like and if together they both decided to build their marriage. 

Since a large portion of Sansa’s character arc revolves around her loss of naivety and overcoming romanticised notions of handsome valiant knights and princes, if she was to end up with someone then it’d be the most satisfying if she ends up choosing someone who is in no way conventionally attractive and doesn’t hold up to the idealised dreams of future matches she had as a young girl. Tyrion is the epitome of someone who is in no sense conventionally attractive and he’s one of the few characters outside her family who she has a long history with who is also high born. Tyrion is the only character in King’s Landing (debatably except from The Hound and Margery Tyrell) who shows her any kindness without having any ulterior motive and he’s also from a house that’s despised by her family. So, yeah, Tyrion fits the bill. 

Sansa’s so used to people valuing her for what her name brings them because she is the key to the North. For years no one outside her family valued her for her and instead she’s faced an onslaught of suitors and people trying to make matches for her based on what her name and title would bring them. This is common amongst the highborn girls in Westeros but happens far more than would be considered normal to Sansa. In a political sense, she’s been traded and promised like a piece of meat. One of the most powerful things she can do now is to make her own decisions and choose what - or who - she wants for herself. 

Tyrion has the opposite problem to Sansa. Instead of being fought over like a piece of meat, all his potential suitors are either repulsed or offended by the offer of a match with him. A match with him would be a punishment, as far as they’re concerned. For most of Tyrion’s story, all the people Tyrion socialises with are paid to be in his company. No one chooses Tyrion. In the show, Tyrion doesn’t know Tysha wasn’t paid by Jaime and has no idea she voluntarily chose him as a romantic partner. Whenever Tyrion accomplishes something great someone else gets all the credit and praise. Whenever something goes badly, whether or not Tyrion had anything to do with it, he gets blame or accusations. Tyrion is constantly undervalued despite his incredible assets and competence. This only changed when Daenerys named him her hand. But in terms of his value as a marital partner, from Tyrion’s own perspective, no one has chosen him. 

You see where I’m going with this? Sansa has experienced too many people fighting over her for her name. Sansa now has the freedom and power to make her own choices. Tyrion is used to being undervalued and is the person no one voluntarily chooses... If only there was a solution that would satisfy both these criteria.

Personality wise, they’re also a very good match even though the age difference isn’t ideal. Tyrion is one of the few people who can make Sansa genuinely laugh and smile. Tyrion treats her gently and wishes to protect her and curses himself for not being strong enough to always be able to. His intentions and the way he treats her (definitely more so in the show rather than the books) actually read as genuinely chivalrous (see all the hand to hand contact they have). In an interesting twist, Tyrion in some ways reflects Sansa’s old romantic ideas, only they come from someone she never expected such chivalry to come from (or even someone she would’ve expected to want such chivalry to come from). But Sansa could have both. Sansa could both have someone who treats her as she wants to be treated as well as someone who represents how much she has grown as a person. Because, honestly, at this stage the last things Sansa cares about is how handsome someone is or how valiant they are. Sansa wants those she cares about to stay loyal and stay alive. 

Politically, Sansa and Tyrion are also a good match. A Lannister and Stark choosing to be together would be a poetic end, given all the blood between their houses. And as many people have pointed out, the War of the Roses (which GoT is loosely inspired by) ended with the two opposing houses marrying. Sansa’s one of the very few characters on the show who can keep up with him and he saw her potential from the beginning. In the crypts, they choose to hold hands, to face the threat together, and in the heat of all that they even had a tender moment with Tyrion kissing her hand. After all the intense eye-contact of that scene, how they brought up their marriage even before that scene happened, and after everything that’s been left unsaid between them, it’d be a bit strange if this development in their relationship doesn’t lead to anything more. Due to the sheer terror of the situation, I really don’t think Sansa was manipulating him here. We only see Sansa manipulate people she sees as potential threats and people who’ve wronged her in the past and Tyrion is neither of these things. 

There’s also the bonus of the potential beautiful irony of Sansa and Tyrion being happily married enraging Cersei and Tywin Lannister from beyond the grave. 

So in terms of coherent storytelling, having Sansa and Tyrion renew their wedding vows could work very well, so long as they both choose it and aren’t forced into it. There’s even a possibility of it being the ‘sweet’ part of the ‘bittersweet’ ending we’ve been hearing so much about. The GoT universe is so dark that their relationship could provide a delicate contrast, particularly given the history of these two characters and everything they’ve been through. 

The time they’ve spent apart has actually been very healthy for the possibility of them deciding to be together. It’s given Sansa a chance to mature on her own, to grow and become a woman and learn lessons by herself. They’ve both had long journeys where they’ve formed their own new alliances and have learned so much along the way. The absence of each other means they’re not used to being forced together. During this time, in the show Tyrion abstained from sex which surprised him more than anyone else. The show made Sansa experience the worst kind of match she could possibly have had with Ramsey, who was a huge contrast to Tyrion’s promise that he’ll never share her bed unless she wants him to (and I hope there’ll be a throwback to that line with these two). Given both their trauma, it’s a very delicate area to navigate around but these two have the potential to work together to achieve it if it’s what they desire.

But here’s the part that makes me not so optimistic: all the ominous foreshadowing revolving around Tyrion. Because Sansa’s chances of survival seem far greater than Tyrion’s at the moment. Sansa’s learned so much and now is one of the cleverest characters on the show but Tyrion... I just don’t know if he’ll make it out alive. I think if he makes it out alive then they have a genuine chance together. But all the not so subtle hints of Daenerys becoming increasingly displeased with him as well as the conversations about betrayal he’s had with Daenerys and Varys suggest Tyrion’s going to have a hard time getting away unscathed. (Given how I’m sure Sansa’s role is going to become more important in the world of politics, I’m desperately hoping she could help him out of a tough spot somehow in a plot twist.)

My ideal ending for Tyrion and Sansa would be for Sansa to be Queen of the North and for Tyrion to be her hand. I don’t see Sansa wanting to leave Winterfell or her family ever again. I don’t see her changing her name from Stark to anything else either, even if she does remarry. Tyrion loves playing the game and almost being killed over it hasn’t put him off in the past. He has no objections to supporting a queen, despite Westerosi misogyny. Sansa has learned to play the game and play it well. Together, they’re the ultimate political power couple. Tyrion has more years of experience but Sansa knows the North and she also covers Tyrion’s blind spots (like about there being no chance of Cersei sending her army north). King’s Landing also holds certain complications for Tyrion, given his history there and the treatment from his family, Shae, and the city’s citizens. 

And I haven’t even touched upon how these two already started to build up a foundation of trust while they were in King’s Landing... Ugh. There’s so much to say with these two. I’m sure I’ll start thinking of more stuff I should’ve included here after I’ve posted this. I’ve no idea how it’s gonna go down, either tragically or sweetly or neither of the two. 

Anyway... Fingers crossed.

[mindareadsoots]

Heh heh, yeah, that line triggered about three hours of Vriscourse on my Discord server that afternoon.

The way I see it, there are three ways you can interpret Vriska’s death:

-Her death was Just -Her death was Heroic -Her death was neither Just, nor Heroic, but she died anyway because of the destroyed clock.

I’m not a fan of that last theory, because logically John should have died too. Crowbar’s crowbar doesn’t just destroy temporal artifacts, it undoes their effect on the timeline as well. As I said during the liveblog, if that clock were responsible for judging the immortality of gods, then John should have dropped dead when Jack hit it with the crowbar.

So was Vriska’s death Heroic?

Maaaaaaaaybe. But any Heroic interpretation of her death requires a broad definition of heroic, and/or a generous reading of her intentions.

The best argument I’ve seen is that her death was heroic because Terezi was the one to kill her, morals be damned. It was the culmination of a years long rivalry, making it heroic in the same sense as the epics of old. On the other hand, that completely ignores Terezi’s reason for clashing with Vriska, and that reason... was her sense of JUST1C3.

Alternatively, Vriska was being Heroic because she was trying to do a good thing by killing Jack, and this argument I have a lot of problems with. First of all, as we saw with John, dying while going after a bad guy is not enough to make a heroic death in and of itself. John got punked out in the first round, which earned him a resurrection, and Vriska didn’t even make it that far.

Secondly, I’m not convinced that going after Jack was Heroic for Vriska in the first place. Remember, she created Jack herself for the express purpose of having a strong opponent to fight later. It’s one thing for Batman to say, “I’m responsible for creating the Joker, I have to be the one to face him,” but that was never her thought process. At no point prior to her death does Vriska express regret for her role in creating Jack. Ever. Fighting Jack isn’t a heroic sacrifice, it’s just the final step in her grand plan. It’s all too calculated to be truly heroic.

“But,” I’ve heard people argue, “if Vriska hadn’t done that, then it would have screwed up the alpha timeline.” I really hate blaming anybody’s behavior (good or bad) on the will of the alpha timeline. By that logic, nobody is responsible for their actions. They’re only victims of circumstance who are being carried down the stream of time. While that was Vriska’s excuse for why she created Jack, I do believe it was just that: an excuse. Characters like Rose and Aradia are both motivated by their desire to fight fate, and yet they continue to operate within the confines of the Alpha timeline. Saying “This had to happen because Alpha Timeline” is only ever true in retrospect. It does not explain the choices a character makes when they are making them.

On the other hand, it’s very easy to make an argument that Vriska’s death was Just. When describing a Just death, Doc Scratch gave the example that, “one may be subject to corruption, and slain by a hero.” Terezi is a hero. That is the technical definition for what she is as the Seer of Mind. Asking whether or not Vriska was “subject to corruption” is downright laughable. We could have a whole other discussion just trying to rank Vriska’s corrupting influences throughout her life.

Terezi initially confronted Vriska for murdering Tavros, and was ultimately forced to kill her to stop her from finding Jack and alerting him to the trolls’ presence on the asteroid. You can feel free to debate which of these motives is more important for justifying Vriska’s death, but it’s six one way and a half dozen the other.

Personally, I prefer the interpretation that it was her guilt over Tavros that got her killed. It’s a distorted reflection of what happened to Mindfang and the Summoner, and she joked about stabbing Tavros in the chest, which was the method of her own execution. These little ironies, as well as the fact that she had been explaining her immortality to John moments before Terezi arrived, add to the Justice of the scene. Vriska sowed the seeds of her own destruction, and then arrogantly proclaimed that she was indestructible. These are the kinds of details that make her death not only justified, but also an old fashioned morality tale.

It’s certainly true that Vriska’s death was left slightly ambiguous, but in my mind saying her death was Justified simply makes for a better story. And if there’s one thing we know about the Alpha Timeline, it’s a dramatic son of a bitch.

[anythingstephenking]

Multiverse Overload

It seems unreasonable to think I was finishing up Nightmares & Dreamscapes yesterday morning and a little over 24 hours later I am back, having just finished one of King’s longest novels, Insomnia, in one cycle of sleep. But here I am. Let’s get into it.

I suppose I wasn’t kidding that I was ready for a novel but I didn’t realize how hungry for this story it was. Or maybe call it boredom - 3 day weekends with 95+ degree temperatures don’t lend themselves to my pasty irish ass spending any time anywhere other than the couch.

I knew little of this story headed in. Actually a little embarrassed to say I thought it somehow related to the Christopher Nolan movie of the same name. Once I cracked the spine and read the teaser copy, I knew this was not true. Also, I was worried. Really, really worried. Exhibit A:

Ralph Roberts is seeing some strange happenings in Derry, Maine.

He sees auras around human beings that show him the horror threatening them.

He sees a nice young research chemist like Ed Deepneau turn into a savage wife beater.

He sees Charlie Pickering with blood in his eyes and a gleaming knife in his hand.

And he sees three little bald doctors in the homes of the dying - and he begins to suspect who they really are.

No wonder Ralph stays awake all night. You would too.

INSOMNIA

“JFC, if I’m stepping into another Tommyknockers I’m going to scream” I said to the cat, who was chasing a bug around the hotel room and has no fucking clue what the Tommyknockers are. Little bald men. Aliens for sure, right?

Well I was, thankfully, wrong in my assumptions. Making an ass outta u & me, or however that old saying goes. I’ve complained before about whoever is responsible for writing these teasers, deceiving readers into believing that Gerald’s Game was a spooky bedtime story, Pet Sematary scared King himself, or that Insomnia is about a dude with, well, insomnia.

In reality, this book is as close to a Dark Tower book as it could get without actually being one. I’d rack it against The Talisman in Dark Tower adjacency, and although not as an enthralling tale as The Tailsman, a good chapter in the mythology all the same.

Ralph Roberts, a senior citizen residing in our favorite vacation destination, Derry, Maine, loses his wife to cancer and spills into a depression as one would do when your companion of 45 years is snuffed out of the living. What begins as minor bouts of insomnia quickly evolves into an inability to catch more than 2 hours a night. As someone who has suffered from depression-induced insomnia and sleep paralysis, a terrifying phenomenon I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, I feel for Ralph. Sleep deprivation is no joke, even if you’re awake watching Arrested Development for the 400th time at 3am. Ralph’s understandably exhausted, and assumes his mind is going when he starts seeing brightly colored auras surrounding humans, objects, street lights, you name it.

(Side story: Once I went on a date with a guy who - after I expressed discomfort in discussing the difference between irony and paradox 5 minutes into our first date - told me I had an unclean aura. I told him to go fuck himself (certainly something someone who’s aura is a little dirty would say) and he gathered his coat and left without a word. Anytime someone mentions auras I can’t help think of this guy - do you think he ever found a gal with a nice looking aura and the ability to discern the difference between irony and paradox? We will never know.)

In any case, Ralph does find himself a lady by the name of Lois, who in fact, does have a real pretty aura. And turns out she’s caught the insomnia and can see the auras too, along with other things that most humans can’t process. Turns out insomnia in Derry can flip a switch to entering worlds that aren’t our own.

Without going too far down the rabbit hole that is the plot of this novel (which squarely lies in the top ten of longest King tomes - say that 10x fast), Ralph and Lois team up on a quest against evil, as so many of King’s protagonists do. I was obviously committed to learning how it ended as I stayed up past my bedtime last night and reached for my paperback copy before I had even poured myself a cup of coffee this morning.

The key conflict in Derry of 1994 revolves around a war between pro-lifers and pro-choicers over a feminist speaking in town about women’s rights. Probably the hardest part of this story to swallow - the realization that 25 years later we’re still having the same argument in America with similar violent and tragic results.

This book is not without it’s faults - King called it “stiff & trying too hard” which is pretty accurate. It is way too long. It reads like a first draft that probably needed a stronger editor hand (or two or three) before publication that it just did not get. King’s ability to paint a picture in your mind is, as always, on point; but the writing describing the aural states seem to clog up the storytelling every ten pages or so. The initial painting of these ethereal halos was beautiful; after the 15th or so description they were just in the way. The use of italics for dialogue was distracting; I had to work to keep my eyes from skimming to the dialogue lines and ignoring the rest of the text on the page.

But it also had so many of my favorite things. For one, the connections to other King stories was strong in this one. Like when I am watching Castle Rock, it makes me feel like an insider to notice the little things that connect King’s worlds together. Like a hipster that listens to a band “before they were cool” - don’t you hate those people? Yeah me too. But here we are.

Derry, and all it’s history covered in depth in the pages of IT is rehashed here. We have mentions of the sewers, the Black Spot Fire, the post-Pennywise storm of 1985. The darkness that hangs over this town lingers, even though we were hoping that the Loser’s Club vanquished the darkness in the mid 80s.

Because something else dark is connected to Derry. The Dark Tower lore sits squarely and open here; we see Roland in children’s drawings and travel between worlds like in The Drawing of The Three. We also are introduced to The Crimson King; the guardian of The Dark Tower, Roland’s adversary and ruler of the highest level. He appears here in our world first as Ralph’s dead mother then as a catfish. I mean, IT was a clown living in a macroverse created by a barfing turtle, so I guess that all makes sense. We also learn Ralph and Lois’s quest is to save a young boy named Patrick Danville, who we’re told is very important in the land-o-the-tower. God, I can’t wait to get to the fourth Dark Tower book.

Other than the obvious references to IT and the DT books, we get a quick mention of the untimely death of Gage Creed in Ludlow. There is also a mention of “Aunt Sadie” in Dallas, and my mind wandered to lovely Sadie Dunhill of 11/22/63. I don’t know if King had the foresight (or the initial manuscript) to reference a character that wouldn’t hit the bookstores for another 17 years, but if so, Bravo Mr. King. Bravo.

By far my favorite photo of King that I’ve randomly stumbled upon on the internet.

My remaining questions are really around the nature of Derry - how can Pennywise and The Crimson King exist (in whatever universe) in or around Derry, without bumping into each other? Why so much evil in this one little town? Are they somehow connected? Are they the same person? Like my friend that claimed my aura needed a good washing, we may never know.

7/10

First Line: No one - least of all Dr. Litchfield - came right out and told Ralph Roberts that his wife was going to die, but there came a time when Ralph understood without needing to be told.

Last Line: And she saw, the long white scar on his right forearm was gone.

Adaptations:

None to speak of - another one of King’s works that’s been discussed in depth but never pushed into any kind of actionable development. All the best I think - a movie version could very easily veer into LSD trip territory.

[sophdlpaz]

Nang-aano ‘tong Sa Wakas Musical eh.

Exercise alone, check.

Go to The Feast on my own, check.

See a movie alone, check.

Go on a solo trip, check.

See a play alone - was able to tick this off just this weekend

Initial plan was to tag my friend Bea along to see the much-talked-about “Sa Wakas Musical”. She declined but since I wanted to see it so badly, I booked a ticket for myself. I was already watching their rehearsal videos and they already made me cry. I didn’t care if I’d have to see it alone, I knew I just had to.

So this play featured some of the awesome songs of the disbanded (but still well-loved) Sugarfree. It had its first run a few years back but I’m just glad they did another one this year, this time in Power Mac Center Spotlight at Circuit Makati.

Got a VIP ticket (PHP 1,500) on its last show day because I already had no choice (each show was almost or already sold out and my only available day was last Sunday). 

Days before I got to see it, I accidentally opened an article about the said play. And so I read some spoilers but of course, had to stop reading it. “P*cha self, kakayanin mo ba?” A couple of friends warned me. My bestfriend tried to stop me. Watching it might just rub salt into the wound. (Mejo totoo nga. Hahaha.) But, sayang bayad. Hahaha. :P

(Note: If you plan to see it on its next run, stop reading my blog entry from here. Spoiler alert.)

So the musical was about a boy (Topper) who cheated on his long-time neurosurgery resident girlfriend (Lexi) with a magazine editor (Gabbi). Topper got fed up with the unintentional put-down’s of Lexi because of his freelance work as a photographer and the naggings of not doing things right almost all the time. It wasn’t a total cryfest. I somewhat expected myself to have puffy eyes after the show but I didn’t. Though I cried when “Wala Nang Hihilingin” was sung because 1. the scene was so simple, sweet, and beautiful and 2. it’s one of my favorite Sugarfree songs. Lakohmpake if the person beside me saw me wiping my tears. Also, at first, I had an issue with how the scenes were going. They made sense but I thought it was kinda messy. Eventually, I realized that the scenes were done in a reverse chronological order, just like that of “The Last Five Years”. I came to appreciate it even more on the wedding proposal scene transitioning to the very last scene with Topper alone, holding the ring that Lexi returned. The irony was beautifully done that I had the urge to let my tears out. Too bad, the lights went on and I had to control them. Hirap maging emotional masiyado, bruh. Also, can I just say, I couldn’t count the times when I had goosies because of the beautiful arrangement of the songs and the powerful vocals of the cast. SOBRANG GALING PO.

Pepe Herrera, you are a theater gem. But with the character you portrayed, I really had a lot of eye-rolling and shaking-my-head moments during the whole play. I heard a couple of f*cking-up lines that I already wanted to punch you in the throat. The scene where Lexi told you on the phone she loves you but you just bid goodbye was heart wrenching. It was too familiar. Crush kita since your Rak of Aegis days pero nanggigil ako sa’yo dito nang slight. :P

Lexi (not the exact words though): Alam mo kung anong masakit? Yung nagmamahal ka ng tao pero ‘di na siya yung taong minahal mo. #WORD

Of course, this piece will not just end here. I know I had to let something out after watching this musical. Coping with a partner’s betrayal is already hard enough. Seeing some sort of a reenactment of that betrayal somewhat makes it even harder. My own experience is still different from the one showed in the play. But of course, you get what I mean. I’m not sure though if I was the Lexi (legit) or the Gabbi (kabit, without me knowing) in the situation. Funny noh? Meh. I know I’m working my as* off to become better and to execute my plans I crafted for myself. But there will still be down times and relapses when you can’t help but ask “Why?” I still have a lot of questions on my mind. I have no choice but to leave them unanswered because I may not even get the answers anymore or I may not even believe them when the moment comes that I finally get the response. 

And there are also times when I can’t help but recall my fun moments with him, triggered by a song he sang to me or by our lunch dish which I know he loves or by an item on his bucket list that I suddenly remembered. 

Admittedly, there are times too when I am itching to ask if he was the one who cursed my mother through FB Messenger (I just have to let this out. I know what I can do to defend my mother. I just wouldn’t put it into words anymore.) Or if he truly loved me or if he just needed my company (Maybe not enough. See what happened, self. Duh.) I wanted to tell him so badly that if he did, why did he let FEAR overcome his LOVE for me? I hope he felt how I genuinely loved him and how I was willing to do and sacrifice things for him. If he did love me, I hope he should also have made an effort to make it work. If he did love me, I hope he patiently waited. If he did love me, I hope he believed that I will be there with him as soon as possible. If he did love me, I hope he believed in me. If he did love me, I hope he believed in love. But if he didn’t, I hope he shouldn’t have strung me along that long. If he cared about me, I hope he didn’t wait long enough to make the damage even worse. 

I want to tell him that I saw his email but I know I didn’t have to respond. I’m not even sure if it was really him or his girlfriend. (Apparently, she has access, I don’t know. She also made a fake FB account so she could pose as him and say his/her piece of apology but clearly, the intention still was to hurt me. I knew it was her from the start, I wasn’t that stupid. And I didn’t have to reply either, I’m not that low. My mom did it for me though. Haha. What I don’t know is if he was aware of it. If so, pfft, I’d rather not say anything about it anymore.) I want to tell him that if he indeed “lost more than I know”, most probably, it was the consequences of his bad decisions. (Sorry, but yeah karma’s really a b*tch.) I want to tell him that if he feels broken, there’s no other way for healing to start until he finally decides to be better. (I don’t really know why I said this, appearing that I still care. Probably, that’s just really how I am. Bear with it.)

ANG DAMI DIBA. But I will just put them all here. Wala rin naman atang nagbabasa talaga ng blog ko so it’s probably just me talking to myself. I know this is just one of those days. Prolly because it’s V-day and I am somewhat longing for him but not really, I don’t know. Arrrgh. Maybe I just miss having a partner. Or maybe I just miss loving someone and be genuinely cared for. Blame it on this musical. Nang-aano eh. Charot. (P*cha, natawid pa eh.) Anyway, I know I’ll have a busy day at work tomorrow (actually, later) and a nice way to end it with my friends at a cafe with Ebe as the live performer (Can’t get enough of him. Haha.) so it won’t be so bad. But I know you can’t blame me for doing this. Hayaan mo na. Nagmahal at nasaktan eh. Kaya nagsulat ng blog entry. Potek, corny. HAHAHA.

Happy Valentine’s day! Spread the love, not the legs! :P

[dailyaudiobible]

12/12/2018 DAB Transcript

Amos 7:1-9:15, Revelation 3:7-22, Psalms 131:1-3, Proverbs 29:23

Today is the 12th day of December. Welcome to the Daily Audio Bible. I'm Brian. It is a pleasure, a joy, an honor to be here with you as we take our next step forward. And, obviously, this will be our 12th step forward in this month and our 347th step this year. And, so, this week we’re taking our steps using the New International Version, which is, of course, what we’re gonna do today. And we'll go back to the book of Amos chapter 7 verse 1 through 9:15 today.

Commentary:

Okay. So, as per usual we’re following a number of threads as we work our way through the Scriptures. And in the Old Testament, so, in the book of Amos, God gave the prophet visions of His plans and those plans were to send locusts and fire upon the land. And Amos interceded before the Lord – like, Lord, forgive us, like, if You do this we won’t survive, we’re too small. And this touches on some of the other times that we’ve talked about this angry God phenomenon, right? So, there's this prediction of all of these bad things - locusts and fire upon the land - that are going to come, and we read them as if it did happen, but this is a prophetic word. This is what is coming. Amos interceded before the Lord, saying, like, we wouldn't survive this, have mercy on us and God did and gave instead a third vision. And the third vision was of a plumb line and God revealed to Amos, I'm relenting from what was coming, but I’m going to test my people with this plumb line. I am not gonna ignore…I'm not gonna ignore the flagrant breaking of the covenant anymore.

And then we moved into the New Testament, to the book of Revelation where we have kind of concluded the first act or the first movement. I don't think scholars would call it that but this first section of Revelation is interesting because we have been reading short letters for a while. And what we've just done in the first few chapters of the book of Revelation is read seven brief letters from Jesus, but to different churches, the churches of Ephesus, Smirnoff, Pergamum, fire Tyra, Sardis, Philadelphia, and Laodicea. Now, all those churches were in the province of Asia and these letters were offered to the churches to encourage them and to warn them and to give them a message from Jesus about endurance. So, like we said, lots of times this theme becomes really important in the New Testament and carries us into the end of the Bible.

And then in Psalms, King David offered us language for what a humble heart looks like. And we have to remember, David was a king, right? So, he had enormous power over pretty much everything and you can only imagine the pull toward pride and arrogance. And we understand from the Scriptures that David didn't always win the battles but the pull toward pride would've been huge for someone in his position. And yet he writes, “my heart is not proud, my eyes aren't haughty, I don't concern myself with things that are too great r awesome for me to grasp.” “Instead”…and we should remember this image as we move through the rest of this holiday season, “Instead I have calmed and quieted myself, like a weaned child who no longer cries for its mother's milk. Yes, like a weaned child is my soul within.” And, so, these words from the poet, King David, offer the sense, the feeling of inner contentment that humility brings instead of the way of pride and pridefulness. So, David gives us up a poetic picture, a feeling.

Proverbs, on the other hand, gives us the facts. “Pride brings a person low but the lowly and spirit gain honor.” Right? So, the irony is that pride will eventually humble you, but if you will humble yourself you actually legitimately get the honor that your pride was after. So, let's take the ancient wisdom to heart. It's God's word to us. And arrogance and pride, they will not bring us to a place like a weaned child, a content place of humility. Rather, it will lead us on a path that will humiliate us in the end. And if we want a life of honor then humility is the path that we have to walk.

Prayer:

Father, we invite You into that because our culture invites us to pride continually. It pits us against each other and makes everything a competition. And, so, everything is about comparison and it pulls us to pride, it pulls us to arrogance, it pulls us to envy, it pulls us to jealousy. And yet that is nothing like a weaned child who no longer cries for its mother's milk. And the truth is we want to live a contented life. And the only way that this will happen is if we live a humble life. So, come Holy Spirit, show us how to do that in this season and in the cultures that we live in. Show us how to live as You did in this world. We ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudibible.com is the website and that's home base. Of course, its where you certainly find out what's happening around here.

And its Christmas time and I’ve been talking this week about the Daily Audio Bible family Christmas party that we have every year where we just really get together and spend some time hearing from each other and it's such a heartwarming experience. So, don't be left out of that. All you have to do is just call in. Call in your holiday greetings. And the rule about that is, just don't call in a prayer request and a holiday greeting in the same call. Make them separate and keep them separate so that we can get them where they need to go. But, yeah, any of the prayer request lines that can be used and you can call in your holiday greeting, you can do it today, you can do it all the way through the end of this week. And then we’ll start about the process, and it's a pretty hefty process of pulling it all together. But, 877-942-4253 is the number to dial if you're in the Americas. If you're in the UK or Europe 44-20-3608-8078 is the number to call. And if you are in Australia or that part of the world 61-3-8820-5459 is the number to dial. So, yeah, there’s a two-minute limit on all calls. Of course, it's that's how it’s been for a long, long, long time. But the only other rule is just make sure you’re not combining prayer requests and holiday greetings. And we’ll look forward to it.

Also, of the Daily Audio Bible Christmas box for 2018 is available, chock-full of fantastic resources for the journey, some things that you will want to keep, some things that you will want to give away. And you can see all of that at dailyaudiobible.com in the Shop.

And also, the More Gathering for women. Early registration is ongoing and it's open right now. And there’s a lot of energy around this one. We’re really, really excited for it. So, hopefully you can be there. We announce the More Gathering each Christmas because it makes for really, truly a unique gift, but also a gift that really does keep on giving. Yeah, it's in April but it comes as the seasons are changing and new life is coming to the earth at least here in the northern hemisphere and things are beginning to blossom and the hope for something more begins to abound inside. And, so, it's the perfect time for this, but it's the perfect gift that just keeps on giving throughout the rest of the year. Add friendships are formed that will last a lifetime there. So, you can find out all the details about the More Gathering at moregathering.com or at dailyaudiobible.com in the Initiatives section and we will certainly look forward to seeing you there.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible in the remaining days that we have in this in this year, thank you profoundly, humbly, with an open heart, thank you for your partnership. There's a link on the homepage of dailyaudiobible.com. If you’re using the Daily Audio Bible app, you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or, if you prefer, the mailing address is PO Box 1996 Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And, as always if you have a prayer request or comment, 877 942 4253 is the number to dial. Of course, that goes for holiday greetings this week.

And that's it for today. I'm Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

This call is for my precious sister in Christ, Sherry. I just listened to your prayer request this morning, December 8th. I was so thankful you reached out in faith to the people of God. I just prayed for you Sherry and I wanted to follow that prayer up by calling in and letting you know that. I ask God that my call would be an encouragement but before I prayed I was so wishing that you could hear my call in real time. I was wishing there was no delay from the time you called in to the time you would hear the sound of my voice. And know doubt many other brothers and sisters prayed for you and will be calling in to encourage you as well. Then I realized that God is always in real time because He exists out of time as we know it. It dawned on me that He heard your prayer before you even prayed it He answered it before you even called to Him. Sherry, I’m sitting here typing the words I want to say to you. I wish with everything that is in me that you were not going to what you’re going through but at the same time your call strangely ministered to me. I found myself thinking, wow, this child of God is about to experience God’s presence in such a powerful way that she will soon be testifying of His great love and faithfulness to her. From my own experience I can testify that it truly is darkest before the dawn. I love you sweet sister Sherry and although you may be feeling alone I know you’re about to realize that you are in no way alone. I hope you will call back and share with all of your many brothers and sisters with the Lord is done for you. This is Marsha from Monument Colorado.

Hey this is Andrea Delane from Kentucky and I’m calling today, it’s December 8th, and I’m calling for Sherry. And I just heard your prayer request that your in a crisis in your faith and in 38 years its a crisis of your faith and all the things that you’re going through and the pain that your in. I just wept and wept while listening to you. And I just want you to know that yes, He is here for you, God is here for you, our Father or Yahweh is here for you and He is here to help you and I am so sorry for what you’re going through. Isolation is so painful. It messes with our hearts and minds and even our faith and the enemy wants us isolated, he wants us to think that we’re alone. And there’s nothing that replaces person-to-person connection, heart-to-heart connection, and I pray Father that You would touch Sherry and that You would send her people in her life that can hold her hand, that can hold her, that can look her in the eye, that can actually do practical real things that can help her in her everyday life with whatever situation she’s going through. I ask for justice and Lord that anything that’s being wrong done against her that Lord You would correct it. Lord I ask that You minister to her spirit in a strong and Powerful Way, Lord through Your spirit, through Your word, and through Your people. I ask that this week and the coming weeks and months that You would put her on other believers hearts to reach out to her in her local area. And Father I ask that You would protect her and provide her with anything that the enemy’s trying against her faith that would be annihilated. Any attempt to have her life ended before its her time, I cancel that assignment in Jesus’ name. And I ask that You would increase her faith in the most high name, the name of Jesus, Yeshua. Amen. We love You Sherry don’t give up.

Good morning Daily Audio Bible family this is Sandy and my husband Dan from New Hampshire. I’m reaching out to those that are shut in, especially I’m reaching out to Sherry, and I believe your name was May, from New York. And that you called in and your heart was just splayed before us. I want you to know that you folks were the last ones we prayed for last night before we went to sleep and you’re the first ones that we’re praying for this morning. I want you to know that the Lord is near you, that He will never leave you, He will never forsake you. He is mighty on your behalf and He is fighting on your behalf. Do not give up. Do what you can to reach out to people and trust that God is working. Even at the darkest point trust that God is working. We’ve gone to some really dark times and the enemy of our souls likes to highlight that, especially at Christmas, to destroy the blessing of Christmas. I want you to know that you are held in prayer and you are held in love and you are not alone. That is a lie from the enemy. This is Sandy from New Hampshire. My husband, Dan and I, we’re praying for you. God bless you.

Good morning DAB family it is Sunday, December 9th and just listening into the DAB this morning. Got up early before church and headed out as is my custom to speak with God and be in His presence. Just getting out in nature and worshiping him and enjoying his beautiful creation. I had a chance to listen to, all the way through this morning, which is not often the case lately, all the way through the prayer requests, and just want to personally thank Carla, I think it’s Carla who called inn to encourage Margaret May. This is exactly, you put it so succinctly, exactly what I’ve been trying to convey to some friends and close family members. And you said it so well that, you know, there is spiritual attack and is spiritual warfare happening around us all of the time, but fear not, we have God. And, you know, if God is with us who can be against us. But there’s also things like brain chemicals, and brain chemistry. And God also gave us medicine, and therapists, and, you know, incredible tools that we can use to get ourselves right. And I’m so thankful that you shared so succinctly and so eloquently. I just want to personally let Margaret May know that you are being prayed for. Is that amazing to have that other lady from, I think it was, Illinois call, Nancy and sharing that she is your friend and that she wants to contact you or she wants you to contact her? That is why we are such an incredible community. And yes, Diane Olive Brown, hearing you say that, I feel like we just put another log on the fire every time we’re together. And that’s exactly what it is. And I just sit quietly and just listen and some of us join the conversation day by day. And that is an incredible gift. Thank you so much God for this ministry and Brian for continuing to bring it to us. I’m excited to order my Christmas Box today. I hope it gets shipped here in time because I know exactly what I want to give my friends. And I’m so thankful for this ministry…

[theconservativebrief]

Every week, we pick a new episode of the week. It could be good. It could be bad. It will always be interesting. You can read the archives here. The episode of the week for August 12 through 18 is “409,” the ninth episode of the fourth season of Showtime’s The Affair.

It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes one singular episode of a show changes how I feel about that show entirely.

Usually, that episode is in the first season, often late in the game, and it shows me that a series I had written off as shallow has other depths buried somewhere within it. The example I almost always point to is how the penultimate episode of Halt and Catch Fire’s first season played a marvelous trick on the characters and audience, revealing the long game the series was playing. But it can arrive in the second season occasionally — as when Buffy the Vampire Slayer went from a show I enjoyed to one I was obsessed with thanks to a memorable second season twist.

And, of course, it’s possible for affections to travel in the opposite direction as well. I remember quite clearly the second episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip (Aaron Sorkin’s short-lived, ill-fated attempt to follow up The West Wing with a series about a late-night sketch comedy show) rudely informing me how few clothes this well-reviewed emperor was wearing.

But airing an episode that completely changes how I think about a series in the fourth season? I don’t know that I can think of another example of a show that did this — at least until Showtime’s The Affair.

Ben is two very different people in this episode. But that’s the point. Showtime

The Affair is one of those shows I halfheartedly follow. I loved the pilot, found season one to feature diminishing returns, then largely abandoned the show somewhere in early season three, when I felt like it had completely run out of story to tell. I still read recaps for episodes people were wild about, but I didn’t watch myself.

Then, early in season four, the handful of people I trust who still watch this show had such wildly divergent opinions on the season — some loving it and some hating it — that I decided to keep up, as best I could. I haven’t seen every episode, and the show still does many of the things that annoy me (about which more in a second), but count me closer to the “love it” camp than the “hate it” one. And in the season’s ninth episode, the entire series finally crystallized for me, in a way it just hadn’t before.

Viewers enter the episode knowing (from the end of episode eight) that the show’s female lead, Alison (the brilliant Ruth Wilson), has died, apparently of suicide. She drowned in the ocean waves near her home, and both of her ex-husbands, Cole (Joshua Jackson) and Noah (Dominic West), identify her body at the morgue.

Yet viewers know much of the season has been told out of sequence, meaning there’s ample room to leap back in the timeline just far enough to show Alison’s final moments. And thanks to The Affair’s central storytelling device — almost all episodes are split in half and told from two different characters’ point-of-view, exposing contradictions and differences in how they see the world — such a flashback would be even easier to pull off.

That brings us to “409,” which brilliantly upends the device, using it against the audience and the show itself. Both halves of the episode are told from Alison’s point-of-view, depicting her final moments alive. The only other actor featured is Ramon Rodriguez, who plays her new boyfriend, Ben. Alison has discovered Ben is married, and not wanting to repeat her mistakes with Noah (the affair that gives the show its title), she tries to break things off with him.

The first half of the episode plays as a romantic fantasy. It’s Ben who comes clean about his marriage, though he says it’s over and he wants only to be with Alison now. When she asks him to go, he acquiesces, though a dripping faucet (which he fixes) and an offer of dinner keep him around just long enough for the two to fall into each other’s arms after they confess their darkest secrets to each other. (Ben killed a child when he was a Marine on a tour in Iraq; Alison blames herself for the death of her son, which happened before the series began.) It is a lovely dream of acceptance, but it ends with the hint that Alison is still contemplating suicide.

Then the second half of the episode arrives. Here, Ben is angry. He lies when Alison asks him if he has a wife. He says he killed the Iraqi child intentionally, even though he knew the RPG the kid held was nonfunctional, because what else do you do with “vermin”? He’s weepy and needy and desperate, falling off the wagon back into alcoholism, and when Alison finally confronts him about his wife, he shoves her against the wall, then throws her so she cracks her head on a table. He takes her outside and deposits her in the waves, her body sinking to the ocean floor.

Yet I don’t think The Affair is doing anything so simple as, “Which story is true?” Yeah, you can play that game. The first version lines up with what the police tell Noah and Cole, but the second feels more true, in some barely perceptible way. (It does, after all, end with Alison plunging beneath the waves, where the first doesn’t.) But there’s more going on here. Alison’s final voiceover, which she speaks as Ben carries her barely conscious body out into the sea, underlines the cruelest part of Alison’s death: It ends her story, allowing others to define it for her. In part, she says:

I have been in pain my entire life. And maybe that’s what makes people think that I’m weak. And maybe that makes people treat me like some sort of receptacle for all their grief and rage and disappointment. But I am fucking sick of it. I just want to live a different life. I want to live a different story.

It’s a brilliant statement of purpose that made me rethink how I watch the show.

For the most part, The Affair is not a series where we fear for the characters’ lives, but “409’s” script (by co-creator and showrunner Sarah Treem) underlines how death robs us of what agency we have in telling our own stories. Perhaps Alison will live again, getting to tell some newer, happier story. Or maybe she will be resurrected as herself, doomed to live out these events over and over. But in this life, this incarnation as Alison, she no longer can try to define how the world sees her. On a show defined by point-of-view, hers is now a void.

Which brings us to the elephant in the room.

Goodbye, Ruth Wilson. Showtime

When I initially saw “409,” I was gobsmacked by the way it felt as if it had been a planned story turn from the very earliest days of the show. When Showtime picked the series up for a fifth season, it announced that the show would be ending with that fifth season, and the death of Alison, perhaps the series’ most integral character, seemed as good a catalyst as any to bring the show’s characters back together for one last storyline.

If I have had an overriding complaint about the series, it has always been that Wilson was so good and Alison so potent a character that together they threw into relief just how weak much of the rest of the show could be, despite its blockbuster cast. Alison is coping with the heaviness of trying to live her life under the shadow of crippling depression, and the other characters are dealing with serious but mostly manageable problems. That caused the series to occasionally spin its wheels or descend into unmotivated melodrama. But the death of Alison is good melodrama, in that it feels deeply rooted in her character and should give everybody else on the show something to play.

And then I started reading more.

I had not realized that Wilson earlier this year pointed out the pay discrepancy between her and West. She said that she understood the disparity at the start of the series (when he was a much more established star), but that it no longer made sense. By that point in the series, Alison had become the most pivotal character, and it was long after Wilson had won a Golden Globe for the role. The discussion and resulting controversy was mostly relegated to The Affair fandom, so if you missed it (as I did), there’s an easy explanation for doing so.

But more news has come out about Wilson’s departure from the show. Treem said that Wilson requested to leave, and Wilson said at an event promoting her new movie, The Little Stranger, that she’s not allowed to talk about why she left The Affair, implying some sort of nondisclosure agreement was signed. That’s hardly typical for an actor leaving a TV show; usually everybody involved comes up with as good a cover story as they can muster, or tells some version of the truth. And it led many to wonder if the pay disparity was a big part of why Wilson left the series.

We likely won’t know for several years, when those involved in the show finally decide enough time has passed to come clean (though who knows how many Affair questions will be asked of them once the series is over). But for as much as I thought “409” was brilliant television, I can’t deny that the shady circumstances that led to its creation cast a pall over it, all the same.

This, I suppose, is the irony of an episode that depicts a woman trying to seize agency in her own life, trying to take control of her story, only to discover someone else may be able to snuff that story out (if you believe that’s what “really” happened in the show). The set-up seems to have come into existence because the actress playing that woman tried to grab hold of her own sense of agency. Was she rebuffed? Cast out? Made to believe she was a thorn in the show’s side? We may never know.

But I do know that “409” is terrific, and Wilson is terrific in it. And as Alison sinks beneath the waves, wondering if she might live a life with less pain, The Affair finally becomes what I hoped it could be all along: a meditation on how little control we have over our own stories when others are involved, on how frustrating it can be to realize that you will always be defined by others’ eyes. That this lesson applies both to Alison and the woman playing her is a cruel irony, but still a necessary one.

The Affair airs Sundays at 9 pm Eastern on Showtime. Catch up with all previous episodes on the network’s streaming platforms.

Original Source -> The Affair’s latest, greatest episode holds a difficult irony at its core

via The Conservative Brief

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Who said that? – Answers

I hope that you enjoyed poking around looking for yourself in the comments from yesterday’s post.  It was a nice opportunity for me to revisit some of my old posts and some of the great comments that came to them.

As I promised, here are the answers.

Very fun! TY for the share! – Ramona Meharg – Your own coat of arms

Didn’t know Storify was going to stop. Storify 2 doesn’t make all that much sense and I won’t be paying for it. I don’t have a good idea how I will capture conversations in the future. Recently, Storify has been a really great way to capture conversations on #ontedassessment. I don’t see how Participate will work as well and Participate still seems to have a 140 character limit, so 2016! – Paul McGuire – Going, Going

I also used my own money to by bread and peanut butter for snack sandwiches. My idea of when the peanut jar was empty changes a lot once the cost was on me. Imagine that. – Alfred Thompson – Whatever happpened to … $0.99 Ponderosa steaks?

I’ve written a few times about the alumni community we’ve built and how it’s such an important part of a teacher’s career (at least mine). – Mike Zemansky – Whatever happened to … those lifelong friends?

What goalie was attributed with being the first one to use a mask in an NHL game? – Jacques Plante. Everyone knows that one. – Stephen Downes – Whatever happened to … straight bladed hockey sticks?

So if this was a kid in elementary school it would be ‘yes you can still go on the big year end field trip but we’ll suspend you for five days in September.’ – Lisa Cranston – Two Standards

Thank you for sharing Dylan’s story ~ and thank you to Lisa for suggesting it as well! It was such a cool experience for Dylan, and the entire class benefitted from learning together. I’m starting to wonder if there is such a thing as a potter’s swagger (lol), since he’s starting to make a name for himself — how amazing is that! – Colleen Rose – This Week in Ontario Edublogs

Agh. I’m asleep on the job. Now scrambling to figure out what I can quickly make today to celebrate pi day. Last year, we had mini quiches for breakfast, tarts for dessert, and a meat pie for supper. – Lisa Noble – March 14

For years in edtech we have been nibbling at the edges, with a number of different tools, for what explain everything puts in each students’ hands. It’s not necessarily revolutionary as much as it is the culmination of the revolution in which students are able to differentiate how they respond, and teachers are able to capture much more easily, the responses (in differentiated ways) of all of their students. It doesn’t look knew because you’ve been able to do things like this for a while. You’ve just never been able to do them this easily. – Jarred Bennett – 100 year old inspiration

Thanks for this, Doug. I’ve been trying to brush on my math skills so I’ll check it out. – Peter Beens – Having fun with mathematics

That student coming back to see me paralleled my own experiences so closely that it rocked me. Nothing has changed in the thirty years since I was in high school. Kids are still being punished by teachers in subjects they love because they don’t do it like they should (ie: how the teacher does it). You have to wonder how non-neuro-typical students do in this enforced compliance thinking culture. Many in education don’t value passion and uniqueness of approach, they value conformity of thinking. – Tim King – This Week in Ontario Edublogs

We are quite fortunate that significant latitude is allowed in the selection of learning materials in our schools. I have always appreciated seeing the red-and-white Maple Leaf sticker on books that is added by libraries (public and school) to highlight Canadian-authored materials. Just yesterday I borrowed a book from our school library for use in a Social Studies lesson and noted with satisfaction that it had the sticker. While the machinations of bodies like the CRTC don’t generate a lot of headlines in the larger scope of things, it is comforting to know that the importance of Canadian culture is valued, and that our options and choices remain informed. – Andy Forgrave – Perspective(s)

We held a contest to come up with a new name and asked the community and alumni what they thought of the whole idea. We ended up leaning towards ‘Wolverines,’ but three problems emerged: alumni were upset at the idea of change; the student’s artwork for the wolverine, which teachers and many kids loved, was clearly plagiarized from other institutions; and the students who had mispronounced the school and mascot’s name initially were sad to realize that the same could happen with any new mascot. – David Garlick – Whatever happened to … that school mascot?

I would say I am a big offender with Kleenex and bandaid. Interestingly, the spellchecker capitalized Kleenex for me but not Band-Aid . I used to work as a reporter for a newspaper in our area and once received a lawyer’s letter due to using the word rollerblade with a lowercase as a generic term for in-line skates! – Anne Shillolo – Genericide

Hi Doug. Enjoyed this post as many of us are weighing in on what it means to be a “connected” educator and the benefits of Twitter use both and the impacts it has on our teaching practices. I tend to agree with your last sentence. Social media has become a very easy platform for anyone and everyone to have a voice. I still believe that in fairness to all parties involved, any conflicts/ disagreements are best had face to face. – Peter Cameron – Yeah, it can happen

Thanks for including mine. I was thinking of a response – it boiled down to my students racing to solve the clues without pausing and evaluating the meaning of the clues and how they fit together. It will help me re-adjust my planning and presentation. Thanks! – Eva Thompson – This Week in Ontario Edublogs

Certainly we ‘own’ our learning when we are connecting with other educators far and wide. Donna Fry – The “P” in PLN

What a wonderful tribute to a great person who I’ve come to know this past year through RCAC, twitter and Ignite Parents. – Heather Durnin – @pmcash’s Bucket List – Taking the Bait

This is soooo timely! We were in a team meeting the other day and discussing having students create a product for design challenge. I suggested they do a toy for Xmas and referenced how excited I used to get when we got the Christmas Wish Book. We would mark all the pages and circle what we wanted before writing our letter to Santa. It is a huge part of my childhood! – Anne Marie Luce – Whatever happened to … Christmas catalogues

Interesting stuff there in Moore’s Law! – Sheila Stewart – This Week in Ontario Edublogs

and the irony that I had just recently left just north of Goderich

Makes me sad that Di zapped her flickr photos. I don’t hear from her much, the word is she’s active in Facebook. Say hi to her. – Alan Levine – Copyright thinking

This takes me to a summer in the late 90s when I had the privilege of teaching an OAC English summer course in Oxford. A couple of us tried, whenever possible, to attend the college garden performances of Shakespeare plays. – Noeline Laccetti – Free reading

We don’t start classes until Monday … but in the background we have a new Director of Teaching Innovation who comes from our Music Department, bringing a new perspective and really different voice to our academic leadership. And, in my role, we get “new” every month, week & day as updates continually roll out and we have to change a little bit. OneNote has new special-ed capabilities, Excel now co-authors, Desmos is now programmable, etc – Cal Armstrong – So, what’s new?

I wish I had the time to see the kids after school but with my own it’s hard. I also don’t live in the same city so that makes it harder. I also loved how you snuck in a 6th one about your kid. – Jonathan So – Defining Teaching Moments #5bestEd

I like receiving cards. (So much so that I don’t throw them away afterwards!) My favourites are the ones with photos of the people. I like seeing how children grow and families change. – Diana Maliszewski – Whatever happened to … Christmas Cards?

How did you do?  Hopefully, you at least found yourself in the list.

Perhaps you’re inspired to link back to the original post to see what it was all about?

And the spam one?

Grade A stuff. I’m untnusqioeably in your debt. – Darence – on one of the OTR links

  Who said that? – Answers published first on http://ift.tt/2gZRS4X