#doesn’t make her any less excited to be there or entitled to be there or any less of a fan vs anyone else

[ilostyou]

i’ve seen far too many tiktoks made purely with the intention of making fun of other people at tour (for their outfits, for how excited they got, for what songs they did or didn’t know…i could go on) and i just want to say i wish every single person who feels the need to not only make fun of someone but to do it on the internet a very fuck you. leave your mean girl energy at home idc

[jewishrizahawkeye]

hello fellow members of the tortured poets department. i’m very excited to talk about this next song as i think it ties into a lot of other songs, specifically on evermore my favorite album. so let’s talk about i look in peoples windows

previous day's here:

standard tracks: masterpost

anthology tracks: the black dog, imgonnagetyouback, the albatross, chloe or sam or sofia or marcus, how did it end?, so high school, i hate it here, thanK you aIMee

this song is one of the shortest songs on the album but i think it says the most. so much so that i haven’t properly figured out how to articulate it. i actually came up with several different interpretations for each lyric AS I WAS WRITING THIS. it’s truly a masterpiece of a song and leaves so much for the listener to ponder and reflect on.

the song feels like it’s a part of moving on and grieving something. the wondering about this person you once were entitled to know all their whereabouts and now don’t know anything (a possible follow up or callback to the black dog and another interpretation of that same event or idea). you’re wonder what they’re doing and what would happen if you saw each other one more time.

while the actual meaning is simple the lyrics and story taylor tells can be taken in many different ways. which then leads to many different interpretations of what the song is or could be.

one interpretation is the song opening with her muse reviving her via mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (“i had died the tinest death/i spied the catch in your breath/out out out out out out” “do i really have to tell you how he brought me back to life?”). but they part ways, she’s northbound and is taken away while the muse board a train south. this idea of the muses air reviving her and being separated from it can be why she’s now “a feather taken by the wind, blowing” because she’s without him to guide her and she’s now unsure what life hold for her. because of that she isn’t sure where she is or where he is. so she’s looking for him again, wondering what could happen if they meet again and see each other. would she be swept back into his airstream? who knows.

another idea following this similar interpretation can be that after he revived her she was supposed to be northbound, but instead she got swept away in his airflow/jet steam as she followed his train south (“my baby’s fly like a jet stream” “windows flung right open/autumn air/jacket around my shoulders is yours” “life was a willow and it bent right to your wind … the more that you say the less i know/where ever you stray i follow” “when you blew in with the winds of fate”). this is a common idea that’s shown on the album, her making her life about whomever she’s with to show devotion and them not caring/reciprocating. so with this metaphor we see taylor describing how her whole world was him, which isn’t anything new, but the opening merely discusses taylor meeting this muse and not them parting ways. but by the time we hit the pre-chorus we’re shown she’s now alone, something happened and they lost each other. so now she’s floating aimlessly completely alone in a world she doesn’t know and is stuck looking for him.

the opening can also be referencing back to willow. the mention of a train and that he “borders your train south” meaning he didn’t take taylor’s train home. but this song is feel like ADDS a lot of context to willow. taylor describes her muse as being able to conquer any form she takes and guide through her. she’s the ocean on a rough, stormy night? he’s a boat gliding through it flawlessly. she’s a willow and he’s the wind blowing through her leaves, moving her every which way. this then lets us see that she let him in easily and guide her however he pleased because she loved him. this continues then when we hear “you know that my train can take you home/everywhere else is hollow”, she’s begging him to join her world, that no one else will ever match or compare. but with this idea i look in people’s windows then feels like a sequel, a sad sequel. he doesn’t take her train. he blows her away (i spied the catch in your breath/out out out out out out), sending her away while he takes a different train. separating them. which means she isn’t allowed to know his whereabouts (the black dog) and she’s cursed to look for him, meaning she could be hollow now because she’s without him,and wonder what would happen if they saw each other again.

those are just a few interpretations, and there’s probably more out there. but the second verse details her questioning the last thing she saw of her muse:

“you had stopped and titled your head/i still ponder what it meant/now now now now now now”

because any interpretation we follow can lead to this idea. the last thing she saw was him questioning his actions/watching her leave. like he was second guessing it was considering if this was the right thing or something else. she doesn’t know. that’s why she still thinks it over now. she’s still so lost in his world she analyzes everything trying to make sense of their goodbye.

from here on she describes all the ways she’s looking for him. people on streets, looking at christmas parities from windows, watching family’s sit down for dinner, etc. they’re all creepy. they’re all unsettling. and she’s openly admitting it. that she’s so hung up and lost without him she’s looking for him everywhere she goes. she doesn’t know what it will produce or lead to but she is cursed by not knowing and it’s killing her.

this is why it’s one of the best songs on the album. it’s very short and open to the listeners interpretation. but it really shows us an aspect of taylor we hadn’t seen prior of her write about prior. she’s being honest about her feeling lost and looking for him. it feels very honest and brutal. one of the top ten tracks on the album. i’m so serious.

[bestworstcase]

I gotta say, i’m VERY excited to see thes eentirled Atlesians forced to try and survive in vacuo

Yeah vacuo’s ideal of “rugged individualism” is deeply flawed, but unlike Atlesians like Jacques who believe they’ve “earned” everything they have and think they’re better by virtue of being born into a “higher standing” vacuans need to scrape tooth and nail just to make it to the next day

Somebody tries to pull something like racist grandma did in mantle they’ll just get fuckin left behind, no slight,y aggressive speech like they got they’ll just get left for dead

If/when these Atlesians try to act like their usual entitled privileged selves and they’ll be lucky if they’re just robbed instead of thrown out to the desert and left for dead

1. idk how to explain to you that you can’t fix bigotry with a pogrom

2. vacuans are also racist. notionally egalitarian “if you can survive here you belong here” we’re-totally-not-racist posturing notwithstanding: before the dawn establishes that vacuan faunus were enslaved in horrible conditions so frequently that any skeletal remains in old dust mines are assumed to belong to faunus as a matter of course; the vacuan attitude towards the faunus civil rights activists as expressed by sun is that they’re “stupid, holier-than-thou creeps who use force to get whatever they want” even though what the group actually did during the five year period of sienna’s leadership was target the SDC and other corporations that exploit and abuse faunus labor; and there is the obvious glaring problem of how faunus who don’t measure up to the rugged individualism tough desert badass nonsense get treated noticeably more cruelly than humans in the same boat, like the vicious personal bullying velvet—only velvet—is subjected to rather than just being given the cold shoulder by the student body and the faculty of shade. just because they don’t pull her ears and jeer about it doesn’t mean she’s not being singled out of the beacon survivors because she’s the only faunus.

3. even if anti-faunus bigotry really didn’t exist in vacuo, the virulently nationalistic xenophobia and rampant ableism is equally as horrible as atlesian classism and also one authoritarian populist away from metastasizing into open fascism

4. i feel like it really bears emphasizing that mugging an old lady and dumping her in the desert to die because she said something racist isn’t how activism works and the way racist grandma is handled by yang and her daughter—bluntly making it clear that her racist views are not acceptable or appropriate but also then having someone she’s close to engage with her on the underlying stress and anxieties fueling into her racist behavior—is an approach that actually works to make that kind of person less racist. bloodthirsty revenge fantasies are not helpful. getting bigoted people to rethink and repudiate their bigotry is.

[ladyfly]

A Picture Says A Thousand Words pt2

Nothing saucy here. Just fluffy humor.

You got a call at about noon. It seems there was an issue in the Super Star Daycare Arcade. With a small huff of annoyance you rose from your seat. This had better not be an entitled A-Hole. Or a bratty kid. Nothing wrongs with kids. But when little Timmy or Tammy is violent, then that's where things are bad.

As you make your way up the winding staircase you can hear the sound of yelling. You take a deep breath and put on your best customer service smile. You could see inside part of the arcade from where you were. Two moms were arguing beside the photo booth. Balls!

You steel your resolve and enter the arcade "Ladies! What can I help you with?"

One of the moms turns to you "Finally! I want them banned!"

You open your mouth when the other mom shrieks "Banned! For what?! Taking a picture?"

The first mom growls "Your brat did a gang sign!"

You hold your hands up "Ladies! One at a time! Now," You turn to mom one "What happened?"

She smirks "I was passing by with my son when he said he wanted pictures. We were waiting outside the booth when the pictures printed for those two!" She scowls at the other mother. "Her son was doing a gang sign!"

You nod "Can I see the photo in question?"

Mom two hands you the photos. The first few are normal. The last one has the kid doing the sign for 'I love you' in ASL.

Mom one points to the picture "That one! THAT ONE!!"

You point to it "Ma'am that's sign language for I love you. Not a gang sign."

She glares at you "NO IT"S NOT! It's a gang sign!"

You pull your phone out and google the sign for 'I love you'. You turn your phone to her "Look. Here is proof."

She slaps the phone out of your hand "Stop lying! You are all out to get me!" She takes you by the wrist "We are going to speak to your manager and get you fired!"

You try to tug your arm away "Let me go! SECURITY ALERT! SECURITY ALERT!"

She stares at you confused. A thud is heard outside the door before it opens. Sun is standing on the other side looking less than happy. To you anyway, to anyone else he looks fine. His unmoving face betraying his true emotions.

He casually approaches the woman and peels her hand off of you "Harming staff is a banable offense. Please remove yourself from the daycare or I will have to do it for you. Security is on their way as we speak."

You are mesmerized by how commanding Sun is being right now. Standing at his full height of 8ft. Your heart is hammering in your chest in the best of ways. Good fucking lord this man.

The woman stomps her foot "WE ARE NOT LEAVING! THIS BITCH-"

"LANGUAGE! This is a Daycare!" Sunny growls out.

He picks her up by the armpits and turns to leave the arcade. A young kid, roughly six or seven, follows closely behind him.

You turn to the other woman "Take this. It's for half price tickets next visit and a free two topping pizza." You hand her the vouchers "Sorry for the trouble."

She takes the items "Are you alright? Is your wrist ok?"

You pick your phone up. As you rise you notice that each set of photos comes with three pictures. You think back to the card. It only had ten. It should have had twelve. Something to ask Sun about later.

You pocket your phone "I'm fine. I'll get it looked at though. Have a nice day."

You exit the arcade. Your Faswatch(TM) pings with an automated message to fill out an incident report on your computer. You make your way back downstairs to your work station. Your wrist only feels a little sore. At the most you might get a bruise. This paperwork, however, might kill you.

You understand why it needs to be done, and why it has so many questions. But that doesn't make it any more fun or exciting. Once the report is sent off another set of paperwork hits your inbox. It's a request for a removal of a problematic child from the daycare.

Likely requested by Sun himself. He has the authority to send a request. It's up to, as the company put it, real employees to asses and process the request. You look the request over. As per company policy Sun sent video footage to further validate his request. You watch about an hour of footage on the kid.

It's the child of the mother who grabbed you. He's seen hurting other kids. It didn't matter what Sun or Moon did the kid did whatever he wanted. He was even shown disrespecting human staff. You approve the request. Making sure to include the footage Sun sent you.

You look up from your work. Sun is doing a puppet show for the kids. You aren't sure what it's about. Sun seems to be having fun if his body language is any indication. The little stage he's hiding behind is facing away from you. Gives you a nice view of his backside.

You stretch your arms high over your head. Hopefully the rest of your day would be smoother. Thank whatever is watching over you it is. You hear from other coworkers over lunch that the angry lady tried to get you fired. It went about as well for her as a two year old in a fine china shop and no supervision.

Closing couldn't come any sooner. You were eager to get to the tower. The promise of pizza and fingering was too good to pass up. Above all else, the thought of spending more time with your boys was something you could not pass up. Even something a simple as watching a movie was priceless.

You helped Sun clean before gathering your things. As your hand touched the card they made you you remembered the missing photos. You walked up to him card in hand. His shoulders dropped and his posture relaxed.

You held the card up as you walked to the ball pit "This only has ten pictures. What happened to the other two?"

Sun looks away from you for a second "There were only ten."

You tilt your head "The machine you used prints three per use. Ten photos means four times minus two photos."

Sun puts his hands behind his back rocking back and forth on his heels "I ate them."

You balk "You ate them?"

He nods and rubs his belly "Yep! I ate them!"

You raise a brow "But you can't eat? You can't even open your mouth."

He lets out a very loud gasp and puts his hand on his chest "What?! No one told me I can't eat!"

You are curious about the photos now "So about those pictures..."

Sun jumps slightly startled "I told you I ate them."

You laugh and shake your head "But you can't eat. Did they come out bad?"

Sun holds a hand up "Hold on a moment."

He picks up a red ball and throws it at the light switch. It moves so fast and hard that not only does it turn the light off, but it breaks. You turn to Moon. His arm outstretched and one leg up.

He lowers his arm "Gosh darn it Sun." He covers his face with his hand "We didn't eat the pictures." He lowers his leg "They came out bad. We didn't want you to see them."

You rub his arm "Sun you didn't have to lie. Although I bet they are cute."

Moon stutters "Cute?"

You nod "Absolutely adorable. Just like my good boys."

Moon stares at you for a moment before popping his chest open. He takes out the two missing photos. He practically shoves them into your chest.

You take them from him "Are you sure? Even Sun?" Moon nods eagerly and you look them over "Holy hell I love these!"

Moon lens forward slightly "You do?"

You nod "I'm putting these in my wallet so I can look at them whenever I want!"

Moon pulls his hat over his eyes and whines "Starlight!"

You snicker "Did I fluster you?"

Moon pulls you close "Stuff it."

[hotmessindistress]

Drain Brain

So it’s been a while. Honestly, I’m not great at sticking to things. I always have ideas, and aspirations, I guess, but I usually just think how great they would be and ultimately, never get to it. I guess it’s, what that word? Procrastination? Yea, so anyway…. I can’t let it bother me, it is what it is, and as long as it makes me feel good, it doesn’t matter how long it takes.

Life has been, hectic, to say the least. Finally got married only to then find out that we are, in fact, going to have another baby! Exciting, yet terrifying. We are due July 5th, so around Erin’s birthday and we find out the sex tomorrow! Just another reason for me to procrastinate things some more! Erin seems to be happy about it…. It will definitely be interesting to see how she acclimates to the role of ‘Big Sis’. Hoping it will make her less entitled, but more importantly, make her realize it’s not just her world. Lord help me, she’s been craaaaazzzzzyyyy! She’s a threenager, all of the time. Sometimes we get into these tiffs and I actually have to take a step back and say, “you’re a grown adult, you can’t let her break you.” I never listen though. It’s almost always followed by immense guilt and shame because I hate getting frustrated with her. The attitude! The sass! My husband says he doesn’t think she knows any better, but I know she knows exactly what she’s doing. She wields that power well. A little sibling is just what might mellow her out.

Work has been going great. I started a new shift which allows me to be home during the day and most of the night. One thing it has made me realize is, I can never be a full time stay at home mom! Power to ya ladies! It’s emotionally and physically exhausting in a whole different way from just working. While Erin goes to school, I get all of the chores done and have little time to myself before picking her up. After I pick her up, it’s playtime/arts and crafts/watch endless Barbie episodes until I have to make dinner. It is never ending…. Recently, I have been going for walks, which helps my mental and physical health, as well as meditation. It never worked before but now, I love it. It has opened up a whole new perspective for me which has allowed me to start doing little things that I love. I started drawing, which really centers me, as well as reading! I’ve also made a commitment to myself to do things independently that I love, such as, going to the art museum, or checking out new bookstores/libraries. Since I feel so busy with life, I realized that I deserve to enjoy things that make me happy and time for myself…. I find that it allows me to be a better mother and wife. That’s is also the reason why I decided to start this. Just to write how I’m feeling or what I’m going through, just to kind of unwind and de-stress. Some days, I may not be able to get to this, but I know that it is here, and if I need to vent, I always have you guys! Please feel free to comment or if you need a reason to vent, please, don’t be afraid to chat! I’m hoping this can be an open forum for everyone who needs it!

“When life gives you lemons, just say ‘f*** the lemons’ and bail.”

-Paul Rudd as Church in Forgetting Sarah Marshall (2008)

[ivyrivasworld]

Ivy half smiles, pleased with his confidence and self assurance, as she would expect nothing less than confidence from anyone getting this far into a conversation with her. Ivy appreciates his honesty and straightforward attitude towards nepo-baby types (despite the irony), because she silently also agrees that those born into wealth can be selfish, entitled and all around shitty people. It was true that he had caught her interest, not because of his “reputation” – she didn’t care about any of that, as she felt she didn’t necessarily live up to her own – but because he had an authenticity to him she found herself inclined to explore more deeply. It isn’t easy to catch her attention, and even harder to keep it.

She chuckles at his comment about his jacket being a cliche, smirking and nodding. She jokingly touches the collar, as if to inspect it more closely. “I mean, cliche or not, you make it work, and it looks real enough to me,” she says, raising her eyebrows playfully. “And that’s saying something, coming from me. I’m sure this isn’t the first time it’s come in clutch for you though.” She senses a tension between them, and she knows she can’t resist fueling the fire whenever she finds it burning — she’s always been known to be somewhat flirty, when she isn’t being a bitch, although the two often came hand in hand. It’s been awhile since she’d had any real fun, and she figures that this could be the excitement she needed for the moment. 

Ivy can’t help but cackle slightly when he asks if she has annoying roommates disturbing her, obviously hinting at the fact that she now had the room to herself since Greer disappeared. She didn’t exactly feel especially concerned as to her whereabouts or wellbeing as deeply as everyone else seemed to, seeing as the two could never seem to get along. “Yeah, my room is so noisy I can hardly take it,” she says sarcastically, hitting her joint and watching the paper burn, creeping up towards the end of the filter. “I spend a lot of time alone, but I never really feel like I truly am alone,” she explains, “I’m an only child, so I’m pretty used to isolation, but… sometimes even that doesn’t feel like enough space,” she says, looking down slightly. “I kinda just always feel like somebody's just watching me, judging me, waiting for me to fuck up…” She trails off and sighs. “How do you like your living situation, anyways?” she asks, raising an eyebrow curiously. 

Nodding slightly and looking up towards the sky, she ponders on his question. ‘What do I like anymore?’ she thinks to herself. “Nice answer, real specific. Gonna be hard to top that one,” she says, sarcasm oozing from her voice. “I don’t know anymore, to be honest.” She looks down and continues, "I like sketching out and sewing my own pieces... sometimes I make jewelry when I'm feeling up to it. Listen to music, shop, shit I'm sure you might already expect. from me."

She chuckles and takes the last hit from her joint, pondering as it fades from bright orange to ash, nothing remaining now but the pink paper wrapped filter. Normally, she would hang onto it until she found a trash can, but she remembers she saw Dartboard put his cigarette butt into a container a few moments earlier. “Mind if I put my filter in your little… thingie?” she holds out the remainder of what was once her cute little rose joint. Naturally, she uses biodegradable papers and filters, being somewhat of an environmentalist —  despite the fact that people would likely assume the opposite of her, and she wasn’t exactly very vocal about it. Plus, the leather, fur and snakeskins she wore could seem contradicting, but she didn't care. She did what she could where she could. “So what’s the rest of the day looking like for you? More brooding, or got other plans?”

"I would, yeah," Dartboard chuckles, tapping the cigarette off to the side of the bench. If there's one thing Surachai can attest, he's not typical of the Ogden crowd. They've got appearances to maintain; sponsors, donors, families, futures to impress; and their egos are thinly saran-wrapped with that easy-taught lie that they're important, because they're lucky enough to win the lottery of birth.

Dartboard supposes he once held that belief before it all came crashing down to his feet. Now, he sees the Ogden crowd as they are, and they see him how they want to. Vermin. Burnout. "I've been told I catch interest here and there," he jokes.

But the freeing thing about fire is that once you've been smoked up, the remnants can no longer go through the searing heat. The ones who haven't yet burned up fear the fire. It's why they'll never attain nirvana and actualize their truth. Through the curving stream of menthol, he checks out Ivy's eyes meandering over him. He teases, "What do you think? Also cliché for an angsty boy to wear leather?"

He smirks when Ivy leans in, and pushes forward as well, spurred on by daring and intrigue. His leg brushes up against hers. Honestly, she's hot and if she's also interested, why not? Even if she's Greer's rival, Dartboard never gave Greer flack for her choices.

"What, you got annoying roommates that come in and distract you?" Dartboard asks, finishing up his cigarette. He takes out his portable ashtray from his inner pocket and gently smushes the butt onto its metal surface before closing it shut. Unlike that time with Bibiano, it's actually a rarity for Dartboard to litter his cigarettes. He's learned a thing or two about not leaving evidence behind. Reaching over, his fingertips stroke over Ivy's when she passes the blunt to him.

"I like to have fun. Meet new people. Enjoy my youth and body while it's still kicking." Dartboard answers vaguely and takes a small hit of her joint. Passing it back to Ivy, he nods, tilting his head away to blow out the smoke. "But I'd say that I prefer smoking with cute girls and talking most. What about you? Got plans for spring break after midterms?"

[imthebadguyyy]

maybe something like interviewer asking her sexist questions and the boys stand up for her , after that interview she feels insecure and the boys comfort her . that's just an idea you don't have to write it !! <33

I hope you like it, and I'm so sorry about the delay 😭 I couldn't find my footing with this one, and I hope it's what you wanted ! Have a lovely day 💙

The One Where They're There For Her

Pairing - One Direction x Reader (6thmember!female!reader)

Fandom - One Direction (Directioners)

Summary - A particularly sexist interview decides to reduce you to just a sexual being and makes no effort to hide his misogyny. But the boys are there to support you.

Warnings - sexualization of the lgbt community, sexist comments, swearing, (honestly I hated myself for writing some of the comments here,and I'm so sorry)

Being a part of the biggest band in the world comes with certain responsibilities. Not responsibilities that come along with signing a recording contract, but those that a person deems themselves responsible for. For example, as the only female in a boyband, a female with a fanbase as large as yours, you took it upon yourself to always stand up for what's right, and to be an ally for the causes close to your heart.

That meant that your social media was often flooded with information about important causes, or your opinions on issues like feminism. Was it always well received? Heck no. There were people filled your feed with hate and comments calling you the most horrible names and labelling you a 'man hater' and a 'bitch' But you didn't let it get to you. On most days. On days like today, it was all you could do to keep it together. It had been a tiring few days, touring, recording, performing and doing an endless amount of interviews and photoshoots. It was safe to say you were on the last of your nerves, having battled your way through a makeup artist who had insisted on pointing out your flaws and had used a shit ton of makeup to cover them up. You had battled a photographer who had not hesitated to tell you that if you didn't look more feminine people would think you were turning into a man.

Before you could retaliate, Paul had dragged him away and told management to cancel the photoshoot, and find another photographer before grabbing the six of you some sandwiches and had let you all go back for a quick power nap at the hotel. Then in about half an hour he had woken you up, to get you ready for another interview. That's how you were here, in a white jumpsuit and a black blazer jacket, paired with black heels. Another day, another interviewer that got on your nerves. But this one, this one was different. This interviewer was different, but also the same. Another misogynistic man who thought he was entitled to stare at your ass and cleavage, and eye fuck you as you settled into a seat in between Niall and Zayn.

Settling in, you crossed one knee over the other, plastering a fake smile onto your face, as the man leaned back in his chair, throwing you a sleazy smirk. Noticing the look, Zayn shifted so you were out of view of the interviewer, but in view of the audience. It was in moments like this that you were a 100× more grateful to have your boys. They were well aware of how sleazy some interviewers could be, having had plenty of experience with them, and Zayn and Louis in particular were very protective about the way you were treated. Squeezing your thigh softly, he leaned back a little, lips settling into a thin line as he looked at the interviewer with a cold look. A little behind, Louis threw the interviewer a dirty look.

"So, One Direction! Congratulations on the album, as you all know its out on November the 22nd, with eighteen new songs, including the singles Night Changes and Steal My Girl Speaking of stealing girls, do you think I could steal your number Y/N? And may I mention, you look ver, very hot in that outfit" The interviewer joked, throwing you what he thought was a sexy smirk. (P.S - it wasn't) Answering with an awkward laugh, you shook your head, as Niall tensed up beside you. "Aww come on, your'e a pretty girl, I'm a handsome guy, let's go out sometime" he pressed on, ignoring the growing anger in Harry's eyes. "That's umm, nice. But no thanks, I'm not going to go out with you" was your answer, as you pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. Picking up on your nervous tic, Zayn moved his hand to rest on your knee, stopping it from bouncing up and down.

"Aww come on baby, what is it? You like girls or something? Because I wouldn't mind being a part of that action either" the sleazebag chuckled, ignoring the disgusted look Liam sent his way. "That's rude" Liam said, while Zayn tightened his grip on your knee. "Oh come on lads, are you telling me the idea doesn't appeal to you? Two women together, mm, makes me all excited just thinking about it, especially if one of them's Y/N" That comment was all it took for Louis to stand up, turning to the man and saying in a voice much rougher than his usual voice, "Alright, that's fuckin' enough, what the fuck is actually wrong with you?" he was backed up by Liam, who stood up, going to tower over the interviewer, whose eyes had lost some of the sleazy look in them. "All you've done since we walked in here is make those disgusting comments about Y/N, and it's sickening. Have some fucking respect" he practically spat.

Behind him, Zayn took your hand in his and pulled you to your feet, noticing the slight glossiness in them, leading you back to the dressing rooms, while Niall, Liam, Louis and Harry stayed back to continue to snap at the interviewer. "That is no way to treat a woman, and not only are you disrespecting her, you also made those god awful events about seeing women together. Your'e a shame to every single person in this room by talking like that" Harry continued, glancing over his shoulder to check if you were okay.

"And no, it doesn't excite us, because we are not assholes, and you are, a disgusting sleaze who does not deserve the job he has. Fuckin loser" Niall chimed in, standing up and storming out. Louis stood up as well, turning to directly face the cameras and the cameramen and sound technicians, who had all looked shocked when the man had made his comments towards you. "I sure as hell hope you have that on record, so you can see just how fucking sexist this industry is to women. Y/N does the same job as us, works just as hard and has the same number of awards, nominations, and records and yet you decide to only focus on her body, clothes, love life and sexuality. Get a fucking life" he spat at the camera, before walking away himself, eventually followed by Harry and Liam, who apologized to the outraged fans before leaving themselves. As they made their way to the dressing rooms they could hear the audience telling the interviewer to apologize to you, their anger at the way you were treated echoing through the building.

Walking in, Harry caught sigh of you curled up in one of the armchairs, with Louis sitting beside you, while Niall and Zayn talked to a furious Paul. "He had no damn right to treat her like shite, and you need to make sure that he knows those comments were un-fuckin-acceptable" Niall was saying, looking angrier than Harry had ever seen him. "And to make those sickening comments about wanting to get action? Can't we sue him for something?" Was Zayn's reply, glancing over his shoulder at you to make sure you were still okay. "We can't sue him, atleast I don't think we can, but I'll have someone let the smug bastard know that he needs to learn how to respect a woman" Paul said, before leaving the room to give the six of you some time together before you had to head back to the hotel.

"How're you feeling darling?" Louis said, moving over and patting your knee so you moved. "I'm okay" you mumbled back, letting Louis settle in next to you, leaning back to rest on his chest. "He had no fuckin right to say any of that, and don't you let it trouble you for a second" Zayn added, pouring out a cup of tea for you and for Louis and Harry. "I don't care about what he said, I couldn't care less, but it was just so frustrating, sitting there and listening to him just sexualize a whole community of people. You've got to be in a really sad place to think of shit like that. That's what annoyed me. You think I give a damn about what he said about my clothes or wanting to take me out on a date? It was the way he was talking, like he was sure any woman would be glad to have him that irked me. He's really tiresome" was your reply, as you reached forward for a sip of your tea. "That's the right attitude love. Haters gonna hate" Harry said.

"I know that. But I just wish I could punch him once, which sounds mean, but he does kind of deserve it" Niall said, earning a laugh from you. Niall was never usually aggressive, and even now, he wasn't particularly rude but it was rare to see him wanting to punch someone. "It's okay Niall, you don't have to. I can do it myself, but I won't" you replied, leaning up to squeeze his hand. "Besides, Ni, if you went and punched him, I'd do it too, and then we'd all go to jail" Liam chimed in, scrolling through his twitter. "Twitter isn't happy either babe. #stopsexualization and #Y/Ndeservesbetter is trending already" he added, showing you his phone. "If it means some of these sexist asses get their heads out of the sand, I'm happy. But I dont want to to think about it now" you replied, cuddling closer to the warmth radiating from Louis's body.

"Okay, we won't talk about it. Do you want to go back to the hotel?" Harry asked, standing up and walking to the door "No I want to go to Nando's. Anybody else hungry?" You asked, to nods of assent from the boys. "I'm starving. Those stupid sandwiches didn't fill me up at all" Zayn said, standing up to grab his coat and wallet. "I know and I'm craving some hot Peri Peri chicken with some fries. Do you think they'd let me put the lemon and herb sauce on the fries?" You asked, standing up yourself, earning a laugh from Louis. "Your'e an international superstar babe, I think they'd give you some lemon herb sauce" Liam joked.

Laughing, the six of you made your way to the car, with Harry and Niall squishing you in between them, as Louis sat in the back with Liam, and Zayn sat in the front with Paul (he was driving thank GOD) "I'm proud of you darling" Harry chimed in suddenly. "I am too" Niall added. "You know I am" Louis said, before Liam added "Always babe" and Zayn turned to smile at you before adding, "We are all proud of you, and we always will be, not only because you do a damn good job of not listening to the haters, but because you do what you think is right" "Awh come on, your'e gonna make me cry" you mumbled, leaning into Niall's shoulder. "Almost makes me feel bad for teasing you about having an extremely low spice tolerance the last time we were at Nando's Haz" you smirked, earning a roar of laughter from the boys.

"That chicken was spicy love!" "It was lemon and herb with no peri peri!" "And it was spicy!"

And just like that, you were back to messing around with each other. Sleazy interviewers would come and go, but your boys were always there to support you. Always.

-------

A/N - Thanks for reading ! I'd also like to apologize on the behalf of this fictitious interviewer I made up, I felt so bad while writing some of this 😭 anyways, I hope this is what you wanted! Enjoy !

Tags - @zaynkissbot @gucci-hazza @bxtchboy69

[harryforvogue]

as promised, here is another hades!harry x persephone fic. this one takes place 4 months after she's left. i think i'll write a final part to this about their reunion. thanks for reading!!!! 4k words

***

In the Underworld, there’s a general unsettling sense about the shadows lurking around the gates of Tartarus, the whispers of the dead souls arriving alongside Thanatos, and the looming fear of the rulers of the Underworld.

Hades, King of the Underworld, also known as Harry, rarely presents himself above ground for the mortals and other Olympian Gods to see, leaving most of the world in both awe and terror about the King himself. The Underworld depends on the King, its entire structure crumbling when he’s away from his home for too long, however, in the past few months, there hasn’t been any reason for him to leave the Underground. His Queen, Persephone, has faithfully remained by his side for the 6 months that she’s entitled to. The gardens have flourished, the judgements met, and the normalcy of his life restored.

But now, it’s been 4 months since she’s been gone, returned to her home above ground, and Hades is left in his world, counting the days until his wife returns, bringing life and happiness along with her.

His bed is far too big, his bedroom too cold, his heart too small when she’s gone. He turns his head to look out the window, the darkness seeping into his room without the curtains. It seems like the nights drag on without the sunlight to remind him of times when days used to be long. He’s unsure of how long he’s been in bed, but it can’t be less than a few hours. His mind remains wide awake while his body is fatigued with tiredness.

Harry turns his head and looks at her side of the bed, imagining the curve of her waist, her dark skin loved on by the sun. Sometimes when she arrives in the Underworld, her skin is peeling from the treatment of the sun. Sometimes she walks with a grimace because it hurts and she needs an ice bath immediately, and the expression on her face makes him want to start a war with Helios himself. Persephone never seems to show the discomfort for long, and even goes so far to argue that she enjoys the burn of the sun as it reminds her of all that she loves in the world. Hades will never fully understand what that means, and too often she simply pats his cheek and tells him that it’s completely fine if he doesn’t fully understand.

Harry now rests a hand on his cheek, feeling the weight of her hand on him. His eyes are forcefully torn away from his wife’s side of the bed, unable to look at it any longer. He wishes he could feel the dip in the bed where she lays, her legs tangled with his, head resting on his pillow because she doesn’t like hers enough.

He simply cannot take it any longer. He sits up and lets the sheets around him fall from his bare chest, pooling at his waist. Nobody will be awake at this hour, and the person he’d like to speak to the most won’t be around for another 2 months, so he goes to the one he knows will listen to him.

After putting on some clothes, he heads out, lighting candles with a wave of his hand as he continues down the corridors and into the lounge area that has been expanded by his wife to include their pets. She’s always detested how their dog doesn’t have a place for himself in the actual palace, so here is Cerberus now, in his dog bed. One that takes up nearly half the room.

“Hi, boy,” Harry mutters when the dog raises all three of his heads and looks at his owner. The sleep is instantly gone from his eyes as he sits up and begins excited tapping his feet, eager for the touch of his owner. “Hi.”

Cerberus lays himself down in front of Harry and rests all three heads in his lap once Harry sits down on the floor beside his dog bed. He runs his hands over the middle head, smiling gently. “I woke you up.”

Cerberus gives Hades a small whimper and then licks his hand generously.

“I’m okay,” Harry says, scratching the dog’s ears. “I just can’t sleep.” He swallows thickly. “I just miss her a lot.”

Cerberus whimpers again.

“You, too? I guess it’s just too different when she isn’t here. Too quiet. It seems like she’s the only person who knows how to laugh properly down here, making anything fun when necessary. I’m not that kind of person, the type to make the people around me happy. I’ve always known that and Zeus sticking me down here only makes matters more solid. I’m meant to be down here and she’s… she’s not. She’s meant to be up there with the rest of the goddesses. The ones who actually make a difference with the living.” Harry’s head hangs down as he looks at his hands. “I can’t force her to stay longer. I couldn’t do that to her. She thrives up there and here? Here she does me favors to make this place more habitable.”

Cerberus doesn’t make any noise, simply staring at his owner quietly. His eyes are rounder and more sympathetic. He feels all of Harry’s emotions, their souls intertwined in a bond that results in his pet feeling the despair that he does.

Harry can faintly hear her voice in his ear telling him that she'd fallen in love with him and that she’d agreed to stay with him for 6 months instead of the original 3 on her own volition. He’s heard that from her numerous times, but it only relieves his misery momentarily, because when she’s gone and he’s left in the dark, he can’t help but think that where she remains for the other 6 months of their marriage is far better for her.

For the Underworld, however, it’s preferred when she’s here. The state of the kingdom thrives with its Queen present, during ruling, judgments, and her daily walks through the gardens to chat with the undead mortals. It’s a well known fact that most Gods and Goddesses simply do not care for the mortals, too caught up in their own immortal web to consider turning an eye on them, and even though Harry is the King of the Underworld and deals with mortals daily, he hasn’t cared much about them. Persephone, on the other hand, pays special attention to them and enjoys talking to them.

The ones that aren't afraid of her, at least.

At first glance, Persephone is the lenient Queen that everybody would like her to be: her expression one of permanent happiness with a smile that challenges Aphrodite herself, and a soft voice that may be understood as timid. But Persephone is the Bringer of Death and she takes her role as the Queen very seriously, dealing judgements out fairly and oftentimes cruelly, as it is well deserved by the worst of the mortals. While it’s true that she enjoys seeing the mortals thrive in the Elysian Fields, she also enjoys seeing mortals receive their punishments based on their immoral actions in the living world.

Harry won’t lie: he can watch her listen and judge for hours. While he’s heard whispers that Persephone’s outer beauty masks her inner demon, he simply likes to think that his wife has two sides and both of them are perfect halves of each other.

“2 months more,” he says to Cerberus who is falling asleep in his lap. “2 more months and then she’ll be back.”

Hades tilts his head back against the seat of the couch and closes his eyes. He’s cold, but the blankets are far away and the dog in his lap weighs too much to push off without waking up. He simply lets his limbs relax and attempt to even his breathing.

2 more months. He’s done it before. He can do it again.

***

Sometimes, the King of the Underworld has nightmares.

When he was originally bestowed the Underworld as a gift, given the right to lock his father up thanks to his brother Zeus, the burden of sentencing his father weighed heavy on his chest. As a regular God in Olympus, he rarely has duties aside from everyday responsibilities, especially after his siblings and he healed from the physical aspects of their father’s rule over them.

However, nobody told him of the emotional burden he would have to carry while creating a hell specifically designed for the worst of all creatures, who he would oversee for all of eternity. The nightmares used to occur every night, and they became unbearable to the point where he’d only be able to sleep with Cerberus near him.

He’s desperately trying to catch this breath tonight. Working through the dream to remind himself that it was all in his head. Frantically, he pushes his head between his knees and begs himself to take a few deep breaths.

He hasn’t had nightmares in months. He rarely ever has them anymore when Persephone is here, but when he reaches an arm over to her side, he’s met with nothing but cold sheets and the looming dread of loneliness.

Staying out of breath doesn’t last too long, but the weight on his chest does. He forces himself back into an upright position and stares out his dark window at the Underworld. There’s a layer of sweat on him. He’s unable to do anything more than swings his legs over to rest his feet on the cold floor and stay there for several minutes.

He must get to her. Hades must get to his wife.

***

Persephone, also known as Kore, stares at the moon, her chin in her palm, elbows digging into the windowsill she rests her weight on. It’s nighttime so she won’t be able to make up a good excuse as to why she’s roaming around in the fields, so she’s had to stay indoors under her mother’s supervision.

Today was lovely. She spent the entire time with her friends helping mortals with their vegetation, but despite the home here, she couldn't help but think of her other home.

Months ago, she had spent a day off with her husband in the Underworld in the fields. She’d shown him her powers, grown trees full of fruit between their castle and Elysian. She’d proposed that they should hold a banquet down there with all their favorite gods and goddesses, and despite Harry gently telling her that nobody but Hermes would like to make the trip here, she’d insisted on it. She recalls how he ultimately gave in to her and told her that next winter, they’d have that banquet. She recalls how he helps her face in his palms and laid kiss after kiss to her face. She recalled how flowers bursted from his pockets when she touched his belt.

He’d love to see her work. She knows he enjoys it when she becomes a ferocious Queen on the throne before mortals undeserving of her kindness. Persephone always senses his eyes on her when fingers glow with anger. He even tells her repeatedly how much she loves that she cares.

He would have enjoyed seeing her care for the mortals today. Gods and goddesses rarely ever do anything for the mortals anyways. Harry had asked her once. “What’s the point of it, my flower? Why must you care so much?”

Persephone remembers taking his hand and kissing his palm, mumbling, “Because the quicker I help them, the quicker they allow me to return to you.”

Hades’s eyes had widened with fondness. “And before you met me?”

She’s still nuzzling his hand. “I was miserable before I met you. I didn’t have a reason to help anyone. It feels good to help, don’t get me wrong, my love. But it was one sided. Now, the more I help them, the quicker they let me return home.”

Home. How dearly she misses Hades, her home.

She sighs deeply and watches the wind rustle the long grass outside, the night completely silent. What must Harry be doing right now? He must be asleep, right? Tangled in his sheets in just his underwear, her pillow cradle to his chest. A picture of serenity.

To her horror, her eyes well up with tears. She quickly presses her palms to them. No. She swore to him wouldn’t cry.

When she opens her eyes, she freezes.

Something’s just moved in the distance. She peers closer against the window, monitoring carefully. It's a movement. She sees it. It’s slithering closer, working its way through the blades of grass and it’s moving at an alarmingly fast rate as if to make sure it’s not seen.

And it’s slithering closer to her. Its black scaly skin shines against the moonlight, and she can see it’s frantic.

Persephone should be scared. She should be gathering her power between her fingertips and unlatching the window to attack it. She does unlatch the window, but not to harm the snake. To welcome him in.

He’s here!

He slides in quickly after scaling the wall. It’s the final movement that makes Persephone ease as she steps back to allow the transformation to happen in her room. Before he’s able to though, she holds her hands out and whispers, “Not yet!”

The black snake, now coiled around Persephone’s calf, almost lovingly, freezes and slides off.

Persephone clenches her trembling fingers and tip toes to her bedroom door. He’s here! He’s really here! She can’t wait to hold him and hug him and spill all her love onto him. After checking the hallway, she softly shuts her door and silently slides the lock into place.

The snake is waiting for her on the floor, but she can tell that he’s impatient. The tail is shaking erratically and his tongue keeps poking out.

“Okay,” Persephone says giddily, “Quietly, my love.”

He doesn’t transform immediately. Instead, he coils up around Persephone’s leg again, but this time tighter.

“What’s wrong?” she softly murmurs. He tightens his body around her. “Hades. Hey. Is it urgent?” Fear strikes her. “Has something happened? Why are you here? Is it urgent?”

He lays his head on her bare thigh.

“You’re scaring me, my love,” she whispers, stroking the snake gently. “Tell me what it is. Are you in danger? Are you in pain? Should I alert someone?”

Still no response. He’s coiled so tight around her that her leg pulses with warning. She’s losing feeling in it. Harry rarely ever comes to her during the spring. In the past, he’s done it twice, but he was caught the last time and barred from ever coming up again. Demeter swore there would be consequences if he was ever found lurking around Persephone above ground again.

So whatever reason he’s here must be a dire one. He wouldn’t risk being found unless he was desperate.

“Please,” she begs softly. “What is it? Tell me, my love, and I’ll help you. Don’t I always? Are you stuck? You cannot transform back? Transform now if you’re able to or I will assume you’re stuck.”

Finally, the snake transforms back into her husband. Already wrapped around her, when he becomes human again, his arms are tight around her, holding her firmly to his chest, fingers fisting her nightgown. She immediately can’t breathe.

His curly head is pressed to her neck, his eyelashes fluttering against her skin.

Wet.

Why are his eyelashes wet?

“Oh, gods,” Persephone softly swears, fingers laced into his curls. “Hades? Are you hurt?” Her heart is beating so fast, she feels slightly lightheaded. But she carefully walks them backwards until she can sit on the bed. Harry doesn’t move off of her.

He slides down her body and sits on the floor in front of her, resting his head face down on her lap. Her heart lurches at the sight. The fear is still deep in her and it only spikes at his lack of response.

“Please, Harry,” she implores, running her fingers through his curls. He’s wearing a thin black shirt and his grey sweats. He was asleep before this, she thinks. “Look at me. Talk to me. You’re scaring me.”

Moments later, he mumbles something against her lap.

Persephone clasps his face and pulls up, manually making him look at her. Her chest tightens at the sight of his red rimmed eyes and his tear streaked face. He looks broken and pained, eyes full of deep sorrow. The dark circles under his eyes look purple.

“Come back,” he whispers. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

Persephone immediately begins to tear up. She desperately begins wiping his tears away. “No. Why are you crying? Stop that. Stop! Stop, you promised no tears! I’m here!”

Hades is shaking his head. “Gods above, Pers, I cannot do this anymore.” His voice breaks at the end. “Whatever they want, I’ll give it to them. Whatever your mother desires and whatever bargain I can pull with Zeus. Please. I cannot do this any longer.”

“You must!” Persephone whispers, holding his face. She leans down and kisses him deeply. His tired lips kiss her back, but she feels the fatigue coursing through him. It’s powerful and painful. She smooths his hair back. “Don’t cry. Only 2 more months, Hades. Did something happen? Are you hurt? Are you in danger?”

She begins inspecting his face and body for any injuries. Harry simply lets her, not removing his eyes from her face. She doesn’t find anything wrong on the outside so it must be an inner issue.

“Did you have a nightmare?” she asks him, kissing his face repeatedly, only pulling away to speak. “Is that it?”

Wordlessly, Hades nods as she wipes his cheeks again. He looks so, so tired.

“Oh,” she whispers, letting him lay his head on her lap again. “I’m sorry. I’m here now. You’re here.” She rests her hand on his head gently. “Was it about…”

He nods again. “Can’t take it. Come back now. I’ve had enough. Haven’t you?”

She sighs deeply, kissing the top of his head. “2 more months, Harry.”

“I cannot wait 2 months,” he insists, raising his head. “Do you understand? I’m finished with this deal!”

“Harry,” she reasons softly, reminding him to keep his voice down, “it’s 6 months or it’s nothing. You know that.”

“I want you all year long!”

Her heart aches. “We can’t do that. My mother won’t let us. And I don’t want to ruin the deal we already have with her. Her letting me return home to you after 6 months is difficult enough. This shouldn’t be more complicated.”

He sits up, frowning. “But this isn’t fair to us!”

“I know,” she soothes him. “I know it isn’t. But you’re going to survive and so am I. We have eternity to look forward to. Just a few more months and I’m all yours. It’s difficult right now, trust me I know.” She glances out the window she was peering out of. “I think about you all the time. I think about how much I want you and love you.”

“How do you do it?” he whispers brokenly. “How do you manage 6 months?”

She looks back at him and offers him a weak smile. He’s so heartbreakingly handsome even in this state. “I manage because I know I’ll see you again. I manage because I make sure I remember that there is nothing in this world that could tear me from my husband.” She tucks his curls back, raising his head. Her mouth gently touches his. “There is nothing,” she repeats firmly, “that could tear me away from the only man I love. I will claw my way back to you if I must.”

Harry pushes himself up to his knees and tugs her closer, slamming his lips against hers, grasping her nightgown tightly. She gasps at the sudden movement but then wraps her legs around his waist and tangles her fingers into his hair, desperately kissing back.

“You are mine,” he whispers, kissing her mouth, bruising her lips over and over. “Come back to me. Come back, my flower.”

He stands, gently pushing Persephone onto the bed. He hovers over her briefly before kissing her again hungrily. She feels the emotions from him: desperation, love, excitement, and arousal. Hades is all tense muscle and careful movements, the taste of him on her tongue.

“You can’t stay for long,” she gasps, tilting her head back when he begins kissing her neck. “Fuck. Harry.” He pulls up for air, looking at her with shining eyes. “You can’t–”

“I know,” he whispers, holding her face. “Let me just kiss you. I can’t survive without your kisses.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him eagerly, enjoying the feel of his hands running over her body. “We’ll be too loud,” she says between kisses, “if we do anything more. I cannot have Mother taking you away from me. I will do anything to get back to you on the day of the winter solstice. Even sacrifice our time together right now.”

To which Harry replies, “Please, Kore, don’t talk about your mother while I’m kissing you.”

She laughs suddenly, throwing her head back. Harry’s face finally breaks out into a smile. Despite his tired features, he looks happier. It was her kisses, she suspects. “I’m serious! I will not lose you just because you cannot stay quiet!”

“Me?” he says, offended. “During our love making, you are the loudest one. Or must I remind you?”

His fingers trail down to the hem of her nightgown, a difference in him than when he first arrived. “Stop!” she laughs again.

As she leans back in, there’s a knock on her door. The air in the room suddenly runs out.

“Kore?” It’s one of the nymphs that lives with her and Demeter. “Are you alright? I heard something.”

Harry freezes and places his hand over her mouth. “Tell me it’s locked,” he says under his breath, eyes wide.

His wife under him nods. Harry takes a deep breath and then gently releases her. He fixes her nightgown for her and then stands up, helping her also. He gives her a glance when she nearly falls into him, wrapping his arm around her

“I’m okay!” she calls to her friend outside. “I’m just getting dressed for bed.”

“Oh,” the nymph says. “I thought I heard… Well, never mind. Goodnight, I guess, Kore.”

“Goodnight!”

Persephone looks at Harry who is so still, he may as well be a statue. They both listen to the nymph’s footsteps until they are no longer audible. Persephone turns to him, throws her arms around him, and kisses him breathlessly, making sure their bodies are tight against one another and that she’s holding him tight.

“I must go now,” he whispers, holding her face. “I don’t want to get you in any trouble. Come back to me quickly, my Queen. I love you. I love you more than anything. You and I, we’re the strongest in the Universe.”

“I’ll come back as quick as possible,” she whispers back, hastily kissing him once more. “Return home safely please.”

He gives her a smile and a soft stroke on her cheek with his thumb before he steps back and begins to transform back into a snake. She watches him fall to the floor and then scale her wall. He rests on the window sill, turning his head to look back at her. She smiles and strokes the snake’s head gently.

She hates saying goodbye, but she must remain strong for him. He’ll stay if she begins crying.

“I love you,” she murmurs, watching it disappear into the night after it drops into the blades of grass. She waits for some time, and then locks the window.

Tears form in her eyes and fall down her cheeks as she walks back to her bed and sits down, running her hand over where they both laid just seconds ago.

“Always, my love,” she says, sniffling softly. “I’ll always return to you.”

She hopes he’ll be able to sleep well upon returning back to the palace, and that she too will sleep well now that she’s seen him. She hopes to see him tonight in her dreams, but even if he's not there, she’s comforted knowing she’ll see him in person very, very soon.

[crypticcrossword]

Persuasion Dream Cast yes i know no one is thinking about this anymore

I love this book too much, and have read it too many times. I have been trying not to think about this out of anger but inspiration bows to no one. If no one else gets this, fine, but that doesn’t make it less correct

Sarah Snook and Joel Fry as Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth.

Are you fucking kidding me they would have been perfect. The loss of what might have been is even more painful if I had never known it was a possibility, and I wouldn’t have beacause I wouldn’t have pieced this together originally. I wouldn’t have thought of Sarah Snook as Anne Elliot until I became not stupid (watched the season 3 finale of Succession) and realized no one else could play the hold your emotions in until you combust game like her. I have also fallen in love with Joel Fry to the point that I am considering watching Cruella. Having a comedic actor play Wentworth is galaxy brain, because the tragedy of his love life can only be countered by how ridiculous it is. Also he could perfectly pull off writing a letter to someone who’s in the room, then leaving it conspicuously on a table, then coming back and handing it directly to her just to be safe.

Richard E Grant as Walter Elliot.

I am sick in my stomach to think that the only way I can hear Richard E Grant say Sir Walter’s lines is by also sitting through Dakota Johnson Fleabagging the camera like she’s making one of those annoying ass TikToks. I used to be ok with Dakota Johnson now her voice just makes me wanna punch that gap back in her teeth. Meanwhile Richard E. Grant could shit talk men’s haircuts and recommend a better beauty product to his daughters for two straight hours and it would still be funny

Danusia Samal as Elizabeth Elliot

She’s perfect and highhandedly bitchy as Countess Svenska in The Great, and that’s also how I know she can bring the right Hot Entitlement to the role.

PATTI HARRISON AS MARY MUSGROVE.

You are a fool and a coward if you think Mary shouldn’t be played by the funniest comedian in the movie. No one else could make Mary’s histrionics over her toddler breaking his arm funnier than Patti Harrison, and now I can only dream about it.

Lolly Adefope as Louisa Musgrove.

1. She’s a genius. 2. Imagine Kitty from Ghosts going “Catch me! Catch me!” before jumping and plummeting to concrete and tell me I’m not correct. She could also play post-accident Louisa deeply, but still funny, and that’s hard to pull off.

Susan Wokoma as Henrietta Musgrove.

Very excited to watch Year of the Rabbit, and I watched Chewing Gum so I know she can play the practical sister while also trying to flirt with Wentworth in the worst ways possible.

Zach Cherry as Charles Musgrove

He has perfect “this guy just wants to chill but life has made that impossible” energy. Also can picture him in a “I love my wife- and yes she bought me this shirt” t shirt.

Rachel House as Mrs. Croft

I want to be Mrs. Croft’s best friend and she was written 200 years ago, the casting of Fiona Shaw was genius and any actress playing her needs to convey that you can trust her with your life. She is the coolest MILF alive and there is no other choice.

Jake Lacy as Mr. Eliot.

I hate this bitch now thanks to White Lotus and I need him to bring that energy here now. He wants you to trust him so bad and it’s a sick thrill that we and Anne share getting nasty gossip about him because it confirms something you already felt.

Sophie Okenedo as Lady Russell. 

You should trust and like Lady Russell, but she should also be able to infuriate you like only your mother can when you’re visiting her at home and she asks a innocuous question that makes you want to eat glass.

Jamie Demetriou as Benwick.

Benwick seems absolutely heartbroken by the death of his fiancee until he can read poetry to a pretty girl for a few weeks, and Demetriou can play that soggy sadness and desperation to be loved just *chefs kiss* Also I want to see his face when Sarah Snook tells him he should read less poetry and more prose for the sake of his health.

Adeel Akhtar as Admiral Croft.

I just want Adeel Akhtar to be in everything. Cool uncle energy.

Honorable mention I think a truly great actress should play Mrs. Smith so that you’re totally absorbed in her story like you are in the book. Fiona O’Shaughnessy. #UtopiaHive

[morgana-ren]

SUBMISSION: How about a nasty sweaty incel shiggy waiting everyday for his dad to go to work so that he could have his relief with stepmom? 

Excellent submission! Love that. Love that a lot! I find it only fair to warn you, however, that I won’t be doing mommy kink for it. Mommy kink is one of my squicks, and one of the very, very few I have. I’ll do the closest thing to it though: Daddy kink. Also I find the irony of him making his little stepmom call him daddy to be absolutely hilarious.

Also this one is a great concept and I love it but it’s going to have to be a multi-parter cause it got a little bit long. Lemme know if you like the concept and I’ll continue it. Also this posted under anonymous for some reason so cheers to tumblr and its endless fucking glitches that it never fixes or seems to make any better.

Warnings: Noncon, dubcon, sexism, really gross incel behavior, nsfl things, masturbation, violent sexual fantasies, nefarious planning, horrible suggestions from even more horrible friends, absolute LOATHING of family, and entitled bastard.

There is only one thing on this planet that Tomura hates more than his father.

Only one thing can even compare to the level of abject disgust he has for his dad. Everything about the man is abhorrent and degenerate, only tolerated because Tomura is, admittedly, a NEET, and had no where else to go after graduation. But if anything- anything- could hold a candle, it would be his taste in women.

All women are trashy on some level, but his dad really manages to find ones that pretend so hard that they aren’t. Vipers behind the veneer of smiling faces clad in red lipstick and smart skirts. Always “kind”, always “thoughtful”, and always fleeting. Fickle, stupid bimbos charmed by his dads surface level charisma to quickly realize just how shallow the pool became.

Even his own mom was like that: She fucked off once she realized staying with him meant staying with his dad, and that was a sacrifice she wasn’t willing to make. So she left him to rot in this cesspit with his worthless father and no other way out.

He figures he can’t hold it against her, not as much as he’d like. A few weeks with his shriveled up paternal figure and most women quickly figure out they can do so much better. It’s in their nature to seek out the best, and that certainly isn’t Kotaro; A bumbling idiot with nothing to offer on the best of days. They don’t know any better, so they never last long after being brought home to meet his son, and those are the ones that even make it that far.

So when he starts yammering on about meeting yet another skank and how ‘in love’ he already is, Tomura’s eyes roll so far back in his head that he swears his retinas will detach. He makes a point to be around as little as possible, but somehow still manages to catch an earful about his latest fling and how excited he is for Tomura to meet her.

Great.

True to his word, Kotaro brings you home one evening, eager to impress his son with his latest catch.

His father had a lot of nerve dragging him from his room to meet you- his latest glorified slut. Adding insult to injury, you had the unmitigated gall to talk down to him like you were an adult and he wasn’t. Even though you had to crane your neck to look up and greet him, you still talked at him like he was some child. So different from you even though you were so much smaller than he was- barely even a few years older than he is, if even that. 

So polite, introducing yourself and gently shaking his reluctant hand, making a point to smile at him and telling him how happy were to finally meet him and that you’d heard so much about him. Your hands were so soft, so little in comparison to his own. He dwarfs his pathetic father, practically towers over you, yet you still talk to him like you’re the adult in the equation.

So young, so pretty, though. Far better than anything his father had a right to pull. They weren’t exactly swimming in cash, the house was nothing in particular to gloat about, and he’d done enough eavesdropping around late at night to know his father suffered a particular… ailment, so it certainly wasn’t sexual satisfaction keeping you around. What was it then? 

Probably nothing. You’d probably run off in a few weeks like they all do.

Kotaro is a worthless sack of drooping skin and aging bones; A ghost of a man not worthy of the phantoms he’s seen pass in his years. No longer the dominant male even in his own home: not with a stronger, more virile son coming into his prime under the roof as well. A beta male at best, withering away while his own son eclipses him in strength and intellect and physique. Tomura is in his mid twenties and blooming- His father… who even knows. He doesn’t care- he doesn’t bother to keep track. 

So, maybe you really are just a dumb little whore. It would make sense. Father dearest always had been a dirty old man; A raging pervert with wandering hands and lingering eyes. Always sets his predatory sights on some cute thing too good for him. 

Then again, the poisoned apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, now does it?

You’re cute enough you could have gotten some alpha at your beck and call, yet you’ve attached yourself to his worthless father who, in turn, parades you around like his most beloved trophy. Taking you to dinners he can’t afford despite your ‘insistence’ that you be allowed to pay, buying you things you claim you don’t need. Oh, how the moron dotes on his whores as if it’s enough to keep them anchored to him.

Strangely though, you don’t run off.

If anything, you sink your claws in even further, getting more and more comfortable and showing up more and more. Every time Tomura leaves his fucking room- which isn’t often- you’re there around the corner, smiling dumb and pretty and greeting him politely.

Fuck, he hates you. Hates your stupid voice, your shitty dresses, hates hearing his father happy for once.

It’s no surprise- but unwelcome no less- that he’d move you in sooner rather than later. Terrified to let you out of his sight for even a second lest you come to what little senses you have in your tiny brain and dump him. Of course, he’s quick to take on all of your burdens as his own, even if it means working overtime to support you. He’s always wanted another little housewife, and now he’s so close.

Tomura listens in on the whole conversation feeling sick to his gut.

You beg him not to- offering to pay your own way just like a good girl, but of course his dumbass dad will hear none of it. He’s more than happy to spend a couple of extra hours at work. His dad is so idiotic, so fucking blind. He’s playing right into it. He’s willing to be your workhorse if it means keeping you all to himself.

He’ll hear none of it. None of the fussing or the questions. You’re welcome in his home, he wants you there. It’s no imposition at all, he knows the house will be better with you around.

Except he forgets one crucial detail-

The son he leaves home alone with you every single day when he leaves. 

You’re nothing but a nuisance, something infringing on his private space. The time he used to get home alone to spend to his own devices is now split with you flittering around the house doing whatever it is bimbos like you do. Cleaning, cooking, pretending to read, whatever. He doesn’t have to see you if he doesn’t want, sure, but he still knows you’re there and that’s more than enough to annoy him.

It’s almost like you catch on to his animosity after a while. The way he won’t greet you back, the way he utterly ignores your existence. It bugs you, and as far as he’s concerned, good.

You try to slip him up, try to get close to him and make him like you. You always set a place for him at the table even after Kotaro repeatedly insists- truthfully- that he’ll never join for dinner. Even then, you always bring the plate to his door. He never bothers to answer- not after the first few times when he only opened it a sliver to see your stupid smiling face. After that, he didn’t bother answering. He’ll eat it of course- won’t pass up free food he doesn’t have to leave his room for- and then leave the dirty dish back outside where you left it. You brought it, after all. You can clean it up. 

All your efforts only get you mocked, and boy do you try so hard to get his affection. He even overhears you whining to his dad once or twice, not understanding why he doesn’t like you.

It makes him smile.

His friends- online of course, but still friends or comrades or kindred spirits or whatever- have more opportunistic ideas about it. His first post to the forum complaining about the new living situation was met with envy and awe- not necessarily the response he was expecting, though looking back on it, he supposes they were right. 

lmpwrst: Why u bitchin’? Ur living with a girl ur not related to and that’s closer than any of us have gotten u ungrateful ass

KingKockRool: Go jerk off on her pillow.

Stacystabber91: take a video hold her down and fuck her then idiot

KingKockRool: No wait till she’s sleeping and jerk it on her face

st8lker: Bet she’s ugly tho if she’s dating your dad lol

Oddly enough, he doesn’t agree. That’s one thing he understands about you, loathe as he is to admit it. His new ‘stepmom’, for all her annoyances, is pretty easy on the eyes. The kinda girl that would have caught his eye in an unrelated situation and earned a permanent spot in his spank bank. Thinking about it, the whole ‘dating his dad’ situation maybe threw off his judgement more than he realized.

He’ll let the jury decide: He finds a photo on your social media, crops everyone else out of it, and hits enter. Easy peasy. He saves it to his hard drive for later too. Might as well.

���Here, you decide then.’

Thus the shitstorm begins. 

st8lker: Oh fuckkk fuck me mommy lmao

lmpwrst: Opportunity is wasted on u

Stacystabber91: you pussy punk bitch, i stand by what I said earlier. dont be a bitch and fuck the little cunt already

VolceliSwear: Whos the bitch

lmpwrst: Scratchy’s new stepmommy lol 

VolceliSwear: Nice. Hit it yet?

Stacystabber91: he hasn’t cause he’s a gigantic fuckin pussy like i told you all

VolceliSwear: Come on dude you actually have that gash sleeping in your house and you haven’t made a move? 

Stacystabber91: it’s not like she could say no cause you’re a big lanky bastard aren’t you? that’s one thing we got over the shortcels and you’re bigger and stronger than her so take what’s yours idiot or I will 

lmpwrst: I agree with SS lol U complain all the time about not having a hole to fuck and now u do

VolceliSwear: ^^ Isn’t your dad a limp-dicked prick who can’t get it up? Someone’s gotta do it so it might as well be you. Hit the bitch so hard and fast she doesn’t know what way is up

Stacystabber91: and send pics moron I want to see tits or I’m coming over there to do it myself

It’s an… intriguing thought. To be honest, he’s never actually considered fucking you before. Had the passive thought like he does with most girls he sees, but never stopped to think on actually doing it. For some reason, there was a mental wall between him and his father’s girlfriends. But why should there be?

Depraved little bastard that he is, he’s not above cornering a girl and forcing himself on her but he’s not keen on going to jail, so he’s never escalated past creepy photos and following the occasional broad a little too closely. Maybe a couple gropes in passing… okay, maybe a lot. But he’s never gotten caught- maybe the girls don’t report it or just couldn’t find him afterward. Either way, it’s all worked out so far because he doesn’t cross certain boundaries.

Most girls are repulsed by him and his repugnant behavior, so they stay far, far away. It’s like he’s a giant blaring warning sign that they tend to heed instinctively.

But you don’t. 

This is different. You live here, so close to him, so within reach. Just how close you are. How easy it would be for him to force you down and make you take it. Just how much time alone he really has with you since his father leaves and returns like clockwork. He’s got the entire day once his father leaves for work. And all night once he takes his sleeping medication. An easy, pretty little catch already wiggling in his web.

 ‘Maybe I will.’ 

That’s how it starts. 

Snowball into snowstorm.

With an idea and a lot of goading from his online buddies, a monster is born and weaned on his own depravity and escalates into something very real, and very dangerous.

Tomura is achingly familiar with the scene- he’s seen enough porn to give him ample ideas. But he’s got all the time in the world. It’s hard not to rush things considering how eager he is, but it’s safer to test the waters first. Get you nice and scared so you’ll keep your pretty mouth shut unless he tells you to open it for him. See how far he can get, how much he can toy with you before you finally catch on.

Who knows? Maybe you’ll fuck him willingly. You are a stupid little slut, after all. Most of you females are deep down beneath that holier-than-thou, stuck up bitchiness you hide behind.

So he starts with a time honored tradition. He steals your panties. 

The bathroom is cluttered with your shit. Your fruity shampoos and conditioners, your makeup, your perfumes. Tomura has a toothbrush and a comb he doesn’t use, a bottle of 3-1 for when he forces himself into a shower, and a singular gray towel, but the rest is between you and his father. Your body washes, your scrubs, your clothes in the hamper. 

It’s easy enough to fish out a fresh pair- only a couple of hours old. Some lacy contraption you must’ve been wearing beneath your clothes and carelessly left in the bin when you showered. It’s easy to pocket them before you hear him rummaging around, and maybe you’ll miss them, but that’s not his problem. Washer eats things all the time, doesn’t it?

He’s hidden back in his room, safely dodging you before he allows himself to indulge- Bringing them to his nose and inhaling the doubled fabric of the crotch so hard that it catches on the edge of his nostrils. 

Fuck, your cunt smell good- tangy and sweet but the tiniest hint of bitter. A couple of whiffs is enough to get his cock twitching, inflating into a painful hardness as he hears you walking around outside in the hallway. Shit, you’re so fuckin’ airheaded, walking around so oblivious as he tongues at the cloth that was nestled right up against your pussy until a few hours ago. He can taste you, sucking your left over essence through his teeth and he swears he’s going to cream all over the inside of his jeans if he doesn’t jerk off right now. 

He’s quick to drop his sweats and sprawl on his bed, thumbing the tip of his prick and licking gratuitous stripes up the slim of your discarded panties with his tongue. You’d look so good sucking his cock; On your bruised knees, face a slathered mess of cum and saliva and running makeup. Bulge in your throat from taking him so deep and trying so hard to please him like you always do- or maybe avoid a painful punishment because he isn’t above using his hands on you and you learned that the hard way.

The thought of your ruddy, soppy face makes him throb- fucking your wet little throat until you’re suffocating, pulling out to let you breathe only to cum on your face. Yanking you up to bend you over the stove and force you to make his worthless father’s dinner with his spend tacking across your face and his cock lodged deep in your cunt. Worthless fucking sack of shit that his father is, he’d spit in it too and make you serve it to him with a smile while your actual daddy watches you do it and rewards you later with his dick fucking you between your tits.

Fuck yes, that’s what he’ll make you do. He’ll make you call him daddy when he creampies you- the opportunity is too perfect to pass. He’ll fuck his father’s pretty whore as she screams and moans for daddy’s cock while his father is away at work to pay all her frivolous bills like the beta-cuck he is. None of the work and all of the reward- as it should be.

It’s not like Kotaro can fuck you, and his friends are right. Someone should. So why not him? Why not spread your legs for your boyfriend’s younger, more powerful son? Oh, sorry, did he give you the illusion that you had a choice? He’ll take what is rightfully his and there’s not a fucking thing you or his pathetic fucking father can ever do about it.

He plucks your panties from his face, moving them instead to work over his cock. It would feel so much better if you were wearing them- grinding your sweet little cunt against his dick, begging him not to fuck you but getting so wet all the same. The silky fabric feels so good against his hypersensitive skin, coupled with the clenched pumping of his fist as he daydreams about railing you into his filthy mattress until you’re too weak to even move on your own, his cum dripping from every one of your used holes. Limp, useless little whore too fucked out to even fight him as he fucks her in the ass again-

Fantasies swirl in his head, flashes of scenarios that tease him and work him into a frenzy. He’s going to cum hard to the thought filling you, your agonized face as the tip of him knocks against the opening of your womb, buried so deep in your cute pussy that he can feel the wall that keeps him firmly locked out of your guts. So close, so tight, so warm. He’s going to pump you full to the brim like the skank you are, fill you nice and thick full of his seed and then use you again and again and again-

He feels it in his spine, waves of pleasure furling at the base and congealing together impossibly tight, so ready to burst. His thighs flex, muscles in his stomach tightening and breath staggering. Searing white behind dry, clenched eyes and his cock twitches in his palm, knot bursting deep between his legs as his hand stills momentarily. His hands twitch, cock throbbing as thick ropes of cum spill over the slats of his fingers, splattering his stomach and the waist of his sweatpants and all over your adorable little panties. 

“Shit-” 

Shallow, shaky breaths, still seeing stars popping behind his eyelids. Fuck, he hasn’t cum that hard in- well, a very long time. Is it the thought of having something tangible soon? His very own cunt to abuse? Grinning, he looks down at the absolutely drenched pair in his hand, sticky with fresh seed.

He thinks so.

Instinctively, he wipes the excess off his fingers and onto his dirty, rumpled black sheets, swiping across his shirt and his skin. Just another ‘mystery spot’ among the rest, soon to become a crusty, flaked white stain on the fabric among all the preexisting ones.

With some effort on his part, he sits up, still trying to catch his breath. He thought post orgasm clarity might deter him from this path, but if anything, he’s even more determined now. Why should he sit and touch himself in a dark room when there’s a perfectly good set of holes to fuck wandering around freely outside?

Oh yeah, this should work out just fine.

There’s a knock on the door while he’s still wading through his gross thoughts, softly at first but then slightly more insistent. It jolts him alert, irritating him that he’s being bothered when he’s scheming. He’s already finished the dirty dead, all ready to put himself away for now but it’s still jarring none the less when someone comes around so closely to him wanking. A quick dash at the clock tells him it’s not dinner time yet, so what gives? Why are you bothering him now? Nothing is ready yet.

He tucks himself away and quickly buries your soiled underwear in the pocket of his sweats. Quickly wiping any remnants on the knees of his pants before swinging his door open, agitation palpable as he greets your stupid, sunny face.

Speak of the she-devil.

“Hi, Tomura! Just wondering if you have any laundry or anything you want me to take!” “N-”  He’s about to slam the door. About to. But you know what? You want his laundry? Sure. He’s got some for you.  “Yeah- yeah, sure.” 

He steps back from behind the door, letting it creak open a little as he rips off his freshly re-soiled sheets.

“Oh, good! Yeah, I’m throwing in my own so I’ll take your load too-“

Yeah you will.

Balling it up, he chucks it at you as you curiously peek your head in. You’ve never seen the inside of his room, but soon you’ll see plenty. He doesn’t know if you can feel the fresh cum on the sheets, but he’s willing to bet you can probably smell it. To your credit, you barely falter, even with the sheet cradled in your bare arms.

You’re probably having a moment of “understanding.” ‘He’s a young man with no girlfriend and no other outlet. Of course he’s going to wack off’ and all that. It’s cute, the way you pretend not to notice. That’s okay, he’ll give you something you can’t ignore.

He steps up to the door again, yanking his black shirt over his head and dropping it in your arms with a shit eating grin.

“Oh- okay, yeah-“

Your sentence halts completely as he starts to strip off his pants and you’re left staring in slight horror as your stepson strips down to his boxers in front of you before placing his sweats on the top of the pile you’re carrying- right by your face.

“I’ve got some more dirty boxers if you think you can handle anymore.” He’s grinning like a fiend, reveling in your poorly concealed discomfort as he leans against the doorframe, swinging out towards you. You’re backing away from him, desperately trying to keep your eyes up and away from his very exposed body, and especially the half hard cock tenting the front of his boxers. Your face is turning a viciously dark shade, stifling your breathing because he just knows what you’re refusing to see, you can almost certainly smell.

“Um- nope! This should be a full one! I’ll get them back to you soon!”

“Oh, take your time. No rush.” 

You scurry off down the hall much quicker than your usual casual walk, probably to scrub your arms clean with iron wool. Poor little thing, just trying to be nice and this is what it gets you.

He cackles something fierce as he shuts his door again, going to look for your ruined panties to post a pic but remembering they’re still in the pocket of his sweatpants, covered in his cum and saliva. A fun little surprise for you to find when you go through pockets to ensure nothing gets stuck in the washer.

And he notices, in the coming days, you stop leaving your clothes in the hamper- or even being able to meet his eyes.

Oh, this should be fun.

[gettothestabbing]

Since I’ve already begun, let me continue from the previous personal post.

I am so very tired of hearing my sister complain about situations that I want to be in. She’s married, pregnant, has a new house, and lives close to our father. But unlike me, she doesn’t see the last thing as beneficial in any way. (The rest, she’s pretty stoked about.)

She has a terrible relationship with our father. He’s definitely not been a good father to her in many ways, so I understand. My relationship with him is better because I don’t feel the need to argue every difference of opinion we have. I’m less confrontational. I still value some of his advice. I don’t admire him anymore, but I can connect with him and tell him things sometimes.

Mimi has never forgiven him for some terrible things he’s said to her. His remarriage destroyed their relationship over several years. He’s excited for his first grandchild, and Mimi hates it, because he is making her pregnancy and her moving closer to him all about him. He’s very self-focused and feels entitled to her time and space because he’s her father. She’s keeping him at arms length. Her husband doesn’t like him at all. I keep trying to play peacemaker between these three and it just doesn’t work very well, long-distance or otherwise, because they won’t talk directly to each other. So all I can do is listen when they each complain to me about one of the others and try to help them see the other perspective.

When I’m tired, lonely, unable to live with my beloved cats (currently living with her), having awful date after awful date, unable to make plans with friends because I had to move to another state for work where I only work evenings and my coworkers are all immigrants who only hang out with each other, I get pretty fucking sick of complaints about how awful it is for people to (1) want to see her not-yet-fully-furnished house, (2) give her advice she’s not going to follow about her baby, or in Dad’s case (3) act entitled to her time and try to make her invite people over that she doesn’t like.

Oh gosh, people want to be around you and help you out? Wish I had that! People are selfish and don’t understand you when you literally have refused for years to actually tell them how you feel about anything? Go figure!! Do you think there’s any way to change that? No? Ok, just tell me how much you hate them for not reading your mind. It’s not like you sound exactly like my patients, who are nice until you mess up the plan they have for their day in their head that they never told you they had.

I’ve had one relationship. One. We had 6 dates and then 2 years of terrible long-distance nothing. Outside of that, I’ve had like 30 first and second dates. The only way I cope with that is by trying to turn these experiences into funny stories for others. She married her first boyfriend from college after living with him for like a year. She’s never had a bad first date, or used a dating app, or been stood up or ghosted or dumped or had someone just give up on the date twenty minutes in with no explanation. She got pregnant the first try, while I am trying to accept the increasingly real possibility of never being able to marry or have children. She hasn’t had a job in years because she doesn’t need one, and is having a lovely time being a homemaker and mom-in-waiting. I’d love to be either of those things, if not both. But given how long it’s taking me to find anyone to even hit a third date with, I’m just trying to reconcile myself to being happy single and working my whole life. Got to prepare for all possible futures and ward off despair!

I really wish I didn’t feel so resentful of it all. I want to be a good older sister. I have a good job, save my money, act on my principles, and try to be kind. I hope I’m setting a good example in the ways that I can. People always assume that she’s older than me, not because of her looks (she’s gorgeous), but because she’s married/pregnant/a homeowner/always giving me advice. They’re quite shocked when I reveal I’m the older one. It’s all disheartening. I always wanted to be a great older sister, ever since I realized what that term meant. But Mimi never needed one. No one else sees me that way.

And the longer Dad’s second marriage goes on, the more I realize that he doesn’t need me around either. When Mom died, Dad started to rely on me a lot. I got into an all-IB high school, so I didn’t have to do chores like Mimi, but he relied on me more emotionally. So when he remarried, and I went to college, I was still relying on him. I called and talked to him regularly. And when he had his stroke, I took care of him during the day. I gave up my summer job immediately. Even when he decided to switch to medical care, I supported his physical therapy as much as I could during law school. But now I live several hours away again. He stopped showing interest in my life unless it was about my being promoted or dating; his dating advice is usually “be nicer to the guy” no matter how I’m being treated. When I do call, he’s just not interested in what I have to say anymore, so I call much less often. He’s been married to my stepmom for about ten years now. I’m not married or giving him a grandchild or close by, so I’m no longer a priority. Even if we’re not as close now, it hurts to know that. I can’t imagine complaining the way Mimi does about Dad wanting to be around me or see how I’m doing.

Usually I try to finish these long whiny posts with something uplifting or hopeful, but today, I really don’t have anything. Honestly, sometimes I wish I was sad and crazy enough to actually kill myself. I’m not at that point and hopefully never will be. But I almost wish I was. I feel like I’m failing at life and I can’t reach out properly to people without feeling like a burden and quickly reversing course and telling them I’m fine. If I had a serious problem, maybe I could get the support I want, but I shouldn’t wish for such things.

[lululawrence]

Can u please be nicer on ao3? Maybe you should try answering people's comments

when i read the first line i was honestly flabbergasted and wracking my brain trying to figure out when in the world i wasn't nice on ao3 ever. because i honestly truly try to be nice to everyone always, even when i'm angry or frustrated or people are going after those i love and want to protect. if there was a time i WASN'T nice on ao3, i wondered if it was maybe because my comment had been misunderstood or someone saw me razzing an author i'm good friends with and they didn't get that we are close and i said what i did with so much love and appreciation, you know? like what??? did i do???

but then i read your second line. and please forgive me if i come off as rude in my response to this, because honestly i'm in a pretty bad spot mentally and emotionally in general right now, but PARTICULARLY today, and this ask triggered an anxiety response in me. so. i'm trying really hard to word this in a way to educate without being condescending or mean, but i might not succeed.

firstly, thank you for your comments i'm assuming you've left. i'm also assuming they were nice comments, in which case extra thanks. i'm sure i'll send you effusive responses on ao3 when the time comes.

secondly, please understand that sending an ask like this, on anonymous no less, is incredibly entitled. writing is not my profession, i receive no compensation for my works that i post for free online, and as a part of that it is not required of me to respond. i do my very best to reply to every comment i receive, but it is not always in a timely manner, because i have other priorities in my life. all of which leads us to my third point, which is:

writers do not owe you a reply to your comments. end of. there are no other qualifications or quantifying modifiers to be added to the statement. is it nice to be acknowledged and know your comment was seen? sure. but do they OWE you one? hell no.

in fact, i'd like to offer you a suggestion. a way of tweaking your thinking about the comments you leave on fics. instead of looking at comments you leave as being something that deserves a reply from the author, think of your comments as your way of paying the author for the gift of their time and talents that they have shared with you by posting their fic. that's how i think of the comments i leave for authors. i'm giving them my thanks for the words they've shared! i want to help THEM feel as amazing as they have made ME feel when i read their fic. in fact, my hope isn't necessarily a response from them, but instead my hope is THE GIFT OF THEM SHARING MORE FIC WITH ME. i'm a selfish bitch in that way and i always want all the fic to read. i never want that well to go dry. one way i can ensure that doesn't happen is by supporting authors and being kind to them and spreading all the love and excitement i can about their writing in the hopes that my words will inspire them to share more.

because whether they reply or not, i GUARANTEE they are seeing your comments. i PROMISE they are. and for all you know, your comment might be the one that keeps them writing even when their words aren't coming easily or when they are tempted to give up.

but, again, please remember that no matter what, these authors (including me) don't actually owe you anything.

the rest of this is going under a cut, because honestly my reply is already far too long and i have a LOT more to say now that you've gotten me started.

now, all of this in mind, i'll explain to you why i'm not great with keeping up with comments made on my fics the last couple of years. i don't owe you this explanation any more than i owe you a response to your comments, and i'm honestly not sure you deserve this explanation either, but i'll still offer it anyway. it'll help me feel better knowing i at least put this out there, whether you care or not, mainly because if i don't do that it will cause me greater anxiety having you possibly think i am not responding to people because i feel all high and mighty or that i think i'm better than the comments or whatever the fuck kind of motivation you're attributing to me to see my lack of a response as something "not nice" towards the commenters.

i'm not sure if you've noticed, but i put out a lot of fic. like a lot. a lot of words and shit. i love writing, it's often my therapy and a way for me to help keep my anxiety and depression and ptsd at bay.

now, more personal shit for you, i've got three kids ages 9 and under. the oldest has adhd which we have yet to find a med for that helps to the extent she needs without side effects that aren't healthy for her to continue with, she also has anxiety, AND she's extremely gifted and starting a new program at a new school, all in the midst of a pandemic. and all of those situations exacerbate her anxiety! huzzah! she's also dealing with the beginning of her tween growing up shit, which is great fun because it means where she used to be pretty damn understanding of her younger brother, she is finding it much more difficult to. because the second oldest? he's autistic with some pretty significant gross motor, speech, and socialization delays that have only been exacerbated because of the previously mentioned pandemic. PLUS he transitioned from his special needs preschool to a fully integrated elementary school for kindergarten last year and then had to deal with all the ups and downs of the switch from e-learning to hybrid to all in schooling when everything in him screams for a normal schedule he can rely on to keep his own anxieties and fears and struggles at their minimum. and that youngest child? he was born in january of last year. he STILL barely leaves the house and has only met other children in close range a couple of times because, once again, pandemic!

add onto all of this my own mental health issues, the fact that my husband ALSO battles major clinical depression, adhd, and anxiety, AND we live with my parents who have their own health issues, both mental and physical. i run the home for our house of seven. i keep this place functioning, fed, clothed, clean, and everywhere we need to be for all of our five million appointments every. fucking. day. there is a REASON i've been borderline burnt out for the last fucking year and a half.

now, for fun, i have fandom shit. i love it here, even if it is a dumpster fire on the best of days, and getting to be a part of the writing community is so very lovely. i adore it. honestly, it's because of those friendships i've built with other writers that i have been able to keep writing and have found just how helpful it can be for my mental health. but i'm REALLY. INCREDIBLY. BUSY. i hardly have time to get on tumblr for just a quick swipe through my dash most days. i put off asks so long i forget i have them. i don't have the mental and emotional capacity to talk to people on here or interact fully a lot of the time. but i do my best to do so and be kind while i'm at it even when i don't want to be.

then, on top of that? i also run fic fests like @wordplayfics and help friends run their own. because not only am i a writer, i'm a reader. i LOVE fic. fic has saved me soooooo many times over the past seven years that i've been here. i want to do what i can to support other writers the best way i can, which is to provide a space for them to create their works that welcomes and helps promote them, but also by doing my monthly fic lists and pocast highlighting what i've been able to read, reblogging their fic posts, and then commenting and kudosing their fics too.

sometimes i get really fucking down on myself because i'm so behind on replying to comments, but my brain is very much a "if you start this, you have to finish it" kind of a brain, and i feel even WORSE sometimes if i reply to comments on some fics and not all of them. but i do my best and reply when i can. i was actually really fucking proud of myself because i had a couple days to myself in june, and i spent hours replying to comments on 20 of my fics. when you have almost 150 fics (i think? i don't even know how many fics i've posted by now), that is only scratching the surface. but i tried and i was so so happy i did that many fics at once. it's exhausting, though, and takes a lot of spoons for me to reply to them in mass like that plus time consuming. so i tried to be happy with those 20 fics and the comments i responded to there and told myself that when i ha a moment to breathe, i'd go and work on replying to some more.

but see, that again causes anxiety and guilt. because i haven't replied to all of them. and that anxiety and guilt can cause me to put it off further OR to put off important things like feeding my children or getting sleep in order to finish it, so i have to make myself put things into perspective and ensure i'm doing the important things, like taking care of myself and my family, first.

and then, i have a moment where i CAN go ahead and reply to comments... but i also have MANY fics that are on deadline and i actually have a schedule. a SCHEDULE. for when i'm going to focus on which fics. i can spell it out for you if you really want. i made it back in APRIL to make sure i didn't sign up for too many fic fests because there are so many going on right now that i want to participate in, but i know i can't do all of them so i had to pick and choose. and when you are SO overscheduled and busy that back in APRIL you had to figure out what fics you would focus on at what time to ensure you got everything written when you wanted to through THE END OF THE YEAR, more choices have to be made.

for example. my writing time and time for myself came down to only one evening a week for ALL fandom things i'm doing and a part of right now once the kids were out of school for the summer. it quickly became apparent that for my own self care i needed more time, so i worked with my husband to find two other days i could carve out at least 30-60 minutes to myself to write every week. and i did. but if i'm already only getting that much time and have committed to those fics and fests and things that you're running etc, you have to choose am i going to use this time to try to squeeze in some comment replies? or am i going to write? and i choose to write. simple as that.

so yeah. see it as selfish if you want. see it as mean. you can honestly see it as whatever the fuck you want, but for me? i know that as soon as i possibly can and i can breathe freely for once and not feel like i am constantly drowning in my day to day life and am doing pretty well when it comes to my fic deadlines and getting started on those christmas cards i'm once again going to be making by hand for everyone on tumblr who chooses to sign up for one this year out of the KINDNESS of my heart and the love i really do feel for so many of you, then i promise i'll be on ao3 catching up and commenting. my friends laugh and make fun of me for it sometimes, because they will sometimes get 10-12 replies to their comments in a single day. they know that's how i work. i WILL reply to every single comment i get, no matter how old it is. but for the love of all that is holy, do NOT add to the anxiety and guilt i already feel over it. the only place that will get you is the ask/comment getting deleted if it's a good day, a fucking long rant like this one if it's not, and a block if it's a REALLY bad day.

if you're asking me to be nice on ao3, then i ask in return that you also be nice by not demanding things of people that they are not in any way obligated to give.

[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.” 

[stylesluxx]

countdown – h.styles

[warnings: none]

summary: in which y/n is nervous to meet her soulmate | soulmate!au

word count: 710

masterlist

23:59:59

"So... 24 hours. Are you excited?" Your best friend, Madison asked.

You were at breakfast, watching as the time on your wrist lessened. Knowing that you would be meeting your soulmate in less than a day made your heart race. It could be anyone; a serial killer, an athlete, a billionaire CEO. But you weren't worried about that, necessarily. Of course, you hoped it wouldn't be a serial killer, but you also hoped they were a good person. Just because they are your soulmate, doesn't mean you'll like them right off the bat but hopefully, they weren't an acquired taste.

"Um... a little. I'm more nervous than I am excited," You admitted before taking a sip of your water. "I just hope they're not mean."

"What if they don't believe in soulmates?"

"Madison, please. Don't put any more worries in my head," You scolded her and shook your head before resting it in the palm of your hands.

"Sorry, sorry!" She quickly backtracked and put her hands up in surrender. "But, to be fair, they're your soulmate. Regardless, everything will work out in the end."

"I just... don't want to struggle before getting to the good part."

11:59:58

You tore your eyes away from your wrist and rubbed your temples, feeling a headache coming on. Once you realized the headache wasn't going away any time soon, you went back to doing tour nighttime routine. You got in the shower, did your skincare, moisturized, and put on your favorite pair of pajamas. You wanted what you saw as your last night of freedom, to be a good one.

The thing about soulmates is, as soon as you met yours, you could no longer just think about yourself. Every decision you make, you have to think about your soulmate and how your choices affected them; there was no space to be selfish.

You liked the idea of having a soulmate despite some of your free will being flushed down the toilet. You always imagined what it would be like to come home to someone that couldn't wait to see you and hear about your day. Fighting came with all relationships, so you couldn't wait to make up with them and spoil them with kisses and tell them how much you love them. And on the bright side of things, you'd never be alone.

00:00:57

Your heart was beating so hard in your chest, you were scared it would burst and fall right into your shaky hands.

The line at the coffee shop wasn't long but the building was full. You had no idea who it could be, though it definitely couldn't be the barista that just took your order since the clock was still counting down.

Nervously, as you waited for your drink to be finished, your eyes scanned the room. You were hoping it wasn't the man who just yelled at the barista; you didn't think you could handle living with someone so awful for the rest of your life.

You had plenty of time to mull over what you wanted and didn't want in a partner. The number one red flag was someone who yelled at those who worked in customer service. There was something about it that screamed entitlement and that was something you just wouldn't stand for. You wanted someone kind and caring. When you were having a bad day, they'd take sit you in their lap and watch your favorite movie while rubbing your back. You didn't want or need much, just a calming presence, someone that made you feel seen in a crowd of a million people.

During the minute you spent thinking about your soulmate and the person you wanted them to be, you didn't notice the clumsy man coming toward you. If you had been paying attention, you would've moved out of the way, but your clock would've never hit 00:00:00.

00:00:00

The man tripped over his own feet and stumbled right into you, knocking your head against his chin, making him groan.

You glanced at your wrist just in time to watch the countdown disappear from your skin. You looked up at the man before you, his green eyes making you melt. You mirrored each other, both wide-eyed and speechless.

"Hi."

"Hi."

[AN: this is my third and last time posting this; i'm over it. but if you want to join my taglist, here’s the link to the info page]

[tags: @thaliawritesx @tpwkhes]

[multifandom-lesbian09]

I was going to write more Dragon Ball headcannons, but I keep on seeing hate videos on the new PJO cast and I had to say something. I know that me ranting on tumblr won’t stop people from hating on Leah but I can’t help myself. So here I am defending her again.

Some in the fandom are just so mad about Leah being casted as Annabeth, and it makes my blood boil so much, because like… what did she even do besides not fit the exact description of what you want from Annabeth in the series? She was casted because the casting directors, and Rick Riordan himself, thought that she had the characteristics of Annabeth and would bring what they needed to the show. She already has an acting career, she’s clearly got some experience, but some of you won’t even see what she has to bring to the table. It’s not right, and I don’t care if you think that we have the right to be so mad about this, because we don’t.

I saw a video, where somebody said that Rick wouldn’t be where he is without the fandom. But have you ever stopped to think about the fact that, without Rick’s books, the fandom wouldn’t even exist? Because some of us are so entitled to our opinions and think that it’s okay to rage about the cast just because they don’t have the same skin color as they did in the book, and it’s beyond not okay. I literally could care less about how they look, as long as I get Annabeth calling Perssasy Seadweed Brain and Grover Goat Boy. As long as Leah acts like Annabeth, as long as Aryan acts like Grover, as long as Walker acts like Percy, I’m okay with it. In fact, I’m excited about it.

Leah has done nothing to this fandom. She merely showed up and was immediately shunned. All because she doesn’t look like Annabeth does in the books? You can stick to the fanart and not watch the show, but just remember, this same exact fandom watched the movies, disowned them because they were so bad, but didn’t get as upset about Alexandra Daddario being brunette because she was white. I know I said this in my last post about this, but I don’t care. I really don’t, and frankly, neither should any of you. If Leah gives us a good performance, I think she’ll do amazing as Annabeth. So just leave her alone and maybe watch the show before getting so upset about a POC girl being our female lead.

[caramelcal]

Songwriting and Fake Dating {3}

Word Count: 2.2k

a/n: hey guys! hope you all enjoy this one as you enjoyed the last one...

this is dedicated to charlie’s mustache. rip :(

also thanks to the person who originally requested this, legend behavior hahah :) hope you guys are having a wonderful night lovelies x 

disclaimer: I do not condone the use of my work/writing without my permission. The only place this has been posted is on my (rosemoonmist) tumblr account. This has not been posted on any other platform either. If you see any plagiarism of my work please let me know! <3 People work hard on their fics, so don’t steal them ty.

taglist:@gia-kerks​ @phantompogues​ @thesweetestsinner​ @honeyheartzz​ @ifilwtmfc​ @hoechx​ @merceret​ @katrin-okay​ @diosa75​

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Another line is drawn right through the words he tried to write. Luke wants to throw his notebook at the wall. He can’t think, or write, the words just aren’t coming to him anymore. He claws at his hair as if pulling on the strands will allow his brain to breathe and come up with the lyrics he had been trying to write for the past two hours. It used to be so easy but he knows why it isn’t working. It wasn’t rocket science.

The words came easy when he was with you, maybe it was the excitement of having someone to write with, or maybe it was the emotions that you both pulled from. It just wasn’t the same anymore. It’s almost like you were the inspiration, the lyrics, and now that you were no longer there, the lyrics weren’t either. Even if you guys didn’t know each other that long and you weren’t the closest, you guys seemed to click and you wrote so much better with each other.

Maybe he just needs a breather. That’s what Luke banks on, that once he goes outside and caught wind of the fresh air, the words will come back. He places down his guitar and his pen and sets out for outside.

Before long, he finds himself sitting on the back porch, one knee up next to his chest and the other splayed in front of him. His eyes are trained upon the dark sky, watching the stars. He barely hears the quiet footsteps that approach him but he sees them sit down beside him, knees up to their chest, hugging them.

“Carrie,” Luke acknowledges, not even looking towards his step-sister when he breaks the silence between the two.

“Luke.”

They fall back into another silence for a few moments, simply watching the stars together. However, Luke’s attention isn’t really on the stars anymore as he thinks about the girl beside him. He remembered when his mom first told him that she was getting remarried and that he was going to get a step-sister. He remembers when they met, and Carrie was just a little too entitled for his taste, and Luke was a little too “street” for hers. They didn���t exactly get off on the best foot, and there were times that there was still some friction in their relationship which certainly wasn’t helped when Luke joined Julie and the Phantoms, but there were times that they were okay; when they shared a sibling bond.

It was hard for both of them to get used to each other, and their parents getting married. For Luke, it had been just him and his mom for a while, so he couldn’t help but feel apprehensive for this new life, not only for him to have a new step-dad and step-sister, but in case this man hurt his mom too. Yet, for Carrie it was different, it had always just been her and Trevor after her mom died during labor. She didn’t know what it was like having a mom, and she didn’t know if she wanted it. Arguably, she was scared; scared that her dad would no longer have time for her and would be spending it all with Emily but that definitely wasn’t the case.

Actually, everything worked out quite well, and soon enough Luke and Emily were moving into the Wilson’s household. It was a strange experience for Luke like he was invited into a whole other world. They came from very different backgrounds, Luke and Emily had never been well off, but Carrie never had to worry about not being able to pay the bills or anything to do with that, so their personalities were quite different. Yet, over the past few weeks, they had become significantly closer and spent more time talking to each other. Luke would show Carrie the songs you guys wrote, and Carrie would show Luke the choreography that you guys had been working on.

They knew exactly why they had become closer, they weren’t stupid. It was all because of you, you were their common ground. You brought the two siblings together.

“You miss her,” Luke comments, breaking the everlasting silence as he glances over at his sister. She isn’t facing the sky anymore and is instead looking down at her legs. It’s been two weeks since you and Carrie fought, where Carrie kicked you out of Dirty Candy, and she hadn’t spoken to you since.

Carrie is quiet for a few moments, almost as if she is battling herself on whether or not she should answer Luke, but she does, quietly, “Of course I do, she’s my best friend.”

A silence fills the air yet again, and Luke doesn’t know whether or not to answer Carrie. The girl has never actually opened up to him before, so for her to tell him that she was missing you was something that was new territory for the both of them. He knew that she missed you, you would have to be insane not to and he was pretty sure this was the longest that Carrie had ever gone without talking to you, so it was like life had been shifted entirely.

“You miss her too,” It’s a simple statement that Carrie makes, but it makes Luke sigh. He does, of course he does. He can’t even write without you.

“She won’t pick up my calls,” Luke says, ducking his head down as he traces the patterns on the ground of the porch. At this rate, he’s probably called you like twenty times in the last week but he always gets sent to voicemail. He knows it’s intentional, but every time he picks up his phone and presses the dial button, there’s a part that hopes you’ll pick up; that you’ll come over and wrote songs with him.

“I won’t pick up hers either,” Carrie admits, biting her lip as she continues to watch the sky, “The dirty candy girls have been bashing her, for putting the band in second place. I just want to scream at them to stop.”

“You should, it isn’t y/n’s fault. She was on her way to the studio that day but I dragged her up to my room. She lost her best friend for just helping me out with a dumb song.”

Carrie knows that Luke feels guilt for all of this. All three of them are miserable without each other and they all know it. Yet, they’re all filled with too much pride to apologize, or even to pick up one another’s calls. They know that they can’t go on like this, because as it goes on they all just feel worse and worse, but no one seems willing to make the first move.

“She always goes out her way to help others, huh?” Carrie says, reminiscing on the number of people that you have helped in the time that you guys have been friends. She remembers the way you give the Dirty Candy girls your water and snacks when they forgot theirs, meaning that you would often to without, helping old people cross the street and just being generally helpful.

You were always so eager to help anyone and everyone, no matter who it was, and that was something that Carrie always admired about you, “Most helpful person I know.”

After Luke’s statement, they are enveloped in another silence, both watching the sky peacefully before a shooting star flies overhead. They don’t speak of it, simply enjoying one another’s company which isn’t something they often find themselves doing. Deep down, they both like each other’s company, and each other, but they never say anything, both too stubborn to do so.

After a few more minutes, Luke gets up, lightly patting his sister on the shoulder, “You should answer her calls, Car.”

. . .

Being a waitress was actually surprisingly fun for you. Normally, you enjoyed serving customers, interacting with people and it was a way to get some extra money. However, right now you wanted nothing less than to be out of here, despite having hours left of your shift; in fact, you had just started.

Normally, customers were respectful and nice, but this one...this one was testing your limits. What made it worse, was that it was none other than Kayla, Carrie’s replace best friend for you and she was shouting, trying to embarrass you in front of not only the customers but in front of your colleagues as well. She’s with a few other friends, but Carrie isn’t there.

Passing you a smirk, she wipes her hand across the table, purposefully making the cutlery drop, “Pick it up, waitress.”

The rest of her group snicker as you try to hold the embarrassed blush that rises to your face. Closing your eyes momentarily, you sigh, “Kayla, I know I haven’t been the best band member but-”

“I don’t think you get it, y/n,” Kayla cuts you off, standing up and walking right in front of you, “Carrie has already told you that you’re done. I hope you would at least have a bit of dignity and to accept that instead of coming begging to me after Carrie didn’t pick up your calls.”

After she says that, Carrie obnoxiously chews on her gum, the other girls snickering. Looking around at them, their eyes on you as they laughed let you clearly know that you were no longer friends with any of the Dirty Candy girls. They were only friends with you to get in with Carrie and it makes you feel dumb that you didn’t realize that beforehand.

“Pathetic,” Kayla spits, looking up and down at the sight of your ducked head.

“Hey, watch it would you Kayla? I think you forget that even though Carrie is annoyed at y/n right now, as soon as she gets over that y/n will be right where she belongs in Dirty Candy again and as Carrie’s best friend,” Julie speaks up from the booth beside them, eyes squinting at the girl, “I think you’re letting this all go to your head too much.”

“You have no idea what Carrie is like, Julie. Plus, even if you told her that I was being a bitch to y/n she won’t listen to you,” Kayla snorts, rolling her eyes at the other girl.

“She’ll listen to her brother though, and we all know that he’ll believe me over you,” Julie responds sassily, Alex and Reggie who were beside her sharing glances. Often, they didn’t like to get involved in drama, and Julie didn’t either but just hearing how these girls were treating you made them feel horrible.

“Whatever,” Kayla says, rolling her eyes again before standing up, “Let's go girls, there seems to be a loser convention going on in here right now.”

Kayla doesn’t seem to be embarrassed, but you know well enough that she is getting out of there before she shows it. The girls are quick to follow behind her, all brushing you off and acting better than you as they pass.

Yet, you don’t pay attention to them for long as you turn towards the girl, giving her a small smile, “Thanks, Julie.”

“No problem, y/n,” Julie smiles, turning her head towards you sweetly. Noticing Alex and Reggie looking at you, you give them a shy wave and a smile before your attention is turned back towards Julie, “Can you do me a favor?”

“Of course, what’s up?” You’re prepared to take Julie’s order, considering that is what you expected her to want you to do but what she says next surprises you.

“Don’t be too hard on Luke, he really didn’t mean to get in between you and Carrie. And we just wanted to say that even if you don’t get back in with Dirty Candy, our band will always be open for you.”

. . .

It’s much later in the night, the café empty apart from you, humming softly a tune from a song you can’t remember the name of. You’re dancing a little as you give the tables one last wipe down before making your way behind the counter again. It was your turn to lock up for the night, the other waitresses already away home but you actually liked it when it was like this.

You didn’t even have the lights on as you took of your small apron-like thing and hung it up. Reaching for the keys, you stop when you hear the bell ringing, signaling that someone had entered the shop. Could they not read the closed sign?

“Sorry, we’re closed right now-” You say, whirling around and meeting hazel eyes, voice cutting off when you saw who was standing there. Clearing your throat, you shift awkwardly between two feet, “Luke.”

“Hey y/n,” Luke says softly, his hair is messy under his navy colored beanie, but you know you can’t talk, yours probably looks a lot worse. He takes a step towards you before speaking again, his voice still soft, “We need to talk.”