#fires blazing on the moor

[skyclan-funny-name-squad]

Listen to warriors call, this is a threat

[moonchildstyles]

élan

élan part one: harry is a bodyguard by trade and y/n would do anything just to be left alone

wordcount: 18.5k+

cw: her dad is really mean tbh!! pls skip parts w him if you are senstive to that kind of thing!

—————

(Y/N) fought to keep her eyes focused in the dark of her father's office. The longer she sat there, listening to the shout of his voice, the easier it was to block it out as she waited for it to be over. She stopped listening when he went off on his tangent about how terrible she was (he loved to use the word selfish and anything he could think of to diminish her intelligence). He wasn't very creative anymore, these berating sessions feeling like a necessary task as opposed to a hurtful punishment these days. 

At least the interior designer he brought in last month had moved everything around, leaving his bookshelf behind his desk. This way, she could look over his shoulder and read the titles of his books. She was almost certain he hadn't read a single volume though he most likely told everyone that followed him in, that he had paged through each book more than once. 

"Are you even listening, (Y/N)?"

Perking up at the sound of her name, she nodded on instinct. "Mhm," she hummed absently. 

"What did I just say?" He was unimpressed—disbelieving. 

(Y/N) stayed silent. 

A heavy sigh fell from her father's lips. His eyes dimmed fro the angry fire she'd spotted before, leveling to disappointed embers the longer he looked at her. 

"This is what I mean, (Y/N)," he continued, harshly spitting out her name, "You don't care. Never have you thought about the consequences to your actions. You're too selfish to think of anyone but yourself!" The blaze sparked up once more as he flicked his gaze to the glossy tabloid splayed across his desk. "Can you even comprehend what this"—he gritted out the word, tapping his finger against the photo—"means for me? My investors are going to have my ass only Monday because you don't know how to control yourself for five minutes." 

She squirmed in her spot. Her gaze stayed locked on the tabloid cover. She was pictured with bitter features, her brows twisted in anger and eyes were ablaze. Her hand was outstretched as she dumped a full glass of rosé on Damien Moore's perfect, blonde head. Several angles were posted, documenting her gaped lips as she spat out venomous words while Damien looked on with seemingly innocent, wide blue eyes. The last in the series showed her walking out with the wine dripping down his features as he looked on in shock. A bold headline said: "Whore-mones or Another Drunken Rage?" 

(Y/N) swallowed as she took the scene in. 

Perfectly manicured nails clashed in her lap, the edges of her acrylics being worn dull from the restless ministrations. 

"Do you want me to fail?" her father prodded, unsatisfied with her silence. 

"It's not what it looks like—," she floundered, unable to keep her feelings out of it after looking at those photos, "He—Damien—" 

"It does not matter what happened, (Y/N)! This is what it looks like and that is what people are going to believe and what they are going to care about!" He seethed as he looked at her, (Y/N) unsurprised. "You're going to make us lose everything if you keep this up, do you understand that? Your apartment, everything you have in Paris, your stupid shopping sprees—you'll actually have to work if you want any of that. Did you think of any of that?" 

His harsh words slipped around her, filling every breath of air she pulled into her lungs. Any fight she had, any want to defend herself or give any kind of explanation, left her in an instant. "No," she answered, resigned. 

"I didn't fucking think so. You never think, anyway." 

(Y/N) just looked over his shoulder. Her gaze didn't shift even as his voice continued on, droning with insults and degrading remarks. 

She hadn't even known she was being photographed that day. There wasn't a single flash or shutter of a camera. The restaurant had even gone out of their way to assure them that no one would be able to slip inside without a reservation or loiter along the sidewalk in wait. 

But, inside sources and photographers always found a way, she supposed. Especially since it wasn't just her, it was her and Damien Moore on something that looked like it could have been a date. Of course paparazzi were going to find a way to get a photo of them together—anything to help fuel the rumors filling gossip pages and social media. 

This particularly source even went so far as to claim they were close enough to overhear the argument that sparked the thrown wine. Supposedly, (Y/N) had been seeing someone behind Damien's back (something that was impossible given the fact she had Damien weren't even talking like that, let alone in an exclusive relationship), and when he confronted her she blew up. She was so hopped up on her "whore-mones" as the headline so eloquently put it, and the obviously unfinished glass of wine, that she just had to throw the drink in his face. 

Because of course it was (Y/N)'s fault. Never could it have anything to do with Damien. He was the sterling Yale grad that came from the perfect family, while she was the "party girl" with divorced parents and a wild past. It was always going to be her fault, because that was more interesting than checking your sources. 

At least, that's what the "journalists" and "sources" said. 

It came with the territory, her dad had told her when she was freshly sixteen and photographers started waiting outside her private school. If you wanted to make the kind of money he made and be important in this world, there was going to be consequences, that's what he'd said when he saw the first photos of her and her friends having lunch on the quad. She was a pretty girl, anyway, of course there were going to be photos taken of her. She might as well take advantage of it instead of whining. 

She became a tabloid bunny before she had even turned eighteen, with every misstep documented on the internet and whatever publication bought the photos as exclusives. Because of that, this lashing was nothing to her. She'd "poorly reflected the family image" enough time to let her dad's words roll off of her. 

Her father was going to probably send her to the home in Malibu or whatever vacation rental was farthest from New York until he could stomach seeing her again. She'd happily take whatever location; it wasn't like she wanted to see him either. 

"(Y/N), we can't keep doing this." Finally focusing her gaze, she saw her father sitting with his eyes sealed closed, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can't keep doing this." 

As much as she was numb to moments like these, it was when his anger melted away and she was left with a disappointed father that she felt cracks appear in her walls. The little girl inside still ached to see her daddy so upset with her; so disappointed he couldn't even look at her. 

"I'm sorry," she offered, something genuine lying beneath the deadpan tone. 

"I'm sure you are," he sighed, "But, that's not enough anymore." 

Rolling her lips between her teeth, lipgloss smearing across her pout, she stayed quiet.

"At this point, it's like you need a babysitter again. You can't be left by yourself and expected to behave." 

Not this again, she wanted to grumble. Her last "babysitter" was nothing more than an uppity handler that cared more about PR rather than her actual well being. 

Beginning to shake her head, (Y/N) tried to politely decline before he steamrolled over her. 

"I'm going to have to hire someone, whether you want it or not. A bodyguard, a handler, or something, just to follow you around and keep you out of trouble." 

Her lashes fluttered as her eyes widened at his plan. Her last handler didn't do more than text her throughout the day and meet with her once a week. He wanted someone on her back all the time?

"Don't you think that's a little extreme?" 

He still wouldn't look at her as he spoke, "Since you keep acting like a child, that's how I'm going to have to treat you." 

A slight panic sparked in the pit of her stomach. If she couldn't have her freedom, then what was any of this for? None of this—putting up with her father, allowing him to jerk her around, take his berating—was fucking worth it, then. 

"Dad, seriously," she tried again, her hands beginning to shake, "Those pictures aren't what it looks like, I promise." 

"And the others?" he asked sharply, whipping his gaze to match hers intently, "The one with you and Francesca sneaking out of a club at three in the morning when you were nineteen? The one of you screaming at Terra at her birthday party? Or, of course, the clips of you showing off your underwear while getting out of some random man's car?" 

(Y/N) shut down at the mention of her most famous and well photographed mistakes. He never bothered to get her side of the story to those photos either, he just liked to bring them up to taunt her. He'd rather believe an "insider" over his daughter. It didn't matter that she was his family. It only mattered what his investors thought, or the men at the country club, or whoever he was trying to cozy up to for his benefit. Every attempt to clear her name was thrown out; not even when she showed him that one of these insiders had found her home address and started sending her letters. Not even when she told him she was beginning to get scared did he even pretend to care. 

"That's what I thought," her father continued after she left them in silence, "Now, I'm going to have to hire someone to ensure you don't keep causing trouble, and you are going to respect them. If you want any chance of me letting this go, you're going to respect them more than you apparently respect me." 

She stayed quiet. There wasn't anything she could add to this. 

"Is there anything you want to say?" he pressed. A faux offer of debate. 

(Y/N) only shook her head. 

"Fine," he spat out, "Then go to bed. I don't want to see you for the rest of the night."

She was up and out of her seat immediately, not wasting a single second before her Dior heels were rapidly clacking over the cherrywood floors of her father's office. Her eyes were on the ground, watching the transition between the wood to the sparkling marble throughout the rest of the flawless Upstate mansion. Everything was high-end and fine, perfect and unburdened. It was full of everything her dad wanted her to be but she could never manage to be as well behaved as a lamp or as quiet as a Persian rug. 

Trailing through the labyrinth of staircases and sealed doors, (Y/N) beelined to her childhood room. It was left exactly how it had been when she moved out at nineteen. It had way too much gold and hidden compartments her friends made to hide liquor for their slumber parties. Her bed was too big with a mattress that was too stiff and sheets too starchy from disuse. 

Her dad never bothered to clear it out or even change a single piece of furniture—not because he cared or wanted her to have a space in his life, but because he didn't think of her enough to even remember this was here. 

Shedding her Chanel sweater and dropping her skirt to puddle at her feet, (Y/N) dressed down to her undergarments before stealing an oversized shirt from a film festival she and Francesca had been invited to at seventeen. The fabric was soft and worn as it fell to the middle of her thighs, the fit slouching and stretched just like it was all those years ago. 

That was all the comfort she could find as she slipped into bed, the sheets dragging across her bare legs. With her head cushioned by an overstuffed pillow, (Y/N) shuttered her eyes as she laid of on her back. Taking in deep breaths, she did her best to keep herself from shedding any tears. 

There wasn't a single reason she should cry over her father. There was nothing there for her to be upset over; none of his words sliced the way he thought they did, that father-daughter bond having been severed when she was way too young. Her efforts were better utilized trying to figure out how to get out of this whole thing. 

Aside from the fact she didn't want a handler—or whatever this babysitter's official title would be—following her around, she needed her freedom. Having the space away from her father's world was the only thing keeping her sane, even if she was barely hanging on. 

She'd been suffocated enough of her life, she needed to find a way to get this pair of strangling hands off of her neck sooner rather than later.

—————

"He literally arranged a flight for me to meet him in Greece, but he only ever messages me after ten like I'm a booty call or something."

Francesca's babbling complaints were some of her favorite things. It was fun hearing what the biggest problems in her life were, as if it was really such a bad thing to have a billionaire entertaining a romance with you. Even if it only occurred after ten p.m.

"Isn't there a time difference between here and Greece?" (Y/N) asked, the Prada and Dior bags in the crook of her elbow brushing against each other as she raised her hand to flick a strand of hair off of her shoulder. Summer was beginning to fall over the city, that much she could tell from the humid breeze twirling around them. 

"I mean sure, but that's not the point," Fran argued, breathing out a frustrated sigh, "It's like he doesn't think I'll ghost him if he starts annoying me. He's not the only one with a yacht, you know." 

"I know, bu—" 

(Y/N) was cut off by the sound of her phone vibrating in her bag, the device rattling against her lipgloss tube. Francesca paused her story, watching as (Y/N) pulled her phone out of her bag. Clocking the name on the screen, she had to keep from rolling her eyes. There had already been a photographer taking photos of them through the windows of Prada and she wasn't sure if they'd followed, but a picture of her rolling her eyes before answering the phone would surely be spun into something sensational.

"Hold on, it's my dad," she mumbled before pressing the phone to her ear. 

Without waiting for a greeting, her father brightened through the receiver with a call of her name. "(Y/N)! Are you still out with Francesca?" She could hear his smile through the phone. The investor meeting must have gone better than he thought. 

"Yeah," she answered absently, "We just finished lunch and shopping. I think we're going to go back to my apartment before we go out tonight. Why?" 

"Would you be able to come home this afternoon, instead? There's someone I want you to meet."

The lax in her muscles evaporated at his words. Though it was posed as a question, she knew there was only one answer he would accept. It was never a good thing when he wanted her to meet someone, but it was a required thing she'd learned. More often than not, he wanted her to meet an investor's son, or some man he drank too much with at the country club. 

Cautiously, she asked, "Who is it?" 

"It's a surprise," he beamed over the phone, "Drop off your things and I'll have one of the drivers come to pick you up." 

"I mean, I think Franny actually made reservations at—" 

This time around, her father's voice had a curt edge underneath the faux sweetness he started the call with. "I think you're going to have to tell Francesca that you need to reschedule, sweetie," he said, voice too pleasant, "I need you to come home tonight." 

Swallowing around her dry throat, (Y/N) resigned herself to the change in the day's plans. "Okay, dad," she muttered. 

"See you soon, honey! Love you!" 

(Y/N) didn't bother to reciprocate his performance, instead just hanging up. He wouldn't shout at her over the dropped call if someone else was present anyway, might as well take advantage she decided.

Beside him, Francesca looked at her with a matching pout. "You have to go home, huh?" 

"Yeah," (Y/N) breathed, dropping her phone back into her purse as they crossed the busy intersection, "My dad wants me to meet one of his friends or something." 

Francesca affectionately bumped against Y/N's shoulder as the car taking them back to her apartment came into view. "Well, if you don't like this one, send me his number and I'll take him off your hands. Just make sure he also has a yacht in Greece." 

Though her features stretched into a smile with a bubbling laugh, (Y/N) wasn't too impressed with Francesca's comment. While she was the best friend (Y/N) had ever had, the only person that knew much about what happened at home and why she would do next to anything to avoid her father, Francesca didn't get it. She supported (Y/N) and didn't mind being the listening ear and the shoulder to lean on, but she never really understood why certain things bothered (Y/N). Everything was very light-hearted in Franny's eyes—there was never a reason not to be receptive if a rich man wanted to buy her a drink or a company wanted to use her likeness without permission. Everything was an opportunity, not a crossed boundary. 

"I doubt he will," (Y/N) played along, setting her shopping bags at her feet after climbing into the black car, "But I'll make sure to put in a good word for you in case he has one in Florence." 

Francesca's laugh filled the cab of the car though (Y/N) was already back home with her father, trying to navigate her way out of whatever he planned. 

—————

"Thank you, Sully," (Y/N) chirped as her driver helped her step out of the car. 

"My pleasure, Ms. (Y/N)," he offered, waiting for her to steady herself over the gravel of her father's long driveway, "Also, I wanted to say thank you again for the clothing you passed on to my daughter. She loved her prom dress and is already asking her mom if she can get it preserved so she can keep it forever. Thank you for taking the time and picking some things out for her—it made her night." 

"Of course," she bubbled, allowing Sully to escort her to the front door of the mansion, "I'm so happy she liked any of it! Let me know if she needs anything else for graduation or anything at all."

The smile on his face made it especially worth it to let go of her favorite vintage Dior gown. 

Waving goodbye to Sully, (Y/N) stepped over the threshold of the front door, already regretting not fighting harder to get out of this. Goosebumps touched her skin as the temperature dropped. She shut the warmth outside behind her, the lock ensuring nothing comforting could follow her into the lion's den.

Despite the place being her childhood home, there was nothing left for her here, she knew that. It barely even resembled the same place she used to celebrate holidays and share tense family dinners in. Her dad's favorite interior designer had the pleasure of redecorating the place every few years, erasing anything that made it not look like a catalogue. 

Her heels clicked over the floors as she made her way up to his office. She wanted to take her time, but she was sure her father already knew she was there. It was better to refrain from keeping him waiting. 

Scaling the stairs, she heard a pair of voices and distant laughter. She didn't need to see the space to know her dad had probably cracked open the decanter of whiskey he had on display on one of his shelves, crystal glasses filled for the both of them. It wasn't hard to imagine the kinds of lines her dad would offer in an attempt to schmooze with whoever was waiting for her. She'd heard it all dozens of times at this point. 

The other voice, though, took her by surprise. This one was too deep and mature to be any kind of investor's son, and too sober and untainted by years of smoking cigars to be one of the men at the country club. Her steps slowed some. Her expectations shifted as she trailed down the hallway in the direction of the office, heels muffled by the long rug under her feet. 

With the heavy door to his office in front of her, (Y/N) carefully knocked on the panel, listening as the voices inside stilled at her disruption. Typically, her father would just grunt a permission of entrance or already be raging when she stepped over the threshold, but she knew he was committed to whatever show he was putting on when he opened the door for her himself.

"(Y/N), sweetie," he greeted her, toothy smile on his lips. "Thank you for coming so quickly; I know you were busy with Francesca, but I'm happy you're here." 

If that wasn't enough, the hug he pulled her into was more than alarming. The last time he hugged her when cameras weren't present was the day her parents told her they were divorcing.  She didn't even know how to reciprocate. 

Before she had a chance to screw her head on right, he pulled away and began leading her inside his office. 

"Of course," she chirped, falling into her designated role for this scene. She kept her gaze high as she followed him in, feigning confidence in the midst of whoever it was that was awaiting her. 

"I have someone special for you to meet," he continued, pitching his voice louder as to catch the attention of the one other in the room. 

Around his shoulder, (Y/N) spotted a head of brown hair, black clothing stretched around broad shoulders and tan skin on the back of their neck. They faced forward despite the obvious way her father was trying to catch their attention. Pacing her breathing, (Y/N) fell into the loving daughter character, willing to do anything for her doting father. 

Welcome to the show. She just hoped it would be a short viewing. 

Approaching the pair of chairs positioned before the cherry-stained desk, her father held out a sweeping hand. "Harry," he said, looking to his guest, "This is my daughter, (Y/N)." 

At the sound of his name, the guest—Harry—stood from where he was sitting, moving with calculated grace as he turned to face the both of them. He stepped away from the cushioned seats, a stoic expression on his features as he looked towards her. 

He wore all black down to his shoes, standing taller than her father's height. His arms and chest were thick with muscle, tan skin and tattoos littering the space. He had beetles and mermaids, hearts and roses inked across, some sketches more faded than others. A cross had even been needed into his hand. The chain of a necklace glimmered in the lowlight though any pendant that may be attached were hidden under the neckline of his top. Moving up the column of his throat, his face was made of hard planes and sharp angles. His nose was strong and straight. Stubble shown blonde in the light across the bottom half of his face, a mole off to the side of his mouth. Everything softened as she matched his eye contact, mossy jade with sparkles of sunlight flecked through. Long curling lashes framed his gaze. 

He was gorgeous, that's for sure. Not the usual kind of person her father associated with. He must be some kind of new money millionaire, easily fooled by her father's charms. 

The man took her in as well, his gaze observant as if there was a notepad he had in his head to take down every detail of her. It didn't feel like the affectionate gaze she'd felt before tracing down her body. Especially with the way his practiced expression stayed level, a wall hidden behind his eyes. 

Nonetheless, she kept her facade up and ready, a beaming smile on her face. She reached out her delicately manicured hand, palm smelling of the Miss Dior cream she'd rubbed over her hands on the car ride over. 

"Nice to meet you, Harry," she greeted, a mild smile on her face. 

His grip was strong as he grabbed her hand, palm to palm with callouses matching the soft parts of her own. "Likewise." 

(Y/N) couldn't help but to recoil some as she retracted her hand. It wasn't a new reaction, especially some people who met her after reading too much into the tabloid stories and anonymous blogs. Half the time strangers waited for her to drunkenly blow up on them. Though it wasn't a typical reaction from those who requested to meet her. 

Her father didn't seem to pay any mind to the chilled interaction, rounding the width of his desk to take his throne on the other side, leaving (Y/N) and Harry to settle beside each other across from him. 

"Remember when we decided you wanted extra guidance, (Y/N)?" her dad asked, bleached white smile on his face, "After everything with Damien recently?" 

Ice touched her spine as she took in his sticky sweet words. She knew where this meeting was going now. 

As much as he tried to hide behind the "we" words and his fake smile, (Y/N) knew this wasn't some investor sitting beside her now. 

Harry was her new cage. 

"I remember," she offered, her own voice sounding far away. 

"Well," he continued with a flourish leaning over his desk with his elbow propped on the wood, "Harry, here, is that guidance we were looking for.  He used to work for Camila and Monroe as their head of security, but he's agreed to be your personal bodyguard until you're back on track." He looked too proud of himself as he spoke. "He's going to take good care of you, sweetie."  

Bodyguard. 

Her personal bodyguard. 

When her father pitched this whole idea and sent her to her room like a child, she honestly figured it would be another handler he would find for her. While it wasn't ideal, she knew she could deal with a handler. She could deal with an uppity woman bossing her around from a distance; she could deal with painting a facade and adhering to her father's guidelines through a handler. 

But, a bodyguard—or personal security, as he so delicately put it—was a different story. 

Harry would be tasked with following her everywhere. He'd have access to her home, access to the person she was around her friends, who she was around her father. Downtime would no longer be a thing with Harry around—recovery and privacy being thrown out. 

Francesca had a bodyguard when they were teenagers. Though it was only over the summers when they weren't away at school, those months he was present were... odd to (Y/N). He wasn't a mean man, but he was always there. Franny wasn't as bothered as she was, but (Y/N) felt like there was no privacy—no space to talk to her best friend about anything. He was always there listening, watching, and anticipating any need for protection. She felt exposed in his presence, no secrets truly secret or downtime when someone constantly had eyes on them. 

If this arrangement was anything like that, (Y/N) didn't know if her sanity was going to survive these months. 

Despite her insides beginning to churn, her glossy-lipped smile stayed intact with stiff cheeks. "Wow! That's amazing!" 

Her performance must have been subpar if the way her father flashed his gaze at her, a glance that hardened a little too much. She needed to be trying harder, was what he was telling her. She wasn't being perfect like he wanted. 

"I've already warned him about your history of outbursts," her father said, a stealthy jab at her, "and we discussed everything with Damien. I think he's up for the challenge." 

It was an interesting feeling being called a "challenge" by her own father, knowing he must have shared much more degrading comments behind her back disguised as warranted advice. It was all preparation, he probably thought. A proper warning. 

She shoved that feeling down—whatever that feeling was called—and instead focused on her role. As long as she bubbled, chirped, and smiled, she could get out of this room sooner rather than later. 

"Good," she said, a breathy laugh floating out with her voice, "I'll try not to give you any surprises, then." Looking to Harry, she leaned into her persona and played along. He didn't glance at her once, keeping his gaze forward on her father as if he were watching a movie. 

"There won't be any surprises, actually, right (Y/N)?" her father said, a tad too sharp under his act. 

"Right," she settled, calming under the weight of the room. 

Silence settled over, neither she nor her father plucking up the words while Harry stayed an observing pillar. 

This was her opening. If she acted fast, she could get out of here before either of them could stop her. 

"It was really nice to meet you, Harry," she said politely, her fingers curling around the arms of her chair, "Thank you for coming to work with us. I actually have early breakfast plans with Fran tomorrow morning back in the city, so I should probably start hea—" 

"Actually," her father cut her off sharply, his eyes hardening as they landed on her, "I was hoping you would stay for dinner tonight, sweetie. After Harry and I finish ironing out his contract, I wanted to talk to you some more before he officially started with you." 

Instinctively, she wanted to fight him on this. Spending another night here less than a month after the last time she had a breakdown here wasn't on the top of her list of wants, currently. But, knowing there was someone here already expecting the worst from her, forced her to settle. If she talked back it would only reinforce everything her father probably spouted off about her earlier. 

"Okay," she smiled, standing to her feet before inching towards he door, "I'll wait in my room then and give you guys some privacy." 

While her father offered a small dismissal to her in the form of a stuff smile and a promise to call her for dinner, Harry didn't bother to look twice at her. She didn't waste a moment before she was rushing back to her room. She didn't care if they could hear the pacing of her heels over the floors, knowing she was all but running away from that room. 

After twisting the lock on her bedroom door, (Y/N) collapsed onto her bed. Her breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling a little too fast for her head to stay clear. Pinpricks of static began to dance on her palms, fingertips beginning to go numb. A hole began to develop in the pit of her stomach. 

This might be one of the last real moments of alone time for the next couple of months, and she was spending it on the verge of a panic attack. 

(Y/N) knew her dad didn't trust her, but to have someone on his payroll whose only purpose was to follow her around stung more than she was willing to admit. She wasn't a stupid child despite how much he wanted to believe that. 

Harry wasn't there to protect her, she knew that. He was a hired hand to put her back in her place every time her father wasn't there to do it himself. He was another body to crowd her into a corner and suffocate her as long as she kept smiling. Harry was another reminder that nothing was allowed to be hers; her thoughts, her time, her space was to be shared just like the rest of herself.

Besides, Harry might be the kind of person willing to sell stories to tabloids. Who better than someone tasked with observing her every mood to be an "insider"? It wouldn't be the first time a Secrets Edition came out about her. 

With her eyes fixed to a knot swirling in the marble flooring, (Y/N) tried to unlatch the phantom hands wrapped around her neck. 

What was going to be left of her if she was constantly going to be performing? 

Shuttering her eyes, (Y/N) fisted her hands in her lap, the hem of her Dior minidress caught in the fray. She needed to calm down. 

No matter what, she was still luckier than most people in this world. She needed to keep that in mind if she was going to keep her head on straight. She was going to figure this out, and she was going to be okay even if a tiny bit cracked at the edges. 

Curling up on her dusty bed, she leveled her breathing as much as she could despite the shuddering of her lungs. Every spiraling thought had to be neatly rolled up and put away.

A breakdown was probably on the list of banned surprises her father had in mind, anyway.

—————

Poking at her dry salad, (Y/N) watched the drops of condensation river down her glass of lemon water. Across from her, her father tore at his too-scorched steak, a side of hearty potatoes and glass of whiskey to compliment the meat. 

He hadn't said a word to her since she sat down, instead opting to focus on his tailored dinner while she was left with her pre-arranged salad. It was more lady-like, he'd told her once before, to eat like a rabbit. Leave the big things to men—they needed it after running the world, she'd heard him joke though she's sure it wasn't a joke to him.

As heavy as the silence was weighing on her, she wasn't going to be the first one to speak either. He was the one that requested she spend dinner with him, he was going to have to lead the conversation. That left only the clicking of utensils against the fine china plates. 

Suddenly piping up, (Y/N) lifted her gaze to her father's as he spoke, "You're going to have to start being nice to Harry, you know. He's not going away until I say, and I could tell you were being fake today. If you're going to lie, at least try harder."

As if her father wasn't the king of phony facades and fake personality traits. He was the one that shattered that illusion the second he couldn't hide his temper with her earlier. It didn't take much to notice he didn't actually care about her. 

Those hours in her room left her exhausted, though. She'd cried off and on until she finally convinced herself everything was fine and none of it truly mattered in the grand scheme of things; that her discomfort and fear was something minuscule enough to be pushed to the side and forgotten. She didn't have it in her to debate with him. 

"Yeah," she dejectedly agreed, running her fork through the leafy greens on her plate, "Sorry about that." 

Apparently, that was the worst thing she could have uttered with the way her father dropped his fork to clatter against his plate with his grip tightening on the handle of his steak knife. His jaw tensed, lips pinched. 

"I don't care how you feel about this, (Y/N)," he gritted out, "Don't think I don't mean that. You are going to show him some respect, listen to everything he says, and behave accordingly. Otherwise, he has full permission to correct you as he sees fit. And, he will tell me every time he has to correct you, so keep in mind that any kind of punishment he gives—mine will be ten times worse." 

She didn't doubt a word he said. If this was the kind of conversation he and Harry had after she left the room, there was no telling what kind of person her new security had to be to agree to a job with terms like these. She lacked faith in just how fairly he would "correct" her if his thoughts aligned with her father's. 

"Okay," (Y/N) mumbled, all the fight in her gone for the day. 

Her father sighed, disappointed as per usual. "This is going to be good for you," he told her, condescension tainting his tone, "I know you don't understand that now, but it will be. I just want you to settle down and stop giving people something to talk about. There's no reason to act like that if you want attention. You're pretty enough, people are already looking—there's no reason to be a bitch, too." Picking up his fork, he steadied his steak as he sliced off another too-tough bite. "Your life could be so much different—Damien might even take you back if you just apologized." 

The ice cubes in her drink slid against one another, melting in her water. "Okay." 

Chewing down his bite, her father took a long pull from his whiskey. 

"He starts with you on Friday. I told him to take a look at your apartment and make sure there isn't anything or anyone that isn't supposed to be there." His pointed gaze landed on her over the rim of his glass. "I will hear about everything, please remember that." 

His thinly veiled threat swept over her with nothing more than a meaningless brush. She kept her eyes on the drip of water traveling down the side of her glass. A melting ice cube clinked against the side. 

"Okay." 

—————

Phone pressed to her ear, (Y/N) flipped through her mail while Francesca bubbled in her ear. No matter how hard she tried to condition herself to be the same, Fran was always a much better morning person than she. 

"When do you see him again? Do you know yet, or is that a mystery, too?" Francesca was a little too excited to hear how inexpressive Harry had been in her father's office. His stoic coldness translated to mysterious heat to her. 

"My dad said he was supposed to start today, but I'm not sure. I woke up early and made an extra smoothie just in case, but he still hasn't shown." 

The envelopes in front of her were nothing but junk so far, her attention waning. 

"Ooh!" Francesca sang over the phone, "I'm so excited to meet him! We're still on for brunch this Sunday, right?" 

(Y/N) faltered where she stood, hands pausing on the collection of mail. "I don't know, Fran," she muttered, shifting her weight over the tiles of her kitchen, "I just—... He'd have to come with me." 

"I know, that's the point!" she bubbled, "You said he was cute and young, I want to meet him." 

"I know, but I wanted to talk about stuff, you know," (Y/N) pointed out. 

"And we will! You remember Barry from when we were in school, right? I promise you, your guy isn't going to care about anything going on as long as you aren't in danger," Francesca continued, referencing her security form when they were young. 

Sighing, (Y/N) wanted to correct Franny. Harry wasn't going to be eyeing out any suspects or worst case scenario moments, not if he was following her father's directions. He would be listening in and watching her for any and all infractions she could commit, including any topic of discussion that might be considered unbecoming. 

Francesca must have picked up on her lingering reluctance through the phone. "(Y/N), please," she pouted, "I know you're stressed and all about everything, but I don't want this to take you away from me. You can still live your life, you'll just have an extra shadow. That's all." 

A beat passed before she felt herself resign. "Okay, but if today is weird with him, I might be calling and cancelling." 

"Okay!" she squealed out, feeling as if this was her win no matter what, "Just keep an open mind today, and have fun!" 

"I'm sure I will," (Y/N) laughed, "Love you." 

"Love you, too! Bye!" 

With that, the call went dead leaving (Y/N)'s previous scroll through instagram lighting up her screen. Locking her phone, she took a breath to take a sip of her purple smoothie, hoping the addition of matcha and cherry juice this time would tap into some of her stress points and calm her. 

She kept up with her chosen routine for the morning, rifling through the remains of her pile of mail. Under a few more loose pieces of mail and catalogues was a navy blue envelope, stamped with silver starts and sparkling script spelling out her name. A faux wax seal laid the flap shut but gave away easily under a slight pick against the edge. Inside was an invitation to the annual 132 Gala—a benefit for the art gallery of the same name—she'd attended for the last couple of years, the dress code detailed out along with an RSVP request. Honestly, as much as she and her stylist had been anticipating the event, she almost forgot about it in the midst of all the variables entering her life. She was going to have to touch base with Dom to ensure he still had an idea in mind for her gown before she made any commitment. 

With the invitation being stowed away for later, a few more pieces of mail were thrown in the trash until she reached the final slip in the stack. She sighed when she spotted the familiar computerized script on the front. It was crumpled and creamy as opposed to a clean white. She was sure that if she had picked it up earlier in the week it would have still had that distinct woodsy scent as opposed to smelling like the inside of her mailbox. 

(Y/N) didn't need to peel open the flap to know that inside there would be a stack of glossy photos of her along with a typed letter. She knew there would be photos of her this week entering her apartment, going out with Francesca, driving to her father's, and the infamous event with Damien. Some of those photos would no doubt end up in a publication or posted along with a too-long article analyzing her outfit or body language. They always did. 

Without opening the envelope to verify her suspicions, (Y/N) bent to lay this letter with the rest in a drawer filled with junk and things she wanted to ignore. After pushing the drawer closed, she wiped every thought about her "admirer" from her thoughts. They weren't allowed to occupy her brain when there were much more pressing things to worry about. 

Flicking her gaze to the time blinking on her stove, she had to keep from rolling her eyes. While she wasn't much of a morning person, she couldn't believe her dad would allow someone to start a work day—no matter how informal—after nine a.m. With the time blinking well past ten in the morning and the sleep officially having been wiped from her eyes, she was growing unimpressed with the fact she was still waiting. 

Shuttering her eyes, (Y/N) centered herself, leaning back against the lip of the counter. She knew there was no reason to be upset with Harry, it wasn't like she had any say in his schedule nor was this lag truly disrupting anything for her. Her anxiety was beginning to manifest in ways she wasn't proud of and weren't helpful in any way. 

She thought some early morning yoga and a string of meditative poses would help settle her, work out that energy, but obviously none of that had the desired effect. Every time she tried to picture even what this Sunday's outing was going to be like, she wanted nothing more than to hide away and keep from encountering anyone or anything. It would be easier that way, she figured. That way she wouldn't have to explain who Harry was or why she needed any kind of security. 

Francesca was right, though. She knew that. Staying holed up and avoiding the world wouldn't do anything to get her father off her back. If it went on too long, eventually her father would begin picking out events for her to attend, and that was always a much worse outcome than just leaving her house on her own. 

Breathing the way her therapist from her teenage years taught her, (Y/N) centered herself as best she could with her bare feet on the cool tile of her kitchen. The chilled glass with her smoothie was slick against her palm, condensation dripping down the crystal. 

Everything was going to be fine. 

A buzz coming over the intercom knocked (Y/N) out of her head, her eyes flying open with her hand almost letting go of her smoothie. A stunted breath exhaled from her lungs as the moment she'd been waiting for laced together. 

She knew that was Harry waiting to be buzzed up to meet her for the second time. 

Forcing her head to clear, (Y/N) fell easily into her role of bubbly socialite. She had nothing to be afraid of, she told herself, it wasn't as if he was going to find anything her father would be ashamed of. She wasn't even his top priority, she reminded herself, her father and his company were Harry's clients, not (Y/N).

Pressing the small button on the stainless steel panel beside her front door, she dipped close to the microphone. "Good morning, how can I help you?" she asked as if she didn't already know what the answer would be. 

"Good morning, Ms. (Y/N)," answered the doorman from the lobby, the usual quiet settling in the background as he spoke, "I have a Mr. Harry Styles waiting down here for you. He said he's a part of your security team." 

"You can send him up, please," she replied, forcing a chirp to her voice. "Thank you, Claudio!" 

"Of course, Ms. (Y/N)," was all she heard back before the static went dead. Claudio was always a bit cold to her, but he never let any of the lurkers into the lobby so she'd take what she could get. 

The waiting game started again after the brief intermission, leaving (Y/N) in the silence of her apartment. She was suddenly too aware of the silk of her pajamas brushing her skin, the intricate threading on the hem of her shorts too heavy now. 

Lucky enough for her, it wasn't too long before she heard a knock reverberating through the door. It was firm and short, matching the man on the other side. 

A shot went through her system, a moment of static hitting her brain. She'd gone through worse bouts of anxiety and stressful situations, there was no reason to get worked up over something—someone—like this. 

With her mask on, complete with a reserved smile and detached gaze, (Y/N) opened her front door. The hinges glided like butter, welcoming Harry in where he stood in the hallway. 

Dressed in all black as she was starting to figure was his signature, he was waiting with an observant gaze being cast through the corridor. This was one of the few penthouse floors in the building leaving a bare space between where the elevator was stationed before leading to her front door. 

"Good morning," she told him pleasantly, "Come in." 

With a flourish, she stepped to the side with a space cleared for him to step into her apartment. 

"Good morning," he said, a slight smile on his features that appeared for a flash before he was back to his stoic state, "Thank you." 

Harry stepped in, acting as a dark spot with his fitted black t-shirt and trousers of the same shade against the understated hues of her home. (Y/N) locked the door behind him before turning to face him once more, a pleasant smile on her face. 

"How are you?" she asked, her voice even and warm despite how detached she felt. 

"Good, thank you," was his abrupt response, no followup about her own well being for the morning. He cast his gaze around her apartment, taking every corner and curve. She wasn't even sure he had properly looked at her at all since coming here. 

"Good," she said, trailing off awkwardly into the space around them. What kind of small talk do you make with a member of your security team? Especially one that didn't seem too keen on knowing their client. 

Leaning against her front door, she waited as he observed everything. He looked at her couch the same way he had looked at her days prior, as if he was compiling a list of all its attributes and deciding whether it not it had anything of value within. 

It was an odd feeling; she typically wasn't so blatantly compared to furniture to her face, that was usually left to the tabloids and internet trolls. 

Seeming to remember that she was still there, Harry stopped his game of finding everything in the room. He settled his eyes on her, a pointed look with a small pinch to his brows. 

Taking him in for that moment, she was reminded of just how pretty he was. He didn't look like the kind of man that would be guarding the models and gorgeous people, he should be one of the YSL or Gucci models that needed protecting from the crowds of people trying to get a closer look at him. Off-duty model, she figured would be the name of the article that Vogue would write about him, full of street style photos of him. 

With the green of his eyes meeting her own, he didn't waver where he stood. "Jus' go about your day like normal," he instructed her, arms crossed over his chest, "I want to learn your habits and your space first, but if you need to do anything out of the norm, let me know." 

"Okay," she sounded, voice quiet to her own ears. 

As much as she was sure she was meant to completely ignore him, she still felt odd crossing through her place towards her kitchen. She finished her smoothie and had left her blender and other supplies in the sink, so she could at least do the dishes maybe? At least that way her hands would be busy without plucking at her manicure.

Filling the sink with water, she did her best to treat Harry as nothing more than a shadow. To be fair, it wasn't that hard given the fact he barely made any noise as he traipsed around. It brought back memories of the way Barry used to hover around she and Franny when they were teenagers; it was easy to not pay too much attention to the extra body in the room, but her muscles never fully relaxed. 

From the corner of her eye, she saw him poking his head up the stairs to where her bedroom was, casting his gaze towards her ceiling, catching a view out her various windows as he went around. He was a perfect shadow dressed in black, but he seemed a bit too unimpressed for a neutral being. 

Harry stepped into her kitchen, the rubber soles of his shoes silent over the sparkling white granite flooring. "Do you have any kind of security system set up here? Cameras or anything like that?" he probed. 

Humming, (Y/N) picked up the rag she placed out for drying. "The building has some of those alarms installed with the codes and everything and there's the guys downstairs, but I don't have cameras set up in here or anything." 

Perpetually unimpressed, Harry only let out a, "Hm." 

She fixed her eyes onto her pink onyx countertops, tracing the swirling white lines in the faint pink of the stone. Why did he even care, she wanted to ask. What good would cameras in her home do when she was a nuisance outside of these walls? 

Watching as he headed down towards her guest rooms, she felt her tongue moving before her brain allowed it. "What are you looking for?" she poked, her question simple as he kept drying her dishes before placing them in cabinets. 

It wasn't like she was hiding any of the drugs or alcohol her dad surely warned him about, telling him to seek out and destroy before truly starting his job. If that was what he was toeing around her home for, he was going to be disappointed.

He didn't even turn to face her as he called back down the hallway to her, "Nothing in particular. Jus' noting things as I go; vantage points and the complete lack of any useful security around here."

Propping her hip against the lip of the counter, she let out a small sigh. Her hands twirled the rag she had used to dry her dishes, gaze following after her new security detail. 

"You don't have to pretend, you know," she started, saving them both some trouble by starting the conversation, "I know my dad didn't hire you to protect me or anything. He wants you protect the public, and his business from me." 

His ghosting footsteps came to a stop where stood down the hallway. He was in complete control as he turned to face her, that usual placid look molding his features. "Last I checked, you were my client. Not the public or your father's company." 

"But he's the one that's paying you," she countered, unwavering from the point she was trying to make, "I just don't want you to waste your time pretending to find something to protect me from." 

That deadpan look never changed from Harry's face. "'M not pretending, 'm doing my job." He paused only for a moment, his gaze bored and heavy on her skin. "Let me know if y'decide to go anywhere." 

That was the end of the conversation as far as (Y/N) was aware, Harry turning and leaving her as he went about doing whatever it was he considered to be his job. She didn't try to stop him again. If he wanted to waste his time, he could do just that. Not her problem, anymore.

Draining her sink, (Y/N) crept through her apartment to settle upon her plush couch. Clicking her television awake, she fumbled through streaming services until finally tuning into a rerun of a cooking show she was fond of. Though she couldn't quite sink into the cushions or yell to the T.V. as the contestants didn't see the obvious win she did, at least he wasn't right behind her. 

—————

"No, dad, I didn't give him any trouble yesterday." 

(Y/N) could practically hear the eyeball through the phone. "You know he's going to tell me, right? Lying won't change anything." 

It was her turn to give a petulant reaction, lashes fluttering as she almost got her eyes stuck in the back of her head. "I'm being serious. I'm not hiding anything, and I haven't even gone out or anything. There's been nothing to get upset over, dad." 

The trademark sigh of disappointment fluttered through the speaker. "What's the point of having a bodyguard if all you're going to do is stay home, (Y/N)?" 

"I'm going to brunch tomorrow with Fran and the girls," she countered, feeling her blood pressure rise over his argument. She was damned if she went out and was seen, damned if she stayed home and out of the public eye. She couldn't win. 

"Good," her father said, sounding all too pleased as if these plans were his doing, "I want him to see how you act in public, then we'll be able to start working on your problems." 

There was no argument she was going to give after that. She wasn't going to reward him or validate his claim that she is the problem. Because of course she was; it was never the photographers hounding her the second she turned sixteen, never the men around her that treated her like a tabloid bunny there for poking and prodding, and never him who didn't think to be a father for longer than it took for a flash of a camera to capture the moment. 

Dead air settled between them, (Y/N) pressing her phone to her ear with the help of her shoulder as she began to collect ingredients for her dinner. Her way of ignoring him came in redirection, instead focusing back on Harry, his new favorite person. 

"Harry thinks I should get a security system at my apartment," she offered, hoping the mention of his name was enough to get her father's head turning elsewhere. 

The beat that passed after her words showed she garnered the opposite reaction. "Did you tell him about those letters, (Y/N)?" he asked, voice hard as stone. 

Her lips thinned. "No." 

"Good. Don't." It didn't take much for (Y/N) to picture the way he was surely hanging his head over his dinner, perpetually disappointed in his only child. "Do not waste his time over those. Plenty of people take pictures with you, and if I find out you're having him worry about the one person that's actually a fan of you..." he trailed off as if she didn't know exactly what threat was about to leave his mouth, "I'm going to send you to stay with your mother." 

"Right. I won't." 

His worst punishment was always to push her off on others. The nannies she bonded with growing up, different boarding schools and summer programs, anyone that was willing to glance at her for longer than five seconds was in the running to take her off his hands. Her mother was always his favorite to threaten her with as if he knew where she was. 

(Y/N) didn't bother to listen to him anymore when it came to these moments. While she knew he'd never—could never—follow through with this particular threat, it was more than a little disheartening that he'd consider her calling for help as something that deserved a punishment. 

"Well," he started, speaking around his mouthful of whatever his chef had prepared for the night, "if I don't hear from Harry, I'll be calling you to see how tomorrow goes. Don't embarrass yourself, (Y/N). It's not worth it." 

"I know," she answered absently, her voice bored, "Goodnight, dad." 

"Night." 

Pulling her phone from her ear, (Y/N) focused on preparing the zucchini for the pasta primavera she'd been craving. Her thoughts turned methodical now that she had something structured to give her attention to. It was much easier to think when she wasn't firmly planted in her stubbornness and trying to ward off the kind of anxiety she hadn't felt since she was a teenager. 

Harry had gone home late into the afternoon yesterday, and didn't return today. He didn't tell her anything other than he'd see her on Sunday morning for brunch, but she had figured he'd have paid her another visit in the meantime anyway. It was an odd arrangement anyway, as far as she could tell. 

Stretching her memory back, Francesca's security was always there. Even when (Y/N) would spend the night or go away on trips with family, Barry was a constant shadow. The pool house in their backyard was his, an extra room for every rental or new vacation house taken into account so Francesca was never without her bodyguard. While she hadn't really wanted this, she figured Harry would be the same way—his services a button away in case of any kind of moment in need from her. 

He hadn't even taken her number down when he was over. 

It had only been a suspicion before, but perhaps her dad really had been honest with Harry: there was no real danger surrounding (Y/N), just her as the problem that needed fixing before interacting any with the public. There would be no reason for him to watch over her as she slept or be available to any emergency that might appear in his absence. 

Whatever, she figured, sliding the half-moons of her zucchini into a bowl. At least she cleaned out her guest room, something she'd been meaning to do.

(Y/N) was going to take her time alone as if it were gold. She had a feeling tomorrow was going to be rough enough without a bad night's sleep. 

—————

Swimming to the surface of sleep, (Y/N) was half aware of the sound of the static buzzing coming through her apartment. It was far enough away, the buzz panel situated by the door, that she could ignore it easily as she shifted between her sheets with her eyes cinched closed. Brunch wasn't for a few hours anyway, she knew that, and if any of the girls needed her they would have called prior. 

Soon enough the buzzing ceased, allowing her brain to fuzzy further and to retrace her steps back to her dreamland. Whatever that was, wasn't an emergency, then. 

Until the banging knocks started. 

These, she wasn't able to ignore. Forcing her eyes open, she reached for her phone on her night stand. No missed calls or texts filled her notifications, but the time of seven a.m. reflected at her. There was only one person who could be giving her this wakeup call, but there was no reason for him to be here already. 

With no contact to reach out to see if it was Harry waiting for her, she just had to trust that the doormen downstairs wouldn't send anyone up that they didn't recognize or who wasn't on the list to be cleared for her penthouse elevator. 

Her hair was a mess on the top of her head, tangled and falling out of the braid she had twisted for the night, eyes crusted with sleep in the corners, and limbs shaking from the abrupt pull from her sleep. The only clear thought she had was that she was goin to have to give him the access code to her apartment or a key after this; early morning wakeups like this were something she was ever going to be happy about. 

Swinging the door open for him during a pause in his banging, (Y/N) barely looked at Harry before she was trying to usher him in with a sweep of her hand. 

"Morning," she grumbled, voice sticky in her throat. 

"Morning," Harry reciprocated, "Are you ready?" 

"What?" she asked over the click of her lock going back into place. 

"I thought you had plans to go out with your friends this morning." His voice was bored as if he couldn't believe he was having to remind her of her own agenda.

"Yeah, for brunch," she added, "We don't have to leave for a while." 

"Hm," was all he had to offer in response. Unimpressed. 

(Y/N) didn't have it in her to care whether or not he liked brunch or thought she was silly for whatever reason. She was too tired, and her bed was too soft. 

"I'm going back to bed," she told him, edging towards the staircase to her bedroom, "You can do whatever you want." 

A beat passed before Harry offered an acknowledgement in the form of a hum. He was much more interested in investigating more of her home, she figured with the way his eyes traipsed through the space. 

The second her head hit the pillow in her bedroom, (Y/N) happily relaxed into the mattress. 

While there was a part of her that felt odd knowing that there was someone else in her home, settling in while she was elsewhere, there were other parts of her that didn't mind it all that much. She'd never felt lonely before, but she also never had known what it was like to have someone else around like this. 

Even if he was being paid to, it was nice to her soft, sleep-molded brain that he'd care if something happened while she slept.

That thought made it a little bit easier to fall asleep again. 

—————

Standing before her bathroom mirror, (Y/N) sharpened her features and pouted her lips at her reflection. With her hair pinned back and a silky robe draped over her body, she looked every bit the dreamy socialite she pictured herself as in her teens. Except for the wreck that was her makeup so far. 

Breaking her pose, she let out an annoyed grumble as she took a closer look at the section of eyeshadow that just wouldn't blend out. She felt like a toddler having a tantrum the way she wanted to stomp her foot on the ground and throw her makeup brush and eyeshadow palette away. 

Everything had been going perfect until she decided to daringly dip into a slightly deeper shade than she was used to on her eyes, and now she was stuck with a semi-sweet chocolate blob on the outer corner of her eye when she was hoping for a milk chocolate fade. And, she didn't have time to redo anything. 

Life could be so unfair sometimes. 

From down the hallway, she heard footsteps glancing over the flooring towards the bathroom. Moments later, Harry appeared in the mirror behind her, something a little more urgent than she was used to in his gaze but just as serious and uninviting as she remembered from this morning. 

When he didn't say anything, only tracing his eyes over her bathroom, (Y/N) piped up, "Is everything okay?" He hadn't come to see her once since she woke up. 

Catching her gaze in the glass, he said, "I heard you." 

"Sorry," she started, dropping her eyes to her palette of neutral powders, "I'm just annoyed right now. My makeup looks dumb, and I don't have time to redo it." 

Harry relaxed some where he stood, his arms dropping from across his chest as he leant against the doorjamb. The observations never stopped, even as she resumed trying to blend out her makeup. 

"I thought you had people to do that for you," he said, brows furrowing just a pinch. 

(Y/N) shrugged, fluffing a creamy shade over the deep mass in hopes of lightening the whole thing up enough to go out for a morning. "Sometimes; usually for really important things. Otherwise, I just like to do it myself." 

When the makeup cooperated, anyway. What she wouldn't give to have the hand of a makeup artist here to fix her mistake.

"Oh," Harry sounded behind her, silence settling between them. 

Expecting him to leave then, (Y/N) refocused on her eye makeup only for Harry to linger in the doorway. He stood there in his too-pretty glory, watching her as she worked. She felt as if each of her moves were being dissected, analyzed and broken down as if there was a chance he would have to step in. She guessed that technically was his job, though she could argue there might be much better things for him to do rather than watch her blend eyeshadow and bobby pin her hair to perfection. 

Once she had her face applied, extra blush and fluffy lashes added in hopes of distracting from her most disastrous shadow look to date (at least that's how she felt in the moment, but she was sure there were photos off er teen years that would love to beg to differ) and hair styled down to the single strand, she was left with her short robe on and her outfit picked out in her closet. Harry's eyes had documented each of her moves, grazing along her skin and observing every stretch. 

Finding that gaze in the mirror, she looked at him with a mild expression. "I just need to get dressed then we can go." 

Harry blinked at her. "Okay." 

That was all he had to say before she was left to head to her room. 

—————

Stepping through the lobby of her complex, (Y/N) couldn't help but to scope out the street as much as she could through the tinted glass doors of the entrance. Waiting on the curb was the all black SUV she called with pedestrians scattered along the sidewalks and recklessly stepping onto the street. All she was looking for was anyone lingering a little too close to the building with too nice of cameras to be normal. 

She'd always been a little cautious leaving her building once the address to her complex had been leaked, paparazzi having camped out for a week afterwards in hopes of catching her off guard, though now that Harry was going to be stepping out with her another layer was added. She could already imagine the headlines and blog posts that would be made when others caught wind of the fact she was seen with a member of the opposite sex. 

Some of her favorites loved to recount her "relationship timeline" as well as call into question her "body count" and how long this new "beau" will last. She was dreading reading those words again; it was bad enough when she actually liked one of those people in those photos with her, but Harry's new job required his presence around her. He couldn't even leave this narrative if he wanted to. 

Staying focused, (Y/N) gave a wave to the doormen standing behind the front desk though their stony faces didn't sway. Harry was quiet at her side, allowing her to take the lead as she took them out onto the street, a blast of air hitting them once the seal of the doors was pushed open. Outside, no one paid her any mind, her driver being the only person that acknowledged her with a grin on his face. 

"Morning!" she chirped, feeling more relaxed now that he was nearby. 

"Morning, (Y/N)," he greeted, opening the backseat door with a flourish for her. His gaze only shifted for a moment to her companion, but she knew he was much too polite to ask for details about any of her guests. 

Setting one foot inside, (Y/N) hesitated as she looked around the SUV door to Sully. "Sully, this is Harry," she started, tossing her hand in Harry's direction, "He's my new bodyguard"—her tongue felt odd around the word—"Harry, this is Sully. He's my primary driver." 

Sully gave her a momentary look the second he heard the word bodyguard. Out of most people in her life, he knew her almost better than Francesca, so he knew just as well as she did that a security detail wasn't something (Y/N) was in need of. Nonetheless, he kept his polite smile on his face when addressing Harry. 

"Nice to meet you, Harry," he said, offering a gentle hand out to shake. 

"Nice to meet you," Harry said with a gruff anchor to his voice. 

That was all that was shared before (Y/N) stepped into the car, Harry following behind her. Though she was sure Sully felt the same way she did about the situation, he didn't let any of it show when he took his spot in the driver's seat, his eyes meeting hers through the rearview mirror. 

"The new place still, (Y/N)?"

"Yes, please," she answered, a soft smile on her face. 

As they started the drive through the city, skyscrapers towering on either side of the street and too many people on the sidewalks, (Y/N) pulled out her phone. Though she was aware of Harry's presence on the bench seat beside her only inches away, she ignored him in favor of pulling up Francesca's text thread in her messages. 

Fran🫧

      are u bringing your bodyguard????? 

      jk ofc you are he has to come w u everywhere lol is he still cute today tho or was the other day just bc you saw him for the first time???? 

As much as she loved Franny like a sister, she didn't really want to talk about Harry at the moment. She knew much of brunch was going to be spent talking about her new security or talking around him as all of the girls were going to be varying levels of nosy about it all. (Y/N) didn't have a lot of interest in starting that trend any earlier than needed. 

Instead, she began scrolling through her Instagram explore page full of photos of nail art and cooking videos she planned on looking up the recipes for later. Ever-polite, Sully was the one to break the silence that filled the cab of his vehicle. 

"How long will you be joining us, Harry?" he asked, kind blue eyes shining in the rearview mirror. 

Uninterested as ever, Harry didn't break his gaze from where he was observing through the window. "As long as it takes for her father to be convinced that she's finally grown up." 

It was a callous remark, but one (Y/N) had heard before just in a different voice. It was an interesting thing to hear those biting words lack the familiarity of her father's tone. She'd never heard them like that before. 

Flicking her gaze up from her phone, she spotted Sully in the mirror through the fan of her lashes. He gave her one of those soft smiles he'd also seen him give his daughter before. It made it a bit easier to let that remark slide off her back when she knew he was on her side. 

"Won't be very long then," Sully continued, tipping his chin up in confidence, "It doesn't take very long to see how kind and responsible Ms. (Y/N) is, despite what all those silly magazines like to say." 

(Y/N) directed a quiet smile down at her phone. She hoped Sully knew just how much she appreciated him. 

—————

"I'll be back around noon, okay?" Sully said, offering a helping hand to (Y/N) as she stepped out of the SUV and onto the grey concrete sidewalk, "Let me know if you need me sooner or want to stay longer." 

Nodding her head, she gave him a bubbly smile with soft lips and warm cheeks. "Thank you." 

"It's my pleasure," he answered, squeezing her hand in his as she steadied herself on the concrete.

With Harry at her side, Sully was sent off with a wave from her manicured fingers. 

Though it wasn't new to feel eyes on her at time when she was out, it was different to have someone following along with her. His job was to watch her, and he made it known with the way she could feel his gaze stitched to her. He only drifted when he made a point to take in their surroundings. 

Was he even supposed to sit with them? Was he going to eat beside her? What was his job when it came to events like this? 

(Y/N) tried to think back to what Francesca's bodyguard would do, but she couldn't remember him ever joining them for a meal in public. Barry was typically meant to watch over Fran when no one else was around, leaving those group settings without him. Was Harry to do the same? Was he going to sit elsewhere or guard their table like a circling vulture? 

Her head hurt just thinking about it. Harry would do whatever he decided to do, she settled on. This wasn't his first security job, so hopefully he would do whatever he was used to with Camila and Monroe. 

Harry pushed the entrance door open for her, taking her by surprise as she stepped into the trendiest brunch spot in the city at the moment. Everything was sleek and warm, glass with golden hinges, wood pieces with uniform swirls and knots. Inauthentic authenticity. Falling into character, a bright smile landed on (Y/N)'s lips, her phone clutched in one hand with her purse hanging from the crook of her elbow. The clack of her heels was drowned out by the sound of chattering patrons and a busy kitchen. 

"Hello, how are you?" The young man stationed at the host stand greeted her, a dark denim uniform adorning his form. (Y/N) almost cringed for him; she couldn't imagine how hot it must be to work all day in a heavy outfit like that. 

"Hi, I'm good thank you," she greeted, feeling Harry just behind her as if he were breathing down her neck. How would he analyze this conversation? "I'm here to meet a few friends—there should be a reservation under—" 

Cutting her off, the boy piped up with, "Francesca, right? She and a few others just got here." 

Now that she wasn't so distracted by his outfit, she could see recognition in his gaze. He knew who she was and was definitely peeking over her shoulder to see who her companion was. 

"That's them," (Y/N) chirped, canting her head as the boy tapped away at the computer in front of him. 

"Perfect," he beamed, glancing up nonchalantly at them, "And will he be taking the sixth seat at the table?" 

A clear attempt to fish, but not one (Y/N) was going to be able to ignore. "Yes, please." 

The way the boy's eyes brightened had (Y/N) already dreading the articles that she would be tagged in across every social media platform, the headlines teasing about her new "mystery man" with all of the sources being an anonymous instagram account known for spreading gossip. Because that's journalism. 

"Follow me," he said, waving his hand as he stepped out from behind the podium.

Harry was a ghost behind her as (Y/N) made small talk with the host, answering with polite chatter about the weather while being led through the restaurant. Through the crowded tables, Francesca and the three other girls they frequently went out with came into view. Glasses of bubbling mimosas and an appetizer of cheese and crackers adorned the table, matching that of the rest of the patrons indulging in the brunch rush. 

Francesca was the first to spot them once the host dropped them off with a quiet wish for she and Harry to enjoy their food before he was off again. Fran's eyes lit up when she saw her, only for them to widen that much more when Harry came into view behind her. 

"(Y/N)," she cheered, gaining the attention of the other girls who broke their absent chatter to turn to face them. Fran no doubt had told them that (Y/N) would be bringing a guest. 

"Hi," she smiled, maneuvering around the table to the two empty seats between Emma and Rita, "Sorry I'm late. My makeup was not doing its job this morning." 

Emma piped up then, "No worries, honey! We're just happy you could make it. We already ordered a mimosa for you and some appetizers and all." 

Despite the girls seemingly talking to her, their eyes continuously drifted to her companion that ghosted behind her. Pulling out her chair, (Y/N) dropped her purse on the table before looking across from her to where Francesca was sat. Even she was pretending as if she wasn't bubbling in anticipation over Harry. 

"Thanks, guys," she said, taking her seat with Harry doing the same beside her, "Everyone, this is Harry. I bet Fran already told you a little bit, but he's going to be my personal security for the next few months or so. We're still trying to figure out how this all works for it, so thanks for letting him tag along today." 

"Of course," Kita giggled, leaning with her elbow on the table, "Fran did tell us that you were bringing someone special today." 

"Right," (Y/N) laughed, feeling slightly exposed despite the fact none of the girls were even looking at her. "I promised him we'd be on our best behavior today, so don't ruin this for me." 

The laughter that bubbled around the table was just a touch too melodious, too airy and light. Francesca even made eyes at (Y/N); she approved of him, that much was obvious. 

"I'm sure we'll still have fun with him," Toriana said, her spot right across from Harry making it easy for her to reach across and offer her hand up in greeting, "I'm Toriana, but the girls just call me Ana." 

"Nice to meet you," Harry answered, taking her hand into his in that same firm grip (Y/N) remembered. 

A domino effect started then, each of the girls taking the time to personally introduce themselves. Toriana and Kita were more than a little interested in him, asking questions right off the bat that (Y/N) wished they would keep to themselves. Franny and Emma seemed to prefer to watch, piping in at moments with their own bubbly comments or peals of laughter. Harry, reserved as ever, barely interacted. 

(Y/N) didn't know why she liked that as much as she did. Maybe it was just nice knowing she wasn't the only person he was cold with. Even if he did still end up talking to the girls more than he had all weekend with her. 

Soon enough—long enough still that (Y/N) sipped through a glass and a half of water, the cheese plate had dissipated to crumbs, and breakfast orders had been placed—the shine of Harry had finally been lost on the girls. The shorter his answers became the clearer the message that he wasn't interested in sharing became. Though Kita didn't pull too far away from him and Fran had eyes on him every few moments, there wasn't much fun in talking to a wall. 

The gossip shifted around the table, new topics being introduced as wait staff appeared to refill drained mimosa glasses. (Y/N) was seventy percent sure she saw one of the denim-clad employees pull her phone out and snap a shot of the table while clearing their small appetizer plates. No one seemed to notice the girl other than she and Harry, his eyes narrowing when he caught sight of the camera tilted in their direction. She wouldn't be surprised if the photo captured Harry's harsh gaze. 

Ignoring the snooping employee, (Y/N) tried to tune into the story Emma was sharing that had the rest of the table enraptured. As funny and kind as Emma was, she loved to gossip; she loved knowing things, even if the information had nothing to do with her. More often than not (Y/N) preferred to check out of her particularly scandalous stories, just because she knew what it was like to be the name coming off of other's lips in a spit. Francesca was the same, preferring to stay out of it all.

But, this story caught both of their attention for all the wrong reasons. 

"Then, I heard that Christal's parents are separating, because her dad also cheated with one of Christal's friends that got an internship at his company," Emma chattered, dipping her chin as if she was actually trying to keep this information a secret for only the table to hear. 

Toriana gasped, her hand coming up to cover her mouth with wide eyes. Leaning over the table, she conspired with Emma in a hushed tone that was far from being any level of quiet, "I heard they were separating because her mom was paying off her doctor to write prescriptions for, like, everything. Her dad is so over it, so he's supposed to be filing officially next week." 

The mention of prescriptions and doctors who didn't care to help anymore stung at (Y/N) behind her walls. It was bad enough speaking about Christal and her family dynamics when they barely knew her outside of nights partying in the Upper West Side, but those kinds of rumors weren't something (Y/N) could ever imagine repeating. Drug use and the breaking up of a marriage—no matter the reason—were things none of them should be discussing when they had no idea what was truly going on. 

It made (Y/N) think of her own parents and the years of swirling tabloids trying to figure out just how long her parents were on the rocks and what exactly had gone wrong. It was more than invasive. 

(Y/N)'s nails quietly tapped on the table as the attention was placed on her, her voice piping up once Emma finally paused for a breath, "We probably shouldn't be talking about this stuff, guys." 

Emma was the first to turn to her with a slighted look on her face, surprised to have anyone stopping her in the middle of her speculations. The remaining pairs of eyes turned to her, Francesca the only one that seemed to match her protesting while Kita and Toriana were just as taken aback as Emma. 

Saved by the bell, their waitress chose then to appear with trays of their food in her arms. Bowls of salads and plates of eggs were distributed amongst the girls, Harry's order being of avocado toast though she couldn't imagine him picking off more than a couple of bites with the way he was so focused on the scene around him. The women had settled while they were being waited on, beaming smiles and assurances that everything was perfect, they would love a refill, and whatever chattering small talk was started by the waitress in the meantime. 

It wasn't until everything had been cleared away, a plate of eggs Benedict with a kale apple salad off to the side in front of (Y/N), that Emma turned to face her once more. 

Now she was less shocked and more bewildered that (Y/N) had tried to end her conversation. "Don't you want to know what happened though, (Y/N)?" she asked, incredulous, "Her parents always seemed so obsessed with each other, doesn't that make you want to know even more?" 

"Sure," (Y/N) started, "But, it's a little too personal, don't you think? Especially if any of this is true, it's all probably really hard on Christal. I don't think it's fair to talk about it when we don't know anything about it, and she's not even here." 

That expression of furrowed brows and parted lips didn't leave Emma's face as (Y/N) spoke. "I mean I guess, but—" 

Before she could get much further, (Y/N) couldn't help but to step in. "Honestly, I'd rather hear about you and your fashion designer," (Y/N) started, leaning towards Emma with a conspiratorial smile on her face, "You haven't brought him up at all, even though you've posted him on your story at least five times now." 

Watching her friends' features light up told her just how effective her new topic was. There was nothing—not even hot gossip—Emma loved talking about more than herself. 

"You mean Stavros? What could you ever want to know about him?" Emma bubbled, acting coy with a lift of her shoulder and flutter of her lashes. 

"Stavros?! You never told me that was his name!" Kita chimed in, filling in where (Y/N) had left off. 

All it took was Emma starting with a Well... to get the table submitting again to conversation full of bubbling giggles and blushing cheeks, teases of Stavros's name and Emma's story telling about their time together so far. Even Francesca, after shooting (Y/N) a small smile, became invested in the chronicle of Emma's love life. 

Falling into silence, satisfied at the reroute of the conversation, (Y/N) finally tried the food in front of her. From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry observing her with calculating eyes, a pinch in his brow.

Suddenly, she felt more exposed than when dozens of cameras were posed in her direction. Was she not supposed to interfere like that? Was this new topic somehow equal to the one Emma had initially embarked on? 

Honestly, (Y/N) had almost forgotten about Harry's presence when she stepped in and redirected Emma into safer territory, but now she was wondering if she would have benefited more from keeping her mouth shut. Who knew what he would report back to her father with; how he would spin these events.

"(Y/N), don't you know his cousin? That Ferrill girl we met in Milan?" Francesca's voice chirping out her name had (Y/N) dropping back into the conversation, grateful for a distraction from what she was overthinking in her mind. 

"Oh, yeah, Ferrill! She's Stavros's cousin?..." 

—————

"You really have to go home?" 

Kita's over-pouted lips and pleading pulled a laugh out of (Y/N) as she pulled her into a hug. 

"I know, I'm sorry," she started, reciprocating her friend's hold, "You know I'd love to go with you guys if I could, but I already promised I'd call my stylist later today."

"I know," Kita whined, pulling away with her hug still around (Y/N)'s middle, "I just feel like you barely talked this morning, and I miss you."

 Despite being around them and having spent the better part of two hours with these girls, (Y/N) missed them too. Kita wasn't wrong in that she barely talked for the morning, Harry being a constant, extra fine sifter that filtered her thoughts before she even had them ready to go. It was hard to talk as freely when she knew he was analyzing every single syllable on her lips. 

"I'm sorry," (Y/N) pouted, playing along, "But, I'm sure I'll see you again soon. And, if you want, you can FaceTime me later so I can see what you got." 

Kita seemed satisfied with that answer, pulling (Y/N) in for another hug before joining the rest of the women who were beckoning to join them as they started down the sidewalk. Hugs and goodbyes had already been shared amongst the rest of them, Francesca promising to text her before she even had a chance to make it home. 

With a final wave from the three of them and calls of "Bye, Harry!", (Y/N) was left by Sully's car with an extra shadow. 

The truth was, she couldn't imagine trekking down Fifth Ave with Harry following behind her. It was uncomfortable enough to have him sit and eat with her, even more so thinking about him watching as she chattered with her friends and tried on different pieces of clothing. 

"Ready to head home?" Sully asked, hand poised on the handle of the back passenger seat for her. 

"Yes, please," she sighed, eagerly stepping in when he pulled open the door for her.

Following behind her, Harry settled in beside her in the back seat, the faux-leather soft under their weight. Sully smoothly integrated himself within the New York traffic, maneuvering around in ways that made (Y/N) that much more grateful that she wasn't the one in charge. 

Decompressing, her eyes fluttered closed with her shoulders untensing. It wasn't until now that she realized just how tightly she had been wound during the meal. No wonder she could feel the beginning band of an ache forming in her head. 

Breaking the static silence in the cab, Harry asked, "Is it always like that?" 

"Like what?" (Y/N) pressed, brows knitting together in the middle though her eyelids didn't flutter. 

She could hear the sound of him shifting against the leather. "Like, everything going on at once?" 

"A little," (Y/N) admitted, the words leaving on a breathing laugh, "This was on the tamer side. Usually, Toriana will try to debate everyone into agreeing to get a mimosa tower for the table—that's when things start happening all at once." 

A beat passed, (Y/N) assuming he was fine with the stopping point of the conversation until he spoke again. 

"Y'didn't drink today." 

Though it was less of a question and more of a statement, she still answered with, "No." 

"Why not?" 

Shrugging, her clothing shuffled against the faux-leather. "I don't really like drinking this early—it makes me too tired, so I don't usually do it." 

Despite the fact she didn't hear his voice again, (Y/N) could feel Harry's eyes on her through the remaining drive to her apartment.

—————

Laid flat on her back on her bed, (Y/N) raised her hand to look at the time on her phone once more. The closer the clock numbers to ten a.m., the more she wanted to curl up in her sheets. 

Dressed in her pastel pink workout set with her hair braided back and tennis shoes on her feet, (Y/N) was more than ready to head to her pilates class. She wanted to luxuriate in her poses and breathing, get a smoothie afterwards as her cooldown, and live her normal routine. The only problem was Harry. 

Though she loathed to admit it, she knew he was supposed to accompany her. Even if he wasn't policing her at home, she knew there were no exceptions to the rule of him going with her throughout her day should she chose to go out and about. That was the whole point of his job. 

She wanted to do as Francesca had told her—that she still needed to live her life even if it was with an extra shadow—, but, even with the fact that the Sunday brunch had gone well enough, taking Harry to her pilates class was completely different. She lacked friends in her class anyway, and this wouldn't make it any better. Most of the women already judged her enough, adding Harry into the mix wasn't going to help her case in not looking as pretentious and spoiled like they thought. 

Maybe, she could get away with only sending him a text? It wasn't as if she were going to an event or a high-profile dinner. Maybe her dad wouldn't care, leaving Harry to not care either. There wasn't much trouble she could get into while controlling her breathing and wiping sweat off the back of her neck, anyway. 

Looking at the time once more, she saw the minutes click that much closer to the start time for her usual session. Her chest rose as she pulled in a deep breath. 

If she wanted to get there on time and get a good spot, she was going to have to text Harry and move on. Sully was on the way anyway, she had to make her choice now before she had to cancel the car and instead curl up in bed just like she had been for three days since brunch. 

The sound of (Y/N)'s nails tapping at her phone screen filled her room as she made to sit up amongst the folds in her duvet.

     morning, harry! just wanted to let you know that im headed to my pilates class right now. it should end around 11 and i'll probably grab a smoothie after, so i'll be on my way back to my apartment after that. lmk if you need anything like to get into my apartment or anything like that before im home ! 

As soon as she pressed send with the blue bubble inflating against the dark background, she locked her phone. She couldn't overthink this whole thing anymore. She had plans she needed to stick to if she wanted to stay normal. 

The notification that Sully was downstairs waiting for her couldn't have come soon enough, not when she finished packing her things much too quickly. 

"No Harry?" Sully asked once she was secure in the back seat, the morning sun shining on the grimy streets of the city. 

Avoiding his gaze in the rearview mirror, (Y/N) shook her head. "Not today." 

—————

Buzz-buzz.

(Y/N) cinched her eyes closed tighter at the sound of a phone vibrating deep in someone's bag. her breathing came in even waves, chest rising and falling in even measures. 

Buzz-buzz.

One of the other students faltered on their breathing, the teacher pausing just a second too long in-between instructions as everyone heard the incessant noise.

"Now, take a breath and stretch into your high plank," the morning's instructor directed, voice calm in the middle of the studio, "Keep the height to your comfort, no reason to strain past a slight burn." 

Taking in a deep breath, (Y/N) listened with her hands planted solidly on the mat under her. Her back stretched slowly, legs keeping her steady as she fell back into the rhythm of the session.

Until another round of buzzing started, this string clearly from a phone call that was going to be ignored. 

The strength in her core faltered with her eyes cinched to a tight close at the sound.

(Y/N) knew good and well that it was her phone that was going crazy at the bottom of her bag, but there was no way she was going to make that obvious to anyone else in the class. She was sure a good chunk of them already assumed it was her anyway, but that didn't mean she had to admit to it. 

Instead, she kept up with the poses and the directions given, ignoring the device as best as she could. She was going to enjoy this class as much as she could before she would be forced to renter her reality.

She already knew what kind of notifications were waiting for her, anyway. Either Francesca and the girls randomly decided to start up another group chat, or Harry wasn't pleased with her decision to head out for the day with nothing more than a text sent his way. Either way, (Y/N) didn't want to deal with either of those things at the moment. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but would the owner of the phone that keeps going off, please, either silence or turn off your phone for the remainder of the class? I'm sure the class would appreciate the chance to keep their focus without any more interruptions." 

Despite her tone of voice being respectful and calm as ever, (Y/N) knew the instructor was pissed. No matter how well-paying her clients were, there was no way she could keep standing for disruptions like this. Blinking her eyes open, she saw the rest of the class on the same level as their instructor: just as annoyed but feigning calmness as if the last half hour hadn't been spent ignoring phone call after phone call with text messages in between. 

She couldn't get up now, (Y/N) thought. Not when everyone was waiting to see who the culprit was so they could shoot daggers with their gaze. She could only imagine what the post-class powwow of complaints would sound like. 

(Y/N) cringed when her phone went off once more, the device rattling against a tube of lipgloss to make it that much lounger. 

Fuck. This was worse than waking up and seeing drunken photos of her posted. At least then she didn't have a dozen other people staring at her in the process. 

When her phone went off once more in what she hoped was a reminder notification and not another set of messages coming through, (Y/N) couldn't take it anymore. She had to fix this if she wanted to at least be welcomed back. 

Just as she went to break her pose, a clatter could be heard on the other side of the door. Muffled voices broke through the curated tranquility of the studio, sounding more and more aggravated as they drew closer to the room she was in. The doorknob twisted, resistance found on the other side when a clear "Sir!" was called through. 

A beat later, that resistance was broken, Harry barreling through the door. With a furrow pinching his brow and a blaze in his eyes, he looked just as bitter and grumpy as a stereotypical bouncer and not the seasoned security detail he was. His usual uniform of all black was crumpled and creased with his hair a mess on the top of his head. 

"Sir, there is a class in session!" A voice (Y/N) recognized from the front desk of the studio burst in behind him. Harry didn't flinch back for even a second. 

The second his gaze landed on her, his jaw hardened. "(Y/N)," he gritted out her name, "Come here, now." 

Having crumbled from her pose to sit with her legs folded underneath her, (Y/N) felt stuck where she sat. She could practically spot steam coming from the top of Harry's head. Her skin heated when she felt others' eyes land on her. 

This was definitely much, much worse than if she had just answered her phone. 

"Harry," she started, unsure of what exactly she was going to say but feeling as if she needed to say something anyway. 

His nose flared. "Sully is waiting outside. Let's go." 

There was a finality in her tone that had her scrambling to collect her things as soon as possible. The room was silent as she messily rolled her mat and clumsily stepped into her shoes. 

A mumbled thank you was offered to the silent instructor as she passed, a matching apology being told to the class though she was sure both sentiments fell on deaf ears. (Y/N) was definitely going to have to switch studios again. 

She wasn't surprised to see the rest of the studio having fallen in line, patrons and classes quiet and paused after the ruckus caused on her behalf. (Y/N) could only imagine the photos others snapped of her following after Harry like a puppy with her tail between her legs. She already knew what this was going to look like—the loud scene as well as following after Harry the way she was. 

Sully didn't say anything when (Y/N) quickly slipped into the backseat, Harry coming after with a loud slam of the door behind. 

The interior was almost humid with the way Harry fumed beside her, his arms a tight cross over his chest and his jaw anchored closed. From the corner of her eye, she could see the way his fingers were curled into fists under the shelter of his arms. 

(Y/N) felt silly to be sitting there with her cardigan and leggings, hands in her lap like a reprimanded child. 

The silence stretched on as Sully pulled away from the curb, routing directly back to her apartment without question. 

It wasn't until there was a stop in the traffic that any of them dared to speak a single word. Of course, it was Harry.

"I don't know what you were thinking this morning," he started, voice deceptively calm, "But, you almost cost me my job with that stunt." 

Staying quiet, she didn't know what to say. Honestly, she hadn't really thought about it like that when she left without him this morning. She had only been considering the pit in her stomach and how much she hadn't wanted to disrupt her own life. She acted just as selfish as she was sure Harry thought her to be at her core. 

From the corner of her eye, she could see the way Harry's gaze on her profile sharpened. She kept her eyes on her hands. 

"I thought we had a good understanding after this weekend, but I think I need to make a few things especially clear for you," he started, (Y/N) finally chancing a look at him. Harry's gaze steeled when she matched him. "When I was given this job, I was told to go with you everywhere, and 'm sure you were told the same thing. I don't care if you think your fathers's company, or the 'public' or whoever you think is my client, because that is not the truth. You are my client, and if you make trouble like this again, I will lose my job. Because of you." 

(Y/N) had never been reprimanded like this before, not as fat as she could remember. Her father's scoldings had never been this effective, even when she was young enough to still care what he had to say. 

Her throat was dry as she piped up, hoping to explain herself, "It was just my pilates class. I didn't think it would be a big deal." 

That seemed to be the very worst thing she could have said with the way Harry's shoulders tensed with hot air with his jaw quirked. His eye contact was unwavering as he glared at her. 

"I knew I was going to have to babysit you, but I didn't think it would be this much of a problem. Going forward, I do not care where you are going, I am going with you. I know you don't want me here, so the quicker you follow this and get over whatever princess complex you have after getting everything handed to you, the quicker we'll both be free of this contract. Please keep that in mind the next time you decide to go off with just a text." 

Harry's tone was harsh and grating, flaming hot underneath the calm facade he was just well-versed with as her own bubbly princess role. He could rival her father in just how much disdain he held for her. 

She couldn't blame his perception of her, really. With the way both her father and the media spoke of her, she could only imagine the kind of person she looked to be in his eyes. 

Nonetheless, (Y/N) could still feel that sting of hurt. 

But, he was right. Now, she knew where they stood. Now, she could try harder to get over her princess complex and show her father she didn't need a ghost and everything could go back to normal. 

If she tried hard enough, she could hopefully still make it to spend the winter in Francesca's family's Swiss cabin free of an extra shadow. That was a goal she could work towards this summer. 

"I understand," she told him, checking out of the conversation now that she had her own plan working in the background, her own terms to follow, "I'm sorry I put you in that position. I didn't mean anything by it, I just didn't think it was the kind of thing to bother you over." 

Deflating some, Harry blinked, his gaze falling down her features. "Okay," he settled, golden flecks swimming in his irises, "Now, we're both on the same page." 

(Y/N) quietly agreed with a small nod. 

The rest of the car ride was silent.

—————

Without a second thought, (Y/N) stowed the newest heavy, photo-laden envelope into her drawer of the others. She already knew what kind of pictures would be inside and the kind of story her admirer had spun in her honor. It would be the same photos that had been distributed by the same anonymous Instagram blog that always posted them along with the same story that all the tabloids picked up the next day. 

According to the internet as well as a few gullible publications, (Y/N) had shown up drunk to her class and Harry had come to collect her. Harry was also no longer her mystery man, and now her affair partner that she had cheated on Damien Moore with. Damien was also reportedly very hurt to be seeing her with Harry after everything that had gone down. Broken-hearted by the ice queen, one publication had been so bold to claim. Blurry photos accompanied the articles and tweets, with her looking to Harry with watery eyes ("alcohol-glazed") like a reprimanded child as she followed him out. 

Her admirer had no doubt clung to the claims that she was in a romantic relationship, their own version of events meandering around it all to erase the legitimacy of the claims along with photos of her back at her apartment without him to solidify their theory. While they would be right this time, that she and Harry were not linked in any way but professional, it still didn't make her feel very safe knowing they had gone to the length they did to verify as much as well as send a letter to prove it all. 

It'd been days since the incident and one day since the news hit the circuits, and (Y/N) was more than comfortable hiding out at her apartment to ensure she wouldn't have to deal with anyone, including Harry, until her nail appointment on Thursday. The whole thing was more than stupid, full of baseless claims and low-quality photos. It didn't deserve her attention. 

The only thing that had truly caught her off guard, was the lack of phone calls from her father. A full day had passed with the story being tweeted and mocked, and yet there was no scathing text message or berating call sent to her phone. This was just the type of story that would have him up in arms and fuming all throughout the mansion. The longer it didn't come, the more she felt on edge. 

Her father was built on being predictable, so when he deviated from the norm she couldn't help but to fear the worst. 

Ignoring it all for the time being, (Y/N) returned to her kitchen eager to take her mind off things in the form of trying out one of her stored up recipes. 

While she didn't usually have the chance to share it with others, cooking was one of (Y/N)'s favorite pastimes—a therapeutic hobby. She liked putting flavors together and the technique that went into making everything just the way she liked it. There was structure to it all—even the bendable rules gave her guidelines. 

Especially when she was attending her private school and spending her time in dorms and weekends alone at her parents' home, food was the one thing she could control that gave her a routine. She liked making cute meals and lunches for her friends at school and taking advantage of the illustrious pantry and fridge she had at home. It was easy to nurture her love for it when there was no other outlet open for her feelings. 

While there was nothing special she could imagine herself doing with her passion like she was sure that her father would have wanted, it didn't cheapen the love for her at all. It was the easiest way to fill herself with love even when she felt as if everything around her was hateful. 

Turning her phone to silent, (Y/N) happily turned on a rerun of her favorite cooking competition show, and started on her own meal. 

—————

élan is a French word that describes the sense of a movement coming; the grace with which time moves towards the next chapter

eeeek! thank u sm for reading! sorry for any mistakes and please lmk if theres any fun ideas or thoughts you have!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Scratches in the Surface

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader 

Synopsis: Investigating Shepherd was a mistake, but the betrayal of John Price hurt more than anything Shadow Company could do to you.

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Talks of gore, torture, violence, swearing, blood, angst

A/N: Not really sure if I like this or not, but the idea was good so I kept it. Your codename in this is ‘Key.’ Part 2

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The buzzing lights above you were going to drive you insane faster than the damn clicking of the man’s pen, but you endured the overstimulation of your brain with an expression of boredom. 

Click, click-clack, click,

God, You clench your teeth together, either stop that, or I’m going to– 

When you go to move your hands over the metal table, the cuffs around your wrists shriek as they slide. The man in front of you pauses, looking up from his file, the manila folder sitting tantalizingly close; your fingers curl over the paper cup to your right, grabbing it and dragging it to your lips. 

As you sip the stale water, your eyes bore into the CIA Agent over the rim, unblinking and dead. Feeling the liquid travel down your throat and hit hard into your empty stomach, you watch the man tense in his seat, his eyes averting from your own quickly like you were a blazing fire. Suppressing a smirk, the man clears his throat.

You place the cup down delicately, leaving a small amount of water behind, right as the door behind the man opens loudly, creaking on its hinges and making you cringe.

Your gaze snaps to the familiar head of blonde hair that belongs to Kate Laswell, her stone-cold face more wrinkled since the last time you had seen her. The woman walks through the door, and the Agent gets to his feet quickly, leaving the file on the table.

“Ma’am,” He says, holding onto the back of the chair as he turns to face Laswell, “She hasn’t said anything since she arrived.”

“Thank you, Moore. I’ll take it from here,” Kate sighs deeply, her white dress shirt and black pants swishing as the air conditioning comes on. The lanyard around her neck makes a slight clinking noise as her name card jumps with her steps. 

You tilt your head as far as the bandages around your neck allow, feeling the stitches on your throat pull painfully; you hoped your former friend could see the blood already staining the gauze. 

The man leaves with clacking shoes, taking the godforsaken pen with him, and Laswell takes his seat. You couldn’t help but compare the scene to a transaction – you being the package thrown between unwilling participants. Not that you cared. The aches and pains in your body demanded retribution; you were more scar tissue now than skin. 

The silence between the two of you is thick, eyes clashing in a mute battle of wills you know you’ll win. You’d had four years to squelch every ounce of weakness from your body – waiting, praying, for this moment. 

Just as you imagined, Laswell breaks first.

“I never knew that Shepherd was capable of doing what he did,” Her hair collects in a bun at the base of her neck, and her bangs caress her forehead. The Agent’s style hadn’t changed, at least, “When you told me that I should–”

Kate stops mid-sentence. 

You watch her gaze fall to your arms on the table and your fingers twitch. 

Frowning, you suppose the widening of her eyes was about all the reaction you would get out of her; the one second of horror that sweeps Laswell’s eyes before the practiced calm resettles like mud in the water. But the satisfaction you garner is unparalleled. 

“You ever been thrown into a tub full of glass, Kate,” Laswell flinches at the gravel in your throat, vocal cords ripping with every word, “It’s not that bad if you don’t move so much,” You smirk, letting the dry skin on your lips break open, “Kinda hard, though, when you have a million little knives digging into your flesh.” 

“I didn’t…” Kate closes her eyes and sucks in a breath, looking away from the mangled remains of the skin of your arms, the more significant cuts starting at your elbow that jaggedly run down your forearm. Those ones weren't made by glass, but you didn’t tell the woman that. 

Let her squirm, You pick up your paper cup, grasping the rim and the hard wire hidden in the fold, It’s been a long time since I had that effect on anyone. I want to get my edge back. I need my edge back.

Kate continues her previous sentence, placing her hands on top of the folder on the table and clenching them together. You bring the cup to your lips, sipping down the last few drops before letting your bound hands fall once more. You rest them on your lap and fiddle with the cup, shifting your shoulders to relieve the tension that sits there.

“I didn’t believe you at the time about Shepherd, Key, and that was my biggest mistake. I led an investigation the second you went missing but as far as everyone was concerned you had disappeared off the face of the earth. We had no leads, no information, and no trace,” She sighs, “You have to believe me when I say we did everything that we could too–”

“We?” You scoff, “We? You’re saying you had Price working on this?” You spit out the name as venom leaks from your tone; leaning forward you see shadows move from the corner of your eye. 

You had nearly forgotten the glass window to your right, no doubt the multiple shadows barely seen behind the one-way were faces you had prayed to come and save you for all that time in the facility. You knew Price’s outline when you saw it – bulkier than the rest, large shoulders, and the bulge around his head because of that damn black beanie. The fidgeting was a new tick, though. Then again, it had been years. Maybe you had never really known him at all. 

You blink, stuffing away that fact with a pounding heart. 

Calm down, you growl to yourself, You’re in control. You…You are fucking in control. Don’t think about John Price. 

“...That’s really cute. Do you want a medal? A pat on the back?” You grunt and shut down the conversation, noticing you’ve been crushing the cup in your grip under the table, the object shaking from the force of your fingers. Leaning back, you take in a slow breath, “It never really added to much, did it?”

To anyone besides Kate Laswell and John Price, no one would have noticed your sanity fraying at the seams inside your pounding brain. Licking your tongue over your teeth your eyes stay locked with Laswell’s as you feel panic build.

It’s a long time before the woman speaks again. She utters your real name under her breath.

“We tried everything to find you. But as I got sucked more and more into Shepherd’s world, allegations started to gain validity, and the news of your death–”

“And all it took was him losing three American missiles and his little Shadow Company friends killing more than half a city in Mexico?” You force out a chuckle, your white hospital t-shirt uncomfortable over the mass amounts of bandages digging into your skin. Kate brings a hand to her temple, rubbing it with shaking hands, “Yeah,” You deadpan, “They told me about that.”

“Do…Do you know anything about where he might be?”

“Shepherd?” You sputter out a harsh laugh that leaves Laswell swallowing, “what, do you think I’m the center of the gossip ring? They kept me in a fucking dark room for days at a time. The only thing I heard was the rats eating the corpses in the corner and the sound of my blood hitting the drain basin.” 

You rose your right hand as far as the cuffs would allow and pointed your thump at the one-way glass, “Until your Toy Soldiers broke me out, that is.”

“Key,” Kate shakes her head and you know what bullshit she’s about to spill, “I can’t imagine what you went through for all those years. If we knew you were still alive I know Price and I would have–”

You tune out whatever Laswell says, fingers fidgeting under the table as you turn your head and itch the thin bandage over your chin with your shoulder, feeling stitches break open. The Ac unit was so damn loud, and that stupid buzzing of the lights. 

Fuck, everything’s just too loud, You begin to bite on the skin of your bottom lip, peeling back the flesh until you feel blood dribble down. 

Laswell calls your name, and you narrowly suppress a flinch, your eyes flickering closed before snapping back to the woman. You release your lip silently and live with the pain that breeds. 

“What?” You numbly question, foot shaking under the table.

“How about I get you something to eat?” Kate draws out and you don’t like the concerned glance she sends to the glass as she shuffles forward in her chair, “They have those mini sandwiches in the cafeteria that you love.” The woman licks her lips, her blue eyes running over the noticeable bulges of bandages and gauze that span your chest and abdomen, down your thighs and legs. The bottoms of your feet, under your socks and shoes, even have wraps. All stained red.

“Not hungry,” You clear your throat through the lie. 

“Key,” Kate whispers, “you’re skin and bones.”

“You think I don’t know that, Laswell?” The words set you off, snapping from your lips as your eyes flash and your face twists. The Agent tenses, shoulders locking tight, “I’ve looked like this ever since you and Price sold me off like a fucking dog with a rope around its neck!” Your wild eyes revel in the fear that sweeps Kate’s face. She doesn’t know you anymore, “That was you two wasn’t it? Or are my memories more fucked up than I know…? Huh?! Did the electrocution finally fry my brain?!” 

Laswell’s eyes fall to the table.

“I trusted you!” You’re screaming now, guttural and savage; every so often your voice would break, and the shadows behind the glass were all straight as a rod except one, one who slightly hunches as if in guilt, “You both left me to die! I gave you evidence, I showed you facts and you turned me over like I meant nothing to you! Like I meant nothing to Price!” The words hurt you when you spit them out, and the stitches over your throat feel like they’re on fire. 

Oh, God, John I wanted more than anything for you to find me – t-to stop it. Stop the pain, stop the torture. I need you. Where did you go, John?

“We couldn’t act on–”

“You trusted Shepherd more than you trusted me! That’s what you acted on. That’s the truth.” You turn your head to the ceiling, trying to stop the vile tears that coat your eyes as you suck in ragged breaths. Your ribs ache awfully. 

A minute passes, then two.

The next words come out muffled with numbness, whispered from your bloody lips, “Their deaths are on you. I pass off my guilt of it.” 

You could hear a pin drop. Hell, did they even know? 

“The bodies in the corner…” Laswell whispers, and you hear her throat get clogged.

“What,” You snicker, “Your forensic team not identify them yet? The ones with their faces still on, that is?” 

“Who are they, Key?” Kate whispers but you know she knows the answer already. So does Price. 

You turn your head to the glass, finding that familiar shadow and boring your eyes into it blankly. Feeling your tears dribble down your cheeks, you smirk when the black on the other end turns its head away. The others shift nervously before you look back at Kate.

“Shane, Jax, Alice, and Sam.”

Laswell’s eyes snap downward to her clenched hands.

You lean closer, “Look at me,” You growl lowly, “Kate, look at me.” 

Her eyes are red when they meet yours and you stifle a deep-chested laugh at the sight. A vicious smile blooms over your cheeks, teeth and all.

“He killed my fucking family, Laswell. My squad. My brothers and sisters that I never even involved in this because I knew how it could end if it went south. And they ripped them to fucking pieces while they were still alive,” You lift a free hand and throw your unlocked cuffs on the table, the small, thin, metal wire from your paper cup visibly stuck in the key slot. It rams onto the surface with a bang. Laswell flinches back, head snapping to the object in surprise, “That’s on you and Price. And I want it to haunt you just as it haunts me.” You tilt your head to the side, nodding towards the cuffs, “Good to see my nickname held up, at least. As you can imagine my tricks don’t work so well on rope or barbed wire.”

A ruckus sounds from the other room, loud shouting, and the rushing of feet. You lean back in your chair, slouching, and not soon after the door to the room slams open; John Price stands in the doorway with a stupid look on his face you can’t help but huff at.

“There he is,” You mutter, staring his blue eyes down as his large frame nearly hits the sides of the wall. You spread your arm out, elbows on the armrests sarcastically, “The other person I’m so eager to see.” 

Laswell stands on shaky feet and exits the room, shoving past John as he stares at you. For a moment you see what you could on describe as guilt on his face before it's wiped away the next instant. 

Not bothering to speak anymore – you’ve said your piece – you bring your hands up and caress the red skin where the cuffs had been. The area was more sensitive now that the flesh had been torn away time after time while you were held by Shadow Company in some godforsaken facility in the wilderness. You throw the remnants of the ripped-up cup onto the table. 

The door closes nearly silently, and heavy feet pad forward. You could lie to yourself and say you don’t feel your heart pounding, but what use would it be?

John sits in Laswell’s chair before palming the once more left-behind file. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, as he slowly flips through the pictures. Pictures of you, of your once perfect body full of scars and burns and bruises over every inch. You swore you saw his fingers begin to shake as he turns another page. 

John Price used to be something important to you. A friend, a mentor, and if time had permitted, perhaps he would have been something more. You don’t choose to dwell on these thoughts, but they haunt you still; how he would always prioritize your safety on missions, and give you a rare real smile when you impressed him. His laugh when you slipped out crappy jokes on missions together. The imprint of his calloused hand seemed to forever live on the back of your head, dragging you into a tight hug as you remember an OP in Romania.

On the mission, when a bullet had lodged itself between your third and fourth rib, the outcome had seemed grim – hopeless – but all John did was grab your cheeks and force your eyes on him as the Medic worked hastily, grunting and uttering calmly.

“Eyes open, Sweetheart. Keep them on me, eh…? There you go, atta girl. I’m right here,” It was safe to say you had chosen to stare at those unusually soft baby blues the entire time you were getting Evac. and John had dragged you into the ramshackle head-to-chest-hug the second you were stable, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Talking so sweetly you had wanted nothing more than him.

He had been so much more than a Captain to you. 

But that was all so long ago, and the memories were rotted like tree trunks. He was just another face, a handsome one, yes – he still hadn't shaved his beard and the circles under his eyes looked darker than you could ever remember seeing them – but still that rugged charm that was John. 

I trusted you, You want to scream at him, hit him, tear his throat out. But in the end, you did nothing, but you didn’t trust me. 

The wrinkles around his eyes tighten as he sees the extensive claw shreds over your back on one of the printed sheets, the impression of dog teeth over your left shoulder blade and right thigh.

You feel a tightening in your throat. 

“They liked their dogs,” You mutter, “That’s for sure.” 

Price’s throat bobs. 

“German Shepherd?” He asks, accented voice thick, picking up the picture and grasping it so tightly the corner creases. 

“Nah, Doberman.” 

“Hm,” He grunts, finally looking up from the picture to stare into your broken eyes. Against your better judgment, you look away first, not able to stand the unwavering blue with that specific emotion staining the iris. John was different from Laswell. He…He had meant more. 

That’s why it hurt so much to be near him because he would always mean more.

Under the table, your feet shook. John cleared his throat, placing the image down and closing the file before he, in the buzzing of the lights and the whishing of the Ac, whispers your name under his lips.

You’re ashamed of the way it makes you feel like you could cry, your body freezing. Only he could utter it in that way. You had waited to hear him say your name every single day you were stuck with the Shadows.

“Save it,” You nod your head his way once, not looking up from your lap, “I don’t want your apology, Price. It’s done.”

The Captain’s head nods firmly, ever the gentleman, chin jerking as he clenches his jaw. John’s fingers close your file and he taps it with the back of his knuckles, prompting you to raise your gaze to follow the motion. 

“I want every name you can remember, yeah?” You pause, for a moment you thought you hadn’t heard him correctly. Under the table, you can feel your knee spasm with nerves. 

Picking your gaze up, you travel the length of Price’s tight gray shirt; looking over his combat vest and all the tiny pouches holding only he knows what. You settle on the man’s eyes with a small hitch in your breath. He looked furious, downright lethal. 

John’s shoulders were tense, muscles vibrating with badly concealed anger. At his neck, he had a visible tendon from how hard he was clenching his jaw. Had he not read the file before now? Seen the pictures? Or was that not even the point? You frown, shifting in your chair with nervousness. Your head was all messed up. 

Logically you knew his anger wasn't directed at you, but you could never be too cautious when it came to someone you haven’t seen in a while. Men had been the source of your problems for four years, and even if you knew John the thought remained that if you had changed so drastically, so could he. 

At your silence, Price pauses, blinking a few times before he realizes his hand is clenched on the table, nails biting into his skin. He leans back into the chair with a heavy inhalation, bringing a hand up to rub over his face. John holds a hand over his mouth for a moment, eyes closed, and you watch him and his unsteady breaths that echo through the interrogation room. His chest sputters.

So now he cares, You ask bitterly, blinking away the anxiety in your bones with false calm, now he wants to help.

“Where was that anger when I asked you to help me investigate Shepherd?” You whisper, saliva stuck under your tongue. 

John never answers and not a second later he’s standing and stalking out the door with measured steps, but manages to close the door softly behind him before his form disappears.

Come back, You want to plead the second the lock latches, your hands shaking violently in your lap, don’t leave me alone here, John. Don’t leave me alone. I-I can’t be alone again.

But you say nothing.

Outwardly no one can analyze your body language the way that the Captain or Laswell could. All they see is a blank slate waiting to be filled sitting stone-still in an interrogation room. Left alone, all you can do is force back the tears and listen to the loud buzzing and the whining of the Ac, trying with all of your might to forget Captain John Price and the damning comfort his presence still brings you after years of hell.  

But how could you forget him? All of the good memories you have left are of him; the only ones untainted by blood or a dark room with no light. The shrieking of rats is like a symphony of death that plays on repeat in your head, digging into the small spaces in your ribs and intestines. But you welcome it because anything is better than thinking about John. Of the times you shared with him.

The betrayal itself is less painful than the memories.

[rainforestakiie]

AdamsApple Month Harvest!

Rainy Day~

so happy i got it done! though, i could write so much more! ahhh! i hope you all like it! i love writing naive adam so damn much! haha!

@adamsappleweek

The dark skies above Scotland roared with fury, the heavens split open by a jagged bolt of lightning that illuminated the storm-lashed landscape in a brief, blinding flash. The wind howled like a vengeful spirit, shaking the bones of the ancient tavern that sat at the edge of the moor, its stone walls bracing against the tempest. Rain poured in torrents, a relentless assault from the skies, each drop heavy and biting as it crashed against the ground. Adam cursed under his breath, his heart pounding as he gripped the iron handles of the cages meant to shield his windows. The last storm had nearly destroyed everything he held dear—he wouldn’t let it happen again.

His thick, wild hair, a mix of chestnut and auburn, clung to his forehead, dripping water as he battled the elements. His clothes were soaked through, plastered to his lean frame as he rushed from window to window, dragging the iron bars into place. Every step he took sent a splash of cold water up his legs, his boots crashing into puddles that had formed in the uneven cobblestone yard. The storm was merciless, but Adam was relentless. This tavern, with its creaking beams and timeworn stones, was his lifeblood. His sanctuary. He would die before letting it fall apart.

By the time he stumbled back inside, the warmth of the fire barely reached him. He was drenched to the bone, his skin cold and tinged with pink from the biting wind. His usually sharp green eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, his breath ragged as he leaned against one of the sturdy wooden posts that held up the low ceiling. "Fuck me," he muttered under his breath, shivering slightly as he wiped rain from his brow, his gaze drifting upwards to the rafters above.

The tavern itself was a place out of legend, steeped in an almost magical atmosphere that seemed to hum in the very air. Its walls were old, ancient even, made from rough-hewn stone that had stood the test of time. The timber beams that crossed the ceiling were dark with age, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of hands and storms, but they held fast, like the bones of a sleeping giant. Each plank of the floor groaned softly underfoot, as though the tavern itself was alive, whispering secrets from ages past.

Golden candlelight flickered from iron sconces along the walls, casting long shadows that danced across the room. The hearth at the far end blazed with a crackling fire, the flames licking at the soot-stained stone like a beast hungry for warmth. Above it, an old mantle stretched wide, adorned with curios from distant lands—a horned skull, a collection of tarnished coins, and an old brass compass that, rumour had it, never pointed true north. The smell of wood smoke and spiced mead lingered in the air, mixing with the earthy scent of rain that had followed Adam inside.

But there was something more here—something beyond the rustic charm of an old inn. The air seemed to shimmer, as if the very walls held memories, or magic, just out of reach. Strange symbols had been etched into the corners of the room, half-hidden beneath layers of dust and grime, relics of forgotten times. Adam had always suspected there was more to this place than met the eye, but he had never been one to dig too deeply into its mysteries. He simply let the tavern be, for whatever it was, it had become part of him.

As he scanned the room, a strange tension clung to him. The storm outside was fierce, yes, but there was something else—a quiet, unsettling hum that buzzed beneath the noise of the wind and rain. His eyes drifted toward the shadowy corners of the tavern, where the light didn't quite reach. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw something—a flicker of movement, a whisper of darkness shifting between the beams. He blinked, shook his head. It was just the storm, playing tricks on his mind.

Adam ran a hand through his soaked hair, ruffling it absently, ignoring the cascade of rainwater dripping from his tangled locks. The storm outside raged on, the sound of it relentless, but Adam moved through his tavern with a practiced calm, checking every important corner, every latch, every candle wick. He wasn’t about to leave anything to chance, not with a storm like this. He had heard enough tales from travellers and locals alike—the one about the tavern lost to a stray candle fire stuck with him most. He’d built this place from the ground up, poured his soul into every beam and stone. He would die before letting it burn to the ground.

He barely had time to yank off his soaked wellingtons, his muscles aching from the night's frantic efforts, when a thunderous knocking rattled the door. Adam froze, his brow furrowing as he glanced up at the old grandfather clock in the corner, its hands inching toward midnight. Who in their right mind would be out in a storm like this? Another booming knock echoed through the room, more urgent this time. Adam groaned, kicking his boots aside, the chill of the wet floor seeping into his feet as he trudged toward the door.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” he shouted over the din, his voice nearly drowned out by another crack of lightning.

The storm roared, shaking the tavern to its very foundations, the windows rattling as wind and rain lashed against them. A brilliant flash lit up the room, so bright that Adam had to squint against it as he reached for the heavy wooden door. He braced himself, grabbing the iron handle with both hands, and pulled hard, fighting against the ferocious wind.

As the door creaked open, Adam peered through the driving rain—and his breath caught in his throat. Standing there, drenched and trembling, was a small figure. His heart skipped a beat as a pair of eyes, glowing gold and crimson, stared back at him through the chaos of the storm. Unnatural, but enchanting.

“Contacts?” Adam muttered under his breath, blinking in disbelief.

“Holy shit,” he gasped aloud, dragging the door open wider. “Holy shit, are you alright? Get in here, out of the rain!”

The figure didn’t move, just stood there, soaking wet, pale as a ghost. His skin was almost ghastly in the dim light, the blonde hair plastered to his forehead dripping endlessly. His eyes—those unnaturally large, glowing eyes—were rimmed with a dark purple that looked too precise to be natural. And yet... there was something about him that sent a chill down Adam’s spine. The man wore a red cotton sweater, drenched and clinging to his thin frame, a black collared shirt beneath it, and white trousers now soaked through. Strangely, he had no shoes or socks—bare feet slick with rain and mud.

“Come inside!” Adam urged, his concern deepening.

The man didn’t respond. His blank, vacant expression didn’t shift; no sign of acknowledgment, no flicker of emotion. Adam’s stomach twisted with unease, and he bit his lip, stepping forward to reach out. His hand grasped the stranger’s ice-cold fingers, and the contact sent a jolt of worry through him.

“You’re freezing,” Adam whispered, more to himself. He wrapped his hands around the man’s slender shoulders, steering him into the warmth of the tavern. “You’re soaked to the bone. Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

Still, no response. The man’s silence was eerie, unsettling. Adam’s heart began to pound harder in his chest, and for the first time, a creeping sense of dread settled in. Was this man in danger? Had something terrible happened to him? A thousand thoughts raced through Adam’s mind, each one darker than the last. He glanced back out the door, squinting into the blackness of the storm, but saw nothing unusual—just the relentless downpour and howling wind. Still, the nagging sense that something wasn’t right wouldn’t leave him.

With a deep sigh, Adam shut the door firmly behind him, cutting off the wind and rain. The tavern seemed eerily quiet now, save for the crackle of the fire and the faint, rhythmic drip of water from the man’s sodden clothes.

“Do you want me to call someone?” Adam asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “I could call the police—maybe they could help.”

That seemed to break the spell. Suddenly, the man’s hand shot out, gripping Adam’s wrist with surprising strength. Adam’s heart stuttered as their eyes locked. The stranger’s gaze, once vacant, was now sharp—intense. His lips parted, and when he spoke, his voice was firm, urgent.

“No. No police.”

The words cut through the air like a blade. His fingers tightened around Adam’s wrist, and Adam winced slightly, the stranger’s skin still deathly cold.

“Just... please,” the man continued, his voice lowering to a desperate whisper. “Let me stay. I have no money, but I can work. I can—”

“Shh,” Adam interrupted gently, a kind smile tugging at his lips despite the growing tension in his chest. “You don’t have to do anything. You can stay.”

The man blinked, his eyes widening in disbelief. For the first time since he had appeared at the door, a flicker of emotion crossed his face—relief. His shoulders sagged, and he nodded, the movement slow and almost mechanical.

“That’s kind of you,” the man murmured, his voice softening.

Adam smiled, but his mind was still racing. Something about this man—about this whole encounter—felt off. The air in the tavern seemed to thrum with an unseen energy, a tension that hadn’t been there before. Adam couldn’t shake the feeling that this stranger was more than he appeared to be, that something deeper—darker—lurked beneath the surface.

“Let’s get you warmed up,” Adam said, guiding the man toward the hearth, where the fire blazed with a comforting heat. He grabbed a blanket from a nearby chair and wrapped it around the man’s shivering form, the flames casting long shadows across the room. “You’ll catch your death otherwise.”

The man remained silent, staring into the fire as if mesmerized by the dancing flames. His golden-red eyes glowed faintly in the flickering light, and for a moment, Adam felt a strange pull—an almost magnetic attraction that he couldn’t quite explain.

Who was this man?

And why did Adam feel as if letting him in had changed everything?

Adam grabbed a large, fluffy towel from a nearby shelf and tossed it over the blonde man's frail shoulders, the fabric engulfing his small frame. With slow, careful movements, Adam began rubbing the towel into the man’s tangled golden hair, his brow furrowed in concentration. The strands were silky, but drenched with the storm’s wrath, and Adam’s lips twisted in a crooked half-smile as he focused on drying him off. The man needed warmth, badly—a hot bath, Adam thought, might be the only thing to stave off the chill that had settled deep into his bones. His concern deepened as he wondered just how long this stranger had been out in the storm.

A soft sound, barely more than a sigh, escaped from the man’s lips. It was so faint that Adam paused, his hand stilling mid-motion. He tilted his head, his eyes meeting the stranger's gaze. The man’s golden-red eyes, glowing faintly in the firelight, were fixed on him, unblinking and strangely intense. There was something haunting about them—something that sent a shiver racing down Adam's spine, though not from the cold.

“What’s your name?” Adam asked gently, trying to coax more from the enigmatic stranger.

He smiled softly, his voice warm, hoping to make a connection, anything to draw him out of whatever trance-like state he seemed to be in.

The man’s gaze lingered on Adam for a long moment, as if he was weighing his response. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost a whisper, as though it took effort to form the words.

“Lucifer.”

Adam blinked; his hand momentarily frozen against the man’s hair. The name hung in the air between them, sharp and unsettling. He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him, a nervous reflex to the oddity of it.

“Like the devil?” he asked, the smile still on his lips though his eyes searched the man's face for some hint of humour.

Lucifer merely nodded, his expression unchanged, his eyes half-lidded and distant now, as if the weight of the storm had finally pulled him under. He sank deeper into the plush chair by the fire, his body still unnaturally rigid legs together, shoulders stiff, hands resting limply over his knees. He made no move to help as Adam continued to rub the towel over his damp skin, his posture more akin to a statue than a living, breathing person.

Adam's smile faded, concern knitting his brow again. He leaned down slightly, still gently dabbing at the man’s face, which was far too pale and cold to the touch.

 “Are you feeling alright?” Adam asked, his tone softer now, as if he were speaking to someone fragile. “You don’t feel sick, do you?”

Lucifer’s head lolled slightly, and his eyes flickered closed for a moment before reopening with an eerie slowness. He gazed into the fire, as if it held answers to some unspoken question, his golden-red eyes catching the light in an unsettling way. The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, before Lucifer’s lips parted ever so slightly.

“I’ve been... far from here. For a very long time.”

Adam’s heart quickened at the cryptic answer. There was something in the man’s voice—an ancient weariness, as though he carried centuries of suffering with him. It didn’t sound like the words of a lost traveller or someone caught in a storm. It felt... deeper, darker. As though the weight of his name carried something far more dangerous than mere myth.

Far from here? Adam wanted to ask more, to press the man to explain, but something about Lucifer’s presence—the way the air seemed to thrum and shift around him—kept Adam cautious. Instead, he swallowed his questions and placed a comforting hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, hoping to ground him in this moment.

“Well, you’re here now,” Adam said, his voice steady though his heart still raced. “You’re safe.”

Lucifer’s eyes flicked up to meet Adam’s, and for a brief moment, the coldness in them thawed. It was fleeting, but Adam saw it—a spark of something vulnerable, something almost human, hidden behind the intensity of his gaze. The fire crackled beside them, the warmth spreading through the room, but it did little to ease the strange tension coiling in the air.

“Thank you,” Lucifer whispered, his voice barely audible over the popping of the firewood. But there was something in those two words that felt more than just gratitude. It felt like a confession. Or maybe... a warning.

Adam’s hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment longer before he stood up, the weight of the night pressing heavily on him. He tossed the damp towel aside and moved to stoke the fire, trying to keep the room warm, trying to shake off the gnawing sense of unease that clung to him. The storm outside had only grown fiercer, the wind howling through the cracks in the old wooden beams, as if it were trying to force its way inside.

Lucifer remained silent, his gaze returning to the flames. The storm outside seemed almost insignificant compared to the storm that raged behind those strange eyes. Adam had a feeling that the man—if he could even call him that—was running from something far more terrifying than wind or rain. Something unseen, but not unfelt.

“Maybe a bath,” Adam murmured, more to himself than to Lucifer, trying to focus on something practical. “That’ll warm you up.”

Lucifer’s lips twitched, as though he wanted to respond but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he simply nodded, his movements slow and deliberate, as if each one took great effort. Adam hesitated for a moment, studying him. There was still so much mystery wrapped around this man, so many questions gnawing at the back of Adam’s mind, but now wasn’t the time.

“Stay here by the fire,” Adam said, his voice soft as he moved toward the stairs leading to the upper floor. “I’ll run a bath. You’ll feel better soon.”

But as he turned to leave, a quiet voice stopped him in his tracks.

“It’s not the cold I’m worried about,” Lucifer murmured, his voice low and distant, his eyes never leaving the fire.

Adam’s pulse quickened. He looked back over his shoulder, unsure if he had truly heard the words or if they were part of the growing storm outside.

But Lucifer didn’t say another word.

Adam cast one last glance at Lucifer before reluctantly turning away, leaving the odd, ethereal man huddled by the fire. There was something heartbreakingly fragile about him, something that tugged at Adam’s protective instincts. Lucifer looked so small, so lost—his pale skin and the haunted look in his golden-red eyes only deepened the impression that he had been through something terrible. It made Adam want to wrap him up in warmth, shield him from whatever horrors he had faced, and—though he would never admit it aloud—cradle him in his arms. The urge to comfort this mysterious stranger was almost overwhelming.

As he moved down the hallway toward the guest bathroom, Adam couldn’t shake the image of Lucifer’s sorrowful expression. He seemed like someone who had never known kindness, someone who had forgotten what it felt like to be cared for. Adam sighed softly, pushing open the bathroom door and turning his attention to preparing the bath.

The water ran hot and steamy, curling into the air like mist. Adam tested the temperature, nodding in satisfaction when it was just right—perfect for warming a cold, fragile soul. As the tub filled, the steam swirled around him, thickening the air with a soothing warmth that contrasted the raging storm outside. He lingered for a moment, making sure everything was ready, before turning to leave, intending to fetch Lucifer and lead him to the bath.

But as he spun on his heel, Adam yelped in surprise, stumbling back a step. Lucifer stood in the doorway, his slight frame wrapped in the oversized towel, watching him with wide eyes. It was the first time since their encounter that Lucifer had shown any emotion—surprise, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his strange, calm facade.

"I'm... sorry," Lucifer said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His red and gold eyes shimmered in the warm light of the bathroom, filled with something almost tender. "I didn’t mean to scare you."

Adam’s sheepish laughter echoed in the small space, his heart still racing from the unexpected startle.

 “No, it’s fine,” he assured him, waving it off. He cleared his throat and gestured toward the bath, trying to regain his composure. “The bath’s ready. I’m sure it’ll make you feel better.”

Lucifer’s gaze shifted from Adam to the tub, and he nodded slowly, stepping closer. The steam from the bath curled around him as he approached, making the room feel even more intimate, the warmth and tension almost palpable in the air. Adam busied himself by opening a nearby cupboard, revealing the selection of bath products he kept for his guests—soaps, shampoos, lotions, all in neat rows.

“You can use whatever you like. I don’t mind,” Adam said, still a little nervous under Lucifer’s intense gaze. His fingers fumbled slightly as he gestured toward the products. “Just... make yourself comfortable.”

But when he turned back around, Adam’s words died in his throat. His eyes went wide as he caught sight of Lucifer pulling his soaked sweater over his head, beginning to undress right there in front of him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Adam’s heart skipped a beat, and his cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

“Oh—uh—um!” he stammered, immediately covering his eyes with one hand and turning away in a rush, his voice pitching higher than usual. “I-I’ll just—um—be outside! If you need anything, just, uh... let me know!”

He could feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck as he stumbled toward the door, desperately trying to avoid another glance at Lucifer’s bare skin. His mind was spinning, a mess of embarrassment and something else—something more complicated that he didn’t want to think too hard about.

Behind him, he heard a soft chuckle.

“Thank you,” Lucifer murmured, his voice gentle, almost teasing. Adam’s ears burned at the sound, and he fumbled with the door handle in his haste to escape the room.

“I’ll, uh, go prepare your bedroom!” Adam blurted, finally getting the door open. “And, uh... maybe figure out some food for you... yeah, okay, bye!”

As he stumbled out of the bathroom, Adam could still feel Lucifer’s curious gaze on him. His heart raced in his chest as he leaned against the closed door for a moment, letting out a long, shaky breath. What was it about this man that had him so flustered? There was something magnetic, almost otherworldly, about him—something that made Adam’s thoughts spiral in ways they never had before.

Shaking his head, Adam pushed away from the door and made his way down the hallway to prepare a room for Lucifer. His mind raced, still trying to process the strange emotions that the man stirred within him. This night had already taken on an unusual, almost magical quality—like he was caught in some ancient, otherworldly tale where nothing was as it seemed. And at the heart of it all was Lucifer, with his haunting beauty and eerie calm, a storm of secrets hidden behind those otherworldly eyes.

As Adam began making the bed, fluffing the pillows and setting out fresh linens, he couldn’t stop thinking about him—about the weight of his name, the sadness that clung to him like a shadow, and the strange connection that seemed to have formed between them in such a short time. There was something more to Lucifer than just a man caught in a storm. Something deep and dark, yet irresistibly alluring.

And Adam couldn’t help but wonder what kind of danger—or magic—he had unknowingly invited into his tavern.

Adam straightened himself up, his back giving a satisfying crack as he stretched, and he couldn’t help but grin at the bed he had just prepared. It looked cozy and inviting—perfect for someone as small and delicate as Lucifer. He felt a strange surge of protectiveness, wanting to make sure every little detail was right for the fragile man. But when Adam turned around to check on Lucifer, he was met with a shock.

“Lucifer!” Adam yelped, startled for the second time that evening. The man stood directly behind him, his pale, slim frame dripping from the bath, water pooling at his feet. He was wrapped in a massive, fluffy white towel that swallowed his small figure, but his skin was still glistening with droplets, and his hair clung wetly to his face.

Adam’s heart raced, his breath catching in his throat. His face flushed a deep shade of crimson, and he quickly averted his eyes. “Why are you walking around like this? You’re going to get even sicker!”

Lucifer blinked slowly, tilting his head as if confused by Adam’s reaction. His strange, golden-red eyes locked onto Adam’s with an almost childlike innocence.

“I have no clothes,” he said matter-of-factly, his voice quiet and unbothered. “The ones I was wearing are just as wet.”

Adam opened his mouth, then closed it again, cursing himself for not realizing sooner. Of course, Lucifer didn’t have anything dry to wear—his clothes were soaked from the storm, and the poor man had been left with nothing.

Adam groaned inwardly at his own lack of foresight but managed a comforting smile. “Right, of course. I’ll get you something. Just... wait here for a moment, okay?”

Lucifer frowned slightly, his eyes flicking around the room as though searching for some unseen presence.

“Okay…” he mumbled, his voice even softer now, his gaze distant. “But don’t be long.”

Adam chuckled at the odd remark, though it tugged at something deep within him. There was a sadness in Lucifer’s voice that Adam couldn’t quite place, as if he dreaded the thought of being left alone.

"I won’t be long, promise," Adam reassured him with a gentle smile, then turned to make his way toward his own bedroom.

As he rummaged through his drawers, he pulled out one of his old nightshirts—a simple blue t-shirt—and a pair of shorts. He eyed the trousers in his wardrobe but shook his head, realizing they would be far too big for someone as small and slender as Lucifer. The man barely reached Adam’s shoulder, and his delicate frame would swim in anything larger. The shirt and shorts would have to do.

Satisfied with his selection, Adam spun around—only to scream when he found Lucifer standing right behind him yet again. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest, and he stumbled back, clutching the clothes to his chest as if they might somehow protect him from the ghostly presence.

Lucifer flinched in surprise at Adam’s outburst, his wide eyes shimmering with the same startled emotion, and he nearly dropped his towel.

“I—I’m sorry,” Adam wheezed, his hand pressed against his chest as he tried to calm his racing heart. “I told you to wait for me! You’re going to give me a heart attack if you keep doing that!”

Lucifer’s expression shifted into something akin to a pout, his gaze falling to the floor as his shoulders sagged under the weight of his towel.

“I don’t like to be alone,” he admitted softly, the vulnerability in his voice twisting something deep inside Adam’s chest.

The admission hit Adam harder than he expected. The thought of this fragile, ethereal man feeling so lonely, so abandoned, tugged at his heartstrings.

Guilt swept over him, and he took a deep breath, his voice softening. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I didn’t realize…”

He held out the blue nightshirt and shorts, trying to offer some comfort with his words and actions.

“Here,” Adam said gently, “You can borrow some of my clothes to sleep in. They’re probably a bit big, but it’s better than nothing, right?”

Lucifer’s eyes lifted from the floor, slowly locking onto the clothes in Adam’s hands. There was a strange, almost reverent look in his gaze, as if the simple act of offering him something to wear meant more than Adam could have ever guessed. For a moment, they stood in silence, the soft hum of the storm outside their only witness.

The air between them thickened, charged with a tension that Adam couldn’t quite name. It was as if the room itself had become smaller, the space between them filled with an inexplicable connection—an unspoken understanding that neither of them could voice but both felt in their bones.

Lucifer reached out tentatively, his slender fingers brushing against the fabric of the nightshirt as though testing its reality. His gaze flickered up to meet Adam’s, and for the first time since entering the tavern, a faint smile ghosted across his pale lips.

“Thank you,” Lucifer murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear. But there was warmth in his tone now—a fragile warmth, as if he were afraid to let himself feel it fully.

Adam nodded, his heart doing a strange, uneasy flip in his chest. “You’re welcome,” he said quietly, watching as Lucifer took the clothes from him with a small nod of gratitude.

As Adam turned to give Lucifer some privacy, he couldn’t help but feel that there was something deeper at play here—something far beyond the storm raging outside, or the strange circumstances that had brought this man to his door. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Lucifer was more than just a lost soul seeking shelter. There was a mystery hidden behind those golden-red eyes, a story that begged to be unravelled.

And despite the strange, almost magical tension in the air, Adam found himself drawn to the idea of uncovering whatever secrets Lucifer was hiding.

For better or for worse, this night was far from over.

Adam tried to keep his eyes focused ahead, desperately attempting to ignore the distracting presence behind him. He didn’t mean to, but Lucifer’s shadow kept catching his attention—long, slender, and oddly ethereal in the dim glow of the lamps. Despite himself, Adam’s gaze flickered over his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but notice the way Lucifer’s pale skin gleamed in the low light. It was almost unnaturally flawless, save for a faint dusting of specks across his shoulders and lower back, like stardust scattered over the night sky.

Adam's heart thudded in his chest as he quickly tore his eyes away, feeling the flush rise in his cheeks. He forced himself to focus on the books he had pretended to be organizing, though his thoughts were a chaotic mess. Why did he keep getting so distracted by Lucifer’s presence? Why was the air between them so charged with an unspoken tension?

He was about to return to his work when he felt a gentle tug on his shirt. Adam froze, his breath catching in his throat, and turned slowly. Lucifer stood right behind him, staring up with those intense golden-red eyes, his pale face framed by damp tendrils of hair. Now fully dressed in Adam’s clothes, Lucifer looked... adorable. The oversized shirt hung loosely on his slight frame, and the shorts, too big for his slender hips, gave him a dishevelled yet endearing look that tugged at something deep within Adam.

A smile, unbidden and soft, tugged at Adam’s lips. “Let me take you back to your room, so you can rest,” he said gently, trying to suppress the strange flutter in his chest.

Lucifer, however, didn’t move. His gaze wandered around Adam's room, taking in the simple furnishings and the warm, cozy atmosphere.

“Whose room is this?” he asked, his voice quiet but curious.

Adam flushed slightly, shifting his weight awkwardly.

“It’s, uh... it’s mine,” he admitted, a little embarrassed at how small and personal the space felt now that Lucifer was in it.

To Adam’s surprise, Lucifer frowned slightly, his expression thoughtful.

“I’ll stay here,” he said softly, as if the decision was already made.

Adam blinked, momentarily taken aback. “No, you can’t.”

But Lucifer didn’t seem satisfied with that answer. He stepped closer, his eyes searching Adam’s face with a quiet intensity that made the air feel heavy again.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice a gentle whisper that sent a shiver down Adam’s spine.

“This is my room, and... you need your own space to rest.” he replied, chuckling awkwardly, though the tension in the room was thick.

Lucifer continued to stare.

Adam swallowed hard, his mind scrambling for a response. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It wasn’t just that Lucifer was a stranger; it was the overwhelming strangeness of the entire situation. Adam had only just met this man, and yet here he was, standing in his bedroom, asking to stay. The logical part of Adam’s brain screamed that this was madness, that he should insist on boundaries. But there was something about the way Lucifer looked at him—something vulnerable, almost broken.

Before Adam could gather his thoughts, Lucifer inched closer. His voice dropped lower, soft and fragile, like a breeze whispering through the cracks of an old door.

“Please... I don’t want to be alone. I’m scared to be alone.”

The words hit Adam like a punch to the gut. He gasped, his green eyes widening as he looked down at Lucifer, who now stood so close he could feel the chill still lingering in his skin. There was something so raw, so painfully honest in Lucifer’s voice that it left Adam breathless.

In that moment, all of Adam’s reservations crumbled. How could he say no to someone who was so clearly in pain, so desperate for comfort? The fear in Lucifer’s eyes wasn’t just about being left alone for the night—it seemed to run much deeper, like a wound that had never healed.

“Of course…” Adam finally managed to say, his voice softer than he intended. “You can stay.”

Lucifer’s face lit up with a small, almost relieved smile, and it was as though the tension in the room melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread between them. The storm outside continued to rage, the wind howling and rain battering against the windows, but inside, the air was thick with something different now—something fragile, intimate, and strangely magnetic.

Adam could feel his heart racing in his chest as Lucifer stepped closer, until they were standing just inches apart. He hadn’t expected any of this—hadn’t expected a stranger to crash into his life like this, stirring up emotions he hadn’t even known he was capable of feeling. And yet, here he was, his heart pounding in his chest, drawn inexplicably to the quiet sadness that lingered behind Lucifer’s golden-red eyes.

“I promise,” Adam whispered, almost to himself, though he was speaking to Lucifer. “You won’t be alone. I won’t leave you alone.”

Lucifer smiled again, this time a little brighter, a little more genuine. And for a moment, despite the storm raging outside, the world seemed to stand still.

As the two stood there, the storm's relentless howl outside fading into the background, Adam couldn’t help but notice just how fragile Lucifer truly looked. His pale skin almost glowed in the dim light, his frame so thin it seemed like a breath of wind might carry him away. Adam’s heart twisted, a wave of protectiveness rising within him. Gently, he placed a hand on Lucifer’s cold, delicate shoulder.

“You should lie down and try to sleep,” Adam murmured softly, his voice carrying a note of concern.

He began to guide Lucifer toward the plush, inviting bed, its thick quilts and soft pillows promising warmth and comfort. Lucifer’s red-gold eyes flicked nervously between the bed and Adam, as though unsure of what to do next. He stumbled slightly, his bony feet dragging as Adam coaxed him toward the soft mattress.

Wordless, Lucifer sat down, his movements stiff and tentative. Adam pulled back the heavy blankets, making sure they were arranged just right before gesturing for Lucifer to settle in. The man moved with hesitation, almost as if he didn’t belong in such a warm, safe space. But it wasn’t until Adam turned to step away that Lucifer’s cold hand shot out, grabbing his wrist with surprising urgency.

“Please,” Lucifer whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling fire and the distant roar of the storm. Adam looked down, startled by the pleading in Lucifer’s eyes—those haunting, golden-red eyes that now seemed larger, more vulnerable.

“Lay down with me. Only until I fall asleep.”

For a moment, Adam was frozen, torn between the undeniable strangeness of the situation and the deep, magnetic pull he felt toward this man. There was something in Lucifer’s gaze, something raw and aching that made it impossible for Adam to refuse. It wasn’t just fear—it was loneliness, the kind that settled deep in one’s soul and took root.

Lucifer's eyes held a desperation that tugged at Adam's heartstrings. How could he say no? Every instinct told him to help, to ease whatever invisible burden Lucifer was carrying. Without saying a word, Adam gave a small nod, his chest tightening as he knelt beside the bed and slipped off his shoes. Slowly, he climbed onto the bed, his movements hesitant at first, unsure if this was really happening. He could feel the heat of Lucifer's gaze on him the entire time, that quiet intensity never wavering.

Lucifer scooted over just enough to make room for Adam, his frail body sinking into the thick blankets. He lay down on his side, facing Adam, his eyes never leaving his. There was something ethereal about the way Lucifer moved, like he didn’t quite belong in this world—or at least, not in Adam’s world.

Tentatively, Adam lay down beside him, keeping a respectful distance at first. The warmth of the bed instantly enveloped him, but it was the presence of Lucifer, so close and so quietly vulnerable, that made his heart race. For a few moments, neither of them spoke, the only sound in the room the soft patter of rain against the windows and the distant rumble of thunder. It felt strangely intimate, lying there in the dim light, with the storm raging outside.

Lucifer's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his breathing shallow but steady. Adam watched him quietly, his heart pounding in his chest. There was something magnetic about this man, something that made it hard to look away. But then Lucifer shifted, moving just a little closer, his slender fingers brushing against Adam’s arm. Adam stilled at the touch, his breath hitching slightly.

“I can’t remember the last time I felt this... safe,” Lucifer murmured, his voice soft and distant, as if he were speaking to himself more than to Adam. “It’s strange.”

Adam swallowed hard, unsure how to respond.

“You’re safe here,” he said gently, the words coming out almost automatically. “I promise.”

Lucifer’s lips curved into the faintest smile, though his eyes remained closed. He moved closer still, their bodies now almost touching, and Adam could feel the chill radiating from him. Instinctively, without thinking, Adam shifted too, pulling the thick quilt higher around Lucifer’s shoulders and wrapping an arm around him, as though to shield him from the cold.

Lucifer’s breath hitched softly, and for a moment, Adam feared he had crossed a line. But then Lucifer leaned into him, his head resting against Adam’s chest. His body was cold, but the vulnerability in that simple gesture was enough to warm the space between them.

“Thank you,” Lucifer whispered, his voice so faint it was almost drowned out by the storm.

Adam didn’t respond with words, instead tightening his embrace ever so slightly. He didn’t know why, but in that moment, it felt right—like he was meant to be there, holding Lucifer in the warmth of his bed while the storm raged on outside. As Lucifer’s breathing slowed and deepened, Adam could feel the tension begin to melt away from his fragile form.

Lucifer’s hand remained on Adam’s chest, a reminder of their strange and sudden connection. And as sleep began to pull Lucifer under, Adam lay awake, listening to the rhythm of the storm outside, wondering just what kind of magic had brought this mysterious, broken man into his life.

In the flickering firelight, Adam stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing. The storm might have driven Lucifer to his door, but Adam knew that this was only the beginning of something far more mysterious, and perhaps far more dangerous, than he could ever have imagined.

The tavern had fallen into a deep, eerie silence as the night thickened, the only sound being the soft crackle of the fire in Adam’s small bedroom hearth. The warmth of the bed, the gentle rise and fall of Adam’s chest beside him, lulled Lucifer into a stillness that was almost peaceful. Adam, with his brown and red hair tousled against the pillows, had fallen asleep easily, nestled against Lucifer's side, his arm draped loosely around Lucifer’s waist.

The clock struck 3:00 a.m., a subtle chime echoing through the ancient tavern. Lucifer's eyes, glowing with an ethereal red-gold light, flicked open. He sat up slowly, his movements fluid, almost inhumanly graceful. His gaze fell on Adam’s face, softened in sleep. There was something pure about him, something gentle and unguarded that made Lucifer smile—a smile that didn’t quite reach his unnaturally bright eyes.

"You’re so kind," he whispered, his voice a soft murmur in the quiet room, fingers brushing lightly against Adam’s cheek. The touch was delicate, reverent, as though he was tracing something fragile, something precious. "You’re so sweet and kind, Adam. I can see why it has attached itself to you."

Adam stirred in his sleep, nuzzling closer to Lucifer, seeking the warmth of his presence without waking. The innocent gesture made Lucifer’s smile deepen, a mix of tenderness and something far darker. He gently pushed back the strands of Adam’s hair that had fallen across his face, his cold fingertips lingering against the warmth of his skin.

"I think I will take its place," Lucifer whispered, leaning down so close his breath ghosted over Adam’s lips. "But I’ll make sure our bond is stronger. Ten times stronger."

He let his lips brush against Adam’s, a barely-there kiss, tasting the sweetness of his breath, feeling the softness of his mouth. Lucifer sighed in pleasure, pulling back with a look of almost regret, but it was fleeting, replaced by something darker, something far more dangerous. His eyes, once so gentle, darkened—pupils narrowing into demonic slits as his true nature peeked through.

Without a sound, Lucifer slipped out from the bed, leaving the warmth behind without a second thought. He stood beside Adam, his tall figure casting a long shadow that flickered in the firelight, his once soft expression now twisted into something predatory. He bent down, fingers tracing the lines of Adam’s face—the ridge of his nose, the curve of his lips. The hunger in Lucifer's eyes deepened.

"I want more than your kindness," he sang softly, a whisper of a melody that hung in the air like a dark lullaby. "I want everything."

Lucifer leaned down again, pressing his lips to Adam’s in a slow, deliberate kiss. His cool fingers traced a path from Adam’s cheek down to his throat, lingering there as if feeling the steady pulse beneath. He kissed along Adam’s jaw, his lips brushing feather-light over his skin, leaving a trail of icy tingles that made Adam stir in his sleep. Lucifer’s tongue flicked out, tasting the delicate flesh of his neck, and he pulled back with a sigh, his face alight with desire and something far more insidious.

"I don’t just want your soul," Lucifer whispered, his voice taking on a lilting, almost sing-song tone. "I want your love, your devotion... I want you completely."

He pressed more kisses to Adam’s skin, softer now, almost tender, as if savouring the moment. But there was a hunger behind every touch, a need that went beyond mere affection. Lucifer's sharp teeth grazed Adam's throat, and he let out a soft, shuddering breath before pulling away, running his tongue over his own lips as though relishing the taste.

"But first..." Lucifer’s voice dropped, his face darkening as shadows seemed to ripple over his features. The glow in his eyes sharpened, pupils narrowing further as small, curved horns began to push through his golden hair. "I need to get rid of the pest."

His fingers trailed down Adam’s chest, lingering over his heart as though feeling the life pulsing beneath the surface.

"I’ll be back soon, my love," Lucifer whispered, his tone dripping with dangerous promise. "Let me take care of our tavern first."

Adam whimpered softly in his sleep, his body instinctively shifting toward Lucifer as if seeking his presence. Lucifer’s grin stretched wider, exposing the sharp points of his teeth as he let out a low, satisfied chuckle. A long, sleek tail slipped from beneath the borrowed black shorts, swaying lazily in the air as Lucifer stood up straight.

"I won’t be gone long," he promised, his voice low and sultry. His eyes gleamed with dark anticipation as he turned toward the door, casting one last glance at Adam's sleeping form before slipping into the shadows.

"Let the hunt begin..."

A soft giggle escaped his lips as he moved silently into the tavern, the darkness swallowing him whole. His voice drifted through the still air, a haunting melody that seemed to echo through the walls.

"I'm so hungry," he purred to himself, his smile widening as his demonic form began to fully manifest, horns gleaming and tail flicking with excitement. "I haven’t eaten in such a long time."

Lucifer moved through the darkened tavern like a shadow, his steps silent, deliberate, as if he were part of the very night itself. His golden-red eyes gleamed with wicked amusement, a predatory glow that flickered in the low light of the dying fire in the hearth. His sleek tail swayed behind him like an amused cat, the sharp tip curling with anticipation, flicking lazily from side to side. His horns had grown sharper, gleaming faintly as they lengthened, curving in a way that hinted at the immense power coiling just beneath his surface.

A low chuckle escaped his lips, soft and mocking, as he scented the air. The tavern was empty, silent, but Lucifer knew better. The other demon—the pest—was still here, hiding, trembling in the shadows like a coward.

"Oh, you poor, wretched thing," Lucifer purred, his voice laced with sweet venom as he stalked through the main hall of the tavern, his gaze shifting from shadow to shadow. His footsteps were slow, purposeful, as he moved past the tables and chairs, brushing his fingers along the wooden surfaces as if savouring the moment. "Do you even know who I am? Or are you too far beneath me to recognize power when it’s in your midst?"

Silence greeted him, but Lucifer's grin only widened. His voice, darkly playful, filled the empty space as he taunted the unseen demon lurking nearby.

"I’m insulted, truly," he continued, the amusement in his tone thickening as he weaved his way through the tavern, each step deliberates, calculated. "Still here, even after you must’ve sensed me, after you should’ve known to run the moment, I stepped through that door. But no—you stayed. How pathetic."

Lucifer’s tail flicked again, the tip swaying like a pendulum, and his sharp eyes flickered towards the deeper shadows, where the low-ranked demon undoubtedly cowered. He could feel its weak, pitiful presence—feeble compared to his own, like a mere insect trying to survive in the presence of a lion.

"How long have you been feeding on my Adam?" Lucifer’s voice grew darker, more dangerous, but there was still a trace of a smile on his lips. "Clinging to him, draining him while you hide in the corners like the vermin you are. Did you really think you could last forever? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?"

He paused, inhaling deeply, savouring the lingering scent of the demon’s essence—a foul stench to his refined senses. Lucifer’s lips curled in disdain, but he didn't lose his amusement. Instead, he let out a light laugh, shrugging his shoulders as if the creature’s weakness was beneath his concern.

"No matter. It ends tonight anyway," Lucifer cooed, his voice a soft lullaby of impending doom. "You should’ve run while you had the chance."

Lucifer’s smile twisted into something far more sinister as he stepped into the kitchen, his eyes gleaming with hellish delight as they scanned the darkened room. His footsteps were soft, almost gentle, but they carried the weight of impending violence, of inevitable destruction. He was in no rush; after all, this was his hunt, his game, and he wanted to savour it.

"You’re not very good at hiding, are you?" Lucifer teased, his voice dripping with mockery. "So weak. So pitiful. You can’t even speak, can you? Too frightened to show yourself. How disappointing."

The shadows shifted, but no response came, just as Lucifer expected. His grin widened, flashing the points of his sharp teeth, and his eyes darkened, becoming almost pitch-black, as if the fires of Hell themselves were glowing deep within them.

And then he sensed it—a tremor, faint but unmistakable, coming from behind the pantry door. Lucifer’s grin stretched wider, his sharp teeth gleaming in the dim light as he turned his head toward the source of the pitiful presence.

"Found you~" he whispered, his voice a sweet, haunting melody.

Without hesitation, Lucifer strode toward the pantry, his tail flicking in excitement. The door swung open with a soft creak, and there, cowering in the shadows, was the demon—a wretched, trembling thing barely worthy of being called such. Its presence was weak, pathetic compared to Lucifer’s.

Lucifer's eyes darkened further, glowing like embers in the night, and a small flame flickered to life between the tips of his horns, casting an eerie glow in the room. A serpent, sleek and black, curled itself around the flame, its body coiling like a halo around his horns. Lucifer’s grin was terrifying now, wide and sharp, his hunger palpable.

As he stepped closer, his back shuddered, and with a sudden, violent burst, six monstrous wings erupted from his slender form, towering behind him like the wings of a dark god. They shimmered with a hellish glow, casting deep, rippling shadows along the walls, though his t-shirt remained pristine, as if reality itself bent to Lucifer's will.

The demon whimpered, but no sound escaped its lips as Lucifer loomed over it, his presence overwhelming, suffocating.

"I told you," Lucifer whispered, his voice as soft as silk, yet dripping with malice. "It ends tonight."

There was no scream. No sound at all as Lucifer devoured the lesser demon, his body absorbing its essence with an ease that was almost effortless. The tavern remained deathly quiet, the only sound being the faint crackle of the fire back in Adam’s room. Lucifer straightened himself, his eyes glowing once again with that soft red-gold light, his wings folding gracefully behind him as the serpent curled tighter around his horns.

With a satisfied hum, Lucifer turned away, his grin fading into a look of contentment as he made his way back to the cozy warmth of Adam’s bed. He slipped under the thick quilts without a sound, pressing himself against Adam’s sleeping form. He wiggled closer, nestling into Adam’s arms, his tail swaying lazily behind him as he settled in. The warmth was delicious, comforting, and Lucifer sighed happily, his belly full and his soul content.

He licked his lips, savouring the lingering taste of the weaker demon, and whispered softly into the quiet room, "Don’t worry, Adam... you won’t ever feel like that again. I’ve eaten them."

Adam only snored softly in response, completely unaware of the dark presence he had allowed into his tavern, oblivious to the danger that now lay beside him, so close, so intimate. Lucifer smiled to himself, content and full, resting his head against Adam's chest as the fire crackled softly in the hearth.

For now, all was quiet. All was well.

Lucifer closed his eyes, drifting into a peaceful slumber with Adam nestled at his side, his sharp grin fading into a soft, satisfied smile.

Lucifer’s voice was a silky, hypnotic purr as he spoke, his lips curling into a devilish smile. “I’ll ensure all your dreams come true, Adam,” he whispered, his words dripping with promises of temptation and pleasure. His long, sleek tail swayed behind him, curling through the air like a contented cat, amused and full of dark joy.

“All you’ve got to give me in return,” Lucifer continued, his golden-red eyes gleaming as they locked onto Adam’s sleeping form, “Is yourself.”

He bent down, brushing his cool lips against Adam’s ear, his breath sending a shiver through the slumbering man. Lucifer’s hand slid down Adam’s arm, feather-light, as though savoring every inch of his touch. His voice dropped even lower, a seductive murmur that danced on the edge of Adam’s subconscious.

“Oh, Adam,” he purred, “As long as you do as I say... we’ll be so happy together. Running our tavern, filling it with guests, laughter, and warmth.”

His smile widened, his sharp teeth flashing in the dim firelight. “They’ll never know the truth—never know what we truly are. But you, my dear, will have everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Lucifer’s tail swished again, the tip flicking with mischief as he traced the lines of Adam’s face, his eyes dark with possessive hunger.

“I'll make sure you never want for anything. No pain, no loneliness... Just us. Our little world. Doesn't that sound perfect?”

Adam murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, unaware of the dark entity by his side. Lucifer’s eyes gleamed, watching the gentle rise and fall of Adam's chest, and for a moment, his expression softened into something almost tender. But it didn’t last long.

“You’ll be mine, Adam,” Lucifer whispered, his voice sweet as poison. “Forever.”

With one last soft kiss to Adam’s brow, Lucifer slipped back under the covers, pulling Adam close to his side. The night stretched on, quiet and undisturbed, but the air in the room had shifted—charged with dark energy and whispered promises.

Everything changed for Adam overnight, as if a spell had been cast upon his life, turning his quiet tavern into a bustling haven of activity. He had no idea how or why this had happened, but the transformation was undeniable. His once modest inn, where he seldom had more than three guests at a time, suddenly overflowed with visitors. The sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and lively conversation now filled the tavern’s halls, and while it was thrilling, it was also overwhelming. He was stretched thin, juggling a flood of tasks he’d never imagined handling all at once.

Thankfully, Lucifer was by his side. Adam couldn’t even begin to express the gratitude he felt for him. Lucifer had been nothing short of a miracle, helping to manage the tavern with effortless grace, attending to guests as if he had always been part of Adam’s world. His charm was magnetic, his presence soothing.

Overnight, Lucifer seemed to become a new person—more vibrant, more expressive. He laughed more, and his smile, Adam noticed, was enchanting, warm and genuine. It caught Adam off-guard how much his heart would flutter when their eyes met, Lucifer’s golden-red gaze gleaming with an otherworldly light. The way Lucifer always happened to be there when something went wrong—a guest upset, a sudden breakdown in the tavern’s equipment—it was as if he anticipated the chaos before it even happened, stepping in to handle it with calm precision. And always with that smile, that captivating, slightly mischievous grin.

Adam often felt guilty, watching Lucifer work so tirelessly beside him. The tavern had never been this busy, and while the increased business was a blessing, it was a double-edged sword. He couldn't keep up alone, and yet, Lucifer never once complained. Adam had even mentioned off-handedly that he might need more help. A day later, a small, strange woman named Nifty appeared, bubbly and eager to work as a maid in exchange for accommodation. Then there was the night Adam half-jokingly said they could use a bartender—and sure enough, a surly man named Husk showed up at his door, willing to pour drinks in the evenings. It was uncanny. Each time Adam voiced a need, someone came along to fill it.

It wasn’t until one quiet afternoon, with the tavern finally settling into a comfortable hum, that Adam found himself sitting beside Lucifer, reviewing the tavern’s bank books. Lucifer was curled up next to him, head resting on Adam’s shoulder, arms loosely wrapped around his bicep, purring softly. Adam frowned at the rows of numbers on the page, confusion knitting his brow.

“What’s wrong?” Lucifer’s voice was a low, curious murmur as he lifted his head to peer into Adam’s face. His expression was soft, but there was something sharp in his eyes, always watching.

Adam sighed, his frustration evident.

“It’s just the books,” he muttered, tapping the pages. “I can’t make sense of them anymore. With all the new business, the numbers are all over the place. It’s like I can’t keep track of anything.”

Lucifer hummed, glancing down at the ledger.

“Let me see,” he said, his voice smooth and soothing. Adam handed him the book, watching as Lucifer’s eyes quickly scanned the figures.

“I feel... kinda stupid,” Adam admitted with a sheepish smile.

“Do you think less of me? For not being able to manage my own place?” His tone was uncertain, laced with vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show.

Lucifer’s response was immediate, his grip on Adam’s arm tightening as he leaned closer.

“Not at all,” he said softly, his voice warm and reassuring. “Don’t ever think that, Adam. You’ve done more than most could handle, especially with how quickly everything’s changed. You’re doing incredibly well.”

Adam's heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in Lucifer’s voice. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way Lucifer looked at him, like he truly meant every syllable.

Lucifer shifted his gaze back to the books. “But... maybe we should hire someone to handle the numbers. An accountant, perhaps?” he suggested, his tone light but thoughtful.

Adam groaned at the thought. “I’d love to, but they’re expensive. I got lucky with Nifty and Husk, but... I’m not sure I can afford someone else right now.”

A slow grin spread across Lucifer’s face, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Actually,” he began, his voice slipping into a smooth, almost conspiratorial tone, “I might know someone. My daughter from a previous marriage. She’s excellent with management—hotels, inns, you name it. She’d love to come work here.”

Adam blinked in surprise. “You have a daughter?”

His eyes widened with interest. “And she’d really want to work here?”

Lucifer chuckled, his hand tracing gentle circles on Adam’s arm as he continued. “She’d be perfect. And she wouldn’t even ask for much—just a place to stay, like Nifty. Though... she might want to bring her girlfriend with her. Vaggie’s her name. She’s no-nonsense, the type to keep things running smoothly. Now I think about it, Vaggie would make a good manager too.”

Adam considered the offer, his eyes brightening at the possibility.

“If you don’t mind... I’d love to have them,” he said, the relief evident in his voice.

Lucifer’s grin widened, his purring deepening as he leaned in closer. “Oh, Adam... I don’t mind at all.”

Within the hour, Adam found himself face-to-face with Lucifer’s daughter, Charlie, and her girlfriend, Vaggie. Their arrival had been so sudden, so seamless, it left Adam with a sense of whiplash. One moment, he was talking with Lucifer about needing help; the next, the two young women stood before him, bright-eyed and ready to move in. It was as though they had materialized out of thin air, bags already packed. Adam couldn’t deny he was relieved, even if a bit unnerved by how fast everything was happening.

Charlie, with her bubbly, infectious energy, had a natural knack for leadership. Within hours of stepping foot into the tavern, she began reorganizing things, setting up new systems with the kind of expertise one would expect from someone who had been managing inns for years. Vaggie, quieter but sharp-eyed, followed close behind, her no-nonsense attitude ensuring that things ran smoothly. Together, they transformed the place in a way Adam had never imagined. Business boomed, guests were happier, and the tavern itself felt... revitalized.

But as the days passed, there was a certain undercurrent—something just beneath the surface that Adam couldn’t quite put his finger on. A quiet tension that often sparked in Lucifer’s eyes, though it never seemed directed at him. Until one night.

That evening, after another long day, Adam found a beautifully wrapped package waiting for him on the tavern's doorstep. Inside was a lovely, old-fashioned radio—polished wood and brass dials gleamed under the soft lighting of his room. It was vintage, elegant, and utterly charming. There was even a handwritten note from an "admirer," which made Adam smile. He wasn’t sure who had sent it, but the gift felt thoughtful and quaint, and he was eager to show Lucifer.

When Lucifer entered their shared room later that night, Adam excitedly gestured to the radio, already positioned on the bedside table. But the moment Lucifer laid eyes on it, his entire demeanor changed. His casual smile faltered, and his expression tightened into something dark, almost dangerous.

It was as though the very sight of the radio offended him.

“Is everything alright?” Adam asked, concern lacing his voice as he watched Lucifer step closer to the device, his movements slow and deliberate.

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a strained smile. “Where did you get this?” he asked, voice low and tightly controlled.

Adam blinked, a bit taken aback by Lucifer’s sudden shift in mood. He twisted on his side of the bed, grabbing the small card that had come with the radio and handing it over. “It was sent to me by an admirer. I thought it was sweet,” Adam explained, still unsure why Lucifer was reacting so oddly. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

“Incredibly,” Lucifer replied, though his voice was far from warm. His eyes flickered over the card, the tension in his shoulders growing more pronounced. He breathed sharply through his nose, and his grip on the card tightened as if it were something dangerous. “But Adam,” he added through clenched teeth, “I don’t like having electric things in the bedroom.”

Adam frowned, glancing back at the radio. “But it’s battery-powered…” he said, his tone soft, confused.

Lucifer’s smile grew even tighter, a strained mockery of his usual charm. “Please, Addie,” he said, voice dripping with forced sweetness, “can’t we move it out of the room?”

Adam hummed thoughtfully, sitting up and beginning to crawl off the bed. “I don’t see what the harm would be, but—”

Before he could finish, Lucifer lunged forward, snatching the radio from its place before Adam could touch it. “I’ll handle it!” he said, too brightly, his voice almost unnervingly cheerful. “You stay right here, love. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Adam blinked, startled by Lucifer’s sudden intensity, watching him leave the room with the radio clutched tightly in his hands. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Adam muttered to himself, brow furrowed, “What’s Lucifer’s deal with radios?”

Outside in the darkened corridor, Lucifer’s expression immediately soured. His once-pleasant facade dropped like a mask, revealing a look of pure contempt. He held the radio at arm’s length, glaring at it as though it were something foul.

“You are unwelcome here,” Lucifer hissed, shaking the radio as static crackled ominously from its speakers. “This tavern belongs to me, and you have no place in it.”

The static grew louder, warbling with distortion before a voice, smooth and taunting, crackled through the speaker. “Oh, Lucifer, always so territorial. You’re being far too possessive over such an unimpressive human.”

Lucifer’s grip tightened, his claws slowly extending as he seethed.

“Watch your tongue,” he spat, eyes glowing with a dangerous light. “I don’t care if you’re friends with Charlie. This place is mine.”

A soft, amused laugh echoed from the radio, the static almost mocking. “Ah, poor Lucifer. You’ve gone soft, haven’t you? Such big talk for someone who’s let a human cloud their judgment. Does he even know what you are?”

Lucifer’s eyes darkened, his pupils narrowing into slits as a low growl rumbled in his chest.

“What I am is none of your concern,” he said coldly, his voice thick with menace. “And you…”

He shook the radio again, his lips curling into a snarl. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

The voice on the other end laughed again, more softly this time, but it was cut short as Lucifer slammed the radio against the wall. The wood splintered, static screeched, and the radio fell silent.

Breathing heavily, Lucifer watched as the pieces of the radio fizzled out, its presence snuffed like a candle. His gaze lingered on the broken device for a moment longer before he turned, the dim light of the hallway casting long shadows across his form.

With a satisfied smirk, Lucifer whispered, “I warned you.”

He straightened, smoothing his appearance before heading back to Adam. The tension that had gripped him moments ago seemed to melt away, replaced with the smooth, self-assured confidence he wore like armor. He re-entered the room quietly, slipping back under the covers beside Adam, who had fallen into a light sleep.

Lucifer snuggled closer to him, his tail curling possessively around Adam’s leg as he whispered, “Don’t worry, my love. I’m back now, no stupid radios can get to you now~”

Adam stirred slightly, mumbling in his sleep, unaware of the darkness that had just been purged from his tavern—or the demon he had unknowingly allowed into his bed. Lucifer smirked to himself, his cool lips brushing against Adam’s ear as he murmured, “I’ll make sure you’ll only want me~”

The next morning, Adam woke to the soft, golden light filtering through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. He stretched, feeling the comforting weight of the blankets cocooning him, but something tugged at the edges of his mind—the radio. He blinked, glancing over at the bedside table where the lovely old-fashioned radio had been placed the night before. It was gone.

Adam frowned and sat up slowly, running a hand through his tousled brown hair. The room felt a little quieter, almost unnervingly so, without the faint static hum the radio had given off. He turned to Lucifer, who was lounging on the other side of the bed, his golden-red eyes half-lidded with contentment. A lazy smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“Lucifer?” Adam began, his voice soft as he glanced around the room. “Where did you put the radio?”

Lucifer’s eyes flickered, a sharp gleam passing through them before his expression softened into a bright, almost too-bright smile. He stretched leisurely, his movements fluid and graceful, as though the question amused him.

“Oh, darling,” Lucifer purred, his voice rich and honeyed, “don’t worry about that. It’s taken care of.”

He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand as his other hand reached out to rest gently on Adam’s thigh. His touch was warm, deliberate, and a little too intimate.

Adam's brow furrowed for a moment, but before he could press further, Lucifer leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over Adam’s ear. “Why don’t we talk about something far more interesting?” he whispered, his fingers brushing lightly along Adam’s arm, sending a shiver through him. “Like us.”

Adam blinked, caught off guard as Lucifer’s fingers continued their soft, teasing caress. His cheeks blossomed into a bright, rosy red, the heat rushing to his face almost instantly. He let out a sharp intake of breath, his pulse quickening as Lucifer’s touch sent a flurry of warmth spiralling through him.

“L-Lucifer,” Adam stammered, shyly looking down at his hands, trying to hide the way his lips quirked into a small, bashful smile.

Lucifer, clearly delighted by Adam’s reaction, leaned in even closer, his lips ghosting the edge of Adam’s jaw as he whispered, “Oh, Addie... you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

His fingers slid further up Adam’s arm, drawing little patterns on his skin. “You’ve been working so hard lately. Let me take care of you.”

Adam swallowed thickly, his heart skipping a beat as Lucifer’s words wrapped around him like silk. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with a tension that was both exciting and confusing. Adam had never been good with such open flirtation, and the way Lucifer looked at him—as if he were the only thing in the world that mattered—made his head spin.

“Y-you really think so?” Adam asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He tried to meet Lucifer’s gaze, but the intensity in those golden-red eyes made him glance away, his smile growing wider despite his attempts to stay composed.

Lucifer chuckled softly, his lips brushing dangerously close to Adam’s ear, sending another shiver down his spine.

“Of course, I do,” he murmured, his voice a low purr.

 “You deserve to be cherished, my sweet Adam. You deserve all the affection I can give you.” His fingers slid to the back of Adam’s neck, his touch firm yet tender, pulling him in closer.

Adam's breath hitched, his entire body tingling with the warmth that Lucifer’s presence seemed to radiate. His mind raced, caught between the fluttering nerves in his chest and the soft, reassuring comfort of Lucifer’s touch. He wasn’t used to being the centre of someone’s attention like this, and Lucifer’s relentless charm left him feeling unsteady, though undeniably drawn in.

“W-we really should get back to work,” Adam finally managed to say, his voice shaky, though his body betrayed him as he leaned ever so slightly into Lucifer’s touch.

Lucifer’s smile widened, wicked and knowing, as if he could sense Adam’s reluctance wavering. He shifted, bringing himself closer, until their faces were mere inches apart.

“Oh, work can wait,” Lucifer whispered, his lips dangerously close to Adam’s, his breath warm against his skin. “Why not indulge a little, hmm? You’ve been so busy running this tavern… let me make you feel special.”

Adam’s heart thudded wildly in his chest, his face burning with the intensity of the moment. The room seemed smaller, warmer, as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of them. His green eyes flickered up to meet Lucifer’s gaze, and in that instant, he felt himself teetering on the edge of something dangerously tempting.

Lucifer’s thumb brushed against Adam’s lips, his voice soft and enticing as he whispered, “Wouldn’t you like that, Addie? To let go for a little while? Let me take care of you, just like I always do.”

Adam swallowed hard, his pulse racing as Lucifer’s words wrapped around him like a velvet glove. He knew he should pull away, that there were a hundred things that needed his attention, but in that moment, all he could think about was how close Lucifer was, how warm his touch felt, how much he wanted to close the distance between them.

With a soft, shaky breath, Adam nodded, his lips parting ever so slightly as he whispered, “I... I would.”

Lucifer’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction as he leaned in, his lips brushing softly against Adam’s in a feather-light kiss. It was teasing, tender, but enough to send Adam’s mind reeling.

“That’s my good boy,” Lucifer purred, his tail wrapping possessively around Adam’s waist as he pulled him in closer. “I’ll make sure you never feel less then anybody ever again.”

Breathlessly, Adam looped his arms around Lucifer’s neck, the tips of his fingers tracing lightly over the nape of his skin as he pulled him closer. His heart hammered against his chest, the intensity of the moment filling him with a strange mix of excitement and nervousness. The air between them was charged, heavy with the weight of unsaid promises and whispered desires.

Adam's lips brushed back against Lucifer's, tentative at first but growing bolder as he felt Lucifer’s warmth seeping into him. A soft smile tugged at Adam’s mouth, his voice dropping into a playful, almost teasing murmur as he whispered, “And I’ll make sure you never feel lonely again, Luci~”

Lucifer froze for a second, the nickname rolling off Adam’s tongue with a tenderness that caught even him off guard. His golden-red eyes flickered with something dangerous, a possessive gleam as his lips curled into a grin that was both predatory and charmed. He let out a low, rumbling purr from deep within his chest, his tail swaying behind him with cat-like satisfaction.

“Oh, Adam,” Lucifer purred, his voice dripping with amusement and something darker, something more intense. “You’re playing with fire, you know that?” His fingers curled around the small of Adam’s back, pulling him flush against him. “But I must admit... I like it.”

Adam felt a thrill run through him as he gazed into Lucifer's eyes, the heat of their closeness leaving him breathless. The connection between them, once unspoken and tenuous, was now powerfully charged with the spark of something more profound. The tavern, the bustling guests, the overwhelming workload—all of it faded away in that moment. All that existed was the two of them, entwined in this strange, magnetic pull neither could fully understand.

Lucifer’s hand slid slowly up Adam’s spine, his touch sending shivers down his body as he pressed his lips more firmly against Adam’s. This kiss wasn’t teasing or light—it was consuming, demanding, filled with an unspoken promise that made Adam’s heart race even faster. The fire between them roared, its flames licking at the edges of something forbidden, but neither of them seemed to care.

Adam responded eagerly, his hands tightening around Lucifer’s neck, fingers threading through his silky black hair. His breath hitched as Lucifer’s lips left his, trailing down his jaw and to his throat, each kiss sending sparks through his skin. He bit his lip, trying to suppress a groan as Lucifer’s teeth grazed his pulse point, the sensation both electrifying and intoxicating.

“You’re mine now, Addie,” Lucifer whispered against his skin, his voice a soft growl, filled with possessive hunger. His lips moved lower, brushing the sensitive skin at the base of Adam’s throat. “And I’m never letting you go.”

Adam gasped, his mind spinning as Lucifer’s words wrapped around him like a velvet trap, tightening with each kiss, each caress. He didn’t fight it, didn’t pull away—instead, he leaned into Lucifer, giving himself over to the dangerous allure of the fallen angel in his arms.

“Good,” Adam murmured breathlessly, a playful glint in his eyes as he gazed at Lucifer. “Because I’m not letting you go either.”

Lucifer’s grin widened, sharp and gleaming like the edge of a blade, his eyes darkening with delight at Adam’s response. He tilted his head, brushing a strand of hair from Adam’s face with a gentleness that was at odds with the intensity burning beneath his skin.

“You’ll regret saying that one day,” Lucifer teased, his voice low and velvety. But his eyes gleamed with pride, as though Adam’s words had struck something deep inside him—something that had been longing to be claimed. “But for now... I’ll take it as a promise.”

Lucifer’s lips crashed back into Adam’s, the kiss hungrier this time, more urgent, as though he were trying to devour every part of him, leaving nothing untouched. He tightened his grip on Adam, pulling him even closer.

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, the sensation of being so completely enveloped by Lucifer both thrilling and terrifying. But as he kissed Lucifer back, his own fingers exploring the soft ridges of his back, his own desire took hold of him. He felt a strange sense of belonging, as though he had been waiting for this moment—this person—all along.

Lucifer pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against Adam’s lips.

“We’re going to be so good together, Addie,” he whispered, his voice filled with a dark promise. “You and me, ruling this tavern, this world... just you wait.”

Adam smiled, his lips brushing against Lucifer’s in a soft, lingering kiss before he whispered back, “Then let’s make it happen.”

Later that evening, Lucifer stood by the bar, his eyes dark and brooding, watching the busy tavern with a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was the same kind of smile he reserved for the “Karens” of the tavern—the difficult guests who demanded everything but never appreciated anything. He despised having to put it on, but tonight, that bitter smile was for someone else entirely.

Across the room, Charlie was animatedly gesturing, her excitement powerful as she introduced him—Alastor.

The moment Lucifer laid eyes on the grinning figure; his stomach churned with irritation. Alastor, with his old-fashioned suit and unsettling permanent grin, strolled into the tavern as if he owned the place. His aura, humming with mischief and something darker, radiated through the room. The moment Charlie had mentioned her "old friend" was coming to help promote the tavern, Lucifer had felt the first stirrings of bitterness.

Now, seeing Alastor standing there, soaking in Charlie’s attention and admiration, Lucifer’s invisible tail twitched in barely concealed frustration. His golden-red eyes flickered dangerously, but he kept that strained smile plastered on his face as Charlie eagerly grabbed Adam by the arm and dragged him across the room.

"Come on, Adam!" she exclaimed, beaming as she pulled him forward. “I want you to meet Alastor! He’s going to help us promote the tavern—this is going to be huge for us!”

Lucifer’s grip tightened around the glass he was holding, the strain causing a faint crack to appear in the delicate crystal. Promote the tavern? The tavern didn’t need more guests, not since he had come into the picture. Business had been thriving—flourishing under his careful watch, his manipulation of fate itself.

But now Alastor? What could that pompous, grinning radio demon possibly offer that Lucifer hadn’t already provided?

Alastor’s eerie, ever-present grin widened as he turned to face Adam, offering a smooth, overly polite bow. “Ah, the famous Adam I’ve heard so much about! A pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve been dying to see what all the fuss is about~”

His voice dripped with a singsong charm, tinged with something far more sinister beneath the surface.

Adam, ever polite, extended his hand, though the unease was clear in his eyes.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, glancing at Charlie, then back at the enigmatic figure before him.

Lucifer watched the exchange from the bar, his fingers digging into the countertop. His irritation only deepened as Alastor took Adam’s hand, shaking it with an exaggerated flourish, as though every moment was part of some grand, twisted performance. The way Alastor’s eyes gleamed, the smugness in his tone—it grated on Lucifer’s every nerve.

Fucking asshole! Even after I gave him that warning, he still dared to show up! Lucifer thought darkly, his smile tightening even more as his patience thinned.

Alastor wasn’t just some flashy distraction. He was a wildcard—an unpredictable force. And worse, he had history with Charlie, a closeness that Lucifer could feel was already weaving its way into the heart of his tavern.

Charlie continued to gush excitedly, explaining her plans with Alastor to help the tavern reach new heights, oblivious to Lucifer’s darkening mood.

Lucifer swallowed down his growing anger, forcing his features to remain composed, even as his thoughts turned more venomous. Alastor had barely been in the tavern for five minutes, and already he was trying to charm his way into Adam’s good graces. It was insulting.

Just as Alastor released Adam’s hand, his gaze drifted towards Lucifer, and for the briefest moment, their eyes locked. The smile Alastor wore twitched, and Lucifer could feel the challenge in it—a silent acknowledgment of the tension between them.

“Ah, Lucifer,” Alastor greeted with a mockingly gracious nod. “It’s been so long. I didn’t realize you’d become such a... fixture here.”

“Oh, I’ve made myself quite comfortable,” he replied, voice deceptively smooth. Lucifer’s jaw clenched, “And you?”

His eyes narrowed just a fraction. “What brings you here after all this time?”

Alastor’s grin only widened, and Lucifer hated the way it didn’t falter for even a second.

“Why, to help, of course!” he said brightly. “Charlie asked, and I simply couldn’t refuse. The potential here, Lucifer... it’s truly remarkable.”

The words were innocent enough, but Lucifer could hear the undercurrent of smugness in his tone. Alastor wasn’t here just to help—he was here to leave his mark, to claim some of the glory Lucifer had already built.

Adam, still standing between the two demons, sensed the tension but seemed unsure of what to do. His eyes darted between them, and when Lucifer finally looked at him, his heart softened—just slightly. Adam’s confusion, his unspoken plea for things to be fine, tugged at Lucifer’s possessive streak.

Lucifer smiled—this time, not so tight-lipped—and stepped forward, wrapping an arm around Adam’s waist in a protective, almost territorial gesture.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll work perfectly together,” Lucifer purred, his voice silkier now, meant only for Adam and Alastor to hear. “After all, I’m quite invested in this place. And I take care of my investments.”

Alastor chuckled, the sound low and amused, as if Lucifer’s words were nothing more than an entertaining jest.

“Of course, Lucifer,” he said, his grin never wavering. “I wouldn’t dream of getting in the way.”

Lucifer’s eyes gleamed dangerously, and for a split second, his horns were visible and seemed to glint in the dim tavern light. His smile returned, but this time, it was sharper—more predatory.

“Good,” he said softly, his voice a velvet threat. “Because I’d hate for things to get... complicated.”

Charlie, oblivious to the brewing storm between the two, clapped her hands together. “Great! I’m so glad you two are going to get along!”

Adam stood awkwardly, caught between the thick tension that seemed to swirl around Lucifer and Alastor. The two demons clearly had history—bitter, ancient history that Adam could sense even without knowing the details. It made him uncomfortable, a shiver of unease creeping up his spine as he glanced between them. But despite the undercurrent of hostility, he forced a smile, reminding himself that this was a golden opportunity for his tavern.

Charlie’s excitement had been infectious, her belief in Alastor’s ability to help undeniable. So when Alastor offered his assistance, Adam—naïvely, perhaps—accepted it. He barely noticed the way Lucifer’s face twisted with displeasure, the sharp glint in his eyes darkening as Adam agreed. Even when Alastor, ever the showman, swept both Adam and Charlie away with a flourish, Lucifer’s simmering anger went unnoticed.

But Vaggie noticed.

Standing beside Lucifer, her arms crossed and her usual no-nonsense demeanor intact, she let out a dry snort. “He gets on my nerves too,” she muttered, her eyes trailing after Alastor with a distaste that matched Lucifer’s.

Lucifer glanced at her from the corner of his sharp, burning gaze, slightly relieved that he wasn’t alone in his bitterness. “Tell me again how much Charlie cares for him?” he asked, his voice laced with mock innocence, though the edge in his tone was unmistakable.

Vaggie groaned, pinching the bridge of her hooked nose in frustration. “Way too much.”

Lucifer grunted, folding his arms. “Fuck.”

Vaggie let out a breathy agreement, nodding. It was a rare moment of solidarity between the two of them—both unwilling to cross Charlie’s deep affection for the Radio Demon, yet clearly fed up with his presence. Alastor’s charm might have won over Charlie and even Adam, but Lucifer and Vaggie saw the twisted undercurrents beneath the surface.

As the two watched from across the room, Alastor produced a contract from thin air, his ever-present grin widening as he presented it to Adam for review. Lucifer’s eyes narrowed sharply at the sight, his tail flicking with agitation. The scene screamed of trouble, and he knew better than to trust anything that came from Alastor’s hand.

Vaggie straightened up, eyeing the contract warily. “Well, better go make sure there’s no... undertones in that,” she muttered, already moving to intervene.

Lucifer snorted, his voice dripping with dry amusement. “Way ahead of you, Maggie.”

She twitched, side-eyeing him. “Vaggie.”

Lucifer waved her off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “That’s what I said.”

He started walking towards Adam and Alastor with purpose, his footsteps silent but full of intent. Just before he reached them, he tossed over his shoulder, “Now excuse me, I’ve got to make sure my future husband doesn’t accidentally sign his soul away.”

Vaggie blinked, caught off guard by the casual declaration. “Husband? Since when?”

Lucifer cast her a wicked grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Since always. He just isn’t aware of it yet.”

Vaggie let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking her head in exasperation. “Guess it’s true what they say—like father, like daughter.”

Lucifer didn’t respond, his focus solely on Adam, who was innocently thumbing through the pages of the contract, blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking within it. Alastor stood beside him, watching with an almost predatory patience, his grin never faltering.

With a swift, deliberate motion, Lucifer slid up behind Adam, wrapping an arm possessively around his waist. “Darling, are we reading contracts without me now?” he purred, his voice smooth as silk but cold as ice. His touch was gentle, but there was an unmistakable tension in the way he pulled Adam just a bit closer.

Adam blinked, looking up at Lucifer with a mixture of confusion and relief. “I was just... going over it. Alastor said it’s all about the promotion deals for the tavern.”

Alastor chuckled, his voice lilting. “Oh, don’t worry, Lucifer. It’s all perfectly legitimate.”

Lucifer’s smile tightened. “I’m sure it is,” he said sweetly, though his eyes never left the contract. “But you know how these things can be. Sometimes the devil really is in the details.”

Alastor’s grin twitched ever so slightly, a subtle crack in his mask of confidence. “Well, I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable,” he said, his tone still saccharine, but there was a flicker of something darker beneath it.

Lucifer’s eyes glinted with the challenge. “Of course not.”

Adam, caught between the two demons, couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling building in his chest. He glanced at the contract again, then back at Lucifer, sensing the tension between them. His voice came out quieter than usual.

“Should I... not sign it?”

Lucifer’s grin softened, becoming more affectionate as he leaned in closer. “Oh, love, it’s entirely up to you. Just know that I’m always looking out for your best interests.”

He let his fingers trail down Adam’s arm, a not-so-subtle reminder of the unspoken bond between them. Adam’s cheeks flushed, his heart skipping a beat as he found himself leaning into Lucifer’s touch.

Vaggie sighed deeply, tying her hair up with practiced ease. She clicked her tongue, her sharp gaze flickering between Lucifer and Alastor, who were locked in a silent but palpable battle of wills. If she didn’t step in soon, there’d be more than just bruised egos. The last thing anyone needed was Adam’s heart failing on him the moment he found out his peaceful tavern was now being run by demons. Worse still, discovering his doting boyfriend was none other than the King of Hell, and his so-called best friend? The Princess herself.

Vaggie rolled her shoulders, muttering under her breath, "Only in this madhouse would someone as innocent as Adam get wrapped up in all this mess."

Her mind flashed to her own days as an executioner, a warrior of the heavens. Though she had fallen long ago, those instincts still pulsed within her, and she was more than capable of keeping two alley cats like Lucifer and Alastor from tearing each other apart. As she secured her crimson ribbon, tightening it with a firm tug, she prepared to step in—before things escalated.

Meanwhile, across the room, Husk and Angel Dust had already made themselves comfortable. Angel lounged lazily on a barstool, a mischievous grin curling his lips as his long legs swung back and forth, while Husk nursed a drink, his eyes barely glancing up from the glass.

“Five bucks says Lucifer snaps first,” Angel Dust purred, flicking a manicured claw towards the tension simmering between the two demons. His smile was wide, gleaming with anticipation.

Husk snorted, not bothering to look up. “You kiddin’ me? Alastor’s too smug to back down. He’ll push Lucifer over the edge first.”

He downed another sip, eyes rolling toward the ceiling in exasperation. “That’s when Vaggie steps in and punches both of ‘em in the face.”

Angel giggled, eyes lighting up. “Oh, I’d pay good money to see that.”

Their shared amusement only grew as they entertained their next prediction.

“And what about Charlie?” Angel mused, stretching luxuriously. “You think she accidentally sets something on fire again?”

“Definitely,” Husk replied flatly. “Her hair’ll go up first. It always does.”

The two shared a conspiratorial look, laughing quietly to themselves, but it was Adam's reaction that interested them the most. Angel Dust leaned in closer, lowering his voice as he whispered, "But the real question is... what happens when sweet, innocent Adam finally puts the pieces together? You think he’ll faint, or just run for the hills?”

Husk chuckled darkly. “Faint. No question. Poor guy’s probably gonna keel over the second he finds out his entire tavern staff’s straight outta Hell.”

Angel Dust tossed his head back, laughing as if the very idea thrilled him. “Oh, I can’t wait to see his face.”

Vaggie, overhearing the conversation, shot them both a murderous glare, her fingers twitching as if itching to follow through with Husk’s prediction. She had no time for their bets or casual amusement—she had a fight to stop. With a final glance back at the room, she took a deep breath and made her way over to the two demons, her patience already thin.

Lucifer and Alastor’s verbal sparring continued in hushed tones. Alastor’s grin never faltered, though his eyes gleamed with something far darker.

“My, my, Lucifer,” Alastor purred, his voice saccharine sweet, “You seem terribly protective of this little tavern. Could it be... you’ve actually gone soft?”

Lucifer’s smile, still tight-lipped, didn’t waver, but the sharp glint in his eyes spoke volumes.

 “I’m merely protective of what’s mine,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. His tail twitched behind him, the tip flicking like an agitated cat ready to strike. “And as long as you’re in my tavern, Alastor, I suggest you remember that.”

Alastor’s grin only widened; the sharp points of his teeth gleaming.

“Oh, but of course, Your Majesty,” he said, the words dripping with sarcasm.

Adam, standing between them, felt the tension wrap around him like a suffocating blanket. He tried to smile, but it came out shaky, his voice weak. “Uh... maybe we should take a breather? You know, get back to this later?”

Before things could get any worse, Vaggie stepped in with a cold, steely glare that cut through the air.

“Enough,” she said, her voice firm and no-nonsense. “This is Adam’s tavern, not a playground for you two to settle old grudges. So, unless you both want to explain to Charlie why her beloved tavern went up in flames, I suggest you back off.”

Alastor chuckled lightly, bowing slightly to Vaggie. “Ah, always the voice of reason. How refreshing.”

Lucifer shot him a final glare but allowed Vaggie’s words to pull him back from the edge. He forced a smile, turning his attention fully to Adam.

“You’re right, Addie,” he murmured, his voice softening as he wrapped an arm around Adam’s waist. “Let’s take a breather. Forget this nonsense.”

Adam, caught off guard by the sudden shift, blinked, his cheeks warming again as Lucifer’s attention became more intimate. “Uh... yeah, that sounds good.”

Vaggie, satisfied that she’d managed to defuse the situation for now, shot a final warning glance at Alastor. “Don’t push it, out of fashion prick.”

Alastor’s grin widened, his red eyes gleaming with mischief as he tilted his head, amusement lacing his voice. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As Vaggie walked away to keep a closer eye on the situation, Angel Dust and Husk exchanged glances, both grinning.

“Well, no punches yet,” Angel Dust mused, eyes glinting.

“Give it time,” Husk muttered, smirking. “It’s only a matter of time before this place blows up.”

Angel Dust leaned back, folding his arms behind his head as he watched the scene unfold with a satisfied smirk. “Guess we’ll just have to sit back and enjoy the show.”

Adam’s gaze softened as he looked out the window, his mind wandering back to that fateful night when he first met Lucifer. It seemed like a lifetime ago, yet the memory was vivid—Lucifer, drenched in rain, looking so small and fragile, barely reacting to anything. The storm that had raged outside had seemed to mirror the emptiness in Lucifer’s eyes back then. He was reserved, distant, a shadow of the figure now standing beside him.

How strange, Adam mused, how much things had changed. Lucifer was like a completely different person these days—expressive, confident, and affectionate. His golden-red eyes sparkled with emotion, and his laugh, once so rare, had become a melody Adam couldn’t help but treasure.

With a hum, Adam’s attention was drawn back to the windows. Dark storm clouds were beginning to gather on the horizon, rolling in like a slow, inevitable tide. His breath caught in his throat for a moment, the sight stirring a familiar unease in his chest.

“Ah…” he exhaled softly, feeling a small shiver run down his spine. The air felt heavy, laden with the promise of another storm. “Looks like there’s another one brewing.”

Lucifer, standing close by, noticed the shift in Adam’s demeanour. His hand, warm and steady, found its way to Adam’s lower back, grounding him in the moment.

"Storms come and go, Addie," Lucifer murmured softly, his voice a low purr, though something dark flickered briefly behind his eyes. "But don’t worry. I’ll make sure this one doesn’t touch you."

Adam smiled, leaning into Lucifer's warmth, comforted by the reassurance. "I hope it’s not as bad as the last one. That storm was… unforgettable."

He chuckled lightly, though the memory of that rainy night lingered in his mind, the night when everything had begun.

Lucifer’s fingers traced lazy patterns along Adam’s back, but his gaze flickered to the storm clouds outside. His expression shifted, a momentary darkness flashing across his features, one Adam didn’t notice. Lucifer’s thoughts wandered back to that night too, though for very different reasons.

The rain had been his refuge then, a perfect cover for his entrance into Adam’s life. He had been weak, but not in the way Adam had thought. No, Lucifer had been biding his time, slipping into Adam’s world quietly, unnoticed. Now, standing here beside Adam, with the storm on the horizon, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Adam, so sweet, so oblivious, still had no idea who or what he had let into his tavern—or his heart.

But that suited Lucifer just fine.

The storm outside might have been brewing, but inside the tavern, everything was going according to plan. Lucifer’s fingers lingered at the nape of Adam’s neck; his touch soft but possessive.

 "Don’t think about the storm, love," he whispered, leaning in closer, his breath warm against Adam’s ear. "Just focus on me. Let me keep you safe."

Adam, still lost in thought, smiled at Lucifer’s words, his heart fluttering at the affection. He didn’t notice the faint smirk tugging at the corner of Lucifer’s lips, nor the way Lucifer’s eyes darkened as he glanced back at the looming clouds.

The storm might have been approaching, but Lucifer had every intention of ensuring Adam remained blissfully unaware of the chaos it might bring.

[bonefall]

Oh almighty Bones, why is he called Brushblaze? I keep thinking of a hair brush. Is it a plant?

Brushblaze! A save from Onestar's Confession, previously just Brushpaw. The prefix actually comes from a habitat. "Brush" is scraggly, bushy scrubland without trees. In the WindClan moor, brush is dominated by heather and gorse.

Tallstar picked it for Leo's spiky tufts. If he had chosen his own Clanmew name, he would have picked "Lion." But, he was a BloodClan trader who joined because of a massive crush on Onewhisker so he wasn't looking to argue.

He was an adult at this point, by the way, an apprentice name was supposed to just be a formality. It got delayed due to the destruction of the White Hart.

"Blaze" is the first suffix Onestar ever gave. When WindClan came to the Lake, they needed to hold their first Muirburn to turn their territory into a moorland. Moorland is a unique biome that is managed through fire and grazing; so this was an important step in settling the area.

But Mudclaw and his rebels sabotaged the burn so they could attack Onewhisker. Brushpaw fought valiantly, and was almost killed in the process. But when the tides turned thanks to ThunderClan, he was able to get out with only a nasty scar on his neck.

So, he was named "Brushblaze" for the fire that night, and the companion who joined along with him was named "Snapstorm" for the rain that put the fires out.

[oddmawd]

— THERE'S FIRE Chapter 7: "The Asset in Action" (Smoker/OC)

Summary: When Commodore Smoker receives orders to escort a wealthy woman to her new home in the Grand Line, he regards the task before him as little more than glorified babysitting. But there’s more to the Asset than meets the eye, and soon Smoker finds himself drawn to the one woman he’s certain he cannot have. Justice, honor, duty...what do these ideals mean if holding true to them will lose Smoker something precious?

Lady Oxley Noa would do anything to protect her family — including sacrifice her own happiness. But when she meets Commodore Smoker, the line between the demands of her duties and the needs of her heart begins to blur. Stolen moments, smoldering glances, unspoken promises...she knows what they must mean, but she can’t afford to place a name to them lest she risk heartbreak unimaginable.

But love doesn’t care about your plans. Soon the spark of shared affection blazes too brightly to be ignored, and while neither Smoker nor Noa wants to admit what burns between them, it is an undeniable fact that where there’s smoke — there’s fire.

[Smoker x OC. Inspired by Bridgerton and other period romance. Slow burn. Eventual smut.]

TAGS & CONTENT WARNINGS

FANDOM: One Piece

PAIRINGS: Smoker x OC

RATING: Teen+

WORD COUNT: 69k total, 13.6k for chapter 7

GENRE: Romance

TAGS: Mutual pining, romance, slow burn, unresolved sexual tension, attempted kidnapping, inspired by Bridgerton and other period romance, set during the One Piece timeskip, deals with the themes of duty, social class/obligation, political/arranged marriage

WARNINGS: Canon-typical action/violence, descriptions of minor wounds and wound care

CHAPTER 7 - Excerpt

Rear Admiral Glacé’s warship, a brutish hulk of a vessel topped in a skeletal tangle of rattling rigging and furled sails, loomed over Smoker’s cruiser. Sailors tossed over lines and hooks and mooring poles, binding the ships together as they anchored for the night. Though the ships were to be unified, men aboard both stood along the bulwarks in watchful defense, unwilling participants in an alliance no one wanted yet no one had the gall to reject. The barrels of rifles and curves of cutlasses gleamed in the light of flickering oil lamps. Smoker paid them no mind, eyes fixed on the long gangway beginning to lower from the warship’s deck down to his cruiser, winches slowly unwinding, a guillotine falling in slow motion. 

He turned to Tashigi and Oxley. Both looked at him with determination, though Oxley’s was tempered with a strange, small smile. He took out his watch, noting the time, tipping it toward them so they could all watch the minute hand strike the hour.

“Remember your orders?” Smoker muttered.

“Yes sir,” said Tashigi.

“Dismissed.”

He put his watch away. Tashigi trotted off. The men (arranged in as close to a formation as the ragtag dogs of Unit 01 could achieve) parted like water around her. She vanished through a door and down a set of stairs; from behind the door came a thud and a muted ‘ouch.’ Some of the men chuckled at her clumsiness. Others grumbled under their breaths, envious she didn’t have to welcome the Rear Admiral too.

A look from Smoker silenced the lot of ‘em quick enough. Oxley, meanwhile, adjusted the blanket she wore like a makeshift shawl around her shoulders and straightened her spine. She stared at the still-lowering gangplank (a long, unwieldy thing) with lips pressed tight and firm.

“I remember my mission, as well.” Her dark eyes sparkled; a sly curl of her upper lip cracked her calm composure. “It’s rather electrifying, having one. Do you feel like this all the time?”

The question felt like a trap, even if she didn’t mean it as one. So all Smoker said was, “Try not to have too much fun.”

Oxley replied, “No promises.”

In contrast to the flurry of activity aboard the paired vessels, the ocean stretched still and calm toward the horizon, black as ink in any direction. Their rendezvous point amid the waters of the Grand Line had been set via Den Den Mushi by communications personnel, away from the site of the battle and any attention it may have attracted. The Rear Admiral had arrived shortly after the battle ended, and a scant half hour after Smoker and Oxley negotiated the terms of their alliance in his cabin. Which left them precious little opportunity to coordinate their next move with Tashigi, granted, but there was no time to go over the details again. Now was time for action.

Well. Time for Oxley to spring into action, anyway.

Smoker didn’t like this plan much — which is to say, he hated its goddamn guts. He’d said so at the time, but the two women he called allies had more or less bullied him into going along with it anyway, the pair of them glaring like pit vipers when he told them such. The key player in all this stood at his side upon the lower decks as the gangway descended, clutching the blanket-turned-shawl about her shoulders, head held high under the night wind. Oxley didn’t look intimidated to be thrown to the proverbial wolves. But…

Smoker cleared his throat. “Oxley.”

Dark eyes cut toward him. “Yes, Commodore?”

“Do you think you can…?”

“I can handle the Rear Admiral. Just you wait.” And yet her confidence faded. She took a deep breath, teeth worrying her lower lip. “But…”

Smoker frowned. “But what?”

Another deep breath. She smiled tightly. “Please, Smoker,” she said. “Do not hold anything I say against me.” When he only arched a brow, she said, “The Game can be — ”

Oxley didn’t get to finish. The gangplank hit the deck with a thud followed swiftly by the sound of marching feet. A small squad bearing rifles crossed the bridge, twin rows of soldiers clad in pressed and pristine uniforms preceding the steps of Rear Admiral Glacé. The man wore a billowing greatcoat with gold epaulettes on his shoulders, chest festooned with rank insignia that glimmered in the light of the nearby lamps. Smoker, in contrast, wore his usual short white jacket with green fur trim, shoulders empty of epaulettes, insignia traded for bandoliers of cigars. These juxtaposed details told a story, visuals highlighting the difference between his rank and the Rear Admiral’s.

And those details weren’t the only things marking their respective stations. The Rear Admiral had leaned into his position whole hog. Shoes shined to a wicked polish, trousers freshly pressed, and a tailored grey blazer with matching waistcoat held shut with gold buttons — yeah, this man wanted his station known on sight. His personal grooming said the same. He wore his hair in a long, neat ponytail down his back, face shaved perfectly clean. Not a speck of grime on him, Smoker reckoned. The Rear Admiral’s warship looked likewise spotless, with shiny decks and prim sails like it hadn’t been at sea for more than a day. Not at all like Smoker’s ragtag cruiser. The dogs of Unit 01 howled when asked to scrub or sweep…

Had Oxley noticed the differences between Smoker and the Read Admiral? If she did, she gave no sign. She just stood demurely at Smoker’s side, watching the Rear Admiral approach in silence. His polished boots clacked across the deck, coat fanning artfully in his wake. Narrow green eyes swept over Oxley up and down before alighting on Smoker.

“Commodore Smoker, I presume,” the Rear Admiral said in rich, smooth tenor.

“Rear Admiral Glacé.” Smoker didn’t bother saluting, and his voice sounded like a growling wolf’s in comparison. “This is — ”

He side-stepped Smoker as if he hadn’t said a word. “And this fetching creature must be Lady Oxley Noa,” said the Rear Admiral, white-gloved hands reaching for woman in question. Glacé dipped a bow, heels clicking together smartly. “A delight to meet you, my Lady. I am Glacé Felix, Rear Admiral and commander of G-4’s highest ranking military unit.”

“Charmed,” Oxley said, “I’m sure.”

Ever the graceful Lady, she extended her hand. The Rear Admiral took it in his own and kissed her knuckles, thin lips pressing softly against the bandages upon them. Oxley smiled back, unflinching. Smoker’s hands balled into fists. The pair of them together painted a pretty picture, he grudgingly admitted. A tightness spreading in his chest, accompanied by a deep, burning inhale on his cigar — 

Tashigi was not there, but he could practically hear her mutter, “Steady.”

Smoker released the breath, a plume of ash rising to the moon.

READ THE REST OF CHAPTER 7 on AO3!

[carryonthroughtheages]

Hello friends and history lovers!

Another year of Carry On Through The Ages is over and done! I am so happy with success this year has had. Every year, I am blown away by how amazing this little community is. We are a small event, but we are so supportive and loving of each other.

It has been an absolute joy to watch the Discord server so active every single day, with people talking about their research and their projects. Watching as they gained support and encouragement from other history nerds. It was everything I could have hoped for when I first started this fest four years ago. So, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, everyone who participated, whether it was as a creator, or support, or researcher. You all helped to make COTTA 2023 a continued success.

Under the page break, you will find individual links to the fics and art that were created this year for COTTA. They are INCREDIBLE, and I highly encourage you all to read them.

Here is the link to the AO3 Collection: Carry On Through The Ages 2023!

Until next year, love you all!

BazzyBelle 🧡

Monday

Blood, Salt & Hummingbirds (T) - @hushed-chorus : AO3 // tumblr

Simon is lucky to survive when his ship is wrecked, even if it left him stranded on a desert island. But he's not the only one who escaped. The ship's mysterious cargo, the creature in the box, also made it to shore. What hope does Simon have when a vampire is lurking in the island's wooded interior? But the monster is not what it seems, and if they are to survive, they need to work together. And maybe they can do more than survive. Maybe they can thrive.

Fifty Names For A Cat (T) - @hushed-chorus : AO3 // tumblr

Simon and Baz are settling into their new life, getting Pitch Manor in working order and preparing to move to their cottage on the moor. Meanwhile, a certain cat is adjusting to his new life.

Tuesday

The Trails We Blaze (M) - @j-nipper-95 : AO3 // tumblr

Simon and Baz have been through a lot together. Growing up as criminals on London's streets; surviving the Great War; dealing with a lot of repressed feelings. But after their latest con goes wrong, they're left with nothing but an ancient map, a signet ring of unknown provenance or value, and promises of a city that doesn't even exist. Thrust into a world of adventure with danger at every turn, they're forced to decide how far they're willing to go for a myth, a fortune, and a chance at love.

The Snow Fox (E) - @aristocratic-otter : AO3 // tumblr

Simon "Snow" Salisbury is the most wanted patriot in the American Revolution. Wanted by the British army, who want to see him hanged. Wanted by the Tories, who'd shoot him on sight, given the chance. And wanted by Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.

Wednesday

Lavender Hearts (M) - @aroace-genderfluid-sheep : AO3 // tumblr

America, 1950s. Queer people are fired left and right, friends lose their jobs daily--and sometimes, their lives. Simon and Baz are caught in the middle of it all with a homophobic father and an unconventional (in more than one way) relationship, terrified out of their minds but unwilling to give up the fight. They'll fight for years if they have to. They'll fight for decades. But even the strongest wills can be broken with the hardest of blows.

An 1800s daguerreotype photograph art piece created by the amazing @samalander01 : tumblr

Thursday

Shoulder To Shoulder, Hand To Hand (M) - @wellbelesbian : AO3 // tumblr

Britain, 1984. Across the country, miners go on strike against pit closures. With the government, police and media set against them and no end in sight, they and their families begin to feel the strain. In London, Simon Snow recognises a familiar struggle, and decides to do something, while closeted Baz Pitch just wants to get out of the house and be among his community for a day. What starts as a few collection buckets at a pride march soon becomes an organisation, and a bond is forged between the lesbians and gay men of London and a village of miners and their families in South Wales. But Simon has a past he's trying to outrun, and Baz is trying to live a double life. Both boys have secrets and shame, but if they want to make it through together, they'll have to find their pride.

A beautiful Galatea/Pygmalion-inspired water colour piece by the wonderful @ic3-que3n : tumblr

Friday

Safe Harbour (M) - @snowbaz-parentis : AO3 // tumblr

It all started on an island... It's 1956, and Baz Pitch is existentially lost in New York City. After graduating from Columbia, he's working for a wedding photographer with no taste as he avoids his inevitable fall attendance at Yale Law School, his father's alma mater. All Baz wants to do is be a fashion photographer, and when an opportunity to assist a famous photographer out on Fire Island falls in his lap, it just may be the key to helping unlock him from the closet of his family's expectations. It's 1956, and Simon Snow is wondering if there's more to life than this or if this is as good as it gets. He's been working in construction with his foster father, David Cadwallader, practically ever since he was taken in at age 13, but there's something beyond the water that's calling for him. When Davy offers Simon a chance to manage his family's rental properties for the summer in Cherry Grove on Fire Island, Simon jumps at the chance to finally take charge of something. What Baz and Simon didn't expect: the sense of freedom that comes from being able to absolutely surrender to the truest version of yourself, and the choices you have to make when it happens.

Costly Colours - A Precious Bane AU (M) - twigs_in_my_hair : AO3

In the aftermath of the Napoleonic wars Baz is being groomed by his aunt to be a physician. Tired of the farming life, Fiona would like to set up shop in town with her sister’s herbal remedies and her nephew settled down with his mentor’s lovely daughter and a fine degree hung on the wall. But first the family must toil and scrimp and save to raise the funds. And what if this is not the future Baz longs for? And what if the townsfolk won’t let go of their superstitions and petty grudges towards this family marked by tragedy? Does the handsome young weaver have all the answers?

[mayullla]

Artifact Set (Yan!ver): Torched Limerence Set

Flower: Beloved's Blazed Bloom

Feather: Beloved's Scorched Feather

Sands: Beloved's Scaled Clock

Goblet: Beloved's Charred Goblet

Circlet: Beloved's Smoldering Earings

Set Bonuses

2 Piece: Pyro DMG Bonus +15 They fall in love and if already in loved their love increases a certain amount to insanity.

4 Piece: When a character ---- Similar to how a small flame is lit will slowly become bigger if left unchecked. The character would slowly be becoming madly in love with their target that they could not think about anything than them. What was once innocent will slowly turn into mania as time goes on and the love is not returned.

How to Obtain

Source 1: Found in a domain at Monstade Source 2: Rarely found in chests.

Artifact Lore

An artifact set of a lover's infatuation that burned so bright it burned many people to ashes. A story about a woman falling in love with a man she could not attain so obsessively that at his wedding she torched her mansion burning her and the people within it.

Flower: Beloved's Blazed Bloom

This flower was the start of the obsession it was pure luck when the maiden saw her beloved face for the first filled with blossoms. She remembers the red flowers blooming around her and thought that it was faith. She took one and encased it to prevent the memory from forever rotting.

Feather: Beloved's Scorched Feather

A feather that belonged to a dove in the wedding of her beloved, the one who walked that aisle was not her but another woman. Running away she could not bare her anguish and late at night with a candle she lit the curtains on fire quietly watching as the dancing fire quickly consumed her entirety leaving not even her farewell letter to the man. What she hoped in the future was that if she would ever love again she would forever consume her lover with fire together her.

Sands: Beloved's Charred Clock

What was supposed to be a gift from the maiden to the man was shoved away as the man looked upon her with disgust and annoyance. He was tired of her adorations and told her to leave him. Heartbroken she still kept the clock closer to her in a special box hoping that one day this present that she so painstakingly picked would finally be lovingly accepted by the man.

Goblet: Beloved's Chipped Goblet

The maiden is known to be the fairest in the nation many men tried their hands at winning her heart yet many failed to capture it. The world was cruel as the maiden fell in love with the one who didn't love her. Their relationship could have been something beautiful as the maiden's heart was once clear but as she tried and tried, it slowly tainted into something ugly. As she grabbed the man's chest begging him to love her just as she loved him she was instead pushed away. This goblet was on his hand when it happened in the middle of a party and was thrown and forgotten only to be picked up by the maiden who was mocked by everyone in the banquet hall.

Circlet: Beloved's Smoldering Earrings

The pain was unbearable as the fire licked her skin and burned her dress. As she looked at the moon from the window of her room, the curtains burned brightly. She always thought that the moor was the brightest thing in the night but her thought changed as she thought that fire was brighter and closer than the moon that was so far away. Rather than be lonely like the moon so far away she thought that this would be the better end, numbed to the physical pain her heart too broken sleep quickly took her as she promised that she would never love again.

"No that would be too sad... If I ever fall in love again I would love them to the point it is like fire consuming the both of us."

What was left of her after the fire finally died down were these glass earrings. What was once hollow inside the glass orbs now has flaming ambers that never vanquished.

Note: Lowkey this was a random urge to write kind of thing. But still, hope you like it! Also thank you @nicebonescomrades as she had helped me with naming and gave me ideas for this post too!

[eldritchlibertine]

Threshold of Darkness 

Ever since I started rewatching Apocalypse, my fic-writer brain seems to have woken up from it's very long coma and now I have the urge to write all the things. And I want to. So I did. But I'm also nervous, because I haven't written for pleasure in 15 years. So I'm posting this before I get cold feet. So #yolo I guess.

Pairing: Michael Langdon/Reader | Michael Langdon & Cordelia Goode

Summary: One month into his tenure at the Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men, Michael Langdon's extraordinary powers capture the attention of John Henry Moore, who senses a disturbing depth to Michael's abilities that goes beyond normal warlock prowess. Concerned, John Henry reaches out to Cordelia, before Ariel can push for Michael to undertake the test of the Seven Wonders. In response, Cordelia brings Michael to Miss Robichaux's Academy, aiming to better understand and guide his potent abilities. Under her watchful eye, Michael begins to explore the extents of his powers, but as they dig deeper, the line between control and chaos blurs.

John Henry Moore was chilled.

It wasn’t a physical chill - not with the fire that was currently blazing behind the blonde boy currently seated in front of them. No, it was a chill in his bones. An overwhelming sense of wrongness - of danger.

He’d been chilled since he’d seen that video more than a month ago - heard the snapping of that man’s bones, his stark plea of "help me" before his head exploded. He suppressed a shudder. No, it wasn’t a physical chill. Ariel believed that the boy, Michael Langdon, was a warlock - a powerful one. John Henry wasn’t so sure. He’d never seen power like that in a warlock.

And now, Michael sat before them, ready to be evaluated. John Henry thought it was a mistake, and had said as much, but he might as well have been talking to a wall.

“Now that you've had time to settle,” Ariel said to his right, “and you've immersed yourself in the study of magic here at the coven, it's time to evaluate and see where you stand.”

Though his pleas for prudence - a little circumspection - had gone unheeded so far, he gave it one last shot. “Normally,” he said pointedly, “this would happen at the end of the first year.”

Michael’s brow furrowed slightly. “I’ve only been here a month.” As he had since he arrived, in every interaction John Henry had had with him, he spoke softly - calmly. No indication of the raw, dark power that had been so evident in that cell.

It was Behold who answered him, obviously just as keen as Ariel was for this boy to help them take their rightful place. “Well, seeing your progress, we feel justified in accelerating the process.”

He suppressed a scoff, and as Ariel explained the test, and his ridiculous theory about the Alpha warlock, he mulled over his own concerns, and the deep sense of foreboding that had settled over him. Though he knew the boy had power, he wasn’t convinced that it was anything like the powers they knew. Maybe he wouldn’t even be able to pass these tests. He hoped he couldn’t.

Scrying was first, and his hope sputtered out almost instantly as Michael not only pulled the name of the book he was looking for directly from Baldwin’s mind, but pulled it just as easily from the mirror itself. Disturbing.

Behold called it impressive, but he called it what it was. “Troubling.” At this, the smile dropped from Michael’s face.

Next was transmutation - salire per spatium - and again, Michael seemed to have no trouble. John Henry’s unease ratcheted up another notch as Michael’s voice drifted down from where he was clinging to the ceiling like something out of a horror movie. “You want me to dust up here.”

When Ariel had first shown him that horrible video of Michael’s powers, he’d said “demonic possession” and the others had scoffed, desperate for their Alpha warlock who would help them to supplant the Supreme and take their rightful place. Maybe now they would see that something was very, very wrong here.

But no.

Last was stiricidium -  the ability to manipulate the weather through water molecules present in the atmosphere. As he explained the concept, John Henry couldn’t help but notice the first traces of uncertainty on the boys face. Slowly, he moved to stand, deep in thought, his fingers going to his mouth in a nervous gesture. After a moments thought, he raised one hand, fingers moving fluidly and gracefully despite his obvious nerves.

And then the first flakes of snow began to form. He raised his other arm then, calling the snow to fall and a boyish, exultant smile to break over his face.

The others began to chuckle next to him, exclaiming their wonder, but all John Henry could feel was unease. They didn’t notice the boy go rigid - his eyes roll back into his head leaving only the whites exposed. But John Henry did, only a moment before Michael flung his arms to the side and sapped every ounce of heat from the room, killing the fire instantly. The room had gone dark, and their breath billowed in white clouds in front of them. Michael seemed to be in a trance - rigid, arms outstretched, trembling.

Ariel’s sudden cry of “ENOUGH!” seemed to shatter the hold of whatever was happening, and Michael’s eyes snapped open, blood pouring from his nose. He didn’t drop his arms.

No one spoke. No one moved. No one breathed.

Until Michael brought his fingers to his face, gingerly feeling the blood there as it dripped over his lips. He looked shaken. Distraught.

His voice cracked and wavered as he spoke then, brow furrowed and eyes shining - “I’m sorry.” It came out almost like a gasp. “I didn’t know that was inside me.” He doubled over slightly, breathing deeply and still trembling.

Ariel, blind to whatever distress the boy was feeling, just walked over and placed a hand on his cheek, not even bothering to hide his excitement.

“You're testing your wings. Once you're fully in control of your powers you'll have the confidence to soar.”

Michael still hadn’t dropped his hand from his where it had touched at the blood at his nose, and Ariel’s words didn’t seem to comfort him at all. Briefly, he locked eyes with John Henry, and whatever he saw there must have given him pause, because he gave himself a little shake and re-focused on Ariel as he said, “Thank you for your spirited participation Michael. You’ve given us a lot to consider.”

The other warlocks swiftly left the room, leaving Michael there, still trembling and looking for all the world like a lost and frightened little boy - not someone who, mere moments ago, had nearly killed them.

Ariel was right. This had given them a lot to consider. John Henry considered leaving the warlocks to their delusion that Michael was the Alpha warlock - considered letting things play out as Ariel saw fit. But no. He’d been correct in his initial assessment.- Michael’s power, as great as it may be, was too dark and volatile. He was dangerous, and the other warlocks were too blinded by their own ambitions to see it. Too eager to take what they thought was their rightful place. Too eager to usurp the Supreme.

No. He couldn’t leave Michael in the care of these power-hungry idiots. There was something more at play here - Michael was more than just a powerful warlock.

As he strode purposefully towards his office, he thought back to the way Michael’s eyes had rolled backwards in his head, how his body had gone stiff. Maybe demonic possession wasn’t that outlandish of a theory. When had come back to himself, he had looked genuinely afraid.

Either way, the warlocks were not capable of handling this correctly. Before he could second-guess himself, he fired off an email to the only person who could.

The Supreme.

[derangedrhythms]

[…] bleak, wind-swept fens and moors; empty fields with broken walls and gates hanging off their hinges; a black, ruined church; an open grave; a suicide buried at a lonely crossroads; a fire of bones blazing in the twilit snow […]

Susanna Clarke, from ‘Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell’

[noweakergirl]

Also ivy for Heathcliff and Catherine but in a different sense as if the narrator of the song wasn't seeking a relationship but the company of this person whom her husband hates. And also then the 'clover blooms in the field' part could be when Catherine and Heathcliff would escape into the moors as kids away from Hindley but being scared "what would he do if he found us out" and "so yeah it's a fire it's a goddamn blaze in the dark and you started it" could be sooo Heathcliff after his last conversation with Catherine when she dies jsgsgsggsgsgsg

Now wait a minute....................................

WAIT

OH MY GOD

OH LORD

YES??????????? YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!! plus that song on its own gives classical literature vibe!

No, but you are 100% right and my mind is blown. Heathcliff was ivy of Catherine's life (and vice versa). He *was* growing on her house of stone. She *was* covered in him. I'm actually fangirling now because ivy from THEIR perspective perfectly shows the obsessivness and wilderness of their relationship. Especially since both Cathy and Heathcliff were considered wild (untamed), and now you're telling me that ivy grows on their stone houses AKA NATURE IS TAKING CONTROL as it should have a long time ago? YES

[contremineur]

all the birds have come to this bancal on the high path between Sóller and Deia built stone on stone by Moors a thousand years ago for olives, oranges and carob in February they are feeding the fires and flames catch the leaves and blaze almost to the arms of the man who settles the twigs it could be my father who still makes fire run through things but here they are remaking the old cutting and burning the ripe wood leaving young shoots on gnarled trunks the voice of the chainsaw echoes in valleys smoke hangs high and drifts the terraces are held against the mountain by the dead and the living their hands their muscles the salt of their skin at dusk the mountains shift to grey layers of rock are smoke and mist and the sound of the chainsaw stops just this spade and this pick scraping making the little difference and underfoot the cloudy cyclamen and by the side the dark-leaved aromatic myrtle

Sarah Howe, Underfoot

Another one cut and pasted (or laboriously typed out) in my virtual commonplace book years ago – any thoughts on source or better credits much appreciated...

[maelstrom007]

Malcontent

A look into Mal's origin story, my oc from @ghouljams cod Fae!au.

Warnings: Child in distress, and risk of drowning. The child doesn't actually drown, and the situation is resolved by the end.

In the moment, it didn’t occur to Maeve how sad it was that she was the only person struck with a sense of urgency at the noise coming from the well. No, it took her several days before the anguish, anger, and despair properly took her body and froze it stone cold. But we’re not there yet. We’re here in the now. And right now, there is a haunting, bone chilling wailing emanating from the well. 

Maeve nearly falls in herself with how quickly she runs, pail forgotten as she peers over the edge. The desperate sound of a child’s scream echoes off of the stone walls and pierces her ears. But it’s the sight of the small child, face contorted in fear and confusion as it tries to find purchase on the wet stone that truly breaks her. 

“Shhh, sweetheart. Ye’re alright, I’ll get you out don’t ye worry,” Maeve called down, calm and steady. 

Unfortunately the communal bucket and rope were down the well with the child, who most likely pulled the free end of the rope out of its temporary mooring in an attempt to climb out. There would never be a time where Maeve was happiest to be a crafter, pulling a long length of cordage from her rucksack and tying a large loop on one end of it. When she was done she tossed it down, keeping a firm grip on the free end. 

Over the continued panicking cries of the child she yelled, “Put your legs through and rest the loop under your bum sweet thing. Now grab the rope and hold tight.” 

Fear and determination fuelled Maeve as she heaved, struggling against the weight of a sopping wet child as she slowly pulled them out of the well. There was a brief moment of terror where her hands slipped on the second half of the cordage that had become wet when it landed in the water. Despite the burning feeling of rough and woody fiber pulling through her palms she held fast, regaining her grip and pulling with all her strength. Bright red hair peaked over the edge of the well, and Maeve desperately held the tension in the cord with one hand  as she reached out with the other, scooping up the child into her arms. They latched onto her like a leech, nearly squeezing the life out of her as they cried into her neck. 

“There there, I’ve got ye now. Don’ worry a thing lovely,” she murmured, wrapping the child in her cloak, the bright yellow accompanying the mop of fiery red hair nicely. 

By the time they walked home, the child had settled down somewhat in her arms, no longer crying the blood curdling scream from earlier, but still shouting and bawling something fierce. Out from the front door rushed her daughter, long flaxen hair streaming behind her as she came to investigate. 

“Ma, who’s this?”, she said, poking at the bundle in her arms.

“I haven’t a clue darling, But first, let's get them warmed up. Feed the fire will you Niamh.”

Maeve sat in front of the fire, cradling the bundle in her arms as Niamh set it blazing hot. She cooed, humming under her breath and rocking gently. Niamh sat down next to her, watching intently as the child continued to cry, but said nothing. They sat there so long that her daughter fell asleep on her shoulder, snoring gently. And still they cried, and still Maeve soothed, all the way until the morning dawn. Only then, did the cries turn to sniffles, until finally they stopped completely. 

“There we are,” she murmured, “feeling better darling?”

Pulling away from Maeve's shoulder, the child finally turned to face her for the first time, face still scrunched tight and wet with tears. 

“Come now, relax,” she gently brushed her fingers over the child’s face, soothing worry lines and wrinkles until their face was lax and still in her hands. 

“Open your eyes wee thing.” 

Now, there were plenty of things Maeve was expecting, such as brown or maybe even blue eyes to peer back at her with the whites bloodshot and red from the river of tears. 

What she was not expecting was the set of four large, perfectly circular black eyes staring back at her. To her credit, she did not flinch or otherwise spook at the sight, peculiar though it was. At that point in time, all she was concerned about was making sure the poor thing was alright. 

The next thing that happened though, she did startle at. The child began to squirm, turning their head this way and that desperately in search of something. It wasn’t until they spotted Niamh did they stop their search, going stock still as they looked upon her daughter. Almost imperceptibly, the child pivoted their head at multiple angles, as if they were studying her. Then, their outline began to blur into the surrounding air, as if looking at a mirage on a hot day. Suddenly, they came back into crystal clear focus, except now in the shape of her sleeping daughter. 

Maeve’s eyes widened in shock, arms squeezing slightly at the new development. Had she had too much to drink? Was this some elaborate nightmare? But the more she looked, the more she saw the differences. For a start their hair was still shockingly red as ever, but there were other things too. The mole was on the wrong side, and the scar across the brow Niamh had gotten as a toddler was missing, and a multitude of other small discrepancies revealed the poor attempt at what Maeve assumed was blending in. 

She’d heard about creatures like this. Faeries swapping a human child with their own, tormenting their new family until it drove them into destitution and ruin. The child's eyes were still large and black, although seemingly reduced from four to two in the mimicking attempt. How could anyone believe that those eyes wished them harm? Staring up trustingly at her, completely at her mercy. She could have let them drown, or tossed them into the hot fire, and yet it trusted her not to. 

“Do you have a name?” She wondered aloud. Just as she wondered if they knew how to talk, the child spoke. 

“My name is Malcontent,” they whispered, thankfully not in Niamh’s voice. Maeve didn’t know if she could keep it together if they did. 

Pity crossed her features, “What a terrible name for a child. We should change it to something more pleasant.”

“NO!” Malcontent screamed, face contorted in anger, “My name is Malcontent!” 

The irony of the situation did not escape her, “Why would your parents give you such a name?” 

Like a switch, anger was replaced with sadness, “My parents didn’t give me that name. The ones they left me with gave it to me. Kept saying how I couldn’t be their child cause their angel was never as unhappy and angry as I was. I just wanted to go home. But I don’t know how.”

Maeve listened intently, tears poking at the corners of her eyes, “You sure have a lot of words for a child so small.” To that, Malcontent had no response, so she continued, “It was unfair of them to give you such a burdening name. Names have power, and what else could you do but be upset and angry and sad being called something like Malcontent all day?”

“But I was sad and angry and upset before them. And I always will be,” they mutter determinedly. 

Maeve made one last attempt, “I think you should consider trying another name for a while. See how it feels?”

“Fine. But I don’t know many names.” they scowled, as if inconvenienced by the fact that Maeve was trying to save them from the most upsetting name she had ever heard. 

She paused, thinking of the options. There were a multitude of names to choose from, many of which could be a fitting and pleasant name to bear. However, it also felt wrong to completely wash over and erase a part of this child's history and experiences. 

“How about Mal?”

[thebestoftragedy]

some things I highlighted in jane eyre

Though it was now dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him fulminating strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of water.

&

‘In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane Eyre?’ he demanded.

&

I looked, and had an acute pleasure in looking – a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold, with a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing man might feel who knows the well to which he has crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts nevertheless.

&

'You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this – if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the new.’

&

All I had now to do was to obey him in silence: no need for me to colloquise further. I got over the stile without a word, and meant to leave him calmly. An impulse held me fast – a force turned me round. I said – or something in me said for me, and in spite of me – ‘Thank you, Mr Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to get back again to you; and wherever you are is my home – my only home.’

&

Is this my pale little elf? Is this my mustard-seed? This little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes?’ (I had green eyes, reader; but you must excuse the mistake: for him they were new-dyed, I suppose.)

&

And then there are other chances in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving: this is solid, an affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its associations are solid and sober, and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss with a solemn brow.

&

‘But I apprised you that I was a hard man,’ said he, ‘difficult to persuade.’ ‘And I am a hard woman – impossible to put off.’ ‘And then,’ he pursued, ‘I am cold: no fervour infects me.’ ‘Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there has thawed all the snow from your cloak; by the same token, it has streamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled street. As you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr Rivers, the high crime and misdemeanour of spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish to know.’

&

‘Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues! Sisters? Yes; slaving amongst strangers! I, wealthy – gorged with gold I never earned and do not merit! You, penniless! Famous equality and fraternisation! Close union! Intimate attachment!’

&

‘My first aim will be to clean down (do you comprehend the full force of the expression?) – to clean down Moor House from chamber to cellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair, table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I shall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on which your sisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising of other culinary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you.

&

‘Let us rest here,’ said St John, as we reached the first stragglers of the battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, still a little farther, the mountain shook off turf and flower, had only heath for raiment and crag for gem – where it exaggerated the wild to the savage, and exchanged the fresh for the frowning – where it guarded the forlorn hope of solitude, and a last refuge for silence.

[darkspeardrifter]

A little trivia contribution to the latest post of the WA Boss Poll @littleeyesofpallas surrounding Lord Blazer.

The "demon" known as Lord Blazer is referred to in-game as the "Blaze of Disaster", and the "Disaster" part of his title ties into his origins, which are not explained properly without official Japanese guides.

To put it simply, Lord Blazer is a Disaster, an antithesis to the Guardians of the series; If the Guardians are the powers that sustain the world, then a Disaster is a power that destroys it. Furthermore, Disasters grow stronger via negative emotions and feelings, much like how faith in the Guardians is a factor of how they can be potentially strengthened.

Supplementary material reveals that Lord Blazer was born from a pair of wings that fell off of Moor Gault, the Guardian of Fire, and it is evident due to the presence of black wings attached to his head. Additionally, Lord Blazer's appearance influences other Disasters within the series, namely the Disasters fought in Nightmare Castle in WA3.

This tiny bit of additional trivia may not have been worth mentioning, but I find it interesting that art of Lord Blazer depicts him as having no face, while the model in-game does the opposite, showing him with a smile and maybe a nose, yet never showing any eyes as that area is covered in shadow.

And he has hair in the back, too.

[natlacentral]

Elizabeth Yu Surrounds Herself With Fan Art

The corseted leather armor Elizabeth Yu wears on Avatar: The Last Airbender is what really transformed her into Princess Azula, the show’s cut-throat, fire-bending, conniving villain. The costume snapped Yu’s posture into place while filming, keeping her back straight as she stomped onto set while listening to a playlist that included “Maneater” by Nelly Furtado. “Walking around with that playing in your ear, how could you not feel like the baddest bitch in the room?” the 21-year-old actress tells the Cut from her apartment in New York, which she shares with three cats and her boyfriend, Stranger Things’ Gaten Matarazzo. “I couldn’t really relax back into my own body language.”

On the original Peabody-winning animated series, the blue-fire-shooting character of Azula doesn’t actually appear until the second season. In the highly anticipated live-action adaptation, which premiered February 22 on Netflix, we get to know more about Azula behind the scenes while Aang and his crew fly around the world training to take down her father, Fire Lord Ozai (Daniel Dae Kim). “We’re laying a foundation for her to jump off of,” Yu says of the earlier-than-expected introduction to her character. After filming Avatar when she was 19, Yu went on to appear in the critically acclaimed film May December, in which she plays Mary Atherton-Yoo, one of three children raised by two controversial parents (Julianne Moore and Charles Melton).

Below, Yu shares the advice Melton offered on set that she follows to this day as the young actress blazes her own path in Hollywood.

Were you a fan of the original Avatar: The Last Airbender series before auditioning for this role?

I was one of those kids who was only allowed to watch Disney Channel and Nickelodeon. So I would watch all the reruns, but I didn’t actually see it all the way through until the audition process. Growing up you see it as a children’s cartoon so there are all these zany adventures, but then actually watching all the way through I was like, This is actually so good. There are a lot of lessons that you can take through your whole life.

It feels to me, as an outsider, that we’re in a breakthrough moment for Asian representation in media. Are you feeling that shift in the opportunities coming your way as a young actor?

Hopefully! I’m really lucky to just be starting in this sort of new era of Asian representation. It’s also so amazing to be able to work with actors who were the ones to lay out that sort of format that we are now able to play with. I’m reminded of it every single day I go to work through new auditions that I’m getting and seeing new movies. Past Lives was groundbreaking for me. Here’s this movie that is probably 75 percent in Korean, but it’s so American. And it’s a love story that everyone can relate to with a female Asian lead. That and Everything Everywhere All at Once — it’s healing the little Asian girl in me.

Moving onto our Taste Test — Where do you get your best culture recommendations from?

I follow a lot of Asian artists and creators on Instagram. There’s this new band Wasia Project I’ve been listening to a lot recently. I’m also half-white, half-Korean, so following mixed-race artists is really cool. Trying to surround myself with Asian creatives is a huge part of why I love doing what I do. I also like to keep up with Michelle Zauner, Bailey Bass, David Iacono, a lot of my actor friends. And Daniel Dae Kim!

Which celebrities, dead or alive, would you invite to a dinner party?

Beyoncé. Everyone loves Beyoncé. Michelle Yeoh, Michelle Obama, William Shakespeare, and Stephen Sondheim.

What’s the last meal you cooked for dinner?

I made a leftover risotto kind of thing two days ago. I had leftover rice and a bunch of vegetables in my fridge: broccoli, peas, corn, celery, onions. I boiled the leftover rice in chicken stock and added heavy cream to it. It’s actually really good.

What is your pre-filming ritual? 

I make a playlist for every character that I play. I had to make a good Azula playlist because I needed a hype up before I walked on set. Eminem’s “Without Me” is on there, that one was really helpful. There’s also “Feel Good Inc.” by Gorillaz, “Maneater” by Nelly Furtado, and “Pride” by Kendrick Lamar. I’m pretty proud of the playlist actually.

What’s your comfort rewatch?

I love rewatching movies. I watch Perks of Being a Wallflower a lot, Call Me By Your Name, The Breakfast Club. My favorite movie of all time is Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I’ll throw it back on if I’m feeling uninspired.

What’s the best piece of gossip you’ve ever heard?

When Solange slapped Jay-Z in the elevator. If I could travel through space and time and be in one place it would be in that elevator. I’ve done a deep dive on TikTok and YouTube of like, Here’s everything that was leading up to that moment and what could have been said. I love that pop-culture moment. I think it’s absolutely iconic.

Favorite game to play?

I just recently started getting into video games. This is a new development from the strike, just being home not doing anything. I started playing Hogwarts Legacy. Fuck J.K. Rowling, but I loved it. I started playingBaldur’s Gate, the Dungeons & Dragons game. I spent months and months finishing that game. I’m on the final boss now but I don’t want to finish it, it’s so good.

What music do you listen to when you’re alone?

I listen to a lot of movie soundtracks. Jon Brion’s soundtracks are really good, he did Lady Bird. I like a lot of the A24 soundtracks. I like romantic, sad music. I don’t know why. I’ll play it while I’m cleaning or cooking.

Name a book you couldn’t put down?

Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner. Actually I had to put that down because it was too sad, but I’m picking it back up. I blew through The Woman in Me by Britney Spears. It’s a pretty easy read, but it’s so interesting to see her perspective of everything we were seeing in pop culture. I’m also reading Call Me by Your Name by André Aciman right now, it’s really good.

What’s the best advice you’ve ever received?

The best advice I ever received was from Charles Melton. When we were filming May December, he was constantly offering me advice and mentoring. I filmed Avatar first, but this was my first big movie, it’s the first time I’m doing all this stuff. And he was just like: “Whatever career decisions you’re facing, follow what you want to do, not what you think you should do, or what everyone else is telling you that you should do — and you’ll never regret a decision.” That was really helpful.

What about bad advice?

I can’t think of bad advice I’ve been given. Probably because when I hear bad advice I’m like Yeah, okay, let me expel that from my memory.

Favorite piece of art you own?

I live with my boyfriend and he gets a lot of cool fan art that he collects. He was on Broadway last year and got a lot of fan art from that. So we have that sporadically around our apartment. We have to keep it around because it’s so good! There’ll be little paintings of him and his cast members or like, bracelets that people have made him.

What show is your boyfriend not allowed to watch without you?

We’re currently watching Mr. & Mrs. Smith and he is not allowed to watch that until he comes back home and sits down to watch with me. Once I heard that Maya and Donald were doing it, I was like, This is going be my whole personality, I have to watch this. And it is now my whole personality.

What would your last meal be?

A mixture of guilty-pleasure foods. Raising Cane’s, and I’m notoriously known for my obsession with Applebee’s breadsticks and Alfredo sauce. Oh and my boyfriend makes bomb-ass Kraft mac ’n’ cheese.