#i need to deck him out in jewelry more often. i think its very fitting. he probably had a designated Holy Jeweler/Goldsmith/Silversmith

[infernal-lamb]

Loving the amount of cunt you embedded into that squid 🐙

LOL, i'm glad that came across at least?? Honestly, despite the veneer of uselessness and cowardice, I think Kallamar is a bit venomous and a bastard! But only when he isn't being humbled by his siblings (probably Heket and Narinder. He's a big baby loser to them!)....but also: fear can make someone very vicious. like a cornered animal. (I am justifying why Kallamar was so hard for me to kill. ignore that. NO IT WASN'T A SKILL ISSUE!!!)

He'll pick on Leshy because Leshy is much more....insecure abt their position as the youngest Bishop heh

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: III

“You can have me tonight or never

I thought you understood

Baby, some people are meant to be loved and others just naked

So take what I’m willing to give, love it or hate it.”

—Wrong, Zayn and Kehlani

A/N: alright SO!!!! the original part 3 ended up being at the cusp of 50k words (because i have no self control) and that is a LOT to read in one go so it’s getting split into parts 3 and 4! which means!! double update laidese and germs!!!! part 4 will be posted this SUNDAY, AUGUST 16th at 5PM PST/8PM EST :D we hope you enjoy this chapter, feedback is greatly appreciated, and please please PLEASE!!! if you like it, reblog it!!! and if you want, go nuts in the tags!! every single one is read!!! it keeps content creators motivated 💌leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ took the liberty of making an incredible playlist to go along with our story, so feel free to check it out and see if you can find any clues as to what’s in store for the characters 👀without further delay, here she is...buckle up 👁👁this is gonna be quite the ride

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

word count: 24.2k

content/warnings: cheeky banter over texts, The Crew dragging Niall to shit, more banter over a glass of cheap wine, vampire!harry showing up to “interior design” sessions looking like a runway model, some fwb smut, degradation kink, very mild mentions of blood, and some ugly tapestries that somehow lead to sexting

///

Y/N definitely puts Harry’s number to good use. Very good use.

In fact, during the span of the next month or so, Harry reckons that she pulls up his contact on her phone so often that she probably has him listed on speed dial. The assumption is dramatic and probably incorrect, on behalf of his arrogance, but with how much time they start spending together, it’s hardly a stretch.  

It all begins exactly a week after their first time meeting. 

Harry still hates clubs. 

He hates them more than he did last week. He hates them more than he did yesterday, more than he did this morning, and even more than he did a minute ago. He fucking despises them. 

And yet, as Harry stands here before the mirror in his enormous double-sink bathroom, fiddling with his damp hair as his flouncy dress shirt hangs unbuttoned from his broad shoulders, he’s absolutely positive he has never hated clubs more than right now. 

Niall got to pick the venue this time. He’d texted his choice in the groupchat (which is respectfully named Dinner Plans) about four hours ago, making sure to get the word out decently early so that everyone could start making their preparations, all in order for the crew to be on the move by nine P.M. 

It’s now nine thirty-seven, and everyone is fully set to leave at the agreed upon hour. Everyone except Harry. 

This, however, is not uncommon. He’s always the one that takes the longest to get ready, no matter how soon he starts. No one can remember an instance where Harry has ever been ready on time— which says a lot, considering most of the gang has years of memories from which they can pull. Mitch especially. With almost a century of friendship behind them, not once has the older vampire ever seen Harry stick to a deadline. His flare for being fashionably late is less a flare, and moreso an irritating burn. It always throws off their game a bit, but at this point, everyone has gotten used to the seemingly young vampire’s theatrics. 

So on this Friday night, there isn’t much more to do other than mold to his habits; Harry answers to no one except himself and it’s been that way for decades now, for a reason he’d rather not reminisce. He doesn’t owe anything to anyone, especially since he’s the one that always takes charge of getting them where they need to go, as well as getting them inside said destination. Complaining about their leader wouldn’t do the gang any good for a number of reasons, especially because Harry rarely ever listens. It is what it is— he’s just the way he is, and they’ve all learned to live with and respect that.

The funny thing? Harry does it on purpose, though his friends aren’t aware of it. He drags out the process of getting prepared simply so he can put off having to step inside one of those circus acts people refer to as clubs. He goes as slow as possible and does as much as possible, spreading seconds into minutes, and maybe— if he’s insistent enough and feeling particularly pesky— an hour. His record is an hour and twenty-eight minutes, which he wears with pride, much to his group’s unamusement. 

Harry knows no one will ever say anything about his annoying tendencies, unless they’re willing to volunteer themselves to take the reins for the night. Vampires are alert and productive, but only when they want to be— which is usually only when it benefits them— and only if they can muster up the patience for it. And frankly, none of the creatures he associates with have the patience required to deal with security, driving, and other obstacles the way Harry does. He’s indispensable, and therefore, everyone puts up with his shit. Quid pro quo has never been more effective. 

So here Harry stands, now thirty-eight minutes past the original time sorted for departure, carefully combing volumizing mousse into his slightly wet curls and spinning each ringlet around his index finger to give them the definition and bounce he’s so well-known for. Here he is, finishing up his post-shower routine as all of his friends mill around downstairs in his living room, waiting for him to come down so they can pack into his car and head out for the weekly hunt at whatever establishment has been deemed fit for the night. And here he is, taking his sweet time so he can be the signature pain in the ass that everyone hates to love. 

Once Harry has thoroughly coated all of his hair with the fluffy white cream, he pulls out his hair-dryer from the cabinet below his sink, snapping its accompanying diffuser into place and flipping his head upside down. He carefully scrunches his curls to his roots with the attachment, moving in thoughtful circles as he hums to the rhythm of a song he can’t be bothered to remember the name of. Staring down at his polished jet black heeled boots, he absentmindedly taps against the porcelain ground to the beat of the music, sighing wistfully as warm air circulates its way across his scalp. 

Harry turns his shoes to the side, admiring the detailing along the back of the heel. Across the curved surface is the word SUCKER, bedazzled onto the article with multicolored jewels, glitzing beautifully under the fluorescent lighting of his bathroom. The shoes had been a gift from a friend with connections in high places; more specifically, connections to the man who sits on the throne of the Gucci brand. Harry hadn’t questioned the present when he’d received it— only an idiot would bat a cautious eye at such a luxury. He’d fallen in love with them the second they landed in his palms, decked out in a gorgeous satin box and wrapped with sparkly black tissue paper. The only words that had dared leave his lips were, “Fuck, I think I just got hard.”

The shoes had fit like a charm, and he had wanted to save them for a special occasion. But given that he has hundreds of years worth of special occasions lined up for his future, he’d shrugged off his pickiness and yanked them out the back of his closet for tonight. What better way to show them off than at an overhyped disco hall? 

Harry flips his head right-side up once again, ruffling his fingers through his soft, shiny curls to check for any wet patches or stringiness. He rolls up the wire to his styling tool and puts it back in its designated spot, grabbing his favorite paddle brush and attentively filtering it through his hair until he gets the tousled waves that he’s grown so fond of sporting. He musses them until he’s satisfied with his appearance, nodding at himself casually in the mirror as he proceeds to wrap up the last few necessities he has left. 

Harry buttons his blouse, admiring it in the fogged mirror. It’s a flowy sheer black piece with holographic threads sewn through its expanse, the fabric continuously shimmering with every shift of his muscles from underneath. He leaves the last three holes empty to better show off the dark butterfly inking on his lean chest and the swallows suspended in flight along his collarbones. He doesn’t really have to leave the shirt open, given that the material is see-through to the point where it leaves very little to the imagination, obvious in how all the tattoos along his arms are clearly visible. But he does it either way— he likes it when people stare. He’s got the assets, he might as well flaunt them.

Harry loosely tucks the hem of the shirt along the brim of his high-waisted beige slacks, which he’d ironed with precision to an ideal fold. He opts out of a belt tonight, wanting to display the array of elegant buttons that line the front of his pleated trousers. The pants hang slightly flared around his ankles, and if someone’s interests were intent enough, they might catch a glimpse of his favorite socks underneath the cusps, the words FUCK IT printed across the dark cotton fabric. He always makes sure to have an aspect in his outfit that could make for neat conversation.  

The vampire pulls out one of his drawers, ghosting his fingers over his collection of jewelry before picking out a pearl necklace and his father’s gold-plated cross necklace, as well as a colorful array of rings. He makes sure to retrieve the most significant two, as always— his lionhead amethyst daylight ring and his mother’s opal. He never goes anywhere without them. 

After he’s slipped on those accessories, bending and stretching his fingers for good measure and feeling everything settle into place, he picks out the gold cross earring that matches his necklace. It used to be part of a pair that belonged to his sister. As he watches the gold twinkle in the artificial light, he briefly wonders what happened to its twin, but pushes the thought away before it leads him down a path of pessimistic speculations. 

Harry loops the dangly piece through his earlobe, sighing through his nose as his gaze jets around his entire look, searching for any possible faults he could tend to that would prolong the inevitable— another night of drunken morons and thick synthetic smoke. 

Harry decides to fold the cuffs of his shirt up to his elbows, knowing that it makes his veiny forearms look appealing. He rummages through his selection of colognes before deciding to go with his trusty Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille, spritzing a bit along specific pressure points on his neck where a pulse would otherwise be present, following along with the insides of his wrists. The scent of cloves, sugar-frosted vanilla, and cedar wood envelope him in a warm ambiance. After that task is complete, he fusses with his necklaces for a minute or so, settling the cross between his pectorals and resting the rosey pearls across his clavicle, fingering at their smooth surface in thought. Much to his defeat, everything seems to be in order, down to his freshly lacquered black nails. It’s not his fault he’s nearly flawless. His long— and unfortunate— extension on life had given him a plethora of years to work himself into a state of physical perfection. There’s only so much one can do to their appearance before it becomes superiorly stagnant. 

Harry tunes his heightened hearing for a second, listening in to the conversation his friends are entertaining on the first level of his condo. Niall’s voice is the first one that comes through, unsurprisingly. He’s always the loudest and has zero filter, present in how he’s freely ranting about Harry’s exaggerated mannerisms as he paces back and forth across the floor, footsteps heavy. No one seems to be paying him any mind— As usual, Harry thinks to himself, snorting softly— because everyone appears to be caught up in their own personal lives, too lost in gossip and exchanging opinions to give the Irish vampire any thought. 

None of his gang seem bothered by his lack of rush, but Harry knows he can’t keep them waiting forever. Fridays are the day they’d all collectively agreed to hunt together and it had been as so for almost twenty years. Being the leader, Harry can’t let his childish distaste for nightlife get in the way of what’s best for the group. He needs to hunker down on his selfish inclinations and be a responsible friend, or else a human might not be the only person Niall sinks his fangs into tonight.

With one final lingering stare at his reflection, Harry goes to retrieve his phone from its face-down position on the dark marble counter, simultaneously reaching for the light switch to begin powering down his apartment for the next couple of hours until he returns. Hopefully with a pretty girl hanging off his arm and less of a burn in the back of his throat. Although Harry may be cynical, he’s also practical; if he’s going to have to spend eternity on this planet, he may as well try to conserve enough energy to make it bearable. After decades of adjusting to electricity, the last thing Harry wants is to return to candlelit rooms and going to bed in time with the sun. 

The sudden chime that shrieks from his device causes him to jump a tad, brows furrowing in mild confusion for a few reasons. First, because it’s such an odd coincidence that right as he went to grasp it, his smartphone had gone off; it’s almost spooky. Second, because anyone who would normally dare message him at this hour is currently sequestered downstairs on the cushions of his sectional sofa, waiting for him to emerge from his room. Who else could possibly need to contact him this late, especially at the beginning of the weekend? 

Harry flips his red iPhone curiously (yes, he’d bought it in red for the purpose of irony), peering down at the unknown number shining back up at him from the screen. 

The text is simple enough: Hey, accompanied by three disco ball emojis. 

After a few seconds of blank blinking and adamantly searching through his mind for a clue as to who this could be, the answer smacks him square between the eyes. The memories come to him in quick flashes. 

A bald bouncer with a stupid name. A two-story room with seven foot tall speakers and a bar nuzzled in the corner. A group of loud, tipsy girls in stilettos and glittery dresses. One girl, sitting amidst the ruckus looking alone and indifferent while everyone around her gave into inebriated chaos. Mitch urging him to go talk to her. The overwhelming smell of honey and lavender. Gentle caresses placed across the tattoos painting his arms. Pretty lips the color of fresh blood, drained glasses of liquor, and witty banter exchanged between suggestive glances and cheeky grins. Shouldering through a crowded dance floor with the young woman in tow. Settling her into the passenger’s seat of his Cadillac and feeling heat explode across his cold cheeks when she’d yanked him down by his collar, kissing him like his lips were her only source of air. 

A quaint apartment complex, flickering lights in a corridor, and a worn couch. A warm mouth, smudged lipstick, teary eyes, and the gentle, shaky echo of, “I want to make you feel good.” High-waisted silk pants discarded on the floor, a cream lace blouse, and pastel pink lingerie. Thighs squeezing his head as her sweet taste spilled across his tongue. The mortal’s bare back pressed to his chest as he worked his hips roughly into her, mumbling dirty promises against her ear. Sugary whimpers and needy pleads. The warm, tangy flavor of her blood filling his mouth and sedating the burning in his throat. Childish giggles shared in a tiny flat, her warm fingers sewing between his icy own and tugging him into her room. A sleepless night full of steady breaths and only one heartbeat. A stupid tapestry and an ugly popcorn ceiling. A late morning strewn with sarcastic jokes mumbled over the rim of a coffee mug. Pulling his favorite t-shirt over his head and inhaling the sweet smell that had been glued to every thread. 

Making a drastic decision and typing his information into her phone. 

Harry doesn’t mean to speak aloud, but the name slips down his tongue as easily as he’d drawn moans from hers. “Y/N.”

It’s not like he didn’t remember her, because he did. And it’s not like he hadn’t thought of her since, because he had. But it’d been in passing and barely relevant— faint recollections in the form of fleeting seconds. 

He’d thought of her a couple days ago, when he’d been wandering around the mall with his friends. They’d passed by a candle shop where, among all the mixed scents, there had been the unmistakable aroma of lavender and honey somewhere inside, smelling vaguely like her. She’d unwillingly made her way to the forefront of his mind when he’d gone to do laundry, picking out his baby blue Marc Jacobs t-shirt from his hamper and feeling his eyes dilate and fangs protrude— a result of animalistic instinct. As it turns out, she had left a bloodstain along the inside of the yellow collar of his tee. It was dried and crusted over by the time he found it, but the effect it had on him remained the same as the night he’d drawn it fresh from one of her arteries. He’d chucked the garment into the wash carelessly with hardly any hesitation. 

The girl had even elbowed into his brain during an important self-care session. He’d been sitting in his glorified bathtub— which, in shallow honesty, is just a jacuzzi— with his cock twitching in his palm while his head hung over the edge, an orgasm teetering along the trench of his stomach as he’d repeatedly thumbed over his tip. When he’d finally coaxed himself into a climax, moans running freely across the empty halls of his home, the image he saw in those short moments of pure bliss was of her. It was Y/N, sitting in front of him with her hands clasped between her bare thighs obediently, his prick running along the length of her warm tongue as her eyes pleaded for him to cum. 

But, as he’d stated before, the picture had only lasted a handful of seconds. As soon as his high had died down, it had disintegrated to ash, and he’d been left with a slightly startled mental imprint in its wake, which had faded away within minutes. He hadn’t thought of her since. 

That is, until now. Until the surface of his jade eyes are reflecting the message his phone had just received at nearly ten P.M., her identity obvious in her choice of emojis. 

A disco ball. The exact same character he’d assigned himself beside his name in her contact list. It was an inside joke; a result of the hatred they both shared for clubs, juxtaposed by the fact that they had met in one. It was a cute determining factor in their minimal acquaintanceship, and he’s always a sucker for a good paradox. 

Harry continues to stare down at the text message, trying to conjure up some type of answer. She couldn’t have caught him at a better time, quite literally. She could be his saving grace tonight, if he plays his cards right. Maybe if he swoons her enough, she’ll invite him over again, and he can avoid another night full of shit-faced idiots and blinding strobe lights. 

After careful consideration, he swipes open into their new text conversation and taps back a reply he deems appropriate, satisfied with how it shows his personality— the same one the mortal girl had been so taken with upon their first encounter. 

Well, this is awkward. I don’t remember giving my number to a disco ball.

The vampire waits idly for a response, watching as the message delivers and is immediately marked by a read receipt. He doesn’t know why, but he likes that she has them on. 

A swift pause follows— in which he has no doubt she’s probably attempting to come up with some type of witty remark to his— and then the three grey bouncing bubbles pop up, signifying that she’s typing back. His device bloops with her response, vibrating in his large palms.

Funny as ever, I see. It’s Y/N, from the club last Friday. 

Harry’s slightly disappointed by her humor-lacking answer, but he’ll keep the interaction going for curiosity’s sake. Some people are fun in person and just not that bright virtually. Can’t always have it all.

Oh, hey, Y/N! So are you translating on behalf of the disco ball that wanted to talk to me or…?

He can practically see her eye rolling up at the grungy ceiling of her room and that notion makes his lips twitch. 

Ha. Ha. Hilarious! But no, I’M the one who wants to talk to you, actually.

Harry can feel her sarcastic tone through this specific message and that gives him hope. Maybe she does have social networking skills. 

Oh. Well, give the disco ball my best regards then, will you? Don’t want it to think I’m being rude and casting it aside.

The creature can’t see it, but now Y/N’s lips are the ones jolting as she sits on her bed in nothing but a towel, damp hair beading water down her naked shoulders and back.

How caring of you! I’ll pass on the message.

A full grin begins to edge across Harry’s cheeks as she returns his banter just as easily as she would face to face, dimples threatening to indent into place. That’s more like it. 

His fingers poise over the keyboard, mind flicking through the different scenarios he could steer this conversation towards. He has to be perceptive and respectful, but also keep her entertained. He figures asking about her intentions is the best route to take, but he’ll do it subtly. Being too direct could come off pushy. 

So...what gives me the honor of basking in your presence tonight, hm?

He adds a thinking face emoji to the end of the text as an afterthought. He rarely uses emoticons, but now is as good a time as any to start, especially because he has to seem like someone who belongs to her generation, rather than a Victorian era immortal.

Well, you said if I wanted more interior design advice to shoot you a text so...here I am, seeking your expertise.

Harry allows himself to break into a wide simper at the shrouded compliment. It goes right to his ego, just as he likes it. She’s smart. 

My expertise, huh? I take it that my taste in wallpaper left you pretty satisfied last time, then?

A similar grin buckles Y/N’s face at his playful smugness and she bites into the side of her index finger to try and suppress it. After a moment of thought, she releases her digit from between her teeth and taps back. 

Very satisfied, yeah. Your help was greatly appreciated.

Harry scoffs coyly, leaning his shoulder against the lightly fogged black marble wall of his bathroom, his friends and plans for the night all but forgotten. He’s having too much fun flirting to pay anything else much mind. 

My pleasure, love. I’d be more than happy to give it again, anytime you need it. Just make sure to fill out the customer service survey my boss emailed you. I’m shooting for a raise and could really use the brownie points. 

“Cute.” Y/N murmurs to herself in amusement, her chest fluttering as a result of the pet name, alongside how well they’re getting on. It’s almost like no time has passed at all. Almost as if they’re friends. 

She’d been nervous to reach out, fearing that he’d see it and ignore her— or worse, leave her on read. Needless to say, this is going way better than she could’ve hoped

Already filled that out. Gave you five stars and everything. Would’ve given you six if it was allowed. 

Harry shifts his weight against the surface he’s using for support, chuckling softly as he gnaws along the inside of his cheek. He feels like a teenager with all of this borderline childish back-and-forth. He’s not mad about it, though. It’s pretty enjoyable. 

Thank you so much for your input! It’s taken into deep consideration. VERY deep consideration, if I recall correctly.  

Warmth pours into Y/N’s cheeks at his innuendo, and she somewhat hates that he can get her all flustered without actually being present. He’s really good at this. A true lucky strike, to put it in his own words.

I’m glad my standards are held so highly, especially since I’m trying to book another advising appointment with you. 

Is that so?

Very much so. How about tonight, if you’re free? I’ve got a dire situation with some wood paneling that I just can’t handle alone.

The vampire’s irises flare crimson red in triumph. It looks like he won't have to put himself through another mortifying ordeal tonight, after all. 

I’m on a tight schedule, Y/N. These expertise are highly sought after, yanno?

Y/N snorts at his pompous joke. “Moron.”

Another text comes in from Harry before she can even think of a response.

However, I think I might be able to squeeze you in for a help session today. Say in about 10 to 15 minutes? 

With newly brightened eyes, Y/N gives the message five repasses to make sure she’d interpreted it correctly. She can’t believe he’d agreed, especially at an hour when most people already have weekend plans cemented for the night. And by the length of time he’d given her to prepare, she’s extremely thankful she’d decided to shower prior to attempting a booty-call. 

Sounds perfect. Do you need me to send you my address or do you remember, by some miracle?

Don’t worry about it, pet. I have a pretty good memory of that night. You made it hard to forget. 

Another layer of heat crawls up her neck and into her ears. She knows this is a casual thing, at best, but for some reason, the idea that he had deemed her unforgettable makes her entire body feel like it’s glowing. She tries to brush it off, chalking up his compliment to how they’d seen each other barely a week ago so of course he remembered. It was fairly fresh in both their minds. 

But Y/N is from an area where she was just another face in the crowd— another timid girl in an ocean of a hundred small-town carbon copies— and she’d certainly never referred to herself as anything particularly special. To have Harry, who is such a refined and attractive person, who most likely has dozens of hook-ups under his belt, call her that? Of all people? It just hits differently. 

She shakes herself out of her head, remembering that a very interesting boy is waiting for a response on the other end of her phone.

Alright, then. See you in 10 to 15 minutes, Mr…? 

Y/N comes to the realization that she doesn’t even know his last name. She doesn’t know the last name of the guy she’d let into her house and between her legs. God, if her parents could see her now...They’d blow California into a crater. 

The name’s Styles. Harry Styles. 

She immediately recognizes the reference, chewing at her bottom lip to keep a tab on a girly giggle. It’s probably not healthy how easily he reduces her into such a dopey puddle. 

Alright, then, Mr. Harry Styles. See you soon?

Very soon. Can’t wait to show you the wood samples I just found.

With a sly smirk dimpling his cheeks, Harry pushes off the elegant stone wall of his luxury bathroom, locking his device and absentmindedly tapping it along his palm as he does a quick mind-sweep of the interaction he’d just had. He’s going to get his needs taken care of—both intimate and carnal— by a girl with whom he meshes with so well, no less. This night has taken an unexpected turn for the better, and he’s never been more thankful for making such a rash decision the morning after a one night stand. 

The shrill boom of an Irish accent breaks Harry out of his flirty stupor, the sound bounding up the stairs of his flat and echoing off the tiles in his bathroom. “Harry, did you fucking desicate up there, you prick?!”

The vampire’s head snaps to the side towards where the sudden intrusion is originating, clearing his throat softly before answering, mostly to anchor himself back into the present. He’d been too busy floating in a daydream bubble to give his friends any proper attention. “I’m on my way down!”

Harry flicks off the light switch to his master bathroom, heading into his dimly lit bedroom and scooping up his wallet from its usual spot on top of the dresser. He tucks it into the wide front pocket of his slacks along with his cell phone, rounding the king-sized mattress at the center of his space, footsteps muffled by the thick maroon carpeting across the ground. He stops under the doorframe, giving his room one last calculating glance to make sure he isn’t leaving anything important behind. Once the creature is sure he’s set, he reaches over and slides the switch meter all the way down until the hanging lamps on the ceiling fade to black. 

Harry clambers down the glass and metal staircase, passing the collection of original paintings organized across the expanse of the largest wall in his home. His friends spot him from the huge couch once he’s halfway down the steps, and of course Niall is the first to make his presence audible.

“Fucking finally.” The blue-eyed vampire groans in exasperation, shooting up from his seat beside Xander, arms falling across his lean chest. “I thought you’d died. Really died.”

Harry dismounts the last stair carefully, heeled boots making a soft clicking sound against the polished light-wash wood of his floorboards. He pushes a few rogue curls out of his eyes, the corners of his mouth jilting upwards teasingly as he regards the fellow immortal. “If I have to keep staring at that shitty paisley button-up you’re wearing, I just might.”  

Niall’s irritated expression shatters into one of sheer hurt, hands fumbling with the silk fabric of his shirt, lips melting into a pained pout as he contemplates it sadly. His tone comes out whiney and defensive. “Hey! I really like this one!”

Harry side-steps the boy, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Your fashion sense makes me question my friendship with you.”

Niall’s face pinches with anger, thick brows furrowing as he roughly swats the brunette’s wrist away. “And your dickhead attitude makes me question mine.” 

Harry’s jade eyes dance with evil glee as he returns his palm to where it had been resting before to give a curt squeeze, his rings playfully digging into the muscle beneath Niall’s top. “And yet here you are, sitting on my couch, waiting to get into my car. Funny how that works, innit? We benefit from one another. Mutualism at its finest.”

The Irish man shrugs himself free of his friend’s hold once again, glaring at him with darkening eyes, but there’s no true malice behind it. “More like parasitism.” 

“So are you two gonna kiss now or what?” Mitch’s soft, mocking voice butts in as he drifts up beside Niall, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark denim straight jeans and his long hair tied back into a low ponytail. He’s wearing a light-wash Rolling Stones t-shirt he’d gotten at a concert he and Harry had attended back in the eighties, along with a pair of scuffed up sneakers. Pretty casual for a club— too casual, in Harry’s opinion. “The sexual tension is killing the audience.” 

The green-eyed boy cranes his sight back onto Niall, raising his eyebrows in question and puckering his lips. “What d’you say, Ni? Wanna kiss this little disagreement better? I’m down.”

The pale young man makes a gagging noise, stepping away. “Don’t know where your mouth’s been. But if your bed fellows have anything to say about it, it’s nowhere good. I’m going to respectfully decline.” 

“There was absolutely nothing respectful in that response.” Adam chimes in, chuckling as he bumps Niall’s shoulder with his own, hands clasped casually behind his back. “You need to work on your people skills.”

“My people skills are fine.” Niall quips back sarcastically. “Harry just isn’t a person, he’s a demon.” 

“Technically, we all are.” The curly-haired vampire points out, walking over to his matte leather couch and retrieving a pin-striped, grey-black fitted blazer from its backrest. He tosses the jacket over his shoulders, shrugging it on and fixing the material over his torso, the curves of the piece accentuating the strong muscles of his back and the dip of his slender waist. “I just don’t care to hide it, really. Especially not when it comes to Niall’s taste in clothes. Which is rubbish, by the way. If that wasn’t clear before.”

“It was.” Niall deadpans, gaze half-lidded and petty.

Harry fixes the sleeves of his coat around his forearms, smoothing out any wrinkles and buttoning the cuffs. He momentarily ducks into the kitchen, his enhanced eyesight spotting the small digital time-stamp of the oven even from across the room. He has less than thirteen minutes before he has to be at Y/N’s flat. He should’ve suggested a longer time span.

Harry turns back around to fully face his crew, situating his collar into place by folding it along the back of his neck, appraising their expectant appearances. They’re all waiting for him. He’s the one driving, after all. 

The immortal clears his throat, hands dropping to pat at his blazer pocket, making sure that his keys are in his possession. He sighs lightly through his nose, a knowing grin trying to force its way onto his lips but he keeps it at bay, wanting to maintain a straight expression to garner less backlash for the news he’s about to break. 

“I’m not going.”

The pause that fills the atmosphere and the blank faces his friends dote are almost comical. Harry bats his eyelashes at them without a single twitch or jerk of his features. He wants them to understand he’s being serious.

After at least ten heartbeats— a guess, considering no one in the room has one to provide an accurate measurement— a raging exclamation explodes from behind the other three vampires in front of him. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

Harry watches in mild amusement as Xander stomps up from behind the group, shouldering between Mitch and Adam and sticking him with a glower dark enough to instill fear in any living being. But Harry is hardly living, and he’s definitely not scared of a vampire who’s practically a newborn. Xander’s the youngest of them in terms of the immortality scale— he’d transitioned back in nineteen ninety-six when he was thirty, which gives the illusion that he’s older when in reality, he isn’t— so Harry’s strength easily outmatches his. Xander is basically the puppy of the circle, and he’s certainly yappy and annoying enough to support that title. His lack of age and wisdom is also probably why he’s the most explosive. 

Harry kinks an eyebrow up at the taller, tanned man, looping only one button through its designated hole in the middle of his jacket. That will allow him to show off what lies beneath it while also making sure the article won’t be a pest in the windy California night. “I’m not kidding. Something else came up that...peaked my interest.”

Xander’s fists momentarily clench by his sides and he then folds his arms across his lightly heaving chest, trying to hide his anger away along the insides of his elbows. He spits his words through gritted teeth, attempting to keep his cadence level. “What could have possibly come up so late that you only let use know after we waited for you for over an hour?”

Harry can’t stop himself from smirking this time around, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards with condescension. The statement that he produces is all too familiar to Xander, given that it mirrors the reply he had used on Harry exactly a week ago, when the leader of the group had asked him what his intentions were once they’d gotten inside their club for the night. “I have a date.”  

Xander’s entire face flushes a faint shade of cherry red. His forearms tighten across his body, tone more strained than before as he actively wills himself to remain calm. “A date?”

The shorter vampire smiles at him with fake innocence, working his every nerve like it’s his job. Harry doesn’t know why, but pissing Xander off is always such a delectable pastime. “Yup. With a girl I met last week, actually.”

“You don’t go on dates.” Niall pipes up, looking around at the other men in the room in confusion, almost as if his comment should be obvious. “You rarely even spend the night. Said so yourself.” 

Harry shrugs one shoulder indifferently, checking his reflection in the closest section of the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline, the lights of the cars and buildings below twinkling otherworldly. “I guess it’s less a date and more a booty-call, to be honest. I only agreed ‘cause it’s easier than having to drag my ass to that horrid club you chose to spend hours trying to find someone. This meal’s already prim, proper, and served. And I know for a fact I’ll enjoy it, so there’s no real harm.” 

He turns back to Xander, the man’s peeved reaction tickling him more than he thought it would. “What was that you said last time, Xanny?”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Oh, yeah! I'm just grabbing a to-go box for my already prepped meal.”

Harry’s friend’s cheeks dye a deeper shade of crimson, dark veins webbing across the iridescent whites of his eyes for a flickering second. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

Harry counters the angry expression with a bright smile, his dialect dripping with arrogance. “Girls dig it. And you seemed to dig it, too, if I recall correctly. Remember? You might not. Post-orgasm amnesia and all that.” 

Xander takes a measured inhale, releasing it slowly and allowing his anger to ebb away gradually, ignoring Harry’s blast from the past. His next question is physically directed towards their ex-chauffeur, but is truly aimed at the gang as a whole. “Who’s going to take us, then?”

The curly-haired vampire shrugs his shoulders once again, uninterested in the topic that is quickly growing old. “You could take Niall’s car. Problem solved.”

The whole clique lives in the same condo complex, mostly due to convenience. It’s already tricky for vampires to find others of their kind, so it’s a miracle that they’d all managed to end up together in the first place. And it’s an even bigger miracle that they got along well enough to form a tight-knit coven, which is the closest thing any of them now have to family. Living in close proximity is the ideal way of maintaining that rare bond, plus it allows them to help each other in staying safe and keeping their urges in line. 

Since they all live in the same building, Niall’s car is in the garage right beside Harry’s, so transportation shouldn’t be an issue. They just always take his vehicle because he’s the only one that actually enjoys driving. 

“Are you mental? Like actually, genuinely insane?” Xander sputters in appalled shock. “Niall drives like a lunatic!” 

“Oi, piss off! Maybe you should learn to drive then, huh? Instead of having all those guys you shag take you everywhere.”

Xander ignores Niall’s insult, putting his palms up in disgust, backing away. “I refuse to get in a car with him behind the wheel. Dying once was good enough for me.”

“Did I miss the memo?” Niall snaps, glimpsing around at all the monsters standing around him, attitude tight with annoyance. “Y’know, the one where you all just decided to shit on me tonight?”

Harry bursts into an airy cackle, listing his head to the side as he gives Niall a humorous once-over, his dangly cross earring dabbing across the crisp cut of his coat’s shoulder blade. “You don’t necessarily make it hard, love.” 

Niall’s jaw clenches as he narrows his icy blue eyes. “Xander’s right— you are an asshole.”

“Yeah, well, he’s also right about you driving like you’re on tranquilizers.” Adam sighs, running a palm up his face, using his index finger and thumb to massage either of his temples, despite the fact that they lack a pulse. “I guess I could drive? I hate it, but Mitch hates it more, so I’m our best bet. Better than Road Runner over here.” 

“Yeah, just keep talking about me like I’m not present. That’s fine. I’m spitting venom in all your drinks tonight.” 

“Well,” Harry boasts abruptly, interrupting the game of verbal ping-pong happening in front of him, taking a quick peek at his phone for the time. As much as he loves causing some good-natured chaos between his friends, he has less than ten minutes to make it to Y/N’s apartment on time and traffic’s a bitch at this hour. “I have nothing to do with this anymore, so I’m just gonna take my leave. You lot have fun figuring this out.” 

He swivels around on his heel, striding away with his usual haughty air straightening his back, heading towards the corridor that leads to the front entrance of the apartment. The softly lit hallway swallows his silhouette and for the first time since he’d left the secluded confines of his bathroom, he allows a giddy smile of excitement to tweak his lips. Just for a second and not a moment longer. If his friends had seen it, they would’ve taken the piss.

Niall’s accent cuts through the air, prickling at his ears as the glossy, cold doorknob comes into contact with his even colder fingers. “I can’t believe you’d abandon us just to get laid!”

“Lock the door on your way out!” 

///

When a sharp knock echoes across Y/N’s flat, she nearly screams. 

Her nerves have been on edge since the last text she’d received; only after reading that final cheeky message had the reality of the situation hit. 

This isn’t her. This isn’t her at all.

Inviting a total stranger into her home and into her bed was something she’d never experienced before last week. One night stands were very few and very far for her— she could count all the ones she’d had on a single hand, and even then they had been with people she had known to some extent— and it was due to the fact that this type of situation is slathered in mystery and unsureness. Giving herself up in such an intimate manner to someone she wasn’t acquainted to in some shape or form…It comes with a certain amount of risk, both physically and emotionally, which is why she hardly ever engaged in such activities before Harry.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with having that type of exhilarating fun in your life— she praises the women who can go around so confidently and express their sexuality however they please— but she herself had been raised under a roof that was moderate and conservative, and that environment had molded her into the person she had grown up to be. Those traditional concepts ran through the core of her being, and no matter how hard she tried to shake them, they refused to break loose. They weighed on her shoulders, constantly making her second-guess her motives and desires, most of which go against the status quo that had been implemented into her brain from a young age. This— whatever this is— is a huge step for her; it’s the first attempt she’s made to take over her own life and go against the grain she’d been accustomed to her whole existence. 

From the second Y/N had arrived here in Los Angeles and set a foot off the plane, she had been alone. Everyone who cared for her was miles and miles away and she was starting a new chapter on a completely blank page, with no one to guide her hand as she wrote. For the two months she’d spent settling in and trying to meld into her new environment, she had gone at it with a sense of emptiness hollowing the pit of her stomach. No one was there to comfort her during the rough patches, and no one cared enough yet to assure her that things would turn out alright. No one had bothered to tell her she was safe and that nothing would hurt her. No one made themselves available the way people did back home. 

That is, until she met Harry seven days ago. 

Their encounter had been purely for sexual gratification, but during that short time they shared, she vividly remembered him telling her that she could trust him. It was a preposterous statement to make— asking someone to trust you when you didn’t even know their last name— but the gaze in his emerald eyes had seemed so genuine and encouraging, and his voice had been so gentle and soothing, and his touch had been so delicate and consoling...That strange young man— with the pretty curls, intriguing tattoos, and dazzling smile— had somehow managed to untie the knot of unease that had been sitting in her belly for the last couple of weeks. She’s stumped on how he’d managed to wriggle it free; the only thing she can effectively say took a part in it was his eyes. There was just such a glass-like quality to them that reminded her of a mirror. It was like they were reflecting all her emotions back at her, using their familiarity to compel her into a state of mental peace. She’d appreciated it more than she’d let on. 

Something tells Y/N that this is the reason she had contacted him. She wanted to feel that safety net he had provided her with once again. She didn’t need an emotional connection from Harry, she just needed a bit of mental relief. She wanted something to take her mind off all her troubles. Something to distract her, even if it was only for a few hours. And with the way Harry had handled her last time, she knows he’s more than capable of helping her reach those goals. 

Y/N doesn’t think anyone has ever made her feel how Harry had that semi-drunken Friday night. She’d been with a few other people before, and had even been in a long-term relationship with someone she had once thought would end up being her husband, but none of those men came close to this peculiar stranger. 

In the town she was from, it was typical for people to marry their high school sweethearts. It was a small region where everyone either knew one another or knew of one another, so it wasn’t difficult to find someone that could fit into the role that needed to be filled. The person she had found was a boy by the name of Bradley, who she had begun to date their freshman year of high school. 

They’d met through mutual friends and he’d invited her to their first ever homecoming dance, where she had felt like everything was falling into place almost like in a movie. He was cute, with hazel eyes, sun-bleached hair, and freckles that jolted every time he laughed. He was polite, funny, and treated her with enough respect and dignity to keep her hooked for a while. Things had gone pretty well the four years they were together in high school; their relationship wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exciting either. It was just...secure. He was there, and he was willing to give her his attention, and that’s all that really mattered to her at the time. She thought that was all she needed. 

Then graduation came and went, and so did Bradley. He left for college, set on the intention that they would make long distance work somehow. To keep a long story short, it hadn’t worked out how they expected. As the months passed, she noticed he started to separate himself from her more and more. The video chats are what disappeared first; what used to be a daily FaceTime call turned into a weekly one and then, if she was lucky, a monthly one. Phone calls followed the same fate. Texting became a chore rather than something to look forward to and she could feel him slipping, which left her feeling helpless because he was in another state, far away and too out of reach to appropriately solve anything. Energized conversations slowly faltered into five-word messages, which eventually teetered into barely any communication at all. 

When Y/N heard the news that he’d cheated on her, it didn’t even come from him. It came from his roommate. Things ended swiftly after that, which was the saddest thing of all. Almost five years of her life, completely gone to waste. Handling the pain was a whole other misery she’d had to shoulder, alongside the embarrassment and humiliation, which stemmed from the fact that she was aware her peers had heard about the whole ordeal. With the help of her family and friends, she’d eventually gotten over the heartbreak. The weird thing is, she doesn’t think she loved him. She loved the idea of him— loved that he represented everything she had been raised to seek in a relationship. They’d grown up together, their families knew one another, they shared the same friends, they had common hobbies. It was like a match made in heaven, though after it broke off, she quickly came to the realization that it hadn’t been made in heaven at all. Made in a test tube was a more fitting analogy. 

Y/N’s love life after that painfully slow cliche disaster consisted of random boys around town she recognized from school and work. The hook-ups were fleeting and hardly satisfying, but at least they were something. She soon found out that she could do better on her own, but whenever she craved someone else’s touch, she was grateful to have anyone she could get. She’d mainly stuck to the same guys for the sake of consistency; it was easier having people she already knew how to please and vice versa, though she’ll admit it was mostly a one way street. Men can be so clueless sometimes that it’d be funny if it wasn’t so irritating. 

Then Y/N had skipped town and closed off sexually for a while. She had stayed shut down until Harry had walked into her life with that stupid sly smirk and his unorthodox— yet surprisingly attractive—fashion sense, sipping straight tequila like a fucking psycho from the cup in his jeweled fingers. He’d waltzed right onto the stool beside her at the bar, right out of the club with her hand in his, and then right past the doorframe of her apartment, kindly gifting her the best sex of her entire life. He’d worked her every desire with a certain skill and awareness she had never experienced (not from any of her past lovers, and definitely not from Bradley’s vanilla tendencies), dismantling her body as if he’d known her for decades, leaving her sore and aching in a way she didn’t know was humanly possible.

And now here Y/N is, pacing back and forth from her small living room to her even smaller kitchen, chewing along the knuckle of her forefinger as she tries to tie down the jitters running amuck in her belly. 

She repeatedly smooths down the dress she’s wearing, claiming that it’s to get rid of the wrinkles, but in truth, it’s to wipe the dampness from her palms. The outfit had been a birthday present from her cousin the year before and she’s rarely worn it since the move, which is a direct result of her lack of socializing. She only ever really leaves her home for groceries and to attend work, neither of which call for a pretty sundress and strappy tan sandals. Despite having gone out to the club a few times, the dress doesn’t fit that scene either. LA gets a bit chilly at night and she has yet to grow accustomed to the city’s weather. Wearing this after-hours would surely end with her acquiring a mild case of hypothermia. 

The garment is a light blue baby doll design, littered with tiny daffodil prints of varying shapes and colors. It stops about three-fourths down her thigh, fluttering outwards in layered flares, its bandeau-style top held in place by thin straps of the same fabric. She figured she’d deck herself out nicely; from the one interaction she’d had with Harry, she can tell he’s a person of refined taste. It was evident in his expensive clothing and his wide variety of precious rings. She doesn’t know why, but there’s a toiling in the pit of her tummy urging to impress him. 

Y/N’s hair has been freshly washed and blow-dried, her legs thoroughly shaved into silk, and she’d applied a light layer of makeup, done in anticipation that anything heavier would likely end up smeared across her face— a result of sweat and Harry’s dominant persona. Simply reflecting on his commanding sensual presence makes her self-pedicured toes curl in her sandals. 

Y/N hadn’t been sure on how to prepare for his arrival. She wasn’t versed in advanced hook-up culture— her raunchiest experience was in the backseat of someone's 2004 Toyota Corolla. She doesn’t want to get this wrong. Going overboard would make him feel smothered and awkward, but underselling would give him the impression that she doesn’t have any respect for him, save for what lies between his legs. Those are the last two things she wants him to gather from this. 

She’d settled for pulling out a bottle of red wine that had been a house-warming present from the landlord. Not too shabby, but not too loud. And who doesn’t enjoy a cup of half-decent wine on a Friday evening, right?

Y/N had just finished arranging two glasses— which she’d found at the thrift shop down the street for a steal— onto the counter of her kitchen when that swift rapping sound had broken through the tense air of her home, echoing from the front door and causing a yelp to lodge in her throat. 

Ice shoots through her veins. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She takes a handful of penetrating breaths, concentrating on how the cool air feels expanding her lungs. The technique aids in calming some of her nerves, grounding her just enough that she can will herself to move without her knees giving out. Y/N tentatively makes her way down the corridor that leads to her front door, heart hammering against her ribs. She shouldn’t be this riled up— he’s literally already been inside her. There’s pretty much nothing she can hide from him at this point. 

On the other side of the door, Harry is blissfully ignorant to the panic attack threatening to overcome Y/N. 

The vampire leans his shoulder against the frame of the somewhat raggedy door, arms crossed over his thick chest as his gaze bounces judgmentally around all the patches of peeling paint. He chews at a piece of gum— which he’d popped into his mouth on the drive over to make sure he tastes as delectable as always— in slow, lazy motions, jaw flexing as he unconsciously pops an array of tiny bubbles with his teeth, waiting for Y/N to emerge. 

Harry glances up at the flickering light bulb in the hallway of the complex, nose scrunching in distaste at the annoying flashing. She really needs to get a better place, he thinks, reaching up and dragging the pad of his middle finger along the curve of his bottom lip, absentmindedly wiping off a bit of extra chapstick that had colored outside the lines when he’d applied it. He always tries to keep his mouth soft, especially when he knows he’s going to be using it. Plus, the vanilla bean flavor pairs well with mint. 

The sound of a seal cracking open yanks his attention, the door before him slowly swinging inwards. Cool air pours from inside, bathing him in a scent that his frenzied instincts had been subconsciously craving the last couple of days. Harry cranes his neck over his shoulder, spitting his gum out and not bothering to watch where it lands. He turns back just as Y/N’s familiar figure comes into view.

The first thing he notices is the dress. 

Fuck, the dress. 

It’s nothing too fancy, just a casual sundress, but it fits her like it was made specifically for the purpose of testing his restraint. He rakes his gaze up and down her body shamelessly, much like he had on the night they met. 

The light blue background and rainbow miniature floral print compliments her skin tone nicely, making it stand out below the dingy light hanging above their heads. The piece lands about halfway down her thigh, fanning around her legs slightly in frilly folds, tempting him with that bit of innocent exposure. An image of him ripping the dress up her thighs races across the forefront of his mind and he can feel his fangs momentarily break through his gums.  

As Harry draws his sight upwards, the minimal throbbing between his legs only amplifies. The dress cinches just below her bust, accentuating her chest, and he comes to the painful realization that she’s not wearing a bra underneath; she doesn’t need it due to the bralette-like top. One simple tug of his index finger would leave her completely bare and that conclusion causes a sweltering itch to erupt along the back of his throat.

Harry’s irises finally come to rest on her face, finding that the rest of the human girl’s look appears just as it had last week. Minimal makeup, no accessories, and the smell of chamomile shampoo strung through her hair, though it’s easily smothered by her natural scent of flowers and sugar. He also finds that while he had been blatantly undressing her with his eyes, she had delighted herself in doing the same. Watching her gawk at him hungrily caresses his ego immensely, evident in how the edges of his mouth kink. 

Y/N doesn’t mean to ogle, she really doesn’t. But from the instant he’d come into view, standing there propped against her threshold with his ankles crossed and his lean arms folded over his strong chest, she couldn’t control it. He just looks so fucking good— better than last time, which she didn’t think was plausible— and she gets the feeling that he knows he looks borderline godly. 

Harry’s clad in what appears to be a sheer mesh flouncy button-up with holographic threads speckled through the material, shimmering under the dim atmosphere of the hallway. The last three holes of the shirt are left open, exposing his tanned pectorals and thoroughly inked chest. Last time they had been together, she’d been too distracted by the aching between her thighs to properly notice the swallow tattoos along his collarbones and the giant butterfly at the crest of his stomach. But now, she stares at them freely as they expand and contract with his easy breaths, her mouth beginning to water. 

The blouse is covered by a dark pinstriped blazer, the crisp shoulder blades of the jacket complimenting his broad frame as the curves dip along his waist alluringly. The loose top is tucked in along the brim of yet another pair of high-waisted trousers, though they are creme-colored instead of copper. The ironed pants give way to a pair of glossy black heeled boots, which are bedazzled along the back of the two-inch elevation, the jewels twinkling in the shape of a word that she can’t make out at this angle. 

Harry’s collection of luxurious rings and necklaces adorn their usual spots and she gets the impression that he never leaves home without them. His gold cross earring sways back and forth lightly, her warped reflection cast across its surface and staring back at her numbly. 

Harry breaks through the haze his physique had cast on her brain.

“Nice to see you again, Disco Ball.” 

A shiver slithers down her spine at the deep baritone of his voice, English accent slathered across every syllable and dripping with suggestive teasing. She’d forgotten how sultry he sounds, even when he’s not actively striving for it. 

Y/N’s attention jets up from where it had been pasted to his body, the expression across his handsome features one of snarky self-assurance, which tells her she’d been caught. Indents cave into his cheeks, twitching with glee as he bats his lashes slowly, eyes going half-lidded in amusement. He looks so sinful with those shiny ringlets curling around his small ears, framing his sharp jaw and kissing the nape of his neck, alongside those raspberry red lips and the emerald hue sparkling around his pupils. She can’t tear herself away.

After an elongated second of silence on her part, Harry raises one of his sculpted brows expectantly, letting her know he’s waiting for a response. Heat overflows Y/N’s cheeks and buzzes across the shells of her ears.

“H-Hi. Uh— Nice to see you. Too. Nice to see you, too.”

An odd sense of déjà vu flags in the back of her skull and she’s reminded that this is exactly how they’d met the first time around— with her making an utter fool of herself, much to his entertainment.

The crescent above his top lip curves upwards as a result of his grin widening. He taps the tip of his elegant shoe patiently against the cement ground, arms shifting against his chest and she can see the way his biceps strain the fabric of his coat. He’s just so fit.  

Harry’s tone comes out playful and lighthearted. He doesn’t need to be invited in again since she’s already explicitly allowed him in before, but he asks anyways, out of courtesy. “Can I come in? Or are you planning on taking me dancing or summat?”

The laugh that escapes Y/N is dense with a nervous edge, but it’s better than a stuttering jumble of incoherent words. She moves out of the way, flushing her back to the wall of the tiny entrance corridor and leaving just enough room for him to squeeze by. “Yes, come on in! Sorry.” 

“You’re alright, darling.” The tall vampire steps forward into the mortal’s home, turning sideways as he does so, chest pressing against her own. He glances down at her lips for a flash of a moment, then back to her eyes. “Thank you.”

Y/N’s grip on her doorknob tightens. She looks up at him through her lashes, bottom lip barely trembling. “No problem. Thanks for coming over on such short notice.” 

Harry runs his tongue across his teeth, pressing it to the inside of cheek as he absorbs the mildly erotic image of Y/N decked out in a frilly dress, glancing up at him shyly as her chest heaves slightly against his own. “Well, I couldn’t leave you to handle that pesky wood paneling all on your own, now could I?”

A smile ghosts over her delicate lips as she shuts the door and locks it, not breaking eye contact. “How generous of you. My hero.” 

Far from it, love.

Y/N slips out from where Harry had wedged her to the wall, beckoning him after her with a gentle turn of her head. The creature tucks his hands into his front pockets, following her down the narrow stretch. They drift past her room (he makes sure not to look in and spare himself the horror of seeing that dumb tapestry) and past her bathroom, into the expanse of her living area. It’s just as small and cozy as he remembers it and he can’t stop himself from scoffing lightly as his sight drifts over the couch. Good memories. 

“Would you like some wine?” Y/N’s question carries softly from inside her kitchen. She’s already gripping the glass bottle in her hand, attempting to pull out the cork, and she hadn’t thought of needing a wine-opener until now. Fuck. 

Harry makes his way to join her, passing underneath the archway and taking the spot across from the girl. He leans his lower back on the counter, hands remaining perched casually in his slacks. “I’d love some.”

“Great.” She huffs, twisting stubbornly at the spongy cap with all the might she can muster, the rough surface scratching her palm. “Let me just— just get this open.”

Harry’s head lists sideways as he wards off a chuckle. “Want some help?” 

Y/N releases an irritated grunt, shoulders slumping a tad as she fails to get the top loose. She holds out the bottle towards her visitor, titling it from side to side in surrender. ���Be my guest.” 

The immortal pulls his hands out from his pockets, taking the container from her grasp and the human notices how they dwarf the bottle. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is. 

Harry wraps his ring-clad digits around the cork, giving it one easy twist and Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off as she hears a pop tinge the air. Harry offers her the wine and cap in return, licking his lips to avoid laughing in her face. Supernatural strength always delivers. 

“How…?” Y/N’s owlish eyes flicker back and forth between Harry’s cocky expression and the object in his hands. “How did you even...?”

The brunette gives her a nonchalant shrug. “Guess you loosened it up for me, Thor.” 

She gingerly takes the beverage and its accompaniment from his outstretched palms, blinking at him in mild shock. Her slight unease is swiftly phased out, however; a result of his cute banter. It was probably just a lucky coincidence. “I guess so.”

Y/N pours out two glasses of the dark red liquid, handing one to Harry, feeling her heart skip a beat when he wraps his hold around the stout flute and their fingers brush. He stays like that for a heartbeat, with his icy digits sifted between hers, the amber specks in his irises glittering like diamonds. Then, the moment is over and he pulls away slowly, guiding his drink up to his plush lips. She hates how he can leave her so breathless without a single hitch. 

The girl watches as Harry takes a leisurely sip of the alcohol, his gaze dancing around her kitchen curiously as she finishes recapping the bottle and scooting it into the corner of the counter. 

A thought dawns on her as soon as she focuses back onto the boy before her. Harry looks weird. He looks so weird standing in her small, dingy kitchen with its worn wooden cabinets and fake marble tabletop. He looks so out of place, dressed head to toe in designer brands and fancy fabrics, hands and neck decorated with posh jewelry, and the unmistakable smell of an expensive cologne wafting from his masculine throat. And he most certainly is out of place when it comes to who he’s associating with. He’s out of Y/N’s league, not only physically, but in his behaviors, as well. It’s so obvious it almost hurts. 

Yet here Harry is, looking polished and stylish, while she’s sporting a mere sundress that was probably bought off the clearance rack at Kohl’s. It just doesn’t mix, and she finds herself wondering why he’d chosen her in the first place. When she had voiced similar concerns the day they’d slept together, he had told her it was because she was timid and he wanted to see if he could break through that. But Y/N isn’t stupid. There has to be some other reason. Why else would a rich bachelor pay attention to a small-town runaway in a measly floral—

“I like your dress.”

Y/N glances up at Harry from where her mind had fallen, startled by the sudden interference in her dark thoughts. She’d been tracing across the slope of his structured jaw, mesmerized by how it would grow taut every time he swallowed down a gulp of his beverage. 

She had ambled so deep in her head, she barely manages to mutter a passable answer. “Oh, thank you! I’ve had it for a bit, but I barely wear it.”

The edges of the vampire’s mouth quirk around the rim of his glass, creases wrinkling along the corners of his bright eyes. “It suits you nicely. A beautiful dress on a beautiful girl.” 

Y/N’s belly somersaults, a sheepish giggle running along the undercurrent of her next mumble, so low it’s hardly audible. “Thank you. Again. Thought I’d bring it out for a special occasion.” 

Harry’s eyebrows jump upwards at her comment. He draws his wine glass from between his lips, resting it against his hard stomach and gifting the human a cheeky once-over. “So I’m a special occasion, now, am I?”

Y/N looks down at the straps of her sandals, fighting off a grin. She shrugs one shoulder offhandedly, bringing her cup to her mouth and taking a long drag of the sweet liquor, feeling it wash across her tongue and leave a warm glow in her tummy. “Maybe.” 

Harry hums teasingly in his throat, tapping his pinky pensively along the bottom of his glass, opal ring clinking against the crystalline surface. The color of his drink makes the black polish on his nails stand out almost artistically. “I’ll take any compliment I can get, especially from those pretty lips.”

Another wave of heat flushes across the apples of Y/N’s cheeks. “You really know how to flatter a girl, don’t you?”

The monster tips back another swig of wine, savoring the notes of wild cherry and pomegranate in its palate. Not bad, especially for what he can tell is a ten dollar bottle. 

He cocks his head to the side, irises glitzing knowingly amidst his long lashes. “I think we’re both aware that I most certainly know how to flatter a girl.” 

Y/N’s stare snaps up to lock with his, the faintest whimper stringing her vocal chords. If it wasn’t for Harry’s heightened hearing, he would have never known it’d happened. But he does, and he can feel the throb between his thighs spike as a result. The sounds she makes are just as wonderful as he remembers.

The sexual tension suspending in the room is practically palpable. After a bundle of her heartbeats— which is gradually rising in intensity— echo in his ears, he decides to speak up again. 

“I’ve been thinking about you.” 

The statement can be taken into so many different contexts and that’s why Harry chose it. She could interpret it as innocent admiration on behalf of a smitten lover, or as another layer of sensual praise. It’s versatile, successful either way. 

Y/N blinks at him exactly three times in surprise. “You have?”

She’d been thinking about him, too. Non-stop. And now that she knows it’s mutual, she doesn’t feel so nervous anymore. It reassures her that they’re on the same page of this messy novel written about their undefined association. Or that they are at least within the same chapter.  

Harry bobs his head in confirmation, indulging another sip of wine, letting it filter through his taste buds slowly. His glass is almost empty. “Mmhm. Walked past this candle store at the mall the other day and they had one burning that smelled just like you.”

His confession is sweet and it makes the tips of her fingers tingle. Y/N copies his action, taking another gulp of her beverage, attitude airy and inquisitive. “Is that so? And what do I smell like?”

Harry’s response is immediate and confident, almost as if he’s spent time thinking on the subject prior to today. “Honey and lavender.” 

Y/N nods her head in wonder, laughing gently. “That’s oddly specific.” 

Harry feels like he’s been smacked between the eyes with an iron rod. That was an idiot move. Absolutely moronic. 

He just now comes to terms with how intimate the comment he’d made had been. It suggests that he’s pondered on this topic, which gives the impression that he could be more interested in her than he actually is. He doesn’t need this loose connection turning into some type of cliche romantic comedy; he doesn’t have the space, patience, or emotional stability for it. And certainly not with someone he’s only fucked once. 

The vampire clears his throat, figuring that he can clean up this metaphorical spill by throwing a bit of crudeness at it. “Then yesterday I had a donut, yeah? One of those cream-filled ones. And when I took a bite of it, all the cream just came oozing out and I was like, ‘hm, this reminds me of someone…’”

The slightly endeared expression on Y/N’s face crumbles to dust, voice shrill and indignant at his lewd analogy. “You fucking perv!” 

Harry sputters into a round of boyish cackling, nearly wheezing when her foot reaches over and strikes him on the shin. He clasps over his stomach with his free hand, head falling back in glee as her features pinch in embarrassed disgust. He manages to speak between bursts of giggles, water gathering along his tear ducts due to how hard he’s laughing. “I’m just being honest!”  

“No, you’re being a gross little fourteen year old asshole!” Y/N exclaims incredulously, but she can’t keep herself from joining in on his boasts of amusement. 

His laughter is contagious. It’s loud and unapologetic in a manner she rarely sees in anyone and he just looks really fucking cute with his dimples jolting and smile lines creasing. It’s hard to stay mad at him, though it’s not like she’d truly been upset in the first place. 

Harry reigns himself in, inhaling deep breaths and wiping at his tears with the back of his large hand as a joyful groan rumbles in his chest. A few more giggles sneak out when he sees Y/N’s flat expression, but he manages to stifle the rest. His tone is jesting, poking fun. “If it makes you feel any better, I was respectful enough to wipe the donut down with a napkin, as well.” 

“Fuck off.”

Harry grins down snidely at the last inch or so of alcohol left in his glass, bringing it to his mouth and downing it all in one go. He places the cup down carefully on the counter behind him, his arms finding their way across his stomach, fingertips momentarily tapping at his elbows. He appraises a playfully grouchy Y/N, pursing his lips to hide a smirk. 

He watches as she takes another small taste from her drink, her pulse lulled by its contents. She’s not drunk by any means— not even buzzed— but it had helped calm the tittering in her throat that Harry had been able to detect earlier. She’s relaxed now, all anxiousness washed away by the small serving of liquor and his inappropriate (and extremely funny, if he does say so himself) jokes. 

The creature thinks it’s proper time he gets what he came for. 

“I really am glad you reached out, though.” Harry starts, an easygoing smile nudging across his alcohol-swollen mouth. “Truly.” 

Y/N snorts sarcastically, attempting to hide how his comment had made her pulse sharpen. He’d heard it anyways. “Oh, are you? Truly?”

Harry pushes himself off the edge of the counter, slowly sauntering over to Y/N, who instinctively draws back further against the tabletop behind her. She ogles at him from below heavy lashes, glass still perched between her tinted lips, excited anticipation written all over her body language. He can practically feel the heat radiating off her, rising a few notches the closer he gets. 

“Yeah.” Harry’s arms unfold, one stretching over her shoulder to prop his palm against the cupboard behind her head, the other fiddling with the seam of his blazer. He slides his forefinger and thumb along the single buttoned hole, giving it a rough tug and allowing his jacket to spring open. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun interior designing with anyone. Not for a while.” 

Y/N glimpses down at where his coat had parted, drinking up the sight of his lean torso behind the see-through material of his shirt. Now that he’s nearly pressed against her, his scent is stronger than before, burying her under smoky notes of vanilla and seasoned firewood. A familiar heat pools between her clasped thighs. 

When she pipes up, it’s shaky and whispered, covered in a dreamy undercurrent. “Yeah, me either. It felt...nice.”

Harry’s irises flash crimson for a millisecond, but she’s too occupied gawking at his tight stomach to notice. His dialect takes on a low, seductive twang, the breath of his words fanning across her face. All she can smell is wine, mint, and...vanilla chapstick? 

“It felt really nice.” 

Y/N’s view drags up to land on his lips. They look as soft and appetizing as last time, tempting her to just drop her flute onto the floor and replace it with his mouth. “Extremely nice.” 

An outside force suddenly tips her glass upwards and she realizes it’s Harry’s fingers. He nudges her cup until the liquid inside funnels towards her mouth, his intentions set on helping her finish it off. She drains the wine obediently, staring up at him dazed and moony, feeling a few drops escape along the sides of her mouth and tickle down her chin. The jade-eyed boy then gently pries the glass from her fingertips, reaching over and placing it inside her sink to be handled later. 

Y/N’s hands fall flat against his thick chest, feeling it rise and fall steadily below her grasp as he takes a step forward, their bodies completely flushing together. His palm trails up the exposed sliver of her thigh, diving a couple of inches below her dress and giving the outer area a hard squeeze. He doesn’t go any further; he won’t until she explicitly asks for it. He’s a prick about a lot of things, but never consent.

Harry leans down, running the tip of his cold nose along her clenched jaw, his warm tongue peeking out to collect the streams of wine that had dripped out. The contrast in sensations makes her knees buckle and what he murmurs hotly against her skin doesn’t help in calming those motions at all.

“Wouldn’t mind making you feel that nice again.” 

Y/N’s mind stalls, overwhelmed by his touch and smell. She can feel him sponging tender kisses at the corner of her mouth, and she can feel the palm of his hand massaging at her thigh needily. She can feel his breaths quickening in pace the longer he’s around her, and she can feel the foundation of a moan building in his lungs in the form of small vibrations, which run across her palms and twitch her fingers. She can feel everything; she’s never been more hyper-aware of her surroundings than now. And all because of this one mysterious young man. 

When Y/N finally speaks, Harry feels relief flood his system, though it is swiftly replaced by intense desire. 

“I wouldn’t mind it, either.” 

That’s full permission if he’s ever heard it. 

Harry’s other hand drops from its spot against the cupboard behind her, joining its partner on her opposite thigh. He coasts his palms fully below her flowy dress onto her hips, a lascivious simper crawling across his cheeks at the lack of extra fabric beneath her clothes. “No panties tonight?”

The human swallows heavily, shaking her head as she leans it back against the wooden cabinets, giving him access to her throat. At the sight, the vampire’s fangs protrude, cutting into the inside of his lower lip as venom fills his mouth. He wills himself to maintain control. It’s difficult, considering his sharp eyes can make out the chiseling of her arteries pumping blood just beneath her delicate skin, but he forces composure into his behavior nonetheless. With all of the lights on and Y/N completely sober, he knows he won’t get away with another mid-fuck stunt like the one he pulled last time they were in this position. 

Instead, he distracts himself with what he can draw from her at this very moment— another unbelievable orgasm. 

“Such a filthy little fucking thing.” Harry growls, smearing his lips down the center of her jugular, nipping love bites into her flesh but making sure not to split it open. “S’that how bad you wanted it when you texted me? So bad that you didn’t even bother to wear anything underneath?”

Y/N whines softly when he passes over a particularly tender spot along her neck, shuttering against his chest. “Y-Yes.” 

A low chuckle rolls from Harry’s wandering tongue as he hones in on the area that had coaxed such a delicious reaction. “Fuck, that was such a pretty noise. Are you sensitive here, baby?”

Y/N nods with fervor, running her touch up his pectorals and over his strong shoulders, diving under his coat and fisting at the mesh that strains across his muscular back. Her eyes roll closed, her next confession coming out in the form of a feathery sigh, legs parting wider for him to comfortably fit in between. “I just...I just need you.”

Harry eagerly accepts the invitation, sifting between her thighs and hiking them up onto his hips. The fact that he can suspend her so effortlessly, almost as if she weighs nothing, makes the pit of her tummy boil. “You need me now, d’you? How much, doll? Want you to tell me how much you missed my cock.” 

The young woman winces ever so slightly at the crude word and it amuses him to no end. “So fucking much, Harry.” 

He can confidently say his name has never sounded sweeter than when it trickles from Y/N’s tongue. 

When he speaks, it’s packed with all the pent up turmoil radiating deep in his abdomen. “Did you think about me the way I thought about you?”

Y/N’s reply falls breathily from her mouth without any hesitation. “Y-Yeah. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

A cocky hum tinges the air on his behalf. “And why’s that?”

“Because…” The girl struggles to swallow, finding it difficult to match how easily brazen he can be. She pushes through. “Because you fucked me better than anyone else ever has.” 

The compliment is one Harry gets often, but for some inexplicable reason, it hits so much deeper coming from Y/N. “Mm. Poor baby just needed to get properly rawed, didn’t you?”

“Had no idea how badly I wanted it until you came along.” 

A dark chuckle rolls from the creature’s lips at her bluntness. He repeatedly passes his textured tongue over the pressure point on her throat, flames igniting in his chest when she releases another watery, desperate mewl. “God, look at you. Practically already dripping. Like it when I play with you like that?”

“Fuck, y-yes.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

And so Harry keeps going, and he doesn’t stop. Not at her neck, and not anywhere else. Not until she begs him to hours later, when he’s whittled three orgasms out of her trembling body, each one more intense than the last. 

The first one takes place right there on top of the kitchen counter. He boosts her up onto the table, bunching her pretty sundress around her quivering thighs— as he’d fantasized prior— while she fumbles with his trousers. He tends to her every breathy whimper as she eases him out of his briefs, marking his teeth all over her throat with the assurance that his blood will fade the bruises by morning. He tears his jacket down his broad shoulders, panting into her mouth as she undoes all the buttons that line his elegant iridescent shirt, moaning softly when she breaks their kiss to paint her hot lips down the expanse of his heaving chest and tight stomach. Y/N ducks down as far as her angle will allow, wanting to taste as much of his skin as she can. She wants to memorize its salty smoothness for as long as she lives. 

Harry watches her with bliss-drunken fondness twitching his mouth, head falling back to hang between his shoulders as a low, “Such a good girl.” rumbles from his throat. His ring-clad fingers tangle into her locks and scratch at her scalp lightly, strained exhales encouraging her to keep going as she delights herself with tainting love bites all over him. He yanks the girl back up by her roots, grabbing her hips and roughly scooting her forward towards him, clammy foreheads pressing together as he fixes to fill her up for the first time in what feels like eternity. 

The monster’s voice is as dominant and thick as she likes it. “Eyes up here. Want to see you come undone while I fuck you.” 

The way he spreads Y/N open makes her choke out a scream like nothing else she’s ever heard. Harry simply clamps one of his palms over her mouth, continuing to ram into her at a harsh stride, gasping against her ear with every thrust as she rakes her nails across his back. “Gotta keep that pretty mouth quiet. Thin walls.” 

The human feels like her heart is going to break through her ribs and what she doesn’t know is that with every passing beat, Harry feels it tenfold. And it’s driving him fucking insane— she drives him fucking insane. Especially when she looks at him with that glossy, begging gaze, biting into the mound of his hand as he slams his hips inside her so hard, the glasses in her cupboard shake. “Like it when I give it to you rough? Yeah, I thought so. Just like that? Harder? Say please…Christ, you’re a fucking angel.”

Y/N is dirty. So fucking filthy, and Harry loves every second of it. Loves that anything he throws out, she returns with as much enthusiasm, if not more. Loves that she can take his cock as hard as he’s willing to give it, which says a lot, considering his stamina and strength usually surpasses most humans. He’d met very few mortals who can match his sexual prowess and she happens to be one of them. She not only takes it, but pleads for more. She doesn’t just seek her own pleasure, but insists on delivering his own. And though they’re polars opposites at their core— she’s timid, physically standard, and boringly normal, whereas he’s confident, attractive, and unusually superior in every sense of the phrase— they fit together better than he’d ever care to admit. They’re perfectly compatible, down to their personalities and their intimate needs. 

As Harry stands there— fingertips leaving welts across her waist as he grunts brokenly against her throat, stretching her out like she was meant to take him this deep, her moans sounding like classical melodies to his ears— he thinks that maybe...maybe he’ll keep her around. A friends with benefits situation would be the most ideal. And to quote his own clever motto from before, it would be mutualism at its finest. 

The alliance would be nothing emotional; simply for the sake of providing each other with requited relief, as well as providing Harry with a convenient feeding arrangement. Neither of them would have to submit themselves to going to those terrible clubs, they both already know what the other enjoys, and the banter they share is pretty fulfilling. Plus, her blood is one of the sweetest he’s ever had. Whatever magic lies in her veins tides over his cravings in a fashion he’s never quite experienced. They both get what they want and don’t have to deal with the disasters of real commitment; neither are in a place in their lives where they can shoulder such a big responsibility. Harry is emotionally unavailable, as he has been for the past two centuries and as he intends to be for the next dozen. Y/N has just started anew in a place where she has so little to give and so much to lose, dating is the last thing on her mind. A casual no-strings-attached arrangement would be a perfect gift, bow and all.

And with the way they make each other cum multiple times that night— once on the counter, and twice on that trusty old couch— there’s not a single doubt in Harry’s mind that this is most definitely mutualism at its peak. 

///

During the span of the next few weeks, Harry learns a lot about Y/N. It’s surprising how informational someone’s sex habits can be. 

The second week after they had met— and the first since their second very heated, very satisfying encounter— she shoots him a text on Wednesday, of all days. 

Harry isn’t doing anything particularly interesting when he receives her message. He had gone to see Mitch play at the bar that had recently booked him as a semi-permanent gig, sitting in the booth furthest in the back from all of the ruckus, fingers tapping along the waxed table to his best friend’s skilled jazzy guitar chords. Mitch always teases Harry about how he doesn’t have a job, which the vampire always waves off. Working for money is stupid and unnecessary; any materialistic wants and needs that plague him, he can get with the help of compulsion. Therefore, what’s the use in condemning himself the horrors of customer service or a constricting office cubicle? 

His best friend is halfway through his set when Harry’s device vibrates against the sticky surface before him, tittering fingers coming to an abrupt stop. He flips over his iPhone, eyes flickering over the screen, a coy grin spreading its way across his blushed lips. Y/N’s contact beams up at him in return. He’d set her profile as just her name alongside three disco ball emojis, for the sake of their little inside joke. 

I’m getting off work a bit earlier than I thought today and was wondering if you wanted to help me with my ceiling fan.

Harry bites into his bottom lip to muffle a chuckle, shaking his head lightly as he stares down at the comical request. 

That’s odd. Last time I was there, you didn’t HAVE a ceiling fan.

Y/N sits on her lunch break in the backroom of the cafe where she’s employed, a veggie wrap halfway suspended towards her mouth when Harry’s text bloops in, pointing out her embarrassing mistake. She blinks at his correction blankly, eyes closing in faint humiliation as her true intentions are now painfully clear. 

After a second of recollection, she types back some damage control, though it hardly has an impact. Harry’s already chortling to himself just thinking about how contorted her face must look at the moment.

I’m aware, thank you. I meant I wanted help picking one out. I’ve got a few tabs saved as potentials. 

He decides to be a little shit about this whole thing, continuing to mock her.

You could just send me the links right now and I can tell you which one I like. You know that, right?

Y/N knows that. She also knows, by the tone and texture of his response, he’d only mentioned that alternative to be annoying. He knows she’s not talking about ceiling fans, and he just wants her to chase after him. Unfortunately enough for Y/N’s pride, she’s more than willing to.  

I just think your opinion would be much more valuable and effective in person, since you’d be able to help me search for other ones at the same time. We’d cover more ground. Two heads are better than one!

We do make quite the team, don’t we?

I personally think so. A dynamic duo for the books, honestly.

A soft round of applause cuts through the air around the vampire, signaling the end of Mitch’s performance. Harry glances up to see his best friend mounting his guitar back into its case, smiling bashfully at the crowd and nodding his head in thanks to all their praise. Harry coins his luck; things couldn’t have wrapped up at a better time. 

Alright, Watson. What time will you be home?

Y/N stops mid-chew through a bite of her meal, cheeks puffed as the corners of her mouth twitch at his nerdy reference.

I’m off at 6:45. Should be home by 7. 

I’ll see you there, then. 

See you there. Also, why do YOU get to be Sherlock? Seems a bit sexist. 

Harry rolls his eyes at her quip, smirking to himself as he types out his final response.

Well, first and foremost, I’m literally English. Secondly, last time I checked, I’m always the one in control. And frankly, you seem to like it that way. See you at seven, darling.

And at seven on the dot, Harry’s outside her apartment. His friends would be amazed at his punctuality. He only shows it when it’s worth the trouble.

The creature walks up the steps to the mortal’s complex with his Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, keychain tucked into the back pocket of his black skinny jeans, and his tan Chelsea boots clicking against the cement ground. A light wind whips his Keith Harrington Safe Sex t-shirt against the broad muscles of his back, drawing a soothed sigh from his lungs. He loves the California weather. 

He gives her door three swift knocks with his ring-clad knuckles, stepping back from the entrance and clasping his large hands behind his back as he waits. 

When Y/N answers, Harry tilts his chin down a smidge, looking at her over the brim of his chic black glasses with his signature dazzling smile dimpling his cheeks. He lists his head slightly in a formal greeting. “Detective.” 

The girl’s irises flit up to the ceiling as amusement twitches her lips. She plays along. “Nice to see you again. Detective.”

She moves off to the side, beckoning him to come in and he gladly takes the offer, striding into the flat and down the narrow corridor he’s grown quite familiar with. Y/N follows him back into her living room, gaze quickly drinking up his appearance. He’s casual today— less jewelry, more comfortable clothes— and he works the normal fit as effortlessly as he works his fancy brands. Especially with those tight dark jeans. They hug his thighs in a fashion that should be illegal. 

Harry twists around on his heel to face her, reaching up to remove his sunglasses and tucking them along the collar of his tee. A handful of curls fall across his forehead, framing his face and sculpting his jaw, as usual. A sweep across Y/N’s physique tells him everything he needs to know. 

She’s still in her work clothes, clad in a navy blue polo shirt and a pair of dark skinnies similar to his. Her hair is down, though the strands have a dent that suggests she’d been wearing a ponytail. Her mascara is smudged a tad under her seemingly tired eyes, but her attitude is as bright and lively as always. She appears messy, but he likes it. It’s a type of unconventional beauty that’s natural and genuine, which he can appreciate.

He contemplates her with a certain slyness that makes her shift in her socked feet. 

“I got a message earlier. Sounded kinda frantic.” He drifts closer to the human, a sultry tension growing taut between them. He glances upward for an instant, as if recalling a thought. “Something about ceiling fans…?”  

Y/N chews into her cheek to keep from giggling, allowing him to press his chest to hers. He slowly begins to back her up towards the shabby couch, which has seen this interaction happen one too many times. “Yeah, I’m thinking of getting one. Figured it’d help. It just gets really hot in here sometimes, y’know?”

“Mmm…” Harry thrums in agreement, deep in the back of his throat. His hands crawl onto her hips and grasps them somewhat roughly, index fingers hooking into the belt loops of her jeans as he leans down to brush his soft lips over her own. She’ll never grow tired of the electricity that passes through them every time their mouths touch. It kindles her needs unlike anything else. “It does get pretty hot in here sometimes. Especially if you’re working up a sweat.” 

He pushes her further towards the sofa, movements gradual as she drifts backwards, careful not to trip her. She glimpses down at where their lips are flirting, breath hiccuping when he licks his lightly in anticipation, his tongue just barely grazing her Cupid’s bow. “Absolutely. A fan would definitely help relieve some of that stress.” 

“Yeah.” Harry nudges the tip of her nose with his own, feeling her grab at his biceps for security as he continues inching her backwards blindly. “It can work wonders for when you’re all pent up, too. Especially when you’re really tight, which I know for a fact you are.”

The backs of the girl’s knees hit the edge of the couch and she topples into its cushions. She sits up onto her elbows, sheer need inking into her irises as he patiently begins to undo his belt. His long, nimble fingers work with ease and he seems to be in no particular rush, which pricks at her nerves because she feels completely the opposite. She’d been thinking about him since Friday night— or rather, Saturday morning, when he had actually stayed for breakfast that time around. 

Y/N had sat on top of her small dining table while he took the seat before her shirtless, leaning forward with his arms crossed nonchalantly over her lap as she fed him bites of lemon blueberry pancakes. The pads of his calloused fingers had drawn random shapes across the warm skin of her thighs, attempting to cheekily slip beneath her pajamas shorts and he’d giggle boyishly around mouthfuls of food every time she would swat his hand away. He looked so fucking pretty that morning, with his curls tangled in tuffs and the vague imprint of her teeth scattered across his grinning mouth, angry red scratches decorating his bare shoulders. That wholesome yet dirty image had left her head spinning for days. 

The sound of Harry’s zipper ripping open blinks Y/N back into the present and she nearly gawks as he grabs onto the hem of his graphic t-shirt and yanks it over his head, arms crossing as he does so. He tosses it onto her playfully, laughing as she smacks it away from her face and gives him a deadpan look. Harry leans forward, propping his palms on either sides of her head and bracketing her in, the unmissable scent of his delicious cologne invading her senses as his dark tattoos ripple over the lean tendons of his stomach and arms. His strangely cold forehead flushes against hers and he nips at her top lip, tugging it between his teeth and releasing. His voice comes out as deep and hypnotizing as ever. 

“Get undressed for me. Want your thighs wrapped around my head.” 

Harry comes to find that for such a reserved girl, Y/N has a pretty intriguing sexual mindset. She’s open to a lot of stuff he’d never expect from a rural-town escapee. Her kinks surprise him, but pleasantly so, considering they cross over with a lot of his own. She’s into choking, which he adores. There’s nothing hotter than feeling her pulse slam against the palm of his hand as his array of rings mark into the delicate skin of her throat. She likes being restrained, which translates into Harry pinning her wrists above her head while he slams between her drenched thighs. It’s difficult to achieve that on the sofa, so they end up rolling across the rug on the floor, her legs tangled around his hips like a vine as he pants into her mouth, damp hair flopping over his forehead and tickling her eyelashes. Ideally, he would have used his belt to tie her hands to a headboard. If they were at his place, he would’ve just reached for the metal cuffs he has hanging casually off the railing of his bed, which he keeps there for easy access. But they’re in her living room, so he makes do with what he can. 

The vampire doesn’t stay over that night, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he promised Niall he’d help him out with a car issue. Apparently the motor is making a weird noise and Harry isn’t shocked one bit. Niall barely has the brain cells to be alive, much less to handle the upkeep that comes with owning a vintage vehicle. He thanks Y/N for a good time as he slips into his tight jeans and recovers his sunglasses from the floor, pulling his tee over the already fading hickies littering his collarbones, fitting his accessory into his sweaty curls. 

Harry leans down to where she lays limply, splayed over the couch where he had placed her after picking her up off the ground (only after he’d made her cum twice). He plants a nonchalant farewell kiss to her parted lips, thumbing over her bruised nipples jestingly and grinning into her mouth when she whimpers. “I’ll see you later, Watson. Let me know which fan you decide to buy.” 

Two days later, Harry’s phone chimes again, this time with the unique ringtone he’d assigned just for her. 

He’s relaxing in his bathtub, submerged up to his chest in hot water mixed with Epsom salts and jasmine bubble bath, his locks sudsy with shampoo. He’s in the middle of shaving his face, dragging the straight razor (his time in the nineteen thirties made him picky towards any other tool, especially those simpleton plastic ones) down his jaw carefully, making sure not to nick the little moles under the corner of his mouth. When his device goes off, he halts all his motions, glancing over from the hand mirror he’s holding before his face. He’d changed her contact name to Watson as homage to their funny little dynamic, but he’d kept the disco balls in their place. He respects the roots of their acquaintanceship.

Fan came in. Wanna come check it out?

He had a nagging suspicion he’d hear from her today. It’s another Friday night, after all. He’s just happy she’d texted earlier than last time so he can flake on his friends without forcing them to wait for an hour. 

Wow, you chose two day shipping? You must be itching to see me.

Don’t let it go to your head. The only thing I’m itching for is your professional opinion. 

Right. Well, me and my professional opinion are washing up at the moment so give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there, yeah?

Sounds good to me, Sherlock. 

Harry decides on an outfit that falls at the center of his dressing spectrum— something comfortable but not lazy. Something semi-formal. He doesn’t really have to impress her anymore (not that he had to try that hard in the first place) but he wants to look good, either way. There’s nothing wrong with showing off what he has, both physically and wardrobe-wise. He chooses a horizontal-striped fitted tee made of thick cotton, the lines alternating between brown, beige, and a light caramel. He tucks the shirt into a pair of mid-rise corduroy flared pants that are a dark mustard shade, shrugging on an olive green jacket with red and white stitch detailing along the edges, large images of cacti embroidered along its expanse. His pearls, cross necklace, and he opts out of his earring this time. Rings, vanilla chapstick, mint gum. Keys, wallet, starch white Vans. 

Before he knows it, he’s being roughly pulled into her home from his spot just outside her threshold, his cherry-lacquer nails carding into the silky hair along the nape of Y/N’s neck as his teeth skim over the hollow of her throat. The human grapples to push his coat off his wide shoulders, backing further down the small hallway of her flat and kicking the door shut. She holds his head firmly to the sensitive spot in her neck that he’d toyed with a week prior, and he can’t resist the way his eyes blink crimson— a hunting impulse, stemming from the sound of her blood rushing through her carotid artery. He hadn’t fed last time— vampires only need to feed once a week to avoid desiccation— so he surely intends to tonight. 

Harry’s hands fit perfectly around the dip of her spine, pulling her body tight to his as he paints sloppy kisses over her jugular. He gets his teasing words out in between desperate gasps and breathy chuckles. “And here I thought this was genuinely going to be about the fan.”

“Shut up.” 

Y/N makes a sharp turn, tugging him into her room instead of the living room and it dawns on him that this is the first time they’re going to fuck in her actual bed. All those instances of sleeping together and not once had they done anything on the piece of furniture that was intended for that sole purpose. It’s ironically hilarious and he voices that opinion as they stumble onto her mattress. 

“You know,” Harry murmurs into her mouth as she shoves him flat onto the rumpled sheets (she hadn’t made her bed this morning and that’s endearing, for some reason), straddling his lap as she hurriedly pulls his t-shirt out from along the waistband of his trousers. “Out of all the times we’ve done this— which is quite a few— we’ve never done anything on your bed other than sleep.” 

That’s a lie. He’s never actually slept in her bed. After staring at the ceiling blankly two weeks ago for about eight hours, he had been smart enough to grab his phone from his pants the second time around. He spent that stretch of time playing Mario Kart and watching Unsolved Mysteries on Netflix with the volume down just out of human earshot, so as to not disturb her slumber. 

Y/N ducks in order to drag her wet, pillowy lips down the butterfly inking on his tummy and over the spines of the two ferns on his pelvis, licking across his happy trail. He jerks in response, a soft grunt gurgling in his lungs as she uses her index finger to trace the outline of his hardening cock through the velvet fabric of his slacks. Her voice is distant, giggle breathless. “Yeah, you’re right. How counterintuitive.”

Harry swiftly pops the button of his trousers, helping her coax them down his legs, releasing a stuttery moan when she immediately bends down and mouths at his prick over his briefs. The soiled stain forming around the tip of his cock would be embarrassing if he didn’t know she found it hot. 

His tone is tight but humorous as she continues licking at him eagerly through his underwear, nails digging into his inner thighs. “Am I your first?”

Confusion flickers in her eyes for a moment before she realizes the joke. He’s referring to if he’s the first person she’s slept with on her new bed in her new home. “Yes, you are, actually.” 

Harry’s juts his bottom lip out into an overly-sweet exaggerated pout, talking in a honeyed drawl. “Aw, I get to christen your bed with you? We’re practically married now. When’s the baby due?” 

“God, you’re a moron.” Y/N bursts into a fit of laughter as she mounts back onto his lap, pinching at his torso in fake spite and feeling her insides flutter at the airy giggles that escape him. She gnaws on her bottom lip thoughtfully for a second, watching with hunger as he finishes removing his shirt and momentarily sits up to chuck it onto the ground over her shoulder. 

Harry falls back onto the mattress, folding his taut arms behind his neck, biceps flexing with the movements as his strong chest and toned stomach look as appealing as ever. She runs her palms over his tanned skin, feeling the sturdy muscle shift beneath her touch. Shit.

The immortal slinks his head to the side, eyes going half-lidded in suggestive mischief as he sees the way she’s objectifying him. He doesn’t mind; he actually lives for it. “Are you just gonna keep staring or are you gonna fuck me?”

His lewd comment washes warmth across Y/N’s ears and spurs her into action. In less than a minute, she’s fully unclothed, bouncing on his cock with a type of need that boils the pit of Harry’s belly. His fingers are digging bruises into her waist, slamming her down onto his prick with enough force to make the old bed creak wildly. She may be on top, but he’s still the one pulling the strings. 

Y/N collapses forward, anchoring herself onto her forearms on either sides of his head, burying her face in his auburn ringlets. She bites onto her tongue, trying to keep a tab on the atrociously loud sounds threatening to spill from her mouth. They come out as broken whines instead, which Harry drinks up like a glass of aged bourbon. She fists at his roots, jolting with every thrust he gives upwards, her knees digging into his love handles to keep balanced. At this point, she’s barely riding him at all. He’s just ramming himself into her from below as he guides her hips and she doesn’t have an issue with that at all. She likes when he leads.  

His growl comes out low and raspy, riding on a moan, his warm, choppy exhales pebbling her bare nipples. “How’s that, darling? How’s that cock feel?”

Y/N nods her head frantically, not trusting her tongue to form an appropriate response. 

“Tell me.” He grits out through bared teeth, back arching a bit as he feels the knot of white hot pleasure in his stomach twist and turn. 

“I— I can’t. I’m—”

One of Harry’s hands coasts down the small of her back and onto her ass, giving it a harsh squeeze. She yelps at the new sensation, pain and bliss intermingling. “Yeah, you fucking can. You will. Use your words. Tell me how much you like it.”

A violent shutter runs through Y/N’s limbs and she instinctively pushes back against his palm. Harry’s eyebrows kink in question as he feels her draw her face back from his hair. One look at her eyes tells the entire narrative: She wants him to spank her. 

Harry slowly lifts his hand from her skin, brows raising a bit higher for confirmation. Y/N smears his lips against his forehead and left cheekbone, bobbing her head desperately, whispering a tiny, “Yes, please.” that sends smoky tendrils of hot air cascading down his straining neck. 

When the vampire’s hand comes down, it’s fast and hard, his cold rings biting into her flesh and leaving welts, the sound echoing off the glossy walls and tall bookshelf in her room. The cry that betrays her could probably be heard down on the main floor of her complex. 

The shattered noise makes Harry sanity slip and he’s lucky she’s too lost in her own bliss to see the way his eyes glow dangerously red. “Fuck, you’re such a slut for it.” 

Harry suddenly boosts himself forward, toppling Y/N backwards until she’s the one wedged against the bed. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, nestling her face into the crook of his sweaty collarbones, cracked cries pooling into the junction of his clavicle as he hikes her roughly up his thighs. He sinks further between her legs until he bottoms out with a loud garbled groan, pushing so deep she can feel him in the trench of her belly. 

“Oh my God, Harry— I— fuck, just—just— oh!”

His pace rises in intensity, strokes messy and unforgivable as he fucks her into the bed, the cracking of the frame warning him that it might give away. “Oh, so you liked that, did you? Like it when I call you a slut and stretch you out like one?”

Harry feels Y/N’s teeth rip into his shoulder in order to evade a scream; a strong shiver pin-balls down his spine as a result. Her voice is absolutely wrecked as she talks over her muffled mouth. “Loved it. Loved it so much. Want—Want more. Please, please, please.”

Harry holds her down firmly to the sheets, pounding into her with a form of unrestrained force he’s never exhibited. She just drives him to the brink like no one else has in nearly twenty decades. “Can you feel me in your tummy, pet? Can you feel how I fill you up?” 

“Yes, yes— it’s so good, Harry. You’re incredible.”

“Such a proper little whore.” He has to actively hold back from digging into her throat with his fangs, his eyes screwing shut in concentration as his orgasm begins to burn through his veins. “Begging me to fuck you like one, over and over. You’ve never had it this good, have you?” 

“N-No. You’re the only one who makes me feel like this.”  

“Hands off.” 

“W-What?”

“Hands off.”

Y/N obeys, throwing her arms above her head and letting them hang off the edge of the bed as he’d instructed. It’s not like he wants her to stop scratching down his back, but he knows that if she continues, he’s going to black out. He’s already teetering, obvious in the black webs he can feel materializing over the whites of his eyes.

“Ask for permission.” 

The mortal unclamps her teeth from his bruised shoulder and swallows heavily, her words sputtering out from how hard she’s jerking against the bed. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please—can I—can I cum?”

“‘May I cum.’” The boy corrects, half because he wants to be a cocky ass, and half because it’s automatic. He was raised during an era where intellectual accuracy was of utmost value in society. It’s hard to leave those lessons behind. 

Y/N hiccups another mewl, hands curling into loose fists above her head as he continues to fuck her deliberately into the duvet. She repeats his phrase shakily. “May I cum? Please?”

Harry’s lashes flutter open and as soon as he sees her, all doe-eyed, covered in his love marks, with her bottom lip trembling...It’s like a switch flips. When he speaks, it’s soft and encouraging; a drastic contrast from his mood a few seconds ago. “Yeah...Yeah, baby, go ahead. Cum for me.” 

That night, as Harry lays there awake staring at that awful popcorn roof with the taste of her blood fresh on his tongue and her steady heartbeat throbbing in his heightened ears, he catches himself smiling in the dark. It doesn't have to do with emotions or feelings or any of that complicated bullshit. It just has to do with the fact that he found some consistency in his life, as unattached and materialistic as it may be. They don’t have a complex bond or a deeper meaning. They simply just coexist. They provide some common stability to each others’ lives and it helps keep an important balance. Stability is so rare to find, especially for an immortal who is condemned to witness the world constantly evolve around them while they remain frozen in time. Society will change, people change, appearances change, alliances change, and though it can be exhilarating, at times, Harry never truly has a say in it. He’s always just strung along for the ride.

This is different. It’s static, and that’s all he really needs it to be. Sex can be so emotionally messy if lines aren’t drawn and boundaries aren’t set. But with Y/N, it’s like they have a silent understanding— an unspoken agreement signed by both parties. It’s a notion that could have spared Harry his life in the past, and it’s an ideal that— even in death— took him centuries to learn:

Some people are meant to be loved, while others are just meant to be naked. 

///

The third week is when things escalate for the better. 

Specifically, Tuesday night. That’s when the sexting starts. 

It’s a pretty calm evening and Harry finds himself with nothing to do. Mitch is out with Sarah, who had come into town two days ago due to the band she’s touring with being on a three week break. She’d said she wasn’t staying for long— maybe a week, because she has plans to visit some other bloodsucker friends in Canada. Even though Mitch tries to hide it, Harry can tell he’s bummed about Sarah’s short visit. The older vampire is good at hiding his emotions, but Harry’s known him for so long that he could read Mitch’s mood even if he was blindfolded and gagged. 

The jade-eyed boy had been honest with his best friend, asking him what the point was in continuing to see someone whose depth of interest in the relationship wasn’t as developed as his own. Mitch had simply shrugged one shoulder and told Harry that he wouldn’t understand. He mentioned something about how eventually, the freshblood high would wear off and Sarah would find herself wanting to settle down somewhere with someone she could trust for the rest of eternity. Mitch explained that he cared for her enough to wait until then. 

His best mate had been wrong. Harry does understand. He understands the concept of chasing after someone who, in the end, didn’t want anything to do with him. He understands it a little too well, sadly. He figures that’s the same fate Mitch is bound to suffer, just on a less extreme level. 

But then again, Harry’s perception of love is majorly skewed, so who is he to judge?

With Mitch tied up with Sarah (probably literally, though Harry doesn’t dwell on that; it’s none of his business), his options dwindle to the rest of the crew. Niall and Xander had invited him to a concert they were attending, but Harry politely declined the offer. The musicians were some wannabe indie band and Harry would rather swallow a nicotine addict’s blood than listen to a couple of morons sing in cursive. Adam had suggested he tag along with him, Ny-Oh, and Charlotte to a new art exhibit that had opened up in the next town over. It was a thirty minute drive, so it wasn’t that bad, but Harry declined that invitation, as well. He loves art, if the giant collection on his wall has anything to say about it, but he doesn’t get on well with Ny or Charlotte. They say he’s “too much of an arrogant dickhead” to be around for an extended period of time. They’re right, of course, but it still hurts. Plus, Ny has a mullet and Harry knows he wouldn’t be able to withhold from making a Billy Ray joke. It’s best he stay away, lest she end up with an achy-breaky heart.

So that leaves him here, all alone at eight P.M. on a Tuesday, plopped on his couch in nothing but a pair of maroon plaid boxers as Hamilton plays on the ninety inch flatscreen mounted on his glass wall. He had left the curtains open, not really caring that he’s practically naked. The sun’s already set and it’s almost pitch black outside; plus, he lives on the twenty-fourth floor of the condominium complex. The only living being risking an eyeful is a peepy pigeon. Even then, Harry’s more than happy to put on a show. He’s confident enough in himself that nudity is practically second nature. His friends can attest to that. 

Harry lays across his leather sofa with a large checkered throw cushion snuggled into his side, one of his hands slung across the backrest of the couch as the other remains submerged wrist-deep in a bag of Veggie Straws. His socked feet are propped up on his round marble coffee table, ankles crossed and posture anything but eloquent. The apartment is silent, except for the musical streaming through the speakers of his television set and the gentle pattering of rain just outside his glorified window pane, accompanied by the faint flickering of the city lights below. The atmosphere of the room is relaxed and cozy and it lulls his soul in a manner he can’t put into words.

Harry has always liked the rain. Ever since he was a child, he would sit by the small round window of the attic room he shared with his older sister, watching it fall from the sky in sheets of glittering sapphires, soaking into the dry ground and turning it into a slush of dirt he would later sneak out to play in. When he got older, he would prop his shoulder against the doorframe at the back of his father’s blacksmith shop and gaze at it, mesmerized by how it would trickle down the streets of the public market, washing away all the grime that came with a bustling city’s reputation. Sometimes he would stand in it, feeling its cool touch run down his arms and soak into the back of his sot-covered work shirt. He enjoyed how it would cleanse the sticky sweat from his face and neck, its gentle nature leaving him feeling like he could float through air. Then his father would call him back into the store and playfully scold him for allowing himself to get drenched, warning that his mother would kill him if he caught a cold. 

Harry’s changed a lot since then, he knows that, but it comforts him that his love for rain is the one aspect of his personality that two hundred years of Hell had failed to take from him. 

The melodies swimming out of his TV reign him back in from memory lane. 

Harry’s not really one to enjoy musicals, but back when Hamilton had first hit Broadway, he’d used his persuasive supernatural abilities to sneak into one of the first showings. He’d been curious as to what all the hype was about, and the play did not disappoint. The songs were catchy, the acting was good, and the characters were brought to life through raw emotion and comedy. He respected that. And the plot of the story itself resonated with him deeply, as well. A protagonist that rose from nothing, fell in love with the wrong woman, and made terrible life choices that seemed correct at the time, which would all eventually lead to his death. It hit a bit too close to home. 

If he had a dollar for every time he’s seen it since it had come out on Disney+, he could probably pay rent himself instead of compelling others to do it for him. 

The play is halfway through one of its most famous ballads when the monster’s phone dings with a familiar tune. A smirk is already etching itself across his face before he even unlocks his device. 

I need interior design advice. 

I’m still a little sore from our last help session. How’d you bounce back so quick?

Funny, but I need ACTUAL interior design advice this time. 

Harry’s brows furrow in mild confusion and slight disappointment. He draws his hand from the junk food container, dusting off the crumbs. Oh. 

Genuinely? 

Yup!

He guesses he’ll give it a go. He does have pretty exquisite taste; the modern gothic aesthetic of his condo proves that. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

Alright, shoot. 

Y/N releases the breath she’d been holding in. Thank God he’s agreed to help. As much as she’s ashamed to admit it, Harry’s really the only person in LA that she deems relatively close to a friend. She hasn’t managed to mesh well with her coworkers much, despite the fact that she’s been trying extremely hard. She just doesn’t wanna force herself into unfulfilling fake friendships for the sake of having people to flaunt. It’s not right and she knows she’d grow to resent it. 

So instead, she’d reached out to the one California resident who doesn’t make her skin crawl. 

Whew, okay, thanks in advance! So I went out yesterday and got a new bedspread and I wanted some help choosing a new accessory to go with it, which is going on my wall. 

Harry’s ears perk up and his back straightens at her statement. Could she finally, by the grace of fucking God, be getting rid of that shitty tapestry? 

Well, let me see it, then. Don’t keep a man waiting, I’m dying to play Property Brothers over here.

A picture comes through of the two new accessories Y/N is referring to and the way Harry’s face drops instantly is almost comical.

Which tapestry fits better? I’m thinking the Van Gogh style painting of a lighthouse. The blue goes well with the dark turquoise of the comforter. But then again, the forest canopy has those pretty exotic flowers that compliment the coral stitching. I can’t decide. 

The vampire’s face pinches in disgusted horror as he blinks down numbly at the image on his screen. He’s going to be sick. Those Veggie Straws are about to make a hideous comeback. 

…two new tapestries? Did the other one rip or…?

What? No!! I just saw these down at the thrift store and thought they were cute. Why? Are they really that bad??

They’re not just bad, they’re worse. He’s going to ask her to blindfold him next time he visits. 

They’re…kinda immature, dove. I just thought you’d go for something cooler this time, like a vintage painting or a couple vinyls to mount on the wall. 

Immature? 

Oops. He should have picked his words more carefully. Now he’s gone and offended her and she’ll probably bite down the next time he puts his—

Another message interrupts his spiraling negative conclusions.

I know you didn’t just call ME immature when you compared me to a cream-filled donut, Harry. 

The playful tone in the text delivers a wave of relief that is almost as pleasurable as what lies between Y/N’s legs. 

Can I speak freely for a second? Full disclosure, no consequences?

That preface makes me think you’re about to chew me out.

I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know it’s not our usual dynamic, but I’ll give it a go.

Y/N ignores the bristling across her cheeks. 

Alright, go head.

I just think tapestries are kinda stupid. They scream “confused teenager trying to find myself.” But that’s just my opinion. I’m only telling you so you know that I’m probably not the best bloke to go to with tapestry inquiries. 

Harry watches as a read receipt stares up at him for a few seconds. Just when he thinks he might have truly upset her this time, her message bubble pops up. 

So...the one I’ve had hanging in my room the last three times you’ve been over…

I had to actively restrain the urge to strangle myself with it.

Y/N breaks out into laughter. The image of waking up to Harry laying facedown on her bedroom floor, balls naked and mummified within a sunrise tapestry...It’s sending her. 

Well, you know what? That’s not fair! You can’t judge my house when I haven’t even had the chance to judge yours. 

Harry nods once to himself in surrender, reaching up to finger-comb a few rebellious curls out of his eyes. She makes a valid play. 

Fair enough. You’ll have to come over and give me your opinion sometime.

I’d be honored to. Now, would you be so kind as to put your own personal bias aside this once and help me choose which one to put up. I promise I’ll spare you any more tapestry-related problems in the future. I’ll remove it from my customer contract.

Harry sighs defeatedly. He can’t believe he’s giving up his integrity for sex. 

Fine. Send me a picture of both of them up on the wall. It’ll give some perspective. 

Y/N giddily obliges, deciding to send a video instead. That way, she can get all of the angles in one go rather than having to send multiple pictures. 

Harry waits patiently, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth as he taps his foot against the coffee table to the tune of Wait for It, which is playing in the film that has now become the backdrop of his night. When Y/N’s next message comes through, he’s mildly surprised to find it’s a video. He clicks play, watching intently as she circles the two pinned tapestries slowly, making sure to get a proper view from all sides. By the time the thirty second clip is coming to an end, Harry’s leaning more towards the tropical canopy painting. It’s not as loud and she was right about the flowers matching the stitching on the duvet. 

He’s about to tap back “the forest one” when something flashes across the screen that makes him choke on his snack, launching him into a coughing fit.  

It’s within the last three seconds of the video and if he had cut it off in order to text back, he would have missed it. But he hadn’t, and now it’s burned into the back of his eyelids, causing a buzzing sensation to string right to the area between his thighs.  

The last few frames of the video, Y/N had lowered her phone from the position she’d been suspending it, probably thinking she had already stopped filming. She hadn’t. And because of that, Harry gets a full frontal view of her body, covered in nothing except a pair of lace panties and a mid-thigh oversized Avengers t-shirt. The entire screen fills with bare, silky skin and raunchy lace and he can feel his fangs poke into his tongue. 

Harry’s not a pre-teen; he’s not going to drool over seeing a pair of legs. What really gets to him is the fact that it appears Y/N still has a few hickies across the inner area of her thighs, which have failed to fade as quickly as the others. They should be gone, given that anytime Harry feeds (like he had the last time they’d slept together), he always gives her a bit of his blood to heal. Meaning, normal bruises like that should be gone. Maybe he just hadn’t given her a high enough dosage, or maybe he’d marked her more than he remembers, but either way, the stains are there.

The vampire ogles at the paused image with a dry throat and wide eyes. Just seeing her like that, dressed in comfy yet effortlessly sensual attire with no bottoms on whatsoever, freely flaunting his love bites around her apartment, probably looking at them in her mirror, thinking about how his teeth had felt grazing her skin…

It’s enough to pop a stiffy into his briefs. 

Harry glimpses over the top of his phone, swallowing thickly at the large bulge beginning to tent his boxers. His socked toes curl as he feels a longing throb begin to swell at the pit of his clenching stomach. Great. This is just fucking perfect. 

He attempts to tap back a reply, but his hands have started quivering slightly, clumsy thumbs ruining his message to the point where he has to retype it three times.

The forest one. I agree with what you said about the stitching. 

Okay, thank you so much! Your input is highly appreciated, as always.

The immortal finds himself gnawing at the inside of his cheek, weighing on whether he should mention the little softcore porn moment she’d unknowingly shot, or if he should just let it slide and go take care of the issue that is literally weighing on him— he can feel it getting heavy against his thigh. 

His fingers seem to take on a mind of their own, printing out a quick sentence and hitting the send button before he can rethink his motives. 

Did you watch your video before you sent it?

Uh no...It looked pretty okay to me while I took it. Why, do you need a different one? Was the lighting too dark? 

The fact that she sent it by accident only adds to the appeal. She’s such a good girl. So fucking innocent and sweet, she could practically give him a toothache. 

Do me a quick favor and rewatch it all the way to the end. I think you’ll be surprised with what you find.

Y/N leans back against her bookshelf wall, chewing on her bottom lip as a sly grin ticks the corners. She doesn’t have to rewatch the video. She’s fully aware of what she had done, which had been completely on purpose. She’s only playing dumb to see his reaction, getting off on how flustered he seems to have become. Yes, her intentions for contacting him had originally been purely for his opinion on decor. But when she saw the chance, she decided to jump headfirst and take it. What are friends with benefits for if not for times like these, when you’re too lazy to come over but need a bit of relief? 

The human allows a full thirty seconds to pass, simulating that she’s watching the video, and then thoughtfully taps out her response.

Oh, whoops. Sorry for the indecent exposure.

Harry shifts in exasperation against his sofa, the radiating in his abdomen crawling up to his chest and down to his knees. He needs to take care of himself now.

It’s fine, babe. You just might wanna be more careful, cause this time around you got lucky that it was me and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Could go south if it were someone else. 

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly at his scolding, but continues to play the clueless act, curious to see where it’ll take her. 

You’re absolutely right, I’m so sorry. 

Harry clears his throat, flinching as he feels a soft twitch run up the length of his cock. He exhales tightly, trying to steer the conversation into a lighter mood. He doesn’t want her to feel bad; it’s not like he’s angry about this. He’s hot and bothered and needy, but not mad.

I just think it’s funny you exposed the fact that you go around your house without pants. 

Oh, fuck off! No one ever wears pants around their own house, especially if they’re alone. It’s one of the laws of physics. No human resistance, no pants. 

Harry glances down at his body symbolically, where he’s clad in only his underwear, as well.

Touché.

Exactly. 

A pause befalls the conversation as both parties fish for something new to say. The situation’s become less lively and more intense now and neither are sure how to navigate without crossing a line. In a surge of courage, Y/N decides to just directly communicate her intentions, praying that he doesn’t take it the wrong way. 

I have an idea, just hear me out. For the sake of evening the playing field, I think that since you saw me pantsless, it’s only fair that I see you the same way. It balances out, right?

Harry’s jaw drops in an open-mouthed simper, impressed by her blatant suggestion, but also by how smoothly she had delivered it. He mumbles his next words to himself, voice amused and somewhat awed at how she had managed to spin this to her benefit. “You clever little minx. Bet it wasn’t even an accident.”

You did it on purpose, didn’t you?

Y/N purses her lips, shrugging her brows cheekily.

Maybe.

The vampire scoffs, taken aback not only at the ploy she’d pulled off, but at how unapologetic she is about the whole thing. It’s hot. 

Alright, l’ll bite. Tick for tack. 

The photo that comes through makes Y/N choke on her spit. It’s not anything too revealing, but it packs a lot. Literally. 

It’s a pretty casual picture, and she gets the feeling he took it as so just to be a tease. In the frame, all she sees is a snapshot of Harry’s lap, thighs straining against the flimsy material of a pair of crimson tartan boxers, the large tigerhead tattoo he totes somehow prominent in the low lightning. Of course it stands out, though. That’s to be expected; his thighs are thick in the most satisfying fashion and they’re one of his most defining features. She can also see the bottom half of his lean tummy, the cutoff being the crest of his belly button. His fern inkings are peeking out of from below the waistband of the Calvin Kleins, dark and matte on his lightly bronzed skin, and she spots the nonchalant position of his crossed ankles in the background. 

As appetizing as every little detail is, the centerpiece of the portrait is the obvious bulge pressing into the fabric of his briefs. The outline is so prominent, the picture borderlines on graphic. His cock looks pretty as ever, even when it’s covered; the thin underwear leaves very little to the imagination. 

Y/N has to bite down on her tongue to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

Wow, okay, well...Your picture was much more explicit than my video. That’s not fair at all. Throws off the equilibrium we were trying to establish. 

Harry chuckles aloud, shaking his head in amazement at how well she can bend the game to her will. Three weeks ago, when he’d first laid eyes on that shy girl at the club, he would have never expected her to be so bold. Now, she has him wrapped around her pinky like a string.

You’re absolutely right. My apologies. Maybe you should send one similar so we can even out the stakes. 

You read my mind.

Y/N’s next picture causes a hiss to stream through the cracks of Harry’s teeth, eyes glinting red.

It’s a picture taken on top of her bed, the angle set from above. She’s laying on her side, her torso twisted so that her backside is in the shot, her huge tee pulled tight against her waist so it creates an enticing cinching effect. Her thighs are clasped together, the collar of her shirt pulled away just enough that he can see where the valley of her chest begins to curve, and the cheeky lace panties are working utter wonders for her ass. He can’t stop staring. He physically can’t pull himself away, his eyes bouncing across every pixel, attempting to commit the picture to memory to keep it locked in the back of his brain forever. 

Y/N awaits anxiously for his reaction, biting into the pad of her thumb as the seconds list by, wondering if he had enjoyed the nude or if he was just sitting there judging all her flaws. It’s been so long since she’s sent a risky photo like that, she can’t help but stress. Sharing your body with someone digitally is almost as intimate as real sex and it comes with similar worries and insecurities. Was the angle good? Are her stretch marks unattractive? Are the dimples along her backside gross? Is he second-guessing their arrangement? Is he wishing they hadn’t met?

She practically drops her phone when it vibrates.

God, you look stunning. Like a proper fucking dream.

All of her concerns immediately disintegrate, replaced by an odd sense of pride. She’s happy that he enjoyed it, and she’s thankful for the caliber of his response. Most men don’t care to comment that nicely, if they comment at all, and Harry’s enthusiasm only excites her further. She wants to keep going. 

You look pretty fucking good yourself. Wish I could just kneel between your thighs, take you into my mouth, and make you feel good for hours. 

Harry struggles to get saliva down his parched throat, her words bouncing around the inside of his skull, sending a current of bliss directly to where he needs it. 

Hours? You want me down your throat for hours?

For hours, Harry. I’d literally just sit between your legs and let you fuck my face again. Let you use me to make yourself cum.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry’s broken whine echoes off the tall walls of his home, one of his big hands finding a path to his curls and tugging in desperation. He needs to keep composure. 

Harry’s next snapshot comes through and Y/N has to screw her eyes shut for a second to brace the bolt of electricity that zips down to her core. 

The boy’s thighs have parted wider, his feet now down from the table, knees hanging off the edge of the sofa. His free hand has delved below his briefs, pulling them up just enough to show a tad of the neatly trimmed area beneath. His fingers are cupped over his cock, hiding it from plain view, but the imprint of his knuckles on the fabric suggest he’s gripping it tightly. The longer she looks, the more she notices— specifically, a dark damp patch spreading at the middle of his boxers and she knows damn well what it is. The fact that she’d got him riled up enough that he’s leaking through like that...She can hardly breathe right. 

Shit, you look so good. How do you always look that fucking good? I just want to feel you stretch me out while you moan into my mouth. 

Harry slowly starts pumping his palm up and down his cock as he rereads her words, catching his lower lip between his teeth, his naked and flushed chest stuttering. He doesn’t want to be the douche that tells her to send another picture, but he really needs her to. He wants to see what she’s doing, how she’s fairing. Wants to know if he has her as fucked as she has him right now. 

It’s almost like they share a telepathic link because not even five seconds later, another beautifully filthy photo is decorating his screen. 

This time around, Y/N has decided to fully lay on her back, spreading her legs open and drawing her knees up slightly so that her thighs are not only flexing, but displaying all the love bites he’d left only a few days prior. They’re all different shades of purple and brown, scattered over the satin suppleness of her skin, painting a canvas of the heated night they’d shared. It’s art at its most prestigious, if he’s ever seen it. And she has her hand ducked below her panties, the outline of her fingers situated right over her clit. 

Harry’s own hand instinctively tightens around his length, pulling a weak groan from his parted lips. He throws his head back against the backrest of the couch, bucking into his palm and teasing his forefinger over his bubbling tip. He spreads the precum all over the sensitive head, whimpering when the draft from the air conditioning caresses it and sends a quiver toppling over his shoulders. 

Fuck, she’s driving him mental. There’s only one way to take care of this effectively, despite their distance. 

I’m going to call you.

Y/N gulps heavily, licking over her chapped lips and feeling her pulse jump at the realization that she’ll be getting to hear his throaty voice coax her through an orgasm. Not only that, but she’ll get to hear him cum, too. She’ll get to hear every shattered gasp and needy mewl, almost as if he were pouring all those sounds of pleasure right into her ears in person. 

The mortal’s heart hiccups when his contact pops up on the Caller ID, phone vibrating insistently. After a deep breath taken to ground herself, she slides her shaky thumb over the glass, slowly bringing the device up to her ear. Her voice is soft and timid as ever, a tremble running through its undertone. “H-Hello?”

Harry’s words come through the crackling speaker as dark and smoky as whiskey, pouring into her mind and intoxicating her as easily as the real liquor would.

“Flip onto your stomach and take off the lace. Now.”

[astrojoy]

Hiiii! Can I join your exchange game? UwU 💕💕💕💕

Can I choose 3 questions? In exchange, i'll also answer you 3 questions <3

My initials are V.D <3 I want you to answer :

- Future spouse characteristics, looks

- Career ( what is it about )

Now onto your reading <3 UwU I'll also answer for you the same questions I asked <3 (I'm pretty confident in my intuition <3)

Future spouse looks :

- long hair ? he could dye it blond or he's blond (and he looks freaking good in it)

- sharp jawline

- honeyed skin

- straight eyebrows

- proportionate body, tall, more on the slim side but still thicc in some places 😏

- seductive smirk 😏

- tapered eyelids?

- small and thinner lips but it's smexy 😏

- idk but he's quite good looking for me 😳 also has attractive bone structure, taller than average

- idk but his vibe and looks can quite resemble Hyunjin from stray kids, just more defined, mature and more seductive ( also bigger eyes) ?? ( idk if it's true but when I think about him (your fs) , I think about him ? )

Future spouse characteristics :

- SMART, knows how to trick you 😳 (but no one thinks he's that smart)

- lmao why did I get seductive- 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️(only to you)

- seems quite bland but is actually a very interesting person ( but they rarely let their interesting side on )

- loves books ? loves researching before working on something

- quite a neat person, loves cleanliness

- 😳 i got virgo / aquarius vibes from this person 😳

- Moon in Capricorn or aspected by saturn ?

- INTROVERT but can also be social . They love small groups.

- 12th house placements ?

- Cap rising or aspected by saturn 😳 damnn-

- hard-working and generous? he's trusted by many people

- loves to stare deep into your eyes and hug you 💕💕💕

- you awaken his sexuality ??? lmao- (quite unrelated)

- damn why did I feel pain in my chest? He could have been hurt by someone who he trusted 😔 ( so that's why he doesn't want to love anyone-)

- loves ranting, late-night conversations, tea time

CAREER :

- counsellor?? provide help to people? Or some kind of job related to that kind of thing ( oh or tarot reader-)

- You'll be pretty comfortable with your job, it also makes a decent amount of money that's enough to make you feel satisfied

- People trust in your advice 💕💕💕💕

- I sensed that this is the path you wanted to go so there is not many things to say 💕💕💕💕

Thank you and i hope i get it right 💕💕💕💕💕💕

MA'AM OML OK OK OK I'M NOT GONNA SAY MUCH BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT TO EXPLAIN BUT EVERYTHING YOU SAID WAS 100% CORRECT AND I'VE BEEN TOLD THOSE THINGS ALL THE TIME OML JEEZ YOU ARE BLESSED WITH A GIFT CUZ- 👏

Crazily accurate. Like you got everything and idk how. Mind blowing. Even the reference I've been told before- are you a mind reader? 🤨 LMAO OK OK onto you 😏

FS Characteristics

- Making choices is a difficult task. It can be on anything at all. The seem to get stuck with the pros and cons of each one. They need someone to help them haha

- SUCH a romantic person. And I mean SUCH. They are super super romantic. I'm talking about cheesy and cuddly very often. Think of pisces, libra energy for that

- Ride or die. They believe in loyalty. Sticking together through Thick and thin. Doesn't matter what, if you are their lover or friend, you best bet they will be at the party but then jumping off a cliff to safe you

- Protective. They are protective of whoever they love. If you guys have a kid, that kid won't have to worry about getting hurt around them. If you get hurt? Lord help who ever did it

- Dual sides to them. They can be really silly, goofy at times but when it comes to being serious they put all that siliness quickly away and instantly change for the mood

- They were betrayed once in love. They were close go whomever it was but that person literally back stabbed them in some way, broke their heart. Cheater?

- They are really attracted to a peaceful environment. They love flowers, etc. Think of someone meditating in a meadow of blossoming dandelions, the slight gust of wind while the trees sway.. That kind of peace. That's what they look for. WAIT OMFG I LOOKED AT MY CARD JUST NOW AND IT HAD AN OWL WITH A DANDELION IN ITS MOUTH- OK OK let me explain. I never said this before but 90% of your cards had birds in them. Now what's funny is an owl was on another card. Literally there is a normal bird, another normal bird, a baby bird, an owl over an egg, another owl, 2 cranes and etc. These cards are from 4 different decks 2 of which are oracle

- So uh... Might have a favoritism towards dandelions 😏 being hopeful too!

- A true softy. Got so much on this in particular

FS Looks

- Wears glasses for sure

- Beautiful big eyes 🥺

- Brown eyes

- They have a nice body

- The chest and upper back are prominent, nice one no matter the gender

- Feline features honestly

- Freckles

- Dyes their hair different colors

- Fluffy soft hair

- They dye their hair a dirty blonde often though

- 18+ whatever gender this is, they have nice COUGH areas ✨😁✨

- Thin nose (random but yeah)

- Woah I got my camera card, very photogenic face and/or body

- For sure styles their hair different from time to time

- Average height

- Dry skin

Career

- There's a lot of options here actually. I got my good karma card, so this tells me you actually have more free will in career than you think. You earned this in a past lifetime so in this one, whatever you want, go after it

- Singer (literally had my Singer + sing card come out)

- Teaching people self-love through whatever career you pursue

- LOTS of wands, creative cards. Your career is revolving around the arts, femininity, creativeness

- I got images of fashion, clothes, jewelry also came out

- Entertainer

- Something you will find fun but took a lot of work

- Possibly something with fitness, telling people they are "sexy" beautiful the way they are

- Standing up for people in your career can happen

- Fire energy. Firefighter came with my creative wands cards

- 2222222 lots of 2's

- 101010

Have a beautiful day!! 🥺💖

EDIT: Found a random card- apparently my guides wanted me to see it. "Healing" you will definitely be healing people in some way. Even got the self-love card 😏

[miiilowo]

Hellooo, very random and out of the blue, but could I ask about your OC, the enderboi with the gold in pink hair?

He seems vv sweet and I would very much like to learn a bit more about him

(If it's okay of course!! It's up to you!)

-Blep

>:)

ALright!!! I made this dude because of an smp i was on cause we were gonna get into some lore stuff, but it never happened and the smp is now entirely dead, so he’s free game and i can do whatever i want with him

We did have some lore set up, but we never got around to any actual plot development unfortunately :[ Ill tell you what we had, though:

- He’s a prince! The gold in his hair is like, threads of gold i suppose? An alternative to a traditional crown. I did this mainly because i didnt want to be too similar to ranboo, but i also just think it looks neat

He’s the prince of the end realm. How this came to be is that one of the server members, who ill just refer to as L, made an enderman grinder in the end. She saw my ender boy and for whatever reason (we never figured out why) she thought he was special and basically adopted him. One of her character flaws is that she has trouble viewing sentient mobs as sentient, and thought she had control over the end. She does not, but he is the prince of the end in everyones hearts i suppose

He’s got a castle, too. Its in the overworld though because he doesnt like being in the end very much.

ta da

I accidentally made him intensely neurodivergent coded as well!! is this a reflection of myself? Very possibly but i guess thats up to the therapists to figure out 

He got tired of the bland gray castle walls and, you cant see it, but the entire interior is decked with bushes and flowers and vines growing on the walls. Lots of bright carpets, too. He needs bright colorful stuff to function and is a big fan of flowers, hence why he is eating them in my header and icon. and im. i do that. i am these things. i eat flowers sometimes

He avoids eye contact because, well, he’s an enderman. He cant go in water unless hes got a full suit of armor on, and cant be in rain unless hes got a helmet or hat on. He cant drink water, but wants to be more like normal people, and he just drinks honey instead.

I also decided that his pink hair is actually just a wig he made with the surplus of pink sheep he has!!! because why not!!!!!!!!!!! its actually based off of me because i currently have pink hair >:]

He does have an accomplice, this kinda not-all-here clown lady who belongs to my buddy @loserchips. i helped make her backstory, but she can explain it if she would like to <3 Basically all u need to know from me is that Shes There, And Oh Boy, Shes Not Very Good For The Boys Mental Health. he’s still gonna stick with her though because he has abandonment issues

He also has a big library!!!!!!!!! Hes loves reading and collecting (stealing) books and learning about the overworld cause he wants to fit in better. I was planning on putting my poetry into the books but i never got around to it. we can say hes a poet though. for funsies

Hes a little shorter than the average enderman and has a piglin husband named william who i love so very much. william has become one of my go-to things to draw. i love him so much. heres william in game and in my Heart

 WILLIAM..........love him so very much..................... huggable...big guy...

enderboy is currently obsessed with expanding the wheat field to Absurd extents and william is willing to help ten thousand percent. Hes got his funky little sunhat and a lot of determination baby

They also garden together because of the flower thing and it is Cute And Good. these are my comfort characters and i think about them often

i also have a son? but its in an alternate world, so what im gonna say here is that they travel together and different minecraft worlds are just different vacations. So, kevin isnt on the smp with the castle, but he does exist:

he is wearing williams shirt and he has his comfort block of netherrack. love this guy

Also, the enderboy prefers mobs over humans as company! Hes got three enderfriends in his castle and doesnt like killing mobs much at all :[ theres also a grave in the yard filled with ender pearls that people on the server have given me as a joke. oh man. was not good for him

He has more formal and decked out clothes, but prefers to just chill in his comfey cloak around the castle <3 He probably gets dressed up when people come around, but he doesnt really consider himself much of a prince since he never visits the end

Oh!!!!!!!!!!! yes! i forgot! the man fucking loves gems and gold and stuff like that! the throne room is full of ore blocks, mostly emeralds, but theres a lot of gold and diamond in there too. Gold is his favorite and he has a lot of gold jewelry <3

also his ears move in accordance to his mood and his eyes work like cat eyes because it makes me happy and i love him

I will probably use him as a general persona eventually, but thats his minecraft lore!!!!! I did leave out some big chunks, but thats the main deal hes got going on. I adore him so much

[davidluongart]

May I ask about your inspiration for the Greek gods? Your designs and aesthetic feel very uh not sure how to say this, I guess homey and familiar? Like traditional Greek art (but modern obvs)

Before delving deeply into Greek mythology as I am currently right now, I based most of my ancient depictions of the Greek gods on Ancient Greco-Roman fashion that archeology-majored and history-majored students often seen in the museums, and the modern version of them on “the Mediterranean summer aesthetic” blogs that you often see very popular on both Tumblr here and Instagram.

But the more I started to study more about Greek mythology, especially about the myths in their own Homeric hymns of worship and such, the more that I realized that “they are normal human beings, with all have their flaws and respectable personalities” and they need to express their individuality differently, perhaps through fashion styles ?!! (I’m not so sure whether any Greeks of Tumblr have any feelings about it or not, since this is their cultural background and country’s history, and there might be a line of separation between them.)

For Ares, I based him on mostly the fashion looks of singer, Kostantinos Agiros and Australian-Greek fitness trainer/model Andrew Papadopoulos. From what I have seen so far of them, they seemed to be wearing very monotonous clothing, just ordinary black, and white clothes. I choose him to wore mostly fitness training/ athleisure related clothing, since I would imagine him to have a very strict workout schedule before finally preparing to going to war.

For Hermes, I imagined would imagine him as a bratty young adult who is always addicted to the fast speed of Greek metropolitan life and its cycles of fashion. His fashion style was inspired by fashion designer/ musician Orestis Lazouras below, and he would love to wear and vibe with tons of golden chains and metallic jewelry. However, he still always keeping his cowboy fashion style and charm within him.

For Aphrodite, I mostly based her looks on the Greek TV news reporter/ actress and model, Zeta Makripoulia. Recently, in my previously-posted painting, I had been adding some of the K-POP-inspired elements into her, with dyed ombre colored hair and being decked out in jewels made out of gold, pearl, and other precious stones. Anyway, here are some of my favorite looks of Zeta that I think would fit the goddess Aphrodite herself.

For Dionysus, he was the hardest one out of the bunch and I had to make his style from scratch. Particularly there weren’t a lot of options for non-binary fashion out there in Greece + my version of Dionysus is half Greek and half Indian so he might wear tons of jewels? That amount of a wealthy Indian groom would wear? And he might a lot of them pairing with his everyday clothing? I still have a lot of unused concept arts about his fashion, to be honest.

For Apollo, I would imagine him wearing the boldest colored but also the most comfortable clothing out of these gods that I just mentioned above. The man just loves wearing tons of comfortable fitness training clothes like Ares but also loves wearing tons of handmade jewelry (that may be made out of gold and silver) like Dionysus. Here are some of the casual clothes that I think Apollo would wear, by the professional Greek dancer and dancemaker, Aimilios Arapoglou.

TL/DR: I based a lot of the gods’ modern designs on Greek celebrities looks, and I have been unashamedly put some of our Asian KPOP elements into them. And they have been looking good so far !

[justfandomwritings]

All A King Should Be (Part One - Tywin Lannister)

Pairing: Young Tywin Lannister x OC

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: none yet but we’ll see

Summary: Men like Tywin Lannister weren't made. They were born. His was a mind superior to the realms of men. No one but the gods could create such a thing. Poised for greatness and ready to cease it. Tywin Lannister was born to wear a crown, and she was going to be the one to put it on his head.

Notes: So this story starts Pre-Rains of Castamere, Pre-Ninepenny King. So Tywin is like 16.

This story will be continued on FF.net and AO3, not on Tumblr, but I wanted to share the introduction here too. Both of those are linked ^^ so please go follow there. But like/reblog this to let me know what you think.

“Father,” Tywin growled under his breath. “Must you bring her?” 

“Be kind Tywin,” Tytos good-naturedly reprimanded his eldest son. Playfully shoving the stubborn young man in the shoulder, as if that would ease Tywin’s mood. “This is meant to be a lovely family journey to Lannisport, not one of your angry mealtime lectures.” 

“The family does not include whatever woman is warming your bed tonight, Father,” Tywin spat with a venom that he made sure the unwelcome addition could hear.

“Tywin,” a shrill voice cut through the air. “Relax, dear. It is only some traders from Essos. This is meant to be fun!” 

Fun. Tywin knew Megga’s idea of fun. 

Megga was a candlemaker’s daughter, a lowborn woman who had worked her way into his father’s chambers one night after making a delivery of candles on her father’s behalf. It had taken her meer minutes to seduce Tytos Lannister into inviting her up to his chambers under the guise of choosing an arrangement for his next order of candles, and they had not left his room, except to order more wine, for three days after.

She delighted in nothing but possessions. Tytos’s words of affection did nothing for her. Megga’s father’s pride at her rising status did not warrant notice. The attention showered on her by knights and lesser lords looking to be in Tytos’s good graces meant little. Even her newfound friendship with that witch of a woman Ellyn Tarbeck was of no consequence. 

Megga spoke one language: gold. She wanted bars of it for paperweights, more jewelry made of it than she could ever wear. She wanted to spend every last ounce of gold that came out of Casterly Rock’s mines, and Tytos Lannister had a mind to let her. 

A fleet of merchant ships had docked in Lannisport and asked to speak with the ruling branch of the family. Normally, such a thing would have garnered no response from even such a weak willed man as Tytos, but the fleet held promise. They had sailed straight to Lannisport, and their hulls were still full of all their wears. If they had come from Westeros, that might not have been of note, but the ships had sailed all the way from Essos, all the way from Asshai, without stopping.

Even the usually disinterested Tywin had been intrigued to see what their stores held, but of course, Tytos brought Megga. What should have been a promising discussion of continued, mutually advantageous trade would instead be turned into a one-time spree aboard respectable merchant vessels who would never wish to return to House Lannister once they had met its pathetic excuse for rulers.

“Might I suggest, dear Megga,” Tywin looked around his father to glaring loathingly at the woman in question, “that you refrain from such indecencies and address your liege lords by their proper titles when in the presence of outsiders.”

“Of course, Tywin,” Megga smirked. “I’m happy to know you no longer see me as an outsider.”

Kevan snorted derisively at Tywin’s left hand side. “Brother, peace,” Kevan half-heartedly endeared, “we have the ride home to deal with, lest you forget.”

“Yes,” Tywin mused, “the ride home plus one carriage no doubt. I’m sure Tytos will have to buy one in Lannisport to fit all the goods Megga convinces him to buy for her.” 

Tygett, riding behind his elder brothers, chuckled to himself. “And who, pray tell, is going to sacrifice their horse to pull the bloody thing, Tywin?”

Tywin glowered at the thought. “None of us are walking for that wench, brothers.” Tywin assured them. 

The party of Tytos, his three eldest sons, his mistress, and a handful of guards rode for their extended family’s home in Lannisport, intent on informing their distant cousins of their presence should they wish to join the group in seeing the traders. 

House Lannister of Lannisport was only a few miles from the Rock, and there had never been a want or need to build a castle so close by, simply for the cadet branch’s pleasure. Rather, their seat was a spacious villa, nestled right where the walls of Lannisport met the sea. It was a gorgeous place that Tywin often enjoyed visiting to escape Tytos on particularly agitating days when he could no longer tolerate the man. Tywin knew his extended family well. 

“Ella?” Tywin called as he saw his distant relation standing at the road, seemingly waiting for them. 

“Ser Tywin,” Ella curtsied to him but didn’t even bother acknowledging Tytos. 

“What is this?” Megga addressed the young woman.

Ella diverted her gaze to the candlemaker’s daughter only briefly before her eyes turned back to Tywin. The cadet branch of the Lannister family had been one of the few houses in the Westerlands not to take advantage of Tytos’s cowardess. Lannister was their name Tytos so callously sullied as well. There would be no deference paid to a woman like Megga here, no matter how much she demanded it. 

“My lord, the trading ships from Asshai have invited us to join you and have moved to dock just off our shore so that we might paddle out from here.” She said to Tywin. “Everyone else is prepared to leave. They are waiting at the water.” 

“Excellent!” Tytos leapt from his horse in a rush to help Megga dismount hers. 

Ella waved and called out to a group of boys lingering around the house, and the stable hands came running to take the lords’ horses. 

“Tell me, Ella,” Kevan made conversation as they walked to the docks. “Do any of you know what this is all about?”

Ella gave an excited answer, “I would presume that, being from Asshai, they have something interesting like dragonglass, but if they’re making such a grand display to summon us all, I rather hope they have a dragon egg. I’ve heard there are several in Asshai, turned to rock with age.”

“Well, if they have such a thing I’d certainly enjoy seeing it.” Kevan agreed.

They joined Ella’s older sister and younger brother, Arcella and Lyman Lannister, at the docks and were greeted by their father, Lawsen. Three row boats had been prepared, and a small troop of guards was preparing to paddle out to meet their hosts. 

Not far off the shore, Tywin could see a group of four large galley ships clustered in the harbor. Traders from Asshai ventured to Lannisport occasionally, but only as one stop of many along regular trading routes. None had ever been worthy of a visit from House Lannister. As a result, Tywin had never personally seen a trading ship from Asshai, but even if he hadn’t known what they came to see, he would have known what he was looking at. There was no mistaking the galleys as the property of anyone but Asshai. 

Their wood was almost black against the crystal clear water and looked as dark as the Shadow from whence it came. Sails of gleaming gray billowed out from their mast; if they weren’t flowing in the wind, Tywin would have thought they were made of metal. Intricate carvings, too small in detail to make out from a distance, littered the bow of the ships, each unique from the one next to it. Three of the bows were capped by beautiful young mermaids, but the fourth, the largest in the center, was crested by the head of a dragon, complete with wooden wings folded back along the sides of the ship. 

“Well, they don’t call them Asshai by the Shadow for no reason.” Tygett voiced his brother’s observations and chuckled as he climbed into one of the row boats. 

Tywin nodded his agreement and followed his younger brother. “Not a traditional wood for a galley, I wonder what they used.” 

“It can’t be very fast,” Tygett added. 

Lawsen gave the order and his men on the shore pushed them off. Four guards paddled each of the boats: Tywin, Tygett, and Arcella in one; Lawsen with Tytos and his mistress in another; and Kevan, Ella, and Lyman in the boat bringing up the rear. 

“Did they say which ship?” Tywin overheard Tytos asking.

Lawsen snorted. “The dragon of course,” he said as if it was the dumbest question in the world, and it probably was.

As they paddled in, two rope ladders were hauled over the expansive side of the dragon ship. “There,” Tywin got the attention of the guards and pointed to where they should go, “But follow after my father.” 

It wasn’t that Tywin wanted Tytos and his mistress to mare the merchants’ impressions of them, and if it had just been his father he would have not cared for the disrespect of an heir going before his lord. Yet, with Lawsen present he didn’t want to further undermine his father’s authority. The man already made House Lannister look weak enough without help. 

“Are you the Lannisters?” One of a cluster of men atop the ship deck asked. 

“Yes,” Tytos called up the ladder as they pulled in close to the ships. “We have travelled from Casterly Rock.”

A slight figure, covered head to toe in black, pushed to the front of the group and flung themself over the railing. With deft hands, they descended one of the ladders down to the boats to greet them, stopping a few rungs above the tops of the Lannister parties heads. 

“Which of you is the Lord of this party?” The voice that came from beneath the hood was too high to be a man’s. Tywin thought it odd that a boy so tall would lack any width or bulk, but these were sailors not soldiers, he supposed. 

Tytos Lannister stood in his row boat and almost went tumbling over the side as he lost his footing. Scrambling back up with the help of a guard, Tytos tried to sound off with some of his lost authority. “Boy, I’m here to see your captain. I am Tytos Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock.”

With one gloved hand still gripping the rope, the sailor hung leisurely off the side of the ship. “Boy?” 

With a quick shake of the wrist, the glove fell from the figure’s free hand and landed in the water beneath, rushing down under the ship with the current. An exposed set of long, thin fingers reached up to push away the hood. 

It was a woman, a Valyrian woman judging by her frosted hair and purple eyes, and like all of them, she was a beauty to behold. 

Pale skin, strong in its unblemished perfection yet fragile in its delicate porcelain tone, was stretched over sharp cheek bones, colored only slightly despite the warmth of the midday sun and her all black attire. The hair behind her ears was pinned up in a twisted knot at the back of her head while a dozen locks came down both sides to frame her face; their shine made them easily mistakable for long chains of silver jewelry. Her lips were small, much like her narrow frame, but they were beautifully pink and perfectly shaped. 

Her eyes, though, drew Tywin in. Not in the way bards loved to sing about falling for a woman’s eyes or the way his father lavished affections on ladies about their enchanting irises because it was an easy and appropriate thing to compliment. 

Her eyes drew Tywin in with their depth, with their intelligence. They were a dark shade of royal purple, even darker than King Jaehaerys or Crown Prince Aerys. They gave her otherwise ethereal features a sense of foreboding. Her lips were quaint; her frame was petite; her skin was that of a doll; her hair was richly colored; but her eyes were fierce, discerning. Tywin thought, if the shade wasn’t so dark as to hide the wheels spinning inside her mind, he could watch her calculating her next move. 

“Tytos,” her voice cut through the air, “was not the name I was told to look for, boy.” She spoke the Common Tongue with a thinly veiled accent that rolled each of her words into the next one, more like song than speech.

“I,” Tytos spluttered, “I don’t know the meaning of this. I am Lord Tytos Lannister of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West.” 

“You are a lord?” The woman questioned in a doubtful tone, and when Tytos didn’t immediately respond she returned to the ladder and made to climb back up to her ship.

Tytos sat down beside Megga with a dramatic huff of air. No one else spoke as they watched the woman begin to climb, and Tywin grew frustrated with being so openly flouted. He had not wasted a day of productivity for this. 

The guards with him paddled lazily at the water to keep the heir’s row boat from bumping into his father’s, but he was only a few feet further, well within earshot.

“My name is Ser Tywin Lannister, Heir to Casterly Rock.” Tywin carefully stood from his place and spoke with all the authority his father tried and failed to possess. “We were summoned here by the captain of this vessel, and we will speak to him immediately.” 

The woman turned while he spoke and looked him over curiously, “Now that,” one of her eyebrows raised in amusement, “I actually believe.”

The still unnamed woman pressed two fingers to her lips and whistled to the men above, “Call for the Captain! They’re coming up!”

Tytos sent his eldest son an appreciative smile and helped Megga up onto the empty rope ladder first. 

“No.”

A hand quickly whipped out and blocked Megga’s path up the side of the ship. 

“What is this?” Tytos complained at being impeded yet again. 

“Your men and the girls are welcome to come aboard, but her kind aren’t allowed on the ship. They cause too much dissent amongst the crew,” the woman sneered down at Megga from several rungs up the second ladder. 

Megga was shocked, and even from his distance behind her, Tywin could see she was visibly enraged. “I beg your pardon; I am a guest of his Lord Tytos Lannister.”

“Guest or not, that does not change what you are.” The woman rolled her eyes at Megga’s attempts at defense. 

“And what do you mean by that?” Tytos actually sounded as those he’d managed to work up some anger on behalf of his companion. 

The woman didn’t even acknowledge Tytos spoke, she continued to address Megga directly, “Darling, you might fool weak Western lords, but I grew up in Lys. I know a whore when I see one.” 

Tywin was conflicted. The sheer elation he felt watching Megga’s horror at being condescended to by someone other than himself was weighing against the utter embarrassment of being so openly called out on such indecency. As if Megga hadn’t damaged their reputation enough in the Westerlands or Westeros, now the world would know his shame. 

“I-I will not be treated in this way,” Megga spoke utterly aghast. 

With a swift kick to Megga’s right arm, the woman sent Tytos’s mistress tumbling back into the boat with a sharp cry of pain. A guard caught her while another steadied the boat against the hull of the ship to keep from capsizing, with Lawsen’s help. 

“You will be treated as you are paid to be treated: cheaply, judging by the looks of you.” Purple eyes turned to Tywin, “Forgive me, but if you wish to return home by sundown we really should hurry this along. The whore stays in the boat. If your guards wish to come up, I can have a man wait with her.” 

“Our guards will wait here.” The men being mostly in Lawsen’s employ, he answered the woman and settled the matter quickly. 

“Good. Then follow me up.” The woman climbed up so quickly that when Tywin blinked she was already disappearing back at the top. 

It was an ordeal to rotate the three boats close to the ladder so each of the Lannisters could climb up, but it was made worse by Megga’s constant moaning about her exclusion. “At least we won’t have to worry about being informally addressed,” Tygett commented to Tywin just loud enough for Megga to hear as the pair began to climb the two ladders. 

Hooded figures bustled around the polished black deck of the ship, all resembling the woman who greeted them in their clothing. All black with not a color in sight, and every person was covered head to toe. The only distinction between each figure was their size. Making it obvious that, while most were men, there were clearly other women mixed in amongst the crew. 

Tytos passed the time waiting for their group to assemble on the deck by trying to lecture the young woman who had allowed them up. His voice demanded very little and came out more as a whine that the woman blatantly ignored.

She was lounging, hood cast aside at her feet, on an ornately carved black staircase that led up to the bow of the ship. Her gaze paid far more attention to her ungloved fingers, which she was examining quite closely, than she paid to Tytos Lannister.

“Father,” Tywin called as he helped pull Ella over the side of the ship. “We have a meeting to attend to.” 

The young woman hopped to her feet and pushed past Tytos without a second glance. “Yes, after me, all of you.”

She led them down a short set of stairs along the dingy hallway to the back of the ship and banged her fist on a wide door cut with the word captain. 

“Enter,” came a voice from inside. 

The door swung open, and Tywin, at the front of the group, got his first glimpse of the Captain who had assembled them. 

The older man was a surprisingly slim physique, lacking any real breadth. His muscles were long and lean, just as his frame. His length forced his head to scrape the wooden beams above him, such that he had to duck down to fit in the space when he rose to his feet behind the desk. 

Not a knight by any means, but still a war-worn man. His skin was beat to a deep tan by the sun, and scars littered the visible surface of his arms, scaring over in a rough texture that matched the thick callused skin of the hands holding him up on the desk. The man was not a merchant by any means; he was a sailor. 

“Ashenna, these are our guests?” The captain finally put a name to the Valyrian woman’s face.

“Yes,” Ashenna gave a low nod, stepping out of the way to allow the entire traveling party to enter the room. “This is Ser Tywin Lannister.” She introduced Tywin to the Captain with a wave of her hand.

The Captain circled his desk and held out a hand to greet the younger knight, which the Lannister quickly accepted. “A pleasure, Ser Tywin. You are exactly the man we wished to speak to.”

Tywin’s gaze narrowed. “Then perhaps you could afford my Lord Father and I the pleasure of your name.” 

“Of course,” The Captain turned to Lawsen, who quickly shook his head and directed a hand to Tytos. “It is an honor to be in the presence of the Lord of the Rock. I am Captain Tarik Rogare.”

Rogare. That was a name Tywin hadn’t heard since his days studying with his Maester.

“Where is that name familiar to me from?” Tytos clearly couldn’t recall his own lessons.

The Captain accepted the slight with relative ease. “The Rogare Bank, my Lord.” It was a name every Lord, especially one so rich in gold as the Lannisters, should know by heart. Still, the Captain briefly explained, “My family once ran the largest bank in the world, till untimely deaths saw to its collapse.” 

“Oh yes!” It dawned on Tytos. “The Lysene Spring, how could I forget.”

Ashenna, as Tywin now knew the woman to be called, rolled her eyes and slid past the Lannister party towards a solid metal chest sitting in the corner of the room, the only piece of furniture in the room besides the Captain’s desk. 

Captain Rogare stepped aside to let her past but continued speaking uninterrupted. “Much of our family still resides in Lys, but my brothers and I have made our names in Asshai. Our fleet controls the waters from the Jade Gate to the Saffron Straits and traverses from Bear Island to Ulthos to the Thousand Islands.”

“Quite an expanse of water,” Tygett commented idly.

“Indeed,” the Captain agreed with a small hint of pride. “Such dominance has afforded us many opportunities for trade and exploration, and of course,” Rogare turned to Ashenna with a wide smile, extending a hand to the chest in the corner, “adventure.”

Ashenna lifted the latch on the chest and hauled open its lid with some effort against the weight. 

The Lannisters all seemed to hold their breath. The speculation was over. Whatever had brought Tarik Rogare to their shores and had assembled them in his quarters was to be revealed.

Ashenna pulled from the chest a long, thin wooden box. It was a beautifully made box, carved from what appeared to be driftwood but polished till it gleamed like the sea from whence it came. 

Ashenna carried it like a child. Her steps towards the Captain’s desk were slow, deliberate, as if a single jostling of the contents in her arms would mark the end of her very existence. She cradled the box as she slowly lowered it to the empty surface and set it down with a heavy breath that was clearly relieved of no longer having such a responsibility.

The Captain joined Ashenna standing behind his desk and gestured for the eight Lannisters to come closer. Without much thought, the family crowded around the desk. A look of wonder gleamed in Tytos’ eyes that was mirrored in his Lannisport cousins. 

Only Tywin seemed composed in the face of this mystery. He stood directly before the box looking on with the calculated disinterest of any born dealer. He was sure whatever was in the box Tytos would demand to have; he only hoped he could negotiate the deal. Captain Rogare could have demanded his right arm, and Tytos would have given it without even knowing what was inside. 

“Our dear Ashenna,” Captain Rogare motioned to her, “brought this back to us from her travels. On her return to Asshai from Volantis, she came by way of the Gulf of Grief and, in avoiding a group of pirates, did as no man has done before. She navigated the Smoking Sea of the Doom of Valyria and survived to tell the tale.”

Tywin looked on the woman again in a new light. She couldn’t be older than himself, yet they claimed she was capable of a feat men could only lie and say they accomplished. She was either the greatest sailor on the seas or an utter charlatan.

“She found there, the wreckage of a ship against the side of a volcano, undisturbed even after three centuries; for she was the first to live long enough to see it.” 

“And you have brought Valyrian treasure to us before the King?” Lawsen interrupted the story with a look of utter confusion.

Captain Rogare and Ashenna both smirked and shared a quick glance. They looked like the only two privy to a dark secret they were about to reveal before the world. 

“The ship,” Rogare reached out and took a firm grip on the top of the wooden box, “was not Valyrian.” 

Rogare removed the lid, and the room filled with a collective gasp. 

It wasn’t the dragonglass the Lannisters had been expecting or the eggs Ella had been hoping to see. It wasn’t from the Shadow at all, or even from Essos for that matter. 

It was a sword, and it was from Westeros. A sword from the Rock itself.

Tywin reached out a hand gently scooped the sheathed blade into his arms, marveling at a sight he had never hoped to see. The scabbard was a well worn leather he knew was not original to the thing, but there was no mistaking the sword for anything other than exactly what it was.

The hilt was a magnificently cast lion’s head, plated perfectly in a gold that remained untarnished even after so many years. It rested atop a beautifully carved crimson handle that led to a cross guard that swirled with design embossed in pure gold, meeting where the blade disappeared with a diamond of gold set inside a ruby frame. 

With all the care he could manage, Tywin pulled out the blade, as much to wonder at its craftsmanship as to confirm its identity. 

“You found it,” He murmured to himself, running his fingers over the flat edge of the fine Valyrian steel. “Brightroar.”

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Taglist:

Forever Taglist:

@maybe-a-fangurl / @libbymouse /

Game of Thrones Taglist:

@crimson-knuckles

Only Tagging because this is Tywin and the only person who loves Tywin as much as me is : @scarhades

[sassyshoulderangel319]

Karaoke Date

So my last two MLQC one-shots went from really long to fairly short and this one is solidly in the middle. I recently had a lot of professional musicians tell me I have a good singing voice so this just felt like a lot of fun.

I was sitting in my office when my phone rang. Glancing at the Caller ID and contact photo, Kiro’s smiling face and bright eyes were looking back at me. I picked it up. “Hey Kiro,” I greeted.

“Miss Chips!” Kiro replied happily, like he didn’t think I would answer. I chuckled.

“What can I help you with?”

“I came up with a brilliant idea! Hear me out,” he said dramatically. “You and me: karaoke!”

I blinked. “Uh… Kiro?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a superstar. Why would you even think that’s a good idea? You get mobbed stepping out your front door. Putting you on a stage in some bar under a bright spotlight and singing a song—even if it’s not one of yours—would be the biggest security risk I can think of. Your agent would kill me if I let you—”

“But that’s the thing! There’s this new karaoke place in town where you’re in individual rooms but your microphone is projected into all the other ones. You can lock the door and sing completely anonymously. I could go in there and sing someone else’s song and no one would know it’s me!”

“I’m pretty sure everyone would know it’s you because they can, y’know, recognize your voice… but I guess you have a point.”

“So you’ll go with me?”

“Sure.”

“Great! I’m gonna come pick you up from work tonight if that’s okay!”

I smiled. “That’s just fine. I’ll be waiting for you.” If that wasn’t the motivation I needed to get everything done in the set work schedule today rather than going overtime, I wasn’t sure what was.

“Why are you smiling, bossman?” Kiki asked.

“A friend is picking me up for karaoke after work,” I said. I purposely left Kiro’s name out of the conversation because I knew Kiki wanted me to date him and I didn’t want her to have a full-scale squeal-fest in the middle of the office when it was this early in the morning.

“Oh have fun!” Kiki said.

“I will. Definitely.”

*****

“Good evening, Miss Chips. Your chariot awaits,” Kiro said, opening the car door for me. It was a nice car—not as expensive as Victor’s but still a piece of art on wheels. He had on a hat and hipster glasses, covering his blond hair and bright eyes, as well as baggy, dark clothes. His jewelry was still the same but I’d only ever seen him without his earrings once or twice, and never without his ring. Not even at the summit. How that hadn’t given him away, I’d never figured that out. Maybe the people at the summit weren’t looking for his telltale styles.

“Hi, Ki—” I greeted, cutting myself off from saying his name. I ducked into his car. “What should I call you tonight?”

He shut the car door once he made sure I was safely in and jogged around the hood to the driver’s side. He slid in himself, so fast he nearly knocked his hat off. He gave me a dazzling smile. “I think tonight I should be… Lee. Just Lee.”

I smiled. “Okay. Lee. How was your day?”

“Long and exhausting, but I’m all better for seeing you.”

What an absolute sweetheart. “Aw. Thanks. I’m better for seeing you too.”

He beamed at me and we drove off. The radio was playing classical music, strings and winds running around each other, competing for dominance and then blending together in a perfect choir.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Kiro said.

“I’m just… listening to the music. I figured you were more of a pop radio guy.”

He snorted. “Just because I sing that stuff doesn’t mean I like listening to it in the car. Classical is so much more interesting. Have you read sheet music?”

“All the time,” I said. “I’m a pianist. And I play the cello a little.”

“Yeah. So you see my point. Pop music is so boring from a sheet music perspective.”

“I agree,” I said, thinking back on when Anna bought me a book of the most popular music of the year for piano and the music was waaay below my skill level and so simple I didn’t even need the music to figure it out by ear.

“Finally. Usually people seem shocked that my own genre isn’t my favorite,” Kiro remarked.

“Well we’re all more complex than people tend to think. We like to put things in boxes, but people never fit in boxes,” I said. Kiro hummed in agreement and kept driving. I realized he was a much safer driver than any other guy I’d been in the car with recently—except maybe Lucien. Gavin was reckless and Victor drove so fast—but Kiro was pretty cautious. I got the feeling that maybe he didn’t drive very often.

We got to the karaoke place in good time. I handled the check-in while Kiro stood just slightly behind me, not making eye contact with anyone but holding my hand. We were escorted to a private room. There was a tablet set into the wall where we could make song selections and order food and stuff.

Kiro locked the door and winked at me. “Don’t wanna be caught by any fans,” he whispered before examining the equipment. There was a bright smile on his face. “Ah, man! It’s been so long since I did something silly and normal like this!”

“Well let’s not waste time, then,” I said, crossing to the tablet set into the wall. “Let’s see… how about…” I started listing off his own song titles with a playful grin on my face. Kiro came up behind me, his torso pressing against my side and one hand resting on my shoulder to read past me.

“No way am I doing one of my own songs. That’s how I get caught,” he said.

I giggled—I couldn’t help it. “I knooow. I’m just playing with you.”

He tsked. “How rude, Miss Chips,” he teased.

I snorted. “How about this one?” I gestured to a song title. “I mean, if you want to do a duet.”

“Of course I do! I can’t wait to hear how good you are!”

I laughed. “Hold your horses, tiger. I can carry a tune but I’m nowhere near your level, Mr. Superstar.”

Before I could say anything else, Kiro reserved the song for us. The tablet gave off instructions so we’d know when it was our turn. Someone else’s slightly-off-key singing was echoing over our speakers. We turned it down a little so we could talk.

We just chatted for a few minutes. There were only two songs before us, according to the queue on the tablet screen.

When we got to be on-deck, Kiro and I took our microphones.

He looked at me as the guitar began. “Tell me somethin’ girl… are you tired of this modern world…” He had such a beautiful, crisp, clear voice. It captivated me and pulled me right in. I stared at those bright blue eyes and could have gone for a swim in them. He sounded incredible. I wondered if anyone recognized his voice.

He sang it better than the original recording with What’s-His-Face. Maybe I just like singing something straight—without overdoing the stylization. Kiro didn’t bother with fancy riffs or vibrato.

It was my turn to pick up with the female part. I cleared my throat away from the mic and then held it close. “Tell me somethin’ boy… aren’t you tired of tryna fill that void…” I started quiet but confident. I knew the lyrics—and even if I didn’t, they were on the huge TV screen that was meant for karaoke. Kiro stared back at me, both of us just holding the other’s gaze.

For the life of me, I couldn’t read his expression.

I held the mic slightly farther away from my mouth so I could let out my full belt. I’d always spoken with a loud voice and accompanying that was a singing voice that could fill a Broadway theater. I’d been taught how to sing quietly, but letting loose felt so much better.

“I’M OFF THE DEEP AND WATCH AS I DIVE IN—I’LL NEVER MEET THE GROU-OU-OUND!”

Kiro stared at me with his jaw going slack. I felt my ears reddening and my voice wavered as though I was performing in front of an audience looking right at me instead of just Kiro.

But he picked up the harmonies perfectly when he was supposed to come in, and he knew them. He didn’t even look at the lyrics on screen. Neither did I. We didn’t need them. I did the vocalization in the middle, slowly building up the volume and then repeated the refrain. Kiro added the harmonies again.

I didn’t realize until the song petered out a few seconds later that we were standing within inches of each other. His warm breath brushed over my face.

I put the mic back on its stand. Kiro did the same. After a few moments, another song started up, signaling to us that our equipment had been turned off. Kiro immediately grabbed my arms with a massive smile on his face.

“Miss Chips!” he exclaimed. “That was amazing! Why didn’t you tell me that you could sing like that! You should come on stage at my next concert!”

I shook my head. “Oh no. I don’t sing in front of crowds that big. I don’t… sing in front of crowds, period. But thanks, Kiro.”

He fell onto the couch in our little room. “I cannot believe you never told me you were that good! You should be in front of the camera as a star—not behind it producing.”

I chuckled and crossed over, standing next to him but turned slightly toward the tablet screen so I could look at the food menu and the other songs. “But I like my job,” I said.

He leaned forward, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me down onto the sofa.

Except he misjudged the angle and I ended up falling right across his lap with a, “Whoa—WHOA!”

He caught me with a hearty laugh. “Whoops! Sorry,” he said, sounding entirely and genuinely unapologetic. But the sparkle in his eyes dissolved my irritation completely.

“It’s fine,” I said.

“We need to make this a regular thing. Come and do karaoke. I can’t go the rest of my life never hearing you sing ever again—you sound so good!”

“Kiro…”

“I’m serious, Miss Chips. It can be our little getaway thing. Or you can come to my place any time you wanna practice. I just… I’ve discovered my new favorite artist,” he said.

I snorted. “Thanks,” I muttered.

He brushed a few strands of my hair out of my face, eyes peering deep into my soul with earnest affection. We froze right there for several moments, someone singing what could have been Welcome to the Black Parade in one of the other rooms. The song was fuzzy though, tuned out as we focused solely on each other.

Heat spread over my face, originating from my ears and crawling down my neck too.

So many thoughts swirled through my head all at once that I couldn’t make sense of any of them. One of them, though, rang out loud and clear, like a bell, as I stared at Kiro’s smiling eyes.

I love you.

The thought pulled me up short and my face got even hotter. I must have been turning bright red. I slowly picked my way off Kiro’s lap and went back to the tablet screen. “Want to get something to eat?” I asked. “I’m hungry.” I hoped that would be the end of it. Not that I wasn’t enjoying the moment but… I wasn’t ready to say those three words out loud yet. Kiro was… a great guy and I really liked him but he was so busy all the time. I didn’t know if I wanted to get involved in a relationship with a superstar.

If there was ever a way to get thrust into the spotlight without being a public artist myself, that was it.

“Something wrong?” Kiro asked gently at the sudden change.

“No. Just hungry. Haven’t eaten since noon and it’s…” I glanced at the clock on the tablet screen. “Holy—wow. It’s seven-PM. No wonder I’m getting a little woozy. I haven’t eaten in forever.”

Kiro pressed against my side again as I browsed the food menu. We picked what to eat and I returned to the sofa. Kiro stayed at the tablet for a second though, scrolling through songs.

“Wow,” he said. “They have a lot of my songs here.”

I snickered. “Everyone loves your songs and wants to sing them, I guess,” I said.

He turned and fell back onto the sofa next to me. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No!”

“Well—it’s just—you just—you went all red and got up like I… like I did something wrong.”

“It was nothing you did, I promise,” I said. “It was just… I felt like you were looking right into my soul. I psyched myself out.”

Kiro smiled. “Maybe I was looking into your soul,” he teased.

I defaulted to playful mode to get over the awkward. “Oh yeah? Did you like what you saw?”

He leaned incredibly close to me. “I loved it,” he said seriously, so breathy it was almost a whisper. Immediately my heart hammered against my sternum so hard I thought it might break my ribs.

There was that piercing look again. The one where he was seeing the contents of my heart and soul laid bare. He was so close that if I barely shifted forward I could kiss him.

Over the speakers, someone was singing one of Kiro’s love songs—one I’d listened to… way too many times. Especially on days I was feeling lonely or down on myself. It was hard, even over a recording, not to feel like Kiro was singing right to my heart. Singing for me and only me.

And I’m sure everyone who listened to that song felt the same way.

The karaoke singer definitely didn’t have the nuance of Kiro’s voice, nor Kiro’s charm, but they sounded good.

But all of that was at the very back of my mind while the artist himself was looking at me like he was trying to shine his sunlight on the deepest, darkest depths of my heart.

And there was that thought again, amongst the too-fast swirling other thoughts.

I love you.

Feeling impulsive—and knowing we had quite a while to wait for food to come—i leaned forward, closing the distance between us.

He met me with enthusiasm, his fingers sliding into my hair. I felt the ring on his right finger brush my left earlobe. My nose was squished against his cheek, letting me smell his skin. I couldn’t tell if I recognized his aftershave or not but it had a sharp sweetness to it.

Just like him.

His fingers flexed in my hair, pulling me even closer to him. I relaxed against him, letting him take the lead.

“I love you,” I breathed against his lips. “I’ve fallen for you hard. And I don’t intend to try to get up.”

He chuckled, his eyelashes brushing my cheek, not pulling away from me either. “I love you too,” he replied. “Every love song I ever wrote pales in comparison to how I actually feel for you. I never had the proper experience to write about being in love accurately until I fell for you.”

[satire-please]

Play is the Work of the Childhood

Summary: I once saw a fanart of Hua Cheng snuggling a kid Xie Lian. Therefore this fic was spawn.

Perhaps Xie Lian should have seen this coming.

After all, in his 800-year experience, what goes around, comes around. What misfortune you see and witness will eventually happen to you.

Life enjoys being fair in that aspect.

Still, he didn't expect to be in this position as a wave of green smoke bellows from the mouth of the monster he and Hua Cheng just fought, just slain, it rushing at him and encasing him in a smoggy fist.

For the vile creature's last attack, it shakes Xie Lian like a child throwing a tantrum before throwing him across the cave.

He smacks into the stone wall, the pain makes him gasp...and the smoke rushes into his mouth.

It burns.

His lungs, his head, his bones twisting, his skin shrinking.

"Dianxia!" Xie Lian hurts, his brain rattling in his skull but he can still hear the desperate panic in Hua Cheng's voice, the ring of steel clashing in the background. "Are you alright? Answer me!"

Xie Lian coughs a few times. His ears ringing, he collapses down the rock face disoriented and forces his eyes to open. Hua Cheng's form is blurry but he can tell the man is sprinting towards him. "I'm fine–"

"Your voice! What's happened to you?" What was wrong with his voice? Well, it does sound different. The tone is off. Higher, younger.

Oh no.

It couldn't be.

Xie Lian puts a hand to his throat and rubs it. He tries to prioritize. "It was just the monster's deathblow, a curse I think–"

Hua Cheng swears loudly.

"–But I'll recover, will you destroy the body? Its remains could still harm any that come across it. It would be unfortunate if the villagers still had trouble after they worked so hard to get us for help."

"Yes. It won't ever bother them or Dianxia ever again," Hua Cheng declares vindictively. "Where are you? I can't see you, the smoke refuses to clear."

"Here. Over here." Xie Lian calls. He tries to get up, but his legs catch in sometimes, he looks down to see what's the matter and finds entire lower body trapped in his robes. They tangle over his limbs oversized...why are they so big?

He knows why. Yet please allow him to deny it a little longer. The clues of his voice, his clothes and the small hand he brings to his face are obvious and sooner or later he must accept reality.

He's been changed.

The curse turned him younger...much, much younger.

"There you are! Let me take a look at you, we'll figure out the contents of the curse and break it to–" A red tunic fills the corner his vision and Xie turns toward it.

But his friend, no his companion, freezes in place.

The man is not even breathing. True neither of them need to breathe but Hua Cheng has always been very courteous to do so in the past, so it’s alarming for Xie Lian to see him stop. The demon king is a statue harder than any stone.

“San Lang?” Xie Lian attempts to free an arm from his tangled nest of fabric, but the large sleeve flops over his wrist. Hua Cheng is so tall. Then again everything is so much bigger from this point of view. “What's wrong? Did the creature hurt you too?”

Hua Cheng moves fast.

One moment he’s a few feet away, the next he’s crouched in front of Xie Lian, hands cupping his cheeks to verify that this image is no illusion. Xie Lian notes the coolness of that skin and how those fingers reach the back of his skull easily.

He blushes and glances to the side. Hua Cheng’s hands are one of his favorite things about his man.

“I am blessed.” Is the first thing the demon king says in a minute. His one eye drinking in every change to Xie Lian’s form, his head cocked to the side. “Huh. I never knew I wanted this.”

“Wanted what?” Xie tilts his face or tries to. In Hua Cheng’s tender hold the action has him leaning into his palm.

Hua Cheng makes a trapped sound at the back of his throat. "You're so little."

Xie Lian should take offense, but honestly, he is...little. He had always been a terribly small child once upon a time, or he supposes in the current present. He attempts to calculate his age based on appearances. He'd barely come up to Hua Cheng's hip, his arms are chubby, oh dear, he must be around five or six and his–

"Your hair is so short. Is this how you felt when I was transformed against my will?" Hua Cheng muses, fingers twisting in the dark locks that fall right below his chin. "I have every inclination to lock you up and do all that I must to protect you. You're beyond precious."

“Ah. Now I understand why you were so embarrassed. This is humiliating." Xie Lian murmurs in reply. Xie Lian view’s blocked by a curtain of black hair and there’s a cold press of lips on his forehead. “San Lang!”

“Sorry.” But then he feels the same sensation on his temple. “Excuse me.”

Xie Lian’s cheeks are not left alone. A pepper of kisses rain down on his nose and his eyelids and Xie Lian is going to die if his face gets any redder.

“S-Stop!”

“Must I? Very well.” Hua Cheng finally leans back on his heels, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. However, he keeps Xie Lian trapped in his embrace, especially as he stands up. Xie Lian’s tiny hands scramble for broad shoulders as he’s basically manipulated to sit on one arm, the other moving around his back protectively. “I apologize, I truly can't help myself, Gege. You are honestly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.”

"You were just as cute. No, cuter!" Xie Lian pouts.

"I doubt it."

"You were!" He insists. Xie Lian watches Hua Cheng reach into his red coat for the dice. He tosses them up absentmindedly before the portal opens to the Paradise Manor.

“Nonsense, most considered me to be a vile and ugly child. They called me a feral cat.”

“I didn’t’!”

Hua Cheng smiled. “This is true. Only you.” And he kisses Xie Lian on the cheek again to end the argument.

The hallways echo with the sound of Hua Cheng's heavy boots before they enter the bedchambers, the closet.

It's larger than four Puji Shrines put together and a whimper leaves Xie Lian before he can stop it.

“Now let’s see what we can do about your clothes.” Good cheer has never been so menacing.

During the length of an incense stick or two Xie Lian is tortured with good taste. The large robes replaced with a barrage of outfits Hua Cheng fishes out of the abyss of the wardrobe.

It takes a while before Hua Cheng plants the new child in front of a mirror to work on the final details. The demon king is pleased to find that even a scowl on the younger face is adorable

“Is this really necessary?”

“Now, Dianxia it’s only fair and just. I recall when I was forced into child form, I couldn’t leave your arms for at least a day. You kept carrying me around and playing with my hair.”

It was soft. Who could blame the martial god?

"You were a treasure,” Xie Lian mutters.

“Yes, and now you’re mine. So enough objections and stay still enough to let me put this on.”

Well, Xie Lian can’t stop Hua Cheng from doing anything, not really, therefore he sighs and keeps his arms up as Hua Cheng fixes his sleeves. “I meant the clothes. This is a lot of work for a temporary situation. Where did you even get these?"

"Secret."

Xie Lian wrinkles his nose. The reflection shows the spitting image of his five-year-old self. In fact, he believes these are the exact same hair ornaments his own mother placed into his hair so long ago. A bright golden dragon with ruby eyes, glaring at all, perches on his head to keep his hair half up and out of his face.

All so Hua Cheng can cup, squeeze and poke his cheeks better.

Which he demonstrates.

Quite often.

It’s as if there’s a time limit to how long those fingers can stay away. Thirty seconds or less.

The mirror reveals a victim draped in layers of the finest silk, pictures of flowers and fighting scenes race across the fabric in dark heavy thread. His feet have matching slippers with twinkling small bells to give away his location immediately. He hates them. He shifts minutely and they ring. They sing. It’s been a long time since he’s been decked in such ridiculous finery.

Hua Cheng loves it.

“So this is how you were as a child.” Hua Cheng coos. Dressing him has taken over an hour, yet much to Xie Lian’s dismay instead of complaining, he seemed to relish picking out every single detail from what sash goes best, the golden one of course, to the bracelets and rings that cover Xie Lian’s fingers. He hums happily, “How did they ever let you out of the palace?”

“They didn’t.” Xie Lian was only allowed to start making public appearances at thirteen. And then only by his father’s side or securely placed in his mother’s lap. Just like how he's in Hua Cheng's now with a tug on the back of his robe so he falls right perfectly into the bowl those crossed legs make.

“I’ve been incredibly fortunate to see so many sides of you.” Xie Lian closes his eyes, Hua Cheng reflection is beaming. It’s unbearable. “My luck just keeps getting better and better if I get a chance to see you like this too.”

“San Lang, please! Do you ever tire of making me look like a tomato?” Honestly. Consider Xie Lian’s poor blood vessels.

“No.” Hua Cheng snuggles up to him, smugly rubbing his face into his soft fluffy hair. “Never. Tell me how you were like as a child?”

Xie Lian’s brows knit together in thought and then he answers honestly, “I was a brat.”

Helpless chuckles are muffled into his hair. “Oh really?” Xie Lian picks at the leather boots under him in retaliation, yet the arms around him just tighten.

“I was! I had rooms of toys–”

“And of swords?”

“Yes, and of swords too, they were separate chambers. I made castles out of gold leaf cards and demanded to continue sleeping with my mother far after it was considered appropriate.”

“Now that's a request I would never reject.”

Xie Lian smacks Hua Cheng’s arm with his tiny palm. It just makes the chest behind him shake more with glee.

“What else did you like to do?” Hua Cheng nuzzles the tiny god, the hair jewelry poking dangerously but he doesn't care. He adores how Xie Lian fits completely in his arms with this new size.

It's a good size. He loves this size.

Xie Lian chews on his lip. It was a long time ago. That part of his life barely a blur, a wisp of light if he concentrates too hard it'll flicker away. “I remember I used to like playing on the...swings.”

Hua Cheng’s whole posture straightens. “I need to find a swing set immediately.”

“That’s not important.”

“I assure you it’s suddenly very important. To me. I need to push you on the swings.” To Xie Lian's absolute dismay, the man gets up and his own feet dangle as Hua Cheng settles him over his shoulders. Like a father with a child. The dice reappear and rattle as they land in Hua Cheng's palm.

"Shouldn't we care about finding out how to break the curse first? That should be our first priority!" He's careful to rest his hands on the crown of Hua Cheng's head, making sure not to jostle the eyepatch.

"Later."

Xie Lian sighs and plops his chin on top of his hands exasperated. The moment Hua Cheng has left the Manor when they hit the street, the eyes of every nearby ghost bulge and pop.  

No one can resist not saying anything.

"MY LORD WHEN DID YOU GET A CHILD?" The phrase has more heads whipping in their direction.

Over at a vendor, a ghoul squints and then screams, "WAIT, IS THAT GRAND UNCLE?"

Xie Lian doesn’t have any time to swear. Not when a twitter of painted ladies screech and bombard the pair, "LET US TOUCH HIM. HE'S SO PRETTY. HOW DID HE GET SO SMALL?"

"A curse," Hua Cheng says. "And no. You do not get to touch him."

Surprisingly, or unsurprisingly more merge with their group, it becoming in a strange parade as the curious trail behind them. There are hunched goblins with moldy green skin that run a few paces before giggling at the sight. Ghost flames that hover playfully darting here and there. From the willow female sirens to the largest ogre they fall in line with brightest horrible grins. A few offer Xie Lian odd sweets made from rather questionable ingredients.

"TRY THIS LITTLE GRAND UNCLE, MY SUGAR SPIDER WEBS ARE THE BEST!"

"NO HE'S TOO SCRAWNY, HE NEEDS MORE MEAT ON THOSE BONES. HERE. HAVE MY ARM! I DIPPED IT IN CARMEL FOR YOU."

Others wave an assortment of meat buns as close as they dare since no one has forgotten that one time in the gambler's den.

“COME ON, EAT SOMETHING PLEASE! OH, YOUR FACE IS SO CUTE. LOOK UP FOR US SOME MORE." Xie Lian firmly buries his face into Hua Cheng's hair and shakes it back and forth.

"Make them stop." He begs. “Please.”

Hua Cheng hums. "Now, now don’t ruin their fun Gege. We've become a proper Ghost Parade by now. Why I don't think I could stop them even if I tried. You know how they get when you 'visit,’ you're just that popular."

Xie Lian groans.

"WHERE ARE WE GOING, MY LORD?"

Hua Cheng's eye twinkles. "Your dear Grand Uncle has told me he used to like playing on the swings, so we are on a quest to find them. Any idea where we may find some nearby?"

The colorful crowd goes wild. "SWINGS? DOES ANYBODY KNOW ABOUT SWINGS?”

“NAH!”

“NO.”

“I’VE GOT AN IDEA. WE CAN MAKE SOME. RIGHT NOW. DON'T MOVE."

In seconds what used to be a simple plaza becomes the weirdest playground Xie Lian has ever seen. The 'swings' are made from chains the large monster butchers carry around and they connect to three or four large thighbones tied together with pretty silk ribbons.

Xie Lian hopes those bones are not human.

Let him hope.

Hopes are dashed when they tell him they were very enthusiastically donated.

Hua Cheng slowly settles him on swings and makes sure his fingers are wrapped around the chains securely. He fusses before pulling the swing back with a few steps. The crowd cheers.

Xie Lian wants to die.

He feels another kiss to his temple and huffs with a twist to his lips. He guesses he should let Hua Cheng have his own fun and amusement at his expense. He did when the demon was a child. And perhaps he shouldn’t ruin the entertainment the ghost inhabitants somehow crave. As lame as it is. Who wants to watch a child being pushed to extreme heights on a gory swingset?

But he did...really like the swings.

“Are you ready to fly, Little Prince?”

"Are you going to let me touch the ground anytime soon?"

"Nope."

And Xie Lian should have seen that coming too. Oh well. They’ll find the cure to this aliment...eventually.

“Then let’s see how high you can make me go. Can you make me ascend a fourth time, San Lang?” He dares.

Hua Cheng’s fingers tighten on the chains above his, a wicked smile in voice. “There’s only one way to find out, Dianxia.”

Only the ghost city witnesses the figure in white and silk fly so high but their master never lets the small boy fall.

Not once.

Not ever.

[livingthedragonlife]

Oblivion

fandom: overwatch

series: zenyatta appreciation week 2018

warnings: n/a

words: 3520

summary:  They still whisper about him, on dark and lonely days, when the rain is violent, and the winds show no mercy. They call him insane in the same breath they call him a savior. They say he barely counts as a hero, for heroes do not often walk and live in shadows. They call him the Monk.

[ao3]

They still whisper about him, on dark and lonely days, when the rain is violent, and the winds show no mercy. They call him insane in the same breath they call him a savior. They say he barely counts as a hero, for heroes do not often walk and live in shadows. They call him the Monk.

To them, he has no other name. He is simply a title, a faceless being for people to project their worst fears and darkest illusions. He worships no god, no material being, no spirit or realm, but a being of catastrophe. A timeless, ageless, pseudo-god that shows paths only to destruction and chaos. He worships a being beyond the comprehension of any mortal, including the Monk himself. He says nothing more of the thing he worships – will not even speaks its name – only stating that it lives and walks in the darkest and deepest of shadows, hiding in the crevices of the mind. He does not preach his gospel, nor what this creature of wanton destruction asks of its followers, and the floating Eyes that circle his neck keep people from asking questions.

The Monk is the last resort. The black-cloaked figure, tentacles made of machinery, hovering eerily above the dirt, is a well of deep and dangerous power, and none choose him unless they must. But they never find him before he finds them. He always arrives when the people become desperate, and his only explanation for finding them so quickly in their hour of need is, “The Iris of the Universe always watches.”

Along with the mysterious traveler is his companion, known only as the Swordsman. They’re not sure he even has a name, for the Monk never uses it, and the Swordsman has never been inclined to introduce himself. He dresses in similar robes to the one he follows, dark and flowing, a wicked sword strapped to his back. His head is covered by a cone-shaped hat that hides his face, but when he looks underneath the wide-brim, only his eyes are visible, glowing an angry red. The rest of his face covered by a strange metal casing, stopping only at his neck. Some believe he can’t speak. Some say he chooses not to.

The two are always seen together, and the Monk claims they serve the same creature, the Iris. Some whisper that the Monk created the Swordsman to serve him. Some say he was enslaved to serve the Iris and its followers. None can say for sure, but the two travelers themselves. And they never speak of how they met.

All in all, a perplexing duo to wander throughout the land, righting wrongs where they see fit, and asking for no material wealth in return.

But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a price.

 “Look there, my apprentice,” the Monk murmurs. “It appears we have found what the Iris is seeking.”

The Swordsman steps to the side of his master, swift as an eagle’s graceful dive, and gazes down at the quaint village from their perch on the side of the overhang, seeing clearly despite the night’s darkness. His Eyes glance to the Monk. He observes the place from their far away perch like a wolf stalking a lame deer. The tentacles on his face move, gently twist around themselves and the others, as if each of them has a mind of their own. His arms rest in his lap as he floats above the ground, lotus position. The floating Eyes encased in metal and gears rest like a grotesque necklace around the Monk’s neck, looking in all directions. Servants of the Iris who did not serve correctly, or enough.

All at once, the Eyes swivel around to look at the Swordsman, gently pulsating green light. The man’s own eyes glow red as he tips back the brim of his hat to gaze into the disturbing jewelry. The Iris of the Universe gave him the blessing of speech, but only the Monk can hear him. The black-cloaked figure tilts his head as he listens. The Swordsman’s hands twitch, aching for the pommel of his sword.

“Peace, gentle warrior,” the Monk says, without irony. “We are not needed for a fight just yet.”

The Monk taps his fingers against each other, making little metallic clicks as his joints move and fingertips touch. He wears a bracelet on each wrist, large and black, inscribed with green runes in the language of the Iris. The Swordsman thinks they look like manacles, but the Monk does not agree. They don’t agree on a lot of things.

“The Iris tells me we are in the correct place,” the Monk says, turning away to travel back down the cliff. “Come, dear apprentice. There will be a fight soon enough.”

The Swordsman follows, looking one last time over his shoulder. Something crawls down his spine and chills his heart – they are not alone.

 “Whadda you want?”

“My companion and I,” the Monk says, gesturing to himself, and then the Swordsman, “only wish to stay the night in your delightful little town.”

The crooked man at the gate bites on his lower lip with the remainder of his yellowed teeth, then fishes a key ring out of his pocket, and unlocks the gate for the travelers.

“Don’t be causin’ no trouble, now,” he warns them.

“Oh, we won’t,” the Monk promises. He looks the man in the eye as he passes into the town, and so do all of the other Eyes. “Embrace oblivion, my friend.”

The man grasps his chest and steps backward, as if he’d be shoved. The Swordsman follows his master, nodding as he passes. The man watches them go, swallowing thickly as he closes the gate and returns to his watch.

The darkness is heavy, no moon or stars to light their way, only the light posts – glass boxes with flickering candles – show the way. But the Monk and the Swordsman walk the streets as though they’d lived in the village their whole lives. They enter the first tavern they see, The White Whip.

The interior is almost empty, save for a few lonely drinkers. The owner is wiping down the bar, and looks up to see his new customers. He begins to smile, and then it falters.

“Welcome to the White Whip,” he says, nerves creeping into his voice. “What can I get for you?”

“Thank you, Caius, but we’re not here to drink,” the Monk says, waving his hand dismissively.

Caius’ eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “How…do you know my name?”

The Monk’s entourage of floating Eyes turn to the man and glow. “The Iris knows many things, good man.”

Caius freezes, swallows, and looks down at the counter. “I – if you’re here for a room, we’re all full up.”

The Monk laughs, but it holds no humor. “It’s not very polite to lie to a paying customer.” He pulls a pouch out from his belt, and drops a few coins onto the counter. “Now, you have at least one room available, don’t you? Upstairs, the third door on the left?”

Caius squeezes his eyes shut. Beads of sweat trail down his forehead. “How –”

“Is it available?”

“Yes! Yes. Gods, just stop looking at me.”

The Monk flicks his wrist and the Eyes return to their natural state. “The key?”

Caius wipes his brow with one shaking hand, and uses the other to snatch a key from under the counter. He drops it in front of the Monk like it burns him and swipes up the coins like they’ll cure the injury.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” the Monk says, lifting the key from the counter and pocketing it. “Embrace oblivion.”

He floats to the stairwell, the Swordsman not far behind. Caius watches them leave, and collapses onto the bar counter, shaking and in tears, once they reach the top of the stairs. He never speaks of what the Iris said to him. Not to anyone.

 The next morning, the Monk and the Swordsman are downstairs in the tavern, sitting at a table in a shadowed corner. They buy no food and no drink. The Monk hovers in place above one of the chairs, shuffling a deck of cards absent mindedly. The Swordsman leans against the wall, crossing his arms, nearly invisible in the darkness that clings to the wood. The Monk deals a deck of cards to himself and four empty chairs. He sends one Eye to each of the four places, studying his own cards.

The cards in front of the Eyes begin to move by themselves, playing the game. The Swordsman watches the Monk’s deck over his hooded shoulder, and points to a card or speaks to his master with the remaining Eyes. The red and green glow eerily as they communicate.

A ragged man approaches the table, holding a threadbare cap in his hands. “I d-don’t mean t’ bother you sirs, but –”

“Would you like to be dealt in?” the Monk asks, not looking up from his cards. “The game is called Băo Huáng – I’d be happy to teach it to you.”

“N-No thank you,” the man says. “I just…wanted to know if you’s the fightin’ kind.”

The Monk looks up from his cards, and waves his hand. The four Eyes return to his neck, the cards falling and scattering. He snaps his fingers and the cards stack themselves in a neat pile in the center of the table. The Swordsman straightens, tipping back the brim of his hat to look at the man, his hands noticeably fidgeting.

“We have been known to assist in such matters,” the Monk says. “Please, sit.” He gestures as if welcoming someone to his home, and a chair pulls itself out in front of the man.

Warily, he sits, shooting nervous glances at the Swordsman. “I work in the mine jus’ outside of town, and we’ve got a bit of a… problem.”

“Something that has killed a great number of workers, I take it?” the Monk says, his fingers steepled on the table.

“Yes, sir,” the man says, nodding vigorously. “It’s a terrible creature – been here for months. No one’s been able t’ do anythin’ about it.”

The Eyes whip around to look at the Swordsman, and start glowing intensely. The man jumps, but the Monk holds his hand out to calm him. The man nods, staring at the glowing Eyes.

The Monk tilts his head. “My companion wishes to know what manner of beast this creature is.”

“Well, I-I don’t rightly know, sir,” the man says, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s a giant...metal spider, y’see.”

“A giant metal spider?”

“Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but I swear on my own life, it’s real.”

The Monk nodded. “Very well. Tell us where the mine is, and we shall defeat this… metal spider.”

The man immediately blurts out a stream of directions, drawing an invisible map on the table with his fingers. When he stops, he’s almost out of breath. “Thank you, a thousand times, stranger. Myself, I’m not very rich, but I could get the other miners to –”

The Monk throws back his head and laughs. “Your coin means nothing to me. I have no use for it.”

“I – well, if you’re sure –”

“But there will be a price.”

“Y-you just said that –”

“A price does not always mean coin, my friend,” the Monk says, and all of his Eyes turn to look at the man. He swallows. “You will know when your time comes to pay.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

The Monk claps his hands and stands up, and Eyes all returning to normal. “I think we should start looking for this creature.” He looks back at the Swordsman. “Don’t you agree?”

The Swordsman nods, and lowers the brim of his hat back over his eyes once again.

The Monk looks to the miner one last time. “Embrace oblivion.”

 The mine is just on the outskirts of the little town, in the lowest cave of a nearby mountain. Mine carts and pickaxes litter the ground, and a sign on the entrance to the cave reads “North Peak Mine – CONDEMNED.”

“Ready your blade, my apprentice,” the Monk says. The slither of metal on metal rings as the Swordsman takes his sword out of its sheath. His hands grip the hilt, fitting as though they belong there. The Swordsman takes the lead into the mine, and the Monk follows close behind him.

The North Peak is dark. The oil torches have long-since burned away the last of their fuel, and any lanterns are shattered, glass strewn across the cave floor. The Monk uses the glow of the Eyes, in lieu of any proper light source, trailing them ahead of the two so they could see where they were walking.

The Swordsman listens carefully for any sign of movement – ahead, behind, above, or below. For what feels like hours, nothing.

Eventually, the Monk and the Swordsman come across a magnificent room, the claustrophobic corridors of the mine even smaller in comparison. It opens up from other tunnels like a bee hive, all leading back to this chamber. It’s as big as a cathedral, with tunnels and holes all up and down the walls. Tunnels that are too big to be the mine’s.

A skittering noise, like the click of a thousand teeth, echoes all around the chamber. The Swordsman readies himself, dropping into a defensive stance. The Monk spins his hands around one of the Eyes, and it floats above the Swordsman’s head, a tendril of golden light connecting to him.

“Walk in the shadows, my apprentice,” the Monk says.

The Swordsman nods, and hugs the wall, listening to the echo, searching for the source.

A loud boom echoes throughout all the tunnels as something giant drops from the ceiling of the chamber. A ball of metal falls into the center of the room, and as it uncurls, it reveals eight elongated legs, four red, glowing eyes, a bulbous body, and pincers like daggers. It shrieks, a sound like a million bats dying, and the Swordsman holds his head in his hands, trying to block the sound. The Monk is unphased.

The Monk’s Eyes glow with green energy, and shoot out toward the face of the screaming creature. They crash against the metal, shattering one of its eyes, and knocking free one of its pincers. It stops screaming. Instead, it whips towards the Monk.

The Swordsman dashes at lightening speed, cutting off the spider and slashing at one of its front legs. The spider moves the leg, and another ball of energy crashes into the other. It rears up in pain, and slashes at the Swordsman.

He ducks out of the way, slipping underneath the arched leg, and slicing at the body. The sword glances off the metal hide, and the spider’s front-middle leg, thrashes out and kicks the Swordsman back. The impact sends him flying, and he crashes against the wall.

The Monk shoots another volley of green energy at one of the front legs, and hits the second joint, breaking the limb nearly in half. The leg goes limp, sparking, and the spider screams again.

The Swordsman stands, shakily, encased in golden light. A stomach wound, bleeding heavily, closes and the blood vanishes. His crooked arm snaps back into place.

“Go for the legs!” the Monk shouts at him.

The Swordsman dashes toward the spider, and it skitters toward him, dragging its broken leg. He slashes at the unbroken leg, but the spider leaps at him, trying to gouge him with its remaining pincer. The Swordsman leans back, holding his sword in front of him protectively.

Three balls of energy hit the side of the spider’s head, and the spider recoils. The Swordsman jumps into the air, and lands on the spider’s back, shoving his sword down.

The spider screeches louder than ever, thrashing around, trying to throw off its unwanted rider. The Swordsman doesn’t budge, instead twisting his sword deeper into the mechanical beast.

The spider jumps into the air, landing on the edge of one of the highest tunnels, its lame leg dangling in the air. The Swordsman, hanging on to his sword as tight as he can, dangles from the beast as it tries to shake him off.

The sword starts to slip.

The Swordsman can feel his blade start to ease its way out of the thrashing beast. He also knows a fall from this height will kill him, regardless of the Monk’s magic.

The sword is hanging on by the very tip. The spider gives one last thrust out.

And the Swordsman is falling.

He closes his eyes and waits for death until –

P̳̬͉̲̟ͣ́̽Â̧̻̠̫̎̎͑͑̓̿͂S̛͔͙̘̫̗̳̐̌͌͒̓͛͢S͇̰̮̬͔͊́ͨ̇̌͢ ̢̜̮̝̭͚̚ͅI͒ͤ̑̎ͤ̒̌ͥN̢̞͕̮͔̰̰̞ͭ̈ͪ͑̌ͨ̎̅̐͘T̥͍͓̯̼̻̱̿̐͌̅̿̌̾̓ͤ́O̮͓͎͑̒ͤ̊̎͜͡ ̵͓̒̈̄͂̆͊ͥ̂̓T͙̜͂̐̑̀͟͜H̖̣͙͍̺͖͉ͭ̍͊̌ͅE̵͚̜̻͍̩̓͗̍̈ͤͯ͆ͩ̈ ̤͙̝̞̐̋̋̎́̚͞Ụ̡̬̪̈ͯͨͤͬͣN̎̊ͯ͝͏̱͎̝͜K̷̉̈́̏̈͏͖̲N̛̙̝̣̭̮̦͇̟ͣ̉̎̿ͮ͊̿O̡̨̡̯̗̜̭̙͈̮͎̹ͤW̻͎̹͇̎̓̇̾N͊͋̾ͨͬͣ̋͒͏͕͔̼̰. ̫͂ͣ

A voice from beyond the furthest reaches of existence rings through the mouth of the Monk. His Eyes encompass the whole of their casing, eight ethereal, purple tentacles extend from his back. He floats above the ground and flies. And a giant, green eye is wide open behind him, glowing with power. It watches him. It watches the world. It watches everything. It knows everything.

The Monk and the Iris of the Universe have become one.

The Swordsman hits the floor, but it feels cushioned, like landing on a pile of blankets. He bounces back to his feet, and watches the spider skitter up the tunnel.

The Monk returns to his natural state, though dazed, not even having the energy to float. He lands on two feet, his knees buckling, and sending him to the ground. The Swordsman rushes over to him, supporting him with an arm.

The Monk hangs onto his shoulder tightly. “I saved your life, it’s your turn to save mine, dear apprentice.”

Behind his metal casing, the Swordsman smiles.

He takes his master to sit against a wall, and grips his sword in both hands again. And waits.

The skittering is quiet, far away. Then it gets closer. And closer, and closer.

It drops from the ceiling, but this time, the Swordsman is ready. He leaps to the side, watching the beast uncurl itself. He dashes into the air, and swings down onto the spider’s legs.

The front-middle leg from the broken side goes lame with a slash of the sword. The spider collapses to the ground, unable to support its own weight. It scrambles helplessly as the Swordsman slashes at it back legs. Blasts of green energy attack the other side of the spider, the Monk now able to stand on his feet.

Blast after blast, slash after slash, the spider falls still. Its legs are completely severed from its body when the two are done with it, and all four eyes are shattered.

The Monk walks over to the Swordsman, who is surveying the beast, making sure it’s dead.

“I think our work here is done,” the Monk says.

The Swordsman nods, and is about to sheathe his sword, when he hears something.

Or…feels something.

The Monk can feel it, too. He looks all around, trying to find the source.

“Well done, ‘travelers.’”

The Swordsman spins around, blade held out and ready.

The Witch of the Wilds appears, clapping slowly as she strides into the chamber. Her wings are folded behind her, book and broom at her side.

“I thought I might find you here,” she says. “And hello to you too, Zenyatta.”

The Monk dips his head in acknowledgement. “We meet again.”

“You know what I’m here for, then.”

The Swordsman tightens his grip. The Monk places a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, I am aware. But I don’t think you’ll be getting it.”

The Witch laughs, cold and merciless. “Oh, foolish monk. I saved him from the clutches of death. We have a pact forged in blood. I own him.”

The Monk shrugs. “I suppose I cannot interfere with such powerful magic.”

“See? We’re all in agreement. Come here, Genji. Now.”

The Swordsman didn’t budge. He stands tall and sheaths his sword on his back, stepping behind his master.

The Witch’s face screws up in fury. “I said come!”

The Swordsman does not move.

“You see,” the Monk says, returning to his floating lotus position. “I cannot interfere with such powerful magic. But the Iris has no qualms about such things.”

The Witch’s mouth drops open in shock. “How? I – I muzzled him! I stole his dragon! He cannot speak to reverse the oath!”

The Eyes all turn toward the Swordsman and glow.

The Monk tilts his head. “My apprentice says that the Iris gave him a new voice. And that his dragon will have revenge soon enough.”

The Witch balls her fists, and hisses through clenched teeth, “You have not seen the end of me.”

She spreads her wings and disappears in a flash of white light.

In her place, a raven flaps into the tunnel, and drops a letter into the Monk’s lap. He unties the ribbon and reads it, holding it so both he and the Swordsman can see.

“I believe we have a new destination, my apprentice.”

The Eyes turn to the Swordsman and glow. Yes, Master.

[mosylufanfic]

The Only Thing Left

Reaction fic for 3.18 because oh my goddddddddd

The Only Thing Left

Cisco perched on Caitlin's desk. She said immediately, "Get your butt off my nice clean desk."

"What are you implying about my butt?" Without waiting for an answer, he scooped up about half the cup's worth of strawberry jello. "So, here's what I don't get about that Pandora's box story,"

"The what?" she asked absently, concentrating on her graphs. Woman was crazy for her data, and he was saying that as an engineer, okay.

"You know Pandora's box?" he said through a mouthful of sugary gelatin goodness. "The story about the old-times lady who opened up the box the gods told her not to and - "

"Released all the evils of the world, yes, Cisco, I read Bullfinch's Mythology too. What's your point?"

He knew about Pandora's box from Wishbone, not Bullfinch's Mythology, but he didn't point that out because her mom hadn't let her watch a talking dog sharing great literature. If there was one thing they'd discussed thoroughly, it was how much Mama Snow had hated joy.

"So, the end of the story? How there was one thing left in the box after war and death and famine and people who cut funding for school lunches had all been released?"

She sat back, looking up at him. "Hope," she said. "That's what was left. Hope."

"Right. What even was hope doing in the box with a bunch of evil things? That never made sense to me. Isn't hope a good thing?"

"Oh, Cisco," she said softly. "Hope is a wicked, wicked thing."

"That's cynical," he said. "Hope keeps you going."

She stood up and touched his face with her fingertips. He lost his breath, which happened sometimes with Caitlin, when he looked at her and his brain went, oh, hey, hi there. Hi, you. Another kind of hope.

"Hope lies," she told him. "It strings you along. Tells you impossible things. Keeps the agony sharp, long after you should have moved on."

"Okay," he said, voice croaking. "Yeah. It's not always good - "

"Hope might be the worst evil of all. Except maybe for me."

Her eyes went blue and her hand on his face went icy cold and -

He woke up screaming.

When his voice gave out, he found himself huddled under his blankets. He'd taken to sleeping under mounds of them, sweating through the night, but it never seemed to thaw the ice that slid through his veins ever since -

"Maybe she's in there," he said.

"She was gone," H.R. told him. "Her heart stopped."

He looked at Julian, who after all had more medical experience than H.R. To be fair, there were washcloths with more medical experience than H.R., but anyway the point stood. "Your brain doesn't die right away when your heart stops, right?" he asked. "It's why you - "

Julian stood abruptly. He looked pale. Positively waxy. "I know what I did."

"Isn't it possible - "

"Killer Frost had taken over completely," he said. His lips were tight and bloodless. "The only way she could do that is if Caitlin were - "

"But - before. You weren't here for it, but we got her back before. She was in there and we got her back, so maybe - "

"She's gone, Cisco," Julian said. He went into Caitlin's lab and slammed the door.

Cisco pressed his face into his pillow.

He and Caitlin had actually had that discussion about hope and Pandora's box and all, sometime after when Ronnie had disappeared into the singularity, before she'd gone to Mercury Labs. At the time, he'd sympathized but privately thought she was speaking out of grief.

Now he knew exactly what she'd meant.

He looked at the CCTV footage and saw Killer Frost, who looked nothing like Caitlin. Different hair, different eyes, definitely different dress sense.

But sometimes she tilted her head or moved her hands in a way that screamed Caitlin, this is Caitlin, and he had to look away.

He had her necklace, entombed in a box that sat on his desk. He hated himself sometimes for not putting it back on her when Julian had ripped it off. He'd stood there clutching it, thinking, This isn't what she wants. But there was a little part of him that was relieved Julian had done it, because maybe - maybe -

But Star Labs had thrown the dice once too often, using Caitlin, using her powers, and they'd paid the price. Caitlin had paid the price. And now Killer Frost was loose.

He dreamed about getting Caitlin back. He dreamed it a lot. He dreamed of Barry talking her out of her icy prison again. He dreamed of Julian kissing her awake, like Sleeping Beauty. He dreamed of going up to her himself, taking her hands and saying her name, and she would blink her eyes brown and throw her arms around him.

He even dreamed of Savitar, doing something totally out of character and taking her powers away like some reverse Santa Claus.

He tried to convince himself that they were vibes, that he was seeing the future, that this would all be fine, but he knew better. The colors weren't the right shade of blue. The edges didn't have the right smear. They weren't vibes, they were just dreams.

Hopes.

Killer Frost went Chaotic Evil through the city, hitting - well, pretty much anything that caught her eye, as far as Star Labs could tell. Cisco got them an advantage when he set special watches on all of Caitlin's favorite stores, particularly the ones that she only allowed herself to purchase from once in awhile - too expensive, Cisco, it's not going to fit in the budget this month.

But when it came to her, that was about the only way he was useful.

"It's not her," Julian, Iris, Joe chanted in his earpiece when he faced her down among the shattered shelves of glittering jewelry, or the wreckage of a particularly high-end shoe store. "It's not Caitlin. It's not."

But she'd spotted his weakness early, and he limped back from every confrontation battered and bruised and more than slightly frostbitten. Julian would wrap up his wrenched knee or clean out the gravel from where he'd skidded half a block, not bothering to scold him for once again trying to get through to Caitlin, through all the layers of Killer Frost -

"She's in there," Cisco said. "I believe it. She's got to be in there."

"She's gone," Julian said harshly, and turned away.

If he had, even once, said You're good to go the way Caitlin used to, Cisco would have either cried or decked him. Maybe Julian knew that, because he didn't.

They avoided each other's eyes a lot these days.

Finally, Barry and Wally sat him down and gently, kindly told him Vibe wasn't allowed to fight her anymore. That if they got a report of her, he needed to go back to Star Labs.

He didn't argue.

They didn't want to hurt her either - she'd been their friend too, even she hadn't been quite what she was to Cisco. Mostly they managed to keep her from living up to the Killer part of her name.

That seemed to be at an end when the police found a severely hypothermic man in the wreckage of his small jewelry store.

Cisco hacked into the records of Mercy General - "does patient privacy mean nothing to you lot," Julian said waspishly, and sighed at the blank faces that turned his way - to check on the patient, dreading to find that he'd died or been permanently damaged by frostbite.

What he found made him yell for everybody. They rushed in, pale, ready for another disaster. But he spun in his chair, vibrating with joy. "The guy had a history of heart attacks, and tests show he'd had another one that evening."

". . . yay?" Wally said uncertainly.

"No, no, no - " Cisco leapt to his feet. "Okay, there's this thing, right? This thing, it's called therapeutic hypothermia, when somebody has a heart attack, they chill 'em down - Back me up here," he ordered Julian, who must have learned the technique as a medic. "Isn't that something they do?"

"It is, yes," he admitted reluctantly. "In certain cases, first responders will lower the core temperature, gradually, with cold packs and such, to slow the metabolism and reduce the risk of brain damage after cardiac arrest."

"Which she knew," Cisco burst out. "We talked about it, way back before we even heard the name Killer Frost. What if the guy had a heart attack when she tried to rob his store, and she cooled him down?"

Barry pointed out, "It would be more like Killer Frost to leave him dying on the floor and walk off with most of his inventory. Which, um, she did."

"That's what I'm saying. She didn't have to hit him with the cold whammy. It would just waste her time, with the alarm already going off. Guys, this was Caitlin!"

Julian said quietly, "Cisco, mate, you're grasping."

"She's in there," he said, and watched them shake their heads. "You guys, no, it's a very exact thing, it's not gonna happen by accident - "

Iris gave him a pitying look. He looked away.

"She's in there," he said. "I know it."

Hope is the thing with feathers, perching in his soul. Its beak is razor sharp.

FINIS

[angstandhappiness]

Hilarious. Fry him alive in pieces

Loving the amount of cunt you embedded into that squid 🐙

LOL, i'm glad that came across at least?? Honestly, despite the veneer of uselessness and cowardice, I think Kallamar is a bit venomous and a bastard! But only when he isn't being humbled by his siblings (probably Heket and Narinder. He's a big baby loser to them!)....but also: fear can make someone very vicious. like a cornered animal. (I am justifying why Kallamar was so hard for me to kill. ignore that. NO IT WASN'T A SKILL ISSUE!!!)

He'll pick on Leshy because Leshy is much more....insecure abt their position as the youngest Bishop heh